He Runs (Part One) Read Free Page A

‘We’ve got a treat coming our way! A cow leg. Meat and fat and the bone, as long as my arm, all for you.’ Man sits down, just out of Hound’s reach, in case the dog’s temper suddenly changes. ‘I’ll see if I can find some salt. They’re bound to have some. It’ll help preserve the meat.’
    Hound murmurs excitedly and Man contemplates removing the muzzle completely but is too wary of what the dog can do. Hound is an animal, a smart animal and Man knows he has to be careful.
    ‘Not yet, boy. Not yet.’
    Hound lies down again, his eyes growing slightly in his head until they resemble two large, obsidian orbs. Man sees himself in those eyes, in the beast itself. Man sees nature, the unwilling patron of a man-made notion called fate and begins to laugh.
    ‘We’re the same, you and I.’
    The dog whimpers.
    ‘No, I mean it. We’re the same. Well, apart from the fact that I can talk and reason and form opinions and judgements.’ Man lies back, his warm head cooling on shaded grass. ‘Come to think of it, how come Nature chose to give human’s the Earth? I mean, look what we’ve done to it. And we weren’t even here first. We’ve evolved from other life forms, as if Nature has been continuously revising its designs until it got to us. And the other animals that broke free from our mould just kind of fucked off, did their own thing to survive and evolve while we were being perfected. Mankind! Nature’s seemingly greatest accomplishment and worst enemy, all in the same package.’ Man turns over, faces Hound and tries to imagine how he would sound if he could speak. ‘Or maybe what I’m talking about could be complete bull shit and lending to the ideal that humans, as a species, are arrogant and misguided. I think we are. Fuck it, I know we are.’
    Hound murmurs lowly which Man interprets as a sign of boredom.
    ‘Okay, something else, perhaps. We’ll give it two hours and I’ll go back, get us that leg. Sound good?’
    Hound makes no sound and Man looks up at the Sun, positions his fingers in front of it.
    ‘Two hours should be just about right.’
     
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    A dim light emanates from the farmhouse; the flickering of dozens of candles, the glow from a dying fire. It is night time and Man has overslept.
                  Daniel and Celeste are sitting at the table in the kitchen, talking and laughing. Man sees them. Man envies them.
                  And he was right; there was another person in the house. A female. But the female is not yet able to chew her steak. The female is not older than six months.
                  Man licks his lips at the sight of steak and eggs and freshly grown greens and what looks to be homemade wine. He sees Daniel’s mouth open and close, yellowed teeth mashing cow flesh, blood-coloured wine pouring down his bearded chin.
                  The thought of stealing from them, a thought he has harboured as soon as he saw them retrieve number forty three has been a burden of guilt weighing lightly on his chest. But after watching them eat, after witnessing their feast he can feel that guilt dissipating, leaving a searing red hole behind.
                  They have everything. He has nothing. And that’s about to change.
                  Man listens to the feast as he moves to the barn door, waits patiently until the noise levels increase and then slips the lock off the latch. In his hand he holds the karambit and it feels heavy but also like it is a part of him, an extension of his existence. Using his spare hand he opens the door slowly, an effort to minimise the hinges’ screams.
                  The barn is in blackness, a dark box that reeks of death. A hint of ferrous in the air, the throng of spilled blood. It tingles Man’s nose, takes him back to another time, when claret wetted his brow