Michael T. Hare

Recently, I started a short story called Hunted that’s been rolling around in my head since 2020. The inspiration began with an Idahoin mountainscape and a dragon-fruit lollipop (a little random, but here we are!) Despite having the idea years ago, I only began writing it in late August; I’ll probably publish the completed project in a self-anthology soon, so stay tuned—but I thought you’d enjoy a little glimpse into the story!

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Trent didn’t know where he was, only that he and the dragon shared the same destination. He had tracked it through the forest, climbed multiple mountains, braved a rushing river, and even wrecked his jeep in a ditch. At this point, hunting the beast was all he could think of—he’d lost too much to give up.

Adjusting his rifle, Trent pressed harder through the wilderness. It was neither dense nor spacious, rather a medley of unexpected places packed into one province: rocky fissures trickling with water, craggy, convoluted spires, and lush, marshy clearings in the forest. The only common factor was pine trees and mountains, making one’s ‘sense of direction’ a far-fetched gamble.

I know you’re out there… somewhere.

The dragon sighting had upended his hometown. After stealing a sheep, the beast flew into the skies, seemingly unaware that its wings caused silhouettes to hover eerily across the ground. They were as good as tracks, and thus, Trent was sent to hunt the dragon.

Being the best hunter in town, this should’ve been an easy feat. Trent was famous for his flawless shots and intuition, and he often sold his game at the market. Per his code, he never killed more than two animals a week. He respected nature—probably more than most—and opted to preserve its wildlife.

This time was different, though. Today, he needed to defend his community from a vicious beast.

Something swooped overhead, a black-orange blur against the blue sky. Trent dove behind a tree, cocked his rifle, and leaped out to take aim. He swore under his breath. Another miss! He had to admire the dragon to some extent; it played the hunting game well.

“I know you’re out here somewhere!”

A distant roar answered him, and he whipped around, breathing hard, seeing his breath in the chilly atmosphere.

“Come on! Show yourself!”

Green flames exploded from ahead, dispersing a shockwave that threw Trent to the floor. He slammed hard on his back, firing a stray bullet into the air. With his ears ringing, he squirmed away from the oncoming flames. They were a bright, emerald color, eating the trees and foliage like a hungry monster as they advanced on him.

Trent quickly uncorked his canteen, flinging a spray of water over the fire. Each droplet caught fire, rippling and hissing into a mist. It was an understandable reaction, save for when it burned. “This is not normal!” cried Trent, scrambling to his feet and running away. “This is not normal!” He suddenly tripped on a rock and rolled down a steep descent. Dirt and rocks beat his face, and the world spun a thousand times; soon, the dragon’s ferocious noises grew so faint that they vanished in the clamor of forest debris.

Trent grunted and groaned, his momentum slowing until he lay in a heap of loose pebbles and dirt clods. “Ow…” he hissed, holding a swelling bruise on his forehead. Through squinted eyes, he surveyed his new environment—a tiny clearing in the forest fenced in by spears of pines, which parted to reveal a stone ledge at the face of the mountain. A lofty, shimmering waterfall was on his right.

Well, at least I’ll have a full canteen.

* * *

Scraaaaaaape.

Trent dragged the knife over the whetstone again.

Scraaaaaaape.

He sat by the halo of a licking fire, his backpack unzipped to reveal a pitiful dinner—some granola bars and trail mix. His provisions were more plentiful in the beginning, but three days’ worth of travel had forced him to devour most of it.

Trent sighed as his teeth crunched into the bar—he was starting to hate that noise—and, with his free hand, retrieved the walkie-talkie from his pack. “Knock, knock, Bro. Do you copy?” No answer, just muffled static. “Jay,” he said more forcefully.

“Huh?”

“Jay, is that you?”

Static.

“What? You done talking?”

Trent grumbled. He’d forgotten about his brother’s obsession with ‘radio etiquette.’ “Jay, do you copy? Over.”

“Oh, hey, Trent! Finally letting me talk, I see. Any luck so far?”

“Almost died today, actually. Everything good at home? Over.”

“Well, given it’s midnight, everything’s pretty quiet. Over.”

Trent chuckled. “How ’bout we dial back a few hours? Over.”

“Haha! Alright, where do I start? Uhhhh… took Trinity out again—get a feeling I’m moving from boyfriend to fiancé soon! Uh, Mom and Dad dropped off some kielbasa and pasta salad at my place; they’re pretty worried about you, you know. Over”

“Aw, man…,” Trent muttered, thinking of his mom. She was undoubtedly losing sleep over this, and it drove him mad that he couldn’t assure her of his safety 24/7. He’d called her a few hours ago, using a second walkie-talkie labeled Mom and Dad. Her repetitive, staticky ‘I love yous’ made him sad, but she could lose her son at any point, and he didn’t blame her for preparing; Trent was no more confident.

“Have you shot that thing yet? Not a fatal one, just in general? Over.”

“No,” replied Trent, “but I will soon—I’ve never hunted something so fast. Over.”

“Or something that could breathe green fire… I’m just saying. Over.”

“True….” Trent involuntarily yawned, stretching his limbs and nearly dropping the walkie-talkie. “Alright, Bro, I’m gonna try and sleep. I promise to call you in the morning if I’m not already dead….” Trent snickered and began unpacking his sleeping bag.

Jay laughed over the phone. “Good night, sleep tight, and DON’T GET MAULED IN THE MORNING!”

Trent erupted into guffaws, joined in by Jay until the cliffside was bustling with their mirth. Eventually, after a good five minutes, they decided it was healthy for them to head to sleep, but then Jay said something that piqued Trent’s interest and they began another conversation. By the end, Trent and Jay were baffled by how many different topics they spoke of—ranging from ridiculous, made-up stories to heartfelt, philosophical questions, which sparked another conversation as they backtracked in search of what started their talk.

“How are we both in our late twenties and still talk like teens?”

“No idea.”

By the time the brothers actually said goodnight, the full, white moon had shifted in the partly cloudy sky, and it was far past midnight. Trent set down the walkie-talkie, emotions welling up in his chest, ascending to his throat. There was truth behind his words to Jay—the likelihood of him dying was that of a rainstorm in Summer. For all he knew, that was the last time they’d speak.

Trent slept soundlessly for a few hours, his mind plagued by dragons. He would wake at every sound, flinch at every sensation; his fingers remained curled about the stock of his rifle, ready to squeeze the trigger should the dragon attack him by night.

Alas, his fears were confirmed when a rustle yanked him from sleep.

Trent leaped out of his sleeping bag, his rifle cocked.

“Calm yourself,” a voice said from the trees. It didn’t sound at all frightened, but rather irritated. “Put that gun down before you hurt yourself.”

Blinking in astonishment, Trent refused to obey. “Pretty sure the muzzle is aimed at you, sir. Come out and show your—”

Two metallic hands reached out from behind Trent and snared his hands, wrenching them behind his back in a painful grip. “Hey!” he growled, squirming against the stranger’s hold. “Stop! Who are you two!?”

The first stranger walked from the trees. He wore a black steampunk overcoat trimmed with crimson polyester. His combed hair reached an absurd volume, starkly contrasting with the tiny mustache covering his lips. His stiff and authoritative stride made sweat break out over Trent’s face. “Careful what you say over the radio, chump. This whole range is under surveillance….”