Free He Runs (Part One) by Owen Seth

his weight give birth to the noise of a broken twig. His attention spans in every direction, eagle eyes flitting from side to side as if he's experiencing a conscious form of REM.
    The tree comes to him quicker than he remembered. Must've been the adrenaline; it does funny things to a man's perception. He sees the leg. It is not attached to the tree but on the floor, next to the half-consumed body of a dishevelled fox-hound. The weakest, he assumes. And then he laughs, loudly and crazily, a stupid act that could give his position away. He slumps to the floor, tosses the dog-corpse to one side and picks up the bone, holds it like a new born. He sits against the tree, the remaining nubs of flesh oozing black blood onto his body.
    'Everything's a fucking cannibal!' he muses to the forest. 'Are you? Tell me! Do trees eat trees? Do bushes eat other bushes? Because we do! I've seen it! I've fucking seen it! And now the dogs! They had a calf's leg but that wasn't enough! Fuck them! Fuck them all!'
     
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    Days pass like a second hands on a wrist watch. Man has long left the forest and until this moment has not seen any life, bar crows and the occasional insect. He keeps off the roads and paths, usually about one hundred metres away, his body low, out of sight. At any moment he expects what's left of the hunters to turn up, with Smith leading, an axe in his hand, looking brutish on horseback, his wild hair flowing like a Viking warrior, eager to see if Valhalla is ready for him.
    The days are getting hotter and if he had to guess he would say it was early June. Luckily he came across a stream and was able to drink his fill before replenishing the water bottles.
    So, after many days running, roaming, escaping, his thirst is quite suitably quenched and what he really wishes for is some food. And just as his stomach begins to rumble, it appears as though his wish has been granted.
    Standing before him, forty or so yards away, is a goat, its legs doddering slowly, merrily almost as it chews away at the grass. Man sees it. Man wants it.
    But he knows he has to be careful. Goats were once wild, after the lights went out, but many were hunted by men or torn into pieces by wild dogs. He heard a story about a panther that had escaped from an abandoned wild life park emerging from the undergrowth and stealing a goat from a group of would be hunters. These days, the cows and pigs and chickens and goats are generally someone's property. Used for meat and milk and cheese and for dispatching unwanted piles of waste. There's a risk to be had if he takes this goat. But his growling belly will make him do it.
    Carefully he places the back pack on the ground, striving to create as little sound as possible. He opens it and retrieves some duct tape. He opens the duct tape and places the hunting knife on the shiny, white knee joint of the cow-leg bone he carries as a club. He wraps the tape around steal and bone, positions it to resemble a pick axe. A few layers to fix the two together and he has a new weapon. Something rangy; a war hammer.
    He keeps low to the ground, bear-crawling slowly as blades of wispy grass graze his hairy cheeks. It’s a painful process, one that saps energy from his nutrient-starved muscles. He moves closer, his body sliding over the ground like a snake with limbs. The goat is unaware of his presence, ignorantly chomping down on grass and twigs and earth. A slight breeze cools Man’s sweaty brow and he stays still, enjoys the coolness. Still. Still.
    A mass of power and flesh, the speed of a madman, the downward arc of a makeshift club.
    The kill isn’t clean. The club is not as efficient as he would like it to be, the blade moving inside the tape with every strike. The goat slumps to the ground, bleating and bleeding profusely, seven stab wounds pumping blood into a world outside its body. Man looks at the dying animal, his blood-speckled face brightening in the sunlight. No need for any more