TW: Gore, animal death
Tonight’s hunt begins at the mouth of the cave, as all bountiful hunts do.
Our flock prowls towards the precipice of the mountain, overseeing the vast wilderness that we’ve twisted into an arena. The emerald trees stand paralyzed in our presence, awaiting the carnage yet to occur at their feet. In cowardly foresight, the blazing sun has ducked behind the jagged skyline, not to be seen again until we’re finished.
Most of the fauna keeping the mountain alive has been decimated, its blood still drying underneath our talons. The ones we kept alive never dare to roam the woods after nightfall. They tremble in their hovels, too petrified to step into the open air. Through wavering gasps, they order their spawn to never leave their sight, knowing in the back of their minds that it’s too late for such platitudes. No matter what they say, one truth remains apparent:
As soon as the moon appears, so do we.
We stretch our wings as far as the tendons in our backs allow. The skin between each branch of bone extends until it’s translucent, crawling with rivulets of red veins. A purr slinks up our throats. We dig our claws into the gravel and brace to leap off the cliff and into the black sky, letting the wind capture us in its frosty embrace. The shatter of rocks cracking beneath our weight sends needles through the flesh of our palms—all the more reason to fly away. The precipice becomes a percussive orchestra of pattering gravel and rumbling stomachs. Our hunger drips from our lips and lands between our splayed fingers.
Faster than a blink, we pounce into the abyss with a shriek, infiltrating the sky like maggots in the air’s bloodstream. The clouds embrace us against their will. The dim moonlight reflects off our sweat-gleamed skin, and we glisten like the nighttime sea. We writhe beneath the stars in a throbbing black cloud of wings and teeth. The air is frigid against our naked flesh and we rejoice in its icy bite. The snarls of our stomachs ricochet off the mountain tops. Every drop of blood within us yearns for something to annihilate, screaming beneath the sinew of our skin.
There are few words in our language powerful enough to describe the feeling.
Maddening. Agonizing. Debilitating.
Ecstatic to the point of lunacy, we pierce through the thick shield of clouds, falling from the sky in a deluge of carnivorous fangs. The vast forest covers the mountains like the fur of a giant beast, crawling with ticks to meticulously pluck out. The wind, our unwilling accomplice, sweeps aside the trees and tears a wound in the face of the woods.
We penetrate the forest in a black stream, infecting the land with our ravenous hunger. We take the wilderness hostage and pin it to the ground, flaying the flesh off its bones between clamped jaws. The unfortunate inhabitants jolt from uneasy sleep, panic overcoming rationale. They scurry under uprooted trees or into nearby bushes. Our monstrous cackles bounce and multiply off the foliage, transforming the forest into a cacophonous hell of our own glorious making.
We find a clearing and immediately disband. A few of us, the impatient brood, shovel dirt into our gaping mouths—anything our insatiable stomachs demand. The rest of us bolt into the trees in search of something to devour.
The metallic scent of meat infuses our nostrils. These woods are fertile with food, more so than ever before. It trembles underneath the shoddy cover of bramble and twigs. Hitched breathing and jittering heartbeats resonate in our ears.
The smart ones remain hidden, paralyzed in their burrows with their paws clamped to their little ears. These are the ones that we leave alone, our designated survivors. Our shrieks acutely penetrate the fur and flesh of their extremities, piercing their eardrums like needles.
Bleeding ears are nothing compared to what happens to the others.
Vermin scurry beneath our feet as aimless as newborns, squealing in a primal horror unlike anything they've uttered before. Although their desperation is palpable, their attempts at escape prove futile. We grasp them between our arms and fly upwards. They claw at the bark of the trees for purchase but our strength is too great. Punctuating the sounds of crunching bones and shrieks of pained horror, a shower of blood falls from the leaves. Crimson against clover.
We bathe in this strange rain, lapping it up with serpent tongues. The red flood douses the fire burning within our gut. But still, it roars.
Piloted by our mania, we continue our blood-soaked pursuit.
What never fails to amuse us are those who try to fight back. A canine rears its snarling head, cloaking its fear with a translucent shroud of ferocity. Its brown fur perks along its vertebrae, ears pinning against its fragile skull. It bears its yellow fangs in fearful defiance. Drool spatters at our feet and on our wings.
Although this creature knows its futility, it lunges at us and clamps its jaws on the closest limb. One of us screams.
With the snapping bone comes an opportunity. We descend upon the canine. In an instant, its efforts to stay alive prove laughable. It’s entire existence became reduced to blood splattered in the mud and a single incisor broken off in a femur.
Yet, our blood yearns for a triumphant end.
We focus on one final creature: a towering ape barreling through the trees, its knuckles thumping off the forest floor as it tramples over uprooted logs. We chase after it, slicing at its rear end with our claws in lunatic glee. To the beast’s utter dismay, one of its feet slips in a slurry blood and dirt. Its leg crumples beneath its weight.
Desperate to stay alive, it swings an arm over its head and crushes one of us under its grey fist. It bellows in negligible victory.
We don’t take notice of this collateral damage. It’s a necessary sacrifice for prey of this size, and our hunger is too great to be encumbered by empathy. It’s a wildfire raging within our organs, ignited by the flush of blood pouring down our gullet.
We smother the ape in a carnivorous embrace, our wings flapping with giddy jubilation. Chunks of fur and skin get torn off between our claws. Its squirms diminish.
In moments too short, the animal is reduced to bones coated in red. We gnaw at the gristle between its joints, only stopping to remember to breathe. Some of us scamper into the trees in search of more food, but the only thing remaining is the viscera strewn across pine needles.
Although the hunt didn’t last long, the few that survive will remember it for eternity. They emerge from their hiding places, shaking on cold little legs. They strategically place their steps around the jellied remains of their own species. The grand birch trees stand spattered in red mist. A sickly, metallic smell permeated what’s left of the woods. The oxygen itself has been contaminated with death. Those that remain retch at the taste—iron gone sour.
We left the land bleeding out behind us. Our ecstatic howls fade over the treetops as we soar like typhoon winds, bellies pregnant with blood.
Over the woods. Over the clouds. And back to the granite cliff.
We slump heavily against the rough gravel. It burrows into our palms and envelops our talons, a mate greeting our return from our plentiful feast. Engorged with our fill, we trudge back into the yawning mouth of the cave. The emerald trees shudder in relief of our departure; the hooked moon slinks behind the clouds, complicit.
Cloaked in the humid shadows of the cave, we bathe each other clean. Our stomachs won’t allow us to let a single red drop go to waste. After this last taste, we rest our drowsy heads on each other’s skin, letting sleep carry us into the emerging daylight.
Generations will pass while we’re gone. The survivors will commiserate. Then breed. They’ll grow old and weak, and their offspring will take their place. When the forest forgets what has happened tonight, reborn in naive amnesia, night will come upon them once more.
And so will we.