Strange Tails

“The hunt has only one rule,” said Gavin. “Do not kill a sentient.”

Potbelly nodded without enthusiasm. This was Coralane’s idea. Potbelly had asked for an update on Tina’s message leg—there wasn’t one. Coralane’s manner proved terse, and Potbelly wondered if she would have told her even if she knew. Then the parrot softened a little, suggesting she should get involved in some activities, join in with life at the Silence. “Sure, why not”, replied Potbelly. Though she hadn’t specifically agreed to the hunt.

Michel was interesting to be around, despite his dippy life-coaching ideas, but Potbelly missed Squirrel. She’d moved out of their donated room and was camping on Michel’s floor, uncomfortably, given she preferred concrete to the soft pillow and consoling cuddle offered by Michel, an act she couldn’t even begin to contemplate the mechanics for. She’d lain there all night, getting little sleep, thinking of humans, aliens, spider legs, and a short, fat, tree-dwelling rodent.

It was Gavin who suggested the hunt. She’d bumped into him at the food store while ambling along the Kibbles aisle, not feeling particularly hungry. It was Squirrel’s fault. He’d refused to be in his room that day despite her accidentally walking past it a dozen times, and his persistence in not being anywhere else lead her to the one place he must surely turn up in the end: the canteen.

Snodberry was collecting bananas, where the store got them from was anybody’s guess, and then some time after that came Gavin. He squatted next to her, with surprising grace, never quite looking at her, but giving her the clear understanding she was within his peripheral vision.

Gavin was not one for small talk but she decided something had to be said, and so she gave it a go. After he passed through the many facial expressions of someone waiting for a kettle to boil, Potbelly decided small talk wasn’t her thing either. To her relief, but then regret, Gavin finally took up the conversational reins and invited her to the hunt. It was, after all, what carnivores did, and despite visual indications to the contrary a carnivore was what she was.

Subsequently, Potbelly was informed, and by several inhabitants of the Silence, that while those who reside in the facility were smarter than the average bear, or otter, or gibbon, or any other creature for that matter, they were still beings with needs, and some of those needs involved tearing the heads off defenseless little creatures and devouring their innards. And so there was the hunt.

Despite all this, some carnivores abstained, Gavin explained. They thought such base actions served only to demean us, and in their fraternal kinship to all, vegetarianism was the only true path. As Gavin had predicted those possessing such beliefs knew the hunt’s time and location, and as she and Gavin passed them, Potbelly read their placards.

‘Give beasts a chance,’ said one.

‘Eat rice, not mice,’ said another.

“I’m not entirely sure I want to be here,” added Potbelly, studying the somber faces of the placard holders. One hyena held down its head, raising up a clenched paw.

“Ignore them,” snorted Gavin. “If they were hunting carrots they’d be outsmarted. Damn trouble makers. Those sachets of gloop they eat, guess what? They contain gelatin. Boiled up animal parts. They should boil their own heads.”

“One of those sachets sounds pretty good right now,” replied Potbelly, stopping. “Maybe it’s in my pedigree to only eat chum.”

“Chum? What do you think’s in that stuff? It’s meat!”

“I know. But the only thing we have to rip off is the lid. There’s a distinct absence of severed windpipes and gurgling.”

“Those cans won’t last forever. Do you want to survive in this world? Maybe even save some humans?”

“I suppose … yes. So there are some left?”

“Let’s say there are. Do you think the creatures who wiped out ninety-nine percent of the dominant species on this planet will just hand over the remainder if you ask them nicely? Do you think waving placards in the air will do anything other than improve their aim?”

“I guess not.”

“This is no guessing game. This is not a game at all. You need to know how to fight, and fighting means killing, whether the flatulent fauna brigade here likes it or not. The only thing love is going to conquer is your ability to breathe. Fighting, that’s your job now, soldier.”

“But I’m not a soldier. Is there a desk position, maybe? I have flat feet. Something in troop entertainment?”

Gavin snorted and trotted on. For a moment Potbelly stayed put, watching the placard wavers, feeling drawn to them, sympathetic to their sympathies. At last she returned to Gavin’s side. He’d brought her here and for some reason, elusive at it seemed right now, she felt a duty to stick by him.

The pack was gathering. There must be dozens of them thought Potbelly, certainly a lot more than the protesters. Her knees felt weak, ashamed of being a coward, and her little pot belly sagged to its lowest ebb.

“Remember,” Gavin said. “You shout clearly and directly: Creature identify yourself. You say it twice and you say it loud, even if it spooks your prey and your prey runs. Even if it spooks your prey and your prey attacks, you do nothing, not until you have finished that second call. Only then, when you know absolutely and for sure that your prey is not sentient, you rip its little head off.”

Potbelly nodded. She wished he hadn’t used the word prey so much. What if God was watching? He could be taking notes.

“Time is eighteen hundred hours,” yelled a voice from the front. “The hunt will commence on my whistle. As usual the killing field is an area bordered three miles to the north, four miles to the east, four miles to the west, and no farther south than the river. If you are new and unfamiliar with the perimeter, stick with someone who is. All kills must be confirmed by the quartermaster on return, whether you eat in the field or not. The two-warning rule will be observed by all parties, and you all know the punishment for failure.”

“What’s the punishment for failure?” whispered Potbelly.

“You don’t want to know.”

“But that’s why I—”

A great roar interrupted Potbelly, and the following tumult of howls, growls, and grunts drowned further questions in her throat. She saw a paw extend above the pack, holding a whistle, before it disappeared, and then the pack fell silent. Potbelly brushed against a fox-like creature possessing the most beautiful tawny fur she had ever seen. “Oops, sorry,” she said. The fox-thing bared its white teeth, sharp and salivating. She turned back to Gavin. The whistle blew.

***

Squirrel, on hearing the commotion outside, leapt to the window.

He saw dark bodies circling, caught in the gravity well of the leader, coalescing tighter and tighter, forming a black hole that pulled his gaze in until it couldn’t escape. A sharp whistle blew and Squirrel’s eyes widened farther. The mass uncoiled and the black hole was now a rocket launched into the thicket of the woods, one huge loping head pulling away from the shaft of its slower animals, who scurried behind. A few ungainly souls made up the vapor trails, and at the very last a large bucket-headed dog guided a small, waddling companion.

“Awful, isn’t it?”

Squirrel peered over his shoulder to see a buck-toothed face peering back.

“It’s the hunt,” continued the face. “Simply the worst time of the week.”

“The hunt?” Squirrel turned back to the window and watched the last of the hind quarters disappear from view.

“Best not to think about it. A bunch of foul, pointy-toothed yahoos tearing up the neighborhood. They make the whole damn place unsafe.”

“You mean they hunt animals?” Squirrel’s question formed a small steam-patch on the glass. “But surely that’s … well that’s cannibalism, isn’t it?”

“They claim not to eat sentient creatures, but who knows what they really get up to. I mean, would you own up to it if you made a mistake? You can’t trust them. Stick to your own, I say.”

Squirrel turned from the misting window. The face had a button nose and ebony eyes, and it sat atop a small furry shape, not dissimilar to his own. The shape made a lumpy hypotenuse as it leant against the door frame, and its face took a drag on a cigarette, eyes squinting as if drawing out the poison. One hand stubbed the remainder on the door frame. The body sauntered forward.

“My name’s Siobhan. It’s spelt S-I-O-B-H-A-N. Irish, you know. Though my species is nutria. We’re from the South. Bit of a geographical mix. The best of both worlds, as I like to say.” She followed this up with a wink.

“Squirrel,” he replied, hopping down to the floor.

“That your name or your species?”

“Both, I think.”

“What a wonderful lack of imagination.”

Squirrel shrugged, unsure if it was a compliment. He wanted to counter with a matching bon mot but succeeded only in mumbling, “You’re welcome.”

“You should come join our support group. I’m on my way now. We get together every hunt. It’s a safe space for survivors of carnivore oppression.”

“It’s OK, I’m not—“

“I insist. We could do with a strapping young chap like you. It can’t all be querulous little rabbits.”

She gestured for him to follow, and after briefly glancing back to the window, he obliged.