"An Honest Night's Work"

by Scrapmask

Eight o'clock.

The sun's been down for about an hour.

I walk into the old house; its floorboards creak and moan objections to being trod upon. My ears twitch. I sniff the stale air. Dust, mothballs, old paint, piss somewhere. This was mostly a refuge for squatters.

It was for me, at least.

I'd lived here for some time after my escape. I had nowhere else to go. I didn't know anyone like I did now. I didn't have sponsors like Ted. I'd been homeless and alone. So I stayed here, on the outskirts of town. Eventually I got a new identity, and a new license. I got a job. And an apartment. I'm a contributing member of society now.

I'm about to make my greatest contribution.

I find the broom and begin sweeping. If I have to walk around barefoot, I don't want any pieces of glass or metal to cut my feet. If I leave behind any trace, my job is compromised.

Once the first and second floors are swept, I bring in the toolbox.

I set the gold box down then pull out the hacksaw. I go outside and note all the windows with trees next to them. After I find the ladder, I spend the next half hour sawing branches off.

Can't have anything near the windows. People might get ideas.

My sawing done, I find myself on the first floor. I take off my shoes. I feel the old wooden boards under my toes. I look down at my feet. Not as everyone else sees them, but as I see them. They are double jointed at the heel, with long stretched-out arches, the pads wide and springy. I thank whatever god I am supposed to that my appearance to others seems to be completely human. By whatever gift, my oversized feet have not intruded into my life too much.

But, man, can I run.

I'll need that tonight.

My elongated ears hear every sound. There are some rats in the walls. It's cold, but not cold enough yet that the crickets aren't chirping.

I take it all in. The smells, the sounds, the murky atmosphere. This is my night. I'd never thought I'd have a night like this while I was in Arcadia.

The room stank of body odor and feces. When your bathroom is the opposite corner from your bedding, it's hard to escape such a stench. I remember that stench. I don't have many strong memories of this place, but that has never left me.

The dark lingered, with only a sliver of light coming from the spaces under the door and the slot they pushed food under. We couldn't light the only candle, because it was almost out. They hadn't given us a new one in days. I could hear them opening cells farther down the hall.

Tilly was rubbing up against my shoulder again. She was maybe six years my junior, and her eyes were always wide and endlessly wet. She reminded me of a mousey little puppy. The elongated fox ears didn't help. She had been in the cell long enough before me to have sprouted a thin layer of fur and a pointed orange tail.

Everyone down there started to look like an animal. I think it's what the Hunter wanted.

I felt Tilly rub against me a little more. She was always touchy. I think she just wanted to prove to herself I was real. Sometimes it's all I had to prove it to myself as well. She must have spent god knows how many months in this cell alone before I showed up.

I heard the scraping noise of one of the slots opening across from our cell. I knew who it was before I even heard the "Hey, Nate!" come through our door.

I slowly climbed down to the floor, leaving Tilly curled up on the bedding, and lay on my stomach. I opened the food slot and saw Gordon across the hall doing the same.

"Must be another hunt today, hey guy?" he chattered at me.

His eyes were beady, and his teeth were large. His rodent features were always smiling though. He loved to chat at me and Tilly. It was the only form of entertainment we had. Especially because his cellmate, Buddy, wasn't that talkative. I heard that Buddy had escaped before, during one of the hunts. But somehow he was recaptured and thrown back in his cell. He never spoke about it.

"Here's to hoping you guys make it back in one piece!" Gordon said, any excuse to talk.

I felt Tilly climb down to the floor next to me to look through the hole as well, her head gently bumping against mine. A minor confirmation.

"We always make it back," I assured him. I added under my breath, "Unfortunately."

It had been months and months of this. Sitting in a cell, occasionally let out in the courtyard to exercise… keep the strength up. Then one day out of the blue, we would be released into the woods. We'd run like we'd never run before, trying to get away, hearing the baying hounds behind us all as we made a mad dash for freedom.

We were always caught, though.

I'd heard that the Hunter kills his first catch, and then has his footmen round up the rest of us over the course of the following days. Those nights were what we had lived for. A few wild days out in an endless forest, away from our cells, foraging for food and staying two steps ahead of the hounds.

Feet trod the ground before me and Gordon, then my door was flung open. They never seemed to need keys. But the footmen almost immediately had me and Tilly pinned to the floor, attaching collars and leads to us.

Even though I felt Tilly tense up, we never fought back. If we fought, we'd wind up with a concussion. That's no state to be in when they are giving you a chance at freedom.

So we passively let them shackle us and drag us out of the cell, down stone corridors and eventually into daylight so foreign to our eyes it hurt. We were going to be let free… for a few hours or a few days, depending on how we ran. That was better than where we'd been.

We were forced to stand lined up, animals all; ears, antlers, dark strange eyes, tufts of hair and fur.

I caught Tilly's eye and gave a smile at her. "Good luck."

Her eyes got wider, and she nodded politely. I never did see her smile. I think she was more animal by this point, barely aware that she could speak.

Her ears flattened and her tail flared up when a footman pushed her forward, urging her into line with the others around us.

They unleashed us, and everyone stood still. Nobody dared move. They knew they would be shot through with an arrow if they ran before the horn. We waited patiently. Once the trumpets were blown, it would become every man for himself. I would have liked to rally Tilly or Buddy together, but in the chaos of everyone trying to get ahead, there was no way to strategize.

I saw the Hunter out of the corner of my eye.

He wore tanned leathers and furs from his hunts, and he had dark mahogany skin. His hair was a long mane, and from it sprouted sharp and cruel antlers that swept forward and then back. His eyes were narrow, always studying the space around him.

He smiled as he sat upon his silver steed, wielding a bow with a quiver strapped to his side. Removing a long arrow with one hand and inspecting its shaft, he was satisfied with the wicked barbed edges and the razor sharp peek. One arrow was all it took, and you'd most likely bleed to death, unless another arrow found your heart.

He lifted his hand and gestured to one of the footmen.

The horn sounded. And we ran.

Continued in Part Two…