Chapter Seven - Hawkeye

The bow wasn't built for distance or accuracy, but Doyle had taken a few practice shots before he'd set off, and he figured he could make it work. At least if he missed, he wouldn't be alerting the residents of the entire area to his whereabouts.

The air was cool, crisp and fresh, and the forest floor was soft beneath his feet. Doyle kept his steps light, not disturbing fallen twigs as he scouted the area a couple of miles in from the edge of the treeline. He heard birds tweeting and small animals scurrying, and it calmed his heart. He could almost pretend that the world hadn't just gone to shit for the second time within a year.

He sat down on a fallen log, fished his water out of his pack and took a swig. He sat motionless, eyes closed, just listening to the sounds around him until he heard a louder rustle. He followed the sound, hiding behind the massive trunk of a pine. He checked that he was downwind, and peeked into the clearing ahead.

Bingo. About a dozen deer stood in the clearing, chewing on the grass and lapping at some water from a tiny stream. Doyle slid an arrow out of his quiver and notched it quietly, held the bow relaxed in front of him as he scanned the herd to work out his most sensible target.

There was a buck at the edge of the clearing, not too big that Doyle wouldn't be able to get it back to the farmhouse. And there'd definitely be no Bambi issues if he could bring that one down. Slowly, he raised his bow, half drawing back the string and aiming for the animal's head. He breathed slowly, patiently waiting for the deer to turn his head to the side.

The animal moved into position, and Doyle drew back fully, and released the arrow. His practice shots had paid off; the rest of the heard took off in fright as they heard the thud of their comrade's body fall to the ground. He waited for a moment, checking for certain that the animal was dead, and then he slid his bow onto his back, satisfied.

"Sorry, buddy," he murmured as he crouched down by the dead deer, stroking his hand over the white spotted tawny fur. "Hope you had a good run." He cut his arrow free and wiped it clean on a patch of grass, then placed it back in the quiver. Then he scooped his hands under the buck's body, and hefted it onto his shoulder. It would have been easier to carry around his neck, but his burn was still too sensitive for that.

It took him about an hour to pick his way back through the forest and out towards the farmhouse. He placed the animal at his feet, and then knocked on the door gently, hoping that Emily wasn't too trigger happy with the gun.

"Emily," he called as he heard a rustle behind the door. "It's me."

He heard her jiggle with the locks and move the barricade aside, and then the door swung open to reveal Emily's pale face. "Hey," he greeted her, and she stepped forward and threw her arms around his back.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice tight with worry, and Doyle rested his chin on the top of Emily's head and stroked his hands through her hair.

"Yeah," he assured her, squeezing gently as he felt the tremble in her body.

"You were gone forever."

Doyle looked at his watch, checking, and smiled as he corrected her. "Three hours."

"It was at least a week!"

"Hey," he said, lifting his head and tilting hers back so that she looked at him. "I brought dinner."

He motioned to the ground at his feet and Emily looked down, balking as she saw the dead animal beside her. "Jesus Christ, Doyle!" she exclaimed. "Are we having a dinner party you didn't tell me about?"

He chuckled. "You asked me not to take down any with babies, so I picked a buck. There's a bunch of salt in the store room, so we can salt what we don't eat right away."

Emily stared at the animal grimly, her eyes widening as she saw that the arrow had gone cleanly through the deer's eye socket. "Bloody hell," she said. "Look at you, showing off."

"I told you I used to be pretty good."

"Alright, Hawkeye," she laughed, and he smiled sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders.

"It's no big deal."

Emily had busied herself chopping some wood whilst Doyle had been away, and she lit the wood burning kitchen stove as he went to work skinning and butchering the buck. He hung the skin to dry, figuring it might come in useful, and then started to haul the meat into the kitchen. He set aside enough for them to eat over the next couple of days, and spread the rest out, covering it in salt and some seasonings that Emily dug out from the cupboards. He'd asked if she thought they would still be okay to use, and she laughed.

"This is Britain," she said. "Most of the herbs in people's kitchens are from the seventies."

The farmhouse had a water spring and the pump still worked, so he set some water to heat on the stove. Doyle cleaned the blood and gore from his hands and arms, and scrubbed at his nails before he fetched more water and put it back on the heat. "You need some?" he asked, looking at Emily over his shoulder. She shook her head.

"I washed while you were out," she replied. She turned around, busy checking their medical supplies, and Doyle tried to stop thinking about Emily stripping off and running the warm water over her bare breasts. "You need me to go?" she asked. "I can do this upstairs."

He felt himself blush like a little boy who'd been caught red-handed, and he was glad that she wasn't looking at him. "'Kay," he replied, biting his lip until he heard her disappear out of the room.

After he'd washed Doyle double checked the security of the doors and windows in case any animals tried to break in and steal their dinner overnight. Emily had returned from upstairs, and as he looked over he saw that she was staring at the deer steaks, looking a little green.

"Want me to deal with this?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"It's okay," she whispered, walking over to the kitchen counter where he stood. She searched through the cupboards and found an unopened bottle of cooking oil. Butter would have been better, but that would have been rancid months ago. She sprinkled some of the oil onto each side of the steaks, rubbed in some salt and pepper, and massaged the meat. She heated a frying pan on the stove, and placed the steaks onto the sizzling surface before scrubbing her hands clean.

They ate their steaks with some ancient canned potatoes and carrots, curled up together on the sofa in front of the stove, and it was the single greatest meal that Doyle had ever tasted in his life.