Chapter 49

"Sacrifice"

I must be fearless because running headlong into a herd of stampeding Touring Bulls was a death sentence. It was also my greatest cover. No one expected an attack hidden in the middle of a herd running in the opposite direction. If successful, one's opponent would never survive such a risky maneuver. It was an impossibility that never crossed their minds, especially in the case of a lone Mighty Hena while the sun was still high in the sky. Every element of surprise fell within my favor as long as I was not trampled to death first.

I sprinted through the avalanche of hooves, dodging the onslaught with only the smallest clearance between us. Worrying about my safety risked my life more than taking the straightest most dangerous path with the greatest confidence. Most of the bulls never saw me. They did not realize I was there against the sheer volume of their panic. Fleeing from the threat pursuing them overtook any desire to crush me with their dominating force. I became indistinguishable from the wild.

A sudden black mass in their awareness like a hole or pit or rock that had to be avoided to keep from tripping and stumbling and falling over. One misstep and the herd would stomp their own kin to death under the hypnotizing spell of survival. These accidents were disastrous because the herd risked losing their strongest and fastest and those most fit for survival instead of their weakest members. It was the start of imbalance.

The exact place I was meant to be.

The shaking and snorting and dust cleared as the last of the bulls rushed past me. I panted to a stop as the herd drew away, distancing themselves from the unfortunate tribute selected for the prosperity of the rest of the herd. This time, there was not one sacrifice, but two. A mother Touring Bull and her young calf who was thin and bare, without horn or mantle. A troupe of humans gathered around them, whooping and whistling and hollering like frenzied Hena. Most were mounted on bikes, jeeps, or other off-road vehicles. Various creatures accompanied them. Many materialized out of thin air when called upon.

They surrounded the bulls to cut off their escape, and when their prey was properly trapped, a few of the humans dismounted. They were of high rank and preparing to fight over who would claim the hunt. There was much more bark than bite as custom of such standoffs. During the challenge, one or two of the lesser humans spotted me, but raised no alarm. They did not spare more than a few moments of thought because my timing and strangeness made them mistake me for one of their own.

A hairy, ragged looking man won the challenge. The scar on his face intensified the menacing nature of his features, especially when he stroked the soft skin longingly before signaling the others to separate the calf from its mother. It was the most basic of hunting strategies. The bull was furious, but reluctant to commit to her attacks in fear of getting too far away from her calf. The man with the scar face stepped up to challenge her next. He swung a device in his hands. It was made of metal and composed of many whirling, blinking things. Humans and their weapons. Each tailored to a specific purpose no matter the creature or the type.

It was what made them so dangerous.

Scar Face threw the device at the bull. The contraption expanded like a claw or spider and latched onto her side since it was too small to constrict her legs to her body. Electricity sprang up at its touch, but the bull refused to fall. She bellowed and bucked, yet the Iron Spider clung to her tightly. Scar Face snickered, spun a dial on his belt, and triggered another shock. The bull fell to a knee, smoking and groaning. Scar Face motioned at a comrade to bring him a plain rope. The sharp contrast in tools warned of a change in intent. He looped it into a noose and started swinging it to create a circle. This time, he turned to the calf. It called out in panic as Scar Face lassoed the rope around its head and pulled the noose tight to its neck.

The mother bellowed and fought to get up, but another shock sent her down again. Scar Face laughed and yanked on the rope, dragging the calf closer. His hands were big and shoulders built, eyes hungry and smile yellow. A predator if I ever saw one. I took great pleasure in the way he stumbled backwards and fell onto his rear when I came up and cleaved the rope with a swing of my hardened tail. The rope dropped to the ground like many a jaw, still and speechless. I stepped over it, finally coming to the forefront of the humans' attention.

"Hey, whose bitch is that?" the humans angrily shouted.

"She's getting in the way."

Because they were too slow and stupid to realize I snapped the rope on purpose.

The calf stumbled in the recoil, but its entire survival depended on quick and sturdy footing, so it awkwardly caught itself. Freed, but still surrounded by enemies, it retreated to its mother's side. The calf would never make it without her, so I followed. The humans continued to watch and grumble over themselves, ignorant and careless because I turned my back to them and took a position ahead of their lead fighter that was typical of their creature on creature battle tactics. I walked up to the bull, a mother kin to my own heart. The shortening distance deepened the humans' quietness. I cast my shadow over the bull so that she might find a moment's relief from the scowls and scorn of her captors.

The bull watched me with heavy snorts that puffed up dirt and dust from the ground. She knew me to be Mighty Hena, one of the greatest threats to her kind. She might even recognize me from the Pack of the Grasslands. I would not put it past her to understand some semblance of rank. She would do well to hate me like the rest of these predators, but unlike the humans, I was of the wild and that connected us in ways just as unique as the humans and their tamed creatures. Instead of fighting my presence, she took sanctuary in my shadow and allowed me to examine the device biting her side. The Iron Spider's ugly fake yellow eyes insulted me with their glow. I glared back, turning my head to tune in to its frequency. The device popped in a fit of sparks. Its tense legs suddenly slackened and it slumped onto the ground, crooked and smoking.

"What the hell was that?" the humans asked, glancing around as their engines and motors and intricate little mechanical things fell useless to my dark pulse.

Recognizing the opportunity, the bull rushed to her hooves. Standing tall and out of my shadow, she turned in the direction of the herd and charged out of the humans' circle. Spurned by her burns, she overturned one of the bikers with her horns on the way out. Her calf stayed close, terrified, but strong.

"Shit, somebody catch her!" the humans started up despite the pleas of the injured biker.

"You know the rules, use a pokeball and the catch is forfeit."

"I ain't lettin' a blue ribbon winner like that get away!"

Scar Face popped a metal ball off of his belt, enlarged it, wound it back and threw it as hard and as fast as a Bone Taker's club. I jumped up and caught it in my mouth. The humans went as silent as their machines when I landed on all four paws, teeth sharp and long and dangerous against the shiny metal. I stood before them once more, now face to face. The only obstacle between them and the fleeing pair, the herd, and the bounty of the grasslands. Yet something about the way I kept the metal ball intact between my jaws spooked and enamored them. Carefully, slowly, they surrounded me, their new target.

How arrogant they were to think that I was the hunted. Then again, these humans did not understand the wild or the Spirit. They were all males, unkempt and dressed in clothes of similar make. Colored in camouflage and accented with tools and keys, belts and boots. They were soldiers, not wanderers. A few tipped up their sunglasses to better look at me. Their skin and souls smelled of oil and metal and foul intent. They were the same troupe Scout and I came across all those seasons ago and were likely the same ones Warrior and his pack had done so well to distract. The humans must have wizened up and moved on from the Mighty Hena to easier prey.

Exile's last promise finally made sense. Humanity was the only change the wild could not cope with. They were here to stay and would continue to attack the land with their cold mechanical bite.

Scar Face stepped up once more. He swaggered into the battlefield his fellow hunters created. His teeth were large and creased in brown when he smiled. He crouched down, hands on his knees, and waved in a friendly manner, yet his eyes were nothing but condescending.

"Come're doggie," he taunted. "Bring me the ball you little bitch."

The group scoffed out a few laughs, relaxing.

I popped the ball between my jaws, crushing it to pieces.

Scar Face ground his molars and uncoiled another ball from his belt of trinkets. It filled his palm. He then snapped it open and shut. I hated that thing with its glowing red eye and empty mouth. These humans. They knew nothing of teeth. Even as they started pulling out weapons and reviving their gadgets, they thought such things made them powerful. That we creatures were dumb and could not learn.

This time, there was a brief buzz before my pulse surged out so strong and so fast that the ball in Scar Face's hand exploded. So did several other devices. Many a human yelped as they were shocked or burned from their malfunctioning equipment. They continued to fidget as a domain of darkness seeped down around us, blackening the landscape like an eclipse. One by one, my shadow and its multiplying doubles stepped out of the void. But instead of taking my shape, they took on the marks of the pack. Of Phantom Back and Omega, Ume and Watepei, Maw Mouth, Mato and all the rest. They barred their teeth, raising hackles and manes with the snap and clap of eager bites. The humans glanced around, fumbling with their broken toys, confused and surprised to find that they were the ones surrounded. That there was an even greater predator hiding in the shadow they so carelessly and recklessly tossed about. They had not the strength nor the will nor the Spirit to carry such a burden on their backs.

Grabbing his mangled hand by the wrist, Scar Face glared at me. Spit flung out of his mouth after a particularly strenuous and raging breath. I gave him credit. He bit back the pain with a grimace. His fury and pride were far stronger stimulants.

"Come on!" he screamed, unwilling to accept defeat.

Oh, I would come alright. I had one last blessing to fight with. It was the strongest of them all combined. That of Mother. My name. Now that I finally committed to leaving the pack, I had to relinquish my name, but I could not do so without great force and I could not think of a better way than to teach these humans a lesson in Mighty Hena.

Maybe then they would think twice before setting foot in the wild ever again.