Culled by the Mark
Near-white cyan slivers of reflected moonlight sliced silhouettes on the grass and between the trees of Algonquin Provincial Park. Under a blue-black midnight sky, mountain lion meat browned over a bright, fire orange pit as the cook munched on a sloppily made burger containing meat from the rib of the dangerous game. The smoke from the pan carried with it the pungent aroma which bore aloft the namesake of Sam Adams, dry and warm, mixed with the pleasing smell of the contents just beginning to blacken. The griller lazily flipped the pan, causing the sizzling grease to jump out, catching on his arm. He winced, but held onto the pan with liquid determination, gently setting it down only once he was sure the meat had flipped. He licked the wimpering red mark on his skin and rubbed the wet surface dry on his jeans. He huddled closer to the warm light, holding off the mild chill of night. He briefly played with the camo jacket hanging on his fold-out chair, then let it be, preferring the contrast of hot and cold than to put on a layer and become invariably, uncomfortably warm.Dale Cotter had bagged the big cat early in the afternoon, skinned it and scraped the meat off, gradually adding it to the fire, spurred by a boorish notion for which he had no excuse other than he could think of nothing better to do. A notion heavily backed up partway through by a steady flow of booze, but a notion he nonetheless humored until the stars came out.
Once he’d finished eating and grilling, he put down his plate, turned down the volume from the mixtape playing in the radio, and stood up to raise an aluminum glass to the city - still standing in the wake of Black Thursday - and cleared his throat to speak, in a crisp, even-pitched tenor.
“To Harper Rock - Unshaken, unbroken, until the end of time,” he toasted alone, pouring out the contents of the can into the grass. It was a terrible toast, and the drink was wearing off, but it was probably just him alone out here, and he’d forgotten worse. He tapped his cigarette, letting the ash fall where it may, to take one last drag.
And it would be the last. He didn’t even see it coming. His body lurched to the ground from the impact, his head knocking against the thick dirt. He barely registered the weight crushing him as a face leaned toward him, canines suspiciously absent from a toothy scowl as his wild-eyed attacker held him fast. Dale cried out to his god as teeth clumsily struck his neck, half choking him and sinking in. He could have sworn the mountain lion he killed had come back to life, crying from the game bag containing its hide and bones. His blood curdled when he realized he was the one screaming, as his voice rapidly petered out from the abuse he was taking.
Suddenly moments later, the crazed offender leapt off, disappearing into the shadows of the trees, leaving him to brace as another shadow came to rest just above him. As it lingered, judging or appraising, he caught a faint ray of hope and reached out, begging as a tearing pain stained his fingers wet as they probed unfamiliar marks, which bored into his neck. The dark figure was gone as quickly as it and its predecessor had came, leaving him under that ray of moonlight, seeming as though it were brightening ever so slightly.
