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The Rabbit Hunter

John Quinn

1

    Gerald King was down on one knee, his whole body still, partially hidden by a large oak tree. Dressed in a mix of brown and dark green clothes, hunter’s clothes, he seemed to blend into the trees and bushes around him. He was holding his rifle in his hands, pulling it tight into his shoulder to protect himself against the kickback. One eye was closed, and with the other eye he was looking through the scope of the gun, watching his target closely, and waiting for the perfect time to shoot.
    The rabbit, blissfully unaware that it was perfectly positioned between the cross hairs of Gerald’s rifle, hopped around playfully. Gerald tracked each of these movements carefully. He didn’t want to let his target out of his sight.
    When the rabbit stopped moving, Gerald didn’t hesitate, he pulled the trigger. He was an experienced hunter, and he knew when the perfect opportunity to fire came along.
    Rabbits were a hard target to hit, but that was part of the challenge for Gerald. He had hunted deer before, but he preferred a smaller target as he got more satisfaction when he hit it. His love of rabbit meat, particularly in a stew, also had a part to play in bringing Gerald back to this same area of forest on the mountainside every week, located about two hours’ drive from his house.
    Of course he had to put up with the protests of his wife at home, who objected to his killing of the “cutesy rabbits”. He simply ignored her objections. He loved hunting and nothing would stop him from doing it. Surprisingly enough his wife still prepared and cooked the rabbit meat for him, despite her strong anti-hunting views. His ten year old daughter was not so quick to overlook his favorite past-time. When she found out that he killed rabbits for fun, she cried for a week. Gerald had to eventually promise never to do it again. Of course he never intended to keep this promise, and whenever they had rabbit stew for dinner, Gerald and his wife told their ten year old daughter that it was chicken. A lie that she so innocently believed.
    Gerald followed the same routine each Saturday with military like precision. Up at 6am, a quick breakfast, prepare a lunch, pack his gear into the back of his range rover and set off for his favorite hunting spot. He always arrived promptly at nine and spent the whole morning, and some of the afternoon, there.
    Occasionally he came across other people. Sometimes other hunters and sometimes people up there for a quiet place to pop off a few rounds at plastic and glass bottles placed around the forest. But mostly he had the place to himself. He enjoyed the solitude and feeling of being at one with nature. But more than anything, he loved the feeling of being a lone hunter.
    The view was also breathtaking. The mountainside overlooked the coast, giving a very good view of a beach about a half mile further down the coastline. Gerald often admired the view when he took a break from hunting to eat his lunch, always the same, ham and cheese sandwiches washed down by a couple of beers.
    He had being hunting rabbits for years, and he had become a very good shot. He squeezed off a round. The rifle let out a large bang which echoed in the quiet of the forest, and then everything fell silent again. He hit the rabbit right in the center of its body.
    “Gotcha”, he muttered.
    He lowered his rifle and stood up. He then put the strap of the rifle over his shoulder, picked up his back pack and walked towards the now dead rabbit.

    When he got to the rabbit and confirmed that it was indeed dead, he nodded his head once in satisfaction. Although he loved to hunt and kill them, he hated to see them suffer. On several occasions he had to break a rabbit’s neck that hadn’t quite been finished off by the bullet. It always took some of the shine off his day.
    He knelt down beside it and opened his backpack. There was a plastic bag inside it which he took out and opened up. Inside the bag were two rabbits that he had killed earlier that morning. It had been a good day so far.
    Gerald picked up his latest success and placed it with the other two rabbits; he then closed the plastic bag and placed it back into his backpack.
    Although Gerald loved hunting, it wasn’t his favorite part of Saturday. His favorite part was still to come. The part which let him release so much of the tension and pressure that had built up in him during the week. When he got to really forget all the shit that those fucking assholes in work shoveled on him every day of the goddamn week.
    Oh yes, he loved this part of Saturday, he loved it even more than killing the cute little rabbits that his daughter cared about so much.
    He sometimes thought that if he didn’t have his Saturdays, he would go insane.
    But he did have Saturday. Thank God he had Saturday.
    He stood up, still with his rifle slung over his shoulder, and picked up his back pack. He started to walk towards the part of the forest which let him release so much tension, anger, and pressure. The part that had a perfect view of the beach where he could gaze down at the people, who along with the rabbits played an integral part of his Saturdays.
    As he thought about them swarming on the beach, his step quickened.

2

    Gerald came to his favorite spot. It was at the edge of the forest, an area densely covered with trees and bushes. He had to get down on his stomach and crawl for about twenty yards until he came to the very edge of the wooded area. From here he could look down from his high position on the mountain. It gave a perfect view of the beach. The same beach that Gerald sometimes looked down at when he took a break from hunting to eat his lunch.
    At the end of each Saturday, Gerald crawled through the thick bushes to his own secret hiding area. It was here, hidden among the dense bushes and trees, that Gerald released all the tension and stress that had built up in him during the week. It was in this position each Saturday, hidden to the world, gazing down on the small figures on the beach, which gave him such an incredible sense of power.
    Gerald needed something to make him feel powerful. He worked for an electrical appliance company that sold the usual necessities, washing machines, ovens, that kind of thing. He was in charge of customer service. In the beginning he liked the job; Gerald was a people-person, after all. But as the years went by, and he listened to the constant complaints and bitching of customers, customers whose asses he had to kiss, Gerald began to hate people. He began to really despise them. He often sat in his office imagining how it would feel to slowly squeeze one of his customer’s necks, watching their eyes bulge and tongue sticking out of their mouth as the life left their bodies. He might have cracked and tried to live out this fantasy, if not for his Saturdays.
    Gerald’s boss made work even more unbearable. His name was Jim Sheridan, but he insisted on being called “Mr. Sheridan“, or “Sir“. Gerald hated his boss. He hated his goddamn kiss ass attitude towards the never ending line of bitching customers. “The customer is always right, Gerald....Gerald, make sure that customer is satisfied....Gerald, if we lose that customer it’s going to come down on you.”
    Fuck the customers, Gerald often thought, although he could never say this. “Yes, Mr. Sheridan”, was more appropriate.
    Gerald also hated the way his boss constantly talked about his daughter. His perfect little princess who was going to graduate from University with honors. Gerald was sick of hearing about her every day, not to mention seeing her fat face peering out of countless picture frames in his boss’s office. Gerald hated the customers, but at least they changed from day to day. But he always had the same goddamn boss who managed to do something each day to increase Gerald’s loathing of him.
    Thank God for Saturday. It was the same every week. Gerald would go home from work on a Friday evening, his shoulders hunched over, in a bad humor from putting up with people’s bullshit all week. But by Saturday afternoon he was a new man again. He had released all of that pressure, and he was ready to take on the world once more.
    As he lay on his stomach, hidden among the trees and bushes, he could already feel the stress leaving his body. He took his rifle in his hands and aimed down to the beach. He took a moment to adjust the sight, as the beach was a little distance away. He then looked through the scope again.
    It was a beautiful June day and the beach was full of people. Some swimming, other’s working on a tan. The most common beach activities of reading, listening to music and building sandcastles were all being carried out. But as Gerald looked through the scope of the rifle, he didn’t see people having fun on the beach. He saw more potential customers.
    He panned the rifle around the beach, the cross hairs of its scope slowly drifting over the unsuspecting bathers. He stopped when he found a suitable target. A man in his forties with swim trunks digging into his love handles, arms already turning red with sun burn. Gerald put his finger over the trigger, preparing to fire, taking very careful aim.

    When he was ready he muttered something to himself. It came out just above a whisper and if anyone had of been passing by, they wouldn’t have heard him. It was a phrase that had become part of his Saturday ritual. Saying it made him feel powerful. It made him feel...above everyone else, especially the customers and his boss.
    “I have the power of life and death”, he breathed, “I have the power”
    He pulled the trigger.
    The rifle made a clicking sound. But there was no loud bang to break the silence amongst the trees. And the people on the beach continued on with their lives, oblivious to the fact that Gerald was watching them through his rifle. In fact, nothing at all happened, because the rifle was not loaded.
    Gerald knew that if he wanted to, he could kill whomever he pleased. He had that power, and having that power released all of the week’s tension. He didn’t need to make the kill, having the power to do it was enough.
    He continued to scan the beach, picking out the kind of people he hated, the kind of people that reminded him of his customers. And each time he muttered the same phrase to himself “I have the power of life and death, I have the power,” before pulling the trigger.
    With each click of the trigger, more and more tension and stress left his body and he felt better. He usually picked out about twenty people before he was satisfied and went home. This day would have been no exception, except for one little thing. As he scanned the beach, he came across a person that he knew personally. Someone he knew but despised. That person was his boss, Jim Sheridan.

    Gerald watched him through the scope as he sat on the beach, sucking down the last few drops from a bottle of beer. Gerald then noticed somebody with him, a young girl with blonde hair wearing a bikini that was far too small for her resulting in flabby love handles hanging over the string of the bikini bottom. Gerald recognized her immediately from the photos in Jim Sheridan’s office. It was his daughter. Little miss perfect. There was an older women sitting beside her. Her skin was wrinkled leather from too much sun over the years and her face was partially obscured by her peroxide blonde hair. Gerald guessed that this was Jim’s wife.
    The rabbit hunter lay still, staring at them through the scope of his rifle. His mouth dropped open and his face was blank, as if he had drifted off to another place in his mind. After a long silence, he started to mutter his chant again.
    “I have the power of life and death. I have the power.”
    He repeated this to himself again and again. And as he did so, he reached into his back pack and took out a box of bullets. He began to load the rifle, all the time repeating that same phrase to himself, the blank expression still on his face.

3

    Gerald lay still for a long time, watching Jim and his family. The gun was loaded now. He was taking things a little further than he ever had before. He had never pointed a loaded gun down at the beach. He had never needed too. But now that he was watching his boss, he knew that simply having the power was not enough. He wanted to hurt his boss, to destroy him.
    The thought of just getting up and leaving passed fleetingly through Gerald’s mind. He knew that it would be the sensible thing to do. Things were going a little too far now. Some part of him was still with it enough to realize that much. But then he started thinking of the things his boss had said to him in work that week.
    “Get off your ass and look after this customer, Gerald”.... “Don’t just sit there with that stupid expression on your face, Gerald, we have customers to look after.”
    His memory threw these words at him, each of them hitting him like a slap in the face, and thoughts of leaving were quickly smothered by an intense anger. His finger moved over the trigger as he thought about what to do next. He hated the man he currently had in his sight. He wanted to hurt him. But he didn’t want to kill him. It would be over far too fast. He wanted to make him suffer.

    Suddenly an idea came to mind. A smile crept across his face, and he pulled the trigger.

    This time the rifle did make a noise.

4

    Jim, who was having quite a good day up to then, didn’t hear the shot. There was a lot of noise on the beach. Children were laughing, people were talking, and music was being played over stereos. It was a few seconds before he fully understood that it was a gun that was doing all the damage. A moment earlier he had been looking up at his daughter, who stood in front of him debating whether or not she would go back into the water. Then her head seemed to simply explode. He felt something splash over him; which he would later realize was blood and parts of his daughter’s skull and brain. Then his daughter dropped to the ground.
    Jim crawled over to her body and when he saw her lifeless eyes beneath her destroyed skull he burst into tears. He still didn’t know what happened; he just knew that his daughter, his little princess, was dead.
    The other beach goers surrounding Jim were stunned. They hadn’t heard a shot either and many of them thought the girl had fainted. That was until they saw the blood and pieces of brain that had scattered in the sand. Still nobody ran. They still had not realized that it was someone with a gun that caused all the commotion.
    When Jim’s wife became aware that something had happened to her daughter she got up and ran to her side. She just had time to see her daughter lying dead on the ground, and had just enough time to hear her husband get half way through a sentence “I don’t know what happ...” when Gerald fired again. This time Jim’s wife was the target. The bullet hit her square in the chest, penetrating her heart and killing her instantly.
    Jim stopped mid-sentence. He didn’t want to believe what he had just seen. He didn’t think he could believe it. Things like this don’t happen in real life. You don’t take your family to the beach and then watch your daughter and wife be killed in front of you. Things like that just don’t happen. Only on this particular day, Saturday the fourteenth of June, they did.
    By now the onlookers had realized that something was wrong. Although they hadn’t heard the shots, they saw two bodies lying on the ground, one with an open skull and the other with an open chest. Some realized that only a gun could do this damage, whereas others didn’t know what was causing it, they just knew that they had to get away from there. In any case, the people began to run.
    Jim couldn’t run. He couldn’t even move. He began to understand what was happening. Someone had targeted his family. His wife and daughter had been killed, and he was next. Jim expected a bullet to come at any second. Only the bullet never came. He was left kneeling over the bodies of the two most important people in his life. It probably would have been better for Jim if Gerald had taken a third shot and put him out of his misery. But that wasn’t part of Gerald’s plan. His plan was to ruin Jim Sheridan’s life, to bring misery on him, and he felt that he had adequately achieved just that.

5

    Overlooking the carnage he had caused, from his position on the mountainside, Gerald lowered his rifle. The realization of what he had done began to sink in. He hadn’t just clicked off a few empty rounds. This time he had actually fired, and he had killed two people. He felt remorse, but not for the people that he killed, or for Jim Sheridan, whose life he had ruined. He felt remorse for himself because he knew that his life, as he knew it, was over. The police would link the bullets back to his registered rifle. Everyone knew that he spent Saturdays in this particular piece of forest land on the mountain. Everyone also knew that he didn’t exactly like his boss. In fact, he hated the fucker.
    The thought of prison scared Gerald. He knew that he wouldn’t survive in a place like that.
    “Shit,” he muttered, as these thoughts ran through his head.
    He started to feel sick in his stomach where there was a constant churning sensation, as if someone was stirring the contents of his stomach with a spoon. He thought of his wife and daughter and a huge wave of pain and sadness washed over him. What the fuck do I do now? He thought to himself.
    He realized that he no longer had any power, that he never really had any to begin with. In fact, those shots hadn’t just destroyed Jim Sheridan’s life. They had destroyed his own life as well. He realized that there was only one course of action to take. He simply couldn’t face prison, he just couldn’t.
    He thought once more of his own wife and daughter, took a deep breath, and put the barrel of the rifle in his mouth.

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