Predator
by Aimee LaBrie
He keeps forgetting she's gone. He walks down the trail and he's been walking for a while now, the sun high in the sky, and he's thinking, what’s taking her so long? Because she usually lagged. Then he remembers: Oh, she's not there. She's never going to be behind me again.
A hawk on a treetop, eyes scanning for prey. The hawk has been with him since daybreak.
The mosquitos are bad. When he left, he didn't think things through, just figured, get away, so he forgot the spray and now the bugs are eating him alive, landing on his sweaty legs and arms.
Up ahead, a bend in the trail, and he sees the sparkle of something. A pond. He scans the surface for gators but sees nothing.
When they decided to go on the trip—who thought of it? She did. She was the one who said it would get him out of his head. She made the plans; bought the maps and the hiking socks he’s still wearing.
The first part was good. They had fun, and she put her feet up on the dashboard so he could admire her sexy little toenails painted blue. She put on a summer play list. She had good taste in music, but he wondered who introduced her to these songs? Not the girl bands, that was obviously her, but what about Radiohead?
She said her friend Jules liked them, but her voice sounded funny. She was like that all the time, downplaying her relationships with guys.
He heaves off the backpack and feels the soreness under his arms where the straps have been digging. The water cools him down, but he won't drink it because even if it looks fresh, there's bacteria.
She drank some bad water, scooped out of a stream before he could stop her. She had stomach cramps that day and kept having to go to the rest stop. He brought her Gatorade, and she said, “Thank you.” They were okay then, it was all going to be okay, but underneath, this brewing, biting anger, like, why doesn't she have more common sense?
The sun sinks below the horizon, a yellow ball spreading orange streaks across the sky.
He tried to explain to his parents: a terrible, terrible thing happened. It was a mistake. They begged him to tell the police, but he couldn't, he wouldn't. They would get it wrong.
He loved her.
He loves her.
A palmetto bug falls from the tree and drops down his shirt. He screams, shakes it out. The insect falls on the ground, scurries away before he can kill it.
It’s getting dark. He thinks he sees the outline of the hawk perched above him. He doesn't think the hawk is her, but he also doesn't think the hawk is not her. “There are so many things about nature that we just don’t get,” she said once.
She always smelled good. Even her sweat smelled delicious. She thought he was gross because he liked to smell her armpits, the sweat on her neck, the scent of her body after a long hike.
The woods are fully dark and with the night air, there is a reprieve from the heat.
One week ago today, they were together. One week and everything is different now.
He's brought some of the gear they had in the van. Don't think about that, don't think about what she touched or didn't touch. The sleeping bag is his; has been since high school. Flashlight, kindling, a hunting knife, fishing gear. All the objects are familiar but also strange now, like they’re cursed. There is before and there is after.
This is after.
He sets up camp. All day long he has felt like he is being followed, watched. It's not the hawk, it's something else. The Florida swamps are full of creatures. He and his dad used to hunt together when he was young. He watched his dad butcher a water moccasin with a small axe. The marshy waters hide the gators, whose snout and eyes can sometimes be seen bobbing on the surface. He is afraid of them, their thick, scaly prehistoric bodies and splayed, webbed feet.
When he tries to fall asleep, he feels out of sorts. Horny, kind of. If she were here, when she was here, she would let him roll her over, even in the middle of the night, even if she was sleeping. Or not let him let him, but she didn't complain. That bothered him sometimes, how she was such a victim, flinching if he yelled as if he were going to hit her.
He did not hit her.
He wakes to the sound of scratching. His heart catapults in his chest. The creatures outside could be bears or panthers, but what he's worried about are alligators. His rational mind knows they don't go seeking food on land, but he can't escape the thought that the alligator is waiting for him, or maybe not one, maybe several have slithered up from the water and encircled the tent. It's stupid of course. It couldn't be.
But there were so many things he never believed could happen and they did.
He unzips the tent and steps out into the dark. Nothing. A screech in the distance, an animal being slaughtered. Cicadas, echoing in his ears. Nothing else.
He turns to crawl back into the tent. That is when it gets him. He thinks he’s tripped over the fire, but then he feels it again, higher on his leg, near the knee. He falls onto his back, scrambling to think what he should do. Get up! He must get up. He grabs at the grass, but it comes up in his hands. Above him, the moon, a round glowing circle. He’s being dragged.
He remembers now how the predator works. His dad explained it to him, smiling all the while.
It drowns you first. Then, it eats you.
A hawk on a treetop, eyes scanning for prey. The hawk has been with him since daybreak.
The mosquitos are bad. When he left, he didn't think things through, just figured, get away, so he forgot the spray and now the bugs are eating him alive, landing on his sweaty legs and arms.
Up ahead, a bend in the trail, and he sees the sparkle of something. A pond. He scans the surface for gators but sees nothing.
When they decided to go on the trip—who thought of it? She did. She was the one who said it would get him out of his head. She made the plans; bought the maps and the hiking socks he’s still wearing.
The first part was good. They had fun, and she put her feet up on the dashboard so he could admire her sexy little toenails painted blue. She put on a summer play list. She had good taste in music, but he wondered who introduced her to these songs? Not the girl bands, that was obviously her, but what about Radiohead?
She said her friend Jules liked them, but her voice sounded funny. She was like that all the time, downplaying her relationships with guys.
He heaves off the backpack and feels the soreness under his arms where the straps have been digging. The water cools him down, but he won't drink it because even if it looks fresh, there's bacteria.
She drank some bad water, scooped out of a stream before he could stop her. She had stomach cramps that day and kept having to go to the rest stop. He brought her Gatorade, and she said, “Thank you.” They were okay then, it was all going to be okay, but underneath, this brewing, biting anger, like, why doesn't she have more common sense?
The sun sinks below the horizon, a yellow ball spreading orange streaks across the sky.
He tried to explain to his parents: a terrible, terrible thing happened. It was a mistake. They begged him to tell the police, but he couldn't, he wouldn't. They would get it wrong.
He loved her.
He loves her.
A palmetto bug falls from the tree and drops down his shirt. He screams, shakes it out. The insect falls on the ground, scurries away before he can kill it.
It’s getting dark. He thinks he sees the outline of the hawk perched above him. He doesn't think the hawk is her, but he also doesn't think the hawk is not her. “There are so many things about nature that we just don’t get,” she said once.
She always smelled good. Even her sweat smelled delicious. She thought he was gross because he liked to smell her armpits, the sweat on her neck, the scent of her body after a long hike.
The woods are fully dark and with the night air, there is a reprieve from the heat.
One week ago today, they were together. One week and everything is different now.
He's brought some of the gear they had in the van. Don't think about that, don't think about what she touched or didn't touch. The sleeping bag is his; has been since high school. Flashlight, kindling, a hunting knife, fishing gear. All the objects are familiar but also strange now, like they’re cursed. There is before and there is after.
This is after.
He sets up camp. All day long he has felt like he is being followed, watched. It's not the hawk, it's something else. The Florida swamps are full of creatures. He and his dad used to hunt together when he was young. He watched his dad butcher a water moccasin with a small axe. The marshy waters hide the gators, whose snout and eyes can sometimes be seen bobbing on the surface. He is afraid of them, their thick, scaly prehistoric bodies and splayed, webbed feet.
When he tries to fall asleep, he feels out of sorts. Horny, kind of. If she were here, when she was here, she would let him roll her over, even in the middle of the night, even if she was sleeping. Or not let him let him, but she didn't complain. That bothered him sometimes, how she was such a victim, flinching if he yelled as if he were going to hit her.
He did not hit her.
He wakes to the sound of scratching. His heart catapults in his chest. The creatures outside could be bears or panthers, but what he's worried about are alligators. His rational mind knows they don't go seeking food on land, but he can't escape the thought that the alligator is waiting for him, or maybe not one, maybe several have slithered up from the water and encircled the tent. It's stupid of course. It couldn't be.
But there were so many things he never believed could happen and they did.
He unzips the tent and steps out into the dark. Nothing. A screech in the distance, an animal being slaughtered. Cicadas, echoing in his ears. Nothing else.
He turns to crawl back into the tent. That is when it gets him. He thinks he’s tripped over the fire, but then he feels it again, higher on his leg, near the knee. He falls onto his back, scrambling to think what he should do. Get up! He must get up. He grabs at the grass, but it comes up in his hands. Above him, the moon, a round glowing circle. He’s being dragged.
He remembers now how the predator works. His dad explained it to him, smiling all the while.
It drowns you first. Then, it eats you.
Aimee LaBrie’s short stories have appeared in The Minnesota Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Cagibi, StoryQuarterly, Cimarron Review, Pleiades, Fractured Lit, Beloit Fiction Journal, Permafrost, and others. Her work has been anthologized in A Darker Shade of Noir: Body Horror by Women, edited by Joyce Carol Oates, and Philadelphia Noir, among others. Her second short story collection, Rage and Other Cages, won the Leapfrog Global Fiction Prize and was published by Leapfrog Press in June 2024.