Circle of fight

CHAPTER 7

One of the things about Lee and me is that we’ve been together so long and been through so much that we’re linked by long cotton threads. When we’re out in the bush or in any situation like this, we not only have our senses working at full pitch but we’re tuned into each other as well. I’m not saying this like we were some kind of heroes. It was just survival. Either you do stuff like that or you’re dead. Pretty simple really.

So the moment I stopped, Lee stopped too. The exact moment. Like he was frozen in midstep. He was for a moment too. Then he put his foot down, watching me for a clue as to what was going on, and at the same time eating and drinking and breathing everything that was going on around him. Right away his gun was at his shoulder and I saw his thumb slide the safety forwards and his finger tighten around the trigger. He was ready.

So was I, even though I didn’t know what we were ready for. I turned a little but the signals weren’t strong behind me. Something was in front of us, something that had those spiders tickling my skin so badly I wanted to scratch myself. The problem was to move forwards in a way that wouldn’t expose us too much and yet would give us a chance to go quietly. The further off the track and into the bush we were, the more we’d be walking on twigs and leaves and bark and noisy stuff. It was all about finding a middle way, as always. I shuffled a bit to the left and started to creep down the road. Across from me Lee was doing the same. We were coming into a little dip. Beyond that the road rose, then levelled and ran in a straight line for about fifty metres before coming to a cattle grid. This was the boundary between One Tree and Burnt Hut.

One Tree had probably been a paddock with only one tree a long time ago. Maybe when my great-grandfather was razing the place with crosscut saws and axes, and when my grandfather joined in with tractors and bulldozers. But then my father came along with his airy-fairy arty-farty greenie ideas and not only let the bush grow back in quite a few places but actually planted trees and restored the lagoon. And so One Tree didn’t really deserve that name any more, but was stuck with it anyway.

Burnt Hut was a nice paddock that at the moment was heavily stocked with Mr Young’s cattle, which I had on agistment. It was my eastern boundary. Next door was Colin McCann’s place. It was my only border with him and I didn’t see much of him but he was a decent bloke and a good neighbour.

I knew that to the left of the dip, on Lee’s side, ahead of us, was a bit of a gully that occasionally ran with water during a wet winter. I realised that if these guys were anywhere around here, this was the place they’d be camping.

I waved to Lee to get him to stay where he was, then I cut back through the bush and went quite a way forwards. I came out near the gate into Burnt Hut, on the other side of the dip, and looked back down the track to pick up Lee again. There he was, a thin dark figure in among the thin dark saplings. I pointed into the gully, to show him what I wanted to do, to have the two of us sneak in there and see what we could see. Then I squatted a little to peer through the trees.

At that moment my head was nearly blasted off my shoulders. My God there is nothing like a rifle shot fired at you from not far away to totally pulverise you, to turn you into mush. And I’m talking about the shots that miss you. Everything turns to liquid. I guess if it had hit me I would have shed quite a lot of liquid too, but either way it’s pretty effective. I froze in mid-crouch. At the same time I realised that the crouch had saved my life. I’d bent just as he fired.

At least my brain started working again, after that moment of paralysis. I dropped further and did a quick slithering crawl into some bracken and grass, hoping no snakes were waking up in the immediate vicinity. My heart was going like an empty jerry can in the back of a ute, a ute being driven on a dirt road at a hundred and twenty k’s. And when I say dirt road, I’m talking a fire trail. I didn’t know if my chest would be able to contain it. I wondered where Lee was, and if the gunman knew he was hanging around. A second shot slammed into a tree behind me, but missed by quite a way compared to the first one. I bolted deeper into the undergrowth then immediately started working my way around to the right in the hope that I’d get a shot at him or them.

I left my safety on because dragging the rifle along in the grass was just too dangerous. Someone started firing pretty much at random, but I thought there was at least a bit of a pattern in where the shots were going, which meant that I could flatten myself as they got closer. I was completely deaf by the time they got to me. One bullet went to my left and another to my right. I’d say the closer one was less than two metres away. By that time I was so flat that you could have put a spirit level on me and the bubble wouldn’t have gone anywhere. I did the echidna thing and writhed myself into the ground, trying to make a depression where no depression existed. But the moment the shots passed me I went at a speed no echidna has ever achieved, heading for the fence line into Burnt Hut.

I knew that the scrub was much lighter there and I’d have a better view. Of course they’d have a better view of me too, but I had to get a look at him or them and see what I was up against.

The shots stopped abruptly. As far as I could tell with my ringing ears there was a complete silence. I could bet that every bird for a couple of k’s would be keeping its beak shut and heading for the hills. The familiar thump thump thump of kangaroos moving at speed could not be heard. No moaning mooing cattle either. Chances were that it was just down to me and Lee and an unknown number of gunmen who wanted to kill us.

I tried to move as quietly as possible, considering that I wouldn’t have heard much noise I made anyway. If I’d screamed at the top of my voice while at the same time jumping up and down on large dead branches… well, I might have heard that, just. But, still on all fours, I wove a way through more bracken and grass, trying to ignore the blackberries I occasionally plonked my hand on, until at last I got to a position where I thought I could risk a peep.

I peeped but I didn’t see anything. I slowly swivelled my head and peeped some more, quite a lot more, still with no result. Again I wondered where Lee was. Then, suddenly, shockingly, as I peeped again, I got a good view of them. Two men, both young, both dressed in camouflage. They were moving slowly down the sides of the road, the exact way Lee and I had been doing. Guess we’d read the same handbook on guerrilla warfare. They had their rifles ready for action and they looked pretty professional. They peered as I peeped.

I carefully moved my rifle up to my shoulder, still trying to make no sound. It occurred to me that they might be pretty deaf themselves after the barrage. I lined them up, but didn’t know what I was going to do. Could I shoot them in cold blood? I didn’t have much compunction about that, seeing how hard they were trying to kill me, but I didn’t know if it was a good tactical move. Could I take them prisoner? I was scared to do that. I know it’s so easy in the movies when they take a prisoner, but in real life all I could see were problems. What if I told them to walk along the road in a certain direction and they just refused? Would I, could I, shoot them?

Damn Lee, where was he? I needed his advice. Someone’s advice, anyone’s advice, but I’d take Lee or Homer above most people, especially in a situation like this.

Then it seemed that they saw Lee, even if I couldn’t. While I was still trying to decide whether to pull the trigger, and if so which one I’d shoot first, they both suddenly tensed. One went a couple of steps to the left, the other to the right. Now they were both out of my sight. But they both fired, in such quick succession that it almost seemed like one shot. There was an answering blast from Lee. He must have had himself fairly well positioned, because he gave them a hot time. He fired again, then a couple more times. He must have reloaded. I could see branches whipping back with the force of shells hitting them. Leaves flew. He forced the men back, I think, because I could hear them well enough now, shouting to each other in their own language. It sounded like they were already twenty metres down the road, nearly at the gate.

I ran around to get a better position. I knew where I could get a view of the fence line. If I could catch them as they went across the cattle grid I’d have them off guard for a couple of moments. It’s difficult to get across those things, especially if you’re trying to concentrate on shooting people at the same time.

By the time I saw them again they were already across it though. That was pretty slick work. They were haring towards a small clump of trees, swerving a bit as they went. Yes, they were professionals all right. Lee came running down the road, panting like he’d just done ten k’s. I came down the fence line taking giant steps to get over logs and rocks and ditches. We met at the gate and without needing to speak raced across the cattle grid. Lee dropped to one knee and lined up a shot, but I could have told him he was wasting his time. When you’ve been running like that and it’s a hot day and you’re in a state of panic, you can’t get your gun steady, you can’t aim properly, sweat gets in your eyes and your hand trembles and the shot goes wide or high or short or whatever. Lee should have known.

It would have been pretty funny if he’d hit one of them after my saying that, but he didn’t. I couldn’t see where the shot went, even though I’d had to pause and wait for him while he took it. I wasn’t going to run on ahead while he amused himself with pot shots from behind me.

‘Come on,’ I said, and he got back to his feet and started out after me.

I realised we were running into a problem. When these guys got into the clump of trees — and nothing we could do was going to stop them — the tables would suddenly be reversed. We were in a big bare part of the paddock. Absolutely no cover. To my left, beyond a dozen very restless and unhappy-looking beasts, was more bush, but it was a long way from us. We would be exposed to withering fire from a couple of professional soldiers who’d be well hidden in good cover. To my right were more cattle and the crest of the hill, my boundary fence with Colin McCann running along the crest of it.

I glanced behind and if I hadn’t been sweating before I did some serious sweating now. Sheez, we’d come a long way. Too far. We were too fast for our own good. The PE department at Wirrawee High School would be proud of us. They could have a ceremony to honour us. Too bad it was going to be posthumous.

‘This way!’ I yelled at Lee. He seemed to be realising the problem at the same time because he was slowing down and looking kind of doubtful. I swung left, ran ten metres at the most, then it was my turn to drop to one knee and raise my rifle. God, my father, Mr Young, forgive me for what I am about to do. As a farmer, this was the worst moment of my career. This was the absolute pits.

It’s impossible to hit a fox when he’s running and you’re out of breath and shaking from the hunt. It’s probably impossible to hit a human being in the same circumstances, although I haven’t had a lot of practice. But it’s all too easy to shoot a couple of steers, especially when they’re standing still and watching you with the gravest suspicion. I got them both through the head and they both dropped pretty much straightaway. The first one fell on his front knees and stayed there for a moment, then slowly rolled over to his left side. The second fell to his side, again to the left. The other cattle bolted.

We sprinted for the nearest dead one. Turned out when we got there that he wasn’t dead, but equally he wasn’t going anywhere. We got there just in time though, as the shooting from the trees started up when we were still a dozen steps away. I don’t think I took those dozen steps, I think I flew them. I seem to remember a long dive that brought me thudding into the heaving side of the dying steer.

God, sometimes you get emotional overload. I lay there feeling (a) terror from being shot at; (b) fury at these guys and a mad desire to kill them; (c)horror at the terrible gasping of the beast who sheltered me, along with; (d) guilt that I’d just shot two beautiful healthy cattle; and (e) thankfulness that I was with Lee, because he and Homer were about the only two people I knew who could help me get out of this alive. If there’d been time I would have had a few feelings about Gavin too, but for this brief period he was completely out of my mind.

‘Barbequed beef for tea tonight,’ Lee said, panting. I immediately added another emotion to my list: hatred of Lee. We were down to (f) now.

‘There won’t be any tea if we’re dead,’ I snarled back.

Half-a-dozen bullets smacked into the great beast and he died without another murmur. The impact of the bullets was frightening. Luckily these cattle were in good condition. A scrawny beast mightn’t have been much protection. Now he was just a carcass though, chopped up as though the world’s roughest butcher had hacked into him with a blunt axe. Chunks of flesh were scattered over a wide area. Lee had blood all down his front and, glancing down, I realised that I was in the same condition. Already a couple of flies were starting to appear.

‘What are we going to do now, genius?’ Lee asked. To be fair to him it wasn’t said in a bad way. He gave me a little crooked smile. I knew deep down that Lee respected the fact that I’d saved his skin a few times. Just as I respected the fact that he’d saved mine.

It was time for the brain to take over. Instinct might help as a back-up, but this was a job for the brain. ‘Why do you think I shot two beasts?’ I asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. The firing had stopped. I wondered if they were running low on ammunition. ‘Cover me,’ I said quickly to Lee and took off for the second of the cattle.

So close and yet so far away. It seemed like I was running and running and not getting anywhere. The breeze was in my face and the mountains seemed near enough to touch and the carcass of the second steer wasn’t getting any closer. I heard Lee’s gun pounding again and again as I ran forever across the paddock. Oh, I didn’t want to do this. The excitement was intense, yes, and I had become addicted to it, yes, and although I loved music and friends and peace, nothing beat the burning agony of mind and body that took me over when my life was on the line, but enough was enough and I wanted to be a human being again. You can’t be a human being in wartime.

A bullet screeched past me, the strange howling sound that resembles nothing else, and then another, even closer. I took another dive, into another dead or dying beast, and cuddled into its warm flanks. If I lived to a ripe old age a lot of animals were going to die, to feed and clothe me, or because I was driving a car, or because I hadn’t protected them from foxes or crows. But not many of them would die so directly at my hands as these two cattle.

I took a quick look at the grove of trees. Again the firing had stopped. I waved to Lee and fired a first shot to give him cover. An answering shot slammed into my steer so hard that the carcass rocked at its impact. But there were no more. I wondered again if they were running out of ammo. I didn’t have much more myself. As Lee left the shelter of the first beast I opened fire though. I had to. No good letting Lee get killed because I was saving ammo for some hypothetical situation later. I aimed at the places where I’d seen the little flashes of fire, not really expecting to hit anyone, but you never know your luck in a big paddock.

Lee arrived unscathed, but panting hard again. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked between pants.

‘I reckon I haven’t got much ammo left.’

‘Me neither.’

In covering Lee I’d used up another magazine. Now, trying to stop my hands from trembling, I shoved the rest of my bullets in. I didn’t want them piled in there higgledy-piggledy, where they’d jam later.

‘We could aim for the far end of those trees and then do a bit of stalking,’ I said.

Lee licked his lips. ‘I don’t think there’s much point.’ Before I could say anything he added, ‘Looked at from a logical point of view. I mean, we’re trying to get Gavin back. We haven’t hurt them, just given them a fright, so if we quit the fight at this stage they shouldn’t have any hard feelings. They shouldn’t take it out on Gavin.’

‘But then what? We leave them wandering around the place to do what they want? I don’t want to go off to Havelock while these morons are running wherever they like on the property.’

‘We could call the cops in to round them up.’

‘Then we’ve got the same problem, that their mates will hear about it if they’re caught and Gavin could pay the price.’

It was such an urgent conversation and my brain wouldn’t work. I couldn’t think of a solution that would be perfect, and I only wanted perfection.

He said in that cold voice that can turn off sunshine and bring hail: ‘Well then, what we need is to kill them before they contact their base, so their friends never know what’s happened to them.’

It was more or less what we’d agreed back at the house, but somehow it sounded more chilling to hear it out here in the warm paddock, with the two men so close. They were real now, even if we knew nothing about them.

While I searched my mind for the right thing to say Lee suddenly stiffened. It was like a snake had bitten him or he had bull ants climbing his leg.

‘There they go,’ he said.

Sure enough the two men were haring across the paddock, going up the slight rise, heading for the boundary fence. I hadn’t expected that. They were probably low on ammo, but besides that, they might have been a bit spooked by having us chase them across the paddock. They could see that we were in a good position to attack them in their trees, and I suppose the relentlessness of our pursuit could be getting discombobulating. For all they knew we could have unlimited ammunition.

Without a word between us we did chase them. One thing that definitely happens in war situations is that you forget about the value of your life. I knew that feeling well by now. At those times someone in your head switches the brain right off. Yep, they walk up to that switch, the big one with the red warning sign saying Danger: do not touch, and they ignore the words and just pull the switch up and cut all the circuits. I charged across that field like I didn’t care whether I lived or died. And it wasn’t an illusion. I didn’t care. All sensible thoughts were gone, all memories were wiped clean, the future didn’t exist. At those times you can accept the possibility of your own death. When I see people who are grief-stricken because someone they know has died suddenly, I want to say this to them: ‘It’s not so bad for the people who die. When they see it coming and they’ve had no warning, they accept it. In the few moments that they have, they accept it. They give up everything, their obligations, their hopes, their fears, they give them all up without a fight. They tense their body and they take the blow and they don’t have room or time for anything else. They know it has to be and so all the fear leaves them. Believe me, I’ve seen enough people die. Believe me, I’ve been close to death enough times now. This is the way it is.’

The problem isn’t for them, it’s for the people left behind. They have time to think about it all. And they have imagination. I don’t think it’s always a good idea to have both time and imagination. Cos what you do then of course is go over and over what happened, reliving it a hundred or a thousand times, in slow motion, adding a soundtrack and an emotions track. The dead people can’t do that. They got it over and done with in a couple of seconds. You’re stuck with it for fifty years. Or more.

When I write all this down, it makes perfect sense. I just wish I could follow my own advice, especially when it comes to my parents and what happened to them. It’s easier with Robyn because I saw her face as it happened so I don’t have to rely on guesswork so much with her. I saw that acceptance in the second or two before she ceased to be.

So, there I was, sprinting across the paddock like a maniac, in the zone if you want to call it that, chasing two armed men who were just approaching the ridge and the fence line. To my left was Lee, who did his ‘drop to the knee and take a shot’ routine again, with no better result than the first time. I thought we might have a chance as they came up to the fence, no matter how good they were, as it was going to take them quite a few seconds to get through. I planned to take a couple of shots myself at that stage. But they were too professional for me. As they approached the summit one of them turned and raised his rifle, while the other started the struggle to get through the barbed wire. I dropped fast. I could see Lee doing the same. I flattened myself in the grass, shuffling to the right to get behind a little rise. The guy fired one shot but then nothing. I waited a few seconds more then lifted my head. The second soldier was getting through the fence while the first one covered him. They were pretty quick. Lee fired again, then he was on his feet and running forwards once more. He hadn’t hit anyone. But the way Lee ran straight up the hill, he must have been pretty sure that this guy at least didn’t have any ammo. I didn’t want to be outdone, so I got up too. I did the zigzags. The man put his rifle right to his shoulder as if he was going to fire, so we both dropped again. He didn’t shoot though. Lee might have been right. Now that I had a better shot at the two of them I lined up the one on the left and squeezed the trigger. At the very last moment, before I fired, he pulled away and disappeared. I was up again straightaway. The two of us ran the slope hard.

As we approached the fence they were a hundred metres in front of us. But at the same time I could see something lumbering into view from the right. What the hell? For a moment I actually thought it was a large vehicle. The police were here already? Had someone heard the shots and called them? I felt like an idiot when I realised what it was. Colin McCann had put his bull in this paddock. I hadn’t seen the bull for a couple of months. He was a magnificent creature, one of the best in the district. A horned Hereford, and you don’t get those so often these days, dark red, the size of a delivery van, with hindquarters that shouted power, and a proud head. Col never dehorned his bulls. He was a purist, I guess, and liked the natural look. Besides, it was a bloody business, cutting horns off, and the bulls hated it.

Everyone has their own opinion about horns, but my favourite approach was Tammie Murdoch’s, who put tennis balls on her goats’ horns, held with metres of duct tape. It made the goats look pretty funny, like aliens. Goats have a perpetually bewildered expression anyway, which kind of matched the tennis balls.

These days most bulls are reasonably placid, because they’ve been bred that way. Nearly every farmer I know sends aggressive bulls to the abattoir. In fact, even a bull that’s been well behaved for years gets turned into hamburger if he makes a move in the wrong direction. Either that or castrated, if he’s young enough to grow into a good steer. Then he might end up as steaks or sausages instead of hamburgers. This is a much better outcome for the animal, and fills him with pride and joy.

Anyway, the thing is, aggressive bulls are just not worth the risk. They are such massive creatures, killing machines on land that are as efficient as sharks or hippos or crocodiles in water. They weigh tonnes, they’re fast, and although they can’t turn on a five cent piece, they can turn on a five dollar note. And the thing is, you can never trust them. It’s the same with stallions. No matter how long you’ve known them, no matter how pleasant and polite they’ve been, they can go for you. Sometimes the reason is obvious, for example if you take a cow in heat out of the mob, then you can’t expect the bull to like you very much. But sometimes you can’t figure it, although a bull that’s been raised by hand is usually more dangerous, and on the other hand a bull that hasn’t had a lot of human contact is a risk. Horned bulls are more likely to be aggressive than poll bulls. And when they’re out in the paddock, bulls have a flight zone around them, and the size of it varies from beast to beast.

Col’s bull was likely to have a big flight zone, because he was in a big paddock, because he’d been bucket reared, because he didn’t see people much any more. If you get in an animal’s flight zone, the idea is that they’ll turn and run. But it doesn’t always work that way. It does with rabbits and pigeons and usually with snakes. But if they have an aggressive personality, or you’ve caught them on a bad day, or they’ve been out drinking half the night, and you’re in their flight zone, you might be the one who needs to turn and run. And if they’re big, or they’ve got mouthfuls of venom, and what’s worse you’re coming at them in a way that has them feeling threatened, then you might think about checking your life insurance.

The two soldiers probably didn’t know much of that stuff, but they had an extra problem, which was that they hadn’t seen the bull. They were too busy looking back at us. The bull was on their right. I’d guess his flight zone would be around a hundred metres. The soldiers were within thirty metres. This was bad news for them. Even worse news was that the bull showed every sign of being majorly pissed off. He had the head down, was shaking it, was scratching the ground: his whole body was agitated. This was a bull contemplating doing some serious damage. As we approached the fence Lee looked like he was ready to take another shot, but I called to him, fairly softly, ‘Don’t fire, don’t fire.’

He looked perplexed. Amazingly, it seemed like he hadn’t seen the bull either. This two tonne monster had become invisible. I pointed and his eyes widened. We were just reaching the top of the ridge, and looking for a place to cross, but we both stopped. To make matters even worse for himself, one of the soldiers, still looking back at us and trying to get away from the most open part of the paddock, was veering further to the right. The way he was going, the bull would only have to open his mouth and this guy would pop himself in.

At that moment the man on the left saw the problem. He shouted to his friend, who propped and turned around. I couldn’t see his expression, but I’m guessing flabbergasted and panic-stricken would have been among the adjectives jockeying for selection.

What happened next played itself out like a terrible drama with two spectators. Lee and I stayed on our side of the fence, like an audience. Of course if the bull had wanted to smash through the fence he could have done so any time, but luckily nearly all cattle live and die without learning that. It’s like school, most students go from kindergarten to Year 12 without noticing that they could do a fair amount of damage if they wanted to. They stay inside the fence.

Occasionally you get a bull who can’t be contained by fences, and he’ll often get a one-way ticket to the killing floor as his reward. When I was a toddler we had a bull who even learned to get his head under the bottom wire of the fence and rip a string of droppers out of the ground, then lie the fence flat and walk across it, tiptoeing delicately so he didn’t get his hoofs hurt by the nasty barbed wire. I don’t know exactly what happened to him, but I can guess.

The man on the right started running. This was the worst thing he could do. Never turn your back on a bull. His best hope, his only hope, would have been to use his rifle in the same way that I use a cricket bat when I’m dealing with some bulls, to wave around and make myself look bigger and more threatening. Instead of which, this guy dropped his rifle. It seemed like they were both out of ammunition, because his friend didn’t try to shoot, which was good news for the bull.

Lee and I both still had our rifles, and we both still had ammunition. We looked at each other, and without speaking a word we came to the same decision. We turned back to look at the stage, to watch the tragedy.

We did even worse than that. The guy was running almost straight towards us. There was no other fence line near, and no cover, so I suppose he had forgotten about us, or thought we were less of a risk than the bull. Maybe he thought we were nicer than we actually are. They say nice guys finish last. I’d learned during the war that nice guys get killed. So I raised my rifle and pointed it at him, so that even in his terror he would know he was about to be shot.

I wasn’t going to shoot at him, but that’s not because I’m a nice girl. It’s because I was worried that a shot would scare off the bull. That’s how nice I am.

He raised his arms, as if in surrender, or perhaps to plead for his life, and he veered away, to the left, as if circling to get back to his friend. His friend was rooted to the spot. While they were performing their dance, the bull had not stayed still. Almost as soon as the guy started running, the big beast had come after him. Even with a twenty metre start, and even though his semicircle gained him a bit of ground, the man had no chance. This was rage on four legs. This was a huge red tank with the eyes of a pig and a tail sticking out like a rudder. This was murder on the most primitive level. The bull ran him down from behind. Just at the end the man put on a sprint, and again threw up his arms as the animal reached him. There was a flurry of dust and the guy went down. Either I was still pretty deaf, or else he made no sound, because I didn’t hear anything, only a few whoofs from the bull as he made that big body move like a runaway cattle train.

A couple of tonnes of beef thundered over the man’s legs and back and head, and he lay there unmoving with the dust settling around him again. But the bull hadn’t finished yet. Not just one human had invaded his territory. A second trespasser was over there, no doubt looking to take his cows off him, planning to pick up a couple of hot chicks. No way was this bull going to stand by and watch as the best-looking cows in the paddock disappeared down the road to have coffee with a stranger.

Quivering with rage, shaking all over, his little eyes pink, a heat shimmer rising from his back, he eyed the other man. With his right hoof he scraped the ground. It was almost like those little friction cars that you run repeatedly on the carpet before you let them go. He was gaining energy, building up momentum, ready for his next high-speed charge.

Cattle look in the direction they are about to go and this beast was staring at the man so hard that even someone who’d never seen a bull couldn’t help but get the message. The soldier — I don’t know why I call them soldiers, it’s an insult to the genuine ones, like General Finley — had been backing away and now he too turned and ran. He headed for the fence at a different angle, one that would bring him out forty metres to our left. Lee and I both had our weapons ready.

This time we had to use them. When the guy was a dozen steps from the strainer post Lee fired. I don’t know how close he got, but he missed. It wasn’t until afterwards that I realised he’d missed deliberately. The man reacted by swerving away from the fence, putting his head down and sprinting for a tree in the distance. The rumbling of the hoofs behind him must have sounded loud in his head, even if he was half deafened.

How slow the human body seems sometimes. Even if he’d strained every ligament, dislocated every bone, stretched every muscle, he couldn’t have gone any faster. The man got all of a quarter of the way to the tree before he was run down from behind. The giant head tossed and a pair of horns caught him and flung him forwards like he’d been zapped by a million volts. Now he was not a person any more, even though he was still alive. He seemed like a thing, an object, with no mind or heart, and certainly no control over his head or arms or legs. The body hit the ground and the bull was immediately at it again, using his horns as the deadly weapons they were, punching with them, goring the thing, throwing it around, ignoring the blood that started to soak the thing’s clothing and splattered onto the bull’s face and forelegs. I saw the arms and legs flail and I heard one sobbing scream that was all too human, and then I turned away.