He stares down the long, black barrel of the rifle in his hands. Sweat slides along the creases of the boy’s brow, meandering down the side his face. A simple squeeze is all it would take. His finger won’t move. Won’t pull. Not yet.

The man’s fingers interlace on the back of his head, oils from his dirty black hair are likely the last things he will feel. That and the pressure of African earth under his knees; pebbles digging in just above his shins. A gentle breeze caresses his face as he closes his eyes in thankfulness to the wind.

The boy’s ribs protrude from his torso; a walking skeleton. Tongue running over dry, cracked lips. Lice in his hair itch and the torn shorts he wears barely fit anymore. They were his brother’s shorts, before his brother died. Died at their hands.

Seconds tick by. The birds in the trees flutter from branch to branch. Soon they will be startled from their perches by a thunderclap, but the man won’t get to see them fly. Won’t hear their wings beat the air as they flee for their lives from a disruption they don’t understand. He understands. He’s been on the other end of the gun many times. How had this child gotten the drop on him?

The boy’s muscles clench and unclench. All he needs to do is pull. Pull and it’s over, for now. This moment. For his brother. His mother. The father he never knew. The family lost to their greed. These men with their uniforms and guns that come and take. Take food, clothes, women and children; leaving nothing behind. No past. No future.

The man can sense it. He knows it now. The boy doesn’t have what it takes. The sun will set. He will feel the cool night air against his skin again. He will hunt again. This boy. Maybe he will hunt this boy. Or maybe he will take this boy in, mold him. Teach him. The boy is like him after all — a hunter. But a hunter needs commitment to his craft. His kill. Yes, he’ll teach him that. No mercy.

Starlings scatter en-mass from the trees as an explosion rips through the forest. The earth drinks of the man. His body limp, eyes staring into time without end. Smoke drifts from the barrel and the hole in the man’s head. The boy can smell it; singed flesh and gunpowder. He can still feel the recoil of the weapon. His ears ring from the concussive wave. Unmoving, he stands for a moment then licks his parched lips as he lowers the gun.

He stares at the inert figure; a lifeless lump of meat for the lions. Squatting, he pulls the man’s canteen free, unscrews the top and lets the water pour gloriously down his throat. 

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Robert A. Kramer is a husband and father. His writing has been published in Carnegie Mellon’s The Oakland Review, Clocktower Literary Journal, The Lakelander magazine, Metonym Journal, and Chipper Press.

Photo: Marcelo Novais