Man-Eater

By Claire Erasmus

I’ve just collapsed my blind when I realize two things.

First, the bushveld is silent.

Second, I’m being hunted.

If my hunch is correct, I’m being hunted by the same man-eating lion I’ve been stalking for the past three weeks. He must be tired of toying with me. Tired of avoiding my blind. Tired of ignoring the bait I set out for him until my back is turned. Tired of taunting me with signs of his presence while keeping himself out of sight.

The king of the beasts has decided it’s time to end the game.

A breeze rustles the grass. Hairs over my body rise. Stories of the traps this creature has avoided, the hunters it’s eluded, and the intelligence it’s shown in taking its victims flash through my thoughts.

I flex my fingers. My .375 is leaning against a boulder two steps to the right and my handgun is on my hip. If all else fails, my hunting knife is strapped to my leg. There’s a chance—a very slender one—that I will walk out of this patch of bushveld alive.

To my left is a dry riverbed with the remains of an impala, my latest attempt at drawing him out. Ahead, about fifty paces away, stands a large tree. I quash the urge to run to its inviting arms. This lion climbs, and the lowest branch is beyond my reach. Which would only be a concern if I even made it to the tree.

I step toward my rifle. A snarl prowls through the tall grass behind me. Good. Now I know where he is.

Vultures circle above me. A hyena’s distinctive whoop sounds nearer than I’d like. Seems the man-eater has invited dinner guests.

“Stop it,” I hiss. It’s the impala they’re here for. Not me.

The breeze rustles the grass again and I risk the last step to my rifle, turning to face the direction of his last growl. Another snarl, muted and from my left. Brilliant. He’s circling me.

I clench my jaw and reach for the weapon that might save my life. I volunteered for this hunt because I’m patient and stubborn. Tenacity was what would save the day and end this man-eater’s killing spree.

Except he waited better than I. He chose a moment where my attention lagged, where my focus shifted. He established a pattern and waited for me to follow it.

And, even though I knew the man-eater’s intelligence, knew he hunted with cunning instead of force, I’d grown lax. It could be the last mistake I ever make.

My fingers touch the barrel and I inhale, a mixture of comfort and dread flooding my veins. I straighten, gun in hand, and scan the grass for movement or shapes or anything that will tell me where my hunter is. Grass sways with each soft puff of wind. Insects buzz. The stench of rotting impala mingles with the distinctive smell of dry plants and dust that is the bushveld. Besides the hairs still prickling on my arms and the fear-riddled sensation of being stalked, there is no indication that the lion is still here. For all I know, he might have decided I’m too dangerous now that I have my rifle.

Or he might be waiting for me to drop my guard. Again.

I pull the slide back just enough to assure myself that I had chambered a round. My fingers find the safety and flick it off.

Another hyena whoop breaks the silence. A tiny snarl ripples from my left.

He’s moving in one direction. I turn, gun still lowered but finger on the trigger, and take a step back.

Silence. The breeze dies and the grass stops swaying. Nature holding its breath. I search the grass, hoping for anything that will give him away and keep me from becoming lunch.

Nothing. Somewhere, a hyena giggles, a sadistic audience for this showdown. I raise my rifle, finger curling about the trigger, and shift one foot back.

Wings flap behind me. The vultures.

Movement bursts from ahead and to my right with a snarl. My rifle snaps to it, pointing at teeth and eyes and mane. A shot explodes; the rifle punches my shoulder. The lion flinches. Another shot. Another flinch. He’s two strides from me.

I pull the trigger and dive to the side. Something grazes my knee. The ground shudders. Dust bursts into the air.

I take several breaths before I realize the bushveld is silent, my knee isn’t hurting, and my toes are turning numb. My rifle is pressing into my side and my handgun is in my hands. I check the safety. It’s off.

Then I see him collapsed on my legs, powerful golden body limp. Fur prickles against my bare shins. His face is still pulled into a snarl and turned toward me. Slobber glistens off my knee. Blood flecks his once-proud chest.

I pull my legs free, put the safety back on, and holster my handgun. Relief drops me to my knees beside the beast.

The man-eater has had his last hunt.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Claire Erasmus is a copyeditor, proofreader, science tutor, and violin teacher who lives in South Africa but frequently visits other worlds through books. She adores the world of fiction and loves to explore Christian themes through writing, particularly fantasy. Claire also enjoys being in nature, especially if it involves hiking in the beautiful Drakensberg.

---

More Stories | Author Website | Instagram