Hunting Blind

It came to him: the bullet struck one of the deer antlers and the damage had been done by pieces of the shattered bone. Knowing what was hurting him helped to fortify his flagging spirits as the interminable minutes passed. He knew he had no choice other than to lay as still as possible and stay hidden, if he was going to make it until darkness when his enemy would be more on a par with him: sight-impaired and vulnerable.

Stay cool, Kevin. I'm going to get you. Just hide and stay safe until . . . until . . ..

Another possibility was that the poacher, not able to find him, would abandon the scene and leave when it got dark. Les wondered if the bastard had already left after getting the deer; may even be home by now, showing off his trophy to a neighbor.

Back to the eyes, Les, he admonished himself. He reasoned that, since he’d had his eyes open when the bullet struck the antler, the splinters had stuck in his eyeballs; then, as a natural instinct, he’d closed the lids over them. Now, every time he moved the lids, they in turn twitched the imbedded points, causing the mind-numbing pain. So, he hoped with all his heart, they were trying to work, were capable of sight, would work except for the obstructions. Solution? No problem. All he had to do was tug his eyelids open, reach in and yank the splinters from his eyeballs. Shit, this by a man who never understood how anyone could possibly install, let alone extract, a contact lens.

Unless some other solution presented itself, though, he decided to go for it after dark, whenever the hell that was. Why wait until darkness? he asked himself. Because I plain want to, he replied. As the moments passed, the wind comforting in its constancy, Les began to really believe he was going to survive, and with his sight intact. In fact, getting even was becoming a very tangible possibility. Nobody did something like this to Lester Enright without paying for it, by God!

As the time dragged by, other things became apparent: Les couldn't have wandered more than forty yards from where he’d been attacked, but his assailant had no reason to know his condition, only that he hadn't been hit fatally, if at all; and the stranger could have surmised that Les had merely run away and was, by now, miles from here. That had to be the reason why he had gone undiscovered: the guy hadn't dreamed he’d hole up so close to the scene. And the poacher hadn't seen Kevin this morning. He had to have thought Les was alone. Kevin was just fine. Maybe a little scared, but....

Though confident with his scenario, however, he stayed put. Safe and sorry came to mind. After all, the Lone Ranger hadn't been out there shooting chunks off the antler to scare him off: his assailant was aiming to kill him.

And that brought another item to the plus side of the ledger: close doesn't count, except in horseshoes and cluster bombs, his grandson liked to remind him. The shooter had tried for a headshot, something any hunter worth his salt would never attempt. I'll get you, you bastard, Les promised. He didn't know how, or when, but by God he was going to hit back at his tormentor.

A shiver rippled through him. Was it getting colder, he wondered, or was it just the inactivity? The shot had come around 1:30, so a wait of the better part of four hours for darkness would have to be endured. He’d been laying there how long now: two hours--three? Another wave of pain battered his senses, making him aware of what lay ahead when he tried to pry the slivers from his eyes. Jesus, he thought, I wonder if I'm up to it. He tucked his hand beneath his body and tugged a stone out that had been jabbing his chest but, as soon as he settled back down, another object, only inches away from the removed one, began poking him. If I keep this up, he thought, I'll have dug myself beneath ground level by dark.

Ideally, he would pry the lids open while he sat next to the pool of spring water and have Kevin handy to help him, but he dismissed this notion as foolhardy at best. He didn't dare go around the camp until he could see. Sure, there was the tiny bottle of eyewash in his pack, but he knew this wouldn't be enough to flush them; that is, if the corneas weren't shredded, in which case nothing could be done in the field to restore his sight. Like a roller coaster, his spirits zoomed, then fell, both reached with startling speed. The thought of irreversible blindness only now seemed to pound to the forefront of his consciousness.

Bullshit! He shook his head, despite the pain it provoked. I'm not a quitter ... and I want revenge! His pulse slowed. More positives: my chances of survival will get better by the minute, but the shooter is getting more strung out as time goes by. He must be constantly looking over his shoulder, worried that I'm about to pounce on him. He'll be the one to hole up at dark, probably near my car to ambush me if I'm stupid enough to go for it.