Wild Things

It was my favorite time of year to be hiking in Yellowstone -- fall, when the leaves turned brilliant colors, the days were cooler but the nights not yet freezing, and the tourists packed their broods into station wagons and left the surroundings littered but quiet.  The stillness in the air enticed the wild things to come back out of hiding and return to their normal habits.  Sometimes I'd pass another seasoned naturalist on the trail, and we'd nod, but mostly it was just me and blue skies and birds, squirrels, elk, deer, and a few big horn sheep.

I made good time, five to six miles before stopping for lunch, and then another leisurely four this afternoon.  When the temperatures started cooling and the sun darted in and out of trees closer to the horizon, I knew I needed to look for a place to camp for the night.  I liked to settle in and then listen to the awakening of the nocturnals.  I wandered off the main trail and found a nice clearing under a few trees, the ground fairly even and free of rocks and shrubs.  I shrugged off my backpack and popped up my one man tent, then scouted around for wood to use for a fire.

By the time night fell, I had a warm, blazing fire.  I heated some of the water from my canteen and poured it into my styrofoam cup of soup.  I settled myself against the trunk of the nearest tree.  I stirred my soup, took a spoonful, blew on it, and slurped a long, salty wet noodle into my mouth.  Not exactly gourmet, but it reminded me of my college years, and it suited the mood of the evening -- young, free, and just a little out of touch with reality. 

I finished the noodles and threw my head back to drain the last of the liquid from the cup when I noticed a large black feather falling from the tree.  It landed beside me.  I picked it up.  It was sticky.  I brought it near the fire so I could see better.  Deep maroon, still almost black unless the light from the flames glinted just right.  Blood? 

The feather looked too big to be from a duck or woodpecker.  I worried it might be from a falcon, or worse, a bald eagle.  Curious, I fished my flashlight from my backpack and shined it up into the tree I had been leaning against.  The faint beam landed on a dark, feathered body, wings splayed and head tilted askew.  It was a big bird, but probably not an eagle; more likely, just a hawk.  Looked like the predator had become prey.

The light illuminated something else on a branch a little further up the tree.  A deer, or at least what was left of a deer.  Its legs dangled lifelessly, its head flung backwards, exposing the ripped, hollowed underbelly and a few pieces of flesh still clinging to the fur.

A deer?  In a tree?  I'd heard of leopards doing that with their prey, but this was Wyoming, not the Serengeti.  I shined my light back and forth, along the branches, and then dropped it with a clatter at my feet.  I fell to my knees, groping around in the dark, desperate to find it again, while reason fought against what I thought I had just seen.  A human hand, glistening white, dangling from a branch.

I heard a deep-throated growl and froze.  I shifted my head to see two yellow eyes towering above me.  So this is what it was like for Steve Irwin and that guy who lived with the grizzlies.  The last thought flashing through my mind: what was that guy's name?

*****

Today's prompt:

In most parts of the world, Halloween is celebrated – in some form or another – this weekend. Your challenge this week is to write a horror scene (or something horrific) using a wet noodle, a styrofoam cup and a feather.