Chapter 1: The Hunter

Hitch turned the fresh droppings over in his fingers. Still warm. He peered up the game trail through narrowed eyes, ears listening for any sound of the deer he'd tracked since the night before. Hearing nothing, he dropped the scat and rose from his crouch, exhaling vapors into the cool morning air.

He was many miles north of his usual hunting grounds. Since the previous fall, deer had been difficult to track down. Where there had once been bounty, he found only scant signs of their passing. Hitch had no idea why this was so, but it made his regular search for fresh meat a lesson in frustration. He'd decided a week before to see if he could find his prey further north and had spent four nights in the bush, finally spotting a group of three fat does just before dusk the night before. He picked up their trail at first light and thought they must still be close. It had been almost six months since he'd killed his last deer.

He stalked the trail carefully. Despite his forty-nine years, Hitch still moved easily through the woods, silently for a human, listening and adjusting his footing instinctively as the game trail moved over rough terrain. He carried his ruck over his shoulders, his favorite rifle, a stainless Weatherby Vanguard S2, held in front of him, ready for a crack shot which would bring him much-needed fresh meat. He kept his Marine Corps-issued M9 Beretta along one thigh, his bush knife on the other. The modified M4 Carbine hung over a shoulder just inside his field jacket.

Compared to the hell of combat, days spent in the mountains of North Georgia, Southeastern Tennessee, and Southwestern North Carolina were paradise, even on cool mornings like this one. He tried never to stop and reflect on how much horror he had experienced in The War, but it was always there, unable to wash away from his thoughts. Hitch took a small swig from his canteen, settled his mind, and started in the direction he was certain his prey had taken.

He followed the overgrown path up a small rise, then down into a gully, finding more fresh scat as a brace of quail exploded from a low bush. He thought about attempting to bring one down, but was much more interested in securing deer meat than the spare nourishment offered by the quail. Hitch watched the birds flap furiously beyond the treeline, then crept forward once more.

For almost an hour, he kept up a brisk but quiet pace, cresting a moderate rise and seeing one deer through a small clearing, head down, drinking from a calm pool pushed out from the side of a good-sized stream which flowed rapidly as the snows from the upper elevations continued to melt in the warmer April sunshine. A light fog permeated the air over the water.

Hitch slowly dropped to one knee and took aim. His eye opened onto the scope, the deer in focus and upwind from him. He waited until it brought its neck up and sighted his rifle to the perfect spot. His finger slid over the trigger. He let out a measured breath.

Bushes shuffled to his left front, the sound of movement, and on instinct, Hitch was prone and trying to identify the source of the noise. The deer bolted further down the stream and was lost immediately. Hitch let out a quiet, frustrated curse, then used the scope to look to where the sounds had originated.

He heard movements that years of training assured him was a single human being. It took a few moments before Hitch saw a dark-haired head move through the foliage. He watched through the scope as the figure drew into the clearing and moved towards the pool of water below him. It was young woman or girl. She had long, black hair pulled back into a pony tail and secured by a dozen or more tight, colorful bands. The woman wore a flannel jacket which overhung her thick brown corduroy pants, a pair of tufted leather boots on her feet.

Hitch eased into a crouch and leaned his rifle against a tree, pulling out his compact binoculars to watch as the young woman approached the water. She carried a small basket on one arm, a much larger one slung over her right shoulder. The woman sat the baskets near the edge of the water, then squatted down and dangled her hand into the pool. She pulled it back slowly.

Hitch assumed the water, like all the water in these mountains, was chilly. All but a few of them sourced from the melting snow which overwhelmed natural springs and runoff from higher-elevation lakes this time of year, and the result was water generally too cold to bathe in.

To Hitch's shock, the woman shrugged off her jacket and sat, pulling off her boots. It was then that he realized that what he had thought was settling fog was instead steam rising from the pool. It was a warm spring, the first he'd seen since moving into the area. He watched as the young woman pulled off her shirt, her back to him, then slipped down her pants.

She stood there, working one band after another out of her hair. Hitch stared at her naked body. He had no idea her age and for the moment, he didn't care. Her hips had a natural curve that suggested she was not a child, but more than that, he couldn't tell. He wanted a better look.

While the woman worked on her hair, Hitch moved off the trail and crept around the west side of the clearing, drawing to within a couple dozen yards of the woman. He could clearly see her from the side now, and he found her very beautiful, if youthful, in appearance. Her skin was cinnamon, a rich brown and bronze and clearly darkened from exposure to sunlight, not uncommon for those who worked hard to survive. She was on her last band, pulling it free from her tousled, silky black hair which hung low over her back with some strands waving down her upper arms.

The woman's breasts were small and puffy, nipples a light brown, small dark-brown freckles dotting the skin over her areolae and running up her long neck to sprinkle near her eyes and over her shoulders, further creating a scatter-plot of beauty marks on her forearms. She turned slightly as her hair came free, and Hitch could see her face clearly for the first time. She had a thin, slightly-upturned nose and her eyes suggested she had a strong Asian heritage, her eyebrows dark like her hair, and the skin on her cheeks smooth and rich. Narrow brown lips were held slightly open, dark eyes lidless above.

She turned a moment, reaching down into her smaller basket, and Hitch saw sparse, dark pubic hairs rising over the young woman's mound. The more he saw, the more he was certain this was a girl blossoming into a woman, likely in her mid-teens. The way she moved suggested strength, as did the way her arm muscles showed clearly as she tensed and relaxed. The young woman had spent time doing hard work, and it showed in the way her thighs and upper legs were taut even as they held subtle curves which were still wholly feminine.

As she stood straight, Hitch saw that the girl's pubes did not hide her sex, the dark reddish-brown labia pressed together in a thin slit which trailed back between her thighs, just a hint of the genitalia visible from a distance, but he had seen enough to become aroused.

The young woman held a bar of rough soap in her hand a moment, then set it along the edge of the pool. She slid into the water and sank below the surface. Hitch finally let out his breath, seemingly holding it as he watched the beautiful, sensual creature from a few yards away. She surfaced, facing him, and then leaned her head back a moment, soaking in the warm, natural spa. Hitch longed to go to her, to kiss her, to touch her tender flesh.

It had been too long since he'd known that pleasure. The first year or two he'd been in the mountains, living as a recluse, he masturbated regularly, though it was more about relieving stress than any sexual experience. The last couple of years, he'd barely so much as grown hard, giving up on ever having another opportunity to know the soft curves of a female. His last time with a woman was the year he and his wife Julia had been called up for duty in 2019. He'd not had sex in thirteen years, and hadn't had an orgasm, even from his own hand, in close to two.

It was a surprise to look down and see that he was holding his erect penis in his hand, slowly stroking it from where he'd opened his fly. Caught up in the moment, Hitch gazed back upon the young woman. She had risen up a bit, working soap into her hair, her breasts hovering just above the water, nipples tight and hard above puffy mounds. God ... what a beauty ... what a beautiful woman...

Hitch masturbated the way he stalked deer. Every movement was deliberate and necessary, or not done at all. His arm moved only at the wrist, his body tense and on edge, but not bucking, not humping, not rocking. His eyes focused on what he desired. Those young breasts ... God, those young breasts ... so soft ... so soft... Behind the tree line, he was easily hidden from her view, but part of him wished she would notice him. I want her to see the pleasure I feel, that she could know how beautiful she is to my eyes...

Hitch strained as the young woman rinsed the soap from her hair and he watched as she ran her hands under the water. She's washing her pussy ... oh, God ... that young ... sweet ... pussy... Ejaculate fired out of his penis and splattered onto the grass. He didn't moan, didn't flinch, stopped moving completely. The only sound was his measured breathing, and Hitch was certain that didn't go beyond his own ears.

He flushed with pleasure and almost lost his control enough to groan, but even as the last drops of semen dripped out of his cock, Hitch did nothing to give away his presence and soon tucked his deflating dick back into his jeans.

He didn't move, continuing to watch the girl as she finished washing her front and moved a hand to her backside.

There are a lot of sounds in war, some of them Hitch could have identified in his sleep. Sounds he reacted to without thought. The solid click of a safety being set from 'safe' to 'kill' made him drop to his heels and spin, grabbing his M9 from its holster and was about to bring it up towards the direction of the sound when he heard a gravelly male voice softly command, "easy, mister. Dun' make me kill anotha' man ou' 'ere ... Easy..."

Hitch knew he'd be shot if he moved, so he froze, looking up at the man standing a dozen feet away. He was an older man, weathered, his skin a brown leather, his beard white and wild and down over his neck. What remained of his stringy, white hair was sticking out around his woolen cap, dark flannel jacket and tired blue jeans covering his body. He held an old rifle, perhaps a Winchester, Hitch thought, and its barrel was aimed directly at Hitch's chest.

The man's eyes stared into him a moment, then the man said, "slowly, now ... slowly pu' it away, see? I killed men quicka' 'en ya. Jus' pu' it away slowly..."

Hitch hesitated. Long years of kill-or-be-killed situations made him understand that he was giving the man control if he holstered his sidearm. But he'd already lost. The man could have easily killed him by now, and the fact that he hadn't suggested he was open to an alternative ending to the engagement.

Hitch slowed his breathing. His training and experiences left him full of adrenaline, but in control. Edgy but not nervous. He'd more than once found himself at the end of a barrel, and so far, he'd survived every time. He just needed to stall until he could recover the advantage.

Slowly, Hitch slid the safety on and holstered the pistol. He looked back at the man for instructions.

The old mountain man kept his rifle steady a moment. Hitch watched his eyes work him over, and he knew the man was adding up all the clues to Hitch's life visible on his body and on the things he carried. The man's eyes darted to the ground behind him, narrowing, then up to the water behind Hitch where he could still hear the light sounds of the girl bathing.

He looked back at Hitch and finally lowered his rifle towards the ground in front of and to the left of his body, still close enough to rise and fire if it became necessary to kill him. "Wha's yer name? Wha'cha doin' up in 'ese parts?"

"James Hitchens. Hitch, if you please. I was tracking deer," Hitch said, gesturing slowly in the direction up the rise, towards the game trail, "followed them to this water source when I..."

The man nodded slowly, glancing back towards where the young woman was soaking in the spring, "when ya saw sumthin' ya wan'ed more 'an deer..."

"Sir?"

Soft laughter was his response. The old man glanced back at the water. Hitch could no longer hear her moving in the hot spring, and he wished he could turn to see if she was once more naked in the cool mountain air. "Where ya stayin', Hitch? Ya drifta'?"

Again, he pointed to the south. "Four days that way. Less if you aren't following game. Over that far ridge you can just make out there."

The man looked briefly, but kept his face where he could watch Hitch. "Followin' game, ya say."

"Yes. See, my rifle." Hitch pointed to where he'd leaned his Weatherby against a tall pine.

"Could jus' as easily hun' a man with tha'. Or a woman..."

Hitch let out a long breath. "I've seen men killed with everything from a butter knife to a MOAB. I suppose a hunting rifle is more humane than either. At least it's quick and doesn't cause collateral."

The old man lowered his gun further. "Marine or army?"

"Semper Fi," Hitch muttered with less enthusiasm than ever before.

"Semper Fi, my brother." The man clicked the safety off and shouldered his rifle.

Hitch thought that was an unfortunately trusting decision. He'd known any number of Marines who had lost control, who would have, in that moment, attacked the man, killed him, raped the girl, and made off with what spare items of value they'd had on them. Fortunately for him ... and her, Hitch thought, I'm not one of those men.

"You saw action in The War, as well?" Hitch asked, stalling for time, noting the numerous scars on the man's forearms. Looks like shrapnel scars...

"Sum, though no' with tha Corps. I was in Desert Storm, then served in'a half-dozen stations. Made Firs' Sergeant when I retired at ma twenty. I expect they'd'a called me up, even in ma fifties, had tha whole goddamn system no' gone ta hell." The man took a step forward, offered his hand in greeting. "Jefferson Miller. I prefer Sarge or Miller, all tha' same." He eyed Hitch a moment. "Ya dun' strike me as enlisted, Hitch, no' with tha' M9."

"I was a Major in The War. 2-2-Bravo. Those were my boys. Boys. Heh. Those were men, every damn one of them, even if some of them were too young to have to polished the wax off their nuts yet."

Miller snapped a rusty salute, which Hitch mimicked without a thought. Miller smiled and Hitch felt like they'd just crossed a hurdle. "So, Major Hitchens, ya came ou' har' on tha hunt, an' wha' ya bagged instead was'a eyeful, righ', Sir?" There was just the slightest hint of amusement in the old man's tone.

Hitch finally turned back towards the water. The young woman had put her clothing back on and was picking up her baskets. She turned and strode off to the North beyond the trees and disappeared. Hitch felt a pang of disappointment.

"Whelp, Major, canna' blame ya fer shoo'ing yer main gun instead'a yer rifle. She's a beauty, no doubt. Canna' believe they make 'em tha' young with all tha good parts, righ', Sir?"

"Sarge ... Miller, please..." Hitch said, "I left The War behind five years ago. I'd prefer it, honestly, if it stayed behind. Please, just Hitch."

Miller nodded slowly. "Yes sir. Uh, righ'. Well, Hitch ... I'm ou' 'ere lookin' fa' game, myself. Shall we hun' together a spell?"

Hitch replied, "I'd like that, thanks..." He looked back to where the young woman had walked into the woods. "Take it you know who she is?"

Miller smiled with ragged, parched lips, said "I do," but didn't offer to explain.

They located the deer in under an hour, and together they stalked their prey. They'd said little, both men's minds focused on the mission at hand. Despite his long-held desire to avoid people, Hitch found he wanted to talk to Miller, if only to compare notes. He'd meant what he'd said about The War, but he still felt compelled to talk about it now that he was in the presence of a fellow Marine. He wondered silently what action the man had seen, how he'd gotten his wounds, what loved ones and combat brothers he'd lost along the way.

They found the deer a couple of miles down creek around midday. Hitch spotted them, three females. They were close together, one drinking from the creek at a time while the others watched. Hitch settled onto one knee, and brought his rifle up, Miller beside him in the same position. Hitch whispered, "I'll hit the one on the left, you get the next. If we get lucky, we get a third shot."

Miller replied, "I'll hit tha right. Dunna' kill tha middle one. She's'a carryin'."

Hitch was an experienced hunter but he had no idea whether Miller was right about the middle one being pregnant. Regardless, he took aim, sighted high on the doe's neck, and fired, Miller's shot cracking just a split second later.

Miller's deer fell immediately, while Hitch's spasmed and stumbled, legs splayed awkwardly. The third scattered and disappeared before either man could think to offer a second shot. The men hustled ahead. Hitch watched the one he'd hit sway and fall, twitching. He knelt next to it, pulled back its head, and smoothly slid his bush knife along its throat. The deer was dead in seconds.

Hitch glanced back to see Miller doing the same. The men smiled at each other. A good kill, Hitch thought, unlike so many others I've made next to other men.

They field dressed the brace of does in silence, each man feeling proud of his kill. It had been months since Hitch had downed one, subsisting on smaller game, such as rabbits, squirrels, and quail, fresh trout and trash fish from the cold-water streams, as well as some of the dried beef, canned vegetables, and assorted dry grains he'd bartered for over the previous months. He'd harvested plenty of blackberries, cherries, apples, small plums, and a variety of wild onions, mints, and other herbs to maintain a healthy diet, but there was nothing like fresh venison steaks, stews, and chilis to fill the stomach on cold nights.

Miller offered him a drink from his canteen, but Hitch refused, wiping his hands on a towel at his waist, then rinsing his fingers to remove the wet blood before sipping from his own. "Gonna be a haul ta get tha' back ta yer camp, Hitch," Miller said as he peered back up the trail.

Hitch nodded. "Yeah, but I've humped worse. At least no one's shooting at me this time."

Miller stared at him a moment, a dark understanding passing between the veterans. "Amen ta tha'. Whelp," he said, pausing to take another sip of water, "my cabin's jus' up above tha' knoll, pas' tha spring. Why dun ya come up an' spend tha nigh' with me. Get tha' meat ready fer tha hump. Wha' ya say?"

Hitch replied, "I'd like that, thanks. Further out than I usually go. Deer have been scarce this winter."

"Jus' chance, I thin'. Plenty still 'ere. Come, le's go ta my cabin an' shar' sum whiskey, if ya're no' a temperate man, Sir."

Hitch shrugged, "rarely indulge, but I'm a Marine. I don't turn down a drink offered freely."

The hike to Miller's cabin took a couple of hours. Each man carried his deer over shoulders, the cuts along each abdomen sown back together to keep the carcasses fresh and closed to flies and other scavengers, holding in the heart and liver which remained inside. A thick towel caught what blood drooled out before it soaked into Hitch's jacket.

Hitch had brought back dozens of deer this way, and he relished the warmth it provided on cold hunts. This day was turning out to be above normal temperatures, and for the first time in months, Hitch began to sweat as the heat of the dead deer continued to warm his upper body.

The aging log cabin was nestled into a small grove of apple trees, set back against a knobby hill with a large clearing below. The back of the structure was pressed into the earth, forming a natural insulation along much of its length. The front side featured a raised, narrow porch and treated wooden chairs along with an old hammock strung along one corner, and its movement suggested someone was reclining there. Smoke rose lazily from a short stack on the roof, the smell of roasting meat making Hitch's stomach grumble.

Miller directed Hitch to an area along one side where a well-used stone slab held blood stains from years of use as butcher's table. Miller tied his deer up to hang nearby while he brought out carving knives. The man excused himself and left Hitch to work his carcass alone.

The cuts were automatic and came easily. Hitch let his mind drift while he worked quickly, fingers dancing across the sections of meat he wanted separated, sliding around ribs to divide steak from bone, hide from carcass. So used to divorcing slaughter from other thoughts, Hitch's mind slipped back to the spring, to the young woman he'd seen earlier, her sensual nudity, her innocence, the play of her hair on her cinnamon skin, it was a memory he knew he'd keep close and intimate for a long time.

The work was done quickly and Hitch looked with satisfaction on the large piles of red meat on the end of the stone slab. He glanced around, realizing he had no obvious cold place to begin aging the meat while he stayed, so he expected he'd smoke the meat instead in order to render it capable of staying edible longer.