The Survivalist Page #2

He looks at the device; an antique, oversized steel poacher

trap. He finds the grips to open the vice have been filed

off.

He reaches to some of the exposed teeth and gets his hands

between them. The vice and his hands are slick with blood.

He pulls the jaws open, with all the malnourished strength

he has.

He gets it an inch, a little more. He heaves, trembling

with exertion.

Another inch.

His hands SLIP...

The jaws SNAP shut, sink deeper into his leg.

He CRIES out this time.

Tears down his face.

Shallow breaths. Shallow breaths becoming something deeper.

Nausea.

He throws up. His vomit is watery, acrid spittle.

He has to lie beside it.

FADE TO:

The light is dying now.

In his misery, he realises he's not alone.

The Other is uphill. He wears black gloves and a

windbreaker, and holds a double-barrelled shotgun with

steady aim.

He is the SURVIVALIST. His face reads about 30, beneath an

overgrown, man-in-the-woods beard.

Slow as you like, Survivalist edges downhill, gun always

trained on his quarry's head.

Forager slips his hand behind his back. He's trembling, fly

in web fearful.

Survivalist crouches in front of him, just out of swing

range. He leans closer, reaching for the bag...

... Forager finds the knife isn't in his waistband. Fingers

dab the ground, desperate, trying to find the handle.

Survivalist opens the bag. He begins taking out the

vegetables Forager stole. Turnips. Carrots. A rhubarb.

Deeper in, he finds a hard cover Bible. A plastic lighter.

A crusted driving license - it takes Survivalist a couple

of glances to confirm the man in the portrait is the same

as the wretch in the trap.

Some foraged food - berries and nuts in a cracked jar.

Survivalist sets these aside for himself.

Then he finds the plastic wrapped mushrooms. He inspects

the fresh white incisor marks on one. It gives him pause.

He notices the vomit at Forager's side.

Forager follows his eyeline.

The botanical name is amanita phalloides...

Survivalist tosses the mushrooms to Forager's side.

... but the more colloquial name is Death Caps.

Forager retches. He shoves fingers deep in his mouth.

Retches more. Thick spittle sticks to his lips. Nothing of

substance.

The forest murmurs. The jaws in his leg a distant memory.

Forager gasps for air.

Then his breath slows.

Past the shock. A muscle somewhere, deep down, the one

that's kept him straining with every sinew to stay alive,

relaxes a little. Winding down.

Survivalist puts everything back in the bag. He takes it

with him and he starts back up the hill.

He pauses. Stoops and picks up something.

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