Tommy was impatient, but so was everyone at the age of thirteen, Philip thought to himself.
But still no better moment would be shared than this.
Philip recalled his first time hunting with his father.
The excitement of that first kill.
It was simply a rite of passage.
"Dad, you think we're going to get to shoot something?"
"I told you son, you got to be quiet and I got a feeling we're going to get something. I've been seeing tracks for a while out here."
Philip understood the boy's desire to get that first kill.
Tommy had been driving him nuts for a while now.
Pestering his father to take him hunting and now here he finally was.
Hunting the lands that generations before him had also hunted.
Of course these woods used to be far more plentiful, before the wars and all the chaos. The government had brought down upon its people.
But life in the mountains, largely wasn't affected by all that bullshit that went down in the big cities.
Philip had a taste of that life, but when shit began to hit the fan.
Philip took his family and moved back to the one place he knew would be largely unaffected.
And here they remained.
Living the life the only way they understood how, the mountain always provided.
Philip heard it approaching first
He motioned Tommy to get down.
It was coming up fast and Philip knew there wouldn't be a second chance.
He raised his rifle.
He looked at Tommy and whispered.
"Remember like I taught you, always get the cleanest shot possible son."
"I know dad I won't let you down."
He knew his son meant it and as much as they eat they damn sure needed all the damn food they could get.
He knew he had taught him well, but he was ready just in case his son froze.
So at last, it was in their sights.
It wasn't what Tommy's father had hoped for, but it certainly beat nothing.
Tommy had him in his sights his heart raced, it was all he could do to keep his hands steady.
Philip looked to his son and nodded.
Tommy felt like his heart was going to burst right out of his chest.
Tommy lined up the shot, about half ready to pass out or shit his pants.
He squeezed the trigger.
Tommy was still in a bit of shock.
"Come on son this isn't over you have to finish what you started."
"Dad I don't know if I can."
Tommy's father just shot him a look, that let him know there was no choice in the matter.
And as they approached the kill, Philip still had his gun raised just in case.
The man on the ground spat blood out as he made his last gasps of air.
Philip looked at the pasty man on the ground, he marveled at how well Tommy had done.
The man spit more blood up looking at the two of them.
"Please."
He managed to somehow force out.
"Son you got to finish him off and remember to aim for the head don't want you wasting the meat."
Tommy looked at the man he had shot and felt as if he wanted to puke.
He raised his rifle and set his sights for right between the man's eyes.
He knew what he had to do; he just couldn't pull the trigger.
"Dad I can't."
He said as tears came to his eyes.
Philip didn't bother to scold the boy.
It was never easy.
Nothing was easy after the fallout.
This new world was anything but easy or unforgiving.
Tommy had done well enough.
Philip finished what his son had started.
And as he looked at this lost soul.
Who had wondered up this mountain, thinking he was going to find God knows what.
He had to almost laugh to himself.
For only a fool would venture up a place called Devil’s Mountain.
Either way it was always hunting season up here.
Philip knew no matter the chaos the outside world did contain.
The mountain would always provide.
John Patrick Robbins, Is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, his work has been published in 1870 Magazine, Punk Noir Magazine, Heroin Love Songs, The Blue Nib, San Pedro River Review, Piker Press, As It Ought To Be Magazine, San Antonio Review.
He is the author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press And If Walls Could Speak Mine Would Blush published by Syndicate Press under his pen name Frank Murphy.
His work is always unfiltered.
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