east and the ruins of Valley View Mall to the west with Preston Road, they noticed the silence. There were birds, but they didn’t sing. As Kurt turned his attention to it, he could find not a single squirrel or rabbit, though they had been plentiful for the first 10 miles of the ride.
Kurt slowed, reached to the side of the bike, and with a flick of his wrist, extended a metal baton. Sophie and Bane looked at him, and without speaking, reached for their preferred one-handed weapons. For Sophie, it was a thin rod that poked up from her bike’s rear wheel, like a safety flag; its bottom tip was sharp, and she held it like a lance. For Bane, it was an aluminum pistol-hand crossbow under a flap next to his seat. Kurt nodded with approval.
They continued peddling, aware of every breath and metallic click.
Kurt glanced to the right, when Sophie saw a yellow blur to their left. She couldn’t stab it before it got to her dad, who was 15 feet ahead, riding point; Bane was to the right, moving his crossbow over to aim at the blur, but Sophie was in the line of sight, and he pulled the gun up.
Without thinking, Sophie screamed. Not a high-pitched girl’s scream. Not a coherent warning. It was a kiai , a deep, guttural, sharp yell she had practiced in karate for years, but never felt comfortable doing. Even doing it as a group, during drills, made her self-conscious, and doing it solo during a kata performance was impossible.
The mountain lion stopped, dropped its ears, and stared at her.
She moved her bike to face it and opened her arms wide, spear held high, hoping to drive it off. Though still an impressive animal, it had become thin and desperate.
It focused on her, the smallest of the three. Overcoming its own fear, it raised its head, pressing its rear legs into the asphalt to leap. The last two inches of an orange crossbow bolt appeared in its shoulder, and without making a sound, it turned and fled, low to the ground like a muscular liquid.
Bane cranked the crossbow back and loaded another bolt. “It’ll probably run back to its lair, though if it’s starving, it might come at us again. Do we want to give it an hour to bleed and calm down, then try to finish it, or just move on and hope it doesn’t follow?”
Kurt was listening, but he was looking at Sophie. “You stood up to it. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want it to suffer and die slowly. Finish it.”
* * *
It was mid-day. They had pulled their bikes to the shade of a tree, in the direction the mountain lion had fled.
“Do you hunt?” said Bane.
“Not in a decade. Used to hunt dove and quail. Hunted deer as a kid, but didn’t enjoy it.”
“I hunted deer and rabbit when Mom was broke. Never knew what the right season was.”
“This is a predator,” said Sophie.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Bane. “All animals act the same when hurt. First scared. Then angry.”
Sophie had a knife in one hand and her slender spear in the other. Kurt had his baton and a baseball-sized chunk of concrete. Bane readied his pistol crossbow and got back on his bike.
“I will ride towards LBJ, shoot it if it comes back this way. You two head the same direction.”
“We might not even find it,” said Kurt.
“True. It might find you, though. Good luck.”
Kurt and Sophie crept across front lawns choked with weeds. Shrubs climbed patio columns, and the oscillations of water and heat over the past few years had pulled the clay out from the foundations, giving the homes sagging rooflines and deformed faces.
After treading weeds for ten minutes, they found a narrow flattened path with a splotch of blood every 20 feet. Fresh white wood was exposed to the air where the lion had planted its legs and jumped over a weathered fence. They walked around it, Sophie to the left, Kurt to the right.
Now about 20 yards apart, they moved forward together, using hand gestures to communicate.
Kurt pointed to his eyes, then to a broken shrub. Just past it,
Kurt slowed, reached to the side of the bike, and with a flick of his wrist, extended a metal baton. Sophie and Bane looked at him, and without speaking, reached for their preferred one-handed weapons. For Sophie, it was a thin rod that poked up from her bike’s rear wheel, like a safety flag; its bottom tip was sharp, and she held it like a lance. For Bane, it was an aluminum pistol-hand crossbow under a flap next to his seat. Kurt nodded with approval.
They continued peddling, aware of every breath and metallic click.
Kurt glanced to the right, when Sophie saw a yellow blur to their left. She couldn’t stab it before it got to her dad, who was 15 feet ahead, riding point; Bane was to the right, moving his crossbow over to aim at the blur, but Sophie was in the line of sight, and he pulled the gun up.
Without thinking, Sophie screamed. Not a high-pitched girl’s scream. Not a coherent warning. It was a kiai , a deep, guttural, sharp yell she had practiced in karate for years, but never felt comfortable doing. Even doing it as a group, during drills, made her self-conscious, and doing it solo during a kata performance was impossible.
The mountain lion stopped, dropped its ears, and stared at her.
She moved her bike to face it and opened her arms wide, spear held high, hoping to drive it off. Though still an impressive animal, it had become thin and desperate.
It focused on her, the smallest of the three. Overcoming its own fear, it raised its head, pressing its rear legs into the asphalt to leap. The last two inches of an orange crossbow bolt appeared in its shoulder, and without making a sound, it turned and fled, low to the ground like a muscular liquid.
Bane cranked the crossbow back and loaded another bolt. “It’ll probably run back to its lair, though if it’s starving, it might come at us again. Do we want to give it an hour to bleed and calm down, then try to finish it, or just move on and hope it doesn’t follow?”
Kurt was listening, but he was looking at Sophie. “You stood up to it. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want it to suffer and die slowly. Finish it.”
* * *
It was mid-day. They had pulled their bikes to the shade of a tree, in the direction the mountain lion had fled.
“Do you hunt?” said Bane.
“Not in a decade. Used to hunt dove and quail. Hunted deer as a kid, but didn’t enjoy it.”
“I hunted deer and rabbit when Mom was broke. Never knew what the right season was.”
“This is a predator,” said Sophie.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Bane. “All animals act the same when hurt. First scared. Then angry.”
Sophie had a knife in one hand and her slender spear in the other. Kurt had his baton and a baseball-sized chunk of concrete. Bane readied his pistol crossbow and got back on his bike.
“I will ride towards LBJ, shoot it if it comes back this way. You two head the same direction.”
“We might not even find it,” said Kurt.
“True. It might find you, though. Good luck.”
Kurt and Sophie crept across front lawns choked with weeds. Shrubs climbed patio columns, and the oscillations of water and heat over the past few years had pulled the clay out from the foundations, giving the homes sagging rooflines and deformed faces.
After treading weeds for ten minutes, they found a narrow flattened path with a splotch of blood every 20 feet. Fresh white wood was exposed to the air where the lion had planted its legs and jumped over a weathered fence. They walked around it, Sophie to the left, Kurt to the right.
Now about 20 yards apart, they moved forward together, using hand gestures to communicate.
Kurt pointed to his eyes, then to a broken shrub. Just past it,
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