Cake Before the Kill

I always eat a piece of chocolate cake before killing my next victim. You could say it’s routine now, almost superstition, as ridiculous as that sounds, but I wouldn’t dream of it any other way.

The cake in question always comes from the same place - a leftover clump on one of the outdoor tables at this little diner on the outskirts of town. At least one customer always leaves the best part of what they ordered, sometimes with barely three bites taken; always one greedy guts with eyes bigger than their belly for a generous helping of what I’ve come to realise is one of the diner’s most popular dessert dishes. There is then the moment when the outdoor area is briefly deserted, after the customers have departed, but before a short, blonde woman in an apron etched with a golden marigold flower emerges from the diner to clear the tables, and that’s when I pounce and devour the chocolatey goodness. I’m so fast and stealthy that the apron woman probably just thinks the customer who paid for it ate it. No harm in letting her believe that, is there?

Anyway, today is a kill day and I’ve just polished off my latest slice. Less than usual had been left, but that doesn’t matter, just the sweetness tingling my tongue is enough to fire me up, heighten my senses, and get me in the mood for a cold-blooded slaughter.

I never know who I’ll be killing while eating the cake. It’s not something I consider until wandering around for a while afterwards, which is when I’ll select my target, usually at random. It’s always a loner; groups are difficult as there’s something about being outnumbered that makes me question my strength and ability to bludgeon a man or woman down with one swipe of my arm, rendering them helpless, if not lifeless.

The trick - easier said than done - is not to be seen until the last second, until it’s too late, for them, not me, never me. If a potential target happens to spot me before I’m within reasonable approachable distance they seem to know my intentions in an instant, and you wouldn’t believe how frustrating that is when you’ve spent the best part of two or three hours in stealth mode, making a careful selection, then planning the precise moment to strike.

Today, I’m ready early, and the shadows of the sun are still long, giving me plenty of darkened space to sneak between. Plus it’s cooler in the lead up to midday; not cold by any means, but much cooler than the roasting afternoon heat which drains every necessary ounce of energy, and hangs around way into the evening.

The only problem with the early mornings is it’s slim pickings despite the favourable temperature. I won’t attack anyone at the diner or they’ll forever be on the lookout for me, or worse, remove their outside tables altogether, and I’m not losing my chocolate cake privileges over some inexplicable craving to kill.

I plodded between the shadows of a few old unused barns, and watched from afar a set of traffic lights at the rural intersection switch from red to green, and back again, with a single solitary pick-up truck chugging through.

I slunk back into the trees that dwarfed all life around them. Hopefully some careless individual had decided to venture off the beaten track, like a hefty majority of those that had met their maker at my hands over the last few months. I lost count around twenty. The number’s not important anyway, and once you’ve done it once, what difference does another five, ten, twenty, or thirty actually make? I’m a killer, and I get away with it.

Sure enough, someone is out here this morning. I can see them in the little opening just ahead, standing still, admiring the panorama where the pines circle the lake way below, with the mountain range beyond, where the jagged peaks blur with the sky, creating their own distinct horizon. It looks like the person is taking photographs, and why not? It’s a stunning scene, and very fitting for the last photograph they will ever take. I can think of many worse things to be looking at in the minutes before death, or indeed as you die.

I creep forward, staying within the shadows of the trees, and moving only when the morning breeze rustles the foliage. Giving away my position now, while not a disaster, wouldn’t be ideal. I’d just have to charge much sooner than planned. No target has escaped me so far. I boast a one hundred percent kill rate, and today is not tarnishing that record.

I’m close enough now that there is no escape, only a few feet away, and shielded by a thick blanket of pines; thousands of needles that will soon be tumbling to the parched forest floor as I surge forward and make my presence known.

My target, a man, all kitted out for his wilderness hike with walking boots, cargo pants, and khaki sun hat tied under his chin, continues to snap more photographs from the observation point with his chunky camera. He is oblivious to anything else. I could step out now and breathe down his neck and he probably wouldn’t notice me. Did no one ever tell him the dangers of traversing this dense woodland all alone? At least I think he’s alone. These are the silly doubts I start having when I linger for too long. Of course he’s alone, and now it’s time.

I swallow hard and taste the remnants of the chocolate cake, not so lush anymore, then step forward, feeling the pine needles brush my face, some sticking in my hair. The man is broken from his vista trance, and drops his camera when he sees me, landing with a thud between his battered boots and some sort of small package wrapped in brown paper, possibly storing the lunch he’ll never be eating.

There is now the moment - like with all of them - where they freeze, unsure whether to turn and make a pathetic attempt to escape, always on foot, always a failure; or accept death. In this split-second I stay perfectly still, just observing, allowing the fear to sink in, for the wobbles raging in their stomach to fire up to the brain that not even superhuman adrenaline is capable of saving them now.

His mouth is partly open, but no noise comes out, and his eyes stay fixed on mine. Sometimes in the eyes you can see a begging for mercy. I can’t exactly explain how, but I know that’s what it is, like every screaming thought pounding around inside their head in a chaotic frenzy at that very moment is reflected in its absolute simplest form in the terrified eyes. But I’d be going soft if I actually let that impact my decision and walked away with no further action taken.

This individual’s eyes, however, didn’t appear submissive. He wasn’t as afraid as he should have been, like so many of the others. He reached into his beige jacket and pulled out a hunting knife, the sort I’d never seen up close before; the sort that could cause real damage, but only if I let it. I never needed a weapon, and perhaps this poor hopeful soul actually thought this would make it an equal fight. We couldn’t both walk away alive anymore, after all.

I sniffed, more of a grunt, and edged forward, barely two feet from the tip of the blade, which he held out in front of him, threatening and… shaking, as a result of his shuddering hand. Well then, he wasn’t as sure of himself as he’d like me to think, but I never believed that anyway, because I always knew he’d be my next victim, from the moment I saw him as a distant figure through the trees.

I stood up straight, and that’s when he went for me, possibly aiming for my throat, but I’ll never know for sure, as he never got that far. One swipe of my arm, the knife went flying, and he flopped down beside his brown box and camera, as inanimate as the object that had brought him to his death.

I waited a couple of minutes to confirm my success. Sometimes I didn’t make a clean hit on the first attempt and had to finish the job as they lay critically injured, often bleeding as heavily as they are disorientated. This man’s appearance was no exception to the others. The side of his head that I had made impact with was a bloody bludgeoned mess. Not quite a pulp, but enough to give nightmares to whoever stumbled across him, especially if he wasn’t to be discovered for a couple more days, after which the heat and flies had taken their toll. He should have been more careful, or travelled in a group. Don’t they say safety in numbers?

I scanned my immediate surroundings, ending with the view now forever etched in that camera’s memory. It really was spectacular, the way the sun glimmered off the untouched surface of the lake. Most of my family would be on their way down there now, so I had best go and join them; regroup with my fellow grizzlies for another afternoon of lazing about in the blazing sun, dreaming of my next kill, just as much as my next piece of delicious chocolate cake.