Beau Landry's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The next beast came at dawn. Beau counted his rounds again while the fog still hung on the water. Thirty-four before the fight. Now six were gone, and one dead giant lay rotting on his shore. The blood had done its work. Something big broke the surface out past the reeds. Then a second wake spread beside it. Beau knew he could not kill two more with the rounds he had left. He backed toward the pod and pushed his oldest boy inside. His wife stood in the hatch, watching the water. "Bar it," he said. "Don't open for anything but my voice." The hatch sealed. Beau stayed out. Running into the pod would only trap them all in a box these things could crack open. The first new gator hauled onto the bank. It was smaller than the dead one, but its ridged back rose higher than Beau's chest. Its heavy tail dragged a furrow through the mud. It went straight for the rotting carcass and tore into it. The second one followed. They fought each other over the meat, jaws snapping, tails cracking like whips. Beau watched from the ridge and understood. They had not come for his family. They had come for the free meal his kill had left behind. The blood that put his family in danger was also feeding the danger away from the pod. He would not waste bullets on beasts already busy. But he could not leave the carcass here, drawing more of them every day. He needed the blood gone. He needed the water clean, like the brochure promised. Beau climbed down slow. He found the sharpened stake still driven in the mud from his first trap. He worked it free. Then he waited until both gators dragged the last of the carcass into the shallows and thrashed there, tearing it apart between them. When the shore stood empty of the dead giant, Beau moved. He shoveled the bloody mud into the water with the flat of the stake, then dragged wet sand over the dark stains. He worked fast, one eye on the feeding beasts. His arms burned. Sweat ran into his eyes. He did not stop until the bank looked like clean ground again. By midday the two gators slid back under the water, bellies full, the last scraps gone. No blood remained to call the next one. Beau stood alone on a quiet shore. He walked to the pod and knocked twice, then spoke his name. The hatch cracked. His youngest peered out at the empty bank and the smooth water. Beau counted his rounds one final time. Twenty-eight. Not enough to fight a war. But he had learned the real lesson. He could not shoot his way to safety on this land. Every kill fed the next hunter. To build here, he would have to stop leaving blood behind. He picked up the stake and started planning a fence.