NOVEL NEXT WORLD Chapter 4: Hunger
As she lays hidden behind the pile of rubble, the gnawing hunger in her stomach grows stronger. She's never had to hunt for food before, always having something in the fridge at home. Now, though, she can't help but think, Wow, I've been living the life of luxury. How will I survive now?
She started by looking for a freshwater source. Cats need water as much as humans do, right?
Cautiously, she makes her way out of hiding, scanning the area for danger. The dystopian city is eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional crumbling of a building.
As she wanders, she comes across a small stream, barely more than a few centimeters wide, but it's still running. She eagerly laps up the cool water, feeling refreshed. Okay, water check, she thinks, pleased with her find. At least now she has a direction from where the stream comes from. Now, onto finding food.
She sniffs around, hoping to catch a whiff of anything edible, but the scents assault her all at once. Her nose twitches, trying to separate the overwhelming mixture of smells that flood her senses. The air is thick with the rancid stench of decay, rotting buildings, stale air, the sour tang of mildew, and underneath it all, the sharp bite of pollution, acrid and suffocating. She tries to focus, but it's impossible to distinguish one smell from another. It's like a chaotic symphony of odors, each one clawing for her attention.
Great, just her luck. The apocalypse happens, and the only thing she can smell is the remnants of a world gone wrong. All the good mice and birds must have evacuated, she thinks, a bitter sense of defeat creeping in. She can't even separate one odor to follow, and instead, the stench of decay wraps itself around her like a blanket, pressing in from all sides. It's too much, too overwhelming. She can't catalog it, can't make sense of any of it.
She continues her search and soon spots a flock of birds perched on a crooked telephone wire. A small smile tugs at her lips. Looks like I won't have to channel my inner lion or tiger after all. Starting with birds seems much more manageable.
She crouches low, trying to remember everything she's seen in nature documentaries about hunting. She moves slowly and quietly, heart racing with excitement and fear. What if the birds fly away before I get close? What if I don't know how to catch them? Can I even bring myself to kill and eat it raw?
Well, how hard can it be? I am a cat, after all.
Getting closer, she feels her muscles tense, ready to pounce. And then, before she knows it, she leaps, claws extended, but her paws slip and slide on the pavement. She crashes to the ground in a heap. The birds take flight, chirping in what she imagines to be laughter at her failed attempt. She lays there for a moment, feeling embarrassed and disappointed.
Well, maybe hunting isn't my strong suit.
She picks herself up and dusts off her fur, determined to find another way to get her next meal.
She continues her search, her mind racing with ideas. She considers trying to catch a rat or a mouse, but the thought alone makes her shiver. I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of intense hunting yet. So, she keeps looking, nose to the ground, searching for any signs of food. The city is eerily quiet, and every rustle of wind seems to remind her of how fragile her situation is. She wonders briefly if she'd be better off finding shelter and waiting until things calm down. But hunger gnaws at her insides, relentless and unforgiving.
Sitting on the ground, watching the birds flit about the sky, hunger gnawing at her, she watches a group of sparrows land on the grass nearby.
Well, I might as well give it a shot again.
Her tail flicks with tension as she inches forward, careful to keep her steps light, silent against the rough terrain. Her eyes lock onto the sparrows, their tiny bodies oblivious to her presence. She crouches down, ready to pounce, but misses completely. The birds fly away, chirping in amusement. Okay, okay. She shakes her head. Maybe hunting isn't my strong suit. I'll just have to stick to catching the slower ones.
She spends the next hour stalking the rooftops, chasing after any bird that happens to fly by. Her eyes dart from rooftop to rooftop, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The wind carries the faintest rustle of feathers, and each time, her muscles tense in anticipation.
She misses more often than not, but eventually, it happens. A small sparrow flits by, its wings cutting through the air in a swift, rhythmic beat. Without thinking, she pushes off the edge of the rooftop, leaping towards it. This time, her timing is perfect. Her claws sink into soft feathers, and with a sudden yank, she brings the bird down to the ground.
She devours the bird with haste, the primal part of her taking over as she tears into the meat. The triumph she feels is undeniable but mixed with disgust at her own primal instincts.
As she licks her paws clean, she chuckles to herself. Who knew hunting was so hard? Guess it's a good thing I'm a house cat and not a lion or something.
Deciding to change tactics, she slinks through the grass, tail low and ears perked forward. Her eyes scan the horizon, searching for any sign of movement. The bird she's been tracking has been elusive, but she knows it's out there. She can smell it, a faint hint of feathers and earth carried on the breeze.
She moves slowly, careful not to make a sound. Birds are easily frightened, she reminds herself. If I want to catch this one, I'll have to be stealthy. She creeps closer and closer, her eyes never leaving the sky.
Suddenly, she spots a flash of movement. She freezes, watching as the bird takes flight, its wings slicing through the air. She studies its movements, trying to predict where it will land. Then, without hesitation, she takes off, chasing after it.
She runs as fast as she can, staying low to the ground, her paws pounding against the earth. The wind ruffles her fur, and she knows she's getting closer. The bird is still in sight, and she can hear its squawks as it communicates with the other birds. She won't be deterred.
She crouches low again, tail twitching with excitement. The smell of feathers fills her nose, a mix of earthy and woodsy scents. This has been a long chase, but now that the bird is within her grasp, she can feel the adrenaline surge. She watches it hop around, completely unaware of her presence.
She waits for the perfect moment to strike. Her muscles tense, and then, with a burst of energy, she leaps. The bird squawks in surprise, but she's too fast. Her claws sink into its feathers, soft and fluffy beneath her paws, and they both tumble to the ground.
The bird fights back, pecking and clawing at her, but she holds on tight, her claws digging deeper into its flesh. She can feel the warmth of its blood seeping through its feathers. The metallic scent of the blood mixes with the earthy smell of the bird. Her paws and fur get sticky with it.
The bird's struggles weaken, and she knows victory is hers. With one final squawk, the bird goes limp in her grasp. She lets out a triumphant mewl, basking in the surge of satisfaction from a successful hunt. She takes a moment to catch her breath, the fresh grass and damp soil filling her nose. Then, she drags her prize away, looking for shelter where she can devour it in peace.
My first hunting trip went surprisingly well. One small bird and one big bird.