The Hunt

The men ran as one unit. They were shirtless, their chests were gleaming with sweat, their legs were hairless. The hair on their head was long, and flowed behind them as they leaped across the savannah.

It was hot and dry. The sun beat down hard on the African plain - the melanin in the skins of these men positively gleaming with delight. It smelled of baked earth which burned, hazy steam rising from it as they ran on the ground. Yet they did not seem to notice, neither to wince, nor to stop and nurse their feet. They leaped through the ground. Their breaths too, were unionized, as one. In, out, in out. Not heavy, not gasping, but measured. 

They ran as their ancestors had done for millenia, they ran as one. They had singled it out, then one was assigned to keep track of it, and the rest had separate jobs.

Dust swirled behind them in small eddies as their bare feet barely touched the ground before leaping off it. It was beautiful, graceful. Unlike any other animals. Gazelles leaped, lions pounced. These humans, this was what it meant to run, to truly run. Not jogging in tights, with strings attached to your ears, sending sound, blocking sound from around. They were running. This movement seemed natural, and their faces showed the pure joy of their hunt.

They had chosen a sturdy one, not the weakest in the bunch, but not the strongest either. They had chosen one that might give them a challenge, but would definitely provide enough food. The more its muscles worked, the better they would taste, the more flavorful each strand.

They ran as one unit, all keeping up with one another, some effortlessly, some seemingly requiring a little bit more. The youngest were at the front, the eldest in between, the fittest lounging at the back. This latter would move in for the kill when it was time. The gazelle bounded, alarmed, ahead of them. It had been faster than them at first, its muscles flexing and reforming as it contracted and expanded its legs, bounding, leaping. Now, it was starting to slow. The area around its mouth was frothy with sweat. Its eyes were white and wide with terror. Its tongue was out, and sweat was leaking from it like water from a broken faucet.

The group, sensing that the moment was near at hand, wordlessly switched positions, the youngest at the back became more alert, and started to run faster, curving their way around to the front. There were five of them. Five was a good number for what they needed to do. Their stomachs growled, their hands tightened with anticipation. The youngest became more excited, some of the newer ones on the hunt, started to run upright, a little faster, the more jaded ones conserved their energy. Just in case.

The gazelle stumbled over some rocks, and wailed painfully as it realized its time had come. The five were on it in seconds, first they were running, then they were flying through the air, all of them landing on or around it. Knocking the breath out of it, then four of them holding a limb a piece as the fifth drew a knife from the pouch by his side, and sliced its throat with a quick incantation. This, they had not forgotten. These men remembered the old ways.

The sun beat down hard on the baked ground, blood spilled from the throat of the gazelle to the rocks below.