The others of his flock were still asleep, but Beaks was wide awake. He felt the sun rising and wanted to fly. Beaks had always woken up with the sun since his first migration — he remembered it like it was yesterday. He was just a chick then, but he loved to fly.
Back then he could barely keep up with his flock. They didn’t care to help him fly because they pushed him to learn on his own, so he had to teach himself. Since then he had always been independent. He could fly on his own, and he didn’t need to rely on them. Something kept holding him down to make him stay with his flock — no, his family. He wanted to be free of them, but he needed their approval more.
Beaks slowly flapped his wings so as to not wake the others up. He looked at the little chicks sprawled out sleeping with the flock. A little part of him wondered if any of the adults were delighted at his presence when he was a chick. Another bird in his flock who was staying alert for danger wished him safe travels. Beaks fluffed out his feathers in appreciation.
As he flew up into the sky in the early morning, he noticed the sun was peeking out to say hello, and the cool breeze made his aching wings feel like they hadn’t been flying for days in a row. It makes sense that he has been flying continuously. It is migration season after all. What can he ask for except a warm day and a pretty view?
Just 60 hours to go until he arrived in Mexico. Alaska seemed so far from here. At least the view is nice. An orange, purple and blue gradient painted across the sky with white spots. The trees below are full of life as they sway back and forth. As he flies further up into the sky, the trees fade away into specks until he can only see the clouds below him.
Beaks spotted another bird. This one didn’t look like his kind. She was so small he almost missed her. He could only see her because of their bright yellow patch on her rump. Her body was desaturated compared to her male counterpart. Her wings were striped with brown and white streaks. Her beak was so short he was sure she couldn’t eat a mouse if they tried, but the weirdest part about this bird was the fact that she was flying alone. It’s not everyday that you catch a bird flying alone. Then again, Beaks was also flying alone. Maybe she was a kindred spirit? He flew below the clouds to get a closer look at the small bird. Suddenly, while he was mid-thought, a small object flew through the sky, piercing the tiny bird through the wing. The bird hopelessly flapped its wings to no avail, the desperate plea for help falling on ears that were too stunned to help. The bird called out to its flock, but no one came. All hope was lost. The bird was now so close to the hunter that he could easily shoot the bird. He heard three more shots fired, and he heard three more calls.
And then there was silence. The kind of silence that was filled with sound. You could just feel the plea of mercy for the hunter to leave them alone without the screams. You could feel the pain the Yellow Rumped Warbler felt without a peep. Beaks quickly flew behind the trees for safety, but he didn’t go far enough to block out the bird’s cries.
The silence lasted for a few moments, enough to make him think it was safe and that the hunter didn’t see him. But the hunter was just biding his time, waiting for the moment to strike. Beaks slowly flew out from behind the trees, thinking the hunter was long gone by now. The moment he looked down, he knew it was too late. He had already felt the sharp pain in his wing he knew the Yellow Rumped Warbler had felt before. His desperation was hopeless, just it had been before. Beaks knew this was how it ended. He knew there was no chance at escape, but where his mind had given up, his body had not. Blood, where the Yellow Rumped Warbler’s blood had sprayed before, sprayed again, much like a fresh coat of paint.
Beaks looked into the eyes of the hunter, and he knew he was done for. There was no chance at mercy.
The trees nicely concealed these deaths, for the redwood trees stood tall and mighty, and the sheer amount of them only hid the birds and their murderer. What happened to make Beaks deserve this fate? Had he flown with his pack, would he still be alive? No, the hunter would have waited for another.
The hunter waited for around for another hour or two, but no birds came out of their slumber. The minute he left, the rest of Beaks’s and the Yellow Rumped Warbler’s flocks took to the sky to find warmer land. The hunter hadn’t noticed the birds behind him, for if he did, they wouldn’t see the warmth of the hot sun ever again.
The hunter carefully placed the dead birds in a dusty, brown bag caked with dried blood from other animals the hunter had killed. He carried them carefully, like the prizes they were.
A little while later they had arrived at the hunter’s van, where he drove to his shop. The shop had a gun logo on the front with writing on the side of it that said “Ranger Rick’s Gun Shop.” The sides were old and the paint was chipping off so that there was more wood visible on the shop than there was paint. The shop was barely bigger than a shack, yet held so much inside. Entering the shop was a vegan’s nightmare. There were taxidermy animals mounted on the walls like prizes, and there were also some dead animals that had their guts displayed in the back room. There was a blue ribbon tied to a mounted Angel Shark, which couldn’t be legal. The only thing left of its suffering was a large bloody scar that the hunter had intentionally hidden from sight. Its guts had surely been eaten by now.
Though a red door with an “Employees Only” sign nailed to it was a back room. There was blood everywhere. Displayed in the center of the room was an empty rabbit. Its organs laid neatly beside it, its white fur now stained with blood. Another animal was stuffed: a deer, the light behind its fake eyes dull. Its hide was the only thing that remained of its carcass. The only blessing Beaks had was that he wasn’t alive to see the dead animals the hunter had stuffed and gutted. And soon enough the hunter began the process once again.
