<h2>Chapter 9: The Last Hunt</h2>


    The break room at Electronics Paradise looked exactly as he remembered it: the scratched table, the humming vending machine with its perpetually stuck B5 button, and the coffee maker only Chris knew how to coax into producing something drinkable. James burst through the door, his lungs burning.


    "Look who finally decided to join us," Chris called out, his paper cup tilted in mock salute. "Only two hours late."


    Carmen sat at the table, a cupcake with a single candle waiting in front of her. Her dark curls framed her face, the company vest failing to hide the faded band logo on her shirt. "Thought you''d stood me up," she said, her smile making his heart stutter the way it always did.


    "I''m sorry," James started. "There was this pile-up on—"


    "Save it," Chris interrupted, kicking out a chair. "You''re here. We waited. There''s cake."


    The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, once, twice. James noticed the shadows in the corners seemed off, somehow deeper and more substantial than they should be.


    "Make a wish," Chris said to Carmen, flicking his lighter.


    The flame caught, but instead of warm yellow light, it cast an eerie blue glow. The same color as... James''s chest tightened.


    "James?" Carmen''s forehead creased with concern. "What''s wrong?"


    A flicker of movement in the darkness behind her caught his eye. Something was there, something that didn''t belong. His warning died in his throat.


    The shadows shifted, and he saw it, a Splitjaw, its three-part mouth silently opening, its legs tensed to spring. The sterile light bounced off teeth that reminded him of moonlight on alien grass.


    "Carmen!" He finally managed, "Behind—"


    <hr>


    James jerked awake, shirt plastered to his skin with sweat. Purple pre-dawn light filtered through the sanctuary''s open ceiling, painting the stone walls in bruised colors. His throat felt like he''d swallowed sand, his empty stomach already twisting with familiar hunger pangs.


    The dream clung to him, Carmen''s birthday, Chris''s coffee, the horror of seeing the Splitjaw in his old world. His mind had become a blender, churning his two realities into something more terrifying than either alone.


    He ran a hand over his face, feeling the scruff that had grown beyond stubble. How long? Five days? Six? The days were bleeding into each other now, differentiated only by the cycle of hunger and the desperate scramble to stay alive.


    His feet felt better after yesterday''s cleaning, though some cuts still looked angry and red. The scratches on his arms had scabbed over, battle scars from wrestling his dinner to the ground. A small victory.


    The sound of running water pulled his attention to the sanctuary''s entrance. He needed to drink, needed to hunt. Yesterday''s meat had satiated his hunger, but his body was already demanding more. He couldn''t waste the day lost in dreams of home.


    He eased himself up and limped to the entrance. The grass hung heavy with dew, making movement easier to spot. No sign of Splitjaws nearby. He checked the position of the rising sun, still hours to go before midday when the Splitjaws reliably disappeared. The pattern had held every day since he''d arrived: during the peak heat of midday, not a single Splitjaw could be found. That was when he''d make his move.


    His makeshift hunting tools lay where he''d left them, shell fragments sharper than they had any right to be, and the rock he''d used to crack open his prey. Primitive, but they''d kept him alive. Today he''d refine his technique, maybe find a better way to make fire. Perhaps even venture further from the sanctuary, and see if other structures existed.


    Carmen''s birthday lingered in his mind as he gathered his tools. What day was it back home? Had they filed a missing persons report yet? Had they—


    No. He shut down that line of thinking. He couldn''t afford to spiral into questions without answers. Right now, he needed water, food, and to avoid becoming something else''s meal.


    The midday air bit at his skin as James crept through the grass, moving with purpose.


    The shelled creatures, he''d started thinking of them as Rollers, were creatures of habit. They followed the same paths, moved at predictable times, reacted in ways he could anticipate.


    This time, he''d positioned himself between a group and the stream. Let them come to him. His fingers tightened around the sharpest shell fragment, feet rooted in the damp earth. Yesterday''s desperate struggle had taught him where to strikem, the soft junction where segments met, just behind what passed for a head.


    Three Rollers emerged from the tall grass, moving with their strange, almost mechanical gait. James froze, having learned they reacted more to movement than shape. The lead one was larger, its shell a deeper amber. Two smaller ones with paler shells followed in its wake.


    Patience. His muscles screamed from holding still, and his hollow stomach urged him to lunge. But he remained motionless, watching their deliberate approach to the water.


    The larger one passed close enough that James could see intricate swirls on its shell he hadn''t noticed before. Not that one. Wait for the smaller ones, easier to handle, and less likely to damage his knife during the struggle.


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    The second creature moved past. Almost... almost...


    The third stepped into position, and James struck. His blade found the gap he''d aimed for, sliding deep between segments. The creature tried to roll into its defensive ball, but he was ready this time, his free hand gripping the edge of its shell. A sharp twist, and it went limp.


    No desperate wrestling match. No new scratches or bruises. A clean kill.


    The other two Rollers had already vanished into the grass, moving faster than their bulk suggested possible. James hefted his prize, gauging its weight. Smaller than yesterday''s, but enough to quiet his stomach''s demands.


    A movement in the distance caught his attention, something large parting the grass. It was not a Splitjaw, he was certain—they were never seen at this hour—but perhaps some other predator he hadn''t yet encountered. Either way, it was time to go.


    James moved quickly back toward the sanctuary, his feet finding the familiar path with growing confidence. The trick now was making fire faster than yesterday. His fingers still bore blisters from endlessly striking stone against shell.


    Making fire came easier now. The shell and stone struck sparks on the third try, catching in his prepared tinder. As the flame grew, James studied the sanctuary''s carvings he''d been too exhausted to properly examine before.


    What he''d initially taken for random placement revealed itself as a deliberate sequence, starting at the entrance and moving clockwise. The first section showed Splitjaws, their hunting patterns, and territories marked by what looked like grass height or terrain features. The next tracked the moons'' cycles, their positions carefully measured against some kind of stone calendar.


    The sanctuary gave him a place to survive, but it couldn''t be his entire world. James stood at the entrance, considering the stream where he''d been getting water. Water meant life, not just for him, but for anything intelligent in this world. If civilization existed here, it would need water too.


    The stream had to lead somewhere. During his careful trips to drink and clean his wounds, he''d noticed the current ran stronger from the direction opposite of where he''d first encountered it. Upstream seemed promising, find the source rather than where it ended. Higher ground might offer better visibility, and a chance to see beyond the endless grass.


    He''d need to plan carefully. He''d need to stay close enough to the water to use it but far enough from its banks to avoid being trapped against it by predators. The grass near the stream grew taller, offering cover but also hiding threats. He''d have to stay alert and remember everything he''d learned about Splitjaw hunting patterns.


    No guarantees waited upstream. No promise of finding others or answers. But the stream was something tangible, something he could follow through this seemingly pathless world. Right now, that was more than any other direction offered.


    James spent the remaining daylight preparing. He needed one more successful hunt before leaving, the meat would fuel the journey''s first leg. He selected the sharpest shell fragments, testing their edges.


    Fire would be essential. He gathered the driest grass he could find, rolling it tightly for tinder. His most reliable spark-making stones went into a small bundle made from torn strips of his shirt, already more holes than fabric after his time here.


    He would travel during midday. The Splitjaws owned the nights and mornings, that lesson had been burned into him as their calls echoed across the fields after sunset and before the sun reached its peak. They were most active in darkness, most dangerous when the twin moons lit their hunting grounds. The scorching midday offered his only window of safety.


    These stone walls had been his entire world for days. Tomorrow, they would be nothing but a memory. James traced the carved symbols one final time, committing their warnings to memory. Then he slipped out for his final sanctuary hunt.


    <hr>


    The midday sun made tracking easier. James moved through the grass with practiced stealth, watching for signs of Rollers.


    A patch of disturbed earth caught his eye, fresh six-toed tracks heading toward the familiar feeding grounds. He''d learned they gathered in shorter grass to graze before their evening journey to water.


    James circled downwind. The shell fragment felt like an extension of his hand now, its edge honed against stone. This last kill needed to be clean and efficient. No wasted energy before tomorrow''s journey.


    Three Rollers came into view, moving with their mechanical gait. James held perfectly still. The largest paused, its head swaying as it fed. Behind it, a smaller one with a pale shell offered the perfect target.


    He struck without hesitation. The fragment found the weak spot between its plates. A quick twist, and the Roller went limp. There was no panic, no struggle, just the quiet efficiency born of necessity.


    The others disappeared into the grass as James lifted his kill. It was good size, enough for at least three meals. He would cook it all tonight and carry it tomorrow. It was his last taste of sanctuary-caught food.


    Somewhere distant, a Splitjaw called, an early hunter waking as the sun began to set. Time to return. Time to prepare for tomorrow''s departure.


    <hr>


    The sanctuary''s stone threshold welcomed him one last time as James ducked through the entrance. He''d gotten efficient at preparing Rollers, knowing exactly where to crack the shell, and how to separate meat from inedible organs. His sharp fragment made quick work of the task, hands moving on automatic.


    As he worked, he sorted useful parts from waste. The largest shell pieces might become tools. The rest he piled near the edge, no point in leaving food scraps to attract predators to his refuge.


    Fire came with just three strikes now, sparks catching in his prepared tinder. The small flame grew steadily as he fed it carefully selected grass. He''d need more caution with fire while traveling, smoke could attract attention, and gathering dry grass took precious time.


    The meat smelled different as it cooked, more savory, though that might have been his imagination. One last sanctuary meal. He rotated his makeshift skewer, ensuring even cooking. Nothing wasted tonight. Every calorie mattered for tomorrow.


    Darkness settled as he ate, bringing the first calls of hunting Splitjaws. James had learned their different sounds, the short barks of discovery, the longer calls for coordinating the pack, the triumphant signals of a kill. Tonight they seemed closer, as if they sensed he would soon leave his stone protection.


    He checked his meager supplies one final time. The sharpest shell fragments wrapped in strips of his ruined shirt. Dried grass for tinder. The last of today''s meat, wrapped in large leaves he''d found growing near the sanctuary''s base. Not much to show for his time here, but each item represented a hard-won lesson.


    The twin moons rose, casting familiar light through the open ceiling. James traced the carvings one last time, committing their warnings to memory. Tomorrow he would leave these protective stones and follow the stream upstream. Tomorrow he would learn if the skills he''d gained here were enough.


    Something moved in the grass outside, a Splitjaw making its nightly patrol. But tonight, for the last time, James was safe behind ancient stones that predators wouldn''t cross.


    Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Tonight, at least, he could rest.