The string snapped past his cheek. The eleventh arrow of the day THWOCK‘d. The zebra’s head jerked to the side, and its bloodied body seemed to finally relax.

Zuba exhaled, then extended his legs and stood up. His thigh muscles protested predictably. The tracking had been long. The zebra had taken ten arrows and kept moving. The last arrow in his quiver shifted loosely. He was grateful for the ancestors wisdom. Twelve arrows, no more, no less. Even though normally it would take only six.

Approaching the zebra, Zuba unsheathed the obsidian dagger that had been his Nameday gift. The late afternoon sun had been relentless on his skin, but now the hunt was finally over. He stood over the zebra and saw that it still struggled to breathe as the eyes flickered. Murmuring a prayer as he was taught, Zuba knelt down and laid a gentle hand on the zebra’s head, stroking its ears with soft strokes.

The ear flickered in response to his prayer as the dagger found the neck. Moments later, the ear stilled.

The others would be here soon. The markings he left were obvious. But the shadows had become long and it was not yet time to rest.

Zuba pulled out a skinning knife, laid out the leather, and began his work. The kill was his. But bringing it back to the village would require more hands than his own.

First came the arrows that could be salvaged. Three were broken when the zebra had fallen on its side. Two were buried so deep he did not bother. The rest he slowly worked out of the animal. Two broke during extraction. Only three were left intact, and he was grateful. Four arrows in the quiver now.

Next came the skin, exposing the flesh inside. He exposed enough to make the cuts as he had been taught. Draining the carcass soon left him with the tangy scent of blood mixed with his sweat in the hazy afternoon as he worked. Bloodsuckers came and went about him, attracted by the kill. He ignored them unless they went for the face.

Three legs were done when Zuba reached for the bow he had set to the side, now convinced the itching on his neck was not from the bloodsuckers. He looked to the side and saw them then.

Spotted fur and black manes. Yellow eyes and ivory teeth.

Hyenas. Six? Zuba shifted the knife in his hand so that he did not need to let go of it as he pulled an arrow, swerving to keep the carcass against his back.

No. Seven.

Papa’s words came back to him as he felt his breathing become shallow. Zuba’s eyes flickered to the meat he had stacked atop the leather.

Where were the others?

The big one, with a scar across her snout, padded forward with curled lips. Her nose sniffed the blood and the bloodsuckers did not seem to disturb her. Yellow eyes regarded him with curiosity and wariness. Perhaps she knew the knife or recognized the shape of the bow. Zuba did not know.

Seven of them. Four arrows. Not enough.

Zuba knelt down and laid down the bow. His motion was slow but fluid, for they seemed undecided while he had decided. His knife was still ready, but his free hand now swiftly wrapped up the meat he had carved.

The big one yipped, and the pack began to encircle. Zuba’s packing was shoddy, but it would have to do.

Growling now as Zuba shoved the package into his shirt and backed up, careful to not trip over the carcass. All seven were still in sight as they padded forward. Two of the smaller ones seemed more interested in the carcass as they sniffed at it, looking away from him.

But the big one’s eyes never looked away, and Zuba heard a growl from behind him.

So there was eight.

He ran and they laughed, but he did not care as he sidestepped his way through the brush, the yipping echoing throughout the plains. Was he being chased? He barely looked around, but Papa’s words were always true. There is no safety when getting between an animal and its food.

Zuba looped around, looking for his own markings and retracing his steps. His heartbeat pounded his ears even louder than his clothed feet pounded the ground. He ran and ran, then ran some more until—

“Zuba!”

Zuba stopped, bewildered. Nokku and Tokka came out of the brush, waving at him.

“Did you lose the zebra?” Tokka asked. “Where is your bow?”

Zuba paused to catch his breath, bending downwards with his hands on his knees.

“Hyenas found me before you did. I had to leave.” Zuba cleared his throat of the accumulated dust and dirt, spitting it out onto the ground. “Water?” He pleaded.

Nokku unslung his waterskin and handed it to Zuba, who drank greedily.

“How far?” Tokka asked as soon as Zuba finished drinking.

“Close.” Zuba knew that with the others, they had a better chance of reclaiming whatever the hyenas had not yet spoiled. He hoped that they had not spoiled it yet. “Where is Passa?” he asked. “And Nala? What took you so long?”

Nokku shook his head. “Passa injured an ankle following you over the ravine. We saved him, but he could not follow. Nala is taking him back home. How many?”

“Eight. The leader is a big one,” Zuba winced.

“We must try.” Nokku unslung his bow, nodding at Tokka who adjusted his sheathed dagger for easy reach. “Now Passa is injured, we cannot let go of the meat. The village needs it.”

Zuba nodded at the decision, but felt his heart sink. Five against eight would have been good. Three against eight was not.

“We go swift,” Nokku gestured for Zuba to lead. “If zebra is spoiled, then I’m sure the village will eat hyena.”

Zuba tossed the waterskin back at Nokku and took a deep breath.

“The hunt is on,” Tokka reminded him.

Zuba nodded, repeating the prayer back to the skies. “The hunt is on.”