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Sherma had gotten used to the cartel life at this point. He never got involved in any of the true criminal things they did, stealing being the main thing as of lately, but he would offer confessionals and general advice. He was the moral support in the dam.
Which was, in hindsight, a ridiculous job title in a world that had ended. But the dam had a way of grinding people down into whatever shape kept the lights on, metaphorically, since the actual lights were mostly dead unless the generator was having a good day. People came to Sherma when they couldn’t sleep. When they’d snapped at someone over a mouthful of jerky. When they’d counted rations one too many times and started imagining teeth marks in the numbers.
Kratt was in the doorway now, half-lit by the spill of generator light from the corridor, coat still on, breath fogging in the warmer air like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that indoors existed.
“You busy?” he asked.
Sherma looked up from the battered notebook in his lap. He had been writing, not because journaling was a hobby, but because if he didn’t put thoughts somewhere, they started living in his mouth. He knew that people would rather be listened to by him than listen to him.
“No, sir.”
Kratt’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost. “Good. Because Tiso says we need meat.”
Sherma shut the notebook slowly. “Tiso says a lot of things.”
“This one isn’t optional.” Kratt pushed off the frame. His hands were already gloved, already ready. “We’ve been stretching the canned stuff too long. The weather’s been bad, supply runs are late, and everyone’s getting real religious about the last box of crackers.”
Sherma’s gaze flicked to Kratt’s shoulder. There was a rifle strap there, worn leather, familiar.
“You want me for support?” Sherma asked.
“I want you because you walk quieter than half the idiots here,” Kratt corrected. Then, after a beat, like it cost him something: “And you don’t panic when things go sideways.”
Sherma held that in his mouth for a second, tasting it. Kratt didn’t give compliments. If he said something like that, it wasn’t kindness. It was a calculation.
“I’m not a hunter,” Sherma said.
“I know. But you’re young enough to still be able to learn how to be one, preacher. Come on, before it gets dark.” Kratt motioned Sherma to follow him.
Sherma nodded despite Kratt’s back being turned and got up, shadowing him.
“Are we going to the armory first?” Sherma asked, noting how they walked past the main doors.
“Yes. You’re getting your own rifle today. Nice one too, used to be Hornet’s.”
“Did she say we could use it?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“First things first,” Kratt began as they walked outside, “we’re skipping the baby steps. No rabbits, we’re heading straight to deer. Zango was out earlier and reported some big tracks near the bridge,” Kratt motioned to where the bridge lied just a two minute walk away, “I want you to take down the creature.”
“Me? Are you sure? This is my first time holding anything more than a flare gun.” Sherma asked, his voice shaking slightly, half from the cold, half from the implications of it all.
“I’m sure. Come on.”
The two walked over the bridge, and headed down the steep slope to the frozen river that ran under it.
The ice creaked under their combined weight, but it was nothing that implied potential breaking.
“Stay where I step,” he said without turning around.
Sherma did.
The river stretched wide and pale beneath the bridge, the snow blown thin enough in places that dull gray ice showed through like old glass. On either side the banks rose into sparse trees and brush, their branches heavy with frost.
The cold here felt sharper than at the dam.
Sherma shifted the unfamiliar weight of the rifle on his shoulder. It felt wrong there. Too heavy. Too serious.
Weapons always looked simple when other people carried them.
When you carried them yourself, suddenly every mistake seemed possible.
“You ever fired one before?” Kratt asked.
“No.”
Kratt grunted.
“That obvious?” Sherma asked, genuine.
“You’re holding it like it’s going to explode.”
Sherma adjusted his grip slightly.
“Is that better?”
“Marginally.”
They reached the opposite bank and climbed up through crusted snow until they reached a thin stand of trees. The wind moved through them with a dry rattling sound.
“Shouldn’t we have seen one by now?” Sherma asked, his voice quiet.
“Actually, yes, we should’ve. Keep your guard up.” Kratt spoke with a slight quiver in his voice.
It wasn’t much longer before they found some fresh tracks.
“These are big.” Sherma spoke as he examined them.
They were larger than his hand, and had small tear drop shaped indents at the bottom.
“Sir?” Sherma looked up at Kratt.
“What is it, Sherma?”
“Are we sure these are deer tracks?”
Instead of responding verbally, Kratt kneeled down and examined the tracks.
“…No.” Kratt spoke with fear lacing his voice, it was as if Sherma could taste the dread from just the way he spoke.
“E-elk?” Sherma prayed for not only himself but for Kratt.
Quickly, Kratt looked up and scanned the trees, looking for something. Something he hoped he wouldn’t find.
But alas, he did find it.
Several trees had their bark scratched off.
“Fuck. Sherma-” Kratt cut himself off when he turned, catching something out the corner of his eye. He turned his whole body towards it.
Sherma looked.
A moose.
The whites of its eyes were already pronounced, its lips smacking. It stomped and lowered its head.
It didn’t take being an expert to know that these were the signs of a moose about to charge.
“Sherma. Run.”
Sherma turned back to the river and booked it, every voice in his head telling him not to look back. Telling him to stop only when he got inside the dam. But he felt the need to glance back, just for a brief moment.
The moose had already begun to charge at Kratt, and it was at that moment that Sherma realized he needed to make a choice.
He could either run away and be safe at the cost of Kratt, or-
He fired the rifle before he could finish the thought.
The shot cracked through the air.
Sherma closed his eyes.
A deafeningly loud sound of something crashing against the snow made him reopen them.
He hoped for the best but prepared for the worst when he looked back at Kratt and the moose.
Kratt was visibly shaking, his chest rising with each rapid breath he took as he stared at the unmoving moose that laid in front of him, its antlers just a smidge away from touching his legs.
“You did it.” Kratt finally spoke, turning to look at Sherma.
Sherma stood frozen halfway across the ice, the rifle still clutched in both hands. His ears rang from the shot. The cold air burned in his lungs.
“I-” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to- I just-”
Kratt barked a short laugh that sounded more like a cough. He pushed himself away from the moose’s antlers carefully, boots crunching in the snow as he stepped back.
“Well,” Kratt said, breathing hard, “that’s one way to learn.”
Sherma stared at the animal.
The moose looked impossibly large up close. Its body was a dark mound in the snow, steam curling faintly from the wound where the bullet had gone in just behind the shoulder. Its legs were folded awkwardly beneath it, like the world had simply switched off.
Sherma’s stomach twisted.
“I killed it,” he said quietly.
Kratt glanced at him.
“Yes,” he said plainly. “You did.”
Sherma swallowed.
He had expected something else. Relief, maybe. Triumph. Something that made sense for surviving a life-or-death moment.
Instead there was just a strange heaviness sitting in his chest.
Kratt noticed.
“You saved my life,” he added, a little less blunt this time.
Sherma shifted his grip on the rifle, looking down at it like it might explain itself.
“I also killed something that wasn’t even trying to eat us.”
Kratt walked over and nudged the moose with the toe of his boot. No movement.
“It was about to rearrange my skeleton,” he said. “That counts.”
Sherma didn’t respond.
The wind pushed through the trees, rattling the frozen branches. Somewhere far off, the ice on the river cracked with a low, hollow sound.
Kratt crouched beside the moose and inspected the entry wound.
“Huh,” he muttered.
Sherma looked up.
“What?”
Kratt glanced back at him, eyebrows raised.
“You got the heart.”
Sherma blinked.
“Your first shot ever and you hit the heart.”
“That was not intentional.”
“Yeah,” Kratt said dryly, “I figured.”
He stood and brushed the snow off his knees.
“Either way, preacher, congratulations. You’re officially a hunter now.”
Sherma’s face tightened slightly.
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
Kratt shrugged.
“You pulled the trigger. The thing died. That’s the entire job description.”
Sherma looked back at the moose again.
“What do we do now?” He asked.
“We butcher it.”
Sherma stared at him.
For a moment he thought Kratt might elaborate. Offer some kind of ceremony. A prayer. Instructions that sounded less like violence and more like necessity.
Kratt just pulled a knife from his belt.
A large one.
“You’re serious,” Sherma said.
Kratt glanced up, already kneeling beside the moose.
“What part of survival struck you as metaphorical?”
Sherma opened his mouth. Closed it.
“…Right.”
Kratt stabbed the knife into the snow beside the animal and began unstrapping a canvas roll from his pack.
When he opened it, several more knives were revealed. Thin ones. Thick ones. A small bone saw.
Sherma blinked.
“You carry a butcher shop with you?”
“I carry tools,” Kratt said flatly. “Grab the back legs.”
Sherma didn’t move.
Kratt looked up again, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Preacher.”
Sherma swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
He carefully set the rifle down against a tree and approached the animal. Up close the smell was stronger, iron and warmth leaking into the frozen air.
Steam still rose faintly from the wound.
Sherma grabbed one of the moose’s back legs.
It was heavier than he expected.
“Good,” Kratt said. “Hold it there.”
Sherma tried not to think about what was about to happen.
Kratt worked fast.
There was no hesitation in the way he cut. No reverence either. Just efficiency. The knife slid under the hide with practiced pressure, opening the body along the belly with a long, controlled stroke.
Sherma immediately regretted volunteering.
Heat rolled out of the opening like breath from a furnace.
“Oh,” Sherma said weakly.
“Yeah,” Kratt replied. “That part surprises people.”
Sherma turned his head away slightly but didn’t let go of the leg.
“You’re doing fine,” Kratt added.
“That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s encouragement.”
Kratt reached inside the cavity and began working with the calm focus of someone repairing machinery.
Sherma stared very intently at the trees.
“How did you learn this?” he asked after a moment.
“Before,” Kratt said.
Sherma glanced at him.
“Before what?”
Kratt shrugged slightly.
“Before the world stopped pretending it was stable.”
That didn’t narrow it down.
Kratt continued cutting, separating connective tissue with quick flicks of the knife.
“Here,” he said suddenly. “Come closer.”
Sherma’s stomach protested.
“I think distance is helping my faith right now.”
“Too bad.”
Kratt pointed with the blade.
“See this?”
Sherma leaned in reluctantly.
Inside the cavity, Kratt held something dark and heavy in his hand.
“The heart,” Kratt said. “Your shot went straight through it.”
Sherma stared at it.
It looked… smaller than he expected.
“Does it always feel this strange?” Sherma asked quietly.
Kratt raised an eyebrow.
“Killing something?”
Sherma nodded.
Kratt thought about that for a second.
“…Yeah,” he said.
Sherma blinked.
“That wasn’t the answer I expected.”
“You thought I was going to say you get used to it?”
“Something like that.”
“Good hunt?” Grindle asked as the two walked in, carrying bags over their shoulders filled with meat.
“Tell Zango that he doesn’t know the difference between deer and moose tracks.” Kratt responded, ignoring the question.
“Oh. You took it down?”
“Sherma did, actually.”
Grindle’s eyes went wide.
“One shot,” Kratt said, shrugging his pack down onto the table with a heavy thud. “Dropped it clean.”
Grindle blinked once.
Then he leaned around Kratt to look at Sherma properly, like he expected the boy to have grown antlers in the last hour.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Kratt said.
Sherma shifted the strap of the meat bag on his shoulder.
“I think it was mostly luck.”
Kratt snorted.
“That’s what everyone says when they don’t want responsibility.”
Grindle pushed off the table and walked over, peering into the sack Sherma carried. The smell of fresh meat filled the room the moment he pulled the canvas open.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“Moose,” Kratt corrected.
Grindle looked back at Sherma.
“You shot a moose.”
Sherma rubbed the back of his neck.
“It was charging Kratt.”
Grindle turned his head slowly toward Kratt.
“Of course it was.”
Kratt ignored him and started unstrapping the second bag.
“Where’s Tiso?” he asked.
“In his office. He’ll be beaming when he sees how much you two brought.”
“I’ll bring him the good news. Sherma-” Kratt turned to him.
“Get some rest. You did well.”