A Ferocious Boar The boar rose full height and walked a little staggering around the fallen horse. “You,” whispered Stas, taking the magazine out of the harness, “you’re going to get it.” The boar entered the start straight and balled its legs for a final dash, his thick and dark blood dropping to the sand. The catch of the magazine flicked softly, and the lock clanked. The boar snorted, blowing red foam off its snout, and dashed forward. Stas pulled the trigger. A jet of hot shells burst out of the extractor and flowed into the puddle of the horse’s fresh blood, hissing and making a thick and viscous film around itself. The boar was dashing towards the lead wind, the target looming behind it. Thirty bullets, one after another, entered its head, tearing its flesh, cartilages, bones and brain… But the boar was still running. It kept moving solely due to its reflexes. Its brain had already died, but its muscles were still working, making the enormous body move forward towards the target… The last bullet broke out of the barrel and entered the boar’s crushed skull. Stas stepped aside, and the beast – its trajectory uneven and winding – darted past him. Its forelimbs bent abruptly, and the boar’s muzzle smashed into the ground, still able to move a couple of meters forward, leaving behind a wet, red path with flocks of wool. Stas changed the magazine, walked up to the ripped carcass, and after gazing attentively at it, he came to a conclusion that life had finally left the boar. Before leaving, he wanted to kick it with his shoe, but changed his mind. He could not bring himself to kick this dead giant, mighty, dumb and… endlessly honest. After throwing the rucksack behind his back and hanging two machine-guns from his shoulders, Stas cast a gloomy look at the horse’s gutted corpse, sighed and set out further.