In countries where fear predominates
it is legal to bear arms.
Dissertation on U.S. gun policy.
The echo of the shot echoes through the ward. It is a small hospital and no one forgets what a revolver with electric bullets sounds like: it sounds like a huge cat, a purr as the projectile leaves the room, turning into a slow, hoarse snort as it travels with the promise of certain death; the weapon is of considerable caliber, probably designed to eliminate game animals from the surrounding area, mutated beings with above average intelligence and natural armor (the product of careful genetic selection) were smart and that is the reason for the existence of this hospital, designed to deal with the wounds of novice hunters and those for whom beer overcame their conscience when it came to making decisions, but this bullet was not for the "tough" (a mixture of raptors and armadilloes) or the "rats" (agile beings with venomous claws and curved teeth) but for the most assiduous visitor to the reserve and it came from the only caretaker who had not fled with his family at the beginning of the crisis.
It was a round business, all those obsessed with difficult prey and adrenaline rushes could give free rein to their needs, the weapons were highly lethal, but the cultivated beings were very fast, agile and intelligent, it never surprised the geneticists their ability to use rudimentary tools and set traps made of holes in the ground or of spikes covered with ferns; The director of the park loved these animals, the profits were enormous, partly because of the sums charged per day for each visit and partly because he also received large amounts from the life insurance paid by his visitors and the fact that he did not have to produce as many animals as one might think. The reason was simple, upon receiving an impact from the hunting guns they send enough current to burn a couple of electrical installations of a conventional house, but the beings absorbed the impact and fell to the ground without a pulse or anything, the heroes took a picture with them (there were those who never hunted one and for them there were dry skulls with which they took consolation pictures and left with the firm determination to make amends) and two hours after their departure, the animal stood up as if nothing and went on its way.... and if some sadist wanted a piece to eat or for a trophy, they would take the animal aside and by cellular growth they would prepare and deliver a piece of juicy and soft meat to the victorious human capable of defeating the magical animals of the reserve.
In reality he was happy, since he had taken over no one had died (neither animal nor human), the income was huge and his "babies" were over eighteen years old each (they never knew the maximum age), his income allowed him to buy food for his beasts and they were fat and healthy... even with the shortage it was hard not to recognize the scent of a calf in the hunting meadows (a mixture of urine, fear and blood). The director was happy and for security reasons never spared any expense to keep the reserve well protected. He was the first in the country to buy and install the force fields and cameras checked every suspicious movement, in short tourism was happy with the reserve and tourism.
When the purge of chiefs was at its height he was not eliminated, the reasons were many, but the most obvious was that he had no future position, there was nowhere else to go, the reserve was unique and would remain so to maintain its importance. Genetic technology had declined in recent years and was only used for the beauty of those who wanted a custom-made child, so new animals were out of the question, for this director the fall of his relatives was to be expected, "how not to prevent something like this"- he often said- "people look for the top, something like this reserve is too humble for immediate ambition".
When the workers began to leave in search of food, he stayed, he had nowhere to run, the branch of his family had died weeks before and he was not married, no mistresses or illegitimate children, he was happy. He ran on the borders of the reservation to see his offspring from safety; he ate frugally and waved to everyone, perhaps because of this, those who left did so with tears in their eyes and those who stayed did so out of loyalty...but loyalty does not feed and within three months of the supply cut he was slowly losing more staff; it didn't matter for business, it was plummeting because there were no more than the banished families left to come to the parks and they were too busy killing each other. He did what he could, distributed his groceries to the remaining employees and let them go.
Twenty kilos less and sleepless he contemplated his triumph, using the machines he had managed to produce plants and fruits to which his children were not approaching, so happy was he eating his first harvest that by little and does not notice the intrusion on his land, someone had shot down "Lore" (a mixture of hippopotamus with horse: fast and rough), he had fallen, the health monitors showed a pale line of his absolute death, so he returned to the compound (he had months living in the trees) and took out one of the reserve's regulation weapons; when the hunter came to get the trophy fires he felt his whole body contort:
The bullet was accurate, directly in the neck, far from the protections, his eyes contorted and exploded; the heart received a fatal shock, but he, the director, was serene and happy, no one survived the death of his animals and no one would.
Thus arose the legend, which, because it belongs to the great crisis, is hardly known. But whoever searches the few servers that still have power and bandwidth, will see the photos of all the hunters that were shot by a lonely director who protected his business until the day he died from consuming the plants of his reserve, which he did to avoid being eaten by his babies, because their fruits contained a little amount of cyanide.