“Gettin’ kinda late,” commented Rob into the silence.

“Yeah,” replied Tate.

“Not likely to see any action,” declared Rob.

“Nope.”

Rob started to stand up from his forest-camouflage green chair. Just then Tate brought his rifle up. “You see that?” he whispered.

Rob nodded, entranced. Tate aimed down his scope at the most brilliant twelve-point white-tailed deer stag he’d ever seen. He steadied himself as best he could. Just then another buck, nearly as impressive as the first, stepped into view. “That one’s mine,” whispered Rob, taking aim, “on your shot.”

Tate was just about to fire when he heard the sound of a cracking twig. He glanced to his right and was shocked to see the largest buck yet standing not six feet from him. Before he could decide what to do, their attention was drawn in the other direction by a sudden loud rumbling. Up the hill raced an impossibly large herd of hundreds of fully grown stags, snorting with rage.

“Nice knowing you,” muttered Rob.

“Yep,” agreed Tate.