The creek of a mailbox in the Flagstaff center, an unfolding of a piece of rusty brown paper. A note? A message? A job. Another from God only knows who. A name was given, along with a "Return to sender if accepted" address. At this point in time, his curiousity for the job didn't even appear. It felt like a punch-in punch-out sort of order. Signing his name in uniquely neat handwriting, he sent it back. Days and nights passed, until later down that weak, a yippy Franklin's Riders member walked up to him by the pond of Flagstaff, handing him a letter with a tip of his brim. Kai unfolded the letter, mumbling quietly as he read the words written in a dying pen. The offer of chips, the information of a drug trader. A Traveler. A dead man.
Kai sat still, in his small nest. The smell of leaves, and moss of the Kaibab filling his nose. The sight for at least 200 yards being nothing but nature, and a road. Sunsets, sunrises, days passed, nights come. Owls hoot, and mourning doves coo. Breezes fly by and a small storm comes. The air humid, the rain sprinkling down. The pitter-patter of the hard water hitting the flat, thick leaves. Kai's ears now succombing to the noise. His loss of focus. His eyes drift from the scope of his mute rifle. Spotting a bird, a small one. That cooing mourning dove from before. Kicking its head up and down, scouting out for its own danger. Its own predator. It lands, steps on the ground, and a hound comes up, snatching it up for a morning meal. It considered the idea of a predator, but never spotted it before it was too late. Just as the hound waited for the bird, Kai waited for his kill. His job. His ill-gotten gain.
Another day, another storm. More rain, mud, moss. The thick, grimy smell of worms and wet wood filling the air. The ground of his nest now becoming saturated with dirty rain water, unfiltered, unclean. Sounds of nature surrounding him, wood creaking from the breeze. His focus down his scope. The rain dripping down over his right eye as it stares at the crosshair. Waiting. Watching. Patient, professional.
An engine heard coming down the road. A bike. The only vehicle over the past few sunrises. A biker. A Traveller. His Traveller. His job. His kill. The engine puttering down, slowing down over Kai's set road hazards, large sticks, rocks, branches made to look like storm debris. The bike comes to a stop, due to a fallen, dead, old tree. Covered in moss, mushrooms, and the occasional claw mark of whatever creature came through. A small ping, a pop, a shot. Unheard, but felt fully. A red mist seen over the Traveller's head. His helmet containing the mess, but not his spirit. Lifting off to the sun, to the sky. To whatever place he believed in. A life ended in a shot. One shot.
Quiet breaths, quiet rustling. Kai removes himself from his nest, stepping down the 200 yard trail to the road, coming to the man. The job. The kill. Any evidence of who the man was has become Kai's property. Soon to be shipped to the job giver. The cargo, Storm, a shipment list. New Flagstaff, Embry. Oilville. Los Alamos. Too many places, too much usage and selling. This was somewhat personal. Grabbing the bag of cargo, tossing it into a small pond. A loss? A sin? A good deed. Kai returned to the body, leaving a small hand-drawn card of a cow's skull right in the man's hand.
"All in a day's work." Kai would mumble, walking west, heading home.