Baby Hunter
by Nicholas Alan Tillemans

   I am a marksman. I have steady hands and near perfect eyesight. I could win awards for my skills. I could be a contender. But I keep a low profile. I must. I cannot gain any recognition for my talents. I can’t complain. It’s my choice. At any time, I could abandon my principles and carve a new life for myself. But I need to do what I know is right. So, I keep a regular job. I work the graveyard shift loading trucks for the parcel service. I divide the rest of my time between sleep and hunting. Each day, I take to the rooftops with my sniper rifle. I’ve thought this out. I’m careful. I break down the rifle and carry it in a standard-looking brief case, which I’ve customized. Wearing a suit, I look like any other white-collar on the street. At least, there’s nothing suspect about me. On the rooftops, I put on my mask to hide my face from the eyes of any unexpected company. If I’m noticed, I flee the scene immediately. I usually have several escape routes mapped out. My expectations are low. If I succeed in taking down even just one baby, I’m pleased. People have ridiculous prejudices. They publicly call me a coward for killing from a distance. I’m not a coward.

   It isn’t my preference that I must hunt from the rooftops, nor that my instrument of destruction is something as impersonal as a sniper rifle. But the world has changed and is forewarned of my behavior. I can’t take on hundreds of people all at once. I’m a realist. Fault me for that. Fault me for dedication. But don’t call me a coward. It couldn’t be further from the truth. The people who criticize me are the cowards…cowering in their mobs. I stand by my beliefs; and I must survive to do my work. So, sadly, I must distance myself farther and farther from the violence. And I feel removed and alienated. I used to find more satisfaction in my process. It used to be concrete and meaningful to me as such. Now, it seems so abstruse. It used to be the case that I hated a particular woman and had the satisfaction of killing her child with my own hands, getting blood on my own clothing and watching the terrified faces from a personal, human distance. Nowadays, it is so difficult for me to serve my earthly purpose that I hardly ever experience any such satisfaction. I can no longer make the subtle discriminations that were once possible. My hatred has become even more general; and there are distinctions I can no longer make, though my sentiments are mostly the same as they’ve been from the start.

   I hate people. I hate children. I hate babies and their smug, self-important mothers. It makes me sick when I think about how society treats its pregnant women. Babies are parasites. But people don’t see anything the way it actually is. Pregnant women are treated like queens. They feel good about themselves. And despite all the horrors we’ve seen, customs and sentiments don’t change. Women still expect to be blessed with children…children, a blessing? Mothers throw parties; and people give them gifts for bringing their babies to term. The only parties they should throw are abortion showers…where the whole world can thank them for the courtesy flush. Women who go through with their pregnancies should be ashamed of themselves for being selfish. Babies are senseless luxury items…the sick extravagances of people who feel that they are entitled to spread their legacy…their filth, their disease, their plague. Women are insane. They see their gaping, whining, all-consuming mouths as their gifts to the world. They treat these repulsive things as licenses to impose on others, to ignore their financial responsibilities and to, generally, treat people around them irresponsibly. They don’t deserve these trifles of vanity. Their babies should be slaughtered before it’s too late. Of course, as I’ve said, I’m a realist. I have no illusions. The world is precisely backwards. Obviously, I am the one who will be persecuted, if anyone ever catches me.

   My ideas aren’t popular. The world can’t seem to have enough babies. We must feel that we need more clutter and violence in the world. We’re crazy. We’re nearly bursting at the seams with refuse and disease already. Perhaps, it wouldn’t be so bad, if we could take responsibility for our actions; but the people who manufacture this madness don’t take their roles seriously. They lose interest. They lose control. They don’t pay attention. Moreover, they don’t make any effort to contain their messes…none at all. They don’t even leash their hideous offspring. They let them roam the streets and spread their sickness, fuck, kill and steal.

   It’s the way these people think. Hell, why not? If you’re down on your luck, squeeze out as many babies as you can, whether or not you can support them. Surely, someone will foot the bill. Babies are like lottery tickets that you don’t even have to pay for yourself. These babies ought to be chained to the basement wall to whither and die. But we’re all forced to philander to ass-backwards parents who will undoubtedly only manage to teach their babies to be rude, irresponsible freeloaders…rapists…killers…the ones that get away…even worse than them. They should be embarrassed…in fact, horrified. But most parents are proud. They’re insane. Their children will probably gut them and eat them alive the first chance they get. We should sterilize ourselves before babies are hitting the ground with all their proclivities matured. But no one’s prepared to sanction this course of action. There’s a chance that things will change and that it will be different next time around. Besides, in any case, most people believe that they have a natural, God-given right to squeeze out babies as often as it pleases them. Some people even see their children as extensions of their own egos. It’s the same biological programming that tricked their parents into wasting their lives on raising children that landed them in this shit hole. They don’t think twice about it; and they blindly hate me for my ideals. You see what I’m up against. I’m up against an army of biologically programmed drones that will stop at nothing in its efforts to wipe people like me from the face of the earth. Hell, they even force women to carry unwanted pregnancies to term. As such, there’s no easy way around the need for people like me.

   I do the dirty work. My job is a quiet, thankless one. No one can know who I am. While no one ever thanks me and while most of the fruits of my labor now ripen a great distance away from me, I continue to find satisfaction in suiting-up, brandishing the tools of the trade and getting the job done. More than anything, though, I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of all I’ve done to curtail this plague.

   Earlier this evening, I pulled out my mask. I admired its craftsmanship. You might not think it’s much to look at. But it’s remarkable and has a brilliant history. Making anything at all useful out of the body of a newborn baby is no small feat. My mask is a deeply meaningful souvenir and remains a crucial part of my chief disguise. Of course, I have many souvenirs.

   I used to make ashtrays from the skulls and cutting tools from the bones. I’m no longer able to get close enough to my kills to salvage any such trophies. There’s so much waste. It’s so different now compared to how it used to be. I remember the first baby I did…seems like it was just yesterday. The mother made a big fuss and tried to get in my way. So, I had to backhand her. I managed to knock her to the floor. As her senses were reeling from the blow, I closed in on her baby. It was crawling away from me…wasn’t any good at it just yet. So, I came up on it, pulled back against its forehead and plunged my 24-volt reciprocating saw into its soft spot. The baby cried out and bared a set of fangs, which were just surfacing as the saw initially broke its skin. But it stopped crying almost instantly, as I continued cutting down the back of its head. Its stubby limbs went every which way as the saw tore through its brain. Blood was gushing from its skull and splattering out with bony bits. Tiny skull fragments were shooting out in every direction. The mother was screaming and crying the whole time. She had blood, bone fragments and brain matter splattered across her face and in her teeth. It seemed safe to assume that she was down for the count and too terrified to do anything. Cocky as I was, I turned my back on her. It was a near fatal mistake. You can never take your eyes off the mother…however hysterical and helpless she seems. Women are unpredictable. This one came at me with a heavy table lamp and nearly busted my skull open. But I blocked her in time and knocked her back to the ground. I put the dead baby into a black plastic garbage bag and left.

   When I got home I scavenged the body for anything useful I could salvage. I carefully cut the skin from the skull with my boning knife and stitched it over a prototype baby mask, which I’d made from just strips of newspaper, flour and water. I’d thought about stretching the face out to fit directly over my face. But, then, you never really know exactly where a baby face has been or what contagion it carries. And, personally, I don’t think it would have looked much like a baby face, if it fit mine exactly. Though, I’m not sure.

   My old drinking buddies would tell you otherwise. I used to begrudgingly laugh when my friends teased me about my "baby face". So, who knows? Maybe the mask would have looked okay, even if I’d just stretched it directly over my face and worn it just like that. I have a young face, which looks deformed to me. Sometimes it makes me sick to my stomach to just look at my face in the mirror. Hell, complete strangers have the nerve to call me "Baby Face". They laugh. And it’s not because I’m wearing my mask. I hate them. I hate babies...and the thought that I have a cute, little baby face makes me violently ill. I sometimes have to excuse myself; and I wretch in the toilet. I don’t make any scenes. As I’ve said, I need to keep a low profile. I need to blend into the crowd as best I can. So, I put up with it.

   It seems I’ve made some progress. I’ve saved lives; and my life has gone on without much incident. It’s surprising. Life is unpredictable. And, just when everything seems cut and dry, life has a way of throwing curve balls. I’m not immune.

   The other day, I was driving my rusty Oldsmobile through downtown cranking Accepts’ "Balls to the Wall" album. I was feeling mean and looking for a fight. I’d had a few drinks to loosen up after work. "Turn Me On" was pumping through my stereo. I was tapping out the beat on my steering wheel. I hit a stoplight in the right lane. That’s when the shit hit the fan and all hell broke loose.

   This woman comes running out into the intersection screaming something I can’t make out and she collapses in front of my car. She’s heavy with child. So, naturally, part of me really wants to blow the red light and crush her under my car. But, for some reason, I flip on my hazard lights and get out of the car to see what the matter is. Apparently, her water broke when she fell and there’s embryonic fluid spilled out between her legs. Why am I stuck in this situation? Now, there’s foot traffic approaching. But people are keeping their distance. They’re mortified.

   "Oh, God." The woman is breathing really heavy. "It’s coming, now." The woman grabs the sleeve of my jacket. "Please, help me."

   What I really want to do is grab a crow bar out of the trunk of my car and jab her baby to death before it breaks free of her. But there are onlookers. So, I play the Good Samaritan. I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. The woman hikes up her skirt and I can see that a little head is trying to push through. She’s grunting and moaning. So, I help her dislodge the baby. I pull out my buck knife and cut the umbilical chord. People are applauding me. Damned, if I didn’t get caught up in the moment myself. I felt good about myself…well, with everyone cheering and all. I showed the baby to its mother. The young woman’s face was glowing for a moment. But, then, it twisted into a look of sheer terror.

   The baby is violently shaking in my arms and it twists its head around to face me as its mouth stretches open wider and wider and the top of its head folds back like a mask. Its teeth are large and pointy like the teeth in a bear trap. It’s breath smells like spoiled milk. It strikes out at me once and nearly takes my nose off; but I drop it on its mother. Mom panics as her baby crawls up her body toward her face. She’s whining and scrambles backwards in a vain attempt to shake the baby off. She can’t shake the baby. Instead, she gets her head crushed beneath the wheels of a passing SUV that blows through the intersection and crashes into the back end of a Propane truck just on the other side of the intersection. There’s a huge explosion; and debris is raining down from the sky. I can feel the heat. I’m unnerved by this turn of events; and I’m distracted for a moment. But, I can’t dally. I have a bigger problem on my hands.

   The baby turns its head to me. Somehow, it’s grinning. Its eyes are crazy…not really focused on anything but looking in my general direction. It licks some blood off its face with its long tongue. The top of its head folds back, as before; and it roars. It turns itself around; and it’s crawling at me. The crowd behind me sees the baby straight on and thins real fast…seems a few people are getting trampled in the confusion. I can’t pay it much attention, though. I race to the back of my car to grab my crow bar. I know the baby’s close behind. So, I’m frantically sorting through my keys. In the midst of it, I drop the keys and have to start over. Somehow, I manage to pop the trunk. I pull out the tire iron as the baby comes up on me along the side of the car. I’m trembling with the tire iron raised above my head, as the baby winds around my car and comes at me. It stops and roars again. I’m nearly paralyzed with fear; but I instinctively crack it in the head. I continue bashing its head in; and I’m repeatedly shouting: "WHO’S THE BABY?" I’ve got blood splattered on my clothes, face and hands. The baby is crying…then, gargling the blood in its throat…then, it stops. I strike its head twenty-seven more times. I’m satisfied it’s dead. I bag the corpse and stick it in my trunk. I feel good about myself. I get back in my car and race out of there. I know the authorities are on their way. I make a very narrow escape.

   I pray that the laws will change. I pray that people will understand that people like me are the only heroes left in the world today. Most people have seen the horrors I curtail with their own eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. Their lives are meaningless to them without a natural legacy. They’d rather be murdered by their own offspring than simply make their own short lives significant. Historians say that history repeats itself. It’s true. It’s hard to change our proclivities. Yet, we must change…mind you, not to live forever…just to live. When the future demands the sacrifice of history, it’s made its death wish. I have no necessary connection with it. I am not just a heap of bones, flesh, nerve endings and semen. I am an idea…a hope…a dream. The intangibles are plain to me. My decay transcends the limitations of life. I live, dream and love eternally. I am more than this moment and cannot be confined. So, as the world falls apart around me, I bide my time. I’m proud. I’m selfish. I’m not embarrassed. I walk with dignity through a world that died ages ago for a future it cannot comprehend. I choose life.

Copyright 2003 Nicholas Alan Tillemans. All Rights Reserved.