Fortunately, he uses the remains of the moa to catch fish.
Despite the stench, his stomach pined for food. He was tempted to carve out the least rotten chunks of meat–no, carrion–but he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk inviting parasites or bugs into his gut. He wondered if he could sterilize his food somehow, but, without a pot or pan, he didn’t think he could even boil water. Still, it seemed an incredible waste to leave the demon bird meat to the beetles and maggots.
One of the demon chicks pecked at his foot, continuing its constant search for food. The orphans had spread out from his shelter meandering as they had when he’d first encountered them. Some of them had begun poking at their parents’ bodies, which he at first regarded as a gesture of mourning, but on closer inspection as one of hunger; they had discovered that the creeping crawlers dining on their former guardians made for a passable breakfast. Some of them may also have been gobbling the occasional strip of flesh, whether on purpose or by accident. He admired how practical the chicks could be in the face of their recent loss.
A similarly practical decision might have been to kill one of the chicks for his own breakfast, but, for all the encouragement his stomach offered, his heart recoiled. He’d already taken their parents, sibling, and nest; killing another would be excessive. They’d made a decent heated blanket, even they probably did poop all around his shelter. If he killed another, they’d shriek up a storm, and maybe another adult would come charging in, who knows? On the other hand, if he let them live … they might make a decent alarm system for his camp! They were, uh, a good homing beacon in case he got lost in the woods, what with all the squeaking.
Okay, he admitted. They were kinda cute.
His manlier side scoffed at him. The chicks could live, it conceded, for now. But he would eat them before he starved and before they had a chance to grow up. And he’d have to start looking for other, manlier foods right away.
He picked up his demon bird-slaying spear. It had looked better yesterday. Even as he wiped the grime from its point, he could see that this implement wouldn’t last; the water and dirt had softened its wood and dulled its tip. He prodded the point into the nearby carcass and was pleased that it could still at least impale flesh. With modest effort, the shaft buried itself a few inches deep before butting up against some less yielding structure inside. A bone, most likely.
Come to think of it, there was probably a lot of bone in these corpses. Even if the meat was a putrid mess, he could still use the bones for tools. And they’d be waterproof, which would certainly be a plus.
He decided he’d start with the legs, since they almost certainly had some of the largest bones, and he wouldn’t have to contend with any fragrant internal organs while cleaning them. He dragged one of the previously severed limbs to a nearby log, seated himself, and began working at it with his pocketknife. Guts or no, the aroma was still overwhelming, and he found himself wishing for a kitchen sink. In lieu of modern plumbing, he dragged the leg through the undergrowth, across the beach, and down to the water, where he let the ocean wash away the rotten flesh.
After a few minutes of work, however, the waves became more of a nuisance than an aid. The force of the incoming water shook the leg under his knife and forced him to brace himself between each impact. He stood up in frustration and searched for a better place to work.
He eventually sighted the rocky outcroppings down the beach. At their farthest point, they presented a flat stone surface, only inches above the water, but still protected from the passing crests and troughs. Here, he began again, dipping his hands and dropping chunks of meat when he willed it rather than when the ocean did. The flesh did not loose itself easily. Even in its decaying state, the tissue clung to its frame, and his knife, though sharp, was slow to expose the underlying bone.
As he peeled away muscle and sinew, he planned his next task. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would do with the skeleton of a demon bird; for all the apparent usefulness of the material, he had little concept of how to shape it. While his wooden spear had taken him only minutes to whittle and harden, bone implements would surely require more trial and error. He had never carved bone before, and he didn’t know that his knife was up to the task. For all he knew, he might instead have to grind it into shape with a stout rock. But maybe that was for the best; the less he used his knife, the longer it would last him.
A splash in the water disrupted his concentration. He hadn’t tossed in any chunk of flesh, so he looked around to see if perhaps he had accidentally displaced a loose rock. Finding none, he stared into the blood-stained surf. A scaled face broke surface, then vanished with a splash. An incoming wave diluted the obscuring crimson, and he began to make out the silhouettes of hand-sized fish, darting back and forth.
He set the hunk of demon bird aside and carved off a thumb sized chunk. Holding his knife in his right hand and raw poultry in his left, he knelt down close to the water. Slowly, he extended his arm, then gingerly released the bait. A shadow approached, and the morsel bobbed up and down on the surface. He leaned low, then lunged forward with the knife. Blood and saltwater exploded from where his hand met the water, clenched around the knife handle. Something tugged against the blade and slapped his knuckles. He pulled his arm up in a hooking motion, and brought it to his side.
A silvery-green fish thrashed beside him, even as his knife pinned it to the rockface. A pair of slimy green lips hinged open next to a dull yellow eye on each side. Its gills flapped futilely for absent seawater, and its tail slapped the ground. He dug his knife further into its entry point behind one of the creature’s pectoral fins. The fight faded from his catch, and at last it lay dead.
