When I was twelve I went on a hunting trip with my dad. After a day of no luck we set up our campsite and started a fire to cook dinner. Once it got a little darker, we began hearing noises in the woods around our camp. Wolves attacked us very suddenly. They pounced on me, knocking me into the fire. The wolves ate my front while the fire burned my back. My dad tried to shoot the wolves and save me but most of his shots hit me by mistake.
A few months after the incident my dad couldn't stand looking at me in my condition and decided to go on another hunting trip to get revenge. He got a large group of local hunters to go with him as they were upset about the attack as well. My grandfather and eight-year-old brother went along. The hunters combed the area and couldn’t find any wolves. They set up many traps and tree stands, though. On the third day of the trip my little brother fell into a hole with punji sticks in it and was skewered, but alive. No one was around but by grandfather, who slung his rifle over his shoulder and jumped into the hole to pull him out. He struggled to yank him off of the sticks without killing him but finally managed to do it.
He proceeded to climb out of the hole, but his shoestring got caught on one of the punji sticks. This, combined with my brother’s crying, screaming, and squirming, caused him to trip. He landed on top of my little brother and his elbow jammed into the trigger on his gun, firing it. The bullet ripped my grandfather’s head apart and rained blood and brain debris onto my helpless brother. He shouted and shouted for help as my grandpa’s stump of a neck flooded blood into his face. By the time anyone could get to them, my brother had drowned on my grandfather’s blood which had been pushed into his nose and mouth. The hunter who dug the trap was sentenced to three years for manslaughter and my dad began drinking heavily.
Seven months later my father had lost his job. His whole life revolved around alcohol and looking at videos of wolves dying on the internet. At Thanksgiving dinner I dropped my fork and fell out of my chair while trying to reach it, which flipped the table and ruined the meal for our whole family. My mother sobbed and my dad angrily mashed the turkey in a drunken rage as my family looked on in horror and I lied there in the mess. My uncle yelled at my father and my dad tried to hit him. My uncle punched him in the face and left. My dad stopped drinking after that and got a job working at McDonald’s. He decided to save up some money and go on another revenge trip. After several months he had repaired his relationship with his brother and earned enough money for quality gear.
This time he took only my uncle and my fourteen-year-old cousin along. They had a very difficult time finding any wolves and so resorted to doing everything they could to attract them. They made deer tracks and used deer scent spray to try and lure them in. They used deer calls to sound like a wounded buck. They wore all camo so the wolves would have a harder time spotting them, with no orange at all.
Another group of hunters fell onto the scent and saw the fake deer my dad had set up outside their camp. They opened fire and hit my cousin in the neck and head, and my uncle in the liver. My cousin was killed instantly and as soon as the hunters realized their mistake they fled the scene. My dad tried to save my uncle and did everything he could to keep him conscious. He slung him over his shoulder and began carrying him on the nine mile trek through the mountains. About halfway there, they ran out of water and my dad was completely exhausted.
That's when they heard a howl. A pack of wolves had finally taken their bait and was tracking them. They started running toward my dad and uncle. My dad used his remaining stamina to sprint as far as he could but soon tripped, too tired to go on. He gripped my uncle's hand as the wolves approached and decided he had to leave him. He got up and looked down at my uncle, who realized what was going to happen. My uncle said, "I will never forgive you for getting my boy killed." Then my dad ran away, leaving my uncle to be devoured.
My dad sat in his car for an entire day wracked with guilt. After almost twelve hours of sadness and shame, paranoia set in and he realized no one would believe him about the incidents. The police would assume that he killed my uncle and cousin himself. So he decided that he had to go back and hide the bodies.
He hiked the four miles back to my uncle's corpse, and found that the wolves had not eaten as much of him as he had expected. However, he realized that he was starving and needed some kind of nutrition. So, through tears and unspeakable guilt, he ate some of his brother's raw remains in order to extract any nutrients he could. He buried what was left of the corpse in a shallow grave and hiked back to the camp for my cousin.
His body had not been touched by the wolves, but blood was all over the tent from the gunshots. My dad dug a large hole for my cousin and the incriminating camping gear, then set out for home. He had only told me about this trip so no one knew. My aunt reported my uncle and cousin missing and the police began searching. They questioned my dad and after that he became increasingly paranoid and withdrawn.
The search spanned several months and the police finally declared it a potential homicide investigation. They put heavy pressure on my uncle’s shadier friends and eventually someone told them about the Thanksgiving incident, which my uncle had been very embarrassed and upset by. This caused some conflict with my father and for a time they weren’t on very good terms.
This information led the police to more heavily question my dad and they learned that he had over the years gone on many hunting trips with my uncle. They didn’t have any real evidence against my dad but did find him very suspicious. They decided to begin combing the areas popular to local hunters. After a few weeks of searching they found my uncle’s half eaten corpse, but could not identify it. So they had to send the dental records in to the closest city’s police department so they could try and find a match. This would take several weeks, and my father began preparing for the inevitable.
During the next few weeks they also found my cousin at the campsite, as well as the ridiculous amount of DNA evidence left behind by my dad. The police finally identified both bodies and issued a warrant for my father. They rolled up to the McDonald’s where he worked and went in to talk to him. The manager told them he was cleaning up a huge diarrhea spill in the restroom and would be out shortly, but they did not have much patience.
Two detectives burst into the bathroom and startled my father, who whirled around and tripped in the diarrhea, launching his mop bucket at the policemen. One of them dropped his gun and the other accidentally fired, shooting his partner in bottom jaw. My dad struggled to get up but kept slipping on fecal matter. The two detectives started freaking out and tried to stop the bleeding. My dad saw his chance and when he finally stood up he rushed them. The three of them fell down and the gun went off again, blowing off the kneecap of the wounded detective.
My dad’s face was pressed into the bloody, exposed tongue and throat of the policeman and he accidentally got a mouthful of tonsil goop and shattered teeth. He managed to stand up but was nearly pulled down again by the other officer, who also stood and the two began grappling. My father pushed him away and scrambled out of the bathroom. The officer tried to shoot him but slipped in the diarrhea. He dropped his gun as he fell and when it hit the ground it went off again, shooting three of his partner’s toes off. My dad got home as fast as he could.
My dad, covered in blood and a fat Mexican’s spaghetti-and-watermelon diarrhea, sprinted into my house and down to the basement. He loaded up his hunting rifle, shotgun, and revolver and put on the black ski mask, flak vest and helmet he had bought in preparation for this event. His black cargo pants and military fatigue jacket had been fitted with metal armor plates and he had been wearing in his combat boots and gloves for the last few weeks.
His final piece of equipment was a bag full of pipe bombs he had built out of household materials. He turned on the gas in the basement and ascended the stairs. My mother, upon seeing him, screamed in fright and ran to the phone. He stopped her and explained, “This is what has to happen, Edith.” She began crying and sat on the kitchen floor. My dad locked all the exterior doors and set up various ammo caches around the house. He emptied several gas cans around the house and placed propane tanks at strategic locations.
The police had gathered a SWAT team and were preparing to assault the house. They had blocked off all the roads in the neighborhood and surrounded the place. The sheriff began trying to talk my dad into surrendering over a megaphone. My dad refused and yelled for them to leave. The sheriff tried to get him to let my mother out of the house, but he also refused. My mother made a break for the front door and my dad shot her in the leg.
The police assumed that my dad had opened fire on them and let loose like a firing squad, destroying the majority of the first floor with hundreds of assault rifle rounds. They essentially bounced off my father but my mom was shredded with bullets and her blood painted the walls, ceiling, and floor of our kitchen. My dad returned fire and shot the sheriff in the neck. The SWAT team began breaching the house and my dad retreated upstairs as they busted through the side door.
My dad was shot in the back of the thigh as he rounded the corner on the staircase. He fell and flipped over, firing his rifle and blowing a SWAT officer’s face off. He got another round off to keep the officers at bay while he made his way up the stairs. Things grew quiet as my dad huddled in his bedroom and the police crept around upstairs searching for him. Our beloved dog, Arnold, was shivering in fear in the same room as my father. He yelped and an officer shot through the wall and severed his spine. Arnold, wheezing in agony but unable to truly scream, bled to death in front of my father, who had rescued him from the side of the road as a puppy and nursed him back to health from the brink of starvation.
This set something off in my father and, in a rage, he emptied his rifle into the wall and killed a few officers. He switched to his shotgun and busted through the damaged wall. He walked around and killed the rest of the officers upstairs. He reloaded the shotgun at one of his ammo caches and went downstairs. My dad was met with several shots to the chest, which only stunned him. He emptied his shotgun and killed several more officers, clearing the bottom floor of the house. Ten more SWAT team members climbed in through the back window and shot him in the arm, actually wounding him. He pulled out his pistol and managed to take out seven of them before running out of ammo.
At this point he had his left hand blown off with a shotgun and tackled one of the officers, jamming his stump into his mouth and stabbing him in the forehead with his combat knife. He turned and stabbed another officer in the neck before being tackled by the last one. They wrestled and my father managed to smash the officer’s head into the ground enough times to stun him. My dad tied the officer to a chair and strapped him with pipe bombs, then opened the basement to let gas seep in. He then opened the front door and taunted the remaining law enforcement (which he was surprised to see had at this point been reinforced by National Guard troops) by masturbating in front of them. They shot his penis off but this did not deter his furious jerking motion. In fact, the pain and blood seemed only to add to his arousal.
He then lit the pipe bombs on the surviving officer and ran upstairs to the attic. The National Guard and police force swarmed into the house and were met with a horrific explosion that killed the majority of them and wounded the rest. My dad survived by hiding in a lead box he had bought specifically for this occasion. Descending into the smoldering remains of our house, he finished off the burning officers one by one. Looking out and seeing no one, he sat in our living room and stared at the charred corpses he had created. And somewhere, deep in his stomach, he got a feeling he hadn’t felt since the disastrous hunting trip with my uncle and cousin. That was the last time he had been weak enough to do anything for nutrition. That was the last time he got the hankering for human flesh.
The rest of the police arrived to find my father gorging himself on the bodies of their compatriots and began throwing up. Just as the chief of police was about to execute him, my dad looked up from his meal and started to speak. Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t get his last words out because he started to choke on a police officer’s knuckle bones. Desperate for air, he began shaking and grasping for any salvation he could get. None would come, as the police watched him die a slow, pathetic death and felt much satisfaction. Then I got home from school.
Not bad. OP. I don't think the ending was worth the build-up though. At first it was kind of creepy, then it got more over-the-top (obviously) as it went on. There were definitely bits that could have been omitted, like the third revenge trip.