The packs grew heavy on their backs, the rifles like lead in their hands. But they continued on.  Neither knew how many miles lay ahead.

It is said that the ancient shamans knew when a man’s last day had come. They could see it in the stars, the smoke, the shadows, hear it upon the wind, read it in the tribal omens. Sidney Gunn knew that he might never make it home alive from this dangerous hunt, and he was at peace with that. He had lived a full life and seen many safaris. It was the boy he was worried about.

The kid had hauled the gear all day in subtropical heat and never complained. Even now, exhausted, he was gathering wood for the cooking fire without being ordered to. They had been on the hunt so long that the lad knew what needed to be done and went after it. He would be a good man, if he survived, Gunn thought. If only we survive this trek.

“How long have we been out here, Pedro?” the older man asked, sinking down onto a fallen log to rest.

“It was still frosty when we started,” Pedro said, fatigue evident in his voice. “Now it looks like spring is over and the summer winds are coming.”

The boy paused and thought a moment. “Are you sure it is real, sir? Has anyone seen it? Does it even exist?”

This wasn’t the first time this troubling talk came up between them, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Like Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea, it had seemed like eighty-four days with no success, and the child was starting to lose faith that they would fulfill their quest.

“It’s a real unicorn, kid, a White Unicorn. That’s all I know to tell you. But it’s the truth. You have to trust me. Have I ever lied to you? It’s been a long, long time since I spotted one, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

The boy did not look convinced, but he smiled nonetheless. Trust and belief were two entirely different creatures, he thought.

“It has been many seasons, but I have seen the White Unicorn,” Gunn continued, his eyes growing distant, far-off and dreamy. “I’ve seen them run solo. In the ancient days, when men still roamed the earth without fear, I’ve seen them run in packs of twelve or more. It’s got to be still out there somewhere, I just know it.”

Gunn stirred the campfire with a stick. “I know we are close, because last night I dreamed it. I saw it in my dreams, clear as spring water.”

“You dreamed of the White Unicorn?” the boy’s voice rose with hope.

“That’s right. It came to me while I slept. There is a long road ahead – so many steps and so much danger – but at the end of our journey there will be a tree. A mystical Green Tree, swaying high above. The White Unicorn lives there. Now, if we can only find that Green Tree.”

For the first time in what seemed like days, the boy smiled, and the man smiled with him. They cooked a quick meal over the modest fire, venison and wild berries, then ate silently, ever alert for danger. Then they cleaned their gear, oiled their guns, and sharpened their knives in preparation for another day of searching and hunting afoot. They kicked out the embers before the glow could attract predators or hostiles. Gunn took the first watch as Pedro slipped off into a restless slumber, no doubt dreaming of that elusive white prey, as the howling of a distant pack of wolves sang an eerie, unsettling lullaby.

They broke camp before dawn, leaving little trace that could be followed by would-be trackers. As always, Gunn took the lead with his typical long stride, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the darkness ahead for movement, light, or any sign of danger – animal, human or otherwise. The kid followed, watching the flanks and keeping an occasional eye to the rear in case they were being followed by natives. The hunters took the high ground, following the ridge-line until the sun broke light over the hazy horizon to reveal any number of untold dangers. Then they wove their way into the valley so they wouldn’t be sky-lined – an easy target for any hostile.

The packs grew heavy on their backs, the rifles like lead in their hands. But they continued on.  Neither knew how many miles lay ahead. Gunn had brought a map, but it had long ago been sacrificed to the quest for the White Unicorn, piece by piece.

Just before mid-morning, Gunn sank to his haunches and raised a hand in silent command for Pedro to halt. The boy crouched, and then crept closer, silently. There was water ahead. Fast moving water. Then a reservoir of sorts.  What was that? Far away, glimmering in the surface reflection of the still pool, was that an image of a green tree ahead? Or was it just fatigue playing tricks on their minds? A heat mirage?

“That has to be it,” Gunn said, more to convince himself than the boy. “We have been to many villages and hamlets, all in vain, and this is our last hope.” He glanced at the treacherous waters below. “We’ve got no choice, son, we’ve got to cross it.”

The boy bent to fill his water bottle and Gunn snatched his hand.

“I wouldn’t do that. Someone has been here, and these waters may be tainted.”

Gunn pointed to the ground: large tracks. Several of them. From this moment forward, every step would mean danger – and could mean the death of both of them.

“I am afraid,” the kid confessed.

“All men fear death,” Gunn replied, with a mischievous smile. “Hemingway also said, ‘Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth.’ If we can put our hands on the White Unicorn, we will be wealthy beyond even Ernest’s dreams.”

The boy grinned, and for the first time during this harrowing journey his heart rose in his chest and his spirits lifted. They might make it home alive after all. And if they returned bearing the sacred White Unicorn, they would be welcomed home as heroes. The elders would tell stories about them around campfires. Children would chant their names in school-yard songs. Who knows, if the government is still standing in this God-forsaken country when this is all over, perhaps someone would raise statues in their honor.

Gunn wrestled a rope from his rucksack. He fashioned a loose loop and threw it toward a low-hanging branch, bracing himself so he wouldn’t fall into the murky water. On the third try, the loop snagged the limb and held fast. He pulled it tight and checked to ensure it would hold his weight.

“We are only going to get one chance at this, kid. You are going to have to rear back and swing yourself, and be sure to swing all the way across the water before you drop. If you land in that tainted water, it may be all over for you.”

Always a good soldier, Pedro did as instructed. Gunn gave him a little push at the end and the boy and his gear dropped safely on the other side of the hazard. The youth then tossed Gunn the rope.

This is it, the old man thought. Is this the moment of truth? Or is this the beginning of the end? He took a look at the boy. By God, we are going to make it, kid!

Gunn launched himself into the air, skirting inches above the cesspool and landing gracefully into a crouch on the other side, not unlike a leopard that had just catapulted from a tree to confront a rival.

Suddenly, the wind shifted, and he smelled them before he saw them. Gunn hissed to the boy and went to ground in a flash! Pedro dropped beside him, prone. Rifles out, rounds chambered silently, they scanned the tall grass for any speck of color or flash of danger.

“What is it?” the boy whispered.

“Hoarders!” Gunn hissed. “The worst kind. They are like hyenas, jackals.  Whatever you do, don’t let them cough on you or even get within six feet of you!”

The pack of hoarders rushed past them, their shopping carts overflowing with plastic bags, receipts whipping behind them in the wind like white-flag ribbons signaling the very surrender of human decency and courtesy. They loudly loaded their loot into their wagon and drove away.

The hunters inched closer, rifles up and ready, stalking through the tall grass, checking the wind. Then, finally, there it was! The Green Tree! Hovering overhead, shimmering in the afternoon heat, the sign read, “THE DOLLAR TREE,” in all-caps Helvetica Neue Black Italic font. The Dollar Tree. Their last hope to find The White Unicorn.

“This is it, kid. This is what we came for. Now, I’m going to have to leave you for a few minutes, and I need you to cover me.”

Pedro placed a firm hand on the old man’s hand. “You know it has to be me. You know it’s worse for the elders and it’s not safe for you to go inside. It has to be me.”

Gunn looked at his son. Despite the boy’s youth, Pedro continued to amaze the older man with his maturity and bravery in times like this. Gunn nodded his head.

“Just pretend that you are turkey hunting,” he told the boy. The youngster laughed, pulled his camouflaged mask over his face, and darted into the store. Gunn waited anxiously, fidgeting, for what seemed like hours, until the lad burst from the discount store and sprinted across the parking lot like he was being chased by a band of angry hostiles.

But waving proudly in his hands, he held it tightly: the very elusive creature they had been searching for. The White Unicorn!

Safely under cover again, Gunn caressed the package of Charmin, squeezing it tightly, smelling it. Aww, floral scented. Two-ply. Septic safe. 240 sheets per roll of pure comfort for your backside. Gunn looked down at his feet and noticed that neither he nor the boy had any socks left.

“It was the last pack they had, and I had to outrun an entire herd of hoarders to get it! But I left them in my socially distant dust. Oh, don’t forget to call Mom!”

Gunn pulled out his phone and hit a button. She instantly answered. “He got it! We did it! We’re coming home, honey. Oh, by the way, now you can stop using all my outdoor magazines. And I sure hope you haven’t touched my Sporting Classics!”

Gunn put his arm around his son and hugged him. These were dangerous, uncertain times we lived in, but he knew he would survive and make it back to base camp with this brave guy by his side. His family would be okay, and his son was now ready to become a man. And this would all soon be over.

Together, they marched toward home through the flu-swept plains, across the viral wasteland.