Operation Z-Day (The Raven Falconer Chronicles)

by Larsen, Dennis

  “I’m getting a really bad feeling about this, Mick. Maybe we should go back and phone a game warden.”

  “Cell service sucks and the last thing the authorities will be worried about today are the bears,” Mick said, still moving forward but turning to make sure that Raven was staying close. “Keep that axe ready.”

  “Yeah, just call me Daniel Boone,” Raven said, not taking her eyes off the trail and listening intently.

  They pushed ahead using the axe to clear some overgrowth, rather than crawling as the bear had done, but they seemed no closer to their objective than when they had started. “This thing could be miles away by now. How much further do you think we should go?” Raven asked her older friend.

  “Do you have any idea what’s around here?”

  “A little bit. I think if we keep going this direction we’ll run into another little cabin over that rise you can see up ahead,” Rave said, pointing to a small outcropping that looked like a sleeping buffalo lying in the sun.

  “Well, let’s at least scout between here and the next cabin and if we don’t find it by then, we can call it quits, but we should at least inform the other owners that a wounded bear is out and about. Sound like a plan?” Mick asked.

  “Sounds good to me.” Raven looked down at the gradually diminishing trail of blood and hair. “Does it seem like there’s less blood? It’s just a trickle now.”

  “Yeah, must be clotting. If you would’ve hit a vital organ, we would have found him by now. You think you hit it in the chest?”

  “I thought so but it was so dark and I’m sure I closed my eyes when I fired. Could have hit it anywhere, but it was so close.”

  “Hey Rave, look at that.” The teacher knelt in the fresh snow near a large log that had been uprooted and thrown aside. Fresh blood dripped from the obstacle to the snow below. “We’re getting close -- keep your eyes open,” she warned.

  At the crest of the earthen rise they stopped and looked over the road that meandered through the trees, eventually leading to a rustic cabin built into the landscape. Paw prints descended the gentle slope and appeared to angle directly at the structure. “Oh crap, looks like that bear is headed for seconds,” Raven said, still unable to see the animal but suspecting they must be very close. Ten feet down the grade, the pair encountered a fresh pile of dung, rich with berries but littered with plastic wrapping.

  “That’s our guy,” Mick confirmed, pointing the barrels at the excrement.

  Raven stood on a boulder just off the animal’s path, elevating her another two feet as she reconnoitered the terrain. I don’t see a thing. Nothin’s moving but there’s a truck in front of the cabin. I think a Russian couple lives there; Necula is their last name or something like that. He owns a fishing company in Victoria and is back and forth a lot. She and her son stay here when they’re not visiting their older kids. I wonder if they could help? He’s likely more experienced than we’ll ever be.”

  “Okay, let’s angle our way down there and see if they’re home,” Mick directed, hoping they could enlist some help before they happened upon the wounded animal alone. She felt she had what it would take to do the job on her own but their risk would certainly be minimized if more guns could be brought into play.

  Between the knoll where they’d stood and the cabin, a small snow-covered meadow stretched, undisturbed and pristine. Had they not been burdened with the hunt, they would have enjoyed the view and spent some time burning the placid scene into their memories. The pair trudged through the center of the flat expanse, watching the tree line for any sign of the bear.

  When the friends were 75 yards from the little cabin, a man stepped from the front door, his white shirt, hands and mouth covered in something red. He made no effort to communicate with the women but simply stared across the glistening field, his hands hanging limply at his sides as if at attention.

  “Oh no, we’re too late. He’s had a run-in with the bear. That has to be blood,” Mick noted, bringing their progress to a halt and trying to make sense of his behavior. “Call to him, Rave. Does he know you?”

  “I don’t know if he’d remember me or not.” She cradled the axe through the crook of her elbows and brought her hands to her mouth, cupping both sides and shouting, “Mr. Necula, you okay?” He stared blankly at the two women, the distance being too great for them to get a real feel for his expression or injuries. “What do you make of that? Surely he can hear me.”

  The girls walked another ten yards, stopped and called again. This time he ambled down the steps of the porch, his legs bending stiffly and his arms hanging unnaturally at his sides. When he reached the bottom and his feet hit snow he stopped. “He must really be hurt and in shock,” Mick said. “We better get to him. Stay behind me and walk in my tracks but watch that patch of brush up to the right. The bear has to still be close.” They pushed forward, taking a couple of steps, then stopped to watch and listen for a second before moving on. When they had somewhat shortened the distance separating them from Mr. Necula, they froze in their tracks.

  It was now apparent he was not injured but rather had been eating something that was quite saturated with blood, covering him in a gruesome display of gore. He did not speak but looked on with an unemotional, uncaring grimace etched across his face. Periodically he extended his tongue and ran it over his lips, cleaning the grotesque juices from his mouth and chin.

  “Rave, back up slowly.”

  “But . . . “

  “Rave,” she said with increasing import, “NOW!”

  The two backed away, placing their toes in the snow behind them before rocking back onto their soles, then heels. “Keep going and when I give you the word; run for it,” Mick said, trying to sort out exactly what they might do.

  “But what about you?”

  Mick turned and looked in the face of her younger friend. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  The friends managed three more cautious but deliberate steps before Mr. Necula inched forward, taking quick, gawky strides, slightly narrowing the gap between them.

  “What’s he doing? Is he crazy? What’s he think he’s doing?” Raven wanted to shout but hissed the questions under her breath, just loud enough for Mick to hear.

  “Heaven only knows but we better not stick around to see.” With those words uttered, Mick and Raven pivoted in the knee-deep snow and were about to flee when they heard a deep, guttural wail burst from the chest of the blood-soaked man. With his arms inert and lifeless, he started across the meadow, first slowly then picked up speed, throwing snow wildly around him as he thrashed to reach the women.

  Mick quickly adjusted her feet and dropped to a knee, bringing the shotgun up and pulling the contoured stock against her shoulder. “Rave, go for it – get out of here!”

  “I’m not leaving you. We . . . ” The scene unfolding before her immediately shut Raven’s mouth. A rustling of limbs alerted the women to the addition of another player in their deadly game as a black blur suddenly shot from the undergrowth. Mick turned, anticipating the bear would need to be her first target but the deep snow tripped her up and she fell sideways, landing on her butt with the gun pointing straight in the air. She looked over to see Raven standing defensively, with the axe cocked back and ready to strike. The enraged bear, obviously wounded and favoring its right forelimb, grunted and charged across the barren field, fixated on the floundering movements of the blood-covered prey.

  Mick scrambled to get back onto her knees, hoping to bring the gun into play before it was too late. Once stable, she was surprised to see the deranged man just a few yards away and still coming. Undeterred and seemingly unaware, Mr. Necula rushed on until the massive beast hit him like a swinging wrecking ball, whipping his torso and head back, lifting his feet out of the snow and snapping them around the back of the bear. Instantly the wounded animal was on top of him, pouncing and driving him into the snow, ripping at his head and neck in the process.

  “Shoot him, shoot him!” Rave shouted, excitedly ju
mping up and down, unsure of what could be done.

  “Which one?” Mick hollered back, holding the rifle still but not firing. She held her breath, weighing her options and waited.

  The bear continued to tear into their neighbor, growling until he knew the fight was over. Exhausted and weak from blood loss, the immense animal laid across its victim and lapped at the blood pouring from the neck and facial wounds. But then, as if suddenly aware that it was not alone, the bear swung its oversized head at the women, its small black eyes trying to make sense of the statues frozen in the landscape. It huffed and snorted, lifting itself back onto three legs, then turned just enough to give Mick the opportunity she’d been waiting for, a broadside view.

  KABLAM, followed almost instantaneously by another echoing KABLAM erupted from the 12 gauge, wobbling the great bear but not putting him down. She’d aimed where she thought the heart should be but had somehow missed. The animal lifted itself onto its hind legs and roared, swinging its head from side-to-side in a frightful display of dominance. Dropping back onto its three functional legs, the bear plodded forward, as Mick, under great stress, ejected the spent cartridges and felt for replacement rounds. All at once, a hand shot passed her face and slipped two red, plastic shells into the chamber’s receptacles, the thumb pressing the brass ends firmly into place.

  “Again damn it, do it again!” Raven yelled, hovering over Mick with the axe now twirling above her head.

  Mick snapped the rifle closed and swung the barrel at the bear’s head just as it charged. Her thumb found the hammers, pried them back and squeezed the triggers, all in the same motion, sending an explosive blast into the mouth of the beast, blowing away the lower jaw and shredding the animal’s brain. The oversized carnivore dropped mere feet from the backpedaling women. The meadow now stood silent except for the thumping of Raven’s heart and the rush of mountain air being sucked then blown from the girl’s mouths.

  Once a sense of security had been restored, Raven took a couple of steps wide of the bear to reach Mr. Necula. “Rave, what are you doing?” Mick asked, standing and moving to restrain her friend. “No. No way! He’s infected, Rave. Has to be, and we can’t run the risk of getting too close to him. Come on, let’s see if there’s anything that can be done for his family.”

  They gave the corpses a very wide berth as Mick updated Rave on some of the latest information in regards to the virus and the outcome for those that were unfortunate enough to contract it.

  “My dad and Nanna; we have to get out of here and get to them.”

  “I know what you’re feeling, Rave. We’re all going through the same thing but we have to trust that they are safe and taking care of themselves, just like we are here. In a few weeks, this will blow over and Health Canada and the military will have restored some kind of order, but until then we have to ride it out.”

  “Like hell. I can’t just sit here and imagine that my dad is going to turn into something like him,” Raven said, looking back into the meadow and pointing at the dead man lying there, his head practically torn off.

  “Raven, think about it. Cool down and think about it for a minute. Your dad knows you’re here, right? He’ll know you’re safe and Smugs too. I’m sure when they have a way and can make it, they will come to us.”

  Raven stopped at the bottom of the steps of the home and looked again into the field. She knew Mick was right but an overwhelming feeling of helplessness overtook her and she began to cry. She dropped the axe into the snow and reached for her friend. They held each other for several minutes, not speaking but battling the emotions that tempted to cleave their hearts in two.

  “We’ll get through this,” Mick assured her friend, stroking her face and hair with her free hand. “Listen, you stay here and keep an eye out. I’ll see what’s inside. Mick reloaded the shotgun before she slowly mounted the steps. “Don’t touch anything,” she warned. “If he was infected the virus could still be viable, even though it’s cold out.” Raven looked across the landscape but saw very little, her eyes welling up with tears, distorting and warping her vision, as she continued to worry about her loved ones.

  Less than a minute later, Raven was alarmed when she heard Mick call out and scream in shocked disbelief. “Mick, what is it?” Raven shouted, as she turned to climb the steps. She’d only managed to ascend two when she saw and heard her friend running toward her, the shotgun swinging wildly and banging against everything in her path. “What’s wrong? What did you see?” Rave yelled.

  Mick emerged from the home and jumped from the porch to the snow below, spanning the five steps in-between. The blood was drawn from her face as if she’d seen the dead return to life. “For heaven’s sake, Mick, what’s in there?”

  On the verge of being sick and still trying to absorb and make sense of what she’d beheld, Mick was unable to reply. Kneeling, she tossed the gun aside and pressed her hands and knees into the wet snow. Without warning, her back arched as her stomach convulsed, sending a stream of acrid vomit forcefully from her mouth. She wrenched again and again until there was nothing further she could expel. “Rave, don’t go in there,” Mick said, sitting back on her haunches and nodding toward the house. “She’s a mess. He ate her, Rave! Part of her face is missing and he’d been chewing on her.”

  “He what? Why would he do that? Is that what this virus does to people?” she asked, unable to believe that such a thing was possible. “Any sign of their boy? Is he dead too?”

  Mick wiped her mouth with her coat sleeve and stood. “Nobody else in there but looks like both beds have been slept in. If he’s okay he’ll make his way to one of the other cabins.” Mick spoke with confidence, trying to convince herself that the child was safe. “We better get back. I don’t like the idea of being anywhere near this virus.”

  “Should we bury them or something? Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Not without risking infection. Rave, this thing is nasty. We may have already been exposed just being this close.”

  Raven hesitated, “Should we just drive his truck back?”

  “Too risky, in a day or two we could probably come back and bury them and see if there’s anything we can use. Bobi might have an idea how long the virus can survive and when it might be safe. They’ll be worried, come on, we’ve got a lot to do before the sun goes down.”

  The Falconer woman attempted to walk from the scene but her knees buckled, sending her to the ground.

  “Rave, what is it?”

  Physical and mental fatigue caught up to the young beauty, grinding her to an abrupt halt. “How can this be happening, Mick? Is it possible that it’s like this everywhere?”

  “Heaven only knows, Rave, but for now we look after ourselves and worry about the rest of the world later.”

  “Benny,” Raven said.

  “What’s that? Who’s Benny?”

  Raven struggled to stand, and then leveraging her weight against the axe handle she got to her feet. “His name,” she said. “Benny’s his name. Let’s hope he’s not infected.”

  Chapter 8

  Nathan Edwards sat with his back to a large, ponderosa pine tree, long since dried up: a casualty of the widespread, devastating effects of the mountain pine beetle and the resultant blue stain fungus. As far as he could see in every direction, tall, mature trees stretched to the sky, withering under the sun’s rays and starving for water in a sea of moisture and snow. A Canadian Olympic Biathlon competitor, Nathan had flown from Nova Scotia to Calgary the week before, anxious to hike the many trails of Banff National Forest with his fiancée, Rita Helmut-Schmidt. The two had met at an event in Germany, where she represented her country in the women’s downhill ski trials. A long-distance romance had flourished; ultimately bringing the two lovers to the conclusion that marriage was in their immediate future.

  Their week in the Canadian Rockies had been carefully planned: the days of exploring the back trails would be scenic but more importantly it would strengthen their lungs and build endurance for the upc
oming Olympic games. The flight had been uneventful, stopping in Toronto briefly to pick up additional passengers, and then direct to Calgary, where a chartered limo had whisked them away. At the time, neither of the excited vacationers had given much thought to the flier seated three rows behind them and his incessant coughing. It was not until they were miles along a trail, their packs stuffed with a week’s provisions, that the initial signs of what they thought was the flu struck Rita.

  Their first day on the trail had been warm and wonderful. The two held hands and talked of their future together as they hiked and snapped pictures of the impressive scenery. In the middle of their first night, a light snowfall had begun, dampening their spirits but not undermining their resolve. They’d traveled thousands of miles and they would not let a little moisture spoil their trip, after all, they were winter Olympic athletes. It was in the morning; following a light breakfast of granola bars and juice that Rita began to feel ill. Nathan had wanted to turn back but his fiancée was quite sure it was just a 24-hour bug that would pass and they’d be able to enjoy the remainder of their outdoor holiday.

  Unable to argue with Rita’s persistence, the pair packed up their tent and other necessities and pushed further into the remote wilderness. By noon, Rita was unable to go any further. She felt as if she were drowning in her own fluids; unable to breathe deeply, she lacked the oxygen she needed at the increasing elevations. Nathan finally convinced his love that they had no option but to return to Banff and seek the medical attention she required. By this time, the early, fall snow was turning everything around them into a winter wonderland complete with cold and discomfort. Nathan attempted to carry Rita, opting to leave her pack behind but retaining the tent and half of their food supply. He reasoned they would be back in the town site no later than the following morning and would not need the extra freeze-dried packets for nourishment.