“Chicago may be fine,” Colbrick said.
“Or it may not be,” Bishop said. “If we let our guard down for one moment thinking any place is safe, that’s the time we die.”
“You’re darn right, slick. Best to consider everything shot to hell until proven otherwise.”
Colbrick got up, proceeded to the refrigerator, clanked around and then sat back down. He handed a cold Budweiser to Bishop.
“Drink up, partner,” Colbrick said.
Although Bishop had outgrown drinking in college and found it to be rather boring (not to mention the old, frightening drunks he encountered when his grandparents would take him on their boozing trips in Minnesota), he accepted the cold beer and twisted the cap off, for now was not a time to refuse drinks, or the hand of a man offering his friendship.
“To survival,” Bishop said, tilting his beer to Colbrick’s.
“Yup.”
As they touched bottles, something moved on the far edge of the meadow—something big. It bounded into the opening, powerful front legs tracing to a massive hump. The beast held a hairy creature in its jaws, and the twisted limbs of the poor thing dragged out behind the lumbering animal.
Colbrick dropped his beer, picked up his gun with one hand and held the binoculars with the other.
“It’s a God damn grizzly bear!”
“Yeah!” Bishop shouted, pumping a fist in the air and spilling beer onto his lap.
The bear stopped, having heard Bishop’s shout. It stared towards the lodge with the dead thing in its mouth, then bolted for the tree line. Bishop identified the twisted dead thing as one of the pigras which had tracked them from the road dam.
Colbrick and Bishop followed the bear with binoculars, their eyes moistening with pride, for seeing the mighty grizzly bear, an icon of these mountains, was a heartwarming sight. The very presence of this native animal did more for their spirits than any possible speech. Sometimes, no words were needed, and an inspirational image was enough to keep men going. After being trapped and killed off in most of the lower 48, grizzlies found refuge in the remote Apex Mountains. Man had not been kind to the bear, and here in the last of the wilderness the unpredictable grizzlies existed in small populations, high up along the alpine peaks and cold meadows where man did not care to tread. It was in these last wildlands where they raised their cantankerous cubs, far from the eyes and guns of man, along these twisted mountains and in the cold winds sent down from the Arctic as if by vengeful spirits who shunned southern climates. The region celebrated the great bear, naming streets, shops, and sports teams after them. There were tales of bears faster than horses gobbling up running men like trout to a minnow. Locals uttered the name in hushed tones with wild eyes.
The rear end of the muscular bear disappeared behind trunks of aspen, and they set their binoculars down in awe.
“I don’t believe it,” Bishop said. “They’re still here.” Tears streamed down his face. and he wiped them away so Colbrick wouldn’t see. What Bishop didn’t know was that Colbrick did the same thing, although his tears were of course fewer, for mountain men needed water for hydration, not emotion.
“Yup,” Colbrick said, his voice uneven. “Ursus arctos horribilis still lives.”
“Did you see what was in its mouth?” Bishop asked, smiling.
“Yup. And I can tell you I was happy as hell to see it.”
Bishop remembered his father telling him about Old Three Toes, an infamous grizzly in these parts. Old Three Toes evaded traps for years, snatching bleating rancher’s sheep from the high meadows. A local poacher by the name of Higgins had trapped Old Three Toes in 2006. But the grizzly had covered himself in dirt and leaves at the trap site, and when Higgins showed up clumsily, Old Three Toes leaped upon him and bit his head off, then freed himself from the steel jaws that were clamped on his leg. To Bishop’s knowledge, the bear has not been seen since.
The Apex Tribe revered the grizzly too, claiming to see the massive bear in the stars and that this certain northeast constellation, which formed the outline of the grizzly bear, was home to a sister planet which watched over brother earth.
They sat, looking out the glass door, dusk eaten away by the encompassing darkness, the weathered wood of the paddocks eerily glowing.
“Well,” Colbrick said, “guess it’s time for me to hit the hay. First, we need to set aside some rules.”
“Shoot,” Bishop said, sipping his beer.
“First, no flipping light switches. I don’t want those damn things to see us. We either keep the lights on or off. Which do you and Angela prefer?”
Bishop’s thoughts went back to the dark cabin and the gaseous eel that took Angela, and the answer hit him like a fastball that got away.
“Lights on,” he said.
“OK. That’s done. Now, do we all sleep in the same room, or can I go back into that master bedroom?”
“I don’t know. On one hand, if we all sleep in the same room, we can protect each other. However, if we sleep wider apart, maybe one party can tip the other off.”
“I want to take that back room on the other side of the lodge. That way I can hear any bastard trying to claw its way in,” Colbrick said.
“Alright,” Bishop said. “Angela and I will take the couches.”
“You know how to use your shotgun?” Colbrick asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. I’ve shot clay pigeon before.”
“Good. That’s much more difficult than shooting those monkeys. Also, make sure you don’t shoot me. The last thing we want is crossfire in the lodge. If one of those bastards does come in, make sure you have clear lines, OK, slick?”
“No problem.”
Colbrick disappeared to his bedroom with a hunk of venison and his sawed-off.
Bishop took two Santa Fe blankets from a wooden shelf beside the fireplace and curled up next to Angela. He held her, growing warm under the thick blankets. The two extra Vicodin he’d taken had started to kick in. They really were little white wonders.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She mumbled back something, but he understood.
Dozing off, Bishop pictured the grizzly heading up into the mountains, framed by the stars and peaks.
Gallatin Lake
“Over there, next to those lily pads,” Bishop’s father said, pointing to the aft of the rowboat.
Bishop stood and yanked his fishing line behind him. The fly rod bowed and quivered, sending the fly pattern out into the lily pads. The grasshopper fly pinched a section of water in-between two enormous pads and stared back at him with buggy, lifeless eyes.
“Nice one,” his father said, reaching into his flannel pocket for his pipe tobacco and lighter.
Sunlight glinted on the calm, blue waters of Gallatin Lake. On shore, orange butterflies fluttered and landed on a clump of bear stool.
“What time is the flight?” Bishop asked, watching his grasshopper pattern.
“Eight sharp,” his father said, pulling from his pipe and exhaling the smoke. “I suppose we have to be up at sunrise.”
Bishop nodded.
“You’ve got your first meet on Friday,” his father said. “You’ll need time to prepare.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Bishop said. This wasn’t an exaggeration. He’d been running all summer at increased intervals while shrinking his times.
“Nepqua this time?” his father asked.
Bishop nodded. “They’ve got some strong runners. Coach says we need to not burn ourselves out early on. He says they have a habit of fading at the end.”
“Tough school,” his father said. “They’ve got a good football team, too.”
“Yeah. Real good.”
The red rowboat creaked and groaned as Bishop shifted on his seat. He took his 7up and chugged it, beads of condensation moistening his fingertips.
Bishop’s father pointed to shore. “You see that?” he asked.
Bishop tried to follow his pointing hand.
“What? The aspen?
”
“No, below them.”
Bishop focused on a patch of lanky weeds with orange tops.
“Orange Hawkweed,” his father said. “That stuff is taking over the place. I see it everywhere now.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“It grows in mats and crowds out other species. Animals and plants that depend on the native species also get bumped out of the way.”
Bishop watched as his father cast his own fly line to the edge of the lily pads. As soon as his grasshopper pattern nipped the water, it disappeared.
His father set the hook and the fly rod doubled over. Line zipped off the reel and droplets of water gleamed in the sunlight.
Bishop wiped his forehead and grabbed the wooden net.
“Nice one,” he said. “Real nice.”
“Why thank you,” his father said, going into a wide stance and bending his knees. The boat rocked as he moved, and the strong tail of a brown trout splashed the surface and disappeared.
“Brownie!” his father said. “Big one.”
Bishop dipped the net into the water and scooped up the hefty brown trout. He didn’t remove the net all the way from the water so the trout could breathe and keep cool. He took his forceps and plucked the barbless grasshopper pattern from its jaw.
“Heck of a fish,” his father said, pulling on his pipe while staring down at the trout.
The trout fanned its gills and its glassy eyes exhibited indifference. Its spots were like a leopard’s, and it had a hooked snout.
“This is one of the biggest we’ve caught,” Bishop said. “I mean, this one is really big.”
Bishop’s father laughed. “I think you might be right. I also think it’s time to put her back.”
Bishop sunk the net into the water and nudged the trout from the back of the netting. The trout flipped its tail twice and ghosted into deeper water.
The two of them said nothing as it disappeared. A cool wind rippled the lake and swayed the pines and aspen. The Apex Range loomed to the east, what was left of the glaciers bright and silvery in the sun.
Bishop’s father scanned the landscape, and Bishop swore he saw pure admiration and love in his eyes. The valley had a way of making his father happy and confident. And over the years, Bishop noticed it did the same for him. He felt stronger here, more vibrant. Or maybe he was off his rocker. Were teenagers supposed to think about all this spiritual bullshit? He was supposed to be focused on girls and grades and fucking around. But here, on this lake, on this day, for the first time, he sensed something bigger than himself—a sense of place and time beyond his limited daily path.
Bishop shook his head and wondered if he wasn’t zoning out. Nope, he was fine. Maybe he was learning, growing.
His father looked at him and smiled, his scrunched cheeks pushing up his black-rimmed glasses a half-inch. It was almost as if his father knew what he was thinking and was pleased.
Nah, couldn’t be, Bishop thought.
“You wanna call it quits?” his father asked.
Bishop gazed around the lake, as if the surface and rustling vegetation on shore would give him thumbs up or thumbs down on the current cooperation levels of the trout. Thumbs down it was.
“I think that’s going to be the only fish of the day,” Bishop said, reeling in his line.
His father patted him on the back and took the oars.
“I got that,” Bishop said.
His father waved him off. “I’m not an old man…yet,” he said.
Bishop smiled and drank his 7up. The oar hooks creaked in the metal holders. The gentle sound of the wooden oars meeting water lulled Bishop into a meditative state. Everything blurred together, the trees, the lake, the flying insects and the occasional flap of wings from an eagle or osprey. A cut of moon appeared in the darkening, blue sky. This was his world, his time. And steering the ship was his father. A chill coursed down Bishop’s limbs as he watched him, and he knew this was love. His dad. This pristine landscape. Forever.
“Shaping up to be a nice evening,” his father said, pipe in mouth, oars caressing water, the drops rolling off the splintering wooden edges.
There was no need to say anything.
Spargus Text Feed
AmyTreat Amy Heartmann
@BrendaSulke Jim’s still not home yet. He was doing a cut near Elmore on Forest Service land.
BrendaSulke Brenda Sulke
@AmyTreat It’s only nine. I wouldn’t worry.
AmyTreat Amy Heartmann
@BrendaSulke He’s never late and they don’t log after dark.
BrendaSulke Brenda Sulke
@AmyTreat Sorry, maybe he went drinking with the boys.
AmyTreat Amy Heartmann
@BrendaSulke Maybe. If he comes home drunk again I’m going to kill him.
Dawn of the Mountains
Faint, pre-sunrise glow tinted the lodge. As Bishop woke, he felt his left lip quiver and his left eyeball twitch to the upper corner of his face. He tried to turn to Angela, but he was unable to master his own body, and each attempt to raise an arm sent rippling, muscular spasms throughout his limbs. Realizing what was happening, Bishop tried to shout and a feeble oomph of slobbery grunting escaped. He mustered enough power to face Angela, who also was caught in a seizure. She looked at him with one normal eye and a frightened, twitching eye.
Screeching and shadowy movement came from the sliding glass door area. Two gaping, brown mouths battered the glass, scratching and scraping with abrasive action. Smudges of glop stained the glass as the mouths gnawed.
Fucking frequency seals, Bishop thought.
He tried to get off the couch, but could not. They were too far under the spell.
Holy hell, keep yelling, Bishop thought. He reached for his shotgun but could only move his hand a few inches.
The ceaseless cries increased in fervor, and the scraping transformed into pounding. One of the frequency seals spun its saw tail and slammed it into the glass.
The glass cracked.
Come on, move your fucking hand.
The maelstrom of cries and ringing frequencies owned them.
A window pane next to the sliding door broke into pieces, and intolerable wails pierced the room. They succumbed to even worse spasms and convulsed on the couch, waiting for the frequency seals to grab their limbs with scrubbing, ripping mouths.
Another pane broke, and the cry from the second seal assaulted their ears. A scent of fetid cheese entered the lodge, and Bishop went to cover his nose but could not. He tried to speak to Angela, but his speech was garbled. I love you, he thought. And I’m so sorry.
Angela gathered enough strength to grip Bishop’s leg just above the knee, and through the spasms gave a hearty clutch. He was sad to think this is how their partnership would end. Of all the things that lurk, this insanity would be their final path.
The cries ceased in a series of blinding flashes and thunder. Glass pieces blew into the kitchen along with microscopic matter that had belonged to the frequency seals. Thick, soup-like goo stained what was left of the windows and trim. The frequency seals slumped to the stone patio, their blubber flopping and six limbs twitching as fluid sprayed from their headless necks.
“Gotcha!” Colbrick said from behind the smoking sawed-off. He moved his hand off the barrel, wincing. He went to the cracked glass door, reached his hand through the open pane on the right and flipped the lock.
Bishop and Angela stirred on the couch.
“You two alright?” Colbrick asked.
“Yeah… I think we’re better,” Angela said, sitting up and shivering as the effects faded from her body. The spasms had jostled their minds, and although the frequency seals were not speedy, they were not something you recovered from easily once they got into you.
Bishop sat up and rubbed his temples, then put his arms around Angela.
“That was close,” he said. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” Angela said, her face buried into his neck. She tried to hol
d back the tears, but it was no use.
“What is happening to us?” she asked. “We don’t deserve any of this.”
“I don’t think anyone really cares what happens to us besides the people we know,” Bishop said. “If there was someone up there watching, they sure as hell wouldn’t let this happen.”
“Thanks,” she said, giving him a light slug with her fist. “I feel so much better.”
Colbrick watched them, not looking as tough as he usually did.
“Thank you so much, Colbrick,” Angela said. “We’d be dead without you.”
“How’d you know?” Bishop asked.
“I walked the perimeter this morning,” Colbrick said. “Any hunter worth a damn knows that most animal activity is at dawn and dusk. I figured these new arrivals operate in a similar fashion. When I rounded the last corner of meadow, I heard these two bastards knocking against the window, and I ran across the property, then took ‘em out from behind.”
“Were those the only creatures you saw?” Bishop asked.
“Yup.”
Angela wobbled to her feet, limped over to Colbrick, and hugged him. For a moment, Bishop thought he saw Colbrick’s shoulders relax just a bit. Colbrick still held the shotgun, so he patted Angela on the back with the other arm.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“We need to board that door,” Bishop said. “The eels could get through those broken panes.”
“I found a tool shed on my walk, but the damn thing is locked,” Colbrick said.
“There’s a rack of keys in the pantry,” Angela said.
“When did you go into the pantry?” Bishop asked.
“Last night while you were sleeping. I ate some crackers. I had a real bad craving for salt.”
“Good work,” Bishop said. “I bet that’s where the shed key is.”
Bishop entered the pantry and examined the key rings that hung from wooden pegs along the far wall. He pocketed all three and went back to Angela.
“You OK here?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure, but I’m still really sore. The itching is better now, and I do feel better overall but still not a hundred percent.”
The Invasive Page 6
