Once I finally stop heaving, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and cover my nose. Breathing through my mouth, I look at Billy long enough to analyze his mangled body. He has a vacant look on his face and has obviously been dead for a few hours, given the bugs crawling in the cavities of his body. A large bullet hole sits in the center of his forehead. Streams of thick, coagulated blood streak out of his nostrils and ears. His mouth hangs open as if he was singing or yelling when he died. His arm is folded behind his head in an unnatural way.
Immediately, I double over and hurl again. My body convulses and my stomach cramps, but I can’t stop staring at the gray, bloated body.
Billy almost looks fake. Like some kind of strange yoga mannequin.
I glance up and study the palisade. A few broken branches cling to another cliff towering above me. Obviously, someone shot Billy and launched his skinny body over the side. Now what? Should I frisk him? Maybe I would find something. Something useful. The guys on CSI rifle through the pockets of dead people all the time and usually find something useful to their case.
Maybe Billy has something I need?
I steal another glance at the dead man and shake my head. No way I’m touching a stiff. Don’t care what he has on him, I gotta draw the line somewhere.
Wanting to put distance between me and the body, I charge off down the path. Not only away from Billy, but also what he represents. Death, deceit, and everything evil. My sporadic breath buzzes in my ear, and my heart beats against my temples. A wail sneaks out of my lips. My quiet life has become a bad B movie. Murder. Betrayal. Even zombies. If they can kill Billy, that means they can kill my dad without even blinking?
Billy’s warped body haunts me. His contorted face. Empty eyes. The cramped posture of his body. I can almost still smell him. The scent of rot. I gag and bend over the weeds. This time, only dry heaving. There’s nothing left inside me to purge.
I’m hollow. Empty. A shell.
Crouching down on the path, I crawl into a downed tree trunk to hide. A tree’s long roots drape around me, helping me feel safe. Sobbing, I smother the sounds with my arm and curl into a ball like a roly poly, wanting to disappear. Let the weeds grow over me until I’m no longer here.
I close my eyes and wish myself away to a special place.
Home.
~~~~
I must have cried myself to sleep because when I wake, the sun’s disappeared behind the trees. Squinting, I check my watch. Six p.m. Even though I don’t want to stop, I have no choice but to set up camp in the dark.
I force myself to leave the safety of the bushes. About a half mile down the path, I find a carved-out space dug into the mountainside. Good enough to provide some protection, shelter, and concealment. Not to mention, protect me against an ambush from the rear. Sitting against the rock, I do a quick inventory of the few supplies left in my bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t plan on camping so I only have a few items left: a small plastic tarp, a flint, a knife, a flashlight, a few pieces of gum, Bea’s smashed paper bag lunch, a small rope, and a poncho.
Deciding to make a lean-to shelter, I cut my tarp into two pieces. Half to make a waterproof roof and the other half for bedding. After collecting large, leafy branches, I construct two Y-shaped supports and hammer them into the ground with a rock. Then I suspend a long pole along the top and lean strong branches against the beam. Next step is to weave saplings over and under the sloping branches, creating a thick lattice that will not only hide me, but keep me from being exposed to any rain or wind. I go back and forth about starting a fire, wondering if it’s the safest thing to do. But I haven’t heard any out of place noises in a long time so I can only assume the guys are long gone and not looking for me.
A fire is one of the most important things to have if you’re lost or stuck out in the woods. Somehow it lifts your spirits. I stack up a small nest of tinders and use a flint to catch a spark. As soon as the pile starts to smoke, I blow lightly to massage any flickers of flame. Once a fire begins to dance, I break a few sticks and stack them on top until it’s roaring with warmth.
I sit on my rain poncho and rub my hands together. There’s something about making a small fire that makes you feel safe. The light cuts the darkness in half, preventing me from being swallowed. I grip the handle of my knife and keep it close.
Just in case.
Mosquitos hum in my ear as the dying embers mesmerize me. I can’t help but think about my last night with Mo. How we cuddled in front of a similiar fire. Was that only a day ago? I tuck my legs underneath me. In the distance, thunder warns me of the approaching rain. The ground shakes to get my attention.
A few seconds later, lightning cracks the sky in half, and the clouds begin to cry.
I know how they feel. I try to quiet my spinning thoughts. Mom pops into my head. Even though I know it’s out of range, I check my phone for a signal. It’s official, I’m on my own. She’s going to have a field day with this when I get home.
If I get home.
Even though I don’t want to admit it, I miss her.
~~~~
I barely sleep a wink. As soon as dawn approaches, I put out my fire, careful to stir the ashes, and bury any evidence. I disassemble my shelter and erase any sign of my temporary camp. Soon after packing up my stuff, I plod deeper into the mountains. Nothing stops me, as my body is on autopilot. I trudge on for miles. Hours. Nothing goes in or out of my fogged-over brain, as if I’m on cruise control. The tough terrain saps my energy, but I push forward, munching on the rest of Bea’s now-soggy sandwich for energy.
According to the map, Sidehill should only be a couple miles further. My calves cramp from propelling me up the steep slope. My legs have morphed into two stiff boards, aching with every step. My pants are still damp from the night’s drizzle, leaving me soggy and uncomfortable. This trip seems to take longer, the farther I go. I’m miles away from anywhere, anyone, or anything. Several times, it crosses my mind to give up and turn back, afraid of what’s ahead.
Right when I think I can’t take one more step … I smell smoke.
My heart stumbles. This is it.
I stop and kneel, preparing to crawl closer. First, I tie my knife and sheath to my calf and conceal it with my pant leg. After tightening the straps on my backpack, I smear dirt on my face to tone down the flesh color. Slithering into the trees, I follow the scent of the fire, taking in the smallest details of my surroundings with all six senses. It’s critical I detect them before they notice me. I move like a shadow, blending in and conforming my shape to the surroundings, every few yards performing listening halts to detect any sound that’s out of place.
Eventually, male voices drift through the trees and cut the silence. They remain muffled so the words aren’t easy to make out. Up ahead, firelight splits the dark tree line. Cautiously, methodically, I slink toward the skipping light. An overwhelming stench punches me in the nose, and my stomach convulses.
I can’t take another corpse encounter.
After gagging a few times, I bury my nose in my sleeve. I strategically place my feet along the path, knees shaking, and keep my arms tucked in tight, minimizing my form. Eventually, I drop onto my belly and crawl commando-style under the thick vegetation.
When I reach the edge of the hill, I peer over.
A horror I never imagined reveals itself.
Survival Skill #41
To be camouflaged in the woods, cover up in mud, hide in vegetation, and move in the shadows.
The remote camp consists of several tents arranged in a U-shape. A huge bonfire roars in the middle of a circle of men wearing faded fatigues. Green bandanas cover their mouths and noses, allowing only their eyes to be seen. There’s an added strangeness when you can’t see people’s faces. It’s why I hate Halloween.
On one side of the camp, bear hides hang from the spindly trees. An assortment of ice coolers lie underneath stretched-out skins and alongside heaping buckets of what looks like salt. My dad’s articles come to mind. The coolers proba
bly store organs, and the salt must be to preserve the skin.
Several dead bears line up along the ground like sardines in a tin can. A man with a machete marches up to one of the carcasses. Without hestitation, he chops off the paws in four quick blows. Then he reaches inside another bear’s stiff body and removes a blobby mass. An organ of some sort. After packing everything in an ice chest, he scribbles a number on the top.
My brain has a hard time reacting to the scene, refusing to process any of this in a way that makes sense. This is much larger than anything I could have imagined. A few grunts and roars echo through the area. What was that? I pull away from the horrific images and sneak along the cliff line toward the sounds.
Once I clear a clump of trees, a few large bears stand cramped in tiny cages. The bars of the cages dig into their hides, leaving open sores. Long, metal tubes protrude from their guts as a milky liquid, which I can only assume is bile, drains into large containers. At the end of the row, a large bear thrashes inside the small cage, banging his head against the prison. Others make horrible snorting sounds, gasping for every last breath.
A man yells over the crowd, and a group of men begin to gather in front of a large tent. A few pat each other on the back as if they’re meeting at happy hour for cheap beer. A man steps out of the canopy and whistles.
I instinctively duck when I recognize him. Chief Reed. I stare at his face in disbelief. A hush sweeps over the small crowd as he holds up a fat stack of money. “It’s payday, boys! Better to pass it out here than in town where someone can see us.” The men break into a cheer until Chief Reed whistles for them to quiet down. “Let’s run over our numbers to date.”
He glances down at a piece of paper. “So far, we’ve harvested a hundred and seventy-two bear paws and forty-three gall bladders. As some of you know, the gallbladders go for about thirty-five hundred a pop and around two hundred for each paw. Two pounds of bear bile is now going for up to four-hundred thousand dollars. Do the math, boys. Better than last month.” The men high-five each other as Chief Reed passes out rubber-banded bundles of cash.
How could this happen in my own town? With people I know? Usually these kinds of extremists are whackadoos from other places. Florida or California. Not from here. I remain frozen on the hill. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. I can’t do anything but watch the merciless mutilation and killing of these animals. The same ones Dad and I worked so hard to protect.
Everything I’ve learned falls into place and begins to make sense.
As if that’s even possible.
This is a poaching ring. A big one too. These men are slaughtering bears and shipping them overseas for money. I know from Dad’s articles that bear claws, gall bladders, and bile are hot commodities in the Asian market. From what I read, some of these animals live in bear farms their entire life. Their parts are used in bear paw soup, bile medicines, bear bile powder, and claw jewelry.
I happen to know that only one or two percent of all U.S. poachers get caught. That means lots of people get away with the illegal hunting and selling of our wildlife. It was the main reason Dad worked as a game warden.
To help catch the ones that got away.
A few grunting noises catch my attention and yank me out of my daze. I spot a bear cub tied to a tree on the slope below me several yards away. It wails under a muzzle and thrashes around, clawing at the rope strapping it down. The men either ignore it, don’t hear it, or don’t care. I slither along the trees until I’m directly above the little animal. A large dead female lies beside him. Probably the mother. Her gut is sliced open, and all four paws are missing. The cub yelps and chews on his leash.
At first, I ignore him. I can’t sacrifice myself to save an orphaned cub. Who will take care of him? The more I hear his cries, the more my heart tugs inside my chest. Dad would never leave an animal behind, no matter how dangerous things ever got. I think about Simon as a cub. I couldn’t save him, but maybe I can help this little guy to make up for Simon’s unfair death.
The pants and dark shirt work well in the woods but I need to be sure my skin is concealed. I smear some more mud on my face and arms before sliding down the slope. The cub is tied behind a tent so at least there’s a barrier between the men and me. Once I reach the bottom, I shimmy across the ground until I’m only a few feet away. In the background, Chief Reed’s voice fills the air. I make my way behind the tent and step into a pile of steel traps. Luckily, they weren’t set. Picking up one, I study the large rusted jaws. Illegal and inhumane.
I lay it to the side and approach the cub. He sniffs the air and rises onto his back legs, yelping a series of groans and squeaks. I stop and wait. Even though he’s only a baby, cubs can weigh seventy-five pounds and are total powerhouses of muscle. One swipe of his claw would slice me in half. I mimic a few noises, hoping to calm him.
The little cub drops down onto all fours and slinks toward me. He sniffs my hand until I scratch his little head. He snuggles against my leg as I untie the double knot. As soon as I slip the binding off his neck, the cub lumbers over to his dead mother. He groans a bit and nuzzles her, trying to get her to move.
The scene brings tears to my eyes, reminding me so much of the day we found Simon. I gently pet the bear’s head. “She’s gone, buddy,” I whisper.
He stands up and hugs my arm with both his paws, wrestling and grunting.
I jerk my hand away and scold him quietly. “No playing. Now shoo. You gotta get outta here.” The ball of black fur cocks his head and rubs against my leg. I push him off. “Go. Before they hear you.” After several attempts, I climb back up the hill toward the path, hoping the unsuspecting bear will follow me to safety. As I expected, he lumbers after me. Once we reach the top, I push him down the path. “You don’t want to hang out with me. I’ll get you killed.”
The cub stares at me for a moment as if thinking about what I said. Then he scoots off. As he disappears into the thick, shaded greenery, I notice the peculiar white comma marking his rump and try to think of a name. “You better never try and eat me … Lucky.”
Chief Reed’s voice pulls me back to my mission. I sneak back around to the front and listen, totally disgusted that I’ve actually eaten dinner at his house before. At his table! It was along time ago but still. Makes me wonder what I was eating. Now I’m starting to think the bears in his pits got off lucky compared to these.
“Okay, men. Lets stick with the program. We need to keep working at the same pace before we move on. We have free rein until the new bear sanctuary opens. Until they start tagging bears, they won’t be able to detect any change in numbers. As long as we stay clean and quiet, we’ll be rich. No sloppiness, and no thrill kills. Got it?”
The crowd of men chants. “Yes, sir!”
Chief Reed claps. “We have a small window to get as many bears as possible. If the Bear Protection Act ever passes, it’ll be harder to transport these parts out of the country.” He paces in front of the cluster of men with his hands clasped behind his back, like he’s a drill sergeant. “Listen up. I’m giving you guys a free ride here. If you break any of the boss’s rules, don’t be fooled. You will be killed. No questions asked. Understand?”
I cower at his statement, but the men sing out in unison as if in a church choir. “Yes, sir.”
“Pick up all casings, do not hunt for fun, and if you kill a bear and can’t haul it back, record the coordinates so we can go clean up your mess. We don’t want nothing left behind that would raise any flags. Got it? Good. Happy hunting.”
The men cheer again as Chief Reed disappears into the tent. The crowd slowly disbands as a few of the men remove their face cloths. I watch as the masked men slowly transform into regular-looking humans. A few of them I recognize from town. Postman Louie and Mr. Fields are the two that surprise me the most. I guess now I know the source of Mr. Fields’s renovation financing. That means Les has been working his magic in town. I wonder who else is involved. I think through all the other shop owners and can’t think o
f any more likely suspects. Most of them are women.
I step back a few steps. This operation is way too big for me to tackle alone. I’ve got to get some help before these guys leave the area. Noting the coordinates on my watch, I snap a few pictures with my digital camera. This will be just enough to get Carl up here when he gets back.
As I turn to leave, I focus in on one man rubbing his hands through his hair. He turns in my direction and pulls the bandana off.
I scream when I see his face.
Survival Skill #42
To throw pursuers off track, change the course of action unexpectedly.
It’s Mo.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the vision will disappear. It’s only when I hear my wail reverberate through the forest do I realize how loud I really screamed.
Mo snaps his head in my direction. We stare each other down for what seems like an eternity. In those few seconds, a series of expressions wash over his face.
A few other men point toward me. That’s when I notice I’m standing on both feet and out in the wide open. I couldn’t be more visible if I’d been wearing a red shirt that said kill me. In hearing the commotion, Chief Reed barrels out of the tent and glances in my direction. His eyes narrow, and his teeth gnash.
“Damn it, grab her!”
A small crowd sprints up the hill toward me. Even as they charge in my direction, I remain frozen in place a few seconds longer than I should, taking in Mo’s face. The last moment of the old “us.” I’ll never see him in the same way again. It takes everything I have to rip my eyes away.
A bullet zings through the woods, a small missile searching for a target. Missing my head by mere inches, it splinters a tree next to me, spraying shards of bark onto the deserted path. It’s as if someone snapped their fingers next to my head, I wake up from my brief daze and take off, hoping to hide in the shelter of the woods.
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