by A. R. Shaw
“Son of a bitch!” Dalton yelled, slamming the steering wheel with his fist.
“It’s a scouting group,” Sam assumed.
“Should we take ’em out?” McCann asked.
“Shit. If we do, the others will come after us. I’m sure they’ve already radioed ahead,” Dalton said.
“If we don’t, we’ll have to deal with them and their buddies another day,” Dutch warned.
“All right. Anyone get an exact visual count?”
“No, I only saw the one,” Sam said.
“I heard three different weapons,” Dutch said. “If we’re going to do this, we gotta do it now, Dalton.”
“Kid,” Dalton said to McCann, looking at him in the rearview mirror, “you’re with me and Steven. Dutch, you’re with Sam. Let’s flank this block and head west. Get up high where you can see; let’s get this over with quick and get the hell out of here. I didn’t expect to find them so fast this far north. We’re screwed.”
The five men separated into their designated groups, and while Sam and Dutch flanked to the right of the block, the other three went to the rear of the building.
A patch of spruce trees behind the building provided them with some extra cover. They ran to the next building with weapons drawn—Dalton in front, McCann in the middle, and Steven at the rear. From there they could see Dutch and Sam peeking around the opposite side and through the narrow alleyway in between.
Dalton motioned for the others to climb the next building, and then he and his crew would go one more block before climbing a bank building while the others covered them.
When Sam gave them the signal to go, Dalton checked around the corner and scurried through an empty parking lot to the next building. As he turned to usher McCann to come, he lost all the breath left his lungs.
What Sam couldn’t see was that below him stood an enemy; not the one they were afraid of, but one just as dangerous. Dalton stumbled backward and turned quickly before a large brown bear charged their position. Steven pulled McCann backward and they ran just in time.
The surreal moment began as they all watched helplessly as the ravenous bear stormed after Dalton. The carnivore lumbered toward him and shook its head left to right, opened its jaws and growled. The giant dinner-plate-sized paws slapped the ground in front of Dalton. There was no easy access ladder to climb as an escape. Dalton tried a door to one of the buildings and found it locked. The prey was trapped, and the bear seemed to know this.
Sam ran forward, leaped to the next building, and took a shot behind the beast’s shoulder. They all knew their cover was blown, but he calculated the risks, and the bear would be on top of Dalton within the next half second. This was his only chance to shoot without wounding Dalton in the process.
The bear turned, distracted for a moment, after the bee-sting shot, but the wound only pissed it off more. Sam aimed and fired a second time, but the bear had already turned its aggression toward Dalton again.
Dalton gave up trying to escape, resigned himself to fight the approaching animal, and turned his weapon on it, face-to-face. He aimed and fired, knowing full well the bear would engulf him next. The animal was too large and smelled of a distinct musk he would not soon forget. Surreally he accepted that in the next instant he’d be mauled, but he wasn’t about to become easy prey for the bastard.
Instantly the animal plunged into Dalton’s body, pinning him against the brick building, and roared. Dalton heard shooting all around him as the bear attempted to gnaw on his head. He attempted to block the animal with his left arm and grabbed the fur on the left of its muzzle. He tried to hold the jaws away from him while he threw fist after fist, with his right arm, into the animal’s jaw. All the while, claws ravaged through his tactical gear and his shoulder. Dalton pushed the massive paw away just long enough to grab his knife out of his sheath with his right arm. He rammed the blade into the bear’s throat repeatedly with every ounce of strength he had left, but the animal still showed no sign of weakening. The gunfire continued, and for a moment Dalton’s only thought was, Why isn’t this damn bear dead yet?
Then, finally, the animal pulled away from him and turned to his right. Dalton slumped down, seeing only the red rush of blood. He hoped it came from the bear, but he had a sinking feeling some of it was his own. Blackness overtook his vision, and the last thing Dalton saw, as he tried to pull up his handgun to fire again, was a man clad in black pointing his own rifle at him.
Chapter 26 The Attack
Sam focused on the bear and tried to get a clean shot without wounding Dalton in the process. Everything happened so fast. At one point, he was aware of Dutch in his peripheral vision, shooting at something to his left. Then he heard a ping sail by his right ear, and he looked away from Dalton being mauled by the bear for a moment to realize men wearing black were shooting at them, and Dutch was covering him as best he could.
Then he heard yelling down below and more rapid fire ensued as McCann came out into the open and shot one of the three assailants to the left of his position through the trees. Another figure ran for cover not far from Dalton’s position around the corner of the brick building. Sam had yet to locate the third shooter; reluctantly he had to abandon killing the bear and focus on stopping the assailant from killing McCann, who was now out in the open and unguarded.
“He shot him! He shot him! He’s dead,” McCann yelled over the commotion as he advanced on the second shooter.
Sam saw the man behind the building aim at the boy. “McCann, get down!” he yelled. When McCann turned, Sam watched as the boy recoiled from a direct shot to his side. McCann dropped to the ground, and Sam jumped from the one-story building and ran to McCann’s side.
The shooter came around from the side of the building. Sam thought either he wasn’t aware of the bear around the corner or he didn’t care. Then he heard Dutch yell, “Up top!”
Sam had barely glanced up when Dutch shot a surprise fourth shooter on the adjacent building, who fell and landed on the ground only a few feet away from Dalton.
Sam felt for McCann’s pulse at his neck but had his eyes on the last guy, who had dropped his weapon and was now backing away from the wounded and very pissed-off bear lumbering in his direction. Dutch yelled to Sam, “Shoot?”
“No! Let the bear have him!” Sam yelled. “Get the Jeep.” He didn’t want to take his eyes off the bear, now ravaging its new victim. The man screamed in pain, but the worst of it was the ravenous growling of the bear after its prey.
The Jeep’s engine caught Sam’s attention, and as Dutch pulled it up between Dalton and Sam he dragged McCann to the cab. Sam and Dutch lifted the boy inside and sat him upright. “I’m hit? He killed him . . . Steven. Steven’s dead.”
Sam said, “It’s a shoulder wound, kid, you’ll be all right.”
“Steven’s dead,” McCann repeated.
Sam nodded. He wasn’t sure yet, but he figured the kid was right. He left him there and went around to Dutch, who was bent over Dalton’s mangled, bloody body.
“He alive?” Sam asked.
“He’s got a pulse, but he’s lost a lot of blood, man.”
“Let’s get him inside,” Sam said, and they each took one side of Dalton, suddenly aware that the screams from the bear’s new victim had subsided. They lifted Dalton’s unconscious, bloody body, not knowing the extent of his injuries, and laid him across McCann’s lap.
“Oh Jesus,” McCann said while he felt for Dalton’s pulse, even though he himself was injured.
“One more,” Sam said. They ran to the opposite side of the vehicle and retrieved Steven’s body. There was no doubt he was dead as they approached him. It was a clean shot through the head. Sam now felt no mercy for the bear’s victim at all.
“Son of bitch,” Sam said.
“Let’s bring him home,” Dutch said. They picked him up, opened the back door of the Jeep, and hastily laid his body in the cargo area. Dutch grabbed the first aid kit and rode shotgun as Sam jumped into the driver’s seat.
They sped away from the grisly scene back in the direction they had come.
“We’ve got to call it in. He’s gonna need some blood,” McCann said from the back.
“We shouldn’t use the radio,” Sam said.
“He’s dying! He’s bleeding out!” McCann yelled.
Dutch opened up the first aid kit and turned around in the seat to lean into the back.
Sam drove with a vengeance. McCann was in a lot of pain, and grunted through it as best he could. The only thing Sam could do was get them home as fast as possible while watching his rearview mirror along the way.
“There’s a lot of blood, man,” Dutch said to Sam.
Sam felt liquid draining down his forehead, and brushed his arm over his brow, realizing now that it was blood. They were all covered in it, not knowing whose was whose. “Is it bright red?”
“Yes and no; there’s a lot of it,” Dutch said. “I’m packing the wounds. Dalton’s left arm is torn up bad.”
“He’ll make it,” Sam said, accelerating further, all the while thinking of how this must end and they must survive.
Chapter 27 Pressure
“Hey kid, stay awake. We’re almost there,” Dutch said, patting his cheek.
McCann kept nodding off. His left shoulder hurt like hell with the tiniest of movements and yet he couldn’t stay awake. He tried to take a steady, deep breath through the pain, but it was excruciating. He looked down at Dalton’s unconscious face in his lap and checked his neck for a pulse again.
“He’s still hanging in there, buddy,” Dutch told him.
McCann could see Dalton’s lower lip had turned blue since the last time he’d looked, and he was ghostly pale. “We gotta radio ahead. Clarisse will need time to get things together. He needs blood—now.”
Dutch looked at the boy. “Buddy, we’re going as fast as we can.”
McCann shook his head, lifted Dalton’s hand with his right hand, and showed him Dalton’s fingernails. “See that? See how his nail bed is blue, just like his lips? He’s going into shock. His pulse is weaker, and he’s going to die of heart failure before we even get him there.” McCann leaned back. It was excruciating to even talk or think. Then he had an idea. He needs adrenaline to constrict his blood vessels. That’ll slow the bleeding. What do we have with adrenaline?
“Do we . . . do we have an EpiPen in that kit?”
“He’s not having an allergic reaction,” Dutch said, looking at McCann as if he’d lost his mind.
“It’s basically adrenaline. It’ll buy him some time,” McCann struggled to say. Dutch rummaged around the kit and finally produced a paper-wrapped stick with EpiPen labeled on the side.
“Give me that.” McCann reached for the stick, tore the paper off with his teeth, and bit the cap off. He then plunged the needle into Dalton’s thigh. He reached again for Dalton’s pulse, then leaned backward into the seat, trying to cope with his own pain. He felt the thrumming pulse pick up its cadence.
“It’s better, but it won’t last for long. I’m telling you, we need to call ahead and have her get everything ready.” McCann stared Dutch in the eyes, and then focused on Sam’s gaze in the rearview mirror, looking back at him. “He won’t make it, Sam. He needs every advantage. You either bring him to Clarisse dead or prepare her now to save his life.”
“Do it. Take the risk,” Sam said to Dutch.
“You sure, man? They’ll be monitoring everything for sure now,” Dutch said.
Sam nodded. “Tell her we’re about fifteen minutes out.”
McCann leaned back, satisfied he’d made them listen to reason. His eyelids closed as he heard the chatter of Rick’s voice and succumbed to sleep as Dutch relayed their horrific news.
Chapter 28 The Burial
“No, don’t. I want to do it alone. He was my brother,” Rick said as Reuben and Mark approached him at the edge of the forest line, where one large madrone tree stood separate from the others. He watched as their shadows retreated.
It was already dusk, with the remnants of shadow light cast behind him. Rick brushed the sweat from his brow and continued to dig his friend’s grave. Steven lay in a blanket-covered mound to the right of the hole.
Rick caught glimpses of him each time he came up with another shovel load, until finally he knew the opening was deep enough. He stopped and grabbed the end of the shovel handle with both hands and leaned his weight onto it in a sudden surge of horrendous grief. He cried, and tears mixed with the dirt of a loved-one’s grave. “Goddammit, you couldn’t fucking duck?” he yelled at Steven. Great sobs followed. “You shit! I loved you, man!”
It was dark now. All lingering light had vanished and somewhere in his mind, he knew it was crazy to talk to himself and argue with dead Steven, but he did it anyway. He climbed out of the grave and continued ranting as he tugged the blanket-wrapped corpse.
“You just had to go and get yourself killed. Who the hell is going to put up with my shit now? You careless bastard.” He dragged him, head first, over to the hole and jumped back inside. “It’s up to me to bury your ass.” He broke down again. “Goddamn you!” Great wracking sobs burst from Rick as he clenched Steven’s body and buried his face in its side.
After the wave of grief passed, he wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I’ll get them, buddy. I promise you, man.” He hefted Steven into the grave and lowered him down to the cool, soft, loamy earth below in the pitch dark of night. He turned on a small flashlight and opened the blanket to look at his friend one last time, with a perfect hole blown through his forehead; Rick turned away briefly and spit dirt out of his mouth. He pulled off the chain of dog tags from around Steven’s neck while bent over in the grave. A line of snot threatened to descend, and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand and managed to rip one of the metal tags off the ring. Then he crouched down and removed one of Steven’s tags, replacing that one with one of his own. He pulled the dog tags down to Steven’s chest and slipped the metal under his shirt. He put Steven’s on his own chain and patted it down.
“I will never forget you, man,” Rick said before refolding the blanket over his face. Taking in a deep breath as an attempt to swallow the sorrow, Rick’s voice broke as he said, “Shit, this sucks.” Then he climbed out of the hole one last time.
“Good-bye, Steven. You were more a brother to me than anyone. I’ll miss you.” He gasped for another deep breath as he took up the shovel again and spilled the soil in, slowly at first, and then it became a war. He knew he had to bury him and get it over with, or he’d completely lose his mind in grief then and there. Over and over the soil found its place in the hole once again. With the moon high overhead, Rick finally finished and mounded what was left over. He knelt and smoothed out the dirt with his hands, crumbling larger soil clods into tiny particles. He leaned back on his heels with his dirt-crusted hands laid out on his thighs.
“God, please accept my friend here. He can be a total asshole at times, but he’s a good man. I also ask that you help us annihilate these fuckers. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.” He got to his feet and picked up his shovel. “Rest, buddy,” he said, and in the dark of night, he headed slowly toward the light beckoning from camp.
Chapter 29 Regret
“McCann, McCann.” Graham patted his cheek and lifted up one of his eyelids. “Son,” he called to him again.
“Give him some more time. He’s dreaming,” someone else said, but the voice trailed away.
It’s true, he dreamed. He dreamed a nightmare, only it was a memory now.
Again, he stood against the wall where Steven had shoved him out of the line of fire. It sounded like a war. A war where someone invited a bear and no one knew which side he was on. McCann found a good-sized rock on the ground near his position against the wall. It filled his palm and the weight of it was perfect. He pulled away from the building and chucked it hard as hell in the direction of the bear, hitting it squarely in the back of the head. The bear pulled up from Dalton, but then another man jumped out an
d fired in their direction. Steven shoved McCann down to the ground, and when McCann moved he felt only Steven’s dead weight atop him. Steven was dead.
He sat up and turned him over. Steven was caught with his blue eyes open wide, still staring at the horror they found themselves in. He pushed Steven’s lids closed, and anger surged up within him. He charged forward and . . .
“McCann, wake up, buddy,” Graham said again and pushed on his right shoulder. “You’ve got to wake up, son.”
“I’m here,” McCann said with a heavy voice. He couldn’t yet open his eyes. He left the nightmare behind for now and felt Graham trying to lift his head a little.
“Come on buddy, wake up,” Graham demanded again.
“Why?” McCann said. He wasn’t ready to face the world. He didn’t want to dream that dream again, but somehow he thought he might be able to change the outcome if he went back into it.
“Because Clarisse said so, and believe me, it’s better I wake you than if she does,” Graham said.
McCann huffed; it felt like tiny anvils were holding his eyelids down.
“I just can’t open them. I’m tired, man. Come back later,” McCann murmured.
“Here, take a sip.” Graham held a cup of water up to McCann’s lips, and then he was able to finally flutter his eyes open a little sliver. As he sat up he flexed the wrong muscles in his left shoulder and pain shot through him.
“Damn, that hurts,” McCann complained.
“Don’t move your arm; I’ll help,” Graham said. He slid his arm around McCann’s chest and supported his shoulder to pull him up into a sitting position as McCann used his right arm to maneuver his weight upward.
“That hurts like hell,” he said and looked at his shoulder for the first time. It was all bandaged up.
“What the hell happened?” McCann asked.
Graham regarded him while he straightened his covers. “What do you remember?”
