by Nick Thacker
Cheers erupted around the fire, and the men broke into song. Nikolai wondered how men could be so merry without the aid of spirits and drink, but he did not stifle the mood.
He silently stepped away from the doctor and Lev and entered his tent. As the leader of this expedition, he shared it with no other man, and he enjoyed the privilege. He slipped off his parka and nestled onto his cot.
The noise around the campfire grew, but Nikolai could hardly hear it. He felt as if his mind was on fire, as if his head was being held above a pot of boiling water. He began to sweat, and his hands and arms began to itch. He struggled to stifle the burning sensation, and he almost considered calling out for the doctor’s aid. Before he could, however, he drifted into a welcome and deep sleep.
Chapter Three
1704, NORTHWEST TERRITORY, CANADA
NIKOLAI awoke the next morning to an odd sound.
Silence.
Pure, pristine winter silence. He recognized it immediately, as it brought him back to his youth. He had not heard the sound since they had left Russia, as moving with a group of almost thirty men guaranteed that every moment would be filled with some sound or another. It was as if the heavy layer of white powder surrounding the camp had sucked from the air every last sound wave. They were in a noiseless vacuum. Most men resisted this kind of silence, for it was more intense than any other. Nikolai would normally have welcomed it with a sharp sniff and a deep, satisfying sigh, but this morning should not have been so quiet.
He threw the blankets off and stood next to his cot. His head brushed the top pole of his tent as he walked forward and opened the flaps. The fire had long since diminished to cold ash, but wisps of charred dust rose through the gentle breeze, giving the appearance of smoke. The cluster of tents was situated in a circle around the fire, like spokes on a wagon wheel. His tent was the northernmost one, and separated from the others on each side by a few rows of trees. The tents were traditional, two vertical poles and a horizontal one resting atop them, with canvas stretched over it and staked into the ground at the corners. Each of the tents was immaculately placed, perfectly spaced, and set up to look exactly the same. His men were good men, Nikolai knew, and they cared deeply for these small details. He moved to his left, to the doctor’s tent.
“Doctor? Lev?” He called into the tent. He entered, finding the two men on each side of the tent still sleeping beneath mounds of blankets and furs. He kicked at the doctor’s cot with an unlaced boot and asked again.
Hearing nothing in return, Nikolai pulled the blankets from the man’s head. The outermost blanket, a thick woven fabric, caught on something, and he struggled to pull it down. After a more forceful tug, the blanket snapped back from the man’s head. Nikolai stumbled backward as he saw what lay in front of him. The flesh of the doctor’s face had been eaten away by a rash, red boils covering the surface of his skin. A portion of the skin on the poor man’s forehead had been stuck to the blanket, glued there by dried tissue and blood. The doctor’s eyes were open, but they were glazed over in death.
Nikolai instinctively lifted a hand to his mouth, struggling to hold back the vomit he felt rising in his throat. He pulled the blanket away completely, and found every inch of exposed skin on the doctor’s body covered in similar boils. He moved towards Lev’s cot and lifted his blanket as well.
More rash. More boils.
Lev had also passed sometime during the night. Both men lay peacefully in their blankets, looking upward at the ceiling of the tent with blank eyes. Nikolai moved away, closing the flap behind him. He looked down at his own hands and arms and noticed a rash had spread and thickened over most of his skin.
It was no longer itchy, but he felt the heat radiating from his skin on the places around his body that had been infected. Last night it was just his hands and arms, but now he felt it over his shoulders, neck, and upper back.
He checked two more tents, finding the same horrifying faces staring up at him in each one. All of his men — all twenty-seven of them — were dead.
He was the sole survivor in an expedition that was now thousands of miles away from home, in one of the remotest places known to man.
Another tree cracked in the distance, and he knew that winter was about to set in for good.
Chapter Four
PRESENT DAY, YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK
Harvey “Ben” Bennett watched the end of his rifle peek through the small space between the two bushes. He readjusted his left knee, moving a rock to the side of the bush he had crushed under his jeans. He held the rifle steady, using a stray branch as a platform. He watched the scene through the end of the scope.
The grizzly was busy rummaging through the food from an overturned cooler in the clearing. The male, small for his age but no less dangerous, grunted in delight as he discovered bits of bacon and pancakes from that morning's breakfast.
The campers had long since fled, calling the main park line and complaining of a nuisance bear in the area. They were worried the bear would enter their camp and scare their kids, or worse.
Worried the bear would do what it was designed to do, Ben thought.
These types of campers were the worst kind. They left a mess, complained constantly, and ruined the sanctity of the ecosystem they'd stumbled into.
People treated camping like a luxury all-inclusive resort vacation. As if nature was designed specifically to please them. Ben hated them, almost as much as hated this part of his job.
Nuisance animals, everything from raccoons to grizzlies, were a major turnoff for visitors and tourists, and therefore a problem. People had no idea how to handle animals looking for an easy meal and tended to freak out and assume they were under attack rather than calmly leave the scene and find a ranger.
Ben slid a round into the chamber and took aim. He closed each eye in turn, checking the distance and trying to gauge where the bear would move next. His left eye provided him a view of the attached manometer as he peered through the scope, allowing him to adjust for pressure without losing sight of the target. The aluminum barrel and American Walnut stock felt warm in his hands; alive. It was a comfortable weapon, and Ben was satisfied with the department’s purchase of these relocation tools.
He watched the bear’s thick neck muscles throb as he tore off a chunk of cardboard from the pile of smelly trash he'd found.
That was the other thing Ben hated about these people. They had no intention of learning anything — how to cook, what to eat in the woods, how to find food — they just wanted the comforts of home in a temporary excursion from reality.
The bear straightened its neck slightly, and Ben suddenly caught a glimpse of his left eye.
The eye glistened with age, a sheen of gray sparkling in the corner.
Mo.
Ben recognized the grizzly from the other times he’d encountered it down here. He had helped a few crews move him only months ago last summer, and again two years prior to that.
Ben sighed, and focused on the air leaving his lungs. He sucked in a quick, small breath, and held it in. He counted to five and pulled the trigger.
The soft popping sound took him by surprise — it always did. The juxtaposition of the man-made machine he'd just fired was severely out of place in this pristine environment, and he was immediately remorseful.
The bear bristled and sat straighter, its back still to Ben. He turned slowly, his head lolling around as the tranquilizer began to take effect. Mo wouldn’t charge him. The projectile dart alone wouldn’t have alarmed the bear any more than if a small branch had fallen on him, but Ben knew the two milligrams of Etorphine and acepromazine maleate compound the dart had just injected into the side of the bear would be more than enough to drop it.
Ben waited, not wanting to alert the bear. Angering or exciting an animal just before they fell asleep would cause undue stress, and it may even put them in danger. After a few more seconds, the bear let out a low moan as it stood on its hind feet. It turned in a circle, unsteady on its feet, t
hen fell back to the ground. The grizzly lay down on the damp leaves, and his head fell to the forest floor.
Ben waited a full minute, then stepped out of his hiding spot. He pushed through the bushes, not bothering to spread the brambles apart before he walked forward. He crossed the clearing and stood next to the animal.
"Sorry about that, Mo," he said softly. "Let's get you back up north again." He removed the small CO2 cartridge from under the barrel of the rifle and dropped it in his pocket. He crouched down and found the red feather-tipped dart protruding from the bear’s left flank.
The dart was expensive and reusable, and the department prohibited rangers from leaving them in the parks, even if they were damaged or destroyed.
Ben unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and rotated the knob at the top.
"This is Harvey Bennett," he said into the device. "I've got Mo dropped up here; requesting assistance to get him cleared."
The radio crackled, then came to life.
"Affirmative, Bennett, thanks. We're sending out a crew — tag the location and stand by for location verification."
Ben replaced the radio and removed his phone. He opened an app on the home screen and clicked around a few times, setting his current location into the device's memory, then turned on the GPS beacon.
Within minutes, a crew of four men and two women arrived at the campsite and began strapping the grizzly onto a board.
The rangers would move Mo to another area of the park with less human traffic. He would eventually wander down again, drawn to the enticing opportunity ignorant campers left him.
This was Mo's third repositioning, and Ben was worried it would be his last.
Don't come back down here, Mo, Ben willed the sleeping giant. I won't be able to help you out again.
Chapter Five
THE CHEVY HICCUPED OVER AN invisible pothole in the road, and the aging suspension compensated with a clicking sound and a groan. Ben pulled the truck to the left, easing it back to the center of the small dirt road. He reached out instinctively and turned up the radio, the country song already blaring through the strained cabin speakers.
“You really don’t like to talk, do you?” Ben’s passenger yelled. The young man sitting to Ben’s right glanced over at him.
Ben kept his attention on the uneven road lying before them, not responding. Carlos Rivera turned back and looked out his side window. Over the past hour, Ben had hardly spoken, and what he had said was mainly instructive, telling Rivera to “call in to base” or “check Mo” in the truck bed. Rivera complied each time, but his offers to engage in conversation had been met with silence.
They drove on for another fifteen minutes, moving slowly over bumps and holes in the road. Finally, Ben pulled off the road and began guiding the truck over a small plain toward the edge of the forest. Behind it, a small mountain lifted itself from the flat ground, shadowed by Antler Peak to the north. As they drove, Ben took in the surroundings — it was beautiful, pristine. He took a deep breath and turned the radio back down.
“No, I don’t much care for talking,” he said. Rivera looked over and frowned as Ben continued. “I guess I always feel like I don’t know what to say. You’re a decent kid, Rivera. Thanks for helping out today.”
Rivera nodded, surprised, as they pulled up to the thick tree line. The section of woods in front of them stretched around the base of the mountain, ending about halfway up and turning into a scraggly patch of saplings and bushes. Ben maneuvered the truck backwards into a gap between two trees and jumped out. He unhitched the tie-downs on the side of his truck and waited for Rivera to do the same on his side.
Ben moved to the rear of the truck and started to pull the tailgate down.
“Did you feel that?”
Ben looked up at his partner. Out of nowhere, a heavy bass note rocked the ground at their feet, and Ben felt a pressure of sound burst through his head. The deep sound grew to a deafening tremor, then quickly died, reverberating through the trees.
“What the —” Rivera backed away from the truck, looking to the east and squinting through a strand of trees. His eyes grew wide. “Ben. Look.”
Ben followed the younger man’s gaze and saw a smoking mass growing from the horizon upward. The cloud billowed outward, growing wide and lifting from the ground.
Neither man spoke, but both stood silently staring at the mushroom cloud floating into the sky. Suddenly an earthquake tore through the trees, ripping roots and stumps from the ground and lifting the truck into the air. Ben’s body was thrown thirty feet head over heels, and the earthquake’s intensity grew. The ground seemed to be coming alive, and Ben felt his insides churning as the force of the impact, coupled with the earth’s vibrations, shook every muscle in his body.
He forced himself to sit up, trying to get his bearings. The truck lay on its side close to where he’d parked it, but now a widening gap was opening in the earth directly in front of him. The line grew and inched forward, cracking the dry soil and rocks as it approached the vehicle. Ben stumbled backwards, trying to stand.
We have to get out of here.
He finally found his balance and turned to look at the crack that had opened in the earth. It was wide and deep, but no longer seemed to be growing.
Ben waited for the massive wave to die down fully, then walked back toward the truck. The bear’s cage had toppled over the edge of the truck and now lay upside down nearby. He broke into a run and came up to the animal’s pen.
Working frantically, he unlocked the padlock on the door and unlatched the two enclosures. He swung the door open and reached in.
Just as he did, he ripped his arm back.
Good way to lose a hand, he thought. He looked into the cage to find the grizzly unmoving, but breathing. The great beast was still unconscious. Satisfied, Ben backed away from the pen and turned to the upended truck and the large crack in the ground.
Can I turn it over? he thought to himself. Maybe both of us...
Ben whipped around. Where is Rivera?
He spun in a full circle, at once looking for his fellow ranger and also taking in the devastation surrounding him. A mere thirty seconds, and the ground had lifted, been pushed together with cataclysmic force, and fallen back down again. Trees had fallen in front of one another, trunks battered and smashed in half. Boulders that had rested in place for a millennia now sat disturbed, some cracked and broken.
“Ben! Help!” Ben heard Rivera’s voice from somewhere on the other side of the truck, and he ran toward it. Coming near the edge of the new crevasse, Ben could see that the earth actually sloped downward for about twenty feet before it dropped straight down into a fissure.
It was this fissure that Rivera was holding onto. Ben saw the man’s white-knuckled hands gripping a tree root that was jutting up and over the open space above the cliff, and as he stepped to the edge, he could see Rivera dangling below.
“Give me a hand! I can’t hold on,” Rivera said. Ben dropped to his stomach and reached downward, grasping the other man’s left hand. He gritted his teeth, summoning all his strength, and began to pull.
The edge of the fissure wasn’t solid rock, and as Ben pulled Rivera upward, the sides of the cliff eroded and fell away. Ben struggled with the angle for a half minute, then stopped.
“Give me your other arm,” Ben shouted down to Rivera, “and try to hang on to this stump as I get you high enough over the edge.”
The young man’s eyes burned with a fear so intense Ben couldn’t look at them. He focused on the job, working to pull the man up and onto flat ground. Rivera’s arms began to shake, and Ben willed himself to pull harder, grasping at a strength he wasn’t sure was there.
Just then, an aftershock trembled through the woods. Ben lost his grip for a moment, but found that Rivera had indeed held onto the root. He reset his position on the ground, using his tall frame as leverage to pull up the other man.
As he reached out to him once again, the tree root broke loose and snapped
away from the dirt. Rivera looked up into Ben’s face as he realized in that instant what had happened.
The tree root fell, and Rivera with it. Ben lunged downward, reacting to the freak accident, but it wasn’t enough. He missed Rivera’s collar by inches, and his hand slammed back into the wall of the cliff.
Rivera fell out of sight within seconds, and Ben called down to him. There was no answer. He lay on the edge of the cleft, stunned, for a full minute before rising and walking back to the truck.
Chapter Six
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, CRACK?”
Ben paused, then looked up from the couch. “Crack. Fissure. A hole in the earth.”
“Carlos Rivera fell into a hole in the earth?”
Ben nodded. The officer sighed, then turned to a partner. The second officer stepped forward, resuming the line of questioning. “And you said you two were moving — relocating — a ‘nuisance’ bear?”
Ben’s boss, George Randolph, jumped in from the opposite side of the room. “A nuisance bear is a bear that’s caused no harm or considerable damage and just needs to be relocated to a more remote area. Mo, the grizzly, has three strikes against him now, but we were trying to get him far enough away that he’ll stay put.”
The officers wrote everything down, muttering amongst themselves. Ben sat motionless on the lounge couch, the only remotely comfortable place in the entire room. The lights above the gathered local officers, park rangers, and staff burned down on him like the sterile lighting in a hospital wing. Ben felt trapped, out of place, and anxious.
All the staff on duty during the explosion had been summoned to this staff building to “debrief,” as the local police called it. A SWAT team was on its way, due to arrive any moment. Ben also saw a few men and women milling about whom he didn’t recognize, talking quietly to individual members of the Yellowstone team about the morning’s events.
