No Refuge

by Richard Bard

  “God, it’s got him!” a man’s voice shouted.

  “Bobbyyy!” a woman screamed.

  The deep-throated grunt of a bear tightened Jake’s gut. He rotated onto his back, positioned himself like an Olympic tobogganer, and let go of the sapling. He accelerated down the slope, bouncing at the mercy of the bumpy incline. His back was pummeled with jabs and scrapes as he twisted to one side and dug in his heels to swerve into a soggy gulley that snaked through the trees. When the ground leveled, he used his momentum to spring to his feet and into the forest toward the flash of movement up ahead. He ran through a campsite overflowing with new-smelling equipment, including two small tents, one of which was mangled. His brain catalogued every detail, and he sniffed in disdain when he noticed a price tag still affixed to one of the support rods. He spotted a man and woman running ahead of him, following a scattered trail of plaid fabric and cotton tufts.

  “There’s a cave,” the man shouted as Jake caught up to them.

  The startled woman lurched aside and tumbled into her companion, nearly skewering herself on the hunting knife gripped in the man’s trembling fist. Both of them stared aghast at Jake’s distorted features. They appeared to be fit and in their early thirties. Their upscale clothing still had the original creases.

  The man’s eyes went wide. “Who—”

  “Shut up,” Jake said, unable to hide his anger at their stupidity. A simple Google search would have warned them of the dangers of camping in this region. The couple appeared more suited for the cover of Glamorous Camper magazine than for risking their lives in one of the most rugged spots in British Columbia. “How many bears?”

  “One,” the man said, panting heavily, not backing down from Jake’s glare. “Big—”

  “It dragged our son’s sleeping bag,” the woman said. Her chest hitched in a sob. “Bobby’s still inside.”

  “Out of my way,” the man said, shouldering past. He had at least forty pounds on Jake, all muscle.

  Jake grabbed his arm and spun him around. “I know what I’m doing,” Jake lied, pushing the man toward the woman. “I’ll get your son. But you don’t want to be anywhere near this cave entrance when I come running out with him. Get back to your boat and start the motor. Be ready to move fast when I return.” He spotted the top of a smartphone protruding from the man’s breast pocket. “I’m going to need this.” He grabbed it before the man could react.

  “But—”

  “Go!” Jake commanded, clicking on the phone’s flashlight. “Your son’s life may depend on it.” He ran toward the cave so fast it caused the couple to gasp behind him. Then he was relieved to hear their footfalls heading back toward the camp.

  Jake cast his senses forward and ducked into the dark entrance, his Bowie knife in one hand, the cell phone in the other. He scrambled down the twists and folds of the passageway, his light tracing bits of cotton on the earthen floor. The air was musty, and the thought of all that rock and dirt surrounding him made him shiver, a grim reminder of the claustrophobia he’d had to fight ever since his stint in the POW training camp.

  A child’s sharp cry dissipated the thought before it was fully formed, making him dash ahead. The tunnel widened into an airy cave, and the space reeked of musk and fish carrion. Two exits ran off the back, burrowing deeper into the mountain. He saw from the claw tracks—big ones—that both offshoots were heavily traveled. But it was the tattered and shredded remains of the plaid sleeping bag that sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins. The cotton tufts were bloodstained.

  A growl echoed from the tunnel on the right, followed by a boy’s yelp.

  “Hey, bear,” he shouted as he ducked into the tunnel. “Hey, hey, hey!”

  He heard a snort just ahead, then several huffs and a pounding of footfalls. Jake skidded to a stop, sensing the bear coming his way.

  “Help!” the young boy yelled.

  Jake scampered backward, hungry for the elbow room of the main cave, and spilled into the larger space just as his light reflected off the gleaming eyes of the bear rampaging toward him. Its huge shoulders quivered with each step.

  Jake tightened his grip on the Bowie knife and cocked his arm. “Bobby, can you run?” he yelled.

  “No.”

  Bobby’s voice echoed from the left tunnel rather than the right, and the ramifications raced through Jake’s mind faster than a surge of jet fuel through an afterburner.

  He opened himself to the mini’s energy.

  The bear burst from the tunnel. Jake held his ground, standing tall, hands raised. The bear skidded to a stop and rose to its hind legs, and its roar was deafening. Spittle lanced from its open maw, its black lips curled back to reveal deadly canines. This was no black bear; it was a grizzly that stood seven foot tall easily.

  Jake sheathed the knife and did the one thing you’re not supposed to do when you confront a bear—he turned tail and ran. Instead of heading toward the main entrance, he raced down the left tunnel.

  The bear dropped to all fours and chased him. Jake didn’t need the power of the mini to keep his feet moving faster than a terrorized gazelle on the Serengeti. He held the cell phone flashlight in his outstretched hand.

  “I’m coming to get you, Bobby. Keep talking.”

  “H-hurry.”

  The pounding gallop and angry huffs were close behind, and Jake imagined he could feel the grizzly’s hot breath as he approached a fork.

  “I hear you,” Bobby said.

  Jake followed the boy’s voice down the path, and around the next bend the light shone on the kid’s frightened face. Bobby was slumped against the wall of the tunnel, one hand gripping his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. The five- or six-year-old’s face was ashen and his eyes were pleading. He reminded Jake of Alex, and the sudden swell of emotion Jake felt brought a blast of energy from the mini that transported his mind.

  Time slowed as a vision of a vast underground cavern—and so much more—assaulted his consciousness. His brain soaked up every detail, and the shock of it choked the air from his lungs. It lasted only an instant, but he knew the ramifications of what he’d just seen would last forever, and that the compelling urge to comply to its message would continue to assert itself until he—and Alex—answered the call.

  Chapter 13

  THE BEAR’S GROWL shattered Jake’s thoughts. He rushed forward and grabbed Bobby.

  “Oweee,” the boy cried as Jake clamped him to his chest. Despite the pain, Bobby threw his good arm around Jake’s neck and held on tight.

  “Atta boy,” Jake said. “Time to fly.” He raced onward.

  The bear was close, and Jake poured on speed as he aimed the phone’s flashlight toward the exit. By the time he broke into the open, he was pouring sweat and his heart threatened to jackhammer through his chest. He pocketed the phone and ignored the pain, willing his body to perform beyond its limits. It was three hundred yards to the lake, and he didn’t have to look back to sense the bear’s deadly rush behind him.

  Bobby looked over Jake’s shoulder. “It’s getting closer,” he gasped.

  Jake leaped over a log and darted toward the campsite. The distant sound of a boat motor told him Bobby’s parents had listened to him. But any hope was short-lived as his energy started to give out despite the mini, and his photographic memory reminded him the average top speed of a grizzly was 34.8 mph.

  His mind raced for a solution, but every scenario ended badly.

  We aren’t going to make it.

  The bear gained on them, and Bobby’s fingers dug deeper into his neck.

  Jake wrapped his free hand around the hilt of the Bowie knife. As he ran into the campsite and prepared to spin around and make a stand, he spotted movement behind the main tent.

  “Keep running!” Bobby’s father yelled as he rushed up beside them.

  “Dad!”

  The father locked gazes with Jake, and the determination on the man’s face brooked no argument. “Don’t stop until you get to the boat!” the
man ordered. He was gripping a pull knob that dangled from a shoulder harness affixed to his back. Jake’s mind flashed to the items he’d catalogued earlier when he first ran through the campsite, recalling the apparatus had been attached to one of the backpacks. He’d wondered about its purpose; now he knew. In that moment, Jake’s opinion of the man did a one hundred and eighty-degree turn.

  A final spurt of adrenaline propelled Jake toward the sound of the idling outboard. Bobby’s father stuck behind them like a wingman guarding his partner’s six. When the bear was so close that Jake heard the huff of each of its gallops, he glanced back to see Bobby’s father yank on the trigger cord. There was a loud hiss, and a thick orange plume shot from his back like the exhaust from a launched missile. It enveloped the bear in pepper spray, stopping it in its tracks.

  They kept running, while the sneezes from the bear gave Jake hope they might make it. The surface of the lake shimmered beyond the trees. Jake refused to slow, his chest heaving. The bear let loose a roar, and when they broke through the foliage onto a small rock-cluttered beach, they ran into the water without breaking stride.

  “Bobby!” the woman shouted as she goosed the motor and steered the twenty-foot aluminum boat toward them. The man was first in, and he took his son from Jake’s grasp.

  “Thank God,” Bobby’s mom cried, scooting forward to hug them. Jake pulled himself into the back of the boat and took up station at the outboard. He twisted the throttle full open, and the boat shot from the shore just as the grizzly broke through the trees. It lunged chest deep into the water, its maw twisting into a roar as they sped away.

  ***

  A few minutes later Jake cut the outboard motor and leaped onto his grandfather’s dock. His breathing was heavy, and his body wobbled after the expenditure of mini-fueled energy. Tapping into the mini hadn’t affected him that way when he first found it eight years ago. Sure, it had then literally killed him, but not until after he’d abused it for weeks on end.

  Now all it takes is a few minutes.

  He did his best to shake it off. A bank of clouds had appeared on the horizon, and the winds had picked up. Waves jostled the dock. “Get in the plane,” he said as he tied off the boat. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit.” He ran into the cabin, pulled the kit from the kitchen pantry, and snatched his grab bag on the way out.

  The rear passenger door was open when he returned. The man and woman—who had identified themselves as Scott and his wife, Mary—were strapped in on the rear bench seat with Bobby sprawled across their laps. Mary cradled her son’s head while Scott kept pressure on his shoulder wound. Bobby panted, and moans leaked from his throat with each breath.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Mary said. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

  Jake wasn’t so sure.

  He hopped onto the pontoon, handed them the first-aid kit, and secured their door. After untying the mooring lines, he jumped into the front seat, goosed the throttle three times, and cranked up the 450-horsepower Pratt & Whitney R-985. The engine spat once before settling into a throaty roar. He let it idle and the plane glided forward, pitching over the short waves as he strapped himself in and donned his headset.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed Bobby in bad shape. Scott had torn away his son’s shirt to reveal a gaping wound. Blood was pulsing from deep within the gash. Scott irrigated it with saline solution from the med kit, and pressed a large wad of gauze against it, but was unable to completely stem the flow. He looked at Jake, and the anguish in the man’s expression galvanized him.

  “Get your finger in there if you have to,” Jake said. He motioned toward headsets hooked on either side of the rear seat. “And put those on.”

  He slammed the throttle and the Beaver shot forward. The bush plane was known for its STOL—short takeoff and landing—performance, and seven seconds later it was in the air. Normally he would’ve powered back after takeoff, but the boy had already lost too much blood so every second counted. He maintained full throttle and the noise level in the cabin was high. He glanced back and confirmed Scott and Mary had donned their headsets. Bobby’s face had gone pale and his body was shivering.

  “Can you hear me?” Jake asked over the intercom.

  Mary nodded. Scott adjusted his boom microphone and said, “Hurry.”

  Jake nodded. “Bobby’s gone into shock,” he said as he turned his attention to the cockpit. “There are a couple blankets behind you. Use one to elevate his feet and the other to keep him warm.” He banked the aircraft west and leveled off at two thousand feet. “The nearest hospital is in Port Hardy on Vancouver Island. It’s thirty-five miles away. At max speed we’ll be over it in twelve minutes.” He didn’t bother to add that although the facility had a helipad, there was no landing strip, and with the winds kicking up, a water landing at the downtown port was out of the question. The extendable landing gear allowed the Beaver to land on water or tarmac, but the airport was five miles beyond the hospital. The time it would take to grab a vehicle and drive would double the time necessary to get Bobby the help he needed.

  Not an option.

  He heard Mary’s raised voice. “Bobby, open your eyes. Bobby!”

  The kid had lost consciousness. Jake pulled Scott’s smartphone from his pocket, and used the plane’s CellSet adapter to connect it to his headset. He googled the Port Hardy hospital and tapped on the number for the emergency room.

  A woman’s voice answered after one ring. “Emergency Room.”

  “This is Bell Jet Ranger November Two One One Whiskey,” he said. “We’re eight minutes out with a six-year-old boy who’s suffered major trauma from a bear attack. He’s unconscious and he’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “We’ll be ready for you, Bell Two Eleven Whiskey. Keep pressure on the wound, and keep him warm.”

  “Roger. Out.” He opened the maps app and pulled up a satellite view of the hospital. His eyes blinked like shutters, and every detail was captured by his brain.

  “Did you just give her a helicopter call sign?” Scott asked over the intercom.

  “Yep.”

  “But why—”

  Scott stopped himself, and then:

  “Oh, I see,” Scott said.

  Jake was grateful Scott didn’t go into details. No sense in alarming Mary. Jake adopted the calm demeanor of his former instructor-pilot persona and said, “We’ll be landing in a few minutes. Make sure your seat belts are nice and snug.”

  He’d already plotted the only viable course. The Beaver needed a minimum of nine hundred fifty feet to land, and of the two roads that abutted the hospital, only Granville Road had a decent straightaway. Unfortunately the stretch was only eight hundred feet long, and if there was any traffic...

  A storm front rolled in from dead ahead, and the rising sun at their six colored the sky a red hue. Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. The plane was buffeted by winds, while below whitecaps skipped across the deep waters separating the mainland wilderness from Vancouver Island. Jake was reminded of the region’s reputation for fierce and fast weather changes, and he realized he was unconsciously pressing the throttle against the stops, as if demanding the Beaver to move faster.

  Port Hardy was a mile ahead, and thick patches of rain spilled from the black clouds roiling toward it. Fishing boats crowded the marina, their trawlers and long-liner masts bobbing and dancing in the gusting winds.

  The hospital was half a mile inland, obscured in the storm that had gobbled it up. Jake began his descent, adjusting his course to line up with the straight piece of road just past the hospital. He was relieved to see only one car on the distant stretch, headed his way with its headlights on. Judging from its speed, it would pass beneath them before he touched down, so he eased off the throttle, lowered the flaps, and continued on glide path. At five hundred feet, he dropped the landing gear, just as the leading edge of the storm engulfed the aircraft. The clouds unleashed a torrent of rain that pounded the windscreen. It was like piercing a waterfall. Visibility
was obliterated, and a sudden wind shear caused the Beaver to sink faster than the first drop of a rollercoaster.

  Mary yelped.

  “Hang on!” Jake shouted as he shoved the throttle forward and yanked back on the yolk. The Beaver’s nose leaped upward like a porpoise from the depths. They swept past the one-story hospital, and a flash of headlights directly beneath them made Jake realize how close they’d come to a head-on crash with the car. The wind shifted, and he had to fight to maintain alignment on the improvised runway, his eyes glued to the dotted white line on the center of the road. After a long-held breath, Jake touched down, and used alternating touches of the left and right brakes to steer the aircraft and slow without hydroplaning.

  Trees flashed past both wing tips while Jake focused on threading the needle between them. When the soccer field flew by him on the right, he knew the straightaway was about to end. His mind recalled the satellite view of the area as he edged toward the left side of the road and locked the brakes. The road bent to the right but the plane hydroplaned forward, skidding into a parking lot across the street from the high school. As the plane slowed, Jake released pressure on one of the brakes. The Beaver spun one-eighty and stopped. He cut the engine. It coughed once before dying, and the patter of raindrops pounding on the Beaver’s fuselage was like a salve, easing the tension from his body.

  He unfastened his seat belt and swiveled around to see stunned expressions from Scott and Mary.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Their faces were pale but they both offered quick nods.

  Bobby’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Bobby,” his mother cried, pulling him close.

  An ambulance raced down the road and pulled up to the port side of the plane. A woman in scrubs rushed forward, with two EMTs close behind pushing a gurney. The woman glanced across the empty front passenger seat at Jake, and he motioned toward the rear seat. Scott opened his door, and a howling wind slammed it back on its hinges. The woman stepped onto the pontoon and leaned inside. She was drenched but it didn’t faze her. She reached over Scott’s lap to probe Bobby’s neck. Her brow furrowed at the sight of Scott’s fingertip plunging into the blood-drenched gauze that covered the wound.