by Paul Cave
Two things: see what she knew, and in the process deal with the wildlife.
Rivers glanced towards the cook. “That rifle – any luck?”
The cook paused for a moment. When the deputy nodded in agreement, he disappeared into the rear of the diner.
For the first time since entering the diner, Rivers turned his full attention to the other customer sat alone.
“Are you coming, too?” he asked, drawing the guy’s attention away from his plate.
He was a big set man, middle-aged with a generous bushy beard covering the lower half of his face. A NY Giants cap had been pulled down low to the point of his eyebrows. His eyes cast in shadow. He tore a piece of bacon from his plate and dropped it between his legs.
Something moved at the guy’s feet.
“Chew – don’t just swallow,” the guy said.
Rivers dipped his head, looking below the line of the tabletop. A little mutt was sat between booted feet, tail wagging, lips being licked in eager anticipation of the imminent treat.
“Easy – Cal,” the guy said, as the mutt took the morsal from greasy fingers.
Not alone, as Rivers had first thought. Maybe the one that arrived in the tan VW?
“How far is that vehicle of yours?” he asked the deputy.
“Not far – about quarter of a mile. At the highway,” she said.
Rivers nodded. “Are we walking or taking a ride?”
The deputy thought for a moment. “Ride would be better.”
“Yeah,” Rivers agreed. He looked back at the other customer. “Well. Coming or not?”
The guy shook his head. A little bit too vigorously.
“We borrow your ride?” Rivers asked, gesturing outside, towards the parked VW.
The guy lifted the peak of his cap slightly. Nodded to something further beyond the VW.
“What’s wrong with that Maverick you rolled up in?” he asked, eyes fixed on Rivers.
Rivers cleared his throat. Good question. Be smart, he thought to himself.
“It’s a company vehicle,” he said.
The other man considered this for a moment. “Times must be hard,” he said, looking away from the battered vehicle.
“Ain’t they always,” Rivers said matter-of-factly.
The returning cook broke the short conversation up. “This is all I’ve got,” he announced. A thin .22-gauge hunter’s rifle was clasped between his hands. A beginner’s model, child’s even. “Not much, but it packs a punch.”
Rivers took the firearm from the cook. And Anderson quickly took it from him.
She said, “It’s my party, remember?”
The cook laughed slightly. He pulled a drawer open from behind the counter, and handed Rivers a hefty-looking flashlight. The thing looked more lethal than the hunter’s rifle – long and heavy body, housing a half dozen batteries inside, with a wide, circular head.
Rivers whacked the tubular body into the palm of his hand a couple of times. A decent club if push came to shove.
“You ready?” Rivers asked.
The deputy nodded. “Looks like we’re walking.”
“Coming, or not?” Rivers asked the other guy.
The bearded customer offered a single shake of his head.
“No – thanks.”
“What about the keys for the VW?” Rivers pushed.
“Ain’t mine,” the guy replied. “Got my own vehicular problems. Rig’s all busted up a few miles from here.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Rivers said with insincerity.
He moved to the doorway. Deputy Anderson followed. The door opened with an audible crack. He was just about to take his first step outside, when he paused to look back at the other customer.
“That rig of yours – busted how exactly?” he asked.
The guy looked up from his plate. Took a moment to find his answer. “Busted radiator.”
“Busted how? Elk?”
The guy dropped his gaze – his eyes cast in the shadow of his cap.
“No, son, not elk,” he said in a muted tone. “Nothing of the sorts.”
Chapter Nine
The air felt charged with ozone. A tangy smell that cleared the nostrils. Darkness prevailed once the lights from the diner had reached their zenith, and beyond that the deep black of night. The clouds above looked swollen and angry, a muddy miasma that rolled across the night sky from east to west.
Fortunately, the rain was holding off. Though the distant rumble of thunder voiced whispers of promise that the torrent would soon arrive.
Jake Rivers stepped out from the overhang. Deputy Anderson followed him. They gathered just a few yards away from the gas pumps.
Rivers hit a switch and the flashlight burst to life. He played the beam over to the front of the motel, finally catching the dark shape of the VW. The window to the room facing had been tipped into darkness.
“Early night for some,” he said.
“Maybe we could go wake them up? Borrow the car keys. Take a ride,” Anderson suggested.
Rivers dwelled on this for a moment. Decided he did not want to waste any more time rousting sleeping parties, and take precious minutes trying to convince them that their help was needed. He wanted to get there and back while the storm was still in the distance.
“Let’s go,” he said, pointing the flashlight in front of him.
“I’m right behind you,” Anderson replied.
They took off with Rivers guiding them briskly towards the highway.
After the diner had become a dim smudge of light, Anderson took a few steps quicker to join Rivers at his side.
“Why’d you come?” she asked him.
Rivers struggled to find his voice. “Come where?” he replied.
“With me – to help?”
“Oh,” Rivers said, “thought you meant – here – at the motel.”
“That too – but first, why the helping hand?”
“You prefer I didn’t come?”
Anderson shook her head. “No – glad you are. Just wondered why you’d go out of your way, for a cop?”
Rivers walked in silence for a few moments. “Good upbringing, decent parents that taught me to do the right thing, when possible.”
“You one of the good guys?” Anderson asked.
Rivers snorted a brief exhalation of amusement. “Yeah – something like that.”
“I’d like to thank them.”
“Who?”
“Your parents – Mr. and Mrs.?”
A brief flash of a smile split Rivers’ face. She was good, this cop. Subtle in her approach, yet direct enough to warrant an answer, without the person being questioned feeling obliged into doing so.
“Rivers,” he said. “Mister and Mrs. Rivers.”
There did not seem to be any point in lying to her. His driver’s license would betray him in a heartbeat if asked to be presented. Keep it as real as possible. Less chance of being caught out that way.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Jake Rivers,” he responded.
He felt his chest tighten slightly, as he waited for her to level the rifle at him, demanding his cooperation, before reading him his Miranda Rights.
Nothing happened.
She stayed at his side with the weapon loosely cradled in her arms.
Understanding that she was not an immediate threat, Rivers breathed out a sigh of relief. He continued silently for a while, allowing the flashlight to pick out shapes within the night. Trees, mainly. Deep woods on either side of this manmade thoroughfare. Rivers tried to force the beam of light deeper into the woods, finding a break between thick trunks, but the darkness was not willing to give up such secrets. He wondered how deep you would have to go before losing yourself to the never-ending tangle of trees and shadows.
He dropped the beam to the ground. Puddles of water glinted with an artificial moonlight that skimmed across their surfaces. Some looked deeper than others, and Rivers slowed his pace when a slight detour was needed.
They rounded a bend, and a light arcing from somewhere ahead shot from the tree line to the clouds above.
“The crown vic,” Anderson said.
“Not far,” Rivers said.
As they shortened the distance, the rumble of thunder grew in occurrence and amplitude. Rivers picked up his pace.
Anderson had to quicken hers too just to keep up.
“That thing ready to go?” Rivers asked, gesturing to the rifle. “Don’t want to be bushwhacked by deer or elk, or anything else, without being prepared.” His words had meant to be humorous, but they had lost some of the lighter tone needed. In truth, Rivers did not like being out here. It reminded him too much of his time back in ‘Nam.
Deputy Anderson worked the lever-action, and a distinctive clunk sounded as a bullet slid effortlessly into the breach.
“Good and ready,” she said.
“You any good with that?” Rivers asked.
“Good enough,” she responded. “Did a little shooting as a kid. Target practice, really. Mainly tin cans and signposts. Not a big hunter. Unless it’s on two legs.”
Rivers could not quite workout if that last bit had been for his benefit.
“A regular bounty hunter,” he said.
“Something like that,” she replied, leaving the words hanging there, to be interpreted as you please.
The flashlight brushed against something solid. Rivers stopped. Anderson did too.
The State Cruiser was parked just ahead – black and white, and large. A beam of light, coming from the spotlight, pinned the vehicle in place, trapped between the highway and the clouds above. The ticking of the engine running could be heard, too.
“At least they didn’t steal your keys,” Rivers joked.
“Wiseass,” Anderson said.
Rivers traced his flashlight along the length of the stricken vehicle. No rampant elk to be found. Just the aftermath of destruction that they had left behind.
The passenger’s door looked buckled and bent. The window smashed into fragments, which left a gaping hole of darkness instead. The hood had faired the worse. Presumably, as the hood was nowhere to be seen. Clearly ripped away from the main body of the Cruiser. The engine-block could be seen as an oily mass of vibrating metal.
“Elk – you say?” Rivers asked. The damage done looked more like the aftermath of a tornado.
“Told you,” Anderson said.
They approached the stricken vehicle with something close to dread. Rivers kept running the flashlight around the nearby woods, checking for any sudden movement, and Anderson had the rifle cocked at her shoulder, tracking the trace of light in synchronised unity with Rivers.
Nothing bolted out of the trees.
They reached the Cruiser.
Anderson made a beeline for the driver’s side. She ducked inside for a moment before reappearing with her utility belt in hand. She took a moment, clamping the rifle underneath her arm awkwardly as she buckled the belt around her hips.
“Watch my back,” she said, before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Rivers heard the squeal of distorted airwaves. The noises grew in pitch and amplitude as the deputy worked her way through the various channels of her radio.
“All dead,” she said, climbing out of the vehicle.
“Let’s get what we need and head back to the diner,” Rivers suggested.
Deputy Anderson nodded. She moved around to the rear of the crown vic and popped the trunk. Flares and a shotgun were retrieved.
Rivers was somewhat surprised when she handed him the shotgun.
“Sorry – no dice,” she said, apologetically. “Cartridges stay with me – for now.” She pushed her hip out, to reveal a pocket bulging with shotgun shells.
Rivers snorted in response.
As did something else just within the tree line. A guttural snort – deep and threatening.
They had just enough time to turn towards the sound, when a monstrous sight appeared, smashing its way through the underbrush as it came.
Chapter Ten
The sense of guilt had dug nails into Ben Ronald’s mind. A scratch at first, an irritation that had tickled the back of his brain. But as the minutes ticked by, that scratch had become an unbearable agony, claws tearing great strips from his sense of right and wrong.
He should not have allowed those two to venture outside without knowing what was out there first.
The threat of elk running around was one thing – but a crazed bear, a male Brown Bear at that, was suicide.
For the third time in as many minutes, he looked towards the clock pinned behind the counter. Only ten minutes had passed since they had left. Felt like ten hours to Ben.
That weapon of theirs was not going to stop much. A child’s hunting rifle at best. Ben had recognised the make – a Browning BLR lever-action, which came with a 3 round detachable magazine. Okay for shooting squirrels and birds. Would not leave much of a dent against a 1000-pound Brown Bear.
He chanced a look inside the open satchel that was placed on the chair at his side. The dull glint of gunmetal winked back at him. An heirloom – from a distant conflict, something his father had brought back for him. A World War II antique that Ben had kept with him since leaving home, some thirty years ago. Had never been fired, not by Ben, and quite likely to explode in the user’s hands due to its poor maintenance. Nevertheless, he had not been ready to either step outside without the weapon in hand, nor risk losing his father’s treasured gift through lack of paperwork. He was not willing to relinquish the firearm simply due to it being unregistered.
Now though, that sentiment seemed somewhat petty and selfish.
They could be in serious danger. Not knowing what real perils were out there.
Ben considered this.
A considerable amount of luck had brought him here unhindered. After the attack on his rig, Ben had remained within the safety of his cabin, with doors locked and weapon drawn. The bear had not returned. Thankfully. Yet, the rig had taken serious damage, as the radiator leaked water in a boiling hiss of contempt.
Ben had surfed through the channels of his CB-Radio, much to no effect, as the airwaves seemed intent on mocking him with spiteful chatter, and his pleas for help had gone unanswered.
Whether it was by chance or a higher purpose looking down at him, a trucker had pulled up beside the stricken vehicle and helped. Understanding that only the skill of a mechanic and their toolbox would fix his rig, Ben had gladly accepted the trucker’s willingness to drop him off at the next available place of help.
Here, at The Frying Pan, was that intended assistance.
Ben understood that providence must have been playing a hand in events. It was just too coincidental that the three of them had arrived here. This night. Under these unusual circumstances.
He shook his head and the talons of doubt retracted from the deeper recesses of his brain. Freeing him to do the right thing.
“Cal, we’re leaving,” Ben said, gathering the satchel from the seat beside him.
The little mutt barked in acknowledgment.
Ben climbed to his feet before stepping over to the diner’s doorway. Fear and uncertainty held him in place for a moment, before his steely resolve beckoned him to take the next step.
He pulled open the doorway and then stepped into the night and the unknown.
Chapter Eleven
The snap of breaking branches ripped through the air. A solid mass crashed from the tree line, barrelling towards the stricken Cruiser. Huge paws pushed it onwards and, as they connected onto the solid asphalt, talons clicked noisily in a scratching of glee.
Deputy Anderson watched in horror as the beast lumbered towards them. She lost precious seconds trying to jam the flares into her utility belt, before allowing her to take full control of the hunting rifle.
Those seconds allowed the giant bear to gain closer. It reached within striking distance then reared up onto two legs – nine feet of pure terror and malice.
The beast roared in anger. Shambled backwards. Its jaws snapping at the air around it.
Anderson chambered another round. Took aim. The bear dropped onto all fours, and the next bullet went wide of its mark, cutting only darkness instead of flesh.
The weapon was ripped violently from her hands. The bear’s huge claw took it from her in one effortless swipe. The force of the blow knocked Anderson backward where she bumped heavily against the trunk of the crown vic.
Trapped now, she threw her arm across her face, as the beast descended upon her.
“HEY!”
A bright beam of light cut into the bear’s eyes. It roared in pain as if the light had the power to burn and blister. It shook its head wildly. The blinding spots before its eyes sending it into an uncontrollable rage.
“Move!” Rivers cried, waving the flashlight about, trying to keep the beast at bay.
Deputy Anderson propelled herself from the Cruiser, spinning away from the next attack, and a claw filled the space that she left behind. Three long strides and she was at Rivers’ side.
“Run,” she said, pulling at his sleeve.
Rivers held his ground.
“It’s too fast. We can’t outrun it.”
“Shit,” she snapped, understanding he was correct.
Thinking fast, Anderson pulled one of the flares from her belt. She ripped the cap off with her teeth, and jabbed the base heavily into her thigh.
The flare erupted in a blaze of red fire. Anderson held the flare high, waving it about. The beast homed in on the bright red spectacle.
“Get ready to run,” she said.
The deputy took a step closer. The flare had the bear in its spell. She moved the flare from side to side, watching as the bear matched her movements.
Then, she tossed the flare away, towards the tree line. It arced off into darkness in a trail of smoke and red sparks. Landing in the thick underbrush, it sputtered and spat, as the flames threw blood red shadows around the trees in a parade of dancing apparitions.