by Paul Cave
The bear locked onto the red fire for a moment as it flickered and burned. But the drenched underbrush parted, tall grass and tangled weeds opening, and the flare dropped headfirst into the mud below. The last of the sparks popped and fizzed, and the flare died.
Brown eyes, full of wild hatred, fixed themselves to the two stood next to the State Cruiser.
Deputy Anderson reached for another flare, but the beast was quicker. It lashed out with its paw, catching the rear of the vehicle. The strength of the bear sent the Cruiser spinning. The rear fender hit Anderson across the shin, and she fell to the ground - the flares tipping from her fingers. The vehicle came to rest an inch from her head, all four doors flung wide open.
It was coming. Fast and furious.
Rivers sprang into action. He pulled his arm back, the one holding the flashlight, and let go. The object spun through the air in a cartwheel of strobe lighting. Direct hit. The hefty weight caught the bear directly between the eyes.
Momentarily stunned, the bear froze, its large head shaking side to side in a temporary daze.
Rivers was at the deputy’s side. He snatched up the fallen flares and then grabbed Anderson roughly by her arm, dragging her to her feet.
“You walk?” he asked.
“Just stop me,” Anderson said, regaining her balance.
“Go,” Rivers ordered. He handed her the shotgun. “Take it.”
The deputy reached for her pocket and the shells within.
Rivers stopped her. “You’ll just piss it off even more. I’ve got an idea.”
“You’re crazy,” she said.
Rivers offered her a bitter grin. “Go.”
He pushed her away.
Anderson paused – she could help, but the steely determination in his eyes gave her the confidence she required.
Rivers turned towards the bear. He had to give the deputy time to get to safety. He popped the first flare and ignited it.
It burst into life.
“Here!” Rivers yelled.
The beast’s head turned to him. Jaws opened impossibly wide and sharp canine teeth glinted with a red tinge.
“Come on!” Rivers challenged.
He waved the flare in front of him. The bear came at him. Rivers held his position, and nerve, waiting until the last moment. He jammed the remaining flare between his teeth, and then readied himself. Just before he felt the cut of the thing’s claws, he threw himself headfirst into the rear of the Cruiser.
The bear changed direction instantly. Those terrible teeth looking for soft flesh.
Rivers found himself sprawled across the rear seat. He twisted onto his back, holding the ignited flare out at arm’s length. The bear continued to take the bait. It launched itself at the vehicle, its huge head filling the gap of the rear archway.
Rivers was already halfway out. His free arm pulling him along the seat, his head and shoulders almost clear. But the beast was too fast. And before Rivers could escape, its jaws snapped around the sole of his boot. He felt as if his shoulder had been pulled from its socket as pain erupted there.
His free hand slipped. The Brown Bear pulled him halfway across the rear seat with ease. He had a terrible moment of memory – Quint kicking for dear life as the Great White Shark from Jaws had reeled him in – and a muffled scream of terror burst from clamped teeth.
He threw the burning flare at the bear’s head in a panic, but it just bounced off harmlessly to land somewhere in the front of the Cruiser.
Something else had him, another powerful grip around his arm, pulling him in the opposite direction. Rivers had the dreadful belief that the bear’s mate had him also, and they would simply pull him in two. Blood and guts spilling out in a great red torrent.
But no, a voice filled his ears.
“Hold on,” the voice said.
Rivers chanced a look towards the speaker. The trucker from the diner was there, his face a mask of fear and astonishment. The guy’s free hand appeared, something dark and metallic within it, and Rivers heard the crack of gunfire.
The pressure to his foot loosened instantly. In the next second he was outside, legs tangled underneath him, on the opposite side of the vehicle.
Rivers dropped the last flare from clamped teeth into the palm of his hand. He popped the cap and jabbed the base against the framework of the Cruiser.
The red flames ignited. And the bear launched itself towards the mist that bled out in a great red wave. Head and shoulders filled the rear of the vehicle. Paws dug into the highway, as jaws snapped and snarled.
Rivers felt himself pulled to his feet.
“Let’s go,” the trucker cried.
The big guy was trying to drag him away from the State Cruiser. He dug his feet in, and said, “Wait.” Rivers spun the flare around and rammed it into the exposed engine block, trapping it between the fuel pump and pipes.
In the next second he was chasing the big guy’s shadow.
Rivers ran as fast as he could. Faster than the time when he was just 20-years old and had had the entire Viet Cong chasing after his skinny black hide.
Chapter Twelve
The oxygen in Rivers’ lungs had turned caustic. He could feel it burning the delicate lining within. Each breath brought pain. What made things worse was his need to take great intakes of air, which brought about another scorching bout of agony.
Anderson was fairing slightly better. She had already brought her rushing heart and overworked lungs under control.
She looked at him, and then laughed with bemusement.
“What the hell…” she said, her face slipping back to seriousness.
Rivers could only hold out a hand – he needed a few more minutes to catch his breath.
They were both sat at one of the diner’s tables. The other customer, the trucker that had saved Rivers, was in the back somewhere, emptying his guts in the single toilet cubicle. The little mutt had followed him.
They heard a retching noise – followed by an enthusiastic woof.
Words of dismay echoed to them. “Down – Cal. No, don’t lick my chin. Let me wipe that first. Get your head out. Stop it – you stupid mutt!”
Rivers chuckled slightly. His lungs now cleansed of the burning pain.
“Really – you think this is funny?” Anderson said.
The chuckle built into a roar of laughter. Rivers couldn’t believe he was still alive. And the craziness of the encounter – a goddam Brown Bear! – had rendered him senseless.
His laugh became infectious, and after a few moments Anderson broke into an uncontrollable fit of amusement too.
“What just happened?” Rivers asked, once he had gained control of himself.
“Craziest thing I ever seen,” Anderson replied.
Rivers nodded. Him too. He glanced over the deputy’s shoulder to look outside. He could see a faint glow of light coming from the distance. This light had a softer quality than the harshness of the spotlight or flashlight, and it appeared to pulse with something more akin to a living, breathing thing.
Although he could not detect any smoke, Rivers understood that the crown vic was well ablaze. He only hoped the bear had stayed trapped and gone up with it too.
A small arsenal of weapons was laid out on the table before them. The shotgun and an old relic of a handgun. A couple of .22-calibre rounds for the rifle that they no longer had, and a long steak knife.
“You think we’ll be needing those?” Rivers asked.
Anderson turned in her seat to glance at the flickering horizon.
“Hope not,” she said, turning back.
“Sorry about your ride,” Rivers said.
The deputy nodded. “You can be forgiven – under the circumstances.”
Rivers thanked her.
“You okay?” Anderson asked. “You’ve been nursing your side since we got back.”
True. He had. The gunshot wound had burst open again while he had been playing tug-o-war with a bear and the other customer – him being the rope!
The injury throbbed with a fiery ache. And Rivers felt as if the burning at his side was spreading away from the wound like wildfire from its ignition point.
“Just a stitch,” he lied. “Be okay, once I fully get my breath back.”
He could not tell if Anderson had bought that or not as her face remained somewhat impassive. An awkward silence ensued.
The cook’s return broke the moment of quiet.
“This do?” he asked. He had a small bag of frozen peas in his hand, and a dish towel in the other.
Anderson leaned in, looked at the bag on offer. “They aren’t my favourite brand – but they’ll do.”
The cook grinned slightly; handed both peas and towel over to her.
“Thanks,” she said. The deputy propped her leg up, resting it on another chair at her side, and then gently placed the frozen bag over a dark swelling that had bruised the length of her shin.
“Broken?” Rivers asked.
Anderson shook her head. “Just bruised. Don’t worry – I’ll walk it off in no time.” She used the dish towel to hold the bag in place, tying it into a crude knot.
“Tough lady,” Rivers said.
“As tough as they come,” she replied. Her lips bent slightly comical, and she rolled her eyes as if to state she did not fully believe that. Not really.
Rivers smiled – a genuine sign of fondness. Hard not to like, if truth be told. Cop or no cop. Deputy Anderson was pretty, without doubt, but naturally so. Her blonde hair was scraped back from her high forehead in a tight ponytail, which left you to focus solely on those green eyes of hers. Her most striking feature. Deep, daring and direct. Rivers did not really see the rest. Yes, a fine nose and full lips, clear skin, but it was those eyes that held your interest.
Rivers heard a cough – which pulled him away from Anderson’s gaze.
The cook was still standing there. He shuffled a little, seemingly awkward in their company.
“You need a top up?” he asked.
“Sorry?” Rivers replied.
“Coffee – top up.”
Rivers looked to the cold mug sat before him. “Please,” he said, handing the mug over. He turned to Anderson, made a quick assumption, and added, “And the same for the lady.”
The cook nodded. Happy to have a purpose. As he was leaving, Rivers stopped him short.
“What’s your name, friend?” he asked.
“Luka,” the cook said. “Luka Kaminski.”
Rivers nodded in understanding and gratification. The cook, Luka, returned to the counter. There, he began the process of percolating a fresh pot of coffee.
“One crazy night,” Anderson said.
Rivers had to agree. “Yeah – what comes next?”
“Meaning?”
“We sit here until someone comes along and rescues us?”
Deputy Anderson look back quizzically. “What happened to simply filling the Ford’s tank, and then ride out of here?”
This sudden mention towards his ride brought an unexpected moment of panic. Rivers glanced over to the parked vehicle, cast in deepest shadow, and he realised that his friend, Meadows, was still laid out in the rear, mortally wounded, and in need of urgent attention.
“You okay?” Anderson asked, seeing the shift in his face.
“Fine,” Rivers replied. His mind went into overdrive, as he tried to approach each and every eventuality, of every which way he could resolve this nightmare predicament.
He almost blurted out the truth, wanted to – his moral sense of right and wrong desperately in need of clemency. He had killed a man earlier today, and this terrible burden needed to be lifted, shared, absolved.
But what could he say? What would be believed. That he had taken a life to save a life. An innocent at that. No, Rivers did not think that he would be understood. How could he be? It was madness gone mad. How could he justify his actions to someone who would not – could never – appreciate the debt he had owed?
He buried the notion of sharing this weight – understanding that the lines of professionalism would not be crossed simply because of what had happened tonight. Deputy Anderson had a duty to uphold the law, and the simple fact that they had shared a moment of connective need, would not be enough to warrant her trust.
She was a cop. Plain and simple.
Rivers glanced towards the Ford. Understood what needed to be done.
“You’re right,” he said, standing.
“About what?” Anderson asked.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Where to?”
Rivers paused. His heart took a slight knock, as he could see the unexpected look of disappointment on the deputy’s face.
“Hope Springs,” he announced. “I’ll send help.”
Deputy Anderson eyed him with something akin to abandonment. She had expected more from him, he could tell.
“Whatever,” she said, hurt and betrayal clear.
“Sit tight,” Rivers said.
Anderson just shot him a look.
Nothing else needed to be said.
Chapter Thirteen
Things had just gotten complicated, Rivers understood. Something had been shared, whether that be of an intimate thing or an intense sequence of events that would have normally bonded two people beyond the realms of breakability.
He could not articulate these feelings he had, not really, as it was something new and not fully expected.
Sadly though, Rivers could not linger any longer, as to do so, would put him in a seriously compromised state. He had to leave, plain and simple. Meadows was what drove him now. His friend was languishing in the rear of the Ford, brain fluids leaking out, the bullet that had grazed his skull haemorrhaging vital liquids from a mind that had once burned with vitality and conviction.
Meadows had been a force to be reckoned with. That was, until the illness had reduced him to the former shadow that he once was.
Agent Orange was to blame. A chemical that had been dumped in thousands of litres; a defoliant that had been engineered to help win the Vietnam War. Simple truth was it did not help. Rather, it poisoned US troops with its concentrated Dioxin – a potent chemical that once ingested, inhaled, encountered, could render the strongest of men, to a withering and diseased reflection of something that was once familiar.
Agent Orange had dripped from the sky like a toxic rain to douse everything it touched in a greasy, hot residue, that could never be totally cleansed. It got into the skin. Then bones. And it did not give in until it had eaten the soul of every man that it had marked.
Rivers had seen many men, soldiers of valour, reduced to skin and bones. Cancers had eaten them from the inside out. Leukaemia was the main antagonist. But one of many. A condition that had become common to the ex-servicemen of this most recent conflict. This villainous illness had taken many of Rivers’ friends before their time – a premature ending to those that had once given their all to a country less willing to accept.
Rivers hated his nation for such cowardly ignorance. Did it matter that scientists and health experts had not yet been able to give such a fatal condition a collective name? No, Rivers believed. All those that had put their lives on the line should have been granted free compassion and care – no matter what the published papers dictated.
Or the cost.
Vets were the unseen, unwanted reminder of a war that had been forgotten.
Anger built inside him. A pressure that wanted to vent its frustrations, needed to be heard and seen, and demanded such respect.
Rivers crossed the diner. He reached out to open the doorway. Something beyond stopped him dead.
Rain fell in heavy droplets. Singular at first – as just a few drips scoured the windows on either side of him.
They left a greasy smear. Oily in nature. And they ran in a slow cascade from top to bottom.
Rivers froze. Instincts sending alarm bells to his consciousness. There was something wrong here. Something familiar.
A simila
rity that could not be ignored.
“You okay?” Anderson asked, drawing up beside him.
Rivers could not speak.
The rain had him transfixed. First a drip and then a great torrent as the heavens opened above.
Lightning flashed overhead and the resultant thunder rolled in directly behind it. Another flash and a bang. And like the paddles of a defibrillator, the charged electricity and rumble that followed sent shockwaves of fear into Rivers’ heart.
Chapter Fourteen
Rain battered the diner in a deafening tattoo of noise, as wind blew great sheets of water against the windows; and thunder and lightning added to this assault on the senses with a bright and booming cacophony of rage.
Rivers had not moved away from the doorway in a while. Sentinel-like in his rigid stance, an unmovable guard that refused to let anyone pass.
Deputy Anderson and Ben Ronald were stood together. Cal had joined Rivers by the doorway sometime earlier. The little mutt had sniffed the air around the entrance. Growled at nothing in particular, and then sat on his haunches, next to Rivers’ feet.
“What’s he saying?” Ben asked.
Anderson puffed her cheeks out. Fatigue had started to take its toll.
“He just keeps on telling me to wait. Don’t go outside. Stay here,” she said.
“Wait for what?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know?”
Ben looked towards the man at the doorway. Rivers had his back to them, his attention focused outside, as he was seemingly transfixed by the rainwater that fell heavily from the sky.
“You think he’s gone postal?” Ben asked.
“Postal?” Anderson echoed.
“You know – lost the plot. Brain’s gone AWOL.”
The deputy shrugged her shoulders.
Maybe he had.
Maybe the encounter with the bear had triggered something from his memory – something dark that had awakened within his consciousness and was controlling him like a faulty automaton.