by S. W. Lauden
The ground was covered in pine needles, and dappled in sunlight. Thick branches up above brought the temperature down a few crucial degrees. Greg crept from trunk to trunk, keeping his head low and bracing himself for the next shot. The green field on the other side of the trees quickly came into focus.
Greg backed up against an outcropping of boulders, catching his breath before wriggling out of his straps. He unhooked the canteen from the side of his pack. His gaze wandered out across a sea of marijuana plants as he chugged the water.
The third shot split the bark in the tree right behind his head. He tripped over the pack as he turned to flee, heading straight out into the field. He’d taken only a few steps when his foot caught hold of a trip wire. His palms were inches from the ground as a flash of light consumed him. He flew through the air for a few feet and hit the ground hard. The Minutemen were half way through “Corona” in his headphones, when everything went black.
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Somebody was grunting loudly nearby. Greg tried to open his eyes, but the blinding sun was right overhead. His lips were fried, and his tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth. He might have simply passed out again if it weren’t for the putrid smell suffocating him.
Greg tried to roll onto his side, but the rope caught his left wrist. The result was the same for his other arm and both legs. His shirt rode up as he squirmed, trying to wriggle free. Plastic trash bags seared the skin on his lower back, causing his eyes to shoot open. It took a few minutes to figure out that he was staked down on a pile of garbage in the middle of a campground. But that still didn’t explain the grunting.
He lifted his head to make sense of the situation. An enormous black bear was tearing into a pile of garbage only yards away. A slightly smaller bear was further down the mound, sitting on its haunches and ripping a bag apart. Every muscle in Greg’s body tensed as he craned his neck to look for Marco. What he saw instead was a crowd of silent spectators watching his every move. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice as he screamed for help
Everything went still before the audience gave a collective gasp. They must be seeing what Greg only heard—both bears were making their way toward him to inspect the sudden commotion. The musky smell of filthy fur filled his nostrils as the bears approached. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, trying to go somewhere safe in his mind. It wasn’t long before he was bobbing on the ocean in South Bay, waiting to catch a wave.
The crowd laughed as he thrashed and bucked. That’s when the sirens started shrieking. The bear that was gnawing on his shoe froze before darting from the mountain of trash. The second bear followed right behind it. Greg gulped for air and tried not to move. He imagined the Virgil Heights Police Chief coming to rescue him once again. But the voice that came crackling through the bullhorn wasn’t familiar at all.
“We really don’t appreciate trespassers up here.”
A murmur started to swell in the crowd. Greg was overwhelmed with exhaustion. He let his head drop and waited for whatever came next.
“Don’t pass out on us, now. I want to pick your brain about a few things.”
Greg brought his head up again. That’s when he spotted the man, perched on a branch high up in a tree. He wore stiff blue jeans held up by black suspenders. His plaid shirt was tight across his barrel chest, sleeves straining against bulging arms. The thick stubble on his round face was on the verge of becoming a beard. He was every bit the mountain man, except he spoke like a drunken manager on a corporate team-building retreat.
“I hate to sound like a broken record here, but those bears look pretty hungry.”
“I was out for a hike.” Greg’s voice was gravelly, but thin. The altitude and dehydration were taking their toll. “Where’s my friend?”
“You were by yourself when we found you out in our field. What’s this friend of yours look like?”
It was relief to know that Marco had gotten away, even if it meant that Greg was on his own. His only hope was that Marco might make it back to a phone where he could call for help. That meant he had to buy some time. The man with the bullhorn started speaking again before Greg could formulate his next lie.
“I suggest you answer before the bears come back.”
“Okay, okay. He’s about six feet tall, heavy-set, with spiky black hair. You couldn’t miss him out here.”
“Liar!”
The word blared through the bullhorn and the crowd started chanting it. They stomped, clapped and shouted. It went on for several minutes before the siren on the bullhorn began wailing again. Greg heard footsteps thundering toward him across the hard-packed ground. The mob was clawing their way up the mound of trash.
They were a filthy group, like farmhands fresh from the fields. The women wore no make up and kept their hair pulled into long braids that hung down their backs. The men had choppy haircuts and wispy beards, like college-aged camp counselors. Greg guessed that most of them were younger than him by several years, if not decades—all except for the men who hacked the ropes from his hands and feet. They looked more like career criminals enjoying a brief vacation between prison sentences.
The crowd tore his sweat-soaked clothes off and pulled him to the ground. They lifted his naked body overhead, parading him around the garbage heap and out of the makeshift stadium. The man with the bullhorn was waiting when they finally put him down. He was shorter than Greg originally thought, but in better shape than any grandpa pot farmer should be. He swiped the flies away from his face, squinting at Greg as he spoke.
“Care to change your story?”
Greg tried to force a smile. His lips split and bled.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, as long as I get my clothes back.”
“Funny. Let’s see who’s laughing when we toss you down into the pit.”
The man stepped aside to reveal a large hole in the ground. Huge paw prints covered the dirt ramp leading down into the darkness. Greg could just make out a tall stake erected in the center of the subterranean space. He decided to be a little more polite now that he understood what they had in mind. Anything would be better than getting mauled to death, or freezing in the chilly desert night.
He decided to play his last card.
“This is all a misunderstanding. I’m actually a police officer, out on a weekend hike.”
Now it was the other man’s turn to smile.
“We know exactly who you are. We’ve had our eye on you and your sidekick for a while now. Isn’t that right?”
Greg heard a chain rattle. He looked down into the pit where Marco stepped out into a sliver of sunlight. His naked skin glistened as he looked up with an annoyed scowl on his face.
“What the hell’s going on, Marco?”
“Ask that psycho standing next to you.”
Greg spun to face their captor.
“What’s all over him?”
“Honey. It’s like crack for these bears.”
“What the hell is this place?”
“We call it Grizzly Flats. I’m Magnus Ursus.”
Greg never studied Latin, but he thought he knew what that meant.
“Big Bear? Seriously?”
“I prefer Magnus.”
“Mind telling me what my friend is doing down there?”
Greg motioned to the pit. Marco spoke up before Magnus could.
“Dude’s got a screw loose, bro.”
Greg spun to face Magnus, waiting for his answer. Magnus stood up on his toes and waved to a girl in the crowd.
“Ursula. Please come over and join us. Now.”
She emerged with a shopping bag, setting it at Greg’s feet. Her blue eyes sparkled as she pulled out several honey bottles. Every one of them was shaped like a smiling little bear.
Greg took a step back and almost tumbled into the pit. Magnus grabbed his shoulder to stop him from falling,
but Greg spun around behind him. He had his forearm wrapped around the old man’s neck before anybody in the crowd could react.
“Nobody move or he’s a dead man.”
Several of the men inched closer. Magnus brought his hands up to wave them off. Greg thought he could kill the crazy bastard if he had to, but then he and Marco would never get out alive. He dug his heels into the ground at the edge of the pit, tightening his grip around the old man’s windpipe.
“Have one of your men untie my friend.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
The words were barely out of Magnus’s mouth before he pushed back with all of his might. The instant momentum sent them both plunging into the pit. Marco was screaming as Greg slammed back-first into the ground. Magnus came crashing into him a second later, knocking the rest of the air from his lungs.
The old man grunted as he rolled onto his side and stood up. Marco took a swing and missed. The old man countered with a straight arm that sent him to the ground. Greg could see the bloodthirsty crowd lining the edges of the pit. He willed himself to breath as he looked up. Magnus took a step forward and brought his boot hard into the side of Greg’s head. Cheers erupted from up above as Greg ‘s vision blurred, flickered and faded.
CHAPTER TWO
Greg twitched and stirred. He felt the ropes rubbing against the skin on his wrists and ankles, but knew he wasn’t on the trash pile. The smell was different this time, like campfire mixed with perfume. He lifted his head to look around, when somebody giggled.
The girl with the bag of honey was down at the end of his cot. She was wringing a washcloth into a bucket of water. He took one look at her face and knew that she was stoned out of her mind. But her eyes were the iciest shade of blue that he had ever seen. He felt drawn in by her peaceful gaze, trapped inside of the shy smile that was slowly parting her lips.
She was in her early twenties, maybe a little younger. The rough tips of her work-worn fingertips were gently massaging the bottom of his foot.
“Rise and shine. That tickle?”
Greg let his head drop back to the pillow as she gently washed him with warm water. He was almost asleep again when he heard a familiar voice.
“That’s enough for now, Ursula.”
Greg turned back to look at honey girl. She gave his toes a little peck and stood up. There was a bear paw tattoo on her left shoulder blade. He was tracing her spine with his eyes as she sauntered out into the cool night air.
Magnus strolled around the cot like he was lost.
“Sorry to break up your little party.”
“I’m just glad you didn’t get here until after she licked all the honey off.”
“Keep cracking jokes, if you want. Just remember that your friend isn’t exactly enjoying the same amenities that you are.”
Greg strained against the ropes, but knew it was no use.
“Is he okay?”
“For now. The bears don’t usually come until after dusk. Unless it’s trash day, of course.”
Magnus chuckled and picked at his fingernails. Greg jumped right back in: “You can’t leave him down there all night.”
“I can, and I most definitely will. It all depends on you, Greg.”
“How do you know my name?”
“We know exactly who you are. I’ve had my eye on your cabin ever since you arrived in our neck of the woods. It’s not every day we get a celebrity up here.”
Bad Citizen Corporation was the last thing that Greg wanted to talk about at the moment. But, he was willing to try anything to save Marco from being eaten alive.
“How do you know about my band?”
“What band? I was talking about those people you saved down by the beach. It was all over the local news for a few weeks.”
Magnus held a folded newspaper up for Greg to see. It was a regional rag called The SoCal Sentinel.
“I’m just screwing with you. Everybody’s probably heard of your band by now. See for yourself.”
Magnus held the newspaper up for Greg to read. The page was open to a trashy gossip column. Greg checked the date. It was weeks old.
LA Buzz: What Happened To The ‘Punk Rock Cop’?
by Leslie Thompson, Staff Reporter
According to acquaintances, Greg Salem, a Virgil Heights police officer who burst into the spotlight last year, hasn’t been heard from in months.
Salem was involved in an on-duty shooting during which he claimed the underage suspect pulled a gun. He was put on leave. The weapon in question was never recovered, but the search for it led to one of the biggest gang busts in recent years.
He was back in the spotlight two weeks later when he rescued a couple of hostages during a tense beach standoff, which left one suspect dead. But Salem, who is also a former singer for LA-based punk band Bad Citizen Corporation, hasn’t been heard from since. Is he dead, or simply hiding out? Working undercover, or writing another album?
There were another dozen paragraphs, but Greg stopped reading. He already knew how that story ended. Magnus brought the paper down with a slap.
“Like I said, you’re famous.”
“She’s got a pretty good imagination.”
“Perception is reality.”
Magnus folded his arms across his chest. He was looking up at the ceiling of the tent, deep in thought when he went on.
“I actually used to work in the music industry myself. Did marketing for a few hair metal bands in the eighties.”
Greg was having a hard time picturing this ragged pot farmer in a corporate boardroom.
“So, why’d a marketing guy leave entertainment for agriculture?”
“Who says I left entertainment? It’s all about diversification these days.”
Greg motioned to the inside of the tent with his head.
“This isn’t exactly The Ritz, but I’m guessing you come and go when you feel like it.”
“Life’s about choices. I did my time in fancy hotels, ate at all the hip restaurants on both coasts, but I was suffocating. Fat and happy, like a caged animal waiting to be slaughtered. Don’t get me wrong, the money was great and there were plenty of perks. But the people? All sharks.”
“And you prefer bears.”
Magnus finally brought his gaze down to lock eyes with Greg.
“I’m always looking for the next opportunity. A man can learn a lot about himself by living out here. Speaking of which, I’ve got something to show you.”
Magnus walked over to a backpack on the ground and pulled out a piece of cloth. Greg watched as he slowly unfolded it, careful not to let it touch the ground. He was soon holding the corners of a California state flag in his outstretched hands.
“See that? It’s a grizzly bear. They used to live all over these mountains a hundred years ago. Fierce hunters. True individuals.”
“So what?”
“They were hunted to extinction. Completely wiped out. But there they are, right on the state flag. A constant lie that we perpetuate.”
“There are still plenty of black bears up here.”
“Imported from Yosemite a century ago. There’s less and less that’s native about Southern California.”
Greg was happy that Magnus was getting to the point, whatever it turned out to be.
“You and I are special, Greg. Born and raised here. Natives. Just like the grizzlies.”
“Meaning we’re almost extinct?”
“Might be unavoidable, if we don’t stop the hemorrhaging. All the transplants coming here only care about money and the weather, but they’re destroying our soul. Sure, they like their symbols. They want you to think that they’re all about individualism and freedom, but it’s not true. The minute you become a threat—BOOM—they take everything away from you.”
“So all of this is about illegal immigration?”
>
“To the contrary. I’ll take Mexicans, Guatemalans, Nicaraguans—anybody from South of the border—over these East Coast assholes that just keep coming like locust.”
“What’s that have to do with me and Marco? Let us go and we’ll forget this place even exists.”
“You hard of hearing from all that punk rock crap? I’m giving you the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of something huge.”
It took Greg a moment to figure out what this whack job was driving at. A job offer was the last thing he expected. Greg tried to look like he was considering it, but his mind was only focused on getting out of there.
“Seems like you have plenty of people here who can help you out.”
“These kids? They’re strays and runaways, mostly here for the weed and sex. All they’re good for is working the fields and keeping the product moving. I need a business partner. Somebody who can handle the day-to-day while I work on taking this thing to the next level.”
“Let my friend go and I’m all ears.”
Magnus stood up and lumbered over to the door. He wore a pinched expression when he turned to face Greg again. Like something was boring into the back of his skull.
“I’ll consider taking him out of there tonight. What happens tomorrow depends on you.”
“Can you at least untie me?”
“Not sure that’s in my best interest, but I can send one of the girls back in. That should keep your mind off of those ropes.”
Greg wasn’t up for any soulless cult sex, but thought he might get some useful information out of Magnus’s harem; or at least one of them.
“Maybe just Ursula.”
“You’ll have to be more specific. They’re all called Ursula.”
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The kid in the blue hat was standing in the alley with a gun to Marco’s head. Giant grizzlies burst through the brick walls around them, choking the air with red dust. Greg stumbled forward, but the dirt ramp under his feet kept stretching out before him. His foot caught hold of a trip wire and he went flying through the air...