Claw

by Katie Berry

  “What the hell is going on…” Chance muttered, his gout-ridden legs feeling the vibration for the first time.

  “Jesus Christ!” Nichols cried. Still flanking Christine, he stumbled and went down to one knee on the rubble scattered across the cavern floor. As the shaking intensified, he gave up trying to walk and began scuttling his way across the unstable ground toward the entrance on hands and knees.

  The beam from VanDusen’s barrel-mounted flashlight wavered back and forth as he tried to keep it trained on Christine’s back. He hollered, “Shit! We’ve got another earthquake! Everybody back to the entrance, now!”

  As Christine turned to do as instructed, VanDusen stopped her, his shotgun’s light levelled at her chest. “Not you, little missy, you can just stay right the fuck here.” He backed unsteadily toward the entrance, shotgun trained on Christine as the earth continued to shake and jive inside the cavern.

  From the dark recesses of the cavern ceiling, a stalactite came crashing down next to VanDusen, missing him by less than a metre. He leapt sideways as it impacted, hitting the uneven ground hard on his shoulder. The jolt of pain caused him to loosen his grip on the Remington temporarily. As his hand twitched instinctively to hold onto it, one finger hit the trigger, and the shotgun discharged by accident. There was a flash of light from its muzzle, but the thunder of the falling rock muffled the sound of its blast.

  Christine saw the opportunity to make herself scarce and took it, heading off on unsteady legs toward the nearest wall of the cavern, well away from the shit-heads, shotguns and stalactites.

  Chance and Nichols were halfway to the front of the cavern when vast slabs of rock started slamming down outside the entrance. The massive chunks had broken loose from the cliffs high above and now pummelled the ground with a force and vibration so great that everyone still able to stand inside the cavern was dropped to their knees. Chance curled into a fetal ball, trying to make himself as small as possible to protect against the falling rock. Several more stalactites dropped to the floor next to him, shattering on impact and showering him with chunks of calcite.

  The shaking continued unabated, and the daylight that had been filtering through the steam-shrouded entrance became dimmer and dimmer. Boulders, some as large as Christine’s Dodge Ram, pounded into the ground outside filling the entrance until there was nothing left in the world but darkness.

  As suddenly as it started, the quake ended. Blackness and silence now ruled over the cavern, its occupants sealed inside as tightly as Tutankhamun's tomb.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Geraldine Gertzmeyer loved only one thing more than her prized wild turkeys, and that was her late husband, Norbert. But even then, it was a close call. This morning was day four of her vigil. A quilt over her legs to ward off the chill, she sat on her front porch, waiting patiently. A hot cup of tea lazily steamed on the table beside her and Ol’ Bessie lay across her lap.

  Back when Norbert had been alive, Geraldine had said the turkeys were like the children they never had. In fact, thanks to the distinct lack of feathers atop their bald little heads, not to mention their wrinkly little faces, the turkeys were almost a spitting image of Norbert in his later years. Geraldine sometimes watched them after Norbert passed, talking to them, and giving each one a name. She almost felt as if her late husband were still with her, the gaggle of little Norberts, clucking and gobbling about the yard so comforting as they were to her.

  When she’d tottered along her porch to the back corner of her house to check on the ‘children’ the other day, her heart had almost broken. All of her lovely little babies had been torn apart and scattered across her backyard, blood and entrails everywhere.

  Though Ol' Bessie had the name of a canine, this particular dog's bark and bite was much bigger than that of an average dog. Its dark steel coat gleamed against the hand-sewn quilt in Geraldine’s lap. In her gut, she knew that the thing that had eaten her little Norberts wasn't finished. And when it came back looking for more, she and Ol’ Bessie would be ready for it.

  Ol' Bessie had been Norbert’s elephant gun. It gleamed in the bright sunlight, well polished from many years of regular use. A souvenir of a long-ago vacation to Africa, it came from a time when she and Norbert had both been much younger and much more adventurous. Neither she nor Norbert had ever actually shot an elephant with the weapon, but instead used it to scare off assorted varmints and pests of a much smaller stature around their beautiful acreage.

  Though Norbert had been fascinated by the stopping power of the large rifle, he was more interested in the noise the gun made when it was discharged instead. They'd never used it to kill anything. Sometimes, it had been used to frighten off a pack of mangy coyotes that had come sniffing around their livestock and pets. Other times it had been used to scare off a hungry bear ready for hibernation out looking for a meal of rotting apples still on the ground, left behind after the fruit had been harvested.

  Since the purpose of the elephant gun was for noise more than force, most of the time, it was loaded with two hundred grain shells. They’d always found the lower capacity shells more than loud enough to scare things away, yet still manageable enough for a smaller woman like Geraldine.

  Sipping her tea, she sat waiting on her porch like she had every day since she’d found her little sweeties slaughtered. She waited for the thing that had taken away her last joy in life to come back, looking for more. And when it did, it would regret it's decision.

  For the last several days, each morning, she’d bundle up in her winter coat and gloves, then place Mongo on her head. Mongo was a large, furry hat that Norbert had always installed on his big, bald head whenever the weather got cold. Apart from the warmth it provided, for Geraldine, it was a souvenir of happier winter's gone-by from which she couldn’t bear to part. Bundled up in her parka, with the oversized fur hat on her head, she’d grab her large mug of tea and Ol’ Bessie, then settle into her rocker on the front porch to wait.

  This morning, when she’d woken to sunshine streaming through her bedroom window, it had been a lovely surprise. The winters in the valley around Lawless were so grey with that blasted fog most of the time now, sapping any ambition or motivation a person might have. It just made you feel like you wanted to stay indoors, buried under your comforter for the entire winter. Yes, it was a feeling Geraldine knew all too well.

  But not today, the sun was shining, and it looked like a day of renewed hope was on the horizon. Despite the bitter cold that accompanied the sun, the golden rays warmed her face. Geraldine felt that this would be the day she would finally avenge her little Norberts.

  She reached for another sip of tea only to find the mug empty, just a couple of loose leaves floating in the bottom of the cup. With great care, she stood from her rocker, feeling her knees pop. She put her quilt aside and shuffled along with her walker back inside the house to get another mug of tea.

  Several minutes passed, and Geraldine returned with another fresh ‘cuppa’, as Norbert had called a hot cup of tea. Steam coiled from the ceramic mug into the frigid morning air as she stepped outside. She slowly sat back down, looking for the finches that had been flitting back and forth in the branches of the tree near the front porch all morning. It seemed that the sun this morning had enlivened the small birds as much as her as if they sensed that this long winter might soon be coming to an end.

  Geraldine kept the half dozen bird feeders near her house well-stocked all winter. Rather than going south, the little finches spent the winter living in the numerous small birdhouses that Norbert had put up in the trees many years before. She loved to watch them hopping from their houses out onto the branches and back into their little homes once more. Never seemingly happy in one location, they were always flapping back and forth from one place to another. At one point, some squirrels had been part of this morning's festivities. They'd chirped away in the higher branches of the trees, then scampered quickly down to the feeders now and again, sneaking the odd larger nut that Geraldin
e put in the mix just for them that she knew the birds couldn’t eat.

  She moved to her rocker and sat down. Neither the finches nor the squirrels were around at the moment. In fact, there was no sign of her forest friends anywhere in sight -- not around the feeder, nor up in the trees. Where did they all go?

  She had never seen it so quiet in the forest surrounding her home. On sunny days like this, the finches were usually all over the trees, literally bathing in the seed at the feeders, their chirping music to Geraldine's ears. Her legs creaking, she slowly sat in her Adirondack rocker, looking around the yard for other signs of her friends, winged or otherwise, but there were none. She shook her head and pulled her quilt back over her knees, then placed Ol’ Bessie back across her lap.

  Despite her years, Geraldine had excellent hearing and eyesight. Now that the musical sound of the birds tweeting had stopped, the clear January day took on a sharper, more menacing air. It was as if the entire forest had cleared out since she’d gone inside to get her latest mug of tea. She picked up the ceramic mug from the table next to her chair, her swollen knuckles looking skeletal and white as she cupped the mug in her hands to take a sip. Her arthritic finger joints appreciated the warmth as she put the mug to her nose and breathed deeply, inhaling the wafting steam and savouring the citrus smell of bergamot in the mug of Earl Grey tea.

  As she sat sipping her tea, Geraldine was able to see the entrance to her property where it met the highway, just visible through the winter-drab trees. A vehicle turned into her lane, coming to pay her a visit. She was pleased to see it was a patrol car from the Lawless City Police Department. The lane dead-ended in a cul-de-sac that lay directly in front of the stately old home.

  Pulling up in front of her steps, she was surprised to see it was Constable Oscar Olsen behind the wheel. She had called the police department earlier that morning and left a rather excited message, hoping they might have some news on what had killed her little Norberts.

  Olsen slowly extricated himself from behind the wheel of the car, his stomach getting him temporarily tangled in the seatbelt. After a brief moment, he liberated himself, hitching his pants up with one gloved hand and ambling toward the porch steps. A look of surprise crossed his face when he saw Ol’ Bessie in her lap.

  Geraldine set down her tea and smiled sweetly at the constable. “Afternoon, Oscar.”

  “Well, hey there, Mrs. Gertzmeyer! How’re you doing today?”

  “I’m doing about as fine as a person of ninety-three can be! Thanks for askin’, young fella. I sure hope you've got some news about my sweet little dead Norberts.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, your sweet dead little whats?” Oscar looked flummoxed.

  “I'm sorry, Oscar, I’m forgettin’ myself, the wild turkeys I mean. They looked like my late husband.”

  Oscar hitched his pants once more over his enormous belly and looked thoughtful as he did. With a slight chuckle, he said, “I suppose I can see the resemblance. Actually, you are correct, ma’am, that is exactly the reason I'm here; to let you know about the predator that killed your turkeys. It’s sort of a good news, bad news kind of thing.”

  “What’s the good news?”

  “The predator that killed your turkeys is dead.”

  “That is great news! But what’s the bad news?”

  “Turns out we have another one in the area as well. A big one!”

  “Well, if it comes sniffin’ around here, I’ll be ready for it.” She patted Bessie in her lap.

  “Yes ma’am, I can see that,” he said, nodding toward the gun.

  “Yep, I thought I’d keep her handy in case the turkey-eater comes back for my chickens.”

  “That’s understandable, ma’am. You do know how to use that, don’t you?” He nodded again toward the Elephant gun.

  Geraldine looked down at the weapon in her lap, then back up at Oscar and said, “Oscar Olsen, my husband and I were scaring coyotes and bears away with this gun before you were even a bulge in your daddy’s BVDs!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Oscar laughed. “Maybe I’ll just take a quick look around then. How would that be?”

  “That would be appreciated, Oscar! It happened round the back.”

  “Okay, sounds good, Mrs. Gertzmeyer,” Oscar said as he stepped off the porch steps back to ground level once more. He nodded toward her and turned back to his patrol car.

  Geraldine called out, “I haven’t had the heart to go back there again since that pretty new conservation officer took some casts of the prints a couple of days ago. It should be easy to spot the scene of the massacre, either way.”

  “Thanks, ma’am. I’ll have a quick walk about the property here just to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “You do that, Oscar Olsen, and when you come back, I’ll have a hot cup of tea ready for you!”

  “Thank you, ma’am, that’d be nice.” Oscar tipped the brim of his hat to Geraldine. He reached into his cruiser for the double-barreled shotgun that was secured between the seats. Unlocking it, he pulled it out and cracked the breach to verify it was loaded. With a satisfied grunt, he snapped it closed and slung it back over his shoulder, then proceeded around the side of the house toward the backyard.

  “Such a nice young man,” Geraldine said to the empty rocker next to her. It creaked slowly back and forth in the January breeze, but apart from that had no opinion to voice one way or the other.

  Oscar Olsen rounded the house and found the scene of the turkey attack right away. Mrs. Gertzmeyermyer had been correct; it was easy to find. So much blood, though! In the report the conservation officer had cc'd to the police department, Oscar didn't remember her mentioning so much carnage. He followed a trail of blood and feathers embedded like ancient fossils in the now solid mantle of ice and snow. The refreeze overnight had left a hard, frozen crust of slush on the ground that was solid enough not to break underneath Oscar’s weight.

  Near some bushes, he spotted white powder dusted around a print in the frozen yard. He knelt for a moment near the impression and examined the dental bone residue. It must have been from the very same creature Ray Chance had subsequently terminateGertzmeyerd via his Land Rover a short time later. Oscar looked about noting the smaller boot prints left around the scene by the conservation officer. They went everywhere. Boy, she must be thorough, he marvelled. Her prints followed a trail onto the back of the acreage.

  It looked like the raccoon had dragged some of the turkeys down the trail during its banquet, or perhaps after it killed them. He followed the path for a moment, then stopped. It continued up the mountainside, winding into the forest beyond. If he wanted, he could access Gold Mountain Resort’s property or go beyond it up toward Gold Ridge, where the cavern lay somewhere among its rocky edifices. This path appeared to be a likely candidate for the bear to access the valley below if it were in the area. Oscar was pretty sure Christine Moon would have gone that route, hoping to track the beast further.

  A lower path gradually dropped down toward a dark, age-stained barn and large, fenced acreage beyond. The barn’s dilapidated appearance belied its solidity. Oscar had been out to it several years before when Geraldine had been having a problem with some vandals at night. He knew the unassuming building’s cellar also housed the acreage’s workshop, which contained the tractor and was also host to a huge root cellar.

  To feed their animal wards, the Gertzmeyermyers had grown all of their own hay and organic vegetables on the acreage. Thousands of kilograms of potatoes, turnips and cabbages had been stored in the root cellar, along with hay in the loft above. Since Norbert's passing several years back, Geraldine hadn’t used the building and cellar below for much of anything. She seemed to be leaving it for whatever fate decided for an ageing barn on an untended acreage in the rugged Cascade Mountains of British Columbia.

  Oscar took in the beautiful landscape before him for a moment. It dawned on him that he should make it look good for Mrs. Gertzmeyer and figured he’d better choose a path and have a quic
k stroll in the sunshine, pretending to investigate to at least to keep her happy.

  He had two choices: to his left, the rugged path winding up into the forested mountainside beyond. To his right, one hundred and two wide-open, rolling hectares of beautiful Kootenay loveliness stretching off into the distance. If he went that way, he knew he’d be able to see anything coming to chow-down on him from kilometres away.

  Smiling to himself, he ambled toward the weathered wooden structure. It hadn’t been a tough call, he always liked to go with the wide-open spaces, if possible -- it gave him room to manoeuvre his bulk. Who knew, maybe he’d encounter a deer or an antelope playing together on his way to the barn. He marvelled how the old barn was still so solid and yet looked to be ready for the fireplace. Oscar looked up to the hayloft door overhead, and his stomach rumbled, perhaps thinking of a different ‘Hey Loft’, instead.

  He checked the two tall main doors of the barn. A heavy padlock lay across it, still secure. He wandered around to the back of the building and stopped. The rear access door was swung inward and open most of the way. This door was a single affair, but still quite large, measuring almost three metres on all sides. Strange it wouldn’t be latched, Oscar thought as he looked at the lock. It wasn’t broken, just popped off the door, like some ponderous weight had pressed against it and pushed it open, rending the heavy-duty lock from the aged wood.