by Akart, Bobby
He failed miserably in his efforts, missing the large target because his adrenaline had spiked and blown his fine motor skills. His poor aim resulted in one round imbedding in the chopper’s airframe and the other shattering the front window.
The bear was furious at the interruption and stood on its hind legs while raising its paws high into the air. The growl it let out caused the hair to stand up on the back of Chapman’s neck. He’d confronted brown bears that roamed out of the nearby woods at the farm from time to time, but nothing like this. With the more common brown or black bears that inhabited the woods of Indiana, you could simply clap your hands and shout at them, and they’d wander back into the forest.
Polar bears didn’t give a damn about yelling, or how tall you tried to make yourself, or whether you had a weapon. Not these guys, anyway.
Chapter 27
ZERO
Zackenberg Station
Northeast Greenland
The copilot tried to steady his aim. But the combination of nervousness and fright, coupled with seeing his pilot’s face mauled, made it difficult. He fired several more rounds, and two slugs found their target, one grazing the right ear of the bear, and the other went through-and-through the left shoulder of the massive animal. Standing nearly ten feet tall, the creature made for a larger target, but the copilot wasn’t capable of putting him down. Shocked, he fired his weapon three more times, but the bullets sailed well over the bear’s head into the wind.
As a result, the polar bear dropped to all fours and, rather than running away because of its injuries, it charged toward the copilot. He lumbered through the packed snow, his powerful paws and claws kicking up bits of ice as he closed the gap at thirty feet per second. The copilot turned to run, but lost his footing.
He crawled onto his feet again and fired at the fast-approaching bear until his magazine emptied. He let out a guttural scream at the creature in a last-ditch attempt to frighten it off. That didn’t work, nor did the feeble attempt to hurl his handgun at the bear.
He turned and raced back to the module, toward Chapman, who felt helpless with nothing more than an ice auger in his hands. The polar bear would likely snatch it from him and use it to skewer his carcass like a shish kebab.
The copilot was losing ground, but he was getting closer. Then Chapman remembered. He shouted at the frantic man, “The other gun! Use the other gun!”
The copilot continued to run toward ZERO in a slipping motion that caused him to wave his arms. He fumbled at his belt until he pulled the weapon. First, he fired a single round over his shoulder in yet another attempt to frighten the bear away.
It didn’t work.
“He’s still coming!” shouted Chapman.
The copilot decided to turn and fire, but it was too late. The impact of the polar bear crashing into the man’s side was something worthy of an NFL highlight reel. Chapman could hear the man’s ribs crack on impact, and his head snapped back and forth just before his body slammed to the ice.
Enraged, the now bloody polar bear didn’t pause for a moment. It immediately began to level blow after blow to the man’s head and chest. Pieces of uniform and bloody flesh flew through the air. The man was screaming for his life as the bear failed to deliver the final death blow; perhaps on purpose, Chapman wondered.
Chapman saw the gun lying in the snow off to the left. It had been jarred out of the copilot’s hand when he was struck in the side and tackled. Chapman dropped his backpack and ran towards it. With the bear distracted, he thought he could make it to the gun and then end the attack.
He was only partially right. The attack on the copilot ended because his head was badly mangled and the polar bear sought a new quarry—Chapman.
He did make it to the gun. He ran and dove for the weapon, sliding the last several feet on the packed snow and scooping it up in his right hand. The bear’s growl was close, so Chapman didn’t hesitate. He rolled over and over until he could jump to his feet.
The fifty-mile-an-hour Arctic winds crashed against his body, causing him to lose his balance and stumble awkwardly to the left. This likely saved his life.
The bear had lunged at him, and the sudden move to the side caught the beast off guard. His paw barely caught Chapman’s pant leg, tearing three rips in the material and drawing blood out of his thigh.
Chapman spun when he realized how close the bear had come to ripping him open. The bear quickly recovered and lunged toward Chapman, letting out a mighty roar to instill fear in its prey.
His mind raced. He tightened his grip on the pistol, wishing he had a larger gun—like a bazooka. In those milliseconds, he debated whether he should blindly empty the magazine into the bear in the hopes that he hit a vital organ sufficient to bring it down. However, the bear had already been shot two or three times and still showed no signs of succumbing to the bullet wounds.
Should I crouch, drawing it closer, so I can get the kind of shot the dead scientist managed to bring down the bear inside?
The operative word was dead.
Sure, I got you; you got me. Fair trade.
The time for debate and analysis was over. He decided to do both, as neither option seemed especially promising.
Without slowing, he turned sideways and fired three rounds in the general direction of the bear, striking him once, or at least he thought. He wasn’t sure because the bear didn’t scare easily, if at all. Unlike most animals, polar bears don’t usually get spooked by loud noises. They live in the Arctic where they hear thunderous noises, from avalanches to shattering glaciers to Russian missile tests.
Regardless, there was nothing usual about this polar bear or the dead one inside ZERO. They were fearless and on a mission—kill every human they could find. It didn’t matter that Chapman was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This monster wanted him dead and now he was pissed off more than ever.
The polar bear reared up on its hind legs and let out a mighty roar. Chapman took a chance. He dropped to his knees only eight feet away from the imposing animal and fired. One round after another hit the bear in the upper chest, and then the neck, and finally through the bottom of his snout. A mist of hot blood sprayed his face as the bullets tore through the behemoth’s neck and face. It stopped moving instantly, as if it were a Rock’em Sock’em Robot whose spring had been sprung.
Then, in a moment in which Chapman was sure he was about to die, the ten-foot-tall, thousand-pound beast—with its massive jaw open, bearing long, sharp teeth—fell forward on top of him, landing next to his ear. With Chapman covered by the entire weight of the polar bear, he felt the animal’s final, hot breath escape its lungs as it died.
Several seconds passed as Chapman was afraid to move. He was sure his bladder released, as warm fluid filled his pant leg. Then he remembered the claws ripping through his pants.
He freaked out.
He frantically tried to escape the weight of the dead animal in an attempt to free his hands. He was concerned that the beast had ripped open his thigh and severed his femoral artery. He’d bleed out within minutes if he didn’t apply pressure and a tourniquet.
He took a deep breath and shoved himself away from the bear slightly. He squirmed in the snow that had melted from the bear’s loss of blood. He continued to wriggle his weight out from under the carcass until he was free.
Without regard to modesty or the cold wind, he pulled his pants off to inspect his leg. A sense of relief washed over Chapman as he discovered his wounds were superficial and that he’d simply peed himself out of fright.
As he pulled them back up, he chuckled as he looked around to confirm that neither man nor beast saw what he’d done. He supposed if there was ever a time that the Great American White Male was to be given a pass for pissing his pants, this was one of them.
Chapter 28
ZERO
Zackenberg Station
Northeast Greenland
Chapman reentered ZERO carrying the handgun with its spent magazine. He hoped he wouldn’t enc
ounter a third polar bear, but he planned on finding a spare magazine as soon as he bandaged up his leg. He steeled his nerves to reenter the slaughterhouse.
Seeing the carnage was not any easier the second time than it was the first. After entering the center, command module, he veered off to the right this time. First, he inspected the connecting tubular hallway for evidence of bloody prints—paws or shoes. Satisfied that this section hadn’t been compromised, he moved with more confidence and found himself in a common area consisting of a place to fix meals, relax, and play video games.
He rummaged through the cabinets until he found a first aid kit. He stripped off his bloody pants and used gauze to dry the wound. Three puncture wounds followed by rips on the inside of his thigh showed how close the bear came to both his femoral artery and his ability to give Squire and Sarah more grandkids. At least he wouldn’t have had to use the I haven’t found the right girl excuse anymore.
He applied Polysporin antibiotic ointment, covered the wound with sterile gauze, and wrapped it tight with an ACE bandage. After procuring a bottle of water from the refrigerator and quickly downing it, he located a telephone hanging on the wall and lifted the receiver. The phone was dead. Chapman furrowed his brow. Can polar bears disable phone lines before attacking? He’d have to ask Kristi.
He made his way back to the center module and looked around for another phone. He carefully walked around the space, avoiding the mauled bodies. He discovered the reason the phone line appeared to be dead. The last person attempting to use it was.
The phone was off the hook, still held by a young woman whose arm dangled from her body by gnarled tendons. Chapman held his breath and bent down over the woman and pried the phone’s handset from her cold, dead hand. Then, out of respect, he closed her eyes with his fingers and said a brief prayer.
Apprehensive, he lifted the receiver and was relieved to hear a dial tone. A phone directory was taped to the desk, so he wiped the blood away and found the emergency number for SQUIRE, pausing to chuckle at the irony. He explained what had happened, and they immediately dispatched their snowmobile patrols to his location together with the rescue units from Thule Air Force Base. Unfortunately, the cavalry would take an hour or so to arrive.
Chapman needed fresh air. He exited ZERO, cautiously sticking his head outside before he ventured onto the snowpack. He breathed in and out rapidly to the point of hyperventilation until he finally calmed his nerves. The exhilaration he’d felt chasing storms was nothing compared to the genuine fear of dying at the hands, or paws, of a vicious polar bear. But, like the thrill of the storm hunt, once it was over, the thought of cheating death made him want to do it all over again.
Rejuvenated, and with his head cleared, Chapman sought out his backpack and went back into ZERO. This time, he was on a mission. He’d come to Greenland on assignment, but his primary motivation had been to speak to Dr. Pruitt. Chapman recalled the body of an older man in the sleeping module as being the famed geologist. If Dr. Pruitt couldn’t answer Chapman’s questions or reveal his findings before his death, perhaps there was a way his legacy could be carried on postmortem.
With a new sense of purpose, Chapman marched through the modules, disregarding the death that surrounded him. He found his way to the bunks and cubicles of the sleeping module and located Dr. Pruitt’s locker. It was unlocked.
Feeling somewhat guilty, he hesitated. He looked around the room, which contained the bodies of four dedicated scientists who simply wanted to make the planet a better place to live, through their research. He, too, was a researcher, hoping to convey his knowledge to others with the desire to help his fellow man in a small way.
Chapman was certain that Dr. Pruitt, eccentric as he was, had stumbled upon a theory. One that had been cast aside as the rantings of an old man. He was going to do his part to honor the geologist’s life by studying his theories and, if they could be corroborated, bringing them to the scientific world for further study.
He began to empty the man’s locker, setting aside neatly folded clothing and personal mementos. The locker’s contents were dwindling quickly, and Chapman was coming up empty-handed.
He searched the man’s personal locker in the bathroom facility, and when that yielded nothing, he went back to the central command module. He tried to locate Dr. Pruitt’s work cubicle, hoping to find anything that resembled a journal. He tried to power up the man’s computer, but it was password protected.
Frustrated, Chapman stood with his hands on his hips. In the distance, he could hear the steady thumping of approaching helicopters. Help was on its way and the ordeal was over. Yet he was not satisfied. He closed his eyes and visualized the images he had of Dr. Pruitt, taken by National Geographic and Nature magazines. He was old school, as in Indiana Jones, leather-hat-wearing, satchel-over-the-shoulder old school.
“That’s it!” Chapman exclaimed as he raced back to the sleeping module. He located Dr. Pruitt’s bunk and tore through his sheets and pillowcase. Then he lifted the mattress and thrust his hand underneath.
“Yes!”
He flipped the mattress up on its side and pulled out three leather-bound journals that were tied together with a strip of leather. Chapman smiled as he thought of his great-great-uncle Daniel carrying something like this as he blazed the Wilderness Trail.
Dr. Pruitt was a trail-blazing pioneer of another sort. Like the Boone family of lore, he was vilified for his discoveries. But Chapman, like his ancestors, didn’t give a rat’s ass what people thought of him.
He shoved the journals into his backpack and made his way outside to greet his rescuers.
Chapter 29
Capitol Feed & Farm
Corydon, Indiana
When Indiana became a state in December of 1816, Corydon officially became its first capital. At the time, Corydon was a small frontier village consisting of a handful of log homes and a few masonry buildings. But when treaties were entered into with the Miami tribal leaders in Central Indiana that brought the peace, the vast majority of the state had become a safer place to live, resulting in the capital being moved to Indianapolis.
Corydon continued as an important central market town in Southern Indiana, supporting agricultural and livestock operations. However, the introduction of interstates and state highways took much of that business to larger nearby cities, including Louisville, Kentucky, and, of course, Indianapolis. Now the town consisted of about three thousand people, who relied heavily upon tourism dollars.
Levi made a trip into Capitol Feed & Farm to stock up on supplies for Riverfront Farms before he left on his hunting trip. He needed ammunition for his hunting rifles and picked up extra for the weapons they kept on the farm. After the experience with the crazed wild pig, he and Squire agreed that everyone should carry holsters and sidearms while working the farm.
As he entered the store, he noticed there was a large group of local farmers having a conversation around the checkout counter. He glanced over and gave a tip of his cowboy hat to the life-size poster of actor James Best, who was raised in Corydon. He was best known for his role as Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane on The Dukes of Hazzard.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” he said with a chuckle as he grabbed a shopping cart and prepared to make his rounds. He pulled a list out of his pocket and planned on picking up his mother’s requests first so he didn’t forget. Sarah, Carly, and Rachel were in charge of the chicken coop, and the Boone ladies insisted on rewarding their chickens with Happy Hen Treats.
“How ’bout you, Levi?” one of the men shouted toward him. “Y’all had any trouble over at your place?”
Levi pushed the empty basket to the side and joined the conversation. Half a dozen local farmers and ranchers were gathered around the display cases, talking with the proprietor of Capitol Feed & Farm.
“What kind of trouble?” He answered the question with a question.
“Animal trouble,” the rancher replied. “And I ain’t talkin’ about a sick calf or the strangles.” Strangles was th
e name used for an infectious horse disease caused by the streptococcus bacterium. It resulted in potentially deadly abscesses in the lymph tissue of a horse’s respiratory tract.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. We had a wild pig come chasin’ after Carly the other day. I had to beat it down with a shovel before I stuck it with my Bowie.”
“Hank had a mule try to kick him in the head, didn’t you, Hank?”
“Sho’ enough did,” he replied.
Levi, who knew the only black farmer in Harrison County well because he used to work at Riverfront Farms, couldn’t resist the opportunity to needle the old man who’d taught him so much.
“Well, Hank, maybe you shouldn’ta been sniffin’ that ass’s ass.”
The crowd, including old Hank, exploded in laughter. After the hilarity and some additional playful ribbing died down, the men began to exchange their stories with Levi.
Most of the instances had to do with their dogs. Hunting dogs, many of which had been raised by these farmers since they were pups, had suddenly acted rabid. They would snarl and growl at their owners and one another. Several said they had to put their dogs down out of fear for the kids on their farm, and themselves.
“Tell him about the birds, Charlie,” said one of the ranchers.
“I gotta tell you, Levi, it was dang near apocalyptic. You know, Book of Revelation lookin’. Me and the ranch hands counted over five thousand birds that just fell out of the sky. I mean, one second they’re flying in one direction, and then they’d change to another, like they were lost and confused. And then all of a sudden, they just dropped out of the sky. All of them. Red-winged blackbirds. Starlings. Even grackles and them brown-headed cowbirds.”
Levi furrowed his brow. “They were all flying together?”
“It appears so,” the rancher replied.