Dan Versus Nature (21 page)

I snatch up more leaves and mop myself up as quickly as possible.

A loud, snotty snort comes from the bushes to my right. Like a bull with a cold.

“Shoo,” I squeak, my windpipe constricting. I gulp. “Go away! I’m not interested.”

More swishing, more guttural snorting.

“Charlie?” I say. “If that’s you trying to screw with me, you can cut it out. I’m in no mood. Come on. Show yourself.”

And then, as if on command, a hulking black bear lumbers out of the forest, snuffling along the ground like a drug dog on the scent of a duffel bag full of weed.

I gasp, a jolt of adrenaline spiking through my veins.

The bear looks up, its dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. It sniffs wildly at the air, its scarred nostrils flaring.

Ho-ly
shit
! It’s the same bear from the lake! Did it follow us here?

I try not to move. Try not to breathe. Try not to even blink.

But my legs are about to give way. I don’t know how long I’ve been squatting against this tree, but my trembling quads are telling me I’ll be dropping to the ground any second now.

I try to remember what Max said about bears.

Don’t run. Never run. Under no circumstances should you run.

The beast snorts and paws at the ground. Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I’m going to be killed by a bear in a puddle of my own shit soup, with my pants down around my ankles and my junk hanging out.

The burning in my legs is unbearable. My back starts to slip down the tree truck. Inch. By inch. By inch.

I press hard into the tree with the last of my strength, holding my breath, trying to stay as still as I can.
Please just go. Please just go. Please just go.

But the bear plods toward me. It’s just twenty feet away now.

Fifteen feet.

Good God, it is absolutely
massive.

It’s getting closer. And closer. And closer.

Fuck this. I grab my boxers and sweats, yank them up, and run like hell.

The bear takes off after me, just like Max said it would. I can hear the sounds of bushes, branches, and leaves being torn away in its path.

“Help!” I scream. “Bear!
Help!
”

I glance over my shoulder. The rushing beast is gaining ground fast.

“Hank!” I shout. “Charlie! Penelope!”

I pump my arms hard, my stocking feet pounding the ground. Finally, I catch sight of the big branch hut. I burst into the clearing.

Charlie, Hank, and Penelope are huddled around a low-burning fire. They leap to their feet when they see me.

“B-bear!” I gasp, nearly senseless with fear. “Bear! R-right behind me!”

“Jesus Christ!” Hank looks past me, his eyes huge.

Penelope and Charlie leap up and hide behind Hank.

I turn around and watch as the giant creature bounds from the forest. As soon as it sees the four of us, it skids to a halt. It slaps its paws on the ground, grunting and woofing at us. Clearly, it is not pleased by the turn of events.

“Max!” I shout through cupped hands. “Barbara! Help! Get out here!”

“What the hell do we do now?” Charlie says.

“The bear’s stopped,” Hank says. “It’s nervous. We can take advantage of that. Here. Let’s get in a line. Make ourselves seem big. Scare it off.”

“Interesting theory, Mr. Langston,” Charlie says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the moonlight. “However, I do believe I remember a certain bush pilot saying that it has been an extremely long winter here in the Frank. That the animals were having a difficult time finding sustenance.”

“If we run away, it’ll chase after us,” Hank says. “Just like it did with Dan. You want to risk being the one it goes after?”

“Well,” Charlie says, pushing his glasses up. “When you put it that way.”

The bear lifts its nose, its nostrils twitching.

The four of us stand in a row and link arms. We take a step toward the bear.

The bear slaps at the dirt, warning us.

“Um,” I croak, my throat saltine-dry. “It doesn’t look very frightened.”

The animal takes a step forward.

“Make some noise!” Hank shouts. “
Rah! Rah!
Go! Leave!”

“Relinquo!”
Penelope yells.
“Ut de loco in inferno!”

Charlie blinks at her. “You think the bear knows Latin?”

“You think it knows English?” Penelope counters. “Besides, Latin’s my reflex language.
Vado! Emigro! Exitus!
”

The animal continues forward, its nose sniffing the air like mad.

“It isn’t working!” Penelope cries.

Max stumbles out of the shelter, scratching his head, his eyes half shut. “What the heck’s going on out — oh shit!” Suddenly, he’s wide awake and in an action-man stance. “Nobody move.”

“Tell that to the mountainous omnivore,” Charlie says.

“Is it morning already?” Barbara croaks as she crawls from the hut. “I feel like we just — Oh-my-God-a-bear!”

Max holds up a hand. “Stay calm. It’s just curious. Look at its nostrils go. It’s caught a scent. Is someone wearing perfume? Cologne?”

I glare at Charlie, who doesn’t meet my gaze.

“It’s a bold animal,” Max says. “But there are too many of us. It won’t attack. Stand your ground.”

And yet the bear keeps advancing.

“Keep making noise,” Max instructs. “Barbara and I are going to circle around to you. The last thing we want is this animal thinking it’s cornered.”

Hank roars, “Go away, bear! Go away!”

“Vanesco!”
Penelope screams.
“Abeo!”

“Jah!”
I holler. “
Bah! Wah!
Get lost! This is not the camp you’re looking for!”

“Good, good!” Max says, holding Barbara’s hand and cautiously leading her in a wide half circle around the camp. “More aggressive! Don’t back down.”

The four of us go nuts, yelling and howling and shrieking. Stomping our feet. Kicking up dirt.

The bear stops. Tilts its head curiously.

“Excellent!” Max says. “Keep going! Don’t let it think you’re weak!”

“Hold on, Penelope,” Barbara says. “Mommy’s coming.”

“Yah! Yah! Yah!”
I shout, my voice going hoarse and phlegmy. “Scram! Shoo!”

Suddenly, the bear rears back and swats its front paws hard on the earth. Its head juts out as it gives a low, angry, guttural growl.

Oh
crap
!

“The bear’s just testing you,” Max says, stopping in his tracks and holding Barbara back. “It’s all a big bluff.”

The bear springs forward, its teeth bared and clacking, like Hannibal Lecter about to feast.

The six of us scream bloody murder and scatter.

Hank and Penelope bound into the woods. Charlie stumbles after them, his arms pinwheeling like a mental patient. Barbara stretches out a hand and screams Penelope’s name as Max yanks her off into the darkness.

And where do I run? Not away from the camp like all the others. No,
I
race toward the hut — because there’s no way a bear will be able to get at me inside a fortress of twigs and sticks.

But even though I know I’m running toward my doom, it’s too late to do anything else now. I just have to hope that the bear decides not to —

Fuck!

My foot catches a rock, sending me flying.

I slam hard into the branch shelter, the whole thing collapsing and clattering around me.

I’m swallowed up by sticks, leaves, and shrubbery. I claw at the debris, swiping pine needles from my face. I flip over and look up just in time to see the bear changing course and lumbering toward me, its dark eyes locked on mine.

Again.

The bear clomps forward, its nostrils quivering, its sharp claws scraping the ground as it goes.

I grab a stick and hurl it at the bear from where I’m sitting. The stick goes way wide. “
Yah!
Get out of here!
Yah!
” I grab another one and throw it as hard as I can.
“Yah! Yah!”

The branch bounces off the bear’s shoulder.

But it keeps coming.

I kick the bramble off and scrabble to my feet, the bear closing in on me. I’m about to make a run for it when, miracle of miracles, I spot Max’s homemade bow and arrows on the ground. We never did get that archery lesson from him.

I snatch up the bow and one of the crude arrows anyway. I face the bear, my legs weak and wobbly.

I nock the arrow and draw back the bootlace bowstring. My arms tremble from the strain. Or from fear.

I raise the bow and take aim, the shoelace cutting into my fingers.

The bear stops. It growls and smacks at the ground, like it knows what I’m about to do.

“Don’t come any closer, you bastard,” I say, trying to sound brave and determined. But the arrow clicks and trembles inside the little notch; there’s no way in hell I’m hitting this animal. Not even to save my life.

A loud branch cracks to my right.

I spin around to see who — or what — it is. And when I do, the bootlace snaps, thrashing against my forearm.

The bow flies out of my hand and smacks the bear in the nose. Meanwhile, the arrow rockets off to the side and —

“Uuu!”
Hank grunts and drops to his knees.

“Oh crap!” I stare at the arrow sticking out of Hank’s left calf. Blood blooms around the wound, staining the pant leg of his sweats.

I glance over and see the bear dragging its sore nose on the ground.

I run over to Hank. “Oh my God,” I say, examining the injury. “It . . . went all the way through. I am
so
sorry, Hank! I was aiming for the bear, but then you startled me and I —”

“It’s . . . fine. Just . . .” Hank swallows. He looks up at the snorting bear. “Help me up. We have to . . . get out of here. Before it comes . . . after us.”

“Do you need to rest?” I ask Hank, his arm heavy around my shoulder.

It’s been slow going with Hank having to lean most of his weight on me as we hobble along, but we’ve managed to get a fair ways into the forest. If the bear is following us, it’s doing so in stealth mode; we haven’t heard so much as a rustle from behind us since we left the camp.

“No,” he says, his breath labored. “We just . . . need to get as far away as we can.”

I grimace, hoping he can’t see my expression. My legs are on fire, my shoulders are cramped up, and my back feels like it could snap at any moment.

But there’s no way I can complain. Not when Hank’s the one with the arrow piercing his calf — an arrow
I
put there. If he can keep going, I sure as hell can.

“I’d like . . . to get to the river . . . if we can,” Hank pants.

The damned river. I can hear the sound of cascading water off in the distance, but how far is anyone’s guess. I don’t know how I’m going to make it there without collapsing.

“Hello?” A voice rasps in the dark. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Dan,” I say. “And Hank. Who’s that?”

The bushes rustle and a thin beam of light swings through the dark as Penelope and Charlie lope toward us.

“Thank God we found you,” Charlie says when they get to us. “And that you’re OK.”

“Not exactly,” I say, gesturing to the arrow in Hank’s leg.

“Holy Christ!” Penelope’s eyes bug behind her glasses. “How did that happen?”

“Dan . . . shot me,” Hank says.

“He
what
?” Charlie gives me a holy-crap-are-you-
that-
desperate look.

“It was an accident,” I explain. “I was aiming for the bear. But the bowstring exploded on me, and the arrow went in the wrong direction. If you want to blame someone, blame Max and his shoddy workmanship.”

Penelope crouches down to examine the wound. “That looks extraordinarily unpleasant.” She stands. “We need to remove the shaft and clean the wound as soon as possible.”

“We’ll need . . . water,” Hank says, perspiration beading his forehead. “We should head toward . . . the river.”

“From the sounds of it, the river’s at least a mile away,” Charlie says. “But there’s a stream a couple hundred yards back the way we came.” He slips Hank’s other arm around his shoulder. “Come on. We’ll take you there.”

I desperately want to ask Penelope to spell me for a bit, but the combination of guilt and pride makes me bite my tongue. Literally. It’s the only thing keeping me from screaming.