Oriana and the Three Werebears (3 page)
She figured she must have bumped her head when she fell down the hill. She had to be dreaming. Or perhaps she was just dead—died of fatigue and starvation. There was no way she could be
actually
seeing what she was seeing. There was no way any of this could be real.
“I’m starving.”
“Yeah, I guess we get should back.” Jack dried himself off, walking toward the boulder to retrieve his clothes.
“What? No bear wrestling?” he heard Jon whisper to
Not wanting to
disappoint
his younger sibling, Jack swung around and sprinted back, shifting into a Kodiak bear as he did.
“Shit!” Jon exclaimed, and managed to change a fraction of a second before Jack tackled him.
Pinned to the ground, his youngest brother fought to dislodge him, but was unable—that was, until
Rolling to a stop, Jack got back on his paws and shook his head. For as much as his two younger brothers fought with each other, they always seemed to overcome their differences to team up against him, like two reluctant rivals that allied themselves against a common enemy.
That’s what family is all about.
The wind kicked up, ruffling his fur. Ready to take on both his brothers, Jack inhaled deeply and began to charge, but a strange scent teased his nose. He stopped short and lifted his snout, sniffing the air. With a sense of smell four times more powerful than the average dog, he knew he couldn’t be mistaken. There was a human in the vicinity—a female.
He immediately shifted back to human. “We have to get to the bunker.”
Oriana blinked, almost expecting the luxurious cabin to disappear. Weaved wool rugs lay upon polished wood floors. Three large recliners surrounded a plush leather couch that was decorated with plump pillows, and facing a state-of-the-art entertainment system. There was even one of those electric fireplaces, complete with fake wood that glowed and gave off heat. Her eyes drifted to the walls. Heavy curtains hung around large windows that showcased realistic landscapes and mimicked sunlight, which filtered into the room. While the virtual windows were fascinating, it was what she saw just beyond the cozy living room that made her want to fall to her knees and give thanks.
A dining room table filled with glorious food.
Sliced bread in a basket, a platter of cheese squares and wedges of fruit, and soup bowls filled with stew.
Ignoring her throbbing ankle, she rushed over to the dining room table. Snatching up bread slices and fruit, she stuffed her mouth as fast as her hands would allow. As she chewed and swallowed, she surveyed the lunch setting of hearty beef stew. It looked as if the owners were just about to sit and eat, then for whatever reason, were called away.
Grabbing another piece of bread, she plopped down in a wood chair and surveyed the red bowl and cup before her. The stew looked amazing with large chunks of beef, potatoes, onions and carrots, and her body craved the warmth that radiated from the dish. She picked up a spoon with the intent to eat, but stopped short.
What will the owners say when they come back and notice that some of their food is gone?
Her stomach rumbled in protest to her hesitation. Surely, the owners would understand once she explained her circumstances. She would offer to pay them for the meal. Hell, if they could get her back to civilization, she would treat them all to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in the borough.
With her conscience satisfied, she placed a heaping spoonful of stew into her mouth, barely bothering to chew the tender morsel of meat before swallowing.
Fucking hot! Spicy hot!
Oriana grabbed the red cup and brought it to her mouth, gulping down the liquid within. It was milk, and she hated drinking milk, but it helped ease the burning in her throat.
Eyes still watering, she put down the glass and reached for another piece of juicy fruit, hoping it would quell the fire in her mouth. She studied the stew in front of her with a mixture of confusion and frustration. It was like someone dumped a shit load of pepper in the damn bowl. She then noticed the red bottle of Tabasco near the napkin.
Refusing to believe that all three bowls of stew where so heavily seasoned, she got up and moved over to the next seat, assessing the stew in the green colored bowl.
Finely chopped green leaves floated on the surface of the broth.
“Garnished with fresh parsley and all,” she mumbled as she picked up the spoon and dipped in.
The moment the stew hit her taste buds, she gagged. Frantically flinging her hand over her mouth, she pressed firmly to stop herself from spewing the toothpaste-flavored broth all over the table.
Oh, God! Definitely not parsley.
After forcing herself to chew and swallow, she plugged her nose and opened her mouth to breathe, hoping she wouldn’t have to suffer the nasty lingering aftertaste. Ironically, the air was minty cool against her tongue, which chased away the little burning she had left from the stew in the red bowl. Releasing her nose, she swallowed the gathering saliva, and cringed.
“Who puts mint leaves in beef stew?”
She picked up the green glass, took a sip of water, then glanced over at the blue bowl sitting next to a blue cup. Sighing, she moved around to another chair. “God, please allow this to be edible.” Placing her spoon in the stew and collecting the liquid on the utensil, she brought it to her mouth.
It was perfect!
Two minutes later, the bowl was empty.
Oriana finished off the last of the apple juice in the blue cup, then sat back in the chair, rubbing her full stomach, fighting to keep her eyes open. She wondered if she should call for help on her own, or wait for the owners to return.
The décor of the cabin-in-the-cave, not to mention the hi-tech entertainment system with the big screen TV and state-of-the-art surround sound, screamed masculinity.
She wasn’t at a lodge, she knew that for sure. She’d been to nearly every wilderness resort located in the Kodiak Archipelago. This place also wasn’t military, not with these lavish accommodations.
So who builds their home in an abandoned bunker? Who wants to live in the middle of nowhere?
Someone with something to hide.
The owners were probably criminals of some sort, like drug lords, who’ve just never been discovered, or bribing any refuge employees that happen to stumble upon them. Or maybe they were just inbred mountain men with money to spare…
Her mind replayed famous scenes from the cult classic movie
Deliverance
.
On that disturbing thought, she forced her weary body out of the chair to search for a way to call for help. If luck was on her side, she would find a radio or phone and be out of there before anyone came back.
Oriana searched the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, and to her amazement, the home gym/game room. She even searched the guest bathroom.
No telephone, no radio.
She went made her way back through the living room, leaning against the wall and furniture for support as she fought off her fatigue. Her muscles were stiff, hurting, and felt heavy—as if she carried heavy weights on her shoulders. The only thing that kept her moving was her overactive imagination, which presented various scenarios to her tired brain—all of them involving some form of assault by large hairy men in dirty overalls, who had an affinity for the banjo and a love of sheep.
Spotting a hallway, she headed for it, and opened the first door she came upon.
It was an office-slash-communications room.
Excitement coursed through her veins, giving her a new burst of energy. Aside from the wall of advanced technical equipment that sported toggle switches, little buttons, and rows of flashing lights, there were three cubicle desks with everything she could ever hope for—including telephones and computers.
Approaching the closest cubical, the first in the line, she sat in the rolling computer chair and grabbed the high-end office phone. She dialed the police station in Kodiak. The phone beeped, but it didn’t connect. She tried again with the same results. She then tried for an operator. Nothing. 911. Nothing again.
I must need access number or something.
In frustration, she mashed the keypad. The little digital window on the phone base showed one word: ERROR.
Oriana looked up to the computer monitor, noting the screensaver. Slamming the phone’s receiver back in the cradle, she placed her hand over the cordless mouse and moved it around the pad. The monitor screen cleared, displaying a gray pop up window.
“
Terminal locked. Enter password
.”
She shoved the rolling chair away and dropped to her knees, pulling on all the handles to the desk’s drawers.
All locked. Everything is fucking locked!
Not trusting her legs, she crawled around the connected partition to the next cubicle, and found those desk drawers also locked. She pulled herself to her feet and collapsed into the office chair. Like the first cubical, the phone and the computer were a no-go, and a quick search of the desktop produced nothing. Pulling the chair’s adjustment handle and lifting her ass, she raised the seat up as high as it would go so she could reach the desk’s attached upper cabinets without standing. Like the drawers, the doors were locked.
“Third time’s a charm,” she muttered, glancing at the last desk.
Moving to the next chair, she found that the phone also didn’t work. While the computer terminal was locked, the desk itself wasn’t. Riding another wave of hope, she searched through the drawers filled with numbered folders, official government documentation, and other assorted office stuff, looking for anything that might give a clue to the computers’ passwords, or even a manual on how to work the phones.
Nothing.
She slammed the last drawer hard enough to rattle the desk, then covered her face with her hands, trying to hold back the emotional flood of frustration that wanted to burst free. She was tired, and injured, and not thinking clearly. Maybe if she just calmed down and took some deep breaths, she might be able to focus her muddled mind and find something of use.
Adjusting the tension on the chair’s backrest, Oriana reclined and closed her eyes. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she tried to relax without succumbing to sleep. After a couple of minutes of pseudo-mediation, she opened her eyes and lifted her head, scanning the surface of the desk and willing her mind to concentrate on the details.
The fist thing that caught her eye was a plaque.
She leaned forward for a better look.
It was supposed to read
#1 Hacker
, but someone had colored in the “er” with black permanent marker so that, if you just gave it a quick glance, it said
#1 Hack
.
Despite all that had happened, a small smile touched her lips. It was kind of funny.
Next to the plaque was a picture frame. She reached out and picked it up. In the photo were three men, each one holding a fish they had caught.
Definite eye candy.
The three were overly handsome, sharing similar features.
“They’re related.”
Rising to her feet, she walked around the room, trying to absorb everything she saw.
She approached the three college diplomas hanging on a wall, reading the framed parchments carefully. “Jack McMathan, Jordan McMathan, Jonathan McMathan.” The graduation dates were five years apart on each certificate.
Oriana looked again at the picture in her hands. “Brothers.”
She turned back to the desks. The first was sparse and professional. The second desk was lined with books and other assorted technical paraphernalia, but it appeared everything had its place and was well organized. The third cubical was the most cluttered, but also the most fun. Cut out comic strips were taped up, and little toys and other assorted gadgets decorated the corners.
But for how different each area was, they all had one thing in common: more photos, all of each other in various stages of their lives.
Moving her gaze between the pictures, the diplomas, and the desks, she was fairly certain that the men in the pictures were the owners of this place.
At least they’re not hillbillies in overalls.
If pictures were worth a thousand words, then as a unit, the threesome seemed normal enough. They appeared happy in all the photos—fun even, like the friendly sort she could meet up with at a sports bar for a couple of beers.