“Wow, I forgot how fun guard duty is,” Mike mumbled as he sat in the chair. “Never got to sit before, so that’s something.” His undiagnosed case of attention deficit disorder wasn’t a crippling condition, but sitting and doing nothing was not in his particular set of skills. He fidgeted about for the first hour, thought about lighting one of the emergency candles and reading a few back issues of People Magazine that were stored in the bathroom, but that was before he pondered how many literally shitty hands had handled them over the years. Tomorrow he was going to add to the ash clouds and burn them, making sure to stay as far away from the fecal matter coated pages as he could.
When he finally relented and stayed still, he realized just how quiet it was; there hadn’t been an aftershock in over an hour. Having grown up in the city, he was surprised that he’d not heard one siren. Whatever emergency services this area offered, they had either moved on or had been wiped out. Or, just as likely, the police and firefighters were dealing with their own issues. With countless millions in trouble, the thousands would have to wait. Triage on a grand scale. Little solace to those that might be trapped under a pile of rubble. Even the bugs were silent or gone. Mike filed that under bad news. If they knew enough to get away or stay quiet, it couldn’t bode well for people. Every so often the silence was so deafening, Mike would grunt or click his tongue to make sure his hearing was working properly.
Four hours, twenty-seven large yawns, and eight head bobs later, Mike was on the verge of waking BT to get relieved. His system had rapidly been heading toward shutting down when a sound outside caught his full attention. It was subtle but unmistakable: the stepping of a boot on gravel, the slight grinding sound of rock on rock from a pivoting body. Mike clenched the arms of the chair. His heart, which had been close to resting mode, had ramped up as an infusion of adrenaline pumped through. He was careful to keep his hand off the pistol by his side. Just because it could be the murderous Tim didn’t necessarily mean it was. There was a better chance it was the stoner Trip going through the garbage looking for discarded candy. He stood slowly, wincing at the pain as his knees protested the movement. His muscles were stiff; if he had to spring into action right now, it was more likely he’d fall over from the effort.
Mike slowly and cautiously moved to the side of the window, hoping he’d be able to see something in the inky blackness. He knew enough not to press his face up against the glass because that was sure to be the time that whatever was on the other side would squash its grotesque, distorted figure up against the other side, and Mike wasn’t sure just how much juice he could force through his ticker before it protested the abuse. He needn’t have worried. He spun as the door handle to the cabin began to creak; someone was trying to open the door. Mike’s hand immediately went down to his holster. He pulled the pistol and thumbed the safety off. Inside, outside, he still couldn’t see shit, and he was hesitant to shoot anything he couldn’t see. A safety feature his father had drilled into him from the first time he’d picked up a gun, and then the Marine Corps had reiterated.
If it was Tim, he didn’t want to give the murderous bastard warning that he was about to get shot, but he also didn’t want to put one in Mrs. Bennilli if she was coming to borrow some sugar. Well, that doesn’t make much sense now, does it, Mike. He berated his thought process. She’s more likely to have sugar in her RV than vacationers in a rental cabin are. The nob twisted more; Mike was acutely aware of the mechanism within the lock beginning to move. Did I not lock the fucking thing? Are you kidding me? Security 101, Talbot! All of the shouting was done securely within his mind. A soft glow outlined the door in its entirety as it was slowly pushed open. Mike was confident that the next thing he would see would be the glint of a red-stained blade.
He sensed movement off to his left, inside the cabin. What had dangerously been building up could have turned tragic, and BT must have known that on some level. “Freeze!” he shouted. Mike was so stunned he nearly followed the command. The door swung the rest of the way open. The light from the phone inside the outstretched hand illuminated Paul’s bloodied, battered, and bruised face. Tears had dug channels through the grime.
“Paul?” BT asked. The man stumbled the rest of the way in. Mike quickly holstered his gun and rushed over to keep him from completely falling over. He helped Paul over to the couch; BT went to the door and looked for Errin. Linda came out with a candle and had lit two more by the time Mike got Paul situated.
“Holy shit,” Mike said when he could see more of Paul. The man looked as if he’d been in a fight with a blender and had lost. His shirt was shredded, and his pants had rips throughout the entirety of them. Blood had poured from the dozens of wounds and solidified. Linda immediately went into nurse mode, going back to her room and grabbing her bag.
“I’m going to cut his clothes off; you’re going to have to help me reposition him. Okay?” she asked.
“I’m with you,” Mike responded. He’d been through enough combat injury evacs to know the basics. He wished it was knowledge he’d never had to become familiar with, but if wishes were candies and nuts and all that horseshit.
“A lot of blood,” Linda said, “but most of these wounds look superficial. Some are going to need stitches.”
Without leaving the doorframe, BT asked her if she knew what happened.
“Wasn’t a knife attack, if that’s what you’re asking. The skin is ripped, not sliced; looks more like an animal. Not a big cat, though. Mike, roll him away. I should be able to pull his clothes free now.”
Tracy had heard the commotion and was in the den with the rest of them. “Is that Paul?” she said, confirming the answer herself as she got closer. “Errin?” she asked. BT had closed and latched the door.
“Don’t know," he told her.
Paul’s breathing was labored; each ragged breath seemed to cause him a great deal of pain.
“I think he’s got a few broken ribs. We’re going to have to be careful and make sure he hasn’t or won’t nick a lung. If that happens, there’s a good chance he could drown in his own blood.”
“Sucking chest wound,” Mike said from seven thousand five hundred miles west of Alaska.
“That would have to do more with trauma being introduced from outside; this is internal, but basically the same end result,” Linda said. Mike didn’t hear her words as he remembered Private Daniels bleeding out in his arms from the two 7.62*39 rounds he’d taken to the chest.
“Mike!” Linda had to shout. “I need the alcohol!”
It was Tracy that ran to the bathroom to grab it while Mike came out of his fog. Once Linda had done a decent job of cleaning off most of the dried blood, she began to sew up the worst of the wounds.
“Could that have happened falling into a ravine?” BT was looking over.
“Are you looking at the same thing I am?” she asked.
“Could a dog have done that? A wolf, maybe?” Tracy asked.
“I’d think we’d see more bite wounds, but I don’t know. We very rarely see animal attacks in the ER. Almost everything I see is the result of human stupidity or cruelty.”
Mike stood and walked away. His hands were shaking; he hoped nobody had seen, but he wasn’t confident in that fact. His bouts of PTSD struck without warning, regardless of any situation he found himself in. He was once at the theater with his kids, watching the latest Disney offering when an attack had hit. It had taken everything he possessed to stay until the end. The drive home had been a white-knuckle affair. He’d walked in the front door; Tracy had seen how pale his face was before he walked out to the backyard. He’d sat on a lawn chair for three hours, his bowed head in his hands. Once the episode had subsided, he had talked to his wife; she’d convinced him that seeking professional help might be for the best. The only problem was his therapist was more concerned with medicating the symptoms away as opposed to getting to the root of the problem and wrenching it free from his psyche. He’d taken the medications for close to two months before deciding that suffering through the effects of the disorder was better than the non-life he led as the zombie-like person the drug made him into.
“You okay?” BT asked. He’d seen Mike spiral enough times to know what was happening.
“I will be.” Mike had a death grip on his hands, willing them to stop their betrayal.
“I’ve got the worst of him sewn up, the ribs bandaged, but he’s going to need antibiotics. Whatever caused those wounds, there’s a good chance it could lead to an infection.” Linda stood up. The sun was beginning its climb, but with the thick ash swirling around, it wasn’t going to get much brighter than twilight.
“Should we wake him up? Find out what did this?”
“Normally, I’d say no, that he needs his rest, but finding out where Errin is and if she needs help is paramount.”
Mike noted that Linda used if she needs help. As far as he was concerned, if wasn’t part of the equation. If she were all right she would have been with her husband. It was likely when they mounted a search it would be for the recovery of a body, and even that was unlikely if they’d both encountered the same animal. They’d be looking for a blood trail and then, at best, a measure of security. Not revenge; couldn’t fault a predator for grabbing a meal. They wouldn't see their actions as good or evil, only necessary.
“We still have the same problem we had yesterday. If we go out to look for her,” Mike said, “I hate to say it, but one of us needs to stay behind.”
“Are you going to tell the women they can’t defend themselves?” BT said.
“My wife has shot a gun once, and she made me aim for her, whatever that means. She missed a pumpkin with a shotgun from twenty feet. And your wife, having seen what guns can do, is about as anti-gun as they come. I’m not sure she’d pick one up if she had to. We’re potentially dealing with a murderer and an apex animal, black bear, grizzly, maybe? I don’t know.”
“And you’re going to go against one of those things with your pea shooting 380? All that’s going to do is piss it off. Whatever it is.”
“I’ll get Trip’s rifle.”
“Knowing that man, it’s probably a pellet gun.”
“We should let everyone know what’s going on. Maybe there are antibiotics in the main cabin, or Mrs. Bennilli has some.”
BT knocked on Mrs. B’s door. She answered, holding a large kitchen knife. She eyed him suspiciously.
“It’s me, Mrs. Bennilli.”
“I know who you are.” Though she didn’t put the knife down. “What do you want?”
“What do you think we want?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know. People get strange when faced with uncertain times. You could be here to ravage me or steal all my digestive biscuits.”
“Eww on both counts,” Mike mumbled.
“No one is here to steal your cookies or anything else reprehensible.” BT couldn’t even say it as he looked at Mrs. Bennilli, who was once again, or still, dressed all in black from head to toe. The only thing showing besides her face were her hands. “Just a warning, there appears to be a bear around. If you go anywhere, just be aware.”
“Are we done?” she asked as she began to close the door.
“Do you have any antibiotics?” BT asked as she locked the door.
“She’s a fun one. If the world gets so desperate that I feel the need to ravage her, I would greatly appreciate you putting me down like a rabid raccoon,” Mike said as they headed to the office.
BT shuddered.
“Halt!” Trip stepped outside and pointed a pool noodle at them.
“What the hell is going on?” BT was exasperated.
“Can’t be too careful.” Trip made motions to render his noodle safe, then leaned it up against the wall.
“Trip, I wanted to see if I could borrow your rifle. Unless that was what you had stuffed down your pants,” Mike said.
“And we need to see if you have any antibiotics. Paul was attacked by something, most likely a bear,” BT added.
“The campgrounds are not responsible for the actions of the wildlife. He can’t sue.”
“This isn’t about a lawsuit; we’re trying to make sure he doesn’t get an infection,” BT said.
Trip eyed him warily. “Okay, come on in. I used to have a large fish tank.”
Mike wasn’t sure where to put that last piece of useless information until Trip clarified and handed him a bottle of Fish and Bird Antibiotics.
“What are we supposed to do with this?” Mike asked.
“No, no, this is great. Linda will have to adjust the dosage, but it’s the same stuff people use,” BT said.
Trip came out from behind the counter with the rifle in his hands.
“Whoa, a Weatherby Vanguard bolt action with a Leupold scope. Nice set up. And yet you confront us with a pool noodle?” He pulled the bolt open to make sure it wasn’t loaded.
“I’m a fourth-degree black belt in karate. You have no idea the damage I could do with a pool noodle.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Stephanie came down a short hallway. She was covered in a layer of sweat, wiping the back of her neck with a towel. “He took down a man that was trying to mug me. Did it with a dish towel, didn't you, sweetheart. It was a sight.”
Mike honestly couldn’t tell if they were messing with him or not. Before he could ask, Trip placed a box with some ammunition on the counter.
“30.06. That’ll get a bear’s attention,” Mike said as he loaded the firearm.
The small bell jingled as Tracy rushed in. “He’s waking up.”
“I’ll get this back to you.” Mike turned and headed out with BT.
“He seems like a nice guy; who is he?” Trip asked Stephanie.