Читать книгу Grizzly Season - S W Lauden - Страница 6

Chapter One

The kid in the blue cap stood in the alley in Virgil Heights. His older brother, Manny, was right beside him. They both brought their guns up in slow-motion. Greg Salem reached for his weapon, but came up empty handed. The shots rang out, reverberating off the brick walls all around them. Greg tried to duck for cover, but there was nowhere to hide. Two bullets struck his chest. The impact sent him backward onto the pavement. He could hear the brothers laughing as they fired again…and again…

“Wake up, bro!”

Marco shook Greg by both shoulders. His stringy blond hair brushed across Greg’s terror-stricken face. Greg’s fingers dug into the twisted sheets, his teeth gnashing. The murky depths of his rattled mind kept pulling him back under. He clung to the terror and inched himself upward, afraid he might drown if he screamed.

His eyes shot open. Marco was staring down at him.

“You’re kinda freaking me out, bro.”

Greg’s pounding heart brought the real world into sharp focus. He heard birds chirping in the trees outside of the cabin now. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen. It was starting to seem like everything might be all right.

Marco stood up and went for the door.

“Happy birthday, old man. Breakfast will be ready pronto.”

Greg sat up and rubbed the wetness from around his eyes. It could have been sweat, or it could have been tears. It was always hard to tell on mornings like these.

He jumped out of bed like somebody fleeing the scene of a crime. He and Marco weren’t anywhere near the ocean, but Greg always felt better when he wore board shorts. He slipped them on and went into the bathroom.

Greg checked himself in the mirror, running a hand over his fresh buzz cut. His hair was still more blond than gray, but not by much. He massaged his sunburned scalp and studied the bags under his eyes. The tattoos on his arms peeked out from under the sleeves of his T-shirt as he stretched and twisted. He splashed a handful of cold water onto his face and headed for the living room. It had only been a few minutes, but so far his fortieth birthday wasn’t agreeing with him.

Flames danced in the fireplace as Greg took a seat at the table. Marco set a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon down in front of him. He left a syrupy thumbprint behind on the edge of the plate. Marco didn’t seem to notice, but Greg definitely did. It might have killed his appetite if he’d had one to start with.

“Thanks. Did you make coffee?”

“Cool your jets, bro. I’m on it.”

Marco went back to the stove to deal with the boiling water. He’d become a pretty good cook since they started living off the grid in the Angeles National Forest. It gave him something to do with all the manic energy he had after getting sober. His wiry, shirtless body darting around the kitchen was a permanent fixture in the small cabin they’d shared for the last six months.

Greg was amazed at how tired two people could grow of each other in such a short amount of time. It reminded him of when their punk band, Bad Citizen Corporation, used to tour—back when Greg still went by the stage name Fred Despair, and Marco played drums. They were just four young beach kids who took off in a van to conquer the world, fighting over who had to drive and who got to sleep as they hurtled down the highway in the dead of night, bouncing between backwater clubs and living off of less than twenty bucks a day. It surprised him sometimes that his brother Tim was the only one who didn’t make it out alive.

Greg took a bite of bacon, letting the grease coat the inside of his mouth. He knew that all this heavy food should be taking a toll on his body, but the constant hiking kept him lean and mean for his age.

Marco set a steaming mug down on the table in front of him.

“What the hell were you screaming about in there? You scared the crap out of me.”

“It was just a nightmare.”

Just a nightmare. The same one he’d been having a couple times a week since losing his Virgil Heights Police Department badge last year. Even after months at this remote cabin in the mountains, away from the news coverage and constant reminders of the kid he shot—the kid in the blue cap—it kept coming back.

Greg was nervous that the nightmare might never go away, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his roommate.

“Doesn’t take much to scare you these days, Marco.”

“Sounded like there was a raccoon in there with you.”

“You afraid of raccoons now too?”

“Hell yeah. Little bastards are mean.”

Marco wandered off to do the dishes. Greg pushed his plate away and headed into the living room. Every piece of furniture in the cabin had come up the mountain from Greg’s childhood home in North Bay. There was more hunting and fishing gear in the closets than most sporting good stores kept in stock.

He glanced at the family photos that lined the paneled walls. His brother and his dad had both been gone for many years now, but Greg still felt their presence whenever he was up here. Breathing the clean air and wandering around the wide-open spaces reminded him of who he really was, and what really mattered. It took his mind off of the murder and mayhem that followed him around those days like an angry black cloud.

Marco came over to refill his mug. The smell of the fresh coffee brought him back to reality. Greg motioned to the packs leaning against the wall by the front door.

“You ready to get going soon?”

“I don’t know, bro. Seems kind of gnarly.”

“It’s just a week.”

“And a hundred miles.”

“It’ll be good to get out of this little cabin for a while…before I strangle you.”

Greg punched Marco on the shoulder. Marco returned the favor.

“Whatever. It’s your birthday.”

Marco went back to clean up the mess in the kitchen before they left. Greg stepped outside to wait on the porch. The sun poked up behind the mountains to the east; shafts of light danced across the hood of his baby-blue El Camino in the distance. He studied the dents and dings that covered the body, and the long crack that still split the windshield. They’d brought some gear with them to fix her up, but never got around to it. He was beginning to wonder if they ever would, or if it even mattered any more.

A woodpecker hammered out a rhythm nearby. It echoed off the surrounding hills and briefly interrupted the almost constant silence. Greg scanned the pine trees that ringed the cabin on all sides, trying to spot the bird. He was still looking when Marco dragged both packs outside.

“What was that noise?”

“A big scary monster coming to eat you.”

“Hilarious. But seriously—you’re bringing a gun, right?”

“No guns on the trail, Marco. That’s the rule.”

“That’s your rule.”

“And it’s my gun.”

They shimmied into their straps and headed off side by side. Marco had his pet iguana, Godzilla, tucked under one arm like a football. Greg reached up and adjusted his ear buds. The thin black cords flowed from the sides of his head and came together at the back of his tattooed neck. The cable snaked along the outside of his pack and into a smartphone connected to a solar charger. His eyes were on the dirt road ahead of them, as Black Flag kicked into “Rise Above.”

›

“Dude!”

A few hours later, Greg was twenty yards ahead of Marco on the Pacific Crest Trail. It wound through a desolate stretch of the San Bernardino Mountains seventy miles north of LA’s foothill communities. He was sure that his partner was just freaking out about his own shadow again.

There was a steep incline to their right covered in sagebrush and sunbaked rocks. To their left, the trail dropped down to a flat valley floor. A thick stand of pines stood between them and the green fields below. A pungent smell swirled in the air all around them, along with a swarm of annoying little bugs. Greg wiped the sweat from his eyes and was transported back to the cliffs above the tidal pools in the Bay Cities—to the night he saved his best friend Junior and her son Chris from a serial killer.

He was relieved when Marco pulled him back from this flood of unwanted memories.

“Dude! BEARS!”

Greg smelled them before he saw them: a full-grown black bear with two furry cubs tumbling around at her enormous paws. Marco stood behind the imposing ursine trio, slowly backing up the trail. His eyes were bugging out of his head. Greg tried in vain to get his attention.

“Marco, listen to me. They won’t hurt you. Just don’t run—”

“Run” was the only thing Marco heard. He immediately ditched his pack and took off at a sprint in the opposite direction. The sudden commotion spooked the two cubs, and it looked like momma bear was about to give chase. Greg knew that Marco had plenty of experience outrunning middle-aged cops, but bears were a different story. He screamed at the top of his lungs to save his friend’s life: “Hey, bear! Over here!”

The bear rose up on its hind legs, casting a twisted shadow several yards long. It was more than seven feet tall, gnashing its teeth and swiping at the air. Greg tried not to panic. He’d spent whole summers in these mountains as a boy, and had heard every piece of advice about how to deal with bear attacks. His father always told him to make a bunch of noise and jump around, so that’s what he did. It didn’t work.

The bear dropped down to all fours and charged at him. A rippling mass of muscle and fur was on him in a heartbeat. Greg’s only option was to take off toward the valley. The heavy pack helped him keep his balance as he gained momentum, but he couldn’t sustain it. Gravity took his feet out from under him, so he finished the trip down to the tree line by sliding on his back. He bumped and skidded along while brambles and jagged stones tore at his exposed skin. The trees were coming up fast when a gunshot split the air.

It surprised both Greg and the bears. He sprang to his feet and spun around in time to see the momma and two cubs in full retreat up the slope. Greg appreciated that Marco came back to save him, but thought they had agreed on no guns. A second bullet ricocheted off the boulder right beside him before he could think it through. This definitely wasn’t friendly fire. Greg could still hear the piercing ring as he scrambled into the trees.

The ground was covered in pine needles and dappled in sunlight. Thick branches up above brought the temperature down a few crucial degrees. Greg crept from trunk to trunk, keeping his head low and bracing himself for the next shot. The green field on the other side of the trees quickly came into focus.

Greg backed up against an outcropping of boulders, catching his breath before wriggling out of his straps. He unhooked the canteen from the side of his pack. His gaze wandered out across a sea of marijuana plants as he chugged the water.

The third shot split the bark in the tree right behind his head. He tripped over the pack as he turned to flee, heading straight out into the field. He’d taken only a few steps when his foot caught hold of a trip wire. His palms were inches from the ground as a flash of light consumed him. He flew through the air a few feet and hit the ground hard. The Minutemen were half way through “Corona” in his headphones when everything went black.

›

Somebody grunted loudly nearby. Greg tried to open his eyes but the blinding sun was right overhead. His lips were fried, and his tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth. He might have simply passed out again if it weren’t for the putrid smell suffocating him.

Greg tried to roll onto his side, but the rope caught his left wrist. The result was the same for his other arm and both legs. His shirt rode up as he squirmed and tried to wriggle free. Plastic trash bags seared the skin on his lower back, causing his eyes to shoot open. It took a few minutes for him to figure out that he was staked down on a pile of garbage in the middle of a campground. But that still didn’t explain the grunting.

He lifted his head to make sense of the situation. An enormous black bear tore into a pile of garbage only yards away. A slightly smaller bear was further down the mound, sitting on its haunches and ripping a bag apart. Every muscle in Greg’s body tensed as he craned his neck to look for Marco. What he saw instead was a crowd of silent spectators watching his every move. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice as he screamed for help.

Everything went still before the audience gave a collective gasp. They must be seeing what Greg only heard—both bears were making their way toward him to inspect the sudden commotion. The musky smell of filthy fur filled his nostrils as the bears approached. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, trying to go somewhere safe in his mind. It wasn’t long before he bobbed on the ocean in South Bay, waiting to catch a wave.

The crowd laughed as he thrashed and bucked. That’s when the sirens started shrieking. The bear that was gnawing on his shoe froze before darting from the mountain of trash. The second bear followed right behind. Greg gulped for air and tried not to move. He imagined the Virgil Heights Police Chief coming to rescue him once again. But the voice that came crackling through the bullhorn wasn’t familiar at all.

“We really don’t appreciate trespassers up here.”

A murmur started to swell in the crowd. Greg was overwhelmed with exhaustion. He let his head drop and waited for whatever came next.

“Don’t pass out on us, now. I want to pick your brain about a few things.”

Greg brought his head up again. That’s when he spotted the man, perched on a branch, high up in a tree. He wore stiff blue jeans held up by black suspenders. His plaid shirt was tight across his barrel chest, with sleeves straining against bulging arms. The thick stubble on his round face was on the verge of becoming a beard. He was every bit the mountain man, except he spoke like a drunken manager on a corporate team-building retreat.

“I hate to sound like a broken record here, but those bears look pretty hungry.”

“I was out for a hike.” Greg’s voice was gravelly, but thin. The altitude and dehydration were taking their toll. “Where’s my friend?”

“You were by yourself when we found you out in our field. What’s this friend of yours look like?”

It was a relief to know that Marco had gotten away, even if it meant that Greg was on his own. His only hope was that Marco made it back to a phone to call for help. That meant he had to buy some time. The man with the bullhorn started speaking again before Greg could formulate his next lie.

“I suggest you answer before the bears come back.”

“Okay, okay. He’s about six feet tall, heavy-set, with spiky black hair. You couldn’t miss him out here.”

“Liar!”

The word blared through the bullhorn and the crowd started chanting it. They stomped, clapped, and shouted. It went on for several minutes before the siren on the bullhorn began wailing again. Greg heard footsteps thundering toward him across the hard-packed ground. The mob clawed their way up the mound of trash.

They were a filthy group, like farmhands fresh from the fields. The women wore no makeup and kept their hair pulled into long braids that hung down their backs. The men had choppy haircuts and wispy beards, like college-aged camp counselors. Greg guessed that most of them were younger than him by several years, if not decades—all except for the men who hacked the ropes from his hands and feet. They looked more like career criminals enjoying a brief vacation between prison sentences.

The crowd tore his sweat-soaked clothes off and pulled him to the ground. They lifted his naked body overhead, parading him around the garbage heap and out of the makeshift stadium. The man with the bullhorn was waiting when they finally put him down. He was shorter than Greg originally thought, but in better shape than any grandpa pot farmer should be. He swiped the flies away from his face, squinting at Greg as he spoke.

“Care to change your story?”

Greg tried to force a smile. His lips split and bled.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, as long as I get my clothes back.”

“Funny. Let’s see who’s laughing when we toss you down into the pit.”

The man stepped aside to reveal a large hole in the ground. Huge paw prints covered the dirt ramp leading down into the darkness. Greg could just make out a tall stake erected in the center of the subterranean space. He decided to be a little more polite now that he understood what they had in mind. Anything would be better than getting mauled to death, or freezing in the chilly desert night.

He decided to play his last card.

“This is all a misunderstanding. I’m actually a police officer, out on a weekend hike.”

Now it was the other man’s turn to smile.

“We know exactly who you are. We’ve had our eye on you and your sidekick for a while now. Isn’t that right?”

Greg heard a chain rattle. He looked down into the pit where Marco stepped out into a sliver of sunlight. His naked skin glistened as he looked up with an annoyed scowl on his face.

“What the hell’s going on, Marco?”

“Ask that psycho standing next to you.”

Greg spun to face their captor.

“What’s all over him?”

“Honey. It’s like crack for these bears.”

“What the hell is this place?”

“We call it Grizzly Flats. I’m Magnus Ursus.”

Greg never studied Latin, but he thought he knew what that meant.

“Big Bear? Seriously?”

“I prefer Magnus.”

“Mind telling me what my friend is doing down there?”

Greg motioned to the pit. Marco spoke up before Magnus could.

“Dude’s got a screw loose, bro.”

Greg spun to face Magnus, waiting for his answer. Magnus stood up on his toes and waved to a girl in the crowd.

“Ursula, please come over and join us. Now.”

She emerged with a shopping bag and set it at Greg’s feet. Her blue eyes sparkled as she pulled out several honey bottles. Every one of them was shaped like a smiling little bear.

Greg took a step back and almost tumbled into the pit. Magnus grabbed his shoulder to stop him from falling, but Greg spun around behind him. He had his forearm wrapped around the old man’s neck before anybody in the crowd could react.

“Nobody move or he’s a dead man.”

Several of the men inched closer. Magnus brought his hands up to wave them off. Greg thought he could kill the crazy bastard if he had to, but then he and Marco would never get out alive. He dug his heels into the ground at the edge of the pit, tightening his grip around the old man’s windpipe.

“Have one of your men untie my friend.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

The words were barely out of Magnus’s mouth before he pushed back with all of his might. The instant momentum sent them both plunging into the pit. Marco screamed as Greg slammed back-first into the ground. Magnus came crashing into him a second later, knocking the rest of the air from his lungs.

The old man grunted as he rolled onto his side and stood up. Marco took a swing and missed. The old man countered with a straight arm that sent him to the ground. Greg could see the bloodthirsty crowd lining the edges of the pit. He willed himself to breathe as he looked up. Magnus took a step forward and brought his boot hard into the side of Greg’s head. Cheers erupted from up above as Greg’s vision blurred, flickered, and faded.