THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 59

Maybe the hot sauce was a mistake, she thought.

Long way to the outhouse. I guess Gris would warn me if the bear was anywhere near.

Cold. She slipped into her thick flannel shirt and found the sagebrush. The lighter cast a brief glow over the table and stove, and flickered in the dog's eyes. She ruffled her hair and fanned the smoke over her face, then worked her way down. That should do it. She really had to go.

She'd better leave Gris in the cabin, so he wouldn't go charging off into the dark, like he did sometimes. The moon was thin, horns pointed up. She clicked the light and swept it over the thin grass and the rank of lodgepoles, looking for the gleam of eyes. No eyes. She thought about using the coffeecan. No. I might miss. Plus I have to change my tampon. She groped in the cardboard box and slipped one into the pocket of her shirt, then stubbed her feet into clogs. The porch creaked as she stepped off.

She followed the pole fence. It made her feel safer, having something between her and the dark forest. The outhouse seemed to recede, and the darkness to press in on her. There was a nosie, a metallic click. She stopped and started to turn, to swing the light in a circle, when something hit her, a sharp branch, flash of light.

It's the bear, falling down, it's the bear. . .

Cold. Pine needles on skin. She tried to brush them away, and her hand wouldn't move. The bear bit my arm off, she thought. But her fingers, she could feel her fingers. She tried to wiggle them, but her hands wouldn't. . .

"A serious dose," he said. Who said? "About what your friend received."

He lifted her arm and she caught a flash reflected from a blade. He cut her wrist, not deep.

"Way," he said. "Some fresh blood will speed things up."

No, she tried to say, but her lips wouldn't move.

Stop it Gris. Corpse breath. She tried to bat him away, but her arm didn't work. She opened an eye, just a slit. She could see the nose, that huge black rubbery nose she had seen through the window, a foot from her face.

She felt the way you feel in a nightmare, a witness to her predicament but not really involved. The nose receded from her vision. She could feel it press against her jeans at the crotch, and pull back. The bear. It tugged at her down vest. She could hear a faint ripping noise, and the bear sneezed. Feathers spun across her sight, and touched lightly on her face. Then it was prodding her foot.

S'posed to play dead, she thought. No problem.

She could hear Gris, barking, raging. Far off. No, in the cabin.

The bear took a step— she could feel its weight through the ground. It sniffed her hand, licked it. Prodded her wrist, then took her hand into its mouth. The teeth weren't sharp. Slick and blunt, like the handle of a spoon.

It bit her right hand, not hard. She could feel the teeth come together, strange, but it didn't hurt. It opened its mouth and her hand dropped, limp. Wet, then cold.

Then it stood up and woofed.

It jumped right over her, quick like a giant cat, and the hind feet kicked pine needles onto her face. She shut her eye. I wonder what my name is now, she thought? Am I a bear?

There was a a scuffle, something hit the ground hard.

A scream. Mondoo! Mondoo!

What? Oh. Mon Dieu, she thought. My God.

The dark. The dark.

Slim was eating an apple. Crunch, crunch. Stupid, to do that in bed.

Then her body grew huge, precarious, like a wet pillow covered in toilet paper, and her bones fell out of her, sinking into the earth, the clouds, the ice.

No, her Mom was drunk. "Screw you and your lousy coffee," she yelled, and heaved the mug through the window. The glass broke and the pieces hung in the air, circling like little transparent bats. Oh no! Mondoo! Her Mom grabbed a knife out of the drawer and slashed at the rusty screen. Cold air poured in. The pieces of glass squeaked and flew out into the night.

Stink! Now the bear is back. It licked her face, whined. Gris!

She rolled on her side, opened both eyes. The big black thing— the bear —was dragging something under the pole fence. Then it stopped and started gnawing. Mon Dieu.

She could see the blank bulk of the barn, with the dying beam of her light a distorted moon on the boards. And the trap. Close.

She made it to her hands and knees. Started to crawl. Reached the trap. Rested her chin a second on the cold curve of steel. Gris barked.

The bear woofed. Made a standing-up noise.

She heaved herself into the trap, halfway, and screamed for the dog. The bear was coming. She reached blindly and caught something, pulling and kicking at once, struggling over the slick corrugations. Gris came flying into the trap and skidded over her, barging into a metal thing, B-r-r-rang.

The door fell, like a blade, into something soft. The bear's head was in the trap. She scrabbled to the far end, shoving Gris behind her.

The bear didn't move. Knocked out? The door must weigh a hundred pounds. No. The nose twitched. The snout was smeared with blood, and white bits. The eyes opened, blinking, on fury.

It lunged forward, clanging the door in its frame, shoving the trap back, into a tree. The door lifted, a fraction. The bear's snout was closer to her feet. She tucked them up, digging frantically in her pockets.

The lighter.

She fumbled it out, dropped it. Found it. Tried to hold down the tab and spin the wheel, with numb bloody fingers. Shit. Shit.

Yes! Little burning sparkles flew out.

Twin flames flickered in the bear's eyes. It jerked its head back, and the trap lurched. Woofed, and the flame blew out.

She leaned forward, raised the lighter, struck it. Spark, flame.

She let out a shriek.

The bear roared and dug in with its back feet, the door's weight pushing the ears flat as it descended, pinching the snout, the nose, and then slamming down tight.

Quiet. A few precious heartbeats.

Then the bear charged the trap, knocking it halfway over. Again. It spun huge and black around the infernal thing, slapping and raking. Mary screamed, not fear so much as the end of endurance. That uncanny wail, rising and sharp, splitting the world. The bear stopped, shook its head.

The high note went on, on, on, until she ran out of breath.

The bear backed away from the trap, the bad thing with fire inside, a rumble in its throat. The night breeze came up and shifted. The bear's nose twitched.

Quiet, except for the breeze.

It turned, favoring a front paw, and headed toward the scent of fresh blood.