THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 60

The bear was eating her face.

She fought. It yelped. No.

Dog. Gris. Sorry, good boy. Sorry.

The dog whimpered and scuttled back toward her. She tried to comfort him, but her arms felt like lead, and her hand—

The bear bit me. She began to remember things. Something hit me. A dart? That voice. He cut my wrist. Then what? The cries of Mon Dieu, and the coughing, the wet sounds, crunches. The bear— it was dragging something under the fence.

Must be dead, she thought. He must be.

I hope he's fucking dead.

She listened: quiet. Even the breeze had died. How long was I out, she wondered? She lowered her head, trying to see through the heavy steel mesh on the end of the trap, and felt dizzy. No moon. Really dark.

She shivered. Can I get the door open, she thought? Do I want to?

Probably not. And no. But she was cold. The rippled steel of the trap radiated chill like refrigerator coils. Was there frost outside?

I could still die here, she thought. Freeze to death. Waiting for help.

"Here Gris, good boy." She drew the dog up close and hugged him with her thighs. Warm. He struggled and then relaxed. "It's okay. Good boy."

She could talk again. Dizzy. She closed her eyes and saw those flickering lights. Must be the stuff. Ketamine. But it's wearing off. I wonder if I'm in shock?

Slim told her about treating for shock, when there was a car crash. That, and the cold, could kill people who weren't badly hurt. She remembered one night when her mom had been fighting with a boyfriend. Not just yelling and shoving.

She'd slipped out of the trailer and crawled underneath. She could hear them stomping and cursing. Then quiet. Then the creak of the bed, the steel frame hitting the back of the trailer, like a hammer.

So cold. She waited 'til it was quiet, then tried to sneak back in, but the door was locked. She ended up in the laundry room, warming her hands at the vent of a dryer. Some roughneck, doing his coveralls for the morning tower, saved her life. She'd spent other nights there, watching the dryers spin, before Mom got sent to Lusk.

She felt that way now, a soft, bewildered creature in a world gone mad.

She must have dozed off. Or passed out. She was slumped against the steel, shivering, with Gris curled at her feet.

"Here Gris, good boy."

He got up with a groan, reluctant, and came to be enfolded. How did he stay so warm? Her hand really ached, a regular throb as if someone was using a ball-peen hammer on it. She noticed a faint light in the end of the trap. Dawn.

She could feel the sun, on the other side of the mountains, lighting the pines, the rocks, the brown earth. She willed it to move faster. Shut her eyes.

Through the mesh of the trap, the pines were black bars against the light.

Still cold. Gris curled in the curve of the trap, as she curled around him. She thought about getting up, to her knees anyhow. But then she'd lose what little heat she had. And she wasn't sure she wanted to look outside.

There were things out there that she didn't want to see.