October Skies (15 page)

 

Ben looked up at them. Broken Wing was absorbed in carving an intricate pattern of criss-crossing lines into the bark of a log. Keats was smoking his pipe silently. Ben wondered how much tobacco the man had brought with him, since he seemed to be always either at the point of filling his pipe or emptying it.

Keats looked his way and took the stem of the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What the hell you scribblin’ ’bout in there anyway? I seen you doin’ it enough. Been meanin’ I gotta ask.’

‘My journal. I . . .’ Ben shrugged self-consciously. ‘I have always aspired to be a writer.’

‘Thought you was a doctor.’

‘I am, at least . . . I was studying anatomy before I changed to psychiatry.’

‘Si—what?’

‘Study of the malaise of the mind. But to be a writer of tales, like Charles Dickens - that’s my dream.’

‘Never heard of ’im.’

The fire in their shelter had died down to little more than a bed of embers, which every now and then sprouted a flickering flame.

‘That’s why I came across to the Americas. To explore the wilderness, to have an adventure to write about.’

Keats chuckled. ‘Reckon you got more ’venture than you bargained for, eh?’

Ben smiled. ‘I console myself with the thought that my journal will turn out to be far more interesting than I could have hoped.’

‘Aye,’ grunted Keats.

‘I think I’ve used enough candle tonight.’

Ben closed the lid of his inkpot, noting as he did that it was approaching half-empty and that he’d need to weaken the mix with some water to let it stretch further. He snuffed out the small candle beside him, instantly throwing the shelter into complete darkness save for the occasional guttering flame from the middle that illuminated them with a staccato amber light.

It was then that they heard the first sound of disturbance. A moan that was a note deeper than the wind. Then they heard the muffled scream of a woman.

‘The hell was that?’ growled Keats.

Another, more intense scream.

‘Come on!’

The flap to their shelter swung open, letting in an icy blast. Keats scrambled out, followed by Broken Wing. Ben reached for his poncho and crawled outside. A gusting wind was carrying small, stinging, powdery granules of ice.

The scream came again.

‘Over amongst them Mormon shelters!’ said Keats, immediately setting off across the clearing, pulling out his hunting knife. Broken Wing followed, instinctively pulling out his tamahakan from a sheath strapped to one thigh.

Ben looked down at his hands.

And what did I bring? A bloody writing pen.

He shook his head, chastising himself for not reaching for his gun, then set off after them.

They scrambled through knee-deep snow, around the huddled mass of oxen baying pitifully in the cold, towards the more congested end of the clearing - almost a village-worth of ramshackle shelters clustered around the only construction that looked remotely like a building: their church.

Ben could see movement in between the shelters. The glow of their communal campfire provided enough light to see a confusing melange of fast-moving silhouettes but nothing he could make sense of yet.

They heard the deep moan, and even Ben’s untrained ears identified what he had heard.

‘Bear!’ shouted Keats. ‘Goddamned bear!’

They saw it, reversing out of a shelter, its powerfully muscular hindquarters back-pedalling, its head and shoulders angrily shaking off the pine branches and snow that had tumbled onto its back as it probed inside through the low entrance.

The shelter shook violently as it pulled out and turned round to face the gathering circle of people. Immediately it reared up on its back legs, bellowing furiously and waving two enormous paws in front of itself, claws protruding and glistening like knife blades.

‘Anyone with a primed gun?’ shouted Keats.

There was a confusion of panicked responses from those gathered. Already a dozen men had emerged, most clasping a rifle, but none, it seemed, loaded and ready to fire.

The night was alive with cries of alarm, dancing half-light from the nearby campfire, shadows darting in fear, and the towering form of the bear in the midst of it all. Ben saw Preston’s tall frame emerge from their church and quickly join the crowd.

‘Who’s the night watch?’ Preston called out.

‘Aye!’ a voice called out from the growing cacophany.

‘Can you fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do so!’

Ben saw a man emerge from the confusion and take several fearful steps towards the bear. He saw the long barrel level horizontally, wavering for only a moment before discharging with a deafening boom amidst a cloud of powder smoke.

The shot missed.

The bear dropped down onto all fours and then, with terrifying speed, charged across the snow towards the man, who remained frozen to the spot with fear. Too late he gathered his wits and turned, but the bear was on him, swiping both legs from beneath him with a casual blow of his forepaw.

The man fell on his front and flipped round onto his back to fend off what he knew was coming, his hands held out before him - a pitifully futile gesture. The bear’s jaw snapped open and closed on one hand. The man’s voice became a scream of terror as the bear swung its muzzle ferociously from side to side, snapping bones and tearing off the man’s hand and forearm, leaving a tattered and ragged stump at the elbow.

The man showed surprising prescience by taking the fleeting opportunity to try and escape as the bear mauled for a moment on its prize. With his one good arm he hurled the spent rifle at the creature, then attempted to pull himself to his feet.

There were screams of encouragement from those gathered.

Short-lived.

The bear again swiped at his legs, and this time collapsed its heavy weight onto his back, driving the wind out of him - more than likely crushing his ribcage. Without any hesitation this time, the bear’s long muzzle closed on the man’s head with a sickening crunch.

It was then that Ben noticed Preston stepping quickly forward from the crowd, a smoking branch in one hand.

‘Get away!’ he roared angrily, charging the last dozen yards forward and poking the smouldering end of the branch into the bear’s flank. It let go of the man’s head and turned to face Preston, roaring with wild rage at the intrusion and swinging a claw at the branch.

Get back, you fool, Ben found himself urging Preston.

‘Away!!!’ shouted Preston, taking a step forward and jabbing the creature in the flank again. The second jab was enough. The bear abandoned the man on the ground who, Ben was surprised to see, was still moving. It advanced on Preston, rearing up on its hind legs and baring teeth red with blood, from which dangled tatters of flesh.

‘Can anyone fire?’ Preston called out over his shoulder, his voice broken with fear.

Ben looked around to see at least half a dozen men frantically and shakily priming their guns with powder and shot.

The bear dropped down on to all fours.

‘Can anyone fire?!’ Preston shouted again, backing up slowly. There were screams of alarm, people begging Preston to turn and run while he still had a chance. But he stood his ground, bending his knees in readiness, holding nothing but a smoking, fragile branch.

Then the bear charged.

One paw swiped aside the pitiful stick. The other swiped across Preston’s chest, hurling him a couple of yards across the snow, where he landed heavily and almost immediately began to stain the snow dark.

The bear was astride Preston when another shot rang out, this time punching the bear heavily in the side. It reared up in rage and agony, losing its balance and tumbling over. It recovered its footing, but the shock of the wound seemed to have been enough to change its agenda. With surprising speed, it raced away on all fours from the baying crowd, out of the pall of light from the fire and into the darkness.

Ben looked around to see where the shot had come from, and saw Keats still squinting down the levelled length of his rifle and a cloud of blue smoke languidly rolling away from the muzzle.

Ben rushed towards Preston, lying on the ground and clutching his side painfully, gasping short little breaths that peppered the snow with dots of blood.

He looked up at Ben and managed to rasp, ‘I’m fine, man. You tend to James first. I’ll wait.’

 

Rose found her easily. She was serving in the convenience store on the camp site.

She had enjoyed the half-hour drive up the twisting mountain road from Blue Valley. It was a steep incline all the way that taxed the hire car’s modest engine so that it whined like a fly in a tin can, but also a spectacular drive with thick firs to her left and a drop to her right, revealing a sweeping and breathtaking picture-postcard vista of a broad valley and a gently winding river.

The camp site, set alongside a small man-made lake, was all but deserted this time of year. Most of the family cabanas were empty, just one or two occupied by hardy folk who obviously enjoyed hiking National Park sites all year round. She imagined that in the middle of summer with a clear blue sky, bathed in welcoming sunlight and alive with smoking barbecue pits and children charging into the crystal-clear lake water, it was the kind of camp that holiday brochures are made for. But right now, with the wan light of autumn and a bland Tupperware sky, abandoned and silent, it looked a somewhat cheerless place.

The door to the convenience store opened with a quaint small-town ding that reminded her of Mr Godsey’s corner shop on Walton’s Mountain. Grace was perched behind the counter in her National Parks Service uniform, stuck into a sudoku puzzle.

She looked up and her weatherworn face creased into a smile.

‘Hey, Rose.’

‘Hi,’ Rose replied. ‘I must have taken down your cell number wrong. I tried to call you.’

‘Problems?’

‘No.’ Rose shrugged. ‘Just getting a bit lonely, I suppose. Jules has shot back to London for a few days, and I’m taking a break from messing around with my cameras.’

Grace put down her paper. ‘How’re things going with your little film?’

‘Very well, I think. I haven’t heard much from him. He sent a text saying he’s already got some good meetings lined up.’

Grace nodded and then leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly. ‘Louise Esterfeld, the Park Manager, asked me about you guys. How the field trip went.’

‘Oh?’

‘Wanted to know if her camp’s going to end up in your film,’ she snorted, ‘whether you guys goin’ to give her an interview and such.’

‘I suppose we could do that if you think it’ll buy us a little good will.’

Grace shook her head. ‘Screw that. Silly woman just wants her face on TV. Anyways, told her you were wanting another trip up into the woods sometime soon.’

Rose smiled coyly and winked. ‘And that’s when we’ll discover a very interesting find?’

Grace nodded. ‘Can’t leave it too much longer, though.’

‘I know.’

It was Jules’s suggestion that they give her a little ‘thank you’ money. There were ways and means of doing that. Rose imagined a proud and hardy woman like Grace would find a wad of notes in a plain brown envelope distasteful - although she could probably well do with it. It had taken no more than a dozen mouse clicks on the internet for Rose to find how little the National Parks Service paid their wardens; a pittance. They seemed to rely more on the dutiful enthusiasm of their staff to keep things running than on a properly managed budget.

Grace leaned back on her stool and pulled a mug out from a shelf beneath the till. ‘Wanna coffee?’

‘Thanks. Look, Grace. I’ve got a couple of days to kill. I thought I’d fill the time with a bit of research and gather up some local flavour for our story.’

The older woman filled the mug from a Thermos flask and placed it on the counter. ‘Comes already with cream and sugar,’ she said.

‘That’s fine, thanks.’

‘What sort of research?’

She passed a steaming mug over the counter to Rose, who took a sip. It was sickeningly sweet. ‘Well, I suppose I could start with the various ghost stories we’ve heard from people in Blue Valley. There do seem to be a lot of them.’

Grace nodded. ‘Yup, and all very different.’

‘But I wonder whether it’s possible to trace their roots back to something that did actually happen.’

‘You’re thinking some of them might have something to do with that find out there?’

Rose nodded. ‘That’s usually the case, though, isn’t it? I mean, maybe some of the people who ended up stuck in those mountains made it down okay, into this town. They’d have stories to tell, possibly some quite gruesome stories . . . particularly if they ended up like that Donner party.’