Zoo 2

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I'm running for my life.

At least I'm trying to.

My clunky rubber boots keep getting stuck in the fresh snowfall. Fifty-mile-per-hour Arctic winds lash my body like a palm tree in a hurricane. The subzero-weather hooded jumpsuit I'm wearing is more cumbersome than a suit of armor.

Mini-icicles crust my goggles. Not that I could see much through them, anyway. All around me is a wall of white, a vortex of icy gusts and swirling snow. I can't even make out my triple-gloved right hand in front of my face.

But that's because it's tucked into my front pocket, clutching a Glock 17 9mm pistol. My one and only hope of survival.

I keep moving—“stumbling” would be more accurate—as fast as I can. I don't know where the hell I'm going. I just know I have to get there fast. I know I can't stop.

If I do, the seven-hundred-pound female polar bear on my tail will catch me and devour me alive.

But, hey, that's life above the Arctic Circle for you. Never a dull moment. One second you're tossing a net into an icy stream, trying to catch a few fish to feed your family. The next, one of Earth's deadliest predators is trying to kill you.

I glance backward to try to see just how close the bear has gotten. I can't spot her at all, which is even more terrifying. With all the snow swirling around, her milky-white coat makes the perfect camouflage.

But I know the animal is near. I can just feel it.

Sure enough, seconds later, from behind me comes a mighty roar that echoes out across the tundra.

She's closer than I thought!

I push myself to move faster and tighten my grip around the freezing-cold Glock, wishing I had a larger gun. Do I empty my clip at the bear blindly and hope I get lucky? Stop, crouch, wait for her to get nearer, and aim for maximum effect?

Neither sounds promising. So I decide to do both.

Without slowing, I turn sideways and fire four times in her general direction.

Did I hit her? No clue. I'm sure I didn't scare her. Unlike most animals, typical polar bears never get spooked by loud noises. They live in the Arctic, after all. They hear thunderous sounds all the time: rumbling avalanches, shattering glaciers.

But there's nothing typical about this polar bear whatsoever. I didn't provoke her. I didn't wander into her territory. I didn't threaten her young.

None of that matters. She wants me dead.

The reason? HAC. Human-animal conflict. My theory that has helped explain why, for the past half-dozen years, animals everywhere have been waging an all-out war against humanity—and winning. It's why this abominable snow-bear picked up my scent from over a mile away and immediately started charging. I'm a human being and, like every other animal on the planet right now, she has an insatiable craving for human blood.

Another roar booms behind me, revealing the bear's position—even closer now.

I twist to fire off four more rounds. I pray I've hit her, but I don't count on it. With only nine bullets in my clip remaining, I start psyching myself up to turn around, kneel, and take aim.

Okay, Oz,
I think.
You can do this. You can—

I suddenly lose my footing and go tumbling face-first onto the icy ground. It's hard as concrete and jagged as a bed of nails. My gun—
shit!
—goes flying out of my hand and into a snowdrift.

I scramble on all fours and hunt for it desperately, feeling the permafrost beneath me start to tremble from the polar bear's galloping gait.

I could really use that gun right about now.

By the grace of God, I find it just in time. I spin around—right as the bear emerges from the white haze like a speeding train bursting out of a tunnel.

She rears up onto her hind legs, preparing to pounce. I fire four more shots. The first hits the side of her thick skull—but ricochets clean off. The next two miss her completely. The fourth lodges in her shoulder, which only makes her madder.

I shoot twice more, wildly, as I try to roll away, but the bear leaps and lands right on top of me. She chomps down on my snowsuit hood with her mighty jaws, missing my skull by millimeters. She jerks me around like a rag doll. With her razor-sharp claws, she slashes my left arm to shreds.

Pain surges through my limb as I twist and struggle, trying to break free with every ounce of strength I have. Images of Chloe and Eli, my wife and young son, flash through my mind. I can't leave them. I can't die. Not now. Not like this.

I'm still getting tossed around like crazy, but with all the strength I can muster, I shove the tip of my Glock against the bottom of the polar bear's chin, just inches from my own.

I fire my last three shots point-blank.

A mist of hot blood sprays my face as the bullets tear through the behemoth's brain. She stops moving instantly, as if she were a toy and I'd just flipped her off switch. Then all seven hundred pounds of her slump down next to me.

Seconds pass and I begin to catch my breath, relieved beyond belief. Slowly, with all my effort, I reach up and manage to pry my hood from the bear's locked jaw.

I stagger to my feet, instantly light-headed from the adrenaline crash. Or maybe it's the blood loss. My left arm is gushing from easily a dozen lacerations.

Removing the polar-bear-blood-soaked goggles from my face, I survey the massive animal that nearly took my life. Even dead she's a terrifying sight.
Unbelievable
.

I thought my family and I would be safe up here. That's the whole reason we're living in Greenland in the first place, to avoid the sheer hell of constant deadly animal attacks. So much for
that
.

I just have to remind myself: the rest of the world is even worse.

“You could have died
out there, Oz! What the hell were you thinking?”

My wife, Chloe Tousignant, paces the cramped quarters of our tiny galley kitchen, anxiously twisting the cuffs of her thick wool sweater, biting her bottom lip.

Chloe's furious with me, and I don't blame her. But I have to admit, I've forgotten how awfully sexy she looks when she's mad. Even scared or angry, my French-born wife is both the most beautiful and most brilliant woman I've ever met.

“Come on, how many times are you going to ask me that?”

This would be number six, for those of you keeping track at home.

The first was when I came stumbling back inside covered in blood—the polar bear's and my own. The second: when Chloe was helping me clean and dress my wounds. The third was when I went back outside again, the fourth when I returned dragging as much of the carcass as I could. The fifth was while she watched me butcher it. (I
think,
but I was focusing pretty intently on the YouTube video I was watching, via our spotty satellite internet connection:
How to Skin a Bear ~ A Guide for First-Time Hunters.
)

“I just don't understand!” she exclaims. “How could you—”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” I say gently, gesturing to the tiny room right next to us, where our four-year-old son, Eli, is taking a nap.

Chloe frowns and switches to a harsh whisper. “How could you take such a risk? It was completely unnecessary! You know it's prime mating season all across the tundra. The animals are even crazier than normal. And we still have plenty of food left.”

I take a moment to weigh my response.

The reality is, we
don't
have plenty of food left. We've been living in this abandoned Arctic weather station for nearly four months now. Originally settled at Thule Air Base, twenty-five miles away, with President Hardinson and a group of government officials, we had been on our own since they returned to the United States to manage the animal crisis more closely.

Chloe and I had decided to stay. We thought it would be safer. We hoped that living in such a harsh climate, home to fewer wild animals, would mean fewer wild animal
attacks
. And for the most part, it did. It also meant we were left to our own devices.

Yes, Chloe is right that it's prime mating season—because it's late “summer” and, relatively speaking, fairly temperate. But even colder, more brutal weather is just around the corner. Every day I don't go out there and trap a wild caribou or haul in some fresh fish to tide us over through winter threatens our survival.

As I stand over our little propane stove, stirring a gigantic pot of simmering polar bear stew, I decide to keep all of that to myself. Instead, I extend an olive branch.

“You're right, honey. It was pretty dumb of me. I'm sorry.”

Chloe probably knows I'm just trying to play nice. A highly educated scientist, she's well aware of the Arctic's weather patterns. And I can guarantee that, as a deeply devoted mother, she's been keeping a worried eye on our rations. Still, she clearly appreciates my words.

“I'm just glad you brought that gun along,” she says.

“Are you kidding? That thing's like American Express. I never leave my three-room Arctic hut without it.”

Chloe laughs, grateful for a little comic relief. Which makes me feel happy, too. There's no better feeling in the world than being able to make her smile.

She comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. I wince as she brushes against my bad arm, the bloody slash wounds throbbing beneath the bandages.

“Sorry,” she says, backing off. “The pain must be awful.”

It is. But Chloe's got enough on her mind. I don't want her worrying about me.

I turn around to face her. Her concern, her love, her beauty are all too much.

“Not too bad,” I reply. “But maybe you can help me…forget about it for a while?”

She coyly arches an eyebrow. We start to kiss. Before long, things are heating up faster than the polar bear meat cooking behind me.

Until Chloe suddenly stops. She pulls away. “Wait. Oz, we can't.”

I sigh, disappointed. But she's right. Stranded deep inside the Arctic Circle, there's not exactly a corner drugstore we can run to for some condoms or the Pill.

I simply nod and hug her. Tightly.

This isn't a world that either of us would risk bringing new life into.