Dan Versus Nature (31 page)

“No. Don’t go. I’m done.” I tuck the baby sweater back into my pocket, then scramble down the tree, my cheeks still flaming. “I’m so glad you’re not dead!”

Penelope laughs. “As am I! And I would like to keep it that way. So we should probably get going.” She hands me my sketchbook and looks around. “Any idea which way Hank and Charlie ran?”

“Hank ran that way,” I say, pointing. I swallow. “And the bear chased Charlie that way.” I point in the opposite direction.

“Shit.” Penelope starts jogging in that direction. “Do you think he made it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaky, clutching my sketch pad as I run. “He had a decent head start. But he’s not the fastest runner . . .”

“Right. Of course.” Penelope rubs her cheek. “Well, with any luck, we should be able to catch up to —”

Penelope stops cold, her eyes going wide.

“What?” I say, pulling up beside her.

She holds up a hand. “Don’t. Move,” she mouths.

I hear a crunch of leaves, then the familiar heavy footfalls. Somewhere behind some bushes, the bear snorts and snuffles, its raspy breathing getting closer.

“It’s got our scent,” Penelope whispers.

She slowly squats down, never taking her eyes off the bushes. She feels around on the ground and grabs a big rock.

“When I say ‘run,’” she says, “get the hell out of here. Just go and don’t turn around.”

“Wait, what? What are you going to —”

“Run!” she shouts, firing the rock into the bushes.

The bear grunts, then lets out a savage, pissed-off roar.

“Shit!” I turn and bolt, pumping my arms as hard as I can. “Is it close?” I shout to Penelope. “Is it coming for us?”

But there’s no answer.

I glance over my shoulder. Penelope’s running in the opposite direction, leading the bear away from me.

A second later they’re both out of sight.

And then I hear Penelope scream.

I can’t believe Penelope just saved my life! Without hesitation. That’s twice now that she’s risked her own life to save someone else.

Who does that?

Who the hell is
that
selfless?

I jog aimlessly through the forest, replaying the whole scene in my head — what I could have done differently, how I could have protected her, why I didn’t I try to save her . . .

I stop jogging and look over my shoulder.

Maybe I should go back, see if I can help her.

And get eaten yourself?
Charlie’s voice asks incredulously.
Waste her ultimate sacrifice? Make her death be completely meaningless? Yes, that’s an excellent plan, Daniel.

I need to find Charlie — the real Charlie — and Hank. They’ll know what to do.

I cup my hands around my mouth and scream,
“Haaaaaank! Charlieeeeee!”

I scream and walk, scream and walk, for what seems like hours, until my voice is so hoarse, only a dull whistling rasp escapes my throat. The last gasp of a dying man.

I stumble over to a tree and slide to the ground. I lean my head back.

The adrenaline has long since drained from my system, leaving me totally wiped.

I just need to rest for a minute, figure out what to do next.

I close my eyes. I’ll start planning after I take a quick break. Just for one . . . tiny . . . little . . .

“Psst!”
a voice hisses at me. “Dan. Wake up!”

I jerk my head up. My body is coiled on the cold ground.

I push myself to sitting, shivering. A couple of shaggy shrubs tower in front of me. I don’t remember seeing them before I fell asleep. I rub the grit from the corners of my eyes.

“Who’s there?” I whisper.

“Dan,” a voice calls again. “It’s us.”

Just then both shrubs start tottering closer to me.

“Ahhh!”
I scream, backing up against the tree and raising my sketch pad as a weapon.

“Shhh!” the larger bush commands. “It’s Hank and Charlie.”

I peer at the bushes, my heart pounding.

Holy crap, it
is
them — covered head to toe in leaves, twigs, and dirt.

I clamber to my feet. “Charlie! You’re alive! And you’re
filthy
!”

“True on both counts,” Charlie says, his injured right arm in a stick-and-vine splint. “The camouflage was Hank’s idea. It’s an old hunting trick. And the mud helps to cover our scent.” He looks down at himself. “You’d be surprised what you’re willing to do when you’re trying to hide from a seven-hundred-pound beast with bone-crunching mandibles.”

“Thank God we found you,” Hank says. He looks around, the leaves of his costume swishing. “What about Penelope? Have you seen her at all?”

“Oh my God. Penelope!” It all comes rushing back like a terrible nightmare. I explain what happened — the bear, the rock.

The scream.

“Oh no,” Hank croaks, his twig-shrouded shoulders slumping.

Charlie frowns, sending little cracks through his mud mask. “But you didn’t actually
see
the bear attack her, correct? So you don’t know for certain that she’s”— he clears his throat — “you know.”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t see it. But the bear was so close, and the horrible sound she made —” I choke back my tears. “It should’ve been me!”

I can no longer hold the awful thoughts at bay, the weight of hopelessness, grief, and guilt. My body shudders with heavy sobs. Hank shuffles over and engulfs me in his leafy, mud-slathered arms. And I am undone.

Hank is having me cake myself with mud from the river he and Charlie discovered.

“Now that we know where the river is, we can follow it to the lake,” he says, using a sharpened stone to cut some branches off a bush. “That’s the good news, I guess.”

“There is no good news,” I say, gently patting some sludge around my tender nose.

“We’ll find Penelope,” Hank insists. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s very resourceful.”

“And wily,” Charlie adds, weaving branches together for my costume. He forces a laugh. “If anyone deserves our pity, it’s the bear.”

With Hank and Charlie both occupied, I surreptitiously drip some of the cold mud down the back of my pants. As I’d hoped, it soothes my ass itch quite a bit. Gross but effective.

“Until we have evidence to the contrary,” Hank says, coming over and tying a branch to my arm with a piece of vine, “I think it’s best to assume she’s OK. Maybe lost, maybe frightened, but OK.”

I stare at him. “A bloodcurdling scream isn’t evidence to the contrary?”

“Circumstantial at best,” Charlie says, handing Hank the branches he’s woven together. “Certainly not enough to convict the bear in a court of law. You’d need a body for that. Claw marks. Then you’d have a case. But I’m with Hank here. I think she got away. I mean,
I
escaped and she’s in much better shape than I am.”

I want to believe them, I really do. But that chilling shriek echoes through my head, and I know they’re probably kidding themselves.

Hank and Charlie work their magic, and a few minutes later I look like a soldier fighting in the deepest jungle.

Or a kindergartener wearing the world’s cheapest Halloween costume.

Charlie pulls his camera out from under his shirt, leans into me, and snaps a selfie. “Bush brothers!” he declares, with remarkable cheeriness. Someone is in deep, deep denial.

“OK,” Hank says. “Let’s go find Penelope.”

It’s touch and go for a while, but after about an hour, I manage to lead us to the spot where Penelope beaned the bear.

“She ran this way,” I say, following a trail of broken branches and flattened plants. I’m bracing myself for the absolute worst.

We march along, shouting Penelope’s name as we go, until the trail of busted foliage peters out.

Hank circles the area. “I don’t see any signs of a struggle.”

“That’s positive,” Charlie offers. “I mean, we all saw what happened to that fawn. If Penelope were mauled, there would be some indication: blood, torn clothing, drag marks in the dirt.”

A cold chill rockets up my spine as I spot a ragged piece of cloth fluttering on a nearby branch, a long spray of blood on the ground below.

“You mean, like this?” I whisper, pinching the blood-soaked strip of fabric from the branch.

Hank’s whole dirt-spackled body sags. “Oh, God. Oh no.”

But Charlie is shaking his leaf-covered head. “It’s still just circumstantial. There would be a lot more blood if she were . . . if the bear had . . .”

He puts his mud-caked fist in his mouth, stifling a sob.

I am completely numb. I can’t process the fact that Penelope is dead. It doesn’t make sense. She’s too vibrant and ornery and smart-mouthed to die.

“We’re going to have to pick up the pace,” Hank says when we finally make it back to the river. His voice is weak, weary. “Clint is supposed to meet us at the lake tomorrow morning. Hopefully, Max and Barbara —” The words catch in his throat. “Hopefully, they’ll be there too. We’ll have Clint call in for a search party. Just as long as we get to the lake in time.”

He says this like there is any hope left of finding Penelope alive.

Even though we all know that there’s not.

Charlie grabs Hank’s arm, making him stop. “What about the bear?” he croaks. It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the site of the mauling.

Hank looks at him with concern. “What about it, Charlie?”

“Don’t you feel it might be prudent to perhaps fashion some weapons?” he asks, glancing around with wide eyes. “Spears or cudgels or something, in case the bear tracks us down again?”

Hank looks up at the sinking sun. “I don’t think we have time for that. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it back to the lake by sunrise.” He looks down at his twig-covered body. “We’ll just have to hope that our camouflage is enough to keep us safe.” He gently removes Charlie’s hand from his arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Charlie and I hurry to keep up with a swiftly hobbling Hank, each swish of leaves or snap of a twig making Charlie yip in fear.

“Are you sure we don’t have time to make, like, spears or something?” I ask Hank, huffing as I try to match his long strides. “Or maybe it’s time we went on the offensive,” I suggest, warming to the idea. “If we just kill the bear — if
you
kill it, I mean — we won’t have to worry anymore, right? And then even if we
can’t
find the lake, at least we can stock up on meat and survive until someone —”

Hank stops abruptly.

“You guys want to make weapons?” he snaps, his expression fierce. “Here.” He pulls the sharpened stone from his pocket and slaps it in my palm. “Knock yourselves out.
I’m
going to go find the lake.”

Charlie and I share confused, concerned glances.

“Hank,” I say, as we jog to catch up. “Charlie and I were just trying to help. We’re scared. That’s all.”

“Indeed,” Charlie says. “My sincerest apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you. I realize that you are the adult here and the wilderness expert. I never should have second-guessed you —”

Hank whips around, his jaw clenched. “I am
not
a wilderness expert. I’m not. I know
nothing
about camping.
Nothing
about hunting.
Nothing
about being a parent.
Nothing.
It was all a big lie. OK?”