Tails of the Apocalypse (30 page)

Without realizing it at first, I start counting the bodies. Ten, twelve, twenty…. When I reach thirty-six and find no others, I know some have escaped. There were forty-three in our clan, including me, so six are unaccounted for. A rush of hope fills me, hope that my brother and father are among those who escaped. But I know Bode, lying on his travois and unable to move quickly, would never have been so lucky. I keep looking, and soon I find him—number thirty-seven—burnt and twisted, bone and flesh and leather and wood, all one charred mass.

Emotions I never expected to feel take up arms and clash inside me. Grief and rage and emptiness. Most of all, guilt. If I’d been there … maybe…. But I know I would likely have died alongside Bode and the others. All at once, I miss my father. The knowledge that I will never speak to him again, never hope for acceptance from him again—it all overwhelms me. I miss a man I never felt love for, never thought was important to me.

But now his absence leaves a hole. I wonder if this is how the bear felt when she lost her cub. The emptiness is infinite inside me.

I feel a sudden need to make it up to him somehow—now that it’s too late. I have to do something, show that I’m sorry for not giving myself to him more, for not being there when he might have needed me, for letting Gunther carry the whole burden.

But I don’t know what to do. I have no idea if Gunther is among the dead. The bodies don’t give up their secrets. They’re all blackened and shrunken and warped by the white-hot fire that consumed them. I recognize children from adults only by their size. I know Bode only by the shape of his travois on the ground.

Phantoms emerge from the burnt trees and hiss at me. They point accusing fingers and stare with hate-filled eyes. The cold wind wails in my ears, a lament for the loss of so many lives. Bode cries from his ashes. “Why weren’t you here?” he moans. “Why didn’t you help?”

I turn and run. I put the scorched devastation far behind me. I run back to the only place I can call home, now that home matters. Back to the cave. Back to the bear who is sick, as I am sick. Who is hungry as I am hungry. Maybe I can tend to the bear in a way I never allowed myself to do for my father.

At the base of the mountain, I nearly stumble over a recent kill, maybe a day old. The storm must have chased away the predator before it had a chance to finish its meal. The hindquarters on the young doe are still mostly intact. This is more meat than I’ve eaten in weeks.

I sever the spine with my knife and hoist the hindquarters over my shoulder to take with me to the cave. If the bear will eat, I’ll feed her. Before I get there, though, I need to find a place to make a fire, somewhere away from the bear’s den. There’s always the risk that a fire will draw Icarite hunters when they see the smoke. But the severity of the storm should keep their heads down for a while. I’ll take my chances.

I find a rocky nook in the hillside that gives me some respite from the wind. The temperature has fallen steadily and the clouds have gathered again, turning the sky to steel. I manage to collect some dry tinder, and scrape my flint to spark a flame. Most of the wood I find is still damp, but I toss a few branches on, watching as steam billows up. The wood hisses and pops as it releases moisture. Soon the fire is burning hot, and I arrange the meat on the heated rocks to cook. The fire feels good and chases some of the ache from my muscles.

I don’t hear the Icarite. He just appears on the other side of the boulder. He has no gun, no weapon of any kind that I can see. I jump to my feet and pull my knife, ready to attack. But he does nothing more than eye me curiously and smile.

“Smells good,” he says. “Venison?”

I begin to wonder if he’s a phantom too. Is my diseased mind conjuring this hunter out of my fears? Has he come to seek revenge for the other Icarite’s death in the storm?

“Share your fire with me, Feral.”

I have no choice but to do what he says. He’s too close. If I try to run, he’ll be on top of me in seconds. I’m no match for his size and strength. I might be able to attack with my knife, but I need to catch him off guard. And that’s not going to happen with him standing there, staring at me. Besides, I’m still not convinced he’s real. No Icarite hunter would ask to share a fire with a Feral. Much less a female.

So I cautiously crouch by the glowing stones, my muscles protesting my every move. The Icarite settles himself opposite me, rubbing his palms in the heat of the flames. He squints at the sky.

“Looks like snow,” he says. “Not a good time to be outside the wall.”

“Then why are you?” I try to keep the acid from my voice.

He studies me with a strange gleam in his eye. “Urges,” he says. “Primal urges. They drive me.”

I can only imagine what he means by that, but I don’t like the sound of it. I glance around me, looking for an escape. There’s a space between two rock slabs. If I jump there, the rock might slow him down, give me a chance to run. He can’t grab me without….

“They’re going to wipe out every single one of you,” he says. “They’ve decided you’re too much of a threat.”

I swallow hard, my fear like a rock in my gut. “We’re all dying anyway,” I remind him, as if we’re having a logical discussion. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

A brief smile tugs at his mouth. “Not fast enough. And not all of you are dying. Your children. Some are born healthy.”

That may be the case in other clans, but not mine. Even the children were born with the disease. Now it doesn’t matter. They’re all gone.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The Icarite rises to his feet. “You’d better be on your way,” he says. “Gather your food. They’re almost here.”

Snow starts falling. Heavy, white flakes. The hunter looks up and smiles as if he’s been waiting for it. Before my eyes, he fades into the flurry.

My head pounds in rhythm with my heart. I’m shaking as I try to make sense of what just happened. If he was ever there at all. I’ve never hallucinated like that before. It’s a warning, clearly a warning. Someone is coming. Flamers? Can they navigate the mountainside? More hunters? My chest tightens with dread, but the more I try to control it, the worse the pain in my head grows. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands to my temples, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t, but I can’t wait any longer. I kick dirt on the fire and collect the meat, tucking it inside my shirt. The cooked pieces sting my skin, but I ignore that and start climbing, heading in the direction of the den. The snowfall turns heavy. Between the white squall and the spots clouding my vision, I have to feel my way up the mountainside. Now and then I stop to wipe my eyes and blink away the blurriness. The wet snow soaks my clothes and chills me to the bone, but I press on to the bear’s cave.

Behind me, the sounds of skittering rocks alert me to the Icarite hunters following. They’re still a good ways off, but given my condition, they could be on me quickly, before I know it. I keep climbing, pushing past the ache, willing my muscles to work harder, ignoring the pain in my head.

Then I recognize the shape of the fallen boulders, now slick with snow. I scramble over them into the tunnel. As I catch my breath, the familiar smell of musk comforts me.

A blast shatters a rock outside the tunnel, peppering my back with shards. I clamber all the way inside, hugging the wall opposite the bear. She tenses and huffs, clacks her teeth and snaps her jaw to intimidate me. A fresh wave of fear floods my body. Does she even remember me?

Her black eyes gleam in the dimness. She leans over and sniffs me, her nose pausing at my shirt, where I have the meat tucked away. Her warm breath blows out in a loud snort, and she settles back into her corner. I relax only a little, knowing what’s soon to come from outside.

When I hear the crunch of footsteps, the bear hears it too. Her ears flick forward, then tuck back, and she turns into a dynamo of muscled energy, shooting out of the tunnel with a bellow so loud I can’t keep my own shriek inside me. I’m shocked that a creature so bony and weak can transform into such raw rage. Where did it come from? Its suddenness shakes me to the core.

I hear the screams of the hunters, the primal roar and snarl of the bear, the crunch of bones, cries and pleadings for mercy. But not one shot fired.

Then quiet.

I don’t have to see the aftermath to know what happened. The bear could have done the same to me, but spared me. The thought leaves me awestruck. Is she so far gone that she thinks I’m her child? How does she not recognize me for what I am?

She returns in a few moments, shaking snow off her fur. Her muzzle is smeared with blood. She looks at me and grunts.

“You have food,” she says.

Though I’ve heard her voice before, impossible as it seems, hearing it again startles me. With trembling hands I pull the meat from my shirt and stare at it a moment. My mind is a whirlwind. How can the bear be talking to me? But then again, an Icarite hunter warned me of danger. An Icarite who might never have been there at all.

“Never mind,” she says. “I have plenty to eat now.”

She shuffles outside again. When I hear the sounds of ripping, the snapping of bones and tearing of flesh, I try not to picture it in my mind. But I know the less that remains of the bodies, the safer I’ll be. Eventually I’ll have to go out and bury whatever she doesn’t eat.

While the bear is gone, I eat a little of the cooked meat and feel some energy return. But I’m so tired my eyes won’t stay open. I curl up near the cub’s remains and fall into a restless sleep.

When I wake, the bear hasn’t returned. Cold has seeped into the cave and I can’t stop shivering. I crawl down the tunnel and discover the mouth nearly covered in snow. That means several inches also cover what’s left of the hunters. I’m safe for now, until the unpredictable weather decides to sweep away its white blanket and reveal what the bear has done. Then I’ll have to bury the Icarites’ remains.

I hear her snuffling, and scramble back inside. She follows, shaking the snow from her fur and settling into her spot. It rains on me and makes me even colder.

“A full stomach is a wonderful thing,” she says.

I nod, shuddering at the images her words evoke. Then I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, searching for clarity. She didn’t say that. Bears don’t speak, I remind myself, not really. Do they?

“You don’t have to worry about them,” she tells me. “The snow has hidden them.”

“I know. But not for long.”

The bear blows out a weary breath. “You must be cold.”

“Yes.”

“Lie close to me. I’ll keep you warm.”

I hesitate, worried that this is a trap set by my traitorous mind. Is it deceiving me? Speaking for the bear? If I make one unexpected move, she might kill me as she did the hunters. Maybe getting me to approach the bear is my brain’s way of ending my own suffering.

Maybe I’m okay with that.

I inch closer. She doesn’t huff or growl. She seems to be waiting for me. I advance slowly on hands and knees. In the deepening darkness, I barely make out her eyes, like polished obsidian, watching me. She sighs, deep and rumbling, rolls on her side, and with one paw draws me up against her until I’m snug in her motherly embrace. Her warmth percolates into my body. I close my eyes and sleep again.

When I wake, I can’t breathe. My head pounds and the air in the cave is thick and suffocating. The bear lies still, wheezing. Blackness spots my vision. Gasping, I untangle myself from the bear’s grip and crawl on my belly down to the tunnel’s entrance. It’s completely blocked by snow.

I claw at the wall of ice where the snow met the warmer air of the tunnel. It doesn’t budge. I ram my elbow into it, and with a crunch, it gives way to the softer snow on the other side. I dig and dig, my hands aching and numb from the cold, my head hammering, pulsing in my ears.

Finally, I break through. Struggling against the soft, biting ice, I shove my whole body out into the dazzling white, sucking freezing air into my lungs. I climb on top of the drifts, roll onto my back, and let the cold embrace me until my breathing slows and my pulse drops to its normal rhythm.

I hear a frustrated growl and snow from the hole showers me. The bear shoves past me, panting and grunting. She wobbles, as if the slightest breeze might knock her off her feet.

“Are you okay?” I ask, still hesitant, still wondering if our conversations are real.

Her head sways in my direction. Her eyes are glazed. “Yes. And you?”

“I’m fine now.” I sit up and take in the world now blanketed in white. The forest to the west looks clean now, the snow covering the ugly black smear of the fire.

“You need food,” the bear says. “You’ll feel better if you eat.” She takes a few steps forward, sinks to her belly and stops, as if considering whether the effort is worth it.

I wonder, not for the first time, why she cares so much about me. Like letting me sleep beside her. Defending me against the hunters.

Maybe she needs me as much as I need her.

It’s strange, this feeling of need. I think of my clan, now dead. How have I come to this? How have I lived with a family and never felt this connection? How is it that now, after all this time, I want to feel it, to know it? Inside I see the truth: it’s taken a loss of connection to find it. Perhaps the bear’s loss has forged a similar path for her. Perhaps, in this way, we are also alike.

“There’s still meat,” I remind her. “Enough for both of us.”

She blows a noisy breath through her nose. “You eat. I need to wander.”

Now fear seizes me—that the bear might not come back, that she’s leaving for good, to let her sickness claim her alone. The hole that opened inside me when I saw my father’s blackened remains, aches in my gut like an ulcer.

She casts me a glance. “I won’t go far.” She says it with assurance, as if she knows my thoughts. I’m starting to think she does.

I watch as she plows a lumbering path through the deep snow. When she disappears past the rocks, I go back inside.

Our den is still stuffy, but cold, fresh air has wafted in. I curl up on the floor where the bear has slept. I still feel the lingering warmth of her body. I don’t feel hungry, only tired; a deep, aching fatigue I know will never relent.