The Sentinel (8 page)

If anything, I’ve made it grumpy.

It rears up on its hind legs with a roar and I think it’s about to charge the tent. If it does, I’ll use the gun, but I hope to stop it before it does. I pick up another rock, smaller still, hoping a good grip will give me better accuracy and speed.

I look down at the bear, focusing on its head. Anything else is just going to piss it off. A quick stab of pain is enough to make most bears turn tail and run, especially if they don’t know where it came from. Eyes locked on target, I wind up and let the stone fly, nearly throwing myself over the edge in the process. I’m so distracted by keeping myself from falling over the edge, that I don’t see if my aim is true. But there’s a sharp roar from below and when I regain my footing, the bear is beating a hasty retreat from the strange yellow thing that can bite from a distance.

I realize I can’t get down the way I came. That would take me directly to the fleeing bear. Looking down the cliff, I can see there are plenty of handholds. So, without announcing my presence, I slide over the edge and climb down the wall. Half way down, my arms start to shake. The adrenaline pumping through my body is wearing off and the fatigue from my paddle frenzy is returning. I work my way down a few more feet, look down and see a six-foot drop.

Fuck it
, I think, and jump.

My knees protest when I land, but I manage to stick the landing with nothing more than a grunt.

“Was that the bear?” I hear Jenny ask. She’s quickly shushed.

I walk up to the tent, and know I should let them know the coast is clear, but I can’t help myself. I walk up to the raft, crouch down and shake the text. The muffled squeals nearly make me laugh, but I hold it in and grab the zipper.

As I slowly undo the zipper, I hear a mortified Jenny say, “It’s undoing the zipper!” And a moment later, when the reality of her statement registers, she says, “Bears can’t undo zippers.”

I quickly unzip the hatch, push it open and lean in with a smile. “Nope.”

Jenny and Peach are pressed up against the far side of the raft, clinging to each other. Their horrified faces slowly morph to confusion, to relief and finally to anger.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Jenny shouts, but I can see she’s trying to hide a grin. “You could have told us you weren’t the bear!”

“Could have?” I ask. “Yes. Should have? Maybe.”

Peach hasn’t moved from her position at the back of the raft. “What happened to the bear?”

“Took one look at me and headed for the hills,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“Seriously,” she says.

“I biffed him with a couple of rocks,” I say. “He took off.”

This news doesn’t sit well with Peach.

“What?” I ask.

“Polar bears are persistent,” she says.

Everything I know about polar bears was learned from Discovery Channel specials, while Peach is a bona fide animal expert with reams of wildlife pamphlets and information tucked away in her mind. As her fear returns, all I can think is
shit, shit, shit
.

I turn around and there it is. Two thousand pounds of white furred fury charging toward me. Twin screams rip through the air behind me. A wind kicks up at the same time, billowing my cloak out to the side.

The high-pitched screams coupled with the sudden growth of my cloak surprise the bear. It skids to a stop and rears up. I look up at the bear, feeling its eyes on me, sizing me up.

That’s when the wind fades and the screaming stops.

Suddenly, I’m just a five foot five woman again.

The bear drops back down and charges.

11

I move without thinking, snatching the handgun from my waist, turning it on the bear and firing off a round from the hip. I’ve practiced firing from the hip, years ago, when Dad and I still went to the range; always enjoyed the idea of winning an old fashioned quick draw shootout. But honestly, I always kind of sucked at it. I know now that my bad luck at the range had to do with the targets being fifty feet away. Because a giant bear five feet away is
easy
to hit.

The round strikes the bear’s forehead. It pierces flesh, but ricochets off the top of the bear’s thick skull. The bear stumbles and slips on loose stones, stopping close enough to take a swipe at me. But the pain from the now bleeding wound on its forehead coupled with the earsplitting report of the handgun have sent it running, hopefully for good this time.

I watch it fade from view before turning back to the raft. When I see Peach and Jenny staring at me out of the open hatch, I want to say something funny, but I’m distracted by my trembling hands. Jenny picks up the slack for me.

“Holy fucking Van Helsing!” she shouts with a big grin. She steps out of the tent and wraps her arms around me. I’m lifted off the ground in an ironic bear hug, which if not ended soon might kill me as surely as the actual bear’s embrace would have.

She puts me down and I take several deep breaths, fighting off a faintness that might be from the adrenaline rush of facing down a bear, or from Jenny squeezing the air from my lungs.

Peach looks happy to be alive, but asks, “You didn’t kill it, did you?”

I can’t help but smile. We could have all died violently and been devoured by a polar bear, and her main concern is for the bear’s welfare. At least she’s genuine, I think. “Just gave him something to think about.”

“But you did shoot him?”

“Grazed him,” I say. “He’ll have a cool scar to impress the females come mating season.”

“How do you know it was a
him
?” Jenny asks.

“Was pretty obvious when he stood up,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“You were about to die and took the time to check out his bear junk?” She punches my shoulder and it hurts. “You’re sick, dude.”

I laugh as the last of the adrenaline jitters fade. “Was kind of hard to miss.”

“Hung like a horse?” Jenny says.

I shrug. “Like a bear.”

Feeling some sense of normalcy returning, I tuck the gun back into my waist and ask, “How much were you able to pack up?”

“Everything,” Peach says. She motions to a yellow backpack sitting next to the raft. It’s stuffed full of supplies. I can tell by the color and material that it came with the raft. The “survival” backpack sits next to it, just as full. “And…” she says, “Check this out.”

Peach picks up the raft, which is fairly light now that everything has been taken out of it. I’m not sure what she’s going to do with it, but then Jenny turns her back to the raft and slips her arms through the ruined ballast bags that have been tied together like shoulder straps. It’s awkward and we’ll be seen coming from miles away, which is a blessing and a curse. I’d rather avoid running into McAfee and crew, but I’d also like to be rescued. Plus, this will give us shelter, comfort and the ability to cross short distances of water if need be.

“Genius,” I say. When Peach grins, I know it was her idea. I also know that I’ve become our small group’s leader. Peach thrives on praise from her superiors. It’s always bothered me. I’ve seen her beg for it like a dog. But it’s a positive sign. Means she’ll do what I tell her. And that’s good, because I’m going to be pushing these two to their limits until we’re rescued or dead, starting—

—now.

I pick up the two backpacks, feeling their weight in my hands, and hand the lighter one to Peach. She takes the yellow backpack and puts it over her shoulders. I throw Chase’s dark gray backpack over my shoulder. “We’re on a peninsula, so we’re going to head south to the mainland, and then follow the coast. I’m going to set the pace. I’ll try not to go too fast, but we’re not here because we met on a dating website, so don’t expect a romantic walk along on the beach. The terrain is rough, but clear. If we stay close to the water, it will be fairly even, too. Good enough?”

Peach gives a furtive nod.

Jenny says, “Whatever. I just want to get out of here before Mr. Snuggles comes back.”

“You named the bear that almost ate you, Mr. Snuggles?” Peach says.

Jenny shrugs. “He
was
cute.”

It’s hard for me to not join in, but we need to get serious and I want to reach the
Bliksem
wreck sooner rather than later. If any of the crew made it to shore, I’d prefer to deal with that confrontation before I’m starving, dehydrated and lacking the energy to flip them the bird. I wrap the cloak around me, turn my eyes south and start walking. “Peach, bring up the rear. Keep an eye out for the bear.”

Jenny falls in line behind me.

“The bear?” Peach asks. “You think it will come back?”

“No,” I say, “but I’m not a bear psychologist, so who knows. Better safe than sorry. Should I aim to kill next time?”

When she doesn’t answer, I know the answer is yes. She’d be offended by the act, but could stop worrying about being eaten alive. What I don’t mention is that we are in the land of the polar bear. Odds are good that we’ll run into a few more before we find civilization.

I don’t look back, but I hear two sets of feet behind me. Our expedition is underway.

An hour later, we stop at a one hundred foot tall rise.

“Well,” Jenny says, her face pink and covered in sweat, “this sucks.”

I consider giving a pep talk, but decide to save it for when one of us dies—assuming it’s not me. I start up the hill and Jenny groans.

“Really?” she says. “Not even a quick rest before we head up?”

I continue up, but speak over my shoulder. “Somewhere behind us is a bear that would like to eat you. Every second you stand there, you’re further away from the woman with the gun.”

She starts up the hill after me and says, “Bitch.”

Peach follows in silence.

Despite the hill’s height, the grade is forgiving and the footing is firm. I reach the top in a minute and take a seat. When Jenny reaches the top and sees me sitting, she feigns a half-serious gasp and says, “Double bitch.”

Then she sees what I’m looking at. She sits on a bolder next to mine and says, “What is it?”

Rocks clatter behind us announcing the arrival of Peach. “The
Bliksem
,” she says.

Jenny squints at the smoldering hull in the distance. I hand her the small binoculars. A moment later she says, “Damn. They sank.”

“And burned,” Peach observes.

“Think any of them survived?” Jenny asks.

“Yup,” I say with a confidence that turns both of their heads toward me.

The
Bliksem
sits about one hundred yards out and to our right. Jenny and Peach are so fixed on it that they’ve failed to notice the aberration to our left. I lean back so they can see the smoke drifting up toward the sky. Somewhere to the south, someone has a fire going.

“Think it’s the
Bliksem
’s crew?” Jenny asks.

“We should avoid them,” Peach says.

“We can’t avoid them,” I say. “Whoever they are, they’re in our way. And if it is the
Bliksem
’s crew, we owe them our help.”

“We can’t trust them,” Peach says.

“They might see things the other way around,” I say. “Our ship sank theirs. We have a good amount of supplies. They might have injured. And they’re innocent in this.”

“They were killing whales,” Peach says, a smidge of outrage filling her voice.

But this isn’t up for debate. “And McAfee killed
people
.” I point my finger toward the rising smoke. “We’re going to find out who’s there. If it’s survivors from the
Bliksem
, we’re going to help them.”

“And if it’s McAfee?” Jenny asks.

I strike out toward the smoke and say, “I’ve still got twelve bullets.”

12

Fatigue begins clawing up my legs after an hour of hiking. While the flat stone ground is great for speed and safety, it’s killer on the knees. Every footstep feels like I’ve just kicked a wall. I weigh a buck twenty-five, but Jenny might be double that. The pain on her knees must be unbearable. Peach can’t be much over one hundred pounds, but a quick glance back reveals she’s just as unenthused as me.

Of course, that might be because she expects a polar bear to rush up and snatch her away.

“Are we there yet?” Jenny asks.

I cringe inwardly. I loathe when people start asking that question like it’s funny. I remember an episode of
The Smurfs
where one of them, probably Brainy, annoyingly asked the question over and over. It was supposed to make kids laugh, but it just made me wish Gargamel would catch and kill the little bastards. But when I look back at Jenny’s face and see her discomfort, I realize she’s actually asking the question with no humorous intent.

She’s right to ask, too. I thought we’d reach the source of the smoke long ago, but we haven’t come across anything that looks like a campsite, occupied or abandoned. I pause and search the sky. The pillar of rising smoke is gone. I turn a full three sixty. Nothing. The smoke is gone.

I’m too tired to care and say, “Smoke or no smoke, this is the way we have to go. If we find the source, great. If we don’t, we’ll just keep moving.”

Jenny sighs, but doesn’t complain. As bad as the pain is, none of us wants to die out here.

“But why is it gone?” Peach asks.

“Whoever it was probably moved on,” I say.

“Or died,” Jenny says.

I give her a look that says:
That’s not helpful
.

“What?” she says defiantly, “It’s true.”

A third option tickles the back of my mind, but I’m feeling so lethargic I don’t bother to put much thought into it. I remember days in school like this—staying up late to watch TV or go to a party and then yawning my way through a test that I could have aced otherwise. I shake my head and give my face a few brisk smacks. Getting a B in school didn’t result in someone dying. Out here, we
can’t
make mistakes.

So what was I missing? I treat it like a multiple choice.

Complete this sentence: The people who created the source of the smoke…

1. ؜ …are dead.