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Exasperation surged, pushing out the fright. Part of her wanted to just leave them out there, let them slug it out or do whatever else their manly little hearts pleased, but if she could possibly get some sleep, even just ten minutes, she’d rather do that than listen to them argue.
Growling to herself, she pulled herself free of the sleeping bag. She didn’t want to turn on the camp light, because it was too bright, so she grabbed the flannel shirt she’d pulled off and draped it over the flashlight before she turned it on. There—that was just about right. She had enough dim light to see what she was doing, but her senses weren’t being assaulted by so much light that it would overwhelm what little chance she had of getting some sleep that night.
She stomped her feet into her boots, tied the laces. Then she dragged on her coat, because even though the weather was mild for November, it was still November, she was still in Montana, and the mountain air at night was cold. Swiftly she unzipped the tent flap, then debated for about two seconds on whether or not to get the rifle or the pistol. The pistol was more convenient. The rifle packed more power. She got the rifle.
For reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she turned off the flashlight. She gripped it in her left hand, and the rifle in her right, and ducked out of the tent.
Standing there, both of the other tents were to her left, and so were the sounds of argument. She stood a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness again, because even the dim light she’d allowed from the flashlight had been enough to destroy her night vision. When she could make out dim outlines again, she headed toward the voices.
Lightning glowed overhead, outlining a towering mountain of clouds, and thunder rumbled. The storm blew its breath ahead of it, as if to clear its path, and the wind whipped her hair around her head. She passed Chad’s tent; it was dark, but there was a light on in Davis’s. The voices weren’t coming from there, though, they were coming from the direction of the cook camp … not as far away as that, but in the trees.
A few fat raindrops splatted on her head, on the ground around her. Great. She could turn around and get her rain slicker, or she could try to break up the argument and get everyone back in their tents before the real rain got here. She chose to plow ahead, on the theory that the sooner she cooled things down, the better. If she delayed, the situation might escalate to actual fist-swinging.
Another flash of lightning, this time closer, thunder booming right on its heels. In the corral, the horses began moving around, neighing anxiously. Samson didn’t normally act up during a storm, but she didn’t know how the new horses would react; storms sounded different up in the mountains than in the valleys. This high up, they were closer to the heart of the storm; the lightning was brighter, the thunder boomed and echoed as if it was right on top of them. After she got the humans settled down, she’d see what she could do about settling down the horses.
She skirted Davis’s tent, and through the trees saw a light. Yet another flash of lightning briefly illuminated the two men, but neither of them were paying any attention to either the weather or their surroundings. She stomped toward them.
“—steal from me!” she heard Davis say, his tone low and vicious.
“Hey!” she yelled, and turned on her flashlight so they could see her, though the lightning aided her with another white-hot blast. “Damn it, put this on hold until tomorrow!”
Davis turned toward her, his jaw set. “Fuck that—” he began, then the night was split by a sharp crack that cut off his words, and the crack itself was swallowed by a tremendous crash of lightning that split open the heavens and let all the pent-up water come pouring down on them in a solid sheet.
Davis staggered back, then fell. Her flashlight beam cut through the thick veil of rain, played over him, and she saw the awkward, boneless position of his body. He wasn’t moving. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t moving. In the next second she swung the flashlight back toward Chad just as he pointed a pistol at her. One of the horses gave a shrill, panicked scream; his hand jerked, and he fired.
Chapter Ten
Angie dived to her left, hitting the ground hard and rolling as she desperately thumbed the switch on the flashlight, then kept on rolling. She tried to tuck the rifle against her body but it caught on something and tore loose from her grip. She didn’t stop rolling, just left the rifle there on the ground because if she stopped she was dead. More shots came, so fast the booming cracks were right on top of each other. The blasts of lightning would reveal her position, she had to get behind a tree, something—
Another white-hot flash, and the earth shuddered as the lightning bolt went to ground somewhere nearby. The thunder was deafening. In that ungodly light she saw Chad, pistol still in his hand, but he was turned in the direction of the tents and didn’t see her on the ground off to his right side. The horses were raising hell in the corral; it sounded as if they were trying to tear it down. Chad moved forward, swinging a flashlight from side to side, trying to find her. With nowhere to go, unable to reach cover, Angie simply buried her face in the wet ground and stayed still, praying, hoping the heavy rain would obscure his sight enough.
The rain pounded on her with a force that felt like a thousand tiny hammers. The earth was churned into instant mud, rivulets of water becoming streams that gushed down the side of the mountain.
Mentally Angie grappled with what had just happened, trying to make the last thirty seconds fit into her conception of reality. This couldn’t have happened. Chad had not shot Davis, had not shot at her. Why would he? What had happened, what had she missed?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Chad move past her position, playing the flashlight beam on the tents as if he expected to find her crouched between them. She lifted her head a tiny fraction, just enough that she could see the gleam of the rifle lying in the rain, ten, maybe fifteen feet away, but it might as well be a hundred feet. If she hadn’t dropped the rifle, she’d have him; he was three-quarters turned away from her. But she had dropped the weapon, and if she leaped for it, he’d hear her, and the footing was so sloppy now she wasn’t certain she could make the distance without falling.
One of the horses, probably Samson, was now doing his damnedest to knock down the corral. Chad jerked in that direction, his back now completely toward her, and Angie gathered herself, getting up on her hands and knees, the toes of her boots digging into the mud—
—and another flash of lightning revealed the monster coming out of the trees, a huge black hulk padding forward with a swinging gait, head down, jaws popping with a hideous sound as if it were cracking bones. Chad turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of it, then she heard the choked shriek he gave as he hurled himself toward the horses.
All the blood rushed from her head. She heard a buzzing noise, and even though the lightning kept flashing her vision kind of washed out, as if sh
e were looking at a photograph faded almost beyond perception. She thought she might fall face forward in the mud, helpless, but if she made any movement the bear might see her and charge, so she forced herself to freeze there like a runner in the blocks, waiting for the monster to hurl itself after Chad and seize him in its popping jaws.
Instead, it raised one massive paw and swiped at Davis’s body. It shoved its snout against him, flipped him over. Davis’s legs and arms flopped like a rag doll’s. The bear circled him, bouncing up and down a little on its front paws. From behind the tents came the clatter of poles falling, a sound she’d heard so many times she knew exactly what it was. A rush of hoofs pounding on the ground, one of the horses with a dark form hunched on its back—Chad taking the horses, all of them, and running.
Leaving her alone there with the bear.
For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, she couldn’t force her panic-numbed brain to function. Then, slowly, she began to analyze the situation. The bear was … what … twenty, maybe thirty yards away? A bear didn’t have great eyesight. It had very good hearing and a stupendous sense of smell, but the rain and wind were coming at her from the bear’s direction. It couldn’t smell her. Its attention was on Davis’s body. It couldn’t see all that well anyway, and the rain further shielded her.
Every one of her instincts shrieked at her not to move, not to attract its attention, but she needed that rifle. To get it, she’d have to crawl fifteen feet closer to the bear, and pray it didn’t see her. Slowly, so slowly, she lifted her right hand from the mud and moved it forward. Next was her left knee. Then her left hand, still clutching the flashlight. Right knee. Repeat the process. Slowly, slowly, forcing herself to drag in deep, controlled breaths through her mouth, then silently letting the air ease out of her, not putting any force behind it. If she didn’t make any noise, maybe the bear wouldn’t notice her.
Her hand touched the stock of the rifle. She froze for a moment, making certain the bear was still preoccupied. The almost constant flashes of lightning showed it in a kind of freeze-frame effect as it bit into Davis’s stomach and slung him around with a toss of its powerful head, tearing flesh free and sending his body tumbling. Like a cat with a new toy, the huge bear pounced on the dead man, completely oblivious to the storm crashing around them.
The bear’s back was to her. Now. Angie pulled the rifle toward her. The mud sucked at it, resisted her efforts to lift it. Feverishly, her hands shaking, she tried to wipe the mud away but reality slapped her in the face: She couldn’t fire this rifle until it had been cleaned. The mechanism was too caked with mud.
She almost whimpered, almost collapsed in the mud in despair. Only the thought of the bear doing to her what it was now doing to Davis kept her from dissolving into an unending wail. Silent. She had to be silent.
