Ray Gorham - Daunting Days of Winter

Kyle knelt beside him, certain it was only a matter of time before the horse passed on and not willing to abandon him before he took his last breath. Leaning back against an old Ford Taurus on the side of the road, Kyle stroked Garfield’s head, while the animal emitted pitiful noises as his life slowly drained away. Garfield’s eyes closed, but his chest still expanded and contracted weakly, his breaths becoming more and more shallow.

Kyle closed his own eyes and exhaled noisily, the adrenaline draining from his body and leaving him tired, especially after a poor night’s rest. He reflected back to the same time last year. Mid-morning he would be at work, maybe out directing repairs or a new power installation, often in areas not too far from where he currently was. He’d driven this road many times for work or to visit his parents, an easy and scenic four-hour drive on a Friday after school, with most of the sights flying by too quickly to be seen or appreciated. He knew where all the public restrooms were along the way, had stopped for fuel at many of the gas stations, and felt like he could almost do the trip with his eyes closed. In all that time he’d never considered walking it, at least not before September.

Garfield let out a loud snort and jerked his head. Kyle glanced down sympathetically. “Hope there’s a horse heaven my friend, cause you’ve sure earned the right to get in.” The horse’s eyes were open, and he lifted his head and looked around, panicked. Kyle tried to gently force the animal’s head down, but Garfield resisted, fighting against Kyle’s pressure, becoming more and more stressed. Then Garfield tried to scramble to his feet. “What’s…” Kyle began, then heard the growl of the bear again, close.

Kyle leapt to his feet and spun around, drawing his pistol as Garfield thrashed on the ground, his hooves pawing for traction on the asphalt road. The bear was coming from out of the trees a few yards downstream on their side of the river. Kyle fired two quick shots at the animal, then heard the chamber click empty. With the bear just a few feet away, Kyle ejected the magazine and pulled a second one from his pocket, jamming it in quickly, something Sean had insisted the militia members practice until it became second nature. The magazine clicked in, and Kyle worked the action to chamber a round as he skirted around the back of the car, the bear now just steps away, the sound of its claws on the road making Kyle’s blood freeze in his veins.

The bear let out a high-pitched roar as it lunged towards Kyle. Kyle spun and fired into the animal just as it struck him and knocked him backwards onto the ground, then landed on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs. The bear reared back and took a swipe at Kyle’s head with a giant paw, which Kyle was barely able to dodge. The animal, now astride Kyle, had him pinned to the ground as it roared in pain and fury. Kyle shot again as he struggled for breath, virtually pressing the muzzle of his gun against the bear’s chest before pulling the trigger, but it only seemed to make the animal angrier. The bear lunged forward, its jaws gaping wide and aimed for Kyle’s throat. Kyle stuck his left arm in front of his face, and the bear clamped down on it, twisting hard to the side. Kyle fired again but was jerked by the bear, causing him to miss his mark. The agony of the bear’s teeth clamped tightly on his forearm sent unbelievable jolts of pain through Kyle’s whole body.

Kyle screamed when he caught his breath, momentarily startling the animal. With the bear caught off guard, Kyle ignored the pain and used his arm, which was still in the Bear’s mouth, to steady the animal’s head above him while he jabbed the gun against the throat of the animal. He knew he had only a few seconds before the animal overpowered him, and having no desire to be a part of the beast’s food chain, Kyle pulled the trigger in rapid succession, angling the barrel so that the bullets would travel upwards into the animal’s skull.

On the third second shot the animal stiffened, its jaws briefly clenching tighter on Kyle’s arm, then falling slack as the bear slumped forward, landing hard on top of Kyle. Kyle gasped as the full weight of the bear, warm and musky, pressed him flat against the highway. Its fur pressed against Kyle’s face and smelled like an old rug that had been left in the backyard for a summer. Kyle worked his right hand free and fired one more shot into the animal, still fearing it might somehow revive and succeed in separating his head from his shoulders.

Finally confident the bear was, in fact, dead, Kyle lay his gun down and began extracting himself from under the animal. He grabbed the bear’s furry head with his left hand and attempted to pull it to the side, but sharp jolts of pain ran through his arm and forced him to let go. Realizing he only had the use of one arm, Kyle pushed with his good arm while thrusting up with his right leg, rocking the bear’s carcass and sliding out a little each time he rocked the animal.

After numerous attempts, he finally rolled free from under the animal, panting for air and covered in blood. Kyle crawled away from the bear and lay on the road, cradling his left arm while carefully moving each of the fingers on his left hand to see if they still worked. Finding them functional, he carefully removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing a series of puncture wounds on the top and bottom of his arm as well as some deep gouges on his left shoulder.

Garfield had somehow gotten to his feet during the struggle and was breathing hard and wheezing, having staggered away from the bear and towards the river, his legs, like a newborn animal trying to negotiate his first steps, barely strong enough to hold him up. “Be careful, old boy,” Kyle called out as the injured animal descended the bank to the water.

The horse slipped on a boulder and dropped to his front knees, letting out a pitiful moan as he fought unsuccessfully to regain his footing. Kyle stood up, found himself similarly shaky-legged, and slowly made his way to the horse. “Just wait, Garfield,” he implored as he bent to stroke the animal’s head, then descended the slope to the river. Blood covered his hands, arms, and face, and he washed it off before taking a drink, then cupped his hands and scooped some water from the river. He retraced his steps back to the wounded animal and trickled the water onto the horse’s tongue.

Garfield responded to the cold liquid, lapping at it as best he could. Kyle repeated the process until Garfield no longer responded to the water, and he rolled over onto his less injured side and laid his head on the ground, resuming his slow, rhythmic breathing. Kyle walked back to the saddle on the ground and fished out an old undershirt, wrapping it tightly around his arm in an attempt to stem the bleeding. He doctored his various wounds, then followed the trail of blood on the highway back to the dying animal.

Garfield lay immobile on the ground, his chest no longer moving, his limbs still. Kyle rubbed the horse’s nose. “I’m so sorry, friend,” he said as he dropped beside him. “I’m so, so, sorry.” He gazed at the animal in silence, Garfield’s mane fluttering in the wind the only movement.

Kyle returned to where he’d set the saddle and stared down at it. All of his possessions were attached to it, along with some deer meat and a few other food items his father had sent. The next town was over five miles away, with an unknown number of homes along the way. He plopped down, leaned back against the saddle, and reloaded the magazines for his pistol, now uncomfortably short on ammo. He had his backpack, but somewhere along the way, he was going to have to find someone willing to trade a saddle for a duffle bag or, better yet, a bicycle, and hopefully a few other supplies to help him get home. He rested for a long time until, somewhat recovered, he stood up, grabbed the saddle by the horn, hefted it onto his back with a grunt, and once again began the journey home on foot.