Chris Pourteau - Tails of the Apocalypse

“Never mind,” I say. “Do what you want.”

“Get the hell out of here, Anya,” Jase says, irritated. “I’ve got work to do. Unlike you.”

Anger fuels my need to get away. I’m mad that Jase has dismissed my concerns. Fear moves my feet. I’m afraid he might be right, that the bad feelings roiling in my gut might be a symptom of the chaos in my head. I don’t know what to trust and what to ignore anymore.

So I leave the camp, because alone, I can deal with it. Alone, I can let it knock me down like an angry gust of wind. I can wait until it passes, until I can rise up from it and see again. Until I can find my feet and my way again.

Dusk is settling in and a chilly wind has kicked up, chasing the day’s heat away. It’s a portent of what’s to come, I’m sure of it. Storms are always worse than expected. They’re unpredictable and violent, filled with fury. At least this time there’s some warning.

Despite my stiff muscles and fatigue, I find a steady stride through the woods as the rabbit settles into my stomach. I run quietly, my ears alert to danger in its many forms. There are hunters in the forest, and not just the human kind.

I make my way north to the foothills, where I know I can find safety. The clan will probably head the same direction. I’ll be able to find them easily enough if I want to, after the storm passes.

When I reach the hills, my jog slows and my ascent becomes a fight for every step, every handhold. I stop and rest more often than I should, but the energy given to me by the meager meal is almost spent. Thunder rolls like drums in the distance, and the cold wind carries a bite now. I shiver as I push on toward a place I know—a cleft in a rock face nearby, where I’ll be able to take shelter from the storm.

I’m nearly there when I hear the clatter of loose gravel behind me. Without looking, I know—an Icarite hunter is trailing me. Sometimes, no matter how careful I am, they find me.

He’s a damn fool for being out at night with the storm approaching. He must be inexperienced, with no idea what he’s in for. I could find a way to ambush him, but I don’t need to. The storm will do that for me.

I just need to run.

Adrenaline surges, and my fatigue dissolves. In the growing darkness, I change direction, heading further up the slope. I duck behind rocks, zigzag through trees and scrub to throw him off my trail. The wind’s fury intensifies as I climb. Needles of ice prick my skin. Flashes of lightning turn the night to day, revealing my position. This storm wants me, but I refuse to let it have me. Perhaps an Icarite sacrifice will appease its hunger.

I stop for a brief moment to catch my breath. I listen, but the shrieking gale is all I can hear.

Then I notice a glow in the distance. My heart drops. Fire consumes the forest, whipped to a frenzy by the winds. I understand now why the hunter is here.

My premonition has come true. Flamers have found my clan. The demon is free.

The storm lets loose all its rage. Is it punishing me for escaping the wrath of the fire? The wind knocks me to the ground as the clouds break open, unleashing a stinging downpour of icy rain. It hammers my body against the mountainside. Torrents rush down the slope, threatening to wash me away. I have to find cover. I scramble over rain-slick rocks and muddied ground, with water surging around my feet. I grab at anything I can to keep me anchored to the earth. I find a pocket under a tumble of boulders from an ancient rockslide and climb inside, shivering with cold as the driving sleet peppers the rock face. The storm blows in behind me, pursuing me, lashing at my back and legs. To escape it, I scramble deeper into the hole.

It takes me a moment to realize the pocket is actually a small tunnel that leads upward. I hesitate to crawl further in. An animal lives here—I can smell it. There’s the scent of old rot, and a pungent, musky odor.

The wind and sleet pummel the outside of the cave. Lightning cracks the air. I flinch, fighting back panic. My mind races through the possibilities of what animal might live here. I’ve faced predators in the forest and on the grassland—wolves, big cats, even bears.

Confronting any of these predators in a den terrifies me, but I have nowhere else to go. If I go back outside, the raging storm will kill me. If I stay in the tunnel, the cold and wet will pull the last bit of heat from my body and I’ll die of exposure. I’ve survived worse storms, but not when I’m exhausted, underfed, and weak.

I crawl a few more inches in. The air feels warmer. I’ll take my chances.

It’s pitch black inside. Lightning flashes don’t show me enough of the cave to ease my fears. But I feel my way along and find a dry floor covered with dirt and leaves. I huddle against the cave wall and close my eyes so my ears will open wider.

There are clicking and popping noises, followed by a series of huffs. Something grumbles low in its throat.

Bear.

My pulse races, and I weigh my fear of this creature against my fear of the storm. Maybe if I sit still enough, if I don’t act threatening in any way, it’ll leave me alone until the storm moves on and I can get out.

I don’t mean to trespass , I think to the darkness. I’m just afraid.

I curl up tight and press into the wall, shivering. I can’t see the bear, but I know it sees me. I hear it breathing. So close I can almost feel its breath across the hairs of my arm. Or maybe that’s my fear brushing against me.

Every time I shift the slightest bit, the bear huffs. But it doesn’t attack. Maybe it’s just as afraid of me. Or maybe it understands I’m only looking for shelter.

I try to focus on the warmth in the cave; it’s a welcome relief. Gradually I relax, and my shivering stops. I fight to stay awake, as if that will somehow protect me if the bear chooses to attack. But soon I surrender to exhaustion, and the wailing storm invades my dreams.

When I open my eyes, I forget for a moment where I am. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I’m still curled up, my muscles stiff with an ache that reaches into my bones. My head feels thick and cloudy, and sparks of light fill my vision. The kaleidoscope of colors again, the beautiful disease.

I blink and clear my eyes. The storm has spent itself. Daylight has eased into the small space. Then I remember the bear and my pulse quickens.

From the opposite wall, I see it now, watching me with dark, round eyes. It’s close enough to reach out and touch. Its breath smells of death. I’m afraid to move.

The bear huffs once and wags its head as if to say, you’re a sad sight .

“Sit up, child,” it says.

I blink and stare. The bear didn’t speak. The disease is making me hear things that aren’t real. I slowly right myself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain shooting through my body.

“The demon has worn itself out,” it says.

I shake my head, as if the effort will somehow resettle my infected brain properly. I look around and see a small mound, now decayed, only fur wrapped around protruding bones. A dead cub. A steel arrow juts out of its side. I recognize that arrow; it’s not one of ours. Her cub was killed by an Icarite hunter.

She leans toward me, thrusting her nose in my face and over my body, exploring me by smell. Her warm breath blows across my skin and raises the hairs on my neck; it was her breath before, after all. I pull my knees up to my chest and close my eyes. Pressing myself into the wall, I wait for claws to rake me, or teeth to sink into my flesh. If Gunther finds my body, I wonder, will he mourn or rejoice?

Instead, a warm tongue washes my face. I open my eyes and meet the bear’s dark, appraising gaze.