Sharon Sala - Don't Cry for Me

Finally the sun did him the honor of rising to the occasion, and Quinn went about the business of getting to work.

By midmorning he was on the opposite side of Rebel Ridge, hiking up Greenlee Pass to look for Robert Lane and Wayne Hall, two hikers who were over a day late checking out of the park. He wasn’t expecting problems, but in country this rough, having an accident and no way to get medical attention could mean the difference between life and death. He carried food and first aid, and was in contact with ranger headquarters by two-way radio. The last reported contact with the hikers was at a location just above Greenlee Pass. Since he hadn’t met them on the trail on his way up, it stood to reason they were still ahead of him. Unless they’d done something stupid like diverting off the hiking trail and getting themselves lost, in which case the search would turn to air, horseback and rescue dogs. In the eighteen months since he’d been on the job, they’d only had one such search, which had ended on a happy note. He was hoping that would be the case again.

He’d been walking for almost three hours when he paused at an outcrop to use his binoculars. A careful sweep of the area revealed nothing that alerted him. No smoke. No distress flag. Nothing. He pocketed the binoculars, got a drink of water and continued upward.

Less than a hundred yards later he found the first sign of blood. He would have missed it but for the unusual number of ants swarming on it. After the first sign, he found another and then another. He couldn’t tell if it was human or animal, but either way it wasn’t good. He didn’t want to walk up on an injured animal, but he had no option but to keep following the blood trail upward, in case it was his hikers.

It didn’t take long to find the source. Another hundred yards up and he caught the scent of something dead. A few yards farther he found one of the hikers—or at least part of one. An arm and a foot were missing, along with most of the internal organs.

The sight spun Quinn’s head back to Afghanistan so fast that for a moment he nearly lost it. He grabbed for the dog tags he still wore and held on as if his life depended on it. The metal dug into his palm, and it was that pain that helped him focus.

He turned away from the sight and began looking at the scene, trying to figure out what had happened. There was one backpack about twenty feet up from the body, hanging from a limb. It appeared to have been ripped apart by teeth and claws. There were black bear in the park. This wasn’t good.

When he found claw marks on a tree trunk where the bear had marked its territory, he stopped and stared. The claw marks were nearly ten feet high. That was one damn big bear.

He grabbed his radio and quickly called in to dispatch.

“This is Walker, come in.”

“Go ahead, Walker,” the dispatcher said.

“Found one of the hikers. Dead. Looks like a bear attack. I’ve got claw marks on a tree a good ten feet high.” He gave the GPS coordinates of the body. “I have a blood trail that leads down the mountain, and I’m going back to follow it. We’re still one hiker short. Stands to reason it might be him.”

“Copy that, Walker. Stay safe. Over and out.”

Quinn slipped the rifle strap off his shoulder, took the gun off safety, jacked a shell into the chamber and headed back down the trail.

Now that he knew what he was hunting, all his instincts kicked in. The forest had gone silent—like everything was holding its breath. He stopped, listening. Not even the air was stirring. After a moment he kept moving, following the blood into the trees, keeping his eyes on the ground and his ears tuned to the sounds around him.

About ten yards in, a twig suddenly snapped. He crouched instantly as he swung his rifle toward the sound. A few moments later a raccoon ambled out from under one bush and disappeared just as quickly beneath another one.

Shit. He let out a slow breath and kept moving.

The earth beneath the trees was spongy—covered in dead leaves and pine needles—but it wasn’t the type of ground cover that held prints. It wasn’t until he came upon a place void of leaves that he found his first footprint. It was human. Now that he knew he was trailing a man and not a bear, he started calling out loud. He didn’t know which man was dead and which one had walked away from the bear attack, so he shouted both names.

“Hello! Hello! Robert? Wayne? Where are you?”

He kept shouting as he walked, following blood drops, broken limbs and the occasional footprint. He’d been on the trail for a good twenty minutes before he heard a faint sound. He stopped to listen, then called out again.

“Hello! Robert? Wayne?”

He heard the sound again. It was a faint call for help. His heart skipped a beat.

“Keep yelling! I’m coming,” he shouted, and ran toward the noise.

One moment he was pushing through a thicket of brush, and the next he had to jump to keep from stepping on the body.

The man was lying on his side, covered in dirt and leaves and an abundance of dried blood. One leg had claw marks all the way from thigh to calf, with ants swarming the wounds. When he rolled over onto his back and saw Quinn, he started to cry.

“Thank God, thank God.”

“Are you Robert or Wayne?” Quinn asked.

“I’m Robert Lane. Wayne is… Wayne is…”

Quinn put a hand on his shoulder. “I found him. Just rest easy, man. I’m Quinn Walker with the ranger service. Help is already on the way. Give me a second. I need to let them know I found you.” He took out his two-way.

“Dispatch, this is Walker, over.”

“Go ahead, Walker.”

“I’ve got one alive. I’m sending GPS coordinates. Send me some help, ASAP.”

“Copy that, Walker. Help is on the way.”

Quinn eyed the area carefully, then dropped his backpack and knelt by Robert. He took out his canteen and lifted the man’s head, slowly pouring water into his dry, cracked lips.

Robert grabbed frantically at the water, wanting all of it at once.

“Easy,” Quinn said. “A little bit at a time so you don’t choke, okay?”

Then he poured a little on a rag and wiped some crusted blood from one eye.

Robert groaned.

“Sorry, man,” Quinn said softly, and doused the leg liberally with water, washing off the ants. “Did the bear follow you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened? Why did it attack?”

Robert moaned and then started to cry. “I don’t know. It was coming up the trail toward us. The minute it saw us it charged. We never had a chance. It swiped at me first. I went down, and Wayne grabbed a branch and started screaming and yelling, trying to get the bear’s attention.”

Robert paused, choked on a sob and then broke down and wept.

Quinn let him cry. He knew how it felt to watch a friend die. He gave Robert another drink of water, and finally he was able to finish the story.

“Wayne saved my life. The bear ripped his belly open with one swipe. I heard him scream.” Robert shuddered. “He was screaming and screaming, and then all of a sudden it was over. Wayne was…you know, and the bear was tearing into him like he was starving. I got up and ran. I ran. I ran away and left him like a coward.”

“No. He was already dead,” Quinn said. “Would you have had his sacrifice go for nothing? He did what he did to save your life. It would have been a stupid move not to try and get away, okay?”

Robert nodded, but he was crying again.

“How old are you, Robert?”

“Twenty. Wayne was twenty-two. We’ve been best friends since I was in the sixth grade. Oh, my God, this is going to kill his mom and dad.”

Quinn touched the other man’s forearm. “Death is always a hard thing to face, but it comes to all of us eventually. Just hang in there.”