If only they had wanted to eat the dead. She had startedwith the lions, chopping Sy up into pieces to see if they would eat him. It wasa success. But the other ones, the dead ones, they wanted nothing to do with them.The animals wouldn't go near the rotten ones, all except the polar bears. Theydidn't seem to care. They would eat anything.
She didn't know if it was natural or something the meatof the dead had done to them, but the polar bears had become somewhatlethargic, sitting still for long periods of time until something living cametheir way. Then they would spring into action, circling like wolves, trappingtheir prey between their massive white bodies. That's how she had lost one ofthe tigers. She had let it happen; it was natural. Afterwards, she had laindown and cried, cursing whoever had made this happen. In her head, she knewthat this whole situation had been created by man. Some asshole in a labsomewhere had been tinkering with something they shouldn't have, mixing andmatching genes from different bacteria or viruses, splicing DNA... playing Godand unknowingly the devil at the same time.
When she saw the people raise their rifles, she knew whathad to be done.
****
If Blake hadn't been sitting on his ass, he never wouldhave seen the glint of metal in the afternoon sun, but due to his angle, he wasable to spot the flash in time to yell, "Shooter!" at the top of hislungs. He was in time. Just after the others scrambled, spreading out, he sawthe muzzle flash of the gun in the distance. Bits of pavement smacked off theside of his face, coming perilously close to his eye.
The polar bears, as if they were waiting for their cue,sprung into action. Blake couldn't hear the ferocity of their bellows, but hecould feel them. From his seat on the ground, he unslung his rifle and took aimat the spot where the first shot had come from.
He waited amidst the storm as gunfire rang out aroundhim, and the polar bears lashed out at the survivors. Where was it? Where thefuck was it? There. Another quick flash of metal. Blake squeezed the trigger,once, then twice.
He had no time to see what his shots had done, as a whiteblur filled his vision, and then he was pinned to the ground, fighting for hislife underneath the massive weight of a polar bear. He couldn't breathe, but hesaw the creature standing over him, its bloody mouth inches from his face. Hefelt a burn in his shoulder where the creature's powerful claw tore through hisshirt, shredding the flesh there as if it were made of butter.
His rifle was useless, jammed between his body and thebear, pressing uncomfortably into his side. He screamed in pain, and then hefelt hot liquid fill his eyes. He was blind. He lashed out for whatever hecould grab, jamming and poking his fingers wherever he could in the hopes thatsomething would get the bear off of him.
Pain was his world. His breath was coming out in shallowpuffs. Whether that was because of the weight of the bear or because he wasdying, he didn't know. With his left hand, he rammed his fingers into somethingrubbery, and the creature on top of him pummeled him with more swipes. He felthis hand encased in something jagged and vice-like, and then the pain grew evenmore. Then it was over. The full weight of the bear, collapsed upon him, and helay there in the silence, blinded, and bloody, wondering if he was dead.
He decided that he wasn't, because if this was what beingdead was going to be like, he was going to have to get used to a whole hell ofa lot of pain. Blake blinked his eyes, trying to see once again. The painwasn't coming from his face, of that he was certain.
"Get this thing off me!" he yelled, unable tosee or hear if there was anyone left to even hear him. Then he felt movement.His first thought was, "It's one of them." But then he felt the handshook him under the shoulders and pull him backwards. Freed from the weight ofthe polar bear, Blake used his good hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes. Healmost wished he hadn't.
The path where the animals had attacked them was a bloodymess. Mort stood next to him, kneeling on the ground, the claw of his hammerdripping with gore. Blake patted him on the shoulder, feeling as if tears weregoing to come to his eyes. Mort helped Blake to his feet, and in a world ofsilence and pain, they stumbled away from the mess in the path.
The bears lay dead, their pelts laced with holes untilthey resembled bear-shaped Dalmatians with red spots instead of black. The onethat had wrestled with him had its head caved in. Blood dripped from its eyesocket where Blake had managed to hook a finger into it.
As he looked down at the polar bear, he remembered thepain in his hand. When he held it out to look at it, he nearly fainted. Thehand was still there, but it looked nothing like a hand. Instead, it was acrumpled and crushed mass of skin and bone that rained blood onto the path. Itwas bad. He didn't need a doctor to tell him that.
He saw the others gingerly walking. Lou held a rag to hishead, and Blake cold see three horizontal slashes across his left cheek. Theskin between the slashes hung loose, and blood poured from the wound. He waslucky he hadn't lost an eye.
To his left, Katie squeezed off a round from a gun, themuzzle flair flashed bright in his eyes, and he thought it was the mostbeautiful sight he had ever seen. For a moment, he had thought he had lost hissight as well as his hearing. But now he was seeing the glorious sight ofgunfire. Blake turned to see what she was shooting at.
