He inched across, his cheek burning with the cold of the granite he pressed against. He came to the section where the ledge disappeared completely. He paused, building up the courage to make the crossing.
Mort lifted his left foot to place it on the other side of the gap. It was at that exact moment that the ledge he stood upon decided to give way. Then he was weightless, and the only thought that crossed his mind was, "I hope it's quick."
But that's not how Mort's luck ran. He plummeted through the air, falling backward, his legs rising up higher than his head. He tried to twist in the air, so he wouldn't land on the back of his head, and he was able to do so just barely. With a deep shush, he plunged into the snowdrift that had formed in the washout. It broke his fall somewhat, certainly enough to keep him from splitting open like a watermelon dropped onto a jagged rock, but it didn't prevent the pain.
His shoulder made contact with the frozen mud of the landslide, and his teeth rattled in his jaw. Worse, he was surrounded by cold snow, and he couldn't breathe. He felt something paw at his head, and he realized he wasn't dead completely, but the thing grabbing ahold of his jacket was.
With his left arm completely useless, he pushed upwards, trying to orient himself in the icy snow. He waved at the arm that gripped his jacket, and his head burst free of the drift while his body splashed snow to his left and right.
The dead thing gnashed at his face, just a few inches away, and he scrambled back in the snow. He spun the shotgun on its strap, so he could grab it with his one good arm. He held it out to the rotten face in front of him, and then he pulled the trigger. Black blood splattered the snow behind the dead thing, half its face disappearing in the blink of an eye.
The echo of the shotgun blast made him deaf for a moment, and then he saw the other dead thing in the pit stirring, its arms flailing in the snow. The shotgun held two rounds, and he still had one to go. He took aim with the shotgun, though the weight of it made his aim shaky at that distance, and he squeezed the trigger. The shotgun bucked in his hand, and it fell to his side, hanging by the strap.
He sat then, at the bottom of the washout, looking above. He heard the crunch of the snow first and figured maybe more dead in the area had come to investigate. He didn't want them plummeting over the side to land on top of him, so he scrambled down the washout, being careful not to slip and fall even further down the slope.
And that's when he realized that the sound of something moving through the snow didn't come from above but from below. He stared between the tree trunks that jutted up from the slanted river bank, unafraid of gravity, their roots holding the whole sloping riverbank together. He saw it then, a hulking shape, black and bumbling. It was coming for him.
He didn't know if it was the same bear or not, but it didn't matter. Gritting his teeth as his shoulder screamed out at him, Mort swam through the snowdrift toward the wrecked pickup truck. With every step, the bear drew closer, moving through the snow almost playfully.
It could have closed the gap on him in no time, but it moved slowly, sluggishly, as if it had been woken from a deep sleep. Mort reached the truck and took one look at the door and the crushed roof of the vehicle. It had rolled a couple of times, and all of the windows had shattered. He knew the door would never open, no matter how hard he pulled. He dove head-first into the truck through the shattered driver's side window.
Mort laid low, his breathing as deep as the pain in his shoulder. He could hear the soft snuffling and lonesome growl of the bear outside. Then the truck rocked as the bear batted at its dented metal frame. Mort screamed a bit, letting out a loose yelp that he would have been embarrassed about if he wasn't in the middle of fearing for his life.
The yelp only served to enrage the bear, and it began bashing on the hood of the truck. It crawled on top of the hood, claws screeching and scrabbling against the metal, and Mort knew the bear wasn't going to leave him alone. The gray light of the sky disappeared, blocked out by the shaggy, black fur of the bear.
He pulled his rifle around as the bear swatted at him, the claws coming inches away from his face, from his throat. He aimed the barrel of the rifle at the bear, but it swatted it out of the way just as he fired. The first shot missed. He retrained the rifle on the bear, gritting his teeth, and he pulled the trigger once more. This shot went home, penetrating the trunk of the bear's body. It groaned in pain but did not relent in its pursuit. Mort pulled the trigger repeatedly, firing until the rifle
