David jumped off his four-wheeler and had taken ten steps toward the accident scene when he remembered why he stopped in the first place.
The roar from his left side snapped him back into focus. The large female black bear would likely have minded her own business, but Mark’s wreck had her scared and agitated.
“Listen to me,” said David out loud, not taking off his helmet. “I’m not going to hurt your baby, but I need to check on my son.”
In his haste, he hadn’t grabbed his rifle strapped to his machine. Another glance towards Mark and one back to his bike had him conflicted. He started to go for his rifle when Mark groaned.
“Mark, Mark,” he called out and was headed his direction without a conscious decision.
He ran to him with a flash of an elementary school class in New Mexico. People may be taught about hurricane preparedness in Florida or tornado survival in the Midwest, but in this part of New Mexico it was bears, and the first rule is Don’t run!
David could see that Mark was moving more, even at a full run, and he tried to get to a sitting position before falling down again with a scream of pain piercing the mountain valley. David’s mom had always let him ride bikes as a boy but insisted he wear protective boots, pants, a jacket, and always a helmet. Mark had the same. Of course, they were not meant to lessen a tree impact.
David ran towards his son with only a ringing sound in his head, like one might experience being close to a loud explosion. His heavy breath and heartbeat filled his ears but somehow on the inside.
“I’m coming, Mark,” he yelled, “Mark, I’m comi...”
The hit from behind felt like a Mac truck rolled over his back, pinning him facedown in the muddy ditch, only twenty feet from Mark. Large teeth clanked loudly on his helmet, scratching the outside, sliding down like fingernails on a chalkboard, with the first jolt pushing his face visor into the soft mud. David instinctively, or maybe he learned this in school also, pulled his shoulders up to the helmet to protect the back and used his hands to protect the front of his neck.
The bear gnawed at his jacket, shredding his backpack. David had never been this close to a bear and thought the sounds were a mix between a growling dog and a cow in heat. He waited for the first bite or flesh tear from a large claw, looking towards Mark, who was still again. Play dead, David heard in his mind. Play dead! It went against everything he would have thought up on his own, but now it was worth a shot. He lay motionless, face into the ground. The weight on his neck was tremendous, forcing him to take shorter, quicker breaths—not on purpose but it was all he could suck in.
“Oh God, don’t let me die—not here,” he may have said out loud or only thought. “My son needs help.”
His head was foggy, disoriented, and the grunts and snarls seemed far off now, but he couldn’t breathe. The face shield of his helmet cracked under pressure, driving his face into the mud. The first and only other time this happened was in a local rugby match his senior year of high school. Thirty minutes into the second half, he was driven face-first into the mud by an opposing player. The beast of a boy nicknamed “Piledriver,” and a transfer student from England, of all places, landed on him before several more players piled on top. It was scary, even with referees only taking a minute to pull the bodies off. Now there were no referees, no time-outs or forfeits.
He felt the snap of the first rib on his left backside. The second one took his breath and, on the inhale after, filled his lungs with mud and leaves. He tried to cough and exhale the grit, but it wouldn’t come. David looked at his son on the ground, as his father had been. He didn’t get to tell Dean good-bye, and now he wouldn’t get his chance with Mark. He felt sleepy, and his lungs no longer hurt. A sort of peace came over him and a calm voice was telling him, “It’s okay. You can come Home.”
“I’m sorry, my son. I’m so sorry…” He managed to choke the words out loud enough for Mark to hear.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Twenty-seven
Raton Pass, New Mexico
Boom! Boom! The shots seemed miles away, but the pressure on his back was gone—only the sharp pain of snapped ribs remained. He turned his head to see a man with a rifle walking up the road, firing two more shots into the air. Boom! Boom!
David lifted his head, drawing his first breath in over a minute, immediately coughing up thick brown chunks as leaf stems scratched his throat, and yelling out in pain. He had never broken a rib before but had heard the worst part was a sneeze or coughing fit before they fully healed. He was a believer now as he crawled towards Mark, every pull making his ribs scream with a knife-like stabbing pain. He ignored the bear, not seeing where she went and the shooter who he would have no chance of defending against anyway, and reached his goal.
“Mark,” he said lightly, shaking him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m alive, Dad,” he replied, not moving anything but his lips. “Is the bear gone?”
“Yes, I think so…maybe,” he replied, before looking around and seeing it walking back up the road with her cub in tow.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” Mark said. “I was messing around, and all this happened.”
“Where are you hurt?” asked David.
“My chest hit the
