The ground fell away from under his feet, and he threw out an arm to control his fall as he slid over exposed rocks on his way down to a creek bottom. The disturbance of the soil released a loamy smell he usually found welcoming, but that morning it only reminded him of a freshly-turned grave.
“Humph!” He landed at a bad angle which resulted in his knees taking the brunt of the impact. At sixty-five, a lifetime of sports and hunting had left Gerald without much cartilage in the joints. He hadn’t jogged in years, let alone run headlong over rugged terrain.
Bending over, he rested his hands on top of his thighs and took stock of his surroundings. It was shortly after dawn, and a fine mist rose from the aptly named Muddy-Bottom Creek. He’d set out just before first-light, and hadn’t even made it to his usual hunting blind before it happened.
He knew where he was. Gerald had roamed these woods his entire life. First, as a child idolizing his father, and later as an adult with his own kids. He’d inherited the fifty-acre family farm after his dad passed away, and the state land that bordered it expanded his ability to hunt close to home.
That had been Gerald’s only agenda that morning. To go out into the welcoming forest and perhaps bag a young elk to supplement his dwindling food supply, instead of staying home and putting a bullet in his head.
Funny, how having your life threatened by something other than your own hand made you realize how desperately you wanted to live.
Gerald’s wife, two daughters, and one grandson all rested in the ground back on the ranch, beyond the house. The one thing they never had before was a family graveyard, and that week he suddenly found himself in need of one. He spent hours each day learning how hard it was to dig a deep, proper square hole large enough to accommodate a body.
He’d been surrounded by warm, moist dirt scented with a hint of pine, mold, and decay. Gerald couldn’t get it out from under his nails. Distraught with an overwhelming grief, he’d dug the last grave for his youngest daughter without gloves on. He’d relished the pain of the blisters as they formed and burst, a small method of punishment reserved exclusively for the living.
Rocks and loose dirt trickled down the embankment less than ten feet away, and the discreet splashing it created broke through his scattered thoughts. Gasping, Gerald jumped back and twisted around, ignoring the protest from his knees.
“No,” he whispered, when he saw the shadowy, slinking forms of first one, and then two large creatures gathering on the ridge above him.
Backing away from the dark memories as well as the approaching predators, Gerald’s feet became submerged in the cold mountain runoff. He slipped awkwardly over the slimy rocks just below the surface, fighting to stay upright. In spite of being off-balance, he brought his rifle around from his shoulder in a practiced motion. He’d already gotten several shots off before his run through the woods. Although he had successfully dropped one of the mountain lions, it didn’t stop the others. In fact, three more had appeared in response and somehow…joined the one that remained, to start the pursuit.
It shouldn’t be happening. Unlike a lion pride in the African Savannah, cougars didn’t hunt in packs, and they sure as hell got spooked when shot at. Attacks at all were rare, and often thwarted by some yelling or thrown objects.
As Gerald watched the muscular cats casually saunter along the edge of the small ravine, matching his pace, he got the distinct feeling the animals were toying with him. That they weren’t afraid.
In a seemingly direct contradiction with the natural order of things, they weren’t backing down.
He had two bullets left.
The backpack containing his snacks, beer, lunch, emergency first aid kit, family photo album, Glock, and a box of ammo was sitting back in a clearing where he’d left it. After hiking for two miles he’d stopped for a short break which included getting his water bottle out and a power bar. As soon as he’d walked away from the bag to relieve his bladder, the first of the cougars stepped in between him and his gear. Almost as if—
“No,” Gerald repeated, that time shaking his head to emphasize his denial. The two cougars lingering above him wouldn’t break eye-contact. The nearest responded to his plea by peeling its lips back to reveal massive fangs as it snarled. It was a primitive call that alluded to things more powerful and unseen. The sound had the desired effect, causing the hair on Gerald’s neck to stand and his bowels to turn to water.
“Haw!” Gerald screamed back as he raised both of his arms and waved them in the air. “Get out of here! Haw! Haw!” When the usual deterrents once again failed to have the anticipated response, he leveled the rifle and took a shot at the nearest cat.
In normal times, the bullets impact dropping the lead cougar would have stopped any further advancement. Of course, Gerald wasn’t living in normal times. There was nothing normal about burying your family, your neighbors, or the pastor from your church. There was nothing normal about a pack of mountain lions stalking a full-sized man who’d already shot and killed one of them. No, there was absolutely nothing normal about that morning, or that week, and the only thing Gerald was certain of was that he didn’t want to die that way. Not like that.
Man was the apex predator. Part of what put him at the top of the food chain was the ability to kill, and the natural instinct most animals had to fear him. Without that fear, the natural balance of things became skewed and distorted and
