Photo by Phoebe Strafford on Unsplash
Two men sat on the ground leaning against a tree, shoulders touching. It was misty, steam rising from the moss.
“It’s still bleeding,” said the man in a camouflage hat holding a rifle. Red liquid glistened between his friend’s fingers that were pressing against his belly. It was hard to tell if it was water or blood.
“Yeah. It’s numb now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to hike out? I should, it wouldn’t take long, I can get some people in a few hours.”
“No, it might come back. You need to keep that gun handy.” He looked at his rifle lying beside him. “I don’t think I can…”
“It was a bear. I think it was a bear. I don’t know but it was big and dark. Brown, or maybe black. It was there, behind you. I’m sure. It had to be. It was big. I didn’t mean to shoot…, I wasn’t… I’m so sorry.”
“You scared him away. That’s good. He would ’a got us both.”
The Autumn leaves were dirty yellow on the forest floor, slippery and wet from the day’s rain. The injured man grimaced while he rearranged his position, sliding back closer to the tree, sitting taller. He looked past the pines where dark shapes of trees lurked, watching them.
“I’ll start a fire?” said the man with the hat as he set his gun down. He said it like a question but didn’t expect an answer. He pulled a fire starter tablet and tinder from his knapsack. It took him a few minutes to find dry branches in the nearby trees, snapping a few and fashioning them into a teepee. The match flared like a dancing devil.
“That’ll be nice.”
The fire licked their toes, cutting the chill. The injured man remained still, moist eyes reflecting the flickering of the campfire. Crooked trees towered over them, rapt like a jury.
“Warm enough?” The man picked up his gun and sat by his friend. “It looks like the bleeding has stopped. I wish we had a blanket.”
“I’m okay. It don’t hurt too bad. How’s your boy?”
“Uh, not so good. Not for now. He’s, uh … he’s gone back in the clinic. Just last week. He took a turn. His grandma is nearby today, checking in. I’ll see him again tomorrow. He’ll be fine in a few weeks they say. They hope. That’s what they tell me. I’m sorry about your wife.”
The wounded man turned away. “Uh, thanks. It’s… She’s better off now. It was hard for her, and to watch, it took so long. I’ll see her soon I reckon.”
“Don’t talk like that. Everything’s going to be fine.” He bent forward and rearranged the fire with a branch, tossing it in when it was right. “What about your brother? He’s in London now?”
“Got some fancy job. We don’t speak.”
“You should call him. Family’s important, especially when you ain’t got much of it.”
“Hmmm. Maybe…”
A branch snapped. Their heads swiveled in unison and the man in the hat jumped to his feet, waving his gun at the shadows. “It’s him. He’s back. I’ll get him this time for sure,” he urged. “It’s got to be him,” he whispered. “Shhh!” I’m so sorry.
He waited, watched, frozen in place looking for movement. Any movement.
The rain returned, slowly at first and then harder. The man with the gun stood down and placed his hat on his friend to keep his face dry.
“I’m sleepy.” The injured man slouched.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’ll stay up and watch. You know, keep the fire. You’ll be fine. In the morning…” He reached over and adjusted the hat. “…I’ll get some people.”