Marco came over to refill his mug. The smell of the fresh coffee brought him back to reality. Greg motioned to the packs leaning against the wall by the front door.
“You ready to get going soon?”
“I don’t know, bro. Seems kind of gnarly.”
“It’s just a week.”
“And a hundred miles.”
“It’ll be good to get out of this little cabin for a while…before I strangle you.”
Greg punched Marco on the shoulder. Marco returned the favor.
“Whatever. It’s your birthday.”
Marco went back to clean up the mess in the kitchen before they left. Greg stepped outside to wait on the porch. The sun poked up behind the mountains to the east; shafts of light danced across the hood of his baby-blue El Camino in the distance. He studied the dents and dings that covered the body, and the long crack that still split the windshield. They’d brought some gear with them to fix her up, but never got around to it. He was beginning to wonder if they ever would, or if it even mattered any more.
A woodpecker hammered out a rhythm nearby. It echoed off the surrounding hills and briefly interrupted the almost constant silence. Greg scanned the pine trees that ringed the cabin on all sides, trying to spot the bird. He was still looking when Marco dragged both packs outside.
“What was that noise?”
“A big scary monster coming to eat you.”
“Hilarious. But seriously—you’re bringing a gun, right?”
“No guns on the trail, Marco. That’s the rule.”
“That’s your rule.”
“And it’s my gun.”
They shimmied into their straps and headed off side by side. Marco had his pet iguana, Godzilla, tucked under one arm like a football. Greg reached up and adjusted his ear buds. The thin black cords flowed from the sides of his head and came together at the back of his tattooed neck. The cable snaked along the outside of his pack and into a smartphone connected to a solar charger. His eyes were on the dirt road ahead of them, as Black Flag kicked into “Rise Above.”
“Dude!”
A few hours later, Greg was twenty yards ahead of Marco on the Pacific Crest Trail. It wound through a desolate stretch of the San Bernardino Mountains seventy miles north of LA’s foothill communities. He was sure that his partner was just freaking out about his own shadow again.
There was a steep incline to their right covered in sagebrush and sunbaked rocks. To their left, the trail dropped down to a flat valley floor. A thick stand of pines stood between them and the green fields below. A pungent smell swirled in the air all around them, along with a swarm of annoying little bugs. Greg wiped the sweat from his eyes and was transported back to the cliffs above the tidal pools in the Bay Cities—to the night he saved his best friend Junior and her son Chris from a serial killer.
He was relieved when Marco pulled him back from this flood of unwanted memories.
“Dude! BEARS!”
Greg smelled them before he saw them: a full-grown black bear with two furry cubs tumbling around at her enormous paws. Marco stood behind the imposing ursine trio, slowly backing up the trail. His eyes were bugging out of his head. Greg tried in vain to get his attention.
“Marco, listen to me. They won’t hurt you. Just don’t run—”
“Run” was the only thing Marco heard. He immediately ditched his pack and took off at a sprint in the opposite direction. The sudden commotion spooked the two cubs, and it looked like momma bear was about to give chase. Greg knew that Marco had plenty of experience outrunning middle-aged cops, but bears were a different story. He screamed at the top of his lungs to save his friend’s life: “Hey, bear! Over here!”
The bear rose up on its hind legs, casting a twisted shadow several yards long. It was more than seven feet tall, gnashing its teeth and swiping at the air. Greg tried not to panic. He’d spent whole summers in these mountains as a boy, and had heard every piece of advice about how to deal with bear attacks. His father always told him to make a bunch of noise and jump around, so that’s what he did. It didn’t work.
The bear dropped down to all fours and charged at him. A rippling mass of muscle and fur was on him in a heartbeat. Greg’s only option was to take off toward the valley. The heavy pack helped him keep his balance as he gained momentum, but he couldn’t sustain it. Gravity took his feet out from under him, so he finished the trip down to the tree line by sliding on his back. He bumped and skidded along while brambles and jagged stones tore at his exposed skin. The trees were coming up fast when a gunshot split the air.
It surprised both Greg and the bears. He sprang to his feet and spun around in time to see the momma and two cubs in full retreat up the slope. Greg appreciated that Marco came back to save him, but thought they had agreed on no guns. A second bullet ricocheted off the boulder right beside him before he could think it through. This definitely wasn’t friendly fire. Greg could still hear the piercing ring as he scrambled into the trees.
The ground was covered in pine needles and dappled in sunlight. Thick branches up above brought the temperature down a few crucial degrees. Greg crept from trunk to trunk, keeping his head low and bracing himself for the next shot. The green field on the other side of the trees quickly came into focus.
Greg backed up against an outcropping of boulders, catching his breath before wriggling out of his straps. He unhooked the canteen from the side of his pack. His gaze wandered out across a sea of marijuana plants as he chugged the water.
The third shot split the bark in the tree right behind his head. He tripped over the pack as he turned to flee, heading straight out into the field. He’d taken only a few steps when his foot caught hold of a trip wire. His palms were inches from the ground as a flash of light consumed him. He flew through the air a few feet and hit the ground hard. The Minutemen were half way through “Corona” in his headphones when everything went black.
Somebody grunted loudly nearby. Greg tried to open his eyes but the blinding sun was right overhead. His lips were fried, and his tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth. He might have simply passed out again if it weren’t for the putrid smell suffocating him.
Greg tried to roll onto his side, but the rope caught his left wrist. The result was the same for his other arm and both legs. His shirt rode up as he squirmed and tried to wriggle free. Plastic trash bags seared the skin on his lower back, causing his eyes to shoot open. It took a few minutes for him to figure out that he was staked down on a pile of garbage in the middle of a campground. But that still didn’t explain the grunting.
He lifted his head to make sense of the situation. An enormous black bear tore into a pile of garbage only yards away. A slightly smaller bear was further down the mound, sitting on its haunches and ripping a bag apart. Every muscle in Greg’s body tensed as he craned his neck to look for Marco. What he saw instead was a crowd of silent spectators watching his every move. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice as he screamed for help.
Everything went still before the audience gave a collective gasp. They must be seeing what Greg only heard—both bears were making their way toward him to inspect the sudden commotion. The musky smell of filthy fur filled his nostrils as the bears approached. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, trying to go somewhere safe in his mind. It wasn’t long before he bobbed on the ocean in South Bay, waiting to catch a wave.
The crowd laughed as he thrashed