Tails of the Apocalypse (31 page)

I toss and turn, listening for the sound of the bear’s return. Worry chases sleep away—worry that the bear might die out there, leaving me all alone. After a while, I sit up and eat. Maybe a little food will soothe the knot in my gut.

There’s still a hindquarter left when I’m done. I hope the bear will eat it when she returns.

I wait until the light begins to wane. The fear that earlier pricked at the edges of my thoughts now becomes a frenzied animal inside me, and I can’t sit still any longer. Just as I move to search for her, she returns, crawling through the entrance. I sidle out of the way, and she flops onto her spot with a long, rumbling sigh.

She doesn’t shake the snow from her fur. I know right away something isn’t right.

She regards me briefly with those dark, appraising eyes. “Why are you there, and not here?” she asks.

I move next to her, nestling into her soaked fur. It makes me colder, but I don’t want to be apart from her. Not now. “Are you worse?” I ask, my throat tight.

“Yes,” she says, the word carried in a long breath.

I listen to her lungs rattle with each struggle for air. If she hadn’t attacked those hunters, thrown all her energy into one last effort to protect me, maybe…

She did it for me. And now there’s nothing I can do for her. Her weakness seems to seep into me, like the cold and wet of her fur. I feel myself sink into it along with her, as if we’re both being pulled under by it. Drowning.

“Tell me about your mother,” the bear rasps.

I want to ask her why but ignore the urge. “She died when I was young. So I don’t remember a lot about her. She was beautiful. She’d lost her hair, but kept her head covered in a scarf the color of the grass and the leaves.” I touch the scarf wrapped around my head. “This scarf. It’s the only thing I have left of her.”

I take a breath and swallow the lump in my throat. “She was gentle. Quiet. Didn’t laugh much. But nobody does … did. But she always had a smile for me. I remember that. I remember her smile.”

“How did she die?”

“Hunters killed her. Like your cub.”

The bear lets out a little groan that tells me she understands our mutual loss.

“And your father?” she asks.

The pain of his passing sweeps through me. “Flamers attacked our clan, right before I found you. He was killed in the fire.”

She doesn’t respond. Her brittle breath fills the silence.

“I wish…” I begin. Stop. Wonder if it matters if I voice my regret.

“You wish you’d been closer,” she says.

“Yes.” I swallow hard.

“There is a place,” the bear says, “where the food is abundant. Berries and roots and the streams full of fish. My mother is there. And my cubs.”

I close my eyes. The darkness tugs at me. Wants to separate me from her warmth. I want to acknowledge her own loss. I hadn’t known she’d had more than the one cub. Had suffered more than the one too-soon death. Instead, I ask, “Is that where you’re going?”

“Yes,” she answers. Her breathing is like dry leaves underfoot. I feel her heartbeat at my back, irregular and faint. “There is a place…” she says, and I wonder as she catches her breath if she’s fallen into confusion, repeating herself, “…where
you
can go. Beyond the river.” She speaks between shallow breaths now. “Beyond the next mountain range. You’ll be safe there. The hunters won’t find you there.”

“The hunters are everywhere.”

The bear grunts. “Not everywhere. Not there.”

“You mean, after I die?”

She draws in air, the sound like bubbles in her throat. “No. But does it matter?”

I consider the question. I don’t believe there’s anything after death. But if the bear believes, maybe I do too. Maybe we can share more than disease, more than need.

“I have to sleep now,” she says.

I press against her, willing her to keep breathing, to stay alive and connected to my life, to be my companion for the remainder of my days. But each breath grows weaker, each beat of her heart slower, until the air in her lungs escapes in one long sigh. This mother, this companion had been a strong and powerful creature. Now, she’s gone.

I have never cried in my life that I can remember. But all my anguish and regret and loss seem to churn inside and press up through my chest, seeking release, spilling out in hot tears. I surrender to sobbing, burying my face in the bear’s fur until the last of her warmth drains away and the cold finds me.

Numb, empty, I’m ready now. I want to leave this place for the one the bear has described beyond the river. I close my eyes. Darkness and weakness and sickness roil together inside me, an undertow I can’t resist, even if I wanted to. Maybe Bode will be there, and Gunther. I might have another chance to make things right. Maybe I’ll see her there. Maybe she’ll know me.

I open my eyes. A shadow, a phantom hovers over me in the cave.

Has the bear returned? For a moment I think I might be waking from the sleep I couldn’t find when she went wandering. Then I remember: she’s dead.

Am I dead too?

I draw a breath, feeling the bear’s cold body at my back. I’m not dead. A fresh wave of grief rolls over me. I’m still in the cave. Still dealing with phantoms. Cold and ache and disease.

And then relief surprises me. Relief at being alive. I’d been so ready to die. But now that Death has moved on, I don’t mind seeing it go.

The phantom is still there, now less colorful, dressed in the rags of the Feral. I blink through blurry eyes, try to focus.

“Anya,” the apparition says. “Are you okay?”

No, I think. I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay. Why are you asking? Why do you care?

“Anya. It’s me. Gunther.”

Shock pulses through me. I blink again, suck in a breath. The phantom’s features sharpen to reveal my brother’s face. “Gunther?”

“Yeah. Finally found you. What are you doing here, curled up next to a dead bear?”

“She wasn’t always dead,” I say. “I thought I was dead.”

Gunther stares at me, a puzzled look on his face.

“I’m dying,” I add.

“We’re all dying, Anya,” Gunther says. “But we’re not dead yet.”

I wince as I prop myself up on one elbow. The air in the cave isn’t as cold as I expected. Maybe a warm front has moved in.

I look at the bear. She’s just a shell now. The light has left her eyes. My chest feels tight, knowing she’s gone. But thinking of where she might be—in a land where she can be reunited with her cubs, where they can eat fish and berries to their hearts’ content—softens the loss opening inside me.

I look up at Gunther. “I found Bode’s body.”

Gunther turns his head away, but not before I see the pain flash through his eyes.

“There are five of us left,” Gunther says. “Six, if we count you.”

“Do you want to count me?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer. Afraid that it will damn me to a life alone, a life I would have gladly chosen only a few days before. A life that terrifies me now.

Gunther shakes his head and sighs. “Do you want to spend your last days here with the dead?” he asks. “Or with me? With the living?”

I stare for a long moment at the bear, stiff and cold in death. The bear who taught me everything I know about caring, about bonding. I look up at Gunther. His eyes are gleaming. He seems eager to hear the answer I want to say.

“With you,” I tell him, reaching for his outstretched hand. “I want to go with you.”

As you can see by the picture, I love cats. Since I was a baby, cats—often several at a time—have been a part of my life. I’m currently owned by Korey, who isn’t very social, bestowing her attention only when the mood strikes. I was lucky to get a picture of us together as she was wriggling out of my arms. Not in the mood.

So why did I write a story about a bear? Maybe it was to help purge my fear of bears, which I’m pretty sure stems from a close encounter I had with one when I was three and living in Alaska. I’m also pretty sure the encounter wasn’t all that close, but grew exponentially in power and influence over the years, as memories often do.

Don’t get me wrong; I find bears to be beautiful and fascinating creatures, but I don’t want to live anywhere close to their natural habitat.

I enjoy writing stories that don’t always answer every question in the end. Anya, the main character in my story, also has a close encounter with a bear, and it changes her life. Anya is afflicted with a sickness that slowly consumes her body and mind. Is Anya’s relationship with the bear real? Or is her encounter fabricated by her diseased imagination?

I’ll let you decide.

If you’d like to know more about my writing, you can find me on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/harlowcfallon
and on Amazon at
http://amazon.com/author/harlowfallon
.

The end of the world
as the world knew it came rather suddenly. Humanity’s influence on the grand scale of things led to—as many had feared and predicted—a catastrophe in every way conceivable. Political espionage, corruption, and corporate greed ran roughshod over the Earth, destroying humanity in one fell swoop. Nearly every nation succumbed in a matter of hours, once the cascading Collapse began. Humanity went out without a bang, and for that matter, barely a whimper.

Of the seven billion people living when the world ended, only a few thousand souls survived—not even enough people to fill a modest football stadium or concert hall. Most survivors were living on outlying islands in the Philippines, Indonesia, and Malaysia and were thus spared—for a time. Within six months, most of them were gone too, victims of the plague unleashed by the Earth’s core in retribution for a century of cumulative abuse. Fracking for oil and natural gas was the undoing of man.

The Earth began repairing itself almost immediately. In short order, animals reclaimed dominance over their near-extinct Human masters with a swiftness impossible had more than a few Humans survived. One-time pets were now rulers of all they surveyed. Once removed from under the rule of mankind, animals’ natural instincts came to the fore. Unfettered by Human dominance, their intelligence developed rapidly.

Animals born natural enemies became amicable inhabitants of the same space. Without humanity encroaching and poaching, food and water became plentiful once again, lessening animosity between species. While hunters still hunted and prey still fed them, a harmony and balance unlike any seen before mankind’s ascension was restored.

But this tale isn’t just about endings. It’s also about beginnings.

Life in Davao City was always relatively easy, even before the Collapse. Then, with the people gone, paradise began living up to its name in earnest. While there were many animals living in Davao, two groups made up the majority—the Bat colony on Samal Island, who identified themselves as the Bats of Paradise; and the colony of Budgerigars, or simply Budgies, who identified themselves as the Birds of Paradise.

Budgies and Bats, while not normally enemies, shared an easy alliance in the renewed world. Both groups worked together toward mutual, comfortable survival. The common enemies of Bats and Budgies included Cats, Rats, and occasionally Dogs. In the months immediately following the Collapse, many Budgies were lost to raids by these predators, and likewise, Bats sometimes fell prey to the same raiders, if less often. And so the two flyers became natural allies for mutual protection.

When the alliance between Bats and Budgies was forged, a council was formed to manage it. Called the Wings of Paradise, it was composed of six members, three from each colony. Two of the three representatives were Elders, chosen for their knowledge and ability to exercise rational, clearheaded thought. The remaining member of each group was a Youngling, chosen for their flight skills, bravery, and willingness to learn.

All three of the Budgie council members—Max and Hettie, the Elders, and Vic, the Youngling—had been human pets before the Collapse. All the Bats came from the wild and so had little experience with Humans before their extinction, save with the visitors who’d snapped pictures of them at their main colony cave.

The oldest of the Bats was called Bongse. He was a skilled hunter and always knew where to find the best insects whenever the colony ventured out in search of sustenance. His fellow Elder on the council was Magsay, who’d given birth to many strong pups and was revered for her expertise in raising capable Bats, as well as for her hunting prowess. Whenever members of one of the colonies were sick or elderly and couldn’t hunt for themselves, it was Magsay who organized the other Bats and Budgies to provide for them. Rounding out the Wings of Paradise council was a Bat pup named Kal.

The council’s job was ensuring the mutual protection of both species, as well as seeking new territories for expanding the colony. Each species trained a Guardian class to secure the perimeter around both colonies and repel any attackers that might threaten them. Budgies provided daytime protection, while Bats covered the night watch.