Bear Bells

The woods were utterly quiet that night. There was no wind. Three thousand vertical feet below (and some four miles distant), the soft glow of streetlights from Manchester Center, Vermont was the only visible sign of civilization.

Then came another light: the bobbing headlamp of a hardy, hairy, wiry hiker clambering up the ridge. The jingle of bear bells – little aluminum chimes tied to a backpack, warning wild animals of a hiker’s approach – broke the dead silence with their tinny, frightened alarms.

It was just past ten o’clock, and Christopher Watkins, trail name “Long Island,” was pounding out a few more miles before bedtime. He had heard from some southbounders that the view from Prospect Rock was sensational, and had an idea to dry camp there, wake up early, and watch the sunrise.

At the moment, Chris’s whole world was the five feet of trail in front of him illuminated by his headlamp – an endless barrage of roots and rocks marking the narrow footpath of the Long Trail. The forest to either side was inky dark; its branches were long bony fingers frozen in mid-clutch.

He came across a stream and hunkered down to fill up his Smart Water bottle – screwing on his Sawyer Mini filter, he knocked it back and took several greedy gulps.

It was then that the beast attacked.

It ran at Chris without warning, and in less than a second had him pinned down beneath five hundred pounds of fur and muscle. The headlamp was knocked from his forehead and skittered downhill into the stream, landing face-up. What little Chris could see of the beast was filtered through the surreal waviness of light passing through flowing water.

The beast fastened its jaws over his face and bit down. Chris’s limbs fluttered and twitched involuntarily. Blood burst from his scalp. The vice-like grip shattered his jawbone and dislodged most of his teeth in an instant.

Then the terrible head drew back, snapping skin off his cheeks and dislodging Chris’s right eyeball. It was only now that Chris screamed through the blood welling in his throat – a wet, pathetic gurgle of protest.

The beast turned its attention to the juicy meat of the hiker’s mountain-hardened calves, biting easily through the synthetic pants and swallowing large chunks of flesh whole.

Through his one remaining eye, Chris watched the beast begin to devour him. It was his last conscious sight.

Satisfied with its catch, the beast slunk back to the shadows with its prey. There it would dine, and leave nothing to waste – even the nylon of the pack contained the trace smells of cooked noodles and Snickers bars, and was as much of a delicacy as the human in its simple mind.

Less than twenty seconds had passed since the attack commenced.

There were low grunts from the beast, the futile jingle of the bear bells, a rustling of leaves, then silence again. Blood dribbled into the stream, tapping its burbling surface with the persistent regularity of a faucet left to drip during a hard freeze.

Before water soaked the batteries of the headlamp, causing the bulb to flicker off forever, the white light was slowly overtaken by a seeping dark red.

***

U.S. Forest Service Law Enforcement Officer Eric Chapman trudged idly along the trail, a Marlboro dangling from his lip and a Barrett 95 bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder.

The call had come in early that morning. Laura Watkins of Weston, Massachusetts had lost contact from her thru-hiker son Chris. He had been due in Manchester Center on Thursday. Now it was Sunday, and she was petrified with worry. What Chapman knew of that part of Massachusetts – affluent, sheltered, native land of helicopter parents – did not exactly inspire concern.

Chapman thought this particular jaunt into the hills was a colossal waste of his time, and he had told the woman as much over the phone. He fully expected to find Laura’s darling boy getting stoned on some summit, and consequently hadn’t bothered to remove the trigger lock on his Barrett when setting off from the ranger station.

None of the hikers Chapman passed on his way up had seen Watkins, but at Goddard Shelter he found a promising note in the trail log.

“Got some good sleep here. Late start – it’s almost 10 AM now. Tomorrow going into town. Hopefully Manchester has better food than Bennington. Peace be with you! -Long Island.”

Well, that was something. Chapman did a quick mental calculation. Prospect Rock was twelve miles ahead. It was a popular campsite – only a mile or so down a dirt track to Rootville Road, which led right into Manchester Center. Long distance hikers often spent the night up at Prospect before descending to town in the morning for a big breakfast.

So Chapman kept on. By late afternoon, he was just a mile from Prospect Rock. The sun would probably go down while he was out here; but he figured that chances of finding the Watkins kid were pretty good, so it didn’t bother him too much. With a little hustle, he’d make it back home in time to watch Game of Thrones.

Shortly after crossing an idyllic mountain stream, a squelch beneath his boot interrupted Chapman’s distracted thoughts of heaving bosoms and enthralling swordplay. The substance he had stepped in was decidedly more viscous than mud.

He squinted down through the gathering dusk, expecting to see the dirty brown clumps of some mutt’s feces. Instead, it was dark crimson that stared up at him, and the tattered remains of what looked to be a large intestine.

Chapman swore and stumbled back, disturbing the coven of flies that had been feasting on the errant organ. A rock caught his heel and he fell flatly on his tailbone, sending a rod of pain shooting up his spine.

Somewhere in the woods, a twig snapped. Chapman, panting and eyes bulging, fumbled at his belt for the key to the rifle’s trigger lock. He could hear the muffled jingle of the bear bells swirling around within the beast’s stomach.

The sound was getting closer.