Chapter 2--Grizzly Campsite

apprximately 1000 words
Back to chapter listing "The Good and Faithful Servant" 

Chapter 2

Grizzly Campsite

         Alexander limped along the game trail, each step sending agony shooting up from his swollen ankle to his calf and beyond.  The straps of his backpack dug into his muscles, and he twisted at them. Blasted things still hurt. He stopped and squinted skyward where the late afternoon sun cast dappled shadows through the dense overhead canopy.  Sweat burned his eyes and weariness dragged at his muscles.  His clothes, still wet and clammy from his tumble in the streambed, clung to his torso. 

         Scooby nosed his palm and gazed up at him, the dog's deep, brown eyes oozing concern.  Alexander ruffled his ears.  "Don't worry, Scoob.  I'll be ok.  You'll see.  Things will work out." Things always work out, one way or another.  Irony made his mouth twist. 

         He checked his cell phone and sighed.  No bars, just like the last time he'd checked, except now the power was down to thirty percent.  At least the GPS still worked. He queried the map and grimaced.  They'd only managed eight miles as the crow flies from the trailhead where he'd parked his jeep this morning.  They'd trekked just half the distance to the location Eric the Hippie ad given him yesterday. His twisted ankle had really slowed them down. 

         On the positive side, they hadn't seen any grizzlies, even though this mountain wilderness was a protected habitat for them. 

         They hadn't seen any space aliens, either.

         He snorted.  Of course, Eric's preposterous story had to be a drug-induced, MUFON-crazed hallucination.  The only reason for Alexander's trek today was so he could truthfully write in his book that he'd been there and seen that.  As to actually finding anything, well, unicorns farting rainbows were more likely to appear than space aliens.  Still, he'd come this far, so he may as well continue, sore ankle notwithstanding.

         "What do you think, Scoob? You think there's little green men here?"  He surveyed the primeval surroundings and another, equally preposterous, local legend came to mind.  "How about a super-duper-top-secret missile silo?"

         Scooby just looked at him and wagged his tail.

         "Yeah, I don't think so either, pal."  He shrugged out of his backpack.  "I don't know about you, but I'm beat.  What say we call it a day and make camp?"

         Scooby sniffed at the ground, then looked up. "Woof!"

         "Glad you agree.  A good night's sleep, and I'll be fit as a fiddle in the morning." 

         Scooby squatted on his haunches, scratched himself, then turned his gaze on Alexanader, his tongue lolling from his mouth. 

         Alexander heaved a sigh. May as well get started.  He switched off his cell phone, hooked it to a battery pack to recharge it, and started unpacking gear:  sleeping bag, mess kit, and army surplus MREs--"meals ready to eat." His mouth relaxed in a grin as the MREs recalled the old joke that "meals rejected by Ethiopians" was a more accurate meaning because of their extra-savory flavor.  He scattered some kibble from a baggie onto the ground for Scooby and set about building a campfire.

         An hour later, belly full and boots off, he relaxed in the flickering light of his fire.  Darkness already shrouded the surrounding forest.  A soft breeze rustled through the foliage and, from somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.  He stretched and wiggled his bare foot.  The swelling seemed to have gone down.  At least it had stopped throbbing.  Maybe it really would be better in the morning. 

         Scooby lay snoozing nearby, head on his paws, ears flicking.  Lucky dog. Brain buzz kept Alexander awake.  His phone must be re-charged by now, so he pulled up the notes for his book, starting with the 1967 Malmstrom AFB incident. 

         It wasn't like the stuff he'd found was even remotely reliable.  Eyewitness reports never were, especially when they involved UFOs. They always read like they had a high alcoholic content, and the older the report the more delusional they seemed.  Take the first incident in his file, the one that inspired his book project. It was from ADARO, the Pentagon's All-Domain Anomaly Resolution Office.  Supposedly a UFO had appeared over Malmstrom AFB in Montana in 1967 and disabled something like thirty ICBMs.  According to eyewitness reports gathered thirty years later by ADARO investigators, security officers had sworn all the base personnel to silence and put a Top Secret lid on the whole thing.  Of course, there were no original documents from 1967, just wild-eyed eyewitness recollections thirty years after the fact.

         If they were sworn to secrecy back then, those eyewitnesses were sure talking now.  In fact, they must have been talking all along.  They had to be the source that inspired the hallucinatory ravings of local lunatics like Eric the Hippie, even though Malmstrom was more than a hundred miles east of here. Another local account, mentioned in a footnote in the ADARO report, even claimed there was a secret missile silo buried right here, in these mountains. 

                   Of course, the Pentagon "could neither confirm nor deny" the existence of such a silo, but that was their standard response to everything.  Besides, if there really was a secret silo, they wouldn't want to paint a target it. Their wishy-washy denial-non-denial only served to further stir up the rubes.  No surprise that the local legends, including Eric's story, were strikingly similar in many details supposedly recalled from 1967 in the ADARO report, including little green men and giant robots,  probably named Klaatu or Gort or even C3PO, although none of them made that claim. 

         A rustling sound from the shadows made him frown.  Scooby lifted his head and perked his ears. 

         "You heard it, too, Scoob?" 

         The dog's nose twitched and he whimpered.

         "Probably just a raccoon."

         The rustling grew louder and then stopped.  Whatever it was, it was close.  Alexander narrowed his eyes.  Beyond the flickering light from his fire, deep in the shadows, something lurked.  Something man-sized.  Maybe even bigger. Or smaller.  Hard to tell in the dark.

         He wasn't worried about space aliens or ten-foot-tall robots with eyes that shot lasers.  On the other hand, grizzlies were real.  He put down his phone and peered into the gloom.

         There was probably nothing there.  It was probably just his imagination.  Just to be safe, he retrieved an air horn and bear spray from his pack and held them at the ready.