The Cutthroat Cannibals (4 page)

With Excaliber leading the way as a sort of furred minesweeper and Stone screaming out curses telling everything in the neighborhood
with teeth or claws to get the fuck out of there, they made their way about ten yards into the dense thickets. Stone heard
the sounds of things scuttling away a few yards off, but whatever was making the noise remained out of sight, which was just
fine with Stone. The pit bull let out a little huff of air or a small growl every few seconds as its head turned back and
forth surveying the shadows for danger.

Stone walked through the mini forest right up to the base of the mountain wall that loomed overhead. He didn’t even know what
the hell he was looking for, but he sure wasn’t finding it. The rock peaks seemed impossibly high. Already Stone was starting
to feel claustrophobic. He had to lean his head all the way back even to see the tops of the damned rock giants, which seemed
to look down from all around him, laughing from their imperious heights. He was like a little squashed ant. And he knew it.

The ribbon of light overhead that was the sky began dimming like a bulb about to blow. A stiff wind suddenly spat down from
the north, sweeping back and forth from mountain to mountain, sending leaves flying from each bank, depositing sheets of rotting
vegetation into the churning liquid. Stone’s clothes were sopping wet and he knew that, with the temperature drop that would
come when night fell, he was going to be one frozen human popsicle. Even his blood would harden like ice. Things weren’t exactly
getting better. Stone searched himself again for the third time, praying that in his still dizzy state he’d overlooked something.
But that wasn’t the case. There wasn’t a firemaking implement in his pockets. Not even a single match. And he wasn’t exactly
the Boy Scout type. Besides, rubbing two sticks together for the next two hours would take every last bit of strength he had.

“When in Rome, do as the fucking Romans do,” Stone addressed the dog, as he sat down against a tree and began taking off his
boots and pants, cutting up over the wounded leg to allow the splints to pull through. The dog rested on one side and watched
with fascination as Stone stripped down buck naked. Not wearing clothes itself, it didn’t quite understand what they were,
but it knew that the Chow Boy didn’t usually start ripping them off in the middle of nowhere. The canine once again began
wondering about the sanity of its master with some apprehension.

“Oh fuck off, dog, don’t look at me like that,” Stone exclaimed, slapping his shirt out at the pit bull’s head. “Never seen
a naked man before, for Christ’s sake?” Stone managed to remove all his garments from his battered body and, standing up,
balancing on his green wood crutch, hung them on the low branches of a nearby white spruce. He looked around almost as if
expecting a crowd to be watching this entire absurd procedure. But not a soul was out there except for the pit bull, which
gave him a most curious glance.

“Pal, someday, if we ever get out of this, I’d like to get me an electric razor,” Stone said, addressing the canine with a
waving finger. “And shave every last hair off that stinking body. Then we’ll see just who the hell smirks, and who slinks
off like a snake in their nakedness.” As Stone spoke, gusting breezes came in with the cooling evening, and the clothes were
whipped around in the air like store signs in a hurricane.

Stone sat down again taking deep breaths. It was pitiful how tired he was from just that much effort. He was beginning to
feel like he was never going to get out. But Stone cursed himself for his pessimism. He knew he needed every bit of his willpower
and a belief that he
could
get the hell out of all this, or he wouldn’t have a chance. As he undid the tourniquet around the leg to let the blood circulate
through into the calf and foot, he thought how funny it was that the whole time he’d been out of the bunker, though he’d faced
some tough bastards, he’d never really thought he was going to buy it. But now….
SHUT UP! SHUT UP!
he commanded himself. He could almost see the major’s face hovering over the mists of the river, watching him, watching how
Stone survived. If he survived. If he had what it took.

Stone had firmly decided that he wasn’t going to spend the night on the ground. He needed sleep so his body could heal even
a little. But the idea of the various “Jaws” imitators out there nosing around his face wouldn’t be exactly conducive to hitting
dreamland. He rose up after airing out the leg for a few minutes and surveyed the trees around him. One big old sucker that
looked as if it had been growing since the Pleistocene had three branches arching out at just about ninety-degree angles from
the trunk about ten feet up. It was perfect. Reaching it was another matter.

“Dog, I’m going to need your help again,” Stone said firmly, turning around. But the animal was already running off having
a fine time of it. Stone didn’t appreciate the pit bull’s frolicking antics. A catastrophe was not the time or place to have
fun. He’d have to talk to the mutt about that. The canine leaped around into the air, corkscrewing like some kind of deranged
dolphin out of water. And then he raced back toward the river and went back into the water. You’d think the overactive beast
would have had enough of the wet stuff after what they’d just been through, Stone thought with disgust. But as he saw a large
silvery fish slither out of the animal’s grasp, he realized Excaliber was trying to scrounge up dinner.

“Good luck,” he snorted under his breath, having witnessed the animal’s fish-catching endeavors before. He turned back to
the tree he hoped to sleep in. Well, he’d obviously have to do it all himself since the dog wasn’t going to be any help. Stark
naked, somehow dragging back branches from the surrounding ground, Stone managed to get a bunch of them leaning against the
tree so once he was up in it, he could just reach down, pull them up, and build a nice little condo in the sky. Simple, right?
But then, as the wise man once said, “Theory is to reality, as dogs are to shit. That is, you step in it however much you
try to avoid it.” Or something like that, though somehow he knew he’d gotten the saying a little mangled in translation.

He retrieved his clothes, which were actually wind dried, and spent a good half hour just getting them back on again. It was
amazing, Stone realized as he struggled with even the simplest of tasks—like putting on his socks—how much one takes the most
basic things for granted. Once he was fully dressed, Stone discovered that he couldn’t even get up the damn tree. It might
as well have been Mt. Everest, for, as much as he leaped up at it, grabbed at it, and kicked at it, he just couldn’t get a
grip.

At last he found a thick branch from among the ones he had gathered with enough smaller offshoots still on it that it created
a crude ladder. Using this, he leaned up against the spruce, and scraping his arms and chest into reddened welts and bruises,
somehow monkeyed his way up. He reached the three-branch intersection and, grabbing hold of a twisted piece of wood, pulled
himself up. Breathing heavily, he surveyed the terrain around him with the first feeling of satisfaction he’d had since the
whole fiasco began. At least he was safe for the night. Now he had to build his tree house.

Dragging up the long pieces of wood and lashing them together with some vines he had found was virtually impossible. There
was room only for him up there, and manipulating the difficult-to-hold branches was frustrating.

“Oh Christ,” Stone said at last, completely exasperated, as he shoved the five pieces he’d pulled up back down to the ground,
where they banged together with dull thuds. He lay back against the hard bank and tried to find a comfortable position, which
was difficult. But after about five minutes, using his jacket as a mattress, he found something approximating comfort, if
not actually being it. Scarcely had his muscles begun relaxing when he heard loud barking at the base of the tree. Stone glanced
down to see the dog with a huge, still flapping fish at his feet, posing happily in front of his prey, one paw on the long,
gasping mountain trout, like some tourist from the city here on summer vacation. The animal looked up expectantly.

“Good boy,” Stone laughed, as he felt his stomach growl. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten. There had been
supplies in the Harley—tins of chocolate, hard-bread, emergency rations for a few days. God, he’d give his right testicle
for a fucking Spam sandwich right now. The pit bull grabbed hold of the big fish, its scales a silvery orange in the very
last rays of the dying sun, which sank suddenly away like a drowning man beneath the waves of night. Excaliber gripped the
fish firmly in his jaws and then crunched hard twice. The trout stopped moving. The dog leaned up against the side of the
tree and held the fish up toward Stone, who was genuinely touched by the gesture.

“Son of a bitch, you are a decent little fucker, aren’t you,” Stone said, feeling a little misty-eyed that, though not a person
in this whole fucked-up world seemed to like him (in fact most were trying to kill him), this one waterlogged mutt did care.
“Thanks pal, I’m deeply touched,” Stone said, as the dog slid back down to the ground. “But not tonight. Without fire I don’t
think I’d quite savor the taste of cold raw fish. But go ahead man, eat it up. Do your goldfish routine.”

The pit bull did not have to be told to eat. It ripped into the fish with a savage fury, taking down a good third of it with
a single immense snap of its jaws. The chewing sounds, the bones crunching, the odor of fish that wafted up to Stone got to
his stomach like a rocket. It just growled and growled even when he poked it and slapped at it to pipe down. All that he could
see in his mind were steaks and fries, and all that was on the menu was ground-up raw fish. Yet the more Stone tried to deny
it the hungrier he became. Sushi, he suddenly remembered eating Sushi in Denver.
That
was raw fish. It was sliced thin of course, and marinated in herbs and vinegar and God knew what weird Japanese ceremonial
voodoo juice, and cut up with swords and chants. But still it was just plain ol’ raw fucking fish. Right?

Stone leaned over the tree and saw the pit bull preparing to launch itself at the main and meatier part of the fish, which
it had been holding as the main course. “Hold it, you pig,” Stone screamed down, waving his hand to ward the dog off. The
thought of even this wretched dinner vanishing forever into the furred mouth was beyond his ability to cope. And in his sudden
fear of going mealless Stone misjudged a little. His hand slipped free from its branch and suddenly, like a meteor falling
from the black heavens, he tumbled out of his perch.

“Shiiiiiiiitttt!” he managed to squeak out as the ground came up at him. Fortunately for Stone, the landing site of his greed-induced
fall was a thick bush a good five feet high. He slammed into the thing stomach first and felt the whole piece of vegetation
give and half topple over. But it held him. Not a piece of his body even touched the ground. Extricating himself from the
scratching bush, another dozen or so red welts across his face and arms, Stone managed to stand on one leg, leaning against
the tree.

“Don’t say a fucking word, dog,” Stone snarled as the pit bull stood back about six feet, its eyes wide in terror when it
saw Stone hurtling down.

“We share, right? Share,” Stone said, leaning over and grabbing a whole eight-inch-long section of what looked like the tenderest
part. He lifted the delicacy to his mouth and nearly gagged, for half-chewed fish, with dog saliva, dirt, and whatnot all
over it was not the most pleasing thing he had ever had laid before him on a dining table. But his stomach made noises again,
and Stone, vowing to have the damned thing removed if he ever had the chance, stuffed a big slab of fish into his mouth as
if it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

It tasted like shit. Exactly as he expected. How they turned this stuff into food was beyond his wildest imagination. For
the cold, wet, salty mess in his mouth was more like something that should be vomited out rather than taken in. But after
the first bite stayed down—even after a minute—Stone chewed desultory munches from the trout carcass. The pit bull seemed
to be having the time of its life, chomping hard, then throwing bits of fish in the air and catching them, barking after each
successful toss and catch, then looking over at Stone.

“Chill out,” Stone snarled. “I hate happy dogs. Didn’t I tell you that? So eat your fucking fish and look depressed, like
I do.” The dog either didn’t or wouldn’t understand his words and just kept munching away making loud sounds of gratification
every few seconds. Stone had eaten about a dozen or so careful slow bites to make sure he avoided the bones, when he heard
it. It was very soft at first, just some branches snapping in the now darkened woods covered with a sheet of gray and black.
Excaliber stopped his chewing too and stood straight up, his ears cocking up into radarlike dishes searching for the enemy.

They saw it at the same time—a large shape that loomed about forty yards off, up on its hind legs. And now he knew for sure
that somebody up there hated his goddamned guts. It was a grizzly! A monster, a good ten feet as it stood up on legs the size
of tree trunks. Black as midnight with a thick glistening coat. It sniffed at the air, its huge wet nose pumping in and out
like a bellows. The fish—shit, the damned carnivore had smelled the meal. Stone threw the remnants of what he held in his
hands down and leaped to his feet, grabbing at his walking stick. For an instant he looked toward the river, wondering if
it might be the best avenue of escape. But the bear was already circling around in a slow curve, cutting off any such retreat.
The son of a bitch had been bred for tens of thousands of years to know just what the hell it was doing and just how to catch,
and kill, prey.

Excaliber began growling, his ears flattening back, fur bristling, but Stone called angrily to the dog as he backed away toward
the tree he had been lying in. “Get over here, dog, over here, don’t even
think
about messing with that bastard or you’re pit bull stew—you hear me?” The pit bull, which had taken on dobermans, wolves,
outlaws, even a lion, knew he was outclassed. This thing had to weigh a ton. It would be like attacking a tank. Backing off
slowly, but growling like a motherfucker just to show the huge carnivore, now about twenty yards off and closing fast, that
he could fight the overgrown teddy bear if he wanted to, Excaliber moved back until he was right against the base of the tree.