Zombie Wake (2 page)

Tonight’s call came to my cell
phone as a bear sighting. As with all callouts after the ranger goes off duty,
I received the call by phone as opposed to radio. At 3:00 am, I mumbled to the
dispatch operator jotting down the location on a pad of paper,
Gaviota
campground, near the trash bin “I'll suit up and be
en route,” I told her. Then touched Claire on the shoulder, “Someone has
reported that there's a bear in the campground.” I'll call you when I know how
long it's going to be.” I put on my vest, snapped my gun into its holster and
slid my flashlight into my belt. The motions of this process were routine and I
accomplished the task in minutes even though I wasn’t rushing. This wasn’t a
car accident and animal callouts are usually more bluster than hazard. I sighed
at the thought of my last animal callout. Maybe I’d find a raccoon or opossum
this time. It was never the animal that the call was about. But I decided to
take the extra caution anyway. I shook my pepper spray three times and put an
additional magazine of bullets into my cargo pocket. Then I grabbed the
tactical rifle, the AR15. Later, the first bullet fired would emerge from that
rifle and hit the shoulder of a three-legged bear.

I pushed the rifle into the trucks
gun holder letting the ratchet lock click shut. At 3AM, the truck is a
deafening nucleus of noise. Between the sound of the heavy engine, the knocking
under the hood that occurs when it’s pushed to speeds over 85 mph and the
whistling from wind rushing through the brackets of the light bar, not to
mention the incessant chatter of other agency scanner traffic, there is hardly
room for thought.

“
Surcom
1122, in service. You can show me en route
Gaviota
,”
I said into my radio.

“1122 copy. Be advised reporting
party will be awaiting you at the trash can,” echoed the dispatcher over 100
miles away. It sounded like Deb; princess
Debulan
.
Seven years ago, I called her queen
Dubulan
because
she’s the one in charge of the dispatch center. But she thought that queen
sounded old so I christened her princess
Debulan
.

I wondered what it was like to be a
dispatcher, sitting with headset at 3:00 in the morning, tediously tracking
each officer every seven minutes without ever seeing the situation, without ever
putting face to voice, motionless while responding to potential critical
incidents--the only physical outlet, a slight stepping motion on a foot pedal
that keys the microphone. Stuck in that little room with two glowing computer
monitors staring at maps, a criminal database and an assortment of other
necessary information sounds miserable.

I made a sweeping left turn from
the highway into the campground. Saturday night the campground was packed. I
turned down my radio and flipped on my spot light. One tent had been blown on
its side next to a cooler. The sound of sand pelted the side of the truck,
a typical
Gaviota
night
, I thought. The camp host RV was the only light in the area and there
was shadowy movement behind the shade. Next to it, a large beige trash bin
stood with black lids flipped open. I turned my spot light toward the bin.
Something red was streaked down the side. Trash. Blood?

“
Surcom
1122, I’m at the trash can. I don’t see anyone. I am going to attempt to
contact Host,”

“
co_y
,
sqrsssssk
…,”
Deb’s voice was broken.
Typical
, I
thought again. I checked to make sure my cell phone was in its holder on my
belt and leaned into the truck to remove the AR15. I swept the spotlight around
once more and this time saw motion. Over by the bathroom, three men with wild
hair staggered through the door. One was carrying a disposable red cup. Drunk.
Guess I’ll end the party. But first…

“Bernadette,” I said. Marching up
the metal steps, I mentally prepared myself for the conversation. As with many
retired camp hosts, Bernadette and Phil are dedicated, conscientious
volunteers. But Bernadette has a sharp edge. Last time she called to report a
disorderly drunk driver she huffed, “
Git
over here!
I’m not going to let this baboon leave this park.” As I drove up, I saw her
barrel-belly half in his driver side window.
Oh Bernadette, you’re going to get your head bashed in
, I thought.
It looked as though she was grabbing the steering wheel. As I made my way
closer, I could see that she was standing tip toed with a park map spread out
in front of him. “Well Sir,” I heard her say as I made my way to the lifted
pickup truck, “I see
that
trail but I
just can’t for the life of me figure out how to get there from here.”

Tonight though, it would be an
understatement to say Bernadette was embracing her harsh tendencies. “Phil,” I
said testing the door. As it came unlocked I saw Phil’s bloody hands cradling
his head. “Phil!” What’s happening? He sat wedged between the bathroom door and
the kitchen table that converted into a bed, his white hair dripping with red.
Grabbing a dishtowel, from the table, I moved toward him. “He’s got her,” he
screamed, “down there,” he pointed toward the beach and went on, “She’s crazy,
you have to get her.” He took the towel from my hand and placed it on his head.
“I’m OK,” he said. “It’s just a cut from when I fell onto the counter. Get
Bernie!” I heard my radio make an unintelligible squeal again.

“OK,” I said, “Let me call
Surcom
first.” I pressed a speed dial button on my cell
phone and waited. “Deb,” I said, “I’m here at
Gaviota
with Phil the camp host. He has a severe laceration on his head. I’m going to
need an ambulance. And the bear has apparently attacked Bernadette. Can you
call Joe, Jose, Danny and Animal
Control.
Phil is in
the trailer and the bear has Bernadette down by...”

“I don’t need an ambulance.” Phil
hollered. I was still squatting in the space with one hand on his head. His
movement was fluid. Both his arms went up and crossed as he grabbed my phone.
He threw it into the kitchen sink. It made a splash as it hit the side and slid
down between a half exposed pan and plate. I rose, taking one step back toward
the kitchen. That’s when he leapt clear down the stairs and hit the ground
running.

Stepping out of the trailer is when
I heard it first, the screaming, the roaring,
the
screeching. “
Surcom
,” I said in a futile effort to
reach someone. Then I saw them. Under the glow of the pier lights, on the sand
near the pilings, the silhouette of a bear standing on two feet with a writhing
lump on its back. The lump was Bernadette; her arms and legs wrapped around his
neck. Phil was nowhere in sight. A woman in a robe appeared staring at the
spectacle in disbelief. “Please call 911,” I said to her as I started running
toward the scene.

Clutching the AR15 and kicking up
sand, I ran. About the time I could focus on the bear’s sand-crusted fur I
stopped. What a sight. The creature was a large black bear with one front paw
missing. It must have been an old injury because the stump was unexposed and fur-covered.
Bernadette relentlessly clutched. It was scratching at her with its left paw,
clawing out chunks of flesh with each swat. Occasionally, a right
pawless
arm flailed without effect. I could see a crowd
starting to form in my peripheral vision but couldn’t take my eyes off the
episode.

“Bernadette,” I yelled while
pointing rifle, “Let go.” But she didn’t.

After a few more swats, I could see
Bernie’s exposed bone. Then the bear ducked, arched its back, and with a
violent shake, tossed Bernadette off to the side like a bag of rocks. I brought
the rifle up on target. Even as I pulled the trigger, I knew I was off target.
There was the blast, there was the muzzle flash that lit up the night, there
was the reflection of that flash in the red eyes of that bear, and there was
something wrong.

As the round went wide and only
grazed the bear in the stump-leg’s shoulder, I realized I had a stovepipe, a
malfunction that happens when the bullet doesn’t have enough powder. These
failures were happening more frequently as a consequence of increased
ammunition demands. Our government policy of purchasing from the lowest bidder
had just struck with a vengeance. In training, when you experience a stovepipe
or any other malfunction, you’re trained to let the rifle fall and hang from
the tactical sling while you transition to your handgun. The idea is to avoid
pausing in the middle of the fight, switch to the working weapon and fix the
rifle when it’s safe. I attempted this maneuver but with a pissed off, wounded,
three-legged bear barreling toward me, frothing mouth wide open and roaring, my
hands got caught up in my jacket and I had to transition to running away.

I ran without looking back, without
taking note of the crowd, without thought. I didn’t have many options and up
seemed to be a good one. Since the boat hoist was in the process of being
repaired, a semi-permanent ladder had been placed at one end of the pier. It
was less than 10 yards from the bear and there was an added bonus. In the new location,
my radio would have access to two additional repeaters and regain function.

In high school, I was a hurdler.
“Long legs,” my coach would say, “don’t run on your toes like that. You’re fast
but you’re
gonna
tear something.” In college, on a
bet, I hurdled a convertible Miata and somehow walked away without tearing
anything and with twenty extra dollars in my pocket. And now, in a thoughtless
flee, before it even registered that some jarhead had illegally abandoned his
dinghy at the edge of that pier, I found myself hurdling a boat. It was small
enough but pushing off in dry sand proved less effective than desired and my
foot caught the boats edge. I fell to the base of the ladder. I heard the
crunching of fiberglass and a ferocious growl. But I didn’t take the time to
see what was happening behind me. I can’t say how I got up the ladder but I was
on the pier regaining my composure when I heard my radio. “R1122, please
report.”

“Yeah,” I said. It took me a second
to catch my breath. I had one hand on my knee and was looking toward the ladder
into the black night. “I need backup. Where’s my backup? Where’s animal
control?”

There was an edge to her voice I’d
never heard before. She said, “I’m sorry, they’re all at the refinery.”

“What?” I gasped.

Gaviota
is
nested between two oil refineries both of which are a constant source of
tension within the community, park management and oil companies. Even though
both are in the process of being officially abandoned, the “empty” tanks and
pipeline are apparently hazardous. Community meetings with discussions about
long-term contamination seem constant. And a biannual hazardous material
training exercise involving mock spills and explosions is a mandatory part of
my current duty statement. But we’ve never had a real emergency with either.

“What? I said again.

“I’ve had to divert all on duty and
call-out personnel to the refinery incident. There are reports of an explosion.
And… I’ve been asked to have you go.”

“Me go? I’m in a situation right
now. I’ve got a bear on my ass and victims.” And then I realized, I was on the
radio. Think before you speak, is what I tell my trainees. The transmission,
especially if there’s an ongoing emergency, is picked up by anyone with a
scanner, the media and
..
. “Shit,” I said without cuing
the
mic
. I had heard neither explosion nor siren;
there was no glow on the horizon like there had been with the recent wild
fires. But something was going on.

“
Surcom
R1122, who requested my presence?”

“R1122, I copy. Cori Sledge and
Clyde
Montile
wish you to report to the
Gaviota
Oil Terminal ASAP regardless of your current
situation.”

Cori is my direct supervisor but
Montile
is a Sacramento paper pusher. It made no sense. Yet
I knew the protocol.

“R1122, I’ll get there as soon as I
can.”

I had my flashlight out, scanning
the edge of the pier. At first, I heard snarling and scratching. Then there was
silence. Since the scraping sound came from the area near the ladder, I assumed
the bear was still close to the pier and maybe even underneath. I had to leave.
With orders being what they were and knowing the hierarchy of incidents, my
only option was to take care not to become another emergency. I would locate
the bear, shoot it, if it was in range, then make my way back to the truck.
With luck, I would find a qualified bystander and delegate first aid. “Bernie,
are you with me?” I shouted, moving to a prone position, situating myself to
peek over the edge.

Lying on my stomach, I heard
splashing and saw that one-armed bear waist deep in the surf, clawing and licking
at the barnacles on the pilings. I made my way down the pier, to a notch where
a ladder let me lean out to get a good shot. In my peripheral vision I could
tell that a crowd was forming. Not an unusual occurrence considering the
circumstances. I took aim and shot. It was done; or so I thought. Now to find a
good
Samaritan. When I rose to my feet is when I first
saw mass approaching. Initially, I started walking toward them, thinking they
were coming to help. But it didn’t take too many steps to realize that
something was terribly wrong. In hindsight I might say I was with luck, but at
that minute I was experiencing the antithesis of good fortune.

Plum thumb, Earl, was now ambling
toward me. A bit of his hair flopped directly in front of his forehead. This
piece of hair was exactly what I focused on next. In the two previous shots, I
had taken out his plum hand and left a serious wound in his chest. As I
centered on his head through the targeting ring of my rifle, a thought brought
me back to last year.

Almost as if he were present,
Ulric’s
voice rang deep within my own head, “The head,
remember, the head,” he told me. At the time, we had just started a bottle of
whiskey after completing a bottle of the Ugandan equivalent,
waragi
. It was long after midnight in my campground
residence. In the hours that passed after the children went to bed and our
wives decided that a movie starring a woman with a prosthetic leg submachine
gun was beyond their interest, we watched three zombie flicks, chewed venison
jerky and drank. We slipped into our familiar Peace Corps banter but after the
third movie, and a good swig,
Ulric
became serious.

Ulric
Savage, now a professor of ecotourism has never been one to invoke discomfort.
Even in the most serious of circumstance in Africa under rebel attack,
Ulric
had a knack of bringing levity to the situation. He
could smile with his eyes alone. I once saw him make the victim of a cobra bite
laugh while succumbing to the paralyzing effects of the attack and I'm
convinced that
Ulric
had more to do with slowing the
kid’s heart rate down enough to save his life than the healer did.

Setting the tumbler on the wood
floor with a force that caused the liquid to slosh up the walls of the thick
clear glass,
Ulric
leaned in close to me.
Uncomfortably close. The new growth of his scruff, blond, almost red stubble on
his upper lip, moved to his words, “The head, remember, the head,” he said
while tapping his temple.

“Yeah, man,” I returned, “That
reminds me, I have to deal with some feral pigs tomorrow. I think it's time to
hit the sac.”

Then he said one last thing, “Don’t
forget about the night dancers.”