Pimply crouches down, holds out his phone.
“Get my picture,” he says, throwing a peace sign, his AR-15 in his other hand.
Heavyset takes the phone, snaps the picture. Pimply’s face is streaked with soot like an Indian in war paint.
“Sick,” says Pimply, checking himself out on the screen.
Then they hear a low rumble, getting closer. Another sucker headed for the spider’s web. They see a muffle of light pinprick the highway to the west. Together they run back toward the army truck, Heavyset holding his pants up by the waist. Pimply is giddy. He doesn’t even mind coughing so much. They set up behind the truck’s real bumper, swapping in fresh clips.
A single headlight approaches, slows.
“Dude,” says Pimply. “Motorcycle. Think I can shoot him off?”
He raises his barrel, but Heavyset pushes it down.
“No, no,” he says. “Hold up. Let’s—”
He lies down on the ground, points toward the shoulder. “You go—and I’ll—” He moans. “Ohhhh. Help. I’m—I’m hurt.”
Pimply gets it, cracks up. He grabs both AR-15s, crouch-walks over to the ditch, slides in sloppy, getting a mouthful of soot, but he doesn’t care because this is how rock stars fuck.
Down the road the headlight slows, stops. They can hear the engine idling.
“Ohhhh,” moans Heavyset. “Please. I’m hurt real bad.”
Pimply puts his elbows in the dirt, raises the rifle. He wipes the soot from his eyes, weeping, wishing they’d found some night-vision goggles in the truck. The smoke is so thick he can’t see shit. Then he hears the sound of the bike’s kickstand going down.
“Ohhhhh,” moans Heavyset, and Pimply has to stifle a giggle.
Footsteps approach at a slow, deliberate gait. Pimply flicks off the safety. He hears a snap behind him, turns. A deer stumbles out of the bushes, eyes wild, its horns on fire. Pimply ducks, the buck jumping over him and running across the road.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he says, as on the road, the footsteps stop.
“Ohhh,” moans Heavyset. “Mister, please. I’m hurt real bad.”
Shaken, Pimply gets back in position. He can make out the figure now. A young man with shoulder-length hair, wearing some kind of eye patch. He stands twelve feet from Heavyset, who is rolling on the ground, moaning, making it look real.
Pimply tightens his grip on the gun.
On the road the young man turns his head toward him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.
Pimply feels a chill go through him. How the fuck does this guy know he’s there? Pimply panics, pulls the trigger. The gun clicks. Shit. Pimply bangs it with his fist.
“Steve,” he shouts. “It’s fucking jammed.”
On the road, Heavyset rolls onto his stomach, pushing himself up. There is a 9mm in his waistband. He reaches for it. The young man doesn’t move.
In the ditch, Pimply pulls out the clip, jams it back in, tries to clear the breach. He hears movement behind him again. Another fucking deer. He doesn’t turn, working the rifle until the jammed round pops from the breech.
“Yes,” he hisses, raising the rifle. But then there is a growl behind him, impossibly low, so low he feels it in his bones. Pimply has time only to turn his head, and then the bear is on top of him. Half of its fur has been burned off, its left flank bubbling red. The bear thunders out of the brush and pounces on him, sinking its teeth into Pimply’s throat. He screams briefly, but then his head is off and bouncing in the road.
Heavyset has his gun halfway out when the bear strikes. He freezes at the sound of it, a nine-hundred-pound predator, half-mad with pain and fear, launching from the underbrush. And then Pimply’s head is rolling in the road, and the bear is turning toward him.
Heavyset tugs at the gun, but now it hooks on his pants. He yanks on it as the bear rises out of the ditch and onto the asphalt. It paws at the ground, bellowing in pain, then explodes up onto its back legs, towering twelve feet in the air. The crotch of Heavyset’s jeans go dark. He looks to the young man, who stares back at him with a bemused smile, like, What are you gonna do?
Heavyset starts to cry. Gun forgotten, he turns and runs toward the center guardrail, hearing the bear drop to its front paws, hearing it chase after him. He grabs for the rail, tries to vault over it, but his foot catches and he tumbles over into the oncoming lane. His gun clatters away, skidding onto the far shoulder. And then the bear is on him. Its teeth sink into his spine. He screams. Behind him, the hillside ignites, flames racing down toward the road.