Tails of the Apocalypse

The Bear’s Child ^{by Harlow C. Fallon}

For the past hour I’ve followed buzzards circling in the sky, looking for the spot where death has drawn them. Where I hope to find enough unspoiled meat to get me through another day. When I arrive and scare the buzzards off, I find the corpse of an Icarite. One less Icarite in the world is one less pain in my ass. But I’m still annoyed that I’ve lost a meal.

There isn’t much left of him; the buzzards have taken care of that. By his clothing I know he’s one of their hunters. The Icarites have hunted me often enough. I have the scars to show for it. By the arrow protruding from his ribcage, I see this hunter became the hunted. The irony isn’t lost on me, but he’s no concern to me now. I still have to find food.

It’s hot out on the grasslands. The green scarf I keep wrapped around my head keeps the sweat from my eyes, but my shirt clings to my skin where the sweat trickles between my breasts. I raise my canteen to my mouth. Only a dribble comes out. I know where I can get water, but food is more urgent, and less plentiful.

I should be enjoying my time alone, but there’s never any joy in it. Always, it’s about survival.

I shade my eyes and stare into the distance. My vision fills with prismatic light—it’s the disease leaching into my brain. The air is full of rainbows; my sickness is a monster wearing a mask of beauty. I blink to clear my eyes, straining to see if I’m alone in the wide sea of grass. Phantoms rise up to mock me, to catch me off guard. They gather substance, then dissipate like smoke. More tricks the disease plays on my mind.

The high wall surrounding Icarus is barely visible from where I stand, but it still feels too close. I need to move on, back to the safety of the woods and the mountains, before another Icarite hunter finds me.

My empty stomach rumbles as I fall into a steady lope. My legs also protest, but I ignore the ache and adjust my stride, compensating for my limp as I always do. When I reach the tree line, I wait for that elusive feeling of safety the forest sometimes provides. But it never comes.

I kneel at a familiar stream and satisfy my thirst, then fill my canteen. I’m always at a disadvantage when using my left arm—my good arm—for anything but wielding a weapon. My right arm is weak, my hand mangled. Only my thumb and the nub of my forefinger remain. It’s the price I paid for escaping an Icarite trap that almost took my life two years ago. An arm for a life. No argument there.

As I cup more water to my mouth, I listen for out-of-place sounds—the snap of a twig, the crunch of leaves underfoot. My hearing is the one good sense I have left, and it’s honed to a sharp edge. I don’t hear anything, but I’m aware of a presence just inside the trees. Without turning around—I need the element of surprise—I slip my knife from its sheath.

“No need for that, Anya.”

I jump to my feet and face him. Gunther. My brother. We share the same blood, but there’s no love between us. He’s older than me by four years, but the disease that claims us all outside the Wall of Icarus has ravaged him less than it has me. He still has most of his hair. He stands straight. There’s little weakness in his flesh and bones.

He treats me like I’m at death’s door, but not in a kind, protective way. He lords his condition over me, and I hate him for it. Gunther despises me because I wander alone, away from our clan. Because I don’t act like a woman. He resents that I leave him to care for our ailing father, a job the daughter should do. He envies my freedom. My willingness to take it.

Gunther looks to the west. “Storm coming.”

I follow his gaze and see the bare wisps of cirrus clouds marring an otherwise clear blue sky. “Not for a while,” I say. “Tonight or tomorrow.”

Gunther shrugs in his indifferent manner, as if what I say matters little. “Bode is asking for you. You should come home.” It’s not a request, and he doesn’t wait for me to respond. He turns and disappears into the woods.

Bode is our father. The harshness of our lives has stripped us of any desire for endearing terms. I feel little connection and no obligation to him, or to any member of our clan. The disease has hardened us, made us resentful. We congregate only because we stand a better chance of surviving in a brutal world where food is scarce. Where nature has become a wrathful, unpredictable demon.

But we aim most of our resentment at Icarus—a city built as a shrine to itself. Before Bode was born, the world was in turmoil. There were gods of war and hunger and hardship. Gods of madness. Then other gods came—gods of science who believed they could perfect those things that had always resisted perfection: the human body and the weather.

But traveling the road to perfection means there are always failures left in the ditches. We, the Ferals, as they like to call us, are those imperfect missteps. We’ve been discarded like trash outside the city wall.

Abandoned to deal with disease that can’t be restrained, and weather that won’t be subdued.

But inside the wall—under an invisible dome where light and precipitation and temperature are well ordered—life is comfortable. Icarus worships at its own feet, and its perfect residents flourish, disease free. Their immunity was earned through our suffering.

We are the Ferals, the bastards Icarus refuses to claim. But imperfection is insidious; the Feral undercurrent pulses inside the city wall. When the Icarites realized they could never tame the demon of their own fears, they soon learned they could at least appease him. And so the Icarites hunt us for sport. It’s how my mother died, and why our clan has been reduced to a few dozen.

Our camp is always well hidden, and we never stay in one spot for long. When I arrive, the clan is already packing up and preparing to move on ahead of the storm.

Bode huddles beside a small fire. When I join him, he pierces me with an icy gaze. His sunken eyes are clouded; they’ve seen too much suffering. He’s hard and wiry, in body and soul. Even though he’s not that old, the disease has aged him far beyond his years. He can’t walk without help. When the clan moves on, Gunther will have to haul him on a travois made of tree limbs and animal skins.

“About damn time,” he says by way of greeting.

I don’t feel like arguing. He knows I’m a loner; I’m tired of defending myself. “I found a dead hunter,” I say. “Arrow in his chest.”

Bode squints. “Whose?”

“Jamison’s clan, looks like.”

He nods and pulls his knees closer to his chest. “Good.”

That’s one thing we share, at least. An appreciation for dead Icarites.

Gunther shows up with a roasted rabbit skewered on a stick. My gut rumbles again in response, but he won’t share the meat. It’s meant for Bode and him. The rest of the clan shares, to an extent, but I’m not around enough to contribute, so I don’t eat.

“What did you want me for, old man?” I ask. I watch as Gunther splits the rabbit with his knife and hands Bode half. The smell of roasted meat wafts to my nose and my mouth waters. Bode eyes me for a minute, then tears off a piece and hands it to me. Gunther’s disapproving scowl follows.

Normally I’d refuse the gift, but I need food. It’s been two days and I feel weak and shaky. I nod my thanks to Bode and eat, avoiding Gunther’s glare. The rabbit is tough and gamy but I devour every bit of it. Then I suck the bones.

“Thought you might want to know where we’re headed,” Bode says between bites.

“I can follow your trail,” I say. The clan knows how to hide their movements from hunters. They’re good at it, but I know what to look for.

“Where’d you find that Icarite?” he asks.

“About a mile out. On the grassland.”

Bode levels a long look at Gunther and tells him, “Go find Jase. He’ll want to know. Icarites might come around thinking we’re to blame.”

Gunther’s sour expression deepens. I can tell he wants to argue. He wants to find a way to blame me for the dead hunter, for Bode’s order, for all the wrongs heaped on him.

“I’ll go,” I say.

They both look at me, no doubt a little surprised that I’m offering. Bode nods. I get up and make my way through camp, ignoring the iron glares of clan members as I limp past. No one cares for me much. I’m sure Gunther has a lot to do with their collective opinion. They condemn me because I’m a woman who doesn’t follow the rules. Since I contribute little, I’m worth even less. Truth be told, I prefer it that way. It’s easier for me to come and go as I please—to mostly stay away as I please.

I find Jase stuffing his belongings into a rucksack. Jase is the leader of the clan, as much as we have one. He’s the mediator of disputes and clashes. He represents us to the other clans. On his say-so, the group moves and resettles. He’s sharp minded and able bodied, which is saying a lot for a Feral. I like Jase, but I know the feeling isn’t mutual. He glances at me once and continues to work.

I squat down and wait for him to say something before I speak. It’s a gesture of respect we grant to those in leadership. He gives me another glance and says, “Hand me that cord there.”

I do as he says, watching as he shoves it into his pack.

“Something on your mind?” he asks, without looking up.

“I found a dead Icarite about a mile from here. Out on the grasslands. He had an arrow in his chest. Bode says you’d want to know.”

Jase pauses and considers my words. “Was it your arrow?”

I bristle at his question; it feels like a backhanded insult to my weakness. An indictment of my disobedience. Women aren’t allowed to handle a bow. But even if they were, my weak arm and mangled hand make it impossible.

“You know it wasn’t,” I reply in a cold voice.

His gaze shifts briefly to my hand. The look in his eyes confirms his assessment of me as useless. “You recognize the arrow?”

“Looks like Jamison’s clan.”

He nods. “Storm’ll be moving in by morning. We’ll be out of here before then. I doubt hunters will be wandering around with a storm lashing their heads.”

Sometime I get bad feelings, like an itch I can’t reach. They’ve saved me more than once from walking into danger. I have one of those feelings now.

“Maybe not hunters, but…” I trail off, reluctant to finish my thought. I know how Jase will receive it.

He throws me a skeptical glance as if he’s read my mind. “Flamers? You think those Icarite bastards are gonna hit us with flamers? When’s the last time that happened?”

I remember when. Eight years ago. I was a little girl, maybe ten, and our clan was on the move. We came upon another camp engulfed in fire as four flamer vehicles drove away from the massacre, back to the safety of Icarus. Why they’d unleashed such a demon on the clan, we never knew. Where was the sport in that? We couldn’t even tell which clan it was. The bodies were burnt beyond recognition.

“Maybe it’s been too long,” I tell Jase. “Maybe the demon can’t be held back anymore.”

Jase glares at me under a furrowed brow. “What the hell’s wrong with your head, girl?”

I stand up and step back. Jase won’t listen to me. He thinks I’m crazy, and I am. I know I am. My mind is slowly surrendering to the disease. I feel things, see things that aren’t shared by others. My thoughts are twisted. The disease mostly attacks the body, but for an unlucky few, it worms its way into the brain as well. As much as I try to fight it, I know it will take me—all of me.

“Never mind,” I say. “Do what you want.”

“Get the hell out of here, Anya,” Jase says, irritated. “I’ve got work to do. Unlike you.”

Anger fuels my need to get away. I’m mad that Jase has dismissed my concerns. Fear moves my feet. I’m afraid he might be right, that the bad feelings roiling in my gut might be a symptom of the chaos in my head. I don’t know what to trust and what to ignore anymore.

So I leave the camp, because alone, I can deal with it. Alone, I can let it knock me down like an angry gust of wind. I can wait until it passes, until I can rise up from it and see again. Until I can find my feet and my way again.

Dusk is settling in and a chilly wind has kicked up, chasing the day’s heat away. It’s a portent of what’s to come, I’m sure of it. Storms are always worse than expected. They’re unpredictable and violent, filled with fury. At least this time there’s some warning.

Despite my stiff muscles and fatigue, I find a steady stride through the woods as the rabbit settles into my stomach. I run quietly, my ears alert to danger in its many forms. There are hunters in the forest, and not just the human kind.

I make my way north to the foothills, where I know I can find safety. The clan will probably head the same direction. I’ll be able to find them easily enough if I want to, after the storm passes.

When I reach the hills, my jog slows and my ascent becomes a fight for every step, every handhold. I stop and rest more often than I should, but the energy given to me by the meager meal is almost spent. Thunder rolls like drums in the distance, and the cold wind carries a bite now. I shiver as I push on toward a place I know—a cleft in a rock face nearby, where I’ll be able to take shelter from the storm.

I’m nearly there when I hear the clatter of loose gravel behind me. Without looking, I know—an Icarite hunter is trailing me. Sometimes, no matter how careful I am, they find me.

He’s a damn fool for being out at night with the storm approaching. He must be inexperienced, with no idea what he’s in for. I could find a way to ambush him, but I don’t need to. The storm will do that for me.

I just need to run.

Adrenaline surges, and my fatigue dissolves. In the growing darkness, I change direction, heading further up the slope. I duck behind rocks, zigzag through trees and scrub to throw him off my trail. The wind’s fury intensifies as I climb. Needles of ice prick my skin. Flashes of lightning turn the night to day, revealing my position. This storm wants me, but I refuse to let it have me. Perhaps an Icarite sacrifice will appease its hunger.

I stop for a brief moment to catch my breath. I listen, but the shrieking gale is all I can hear.

Then I notice a glow in the distance. My heart drops. Fire consumes the forest, whipped to a frenzy by the winds. I understand now why the hunter is here.

My premonition has come true. Flamers have found my clan. The demon is free.

The storm lets loose all its rage. Is it punishing me for escaping the wrath of the fire? The wind knocks me to the ground as the clouds break open, unleashing a stinging downpour of icy rain. It hammers my body against the mountainside. Torrents rush down the slope, threatening to wash me away. I have to find cover. I scramble over rain-slick rocks and muddied ground, with water surging around my feet. I grab at anything I can to keep me anchored to the earth. I find a pocket under a tumble of boulders from an ancient rockslide and climb inside, shivering with cold as the driving sleet peppers the rock face. The storm blows in behind me, pursuing me, lashing at my back and legs. To escape it, I scramble deeper into the hole.

It takes me a moment to realize the pocket is actually a small tunnel that leads upward. I hesitate to crawl further in. An animal lives here—I can smell it. There’s the scent of old rot, and a pungent, musky odor.

The wind and sleet pummel the outside of the cave. Lightning cracks the air. I flinch, fighting back panic. My mind races through the possibilities of what animal might live here. I’ve faced predators in the forest and on the grassland—wolves, big cats, even bears.

Confronting any of these predators in a den terrifies me, but I have nowhere else to go. If I go back outside, the raging storm will kill me. If I stay in the tunnel, the cold and wet will pull the last bit of heat from my body and I’ll die of exposure. I’ve survived worse storms, but not when I’m exhausted, underfed, and weak.

I crawl a few more inches in. The air feels warmer. I’ll take my chances.

It’s pitch black inside. Lightning flashes don’t show me enough of the cave to ease my fears. But I feel my way along and find a dry floor covered with dirt and leaves. I huddle against the cave wall and close my eyes so my ears will open wider.

There are clicking and popping noises, followed by a series of huffs. Something grumbles low in its throat.

Bear.

My pulse races, and I weigh my fear of this creature against my fear of the storm. Maybe if I sit still enough, if I don’t act threatening in any way, it’ll leave me alone until the storm moves on and I can get out.

I don’t mean to trespass, I think to the darkness. I’m just afraid.

I curl up tight and press into the wall, shivering. I can’t see the bear, but I know it sees me. I hear it breathing. So close I can almost feel its breath across the hairs of my arm. Or maybe that’s my fear brushing against me.

Every time I shift the slightest bit, the bear huffs. But it doesn’t attack. Maybe it’s just as afraid of me. Or maybe it understands I’m only looking for shelter.

I try to focus on the warmth in the cave; it’s a welcome relief. Gradually I relax, and my shivering stops. I fight to stay awake, as if that will somehow protect me if the bear chooses to attack. But soon I surrender to exhaustion, and the wailing storm invades my dreams.

When I open my eyes, I forget for a moment where I am. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I’m still curled up, my muscles stiff with an ache that reaches into my bones. My head feels thick and cloudy, and sparks of light fill my vision. The kaleidoscope of colors again, the beautiful disease.

I blink and clear my eyes. The storm has spent itself. Daylight has eased into the small space. Then I remember the bear and my pulse quickens.

From the opposite wall, I see it now, watching me with dark, round eyes. It’s close enough to reach out and touch. Its breath smells of death. I’m afraid to move.

The bear huffs once and wags its head as if to say, you’re a sad sight.

“Sit up, child,” it says.

I blink and stare. The bear didn’t speak. The disease is making me hear things that aren’t real. I slowly right myself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain shooting through my body.

“The demon has worn itself out,” it says.

I shake my head, as if the effort will somehow resettle my infected brain properly. I look around and see a small mound, now decayed, only fur wrapped around protruding bones. A dead cub. A steel arrow juts out of its side. I recognize that arrow; it’s not one of ours. Her cub was killed by an Icarite hunter.

She leans toward me, thrusting her nose in my face and over my body, exploring me by smell. Her warm breath blows across my skin and raises the hairs on my neck; it was her breath before, after all. I pull my knees up to my chest and close my eyes. Pressing myself into the wall, I wait for claws to rake me, or teeth to sink into my flesh. If Gunther finds my body, I wonder, will he mourn or rejoice?

Instead, a warm tongue washes my face. I open my eyes and meet the bear’s dark, appraising gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s the best I can do. I’m sick, you see.”

“So am I,” I whisper. I can’t hold the words back. They seem pulled out of me.

Her dark eyes gleam. “I know. I can smell your disease.”

I glance over at the dead cub. “You’ve lost your child. To an Icarite hunter?”

“Yes,” she says, blowing out a breath long with suffering. “But now you’re here.”

I don’t know what that means. If I’m imagining this conversation, am I trying to tell myself something?

“I have to go,” I tell her.

The bear shifts in her corner, grunting. “I’m hungry,” she says.

I’m hungry too. What I feel, she feels, I think, though I can’t explain where the knowledge comes from. My sickness is her sickness. Is this real? Or is my mind doing this?

I slip out of the tunnel into a bright day. Clouds still linger in the sky, but a chilly wind pushes them past the sun. To the west, a black scorch stains the forest. Wisps of smoke still rise and catch the wind, even after the storm’s deluge. I’m afraid to go there, but I’m drawn to it, as if I have no choice but to bear witness to the devastation.

I make my way down the mountainside, stopping once to look back. The bear emerges from the den and watches me. In the full light I see that she’s a grizzly, and so bony I don’t know how she’s still alive. She looks after me a moment, as if I might not return, then ambles off.

I continue my descent. The ground is puddled and slippery. I lose my footing so often that by the time I make it halfway down the mountainside, I’m covered in mud, scrapes, and scratches.

In a patch of ruined trees I come across the Icarite hunter who pursued me. His body is twisted around a broken sapling, half covered by a slide of rocks. His head is crushed, and a branch protrudes from his gut. The storm has taken its sacrifice and spared me. Looking at his mangled body, I feel little but relief.

When I finally approach the charred aftermath of the flamers’ attack, the acrid odor of burnt, wet wood hits my nose first. Then I see my camp, burned and ruined before me. The scene hurls me into my memories and I’m a ten-year-old girl again, feeling the horror of it.

I’m not prepared for this. The loss of my clan hits me hard. These blackened, misshapen bodies are people I knew. I never felt a strong connection to them, but now that they’re gone, I feel it—the bond severed, conspicuous in its absence. It’s a hollow ache inside my gut, worse than the hunger that always seems to be there. Much worse.

Without realizing it at first, I start counting the bodies. Ten, twelve, twenty…. When I reach thirty-six and find no others, I know some have escaped. There were forty-three in our clan, including me, so six are unaccounted for. A rush of hope fills me, hope that my brother and father are among those who escaped. But I know Bode, lying on his travois and unable to move quickly, would never have been so lucky. I keep looking, and soon I find him—number thirty-seven—burnt and twisted, bone and flesh and leather and wood, all one charred mass.

Emotions I never expected to feel take up arms and clash inside me. Grief and rage and emptiness. Most of all, guilt. If I’d been there… maybe…. But I know I would likely have died alongside Bode and the others. All at once, I miss my father. The knowledge that I will never speak to him again, never hope for acceptance from him again—it all overwhelms me. I miss a man I never felt love for, never thought was important to me.

But now his absence leaves a hole. I wonder if this is how the bear felt when she lost her cub. The emptiness is infinite inside me.

I feel a sudden need to make it up to him somehow—now that it’s too late. I have to do something, show that I’m sorry for not giving myself to him more, for not being there when he might have needed me, for letting Gunther carry the whole burden.

But I don’t know what to do. I have no idea if Gunther is among the dead. The bodies don’t give up their secrets. They’re all blackened and shrunken and warped by the white-hot fire that consumed them. I recognize children from adults only by their size. I know Bode only by the shape of his travois on the ground.

Phantoms emerge from the burnt trees and hiss at me. They point accusing fingers and stare with hate-filled eyes. The cold wind wails in my ears, a lament for the loss of so many lives. Bode cries from his ashes. “Why weren’t you here?” he moans. “Why didn’t you help?”

I turn and run. I put the scorched devastation far behind me. I run back to the only place I can call home, now that home matters. Back to the cave. Back to the bear who is sick, as I am sick. Who is hungry as I am hungry. Maybe I can tend to the bear in a way I never allowed myself to do for my father.

At the base of the mountain, I nearly stumble over a recent kill, maybe a day old. The storm must have chased away the predator before it had a chance to finish its meal. The hindquarters on the young doe are still mostly intact. This is more meat than I’ve eaten in weeks.

I sever the spine with my knife and hoist the hindquarters over my shoulder to take with me to the cave. If the bear will eat, I’ll feed her. Before I get there, though, I need to find a place to make a fire, somewhere away from the bear’s den. There’s always the risk that a fire will draw Icarite hunters when they see the smoke. But the severity of the storm should keep their heads down for a while. I’ll take my chances.

I find a rocky nook in the hillside that gives me some respite from the wind. The temperature has fallen steadily and the clouds have gathered again, turning the sky to steel. I manage to collect some dry tinder, and scrape my flint to spark a flame. Most of the wood I find is still damp, but I toss a few branches on, watching as steam billows up. The wood hisses and pops as it releases moisture. Soon the fire is burning hot, and I arrange the meat on the heated rocks to cook. The fire feels good and chases some of the ache from my muscles.

I don’t hear the Icarite. He just appears on the other side of the boulder. He has no gun, no weapon of any kind that I can see. I jump to my feet and pull my knife, ready to attack. But he does nothing more than eye me curiously and smile.

“Smells good,” he says. “Venison?”

I begin to wonder if he’s a phantom too. Is my diseased mind conjuring this hunter out of my fears? Has he come to seek revenge for the other Icarite’s death in the storm?

“Share your fire with me, Feral.”

I have no choice but to do what he says. He’s too close. If I try to run, he’ll be on top of me in seconds. I’m no match for his size and strength. I might be able to attack with my knife, but I need to catch him off guard. And that’s not going to happen with him standing there, staring at me. Besides, I’m still not convinced he’s real. No Icarite hunter would ask to share a fire with a Feral. Much less a female.

So I cautiously crouch by the glowing stones, my muscles protesting my every move. The Icarite settles himself opposite me, rubbing his palms in the heat of the flames. He squints at the sky.

“Looks like snow,” he says. “Not a good time to be outside the wall.”

“Then why are you?” I try to keep the acid from my voice.

He studies me with a strange gleam in his eye. “Urges,” he says. “Primal urges. They drive me.”

I can only imagine what he means by that, but I don’t like the sound of it. I glance around me, looking for an escape. There’s a space between two rock slabs. If I jump there, the rock might slow him down, give me a chance to run. He can’t grab me without….

“They’re going to wipe out every single one of you,” he says. “They’ve decided you’re too much of a threat.”

I swallow hard, my fear like a rock in my gut. “We’re all dying anyway,” I remind him, as if we’re having a logical discussion. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

A brief smile tugs at his mouth. “Not fast enough. And not all of you are dying. Your children. Some are born healthy.”

That may be the case in other clans, but not mine. Even the children were born with the disease. Now it doesn’t matter. They’re all gone.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The Icarite rises to his feet. “You’d better be on your way,” he says. “Gather your food. They’re almost here.”

Snow starts falling. Heavy, white flakes. The hunter looks up and smiles as if he’s been waiting for it. Before my eyes, he fades into the flurry.

My head pounds in rhythm with my heart. I’m shaking as I try to make sense of what just happened. If he was ever there at all. I’ve never hallucinated like that before. It’s a warning, clearly a warning. Someone is coming. Flamers? Can they navigate the mountainside? More hunters? My chest tightens with dread, but the more I try to control it, the worse the pain in my head grows. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands to my temples, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t, but I can’t wait any longer. I kick dirt on the fire and collect the meat, tucking it inside my shirt. The cooked pieces sting my skin, but I ignore that and start climbing, heading in the direction of the den. The snowfall turns heavy. Between the white squall and the spots clouding my vision, I have to feel my way up the mountainside. Now and then I stop to wipe my eyes and blink away the blurriness. The wet snow soaks my clothes and chills me to the bone, but I press on to the bear’s cave.

Behind me, the sounds of skittering rocks alert me to the Icarite hunters following. They’re still a good ways off, but given my condition, they could be on me quickly, before I know it. I keep climbing, pushing past the ache, willing my muscles to work harder, ignoring the pain in my head.

Then I recognize the shape of the fallen boulders, now slick with snow. I scramble over them into the tunnel. As I catch my breath, the familiar smell of musk comforts me.

A blast shatters a rock outside the tunnel, peppering my back with shards. I clamber all the way inside, hugging the wall opposite the bear. She tenses and huffs, clacks her teeth and snaps her jaw to intimidate me. A fresh wave of fear floods my body. Does she even remember me?

Her black eyes gleam in the dimness. She leans over and sniffs me, her nose pausing at my shirt, where I have the meat tucked away. Her warm breath blows out in a loud snort, and she settles back into her corner. I relax only a little, knowing what’s soon to come from outside.

When I hear the crunch of footsteps, the bear hears it too. Her ears flick forward, then tuck back, and she turns into a dynamo of muscled energy, shooting out of the tunnel with a bellow so loud I can’t keep my own shriek inside me. I’m shocked that a creature so bony and weak can transform into such raw rage. Where did it come from? Its suddenness shakes me to the core.

I hear the screams of the hunters, the primal roar and snarl of the bear, the crunch of bones, cries and pleadings for mercy. But not one shot fired.

Then quiet.

I don’t have to see the aftermath to know what happened. The bear could have done the same to me, but spared me. The thought leaves me awestruck. Is she so far gone that she thinks I’m her child? How does she not recognize me for what I am?

She returns in a few moments, shaking snow off her fur. Her muzzle is smeared with blood. She looks at me and grunts.

“You have food,” she says.

Though I’ve heard her voice before, impossible as it seems, hearing it again startles me. With trembling hands I pull the meat from my shirt and stare at it a moment. My mind is a whirlwind. How can the bear be talking to me? But then again, an Icarite hunter warned me of danger. An Icarite who might never have been there at all.

“Never mind,” she says. “I have plenty to eat now.”

She shuffles outside again. When I hear the sounds of ripping, the snapping of bones and tearing of flesh, I try not to picture it in my mind. But I know the less that remains of the bodies, the safer I’ll be. Eventually I’ll have to go out and bury whatever she doesn’t eat.

While the bear is gone, I eat a little of the cooked meat and feel some energy return. But I’m so tired my eyes won’t stay open. I curl up near the cub’s remains and fall into a restless sleep.

When I wake, the bear hasn’t returned. Cold has seeped into the cave and I can’t stop shivering. I crawl down the tunnel and discover the mouth nearly covered in snow. That means several inches also cover what’s left of the hunters. I’m safe for now, until the unpredictable weather decides to sweep away its white blanket and reveal what the bear has done. Then I’ll have to bury the Icarites’ remains.

I hear her snuffling, and scramble back inside. She follows, shaking the snow from her fur and settling into her spot. It rains on me and makes me even colder.

“A full stomach is a wonderful thing,” she says.

I nod, shuddering at the images her words evoke. Then I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, searching for clarity. She didn’t say that. Bears don’t speak, I remind myself, not really. Do they?

“You don’t have to worry about them,” she tells me. “The snow has hidden them.”

“I know. But not for long.”

The bear blows out a weary breath. “You must be cold.”

“Yes.”

“Lie close to me. I’ll keep you warm.”

I hesitate, worried that this is a trap set by my traitorous mind. Is it deceiving me? Speaking for the bear? If I make one unexpected move, she might kill me as she did the hunters. Maybe getting me to approach the bear is my brain’s way of ending my own suffering.

Maybe I’m okay with that.

I inch closer. She doesn’t huff or growl. She seems to be waiting for me. I advance slowly on hands and knees. In the deepening darkness, I barely make out her eyes, like polished obsidian, watching me. She sighs, deep and rumbling, rolls on her side, and with one paw draws me up against her until I’m snug in her motherly embrace. Her warmth percolates into my body. I close my eyes and sleep again.

When I wake, I can’t breathe. My head pounds and the air in the cave is thick and suffocating. The bear lies still, wheezing. Blackness spots my vision. Gasping, I untangle myself from the bear’s grip and crawl on my belly down to the tunnel’s entrance. It’s completely blocked by snow.

I claw at the wall of ice where the snow met the warmer air of the tunnel. It doesn’t budge. I ram my elbow into it, and with a crunch, it gives way to the softer snow on the other side. I dig and dig, my hands aching and numb from the cold, my head hammering, pulsing in my ears.

Finally, I break through. Struggling against the soft, biting ice, I shove my whole body out into the dazzling white, sucking freezing air into my lungs. I climb on top of the drifts, roll onto my back, and let the cold embrace me until my breathing slows and my pulse drops to its normal rhythm.

I hear a frustrated growl and snow from the hole showers me. The bear shoves past me, panting and grunting. She wobbles, as if the slightest breeze might knock her off her feet.

“Are you okay?” I ask, still hesitant, still wondering if our conversations are real.

Her head sways in my direction. Her eyes are glazed. “Yes. And you?”

“I’m fine now.” I sit up and take in the world now blanketed in white. The forest to the west looks clean now, the snow covering the ugly black smear of the fire.

“You need food,” the bear says. “You’ll feel better if you eat.” She takes a few steps forward, sinks to her belly and stops, as if considering whether the effort is worth it.

I wonder, not for the first time, why she cares so much about me. Like letting me sleep beside her. Defending me against the hunters.

Maybe she needs me as much as I need her.

It’s strange, this feeling of need. I think of my clan, now dead. How have I come to this? How have I lived with a family and never felt this connection? How is it that now, after all this time, I want to feel it, to know it? Inside I see the truth: it’s taken a loss of connection to find it. Perhaps the bear’s loss has forged a similar path for her. Perhaps, in this way, we are also alike.

“There’s still meat,” I remind her. “Enough for both of us.”

She blows a noisy breath through her nose. “You eat. I need to wander.”

Now fear seizes me—that the bear might not come back, that she’s leaving for good, to let her sickness claim her alone. The hole that opened inside me when I saw my father’s blackened remains, aches in my gut like an ulcer.

She casts me a glance. “I won’t go far.” She says it with assurance, as if she knows my thoughts. I’m starting to think she does.

I watch as she plows a lumbering path through the deep snow. When she disappears past the rocks, I go back inside.

Our den is still stuffy, but cold, fresh air has wafted in. I curl up on the floor where the bear has slept. I still feel the lingering warmth of her body. I don’t feel hungry, only tired; a deep, aching fatigue I know will never relent.

I toss and turn, listening for the sound of the bear’s return. Worry chases sleep away—worry that the bear might die out there, leaving me all alone. After a while, I sit up and eat. Maybe a little food will soothe the knot in my gut.

There’s still a hindquarter left when I’m done. I hope the bear will eat it when she returns.

I wait until the light begins to wane. The fear that earlier pricked at the edges of my thoughts now becomes a frenzied animal inside me, and I can’t sit still any longer. Just as I move to search for her, she returns, crawling through the entrance. I sidle out of the way, and she flops onto her spot with a long, rumbling sigh.

She doesn’t shake the snow from her fur. I know right away something isn’t right.

She regards me briefly with those dark, appraising eyes. “Why are you there, and not here?” she asks.

I move next to her, nestling into her soaked fur. It makes me colder, but I don’t want to be apart from her. Not now. “Are you worse?” I ask, my throat tight.

“Yes,” she says, the word carried in a long breath.

I listen to her lungs rattle with each struggle for air. If she hadn’t attacked those hunters, thrown all her energy into one last effort to protect me, maybe…

She did it for me. And now there’s nothing I can do for her. Her weakness seems to seep into me, like the cold and wet of her fur. I feel myself sink into it along with her, as if we’re both being pulled under by it. Drowning.

“Tell me about your mother,” the bear rasps.

I want to ask her why but ignore the urge. “She died when I was young. So I don’t remember a lot about her. She was beautiful. She’d lost her hair, but kept her head covered in a scarf the color of the grass and the leaves.” I touch the scarf wrapped around my head. “This scarf. It’s the only thing I have left of her.”

I take a breath and swallow the lump in my throat. “She was gentle. Quiet. Didn’t laugh much. But nobody does… did. But she always had a smile for me. I remember that. I remember her smile.”

“How did she die?”

“Hunters killed her. Like your cub.”

The bear lets out a little groan that tells me she understands our mutual loss.

“And your father?” she asks.

The pain of his passing sweeps through me. “Flamers attacked our clan, right before I found you. He was killed in the fire.”

She doesn’t respond. Her brittle breath fills the silence.

“I wish…” I begin. Stop. Wonder if it matters if I voice my regret.

“You wish you’d been closer,” she says.

“Yes.” I swallow hard.

“There is a place,” the bear says, “where the food is abundant. Berries and roots and the streams full of fish. My mother is there. And my cubs.”

I close my eyes. The darkness tugs at me. Wants to separate me from her warmth. I want to acknowledge her own loss. I hadn’t known she’d had more than the one cub. Had suffered more than the one too-soon death. Instead, I ask, “Is that where you’re going?”

“Yes,” she answers. Her breathing is like dry leaves underfoot. I feel her heartbeat at my back, irregular and faint. “There is a place…” she says, and I wonder as she catches her breath if she’s fallen into confusion, repeating herself, “…where you can go. Beyond the river.” She speaks between shallow breaths now. “Beyond the next mountain range. You’ll be safe there. The hunters won’t find you there.”

“The hunters are everywhere.”

The bear grunts. “Not everywhere. Not there.”

“You mean, after I die?”

She draws in air, the sound like bubbles in her throat. “No. But does it matter?”

I consider the question. I don’t believe there’s anything after death. But if the bear believes, maybe I do too. Maybe we can share more than disease, more than need.

“I have to sleep now,” she says.

I press against her, willing her to keep breathing, to stay alive and connected to my life, to be my companion for the remainder of my days. But each breath grows weaker, each beat of her heart slower, until the air in her lungs escapes in one long sigh. This mother, this companion had been a strong and powerful creature. Now, she’s gone.

I have never cried in my life that I can remember. But all my anguish and regret and loss seem to churn inside and press up through my chest, seeking release, spilling out in hot tears. I surrender to sobbing, burying my face in the bear’s fur until the last of her warmth drains away and the cold finds me.

Numb, empty, I’m ready now. I want to leave this place for the one the bear has described beyond the river. I close my eyes. Darkness and weakness and sickness roil together inside me, an undertow I can’t resist, even if I wanted to. Maybe Bode will be there, and Gunther. I might have another chance to make things right. Maybe I’ll see her there. Maybe she’ll know me.

I open my eyes. A shadow, a phantom hovers over me in the cave.

Has the bear returned? For a moment I think I might be waking from the sleep I couldn’t find when she went wandering. Then I remember: she’s dead.

Am I dead too?

I draw a breath, feeling the bear’s cold body at my back. I’m not dead. A fresh wave of grief rolls over me. I’m still in the cave. Still dealing with phantoms. Cold and ache and disease.

And then relief surprises me. Relief at being alive. I’d been so ready to die. But now that Death has moved on, I don’t mind seeing it go.

The phantom is still there, now less colorful, dressed in the rags of the Feral. I blink through blurry eyes, try to focus.

“Anya,” the apparition says. “Are you okay?”

No, I think. I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay. Why are you asking? Why do you care?

“Anya. It’s me. Gunther.”

Shock pulses through me. I blink again, suck in a breath. The phantom’s features sharpen to reveal my brother’s face. “Gunther?”

“Yeah. Finally found you. What are you doing here, curled up next to a dead bear?”

“She wasn’t always dead,” I say. “I thought I was dead.”

Gunther stares at me, a puzzled look on his face.

“I’m dying,” I add.

“We’re all dying, Anya,” Gunther says. “But we’re not dead yet.”

I wince as I prop myself up on one elbow. The air in the cave isn’t as cold as I expected. Maybe a warm front has moved in.

I look at the bear. She’s just a shell now. The light has left her eyes. My chest feels tight, knowing she’s gone. But thinking of where she might be—in a land where she can be reunited with her cubs, where they can eat fish and berries to their hearts’ content—softens the loss opening inside me.

I look up at Gunther. “I found Bode’s body.”

Gunther turns his head away, but not before I see the pain flash through his eyes.

“There are five of us left,” Gunther says. “Six, if we count you.”

“Do you want to count me?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer. Afraid that it will damn me to a life alone, a life I would have gladly chosen only a few days before. A life that terrifies me now.

Gunther shakes his head and sighs. “Do you want to spend your last days here with the dead?” he asks. “Or with me? With the living?”

I stare for a long moment at the bear, stiff and cold in death. The bear who taught me everything I know about caring, about bonding. I look up at Gunther. His eyes are gleaming. He seems eager to hear the answer I want to say.

“With you,” I tell him, reaching for his outstretched hand. “I want to go with you.”