Army of the Bears

"Keep them out of the building. That’s the most important thing."

“Alright, Mr. Winters, your resume is impressive. Your time with the police force stands out, though. You don’t see too many of you guys making a career change.” 

“Thank you, sir. There were, circumstances that forced me out of the field. I was involved in a shooting that was deemed, unjustified.” Walter Winters shifts in his seat. Although prepared for the question, speaking about it still makes him squirm. Mr. Daniels, his potential new boss, remains silent, prompting Walt to continue speaking.

“It was a traffic stop and there were two guys in a truck. As I approached, the passenger got out and fired at me over the truck bed. He missed, and I returned fire, but when the driver opened the door, I shot him too. Only the passenger had a gun, the driver was holding his phone.” 

“God damn. That’s a tragic story, son. Well, I appreciate you explaining it, but damn if I’m not sorry that happened. My only other question is, what brings you to our little corner of the world?”

It was a good question, but it was also one Walt had prepared for. One does not just stumble into Pony Montana, two hundred miles south of the maple-eagle line. With a population of less than two hundred, he couldn’t do what he had before and make up a local relative. No, for this question, his answer had to be believable. 

“To be honest, I don’t know what brought me here, to Pony. I’ve been in love with mountains since I was a kid, so I guess that I was drawn up here.” Walt stops himself, careful not to elaborate more than he needs to. Although his years on the force in Georgia had taught him to lie with the best of them, it never makes him feel good.

In truth, it was more than the allure of the Tobacco Root mountains that brought Walt to the desolate isolation that only towns like Pony can provide. 

The men who Walter, Officer Winters, shot that fateful day of his late career were men with connections. Oliver Macdonald and James ‘Cruz’ Hughes were both members of a street gang that, as it turns out, are extremely connected and more powerful than Winters could have ever expected. 

They ran him out of Georgia and sent him scurrying into hiding. For once in his life, Walt was thankful that his parents had died early and that he didn’t have a family that could get hurt.

“Well, I can understand that. I’ve been quite fond of them myself. Can you start Monday night?”

“Monday night would be great.” Walter says, ignoring the rest. “I guess someone will be here to train me on the register,” He asks, looking back across the small convenience store that seemed somehow wrong without gas pumps outside.

“I don’t need you to run the register. We close at eight during the week, nine on the weekends, and we’re closed on Sundays.” Mr. Daniels says with a wink. 

“Oh. Okay. So, what will I be doing?”

“Bears.”

“Bears?”

“Bears.”

“What do you mean, bears?” The entire conversation seems to have flipped on its head, and Walt is struck with an unease that he can feel in his bones. 

“We have a lot of bears around here. I need you to run them off. Keep them out of the building. That’s the most important thing. I can’t have a family of bears breaking into my store.” 

“Okay.” It was starting to make some sense. “What kind of bears are we talking about?”

“Grizzlies. Rawr.” Mister Daniels puts his hands up like claws and shows his teeth before dropping into a laugh that goes on for twenty seconds too long. “The legend goes that the natives went to war with them back before the pilgrims showed up and became a mutual enemy. A peace treaty was put in place and the bears were elevated to sacred animals.”

On Monday, at the agreed upon time, Mr. Winters shows up for work. He brings a brown paper sack with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a can of coke, a chewy granola bar, and a stick of string cheese. He also brings a small bag with a paperback western, flashlight, extra batteries, a sharp knife, a pack of cigarettes, and yet, even with all of these things, Walt arrives to work utterly unprepared for what’s coming. 

“Good evening Walt. It is good to see you. I thought for a second that I had scared you off.” Mr. Daniels smiles and puts out his hand for a shake. 

Walt shakes and returns the greeting. Mr. Daniels takes him around the outside of the store and shows him the ropes of the job. 

“Now these lights are gonna be your best friend.” He points up the massive LED floodlights that bathe the entire property, and a significant portion of the neighbors, in bright white light. “Don’t hurt your eyes, these bad boys are like the sun, it’ll get cha.” He laughs at himself. 

As they get around the back of the property, Walt sees what looks like something from a war zone. In the open field, flooding with light, there is a deep trench cut into the ground and on both sides of the trench there are coils of razor wire pulled across the length of the property. 

“What is all this?” Walt asks, feeling like he was starring in some b-rated horror movie. 

“Bears.”

With the sun getting low and the store closing up, their walk through is cut short and Walt is left with more questions than he had to begin with.

“Now, everything you need is up there.” Mr. Daniels says, pointing to the roof as he starts his little green sports car and drives away, throwing gravel across the parking lot. 

Still feeling like he was acting in a movie without a script, Walt gathers his stuff and climbs the metal ladder to the roof. He finds a foldable camping chair leaning against a small building. It looks like an outhouse sticking out of the flat roof. The door is unlocked and inside, Walt finds an arsenal that’s better stocked than the Laden County Police Department back in Georgia.  

Walt takes a seat in the small chair and eats half of his sack lunch, saving the granola bar and one sandwich for later. Afterward, he sips his coke and smokes cigarettes. He keeps his eyes on the tree line, watching out for bears and seeing no signs of the Ursus Arctos Horribilis. 

Walt’s eyes grow heavy despite the bright lights and the uneasiness that comes with not really understanding what he was being asked to do. What sort of bear problem could require a guard, let alone one armed to the teeth? 

Sometime after midnight, Walt drifts into an anxious sleep, leaning forward into his lap as if trying sleeping on a plane. He dreams the same dream he always dreams. 

He is standing on the white line of the highway with his service pistol in his hand. He feels the wind of a bullet as it passes his ear, nearly taking it off.

The scenes play like a scary movie, quickly cutting from one horrible bloody image to another. Walt watches himself fire his weapon and kill the men, over and over, while silently screaming.

At exactly three-forty-five, the bears began their assault with a booming roar that sends Walt flailing out of his seat. Two of the monsters, definitely Grizzlies, come bounding out of the woods, running. Walt watches in shock as the two bears grab the razor wire in their mouths and pull it up, making an opening on the far side. 

Walt is half asleep as he lunges for the armory. He doesn’t think about anything but his weapon. He would later curse himself for not grabbing it when he had first looked in and taking stock of the rifles and ammo, but none of that comes into play now. Now is only the gun and only survival.  

Walt rips the door open and grabs the rifle he’s most familiar with, an M4, and a stack of loaded magazines. He runs to the low wall that borders the roof and drops low. When he peeks over, rifle first, Walt sees something beyond reason. 

Walt sees that more bears have joined in, too many bears. There are now four of them standing tall with mouthfuls of razor wire, gushing blood across their furry bellies. These bears are making an opening for the others who stream through, keeping their bodies low, like the soldiers they apparently are. 

Walt watches as the bears file into the field behind the store and form into lines, like an actual battalion. Walt is absolutely flabbergasted. In his thirty-two years, nothing has ever happened to him that couldn’t explain or make sense of, but this, this is something new. 

Three lines of ten bears stand at attention some thirty feet from his position, silent and commanding. Walt checks his rifle again and clicks off the safety. Whether it was the sound of the click or the incredible intelligence of these creatures that causes them to charge, Walt doesn’t know. All he knows at this moment is red, loud, and live.

Walter fires six rounds into the chest of the lead bear who doesn’t stop, or even slow his roaring charge. He raises his aim and puts two into its head. The monster takes two more steps and roars louder than ever before. It crumples into a mountain of lifeless flesh and fur. 

One down twenty-nine to go. Walt would think to himself if he was able. Grade A, pure and uncut adrenaline surges through his body and mind and Walt empties his magazine with headshots, taking out the rest of the Bear Army’s front line. He was never the best marksman, but the bears are massive with heads the size of a man’s torso. 

The second line of bears is on top of the dead, driving forward with thunderous roars that make Walt’s body shudder deep in its core. Walt reloads the rifle with dexterity that he isn’t aware of. He takes aim and shoots the closest bear four times in the head before moving on to another. 

One bear seems to look directly at Walt with an awareness that shouldn’t be possible. When the oversized horribilis bear opens its mouth to roar and threaten, Walt sends two rounds straight down its throat. 

On his right, Walt catches a brown mass of fur in the corner of his eye. A front liner that got through the hail of fire and lead. The front liner has its back to the building, side stepping like Solid Snake under a surveillance camera. Walt fires three rounds straight down into the top of its head. As the body falls. Walt sees that the best had been close to the breaker box, the one that controlled the lights.

By now, the third line has made it past the bodies of the first line and as they get close to the building, Walt sees that most of them are not focusing on him, they are going around him, to the front of the store. 

Feeling more like he was in a bad movie than ever, Walt gets one thought through the adrenaline and panic. You shall not pass, he thinks with a smile before laying out three more grizzlies and dropping another magazine. 

Walt crouches and feels around on the ground for a loaded magazine, but he finds only empties. He slings the rifle over his shoulder and rushes for the armory. 

Not good. Not good. Is the extent of his thoughts, but his deep mind was processing everything. Ammo boxes, handguns, rifles, bear spray, and more. Walt tucks a .45 in his pants and he fills his front pockets with extra pistol magazines. He grabs the bear spray, a 30-30 lever action rifle and a heavy box of ammo. 

The crowd has concentrated around the front door of the shop, clawing the glass and pushing against the frame. Walt loads the 30-30 and drops two bears from the front of the surging mass of fur. 

Walt drops the bear spray canister by the door and sinks a bullet through it, spraying the crowd with aerosol capsaicin fog. There is a collective roar of pain, and Walt sees four or five of the monsters run away, swatting at their faces. Some of the noxious gas wafts up on a breeze and into Walt, who’s face immediately begins to swell and drip with snot and tears. Like many officers, Walt knows first-hand what mace does to man, but he is unprepared for the concentration levels of bear-spray. 

Walt takes two shots through a mask of lava and one bullet strikes a fleeing bear in the back. Screaming in agony, Walt drops his rifle and goes for his coke instead. He pours the remaining bit of cola onto his face. The coke is warm, but the fluid feels close to boiling when it hits his skin. 

Walt blinks through sugary cola and, although blurry and raw, his vision slowly returns. He rushes back to the front of the building, pistol raised and ready to finish the job. Walt counts six clawing at and pushing on the front doors. Walt loads his rifle until it is full and slams a fresh magazine into the pistol. 

Walt takes aim with the Winchester and as he prepares to fire, the lights go off. At that same instant, the remaining band of bear brothers stop their assault. Walt lowers his rifle and watches in awe as the surviving bears take mouthfuls of their fallen brothers and drag their bodies away. 

The same four bears that are now drenched in blood take up their positions, holding open the razor wire fences as the dead are dragged through and into the woods. It only takes ten minutes before the only sign of their assault was blood, small bits of fur, and the brass shell casings from the bullets. 

The first rays of morning light break through the canopy of trees as a choir of birds begins the day’s song. Walt is exhausted, drained of adrenaline and energy. He fishes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights a smoke with shaking hands. 

Walt recalls his last night as a police officer, smoking cigarettes and watching the EMTs clean up his mess. He remembers the looks they gave him and the feelings that came with knowing he had killed two men. The fact that one of them had tried to kill him did nothing to shake the feeling of being damned, forced into a position that he never chose or wanted to be in. It was a feeling that Walt had never shaken, but now something had shifted, pushed to the side in an attempt to make sense of the night. There is an odd and troubling sense of relief that comes over Walt, as if he had just gone to war with himself and not a ferocious army of grizzly bears.  

Walt sits on the edge of the roof, still gripping the rifle. He drags his cigarette like an oxygen mask. His head pulses and his chest flutters, trying to find its rhythm. It is six o’clock exactly when Walt hears the crunch of gravel and sees the emerald green color of Mr. Daniels’ Porsche. Walt stores the guns and collects his stuff before climbing down from the roof. 

His muscles burn throughout his entire body and his joints ache in throbbing waves of needling pain as he makes his way around the store. Part of him wants nothing more than to attack Mr. Daniels, bash his face in for not explaining the situation, but mostly Walt is just tired, wrung out, and empty. 

“Good morning Mr. Winters. It looks like your first night didn’t go too bad. The building is still whole, so you did good, son. See ya tonight?”

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Thanks TopInFiction.com for featuring this story in the TIF Week 18 of 2024 newsletter!