A Gay Hunter Meets His Bear

The Bear and the Slaughterhouse Boy, final

The bear that almost got Jack was swimming way too fast. Jack knew he’d beat the enraged animal in the race to the far shore, but only by a few minutes.

Then how would he stay alive?

The face of the butcher’s boy rippled in front of him like a pale nightmare. “I told you,” whispered the apparition. “Why wouldn’t you believe me?”

Jack shook his head to clear the weird vision. “Damn you, boy!” he screamed as he dug his oars into the water, canoe leaping across the mirrored surface with each muscle-searing pull.

Then the boat made one last jump and whumped into tawny sand so wet the beach might have been caramel pudding. Jack scrambled and tripped in his panic to put distance between himself and the swimming bear.

His boots sucked on muck for a second, then he was up and dashing for the trail, frantic to build up a lead before his fanged pursuer gained a land-speed advantage. His legs pumped him up the hill, sending gravel flying and shocks up and down his body.

He panted in ragged gasps, clutching at brush and trees.

Taking the bend of the first switchback, he saw the bear still in the water. “Faster, Jack, faster!” he shouted to himself. “You can do this!” Then the lake disappeared, and he kept running, pumping, gasping.

When the the next switch in the trail swung the lake back into view, Jack saw the pack of bears bobbing and paddling in a chain all the way across the water. But the lead bear was gone.

“Oh, fuck!”

Terror squeezed Jack like a bean from a pod, 100 feet up the hill in an instant.

Then he heard the rustles and snaps of saplings ripping out of the ground. Too terrified to scream, he sped up again, adrenaline jetting him forward on afterburners.

Throwing a panicked glance over his shoulder, Jack SAW. The bear was powering its way straight up the ridge, ignoring the meandering trail. Jack was so close, he could almost smell the asphalt parking lot. If he could just make it around the next hairpin, he’d be on the home stretch.

But the bear was flying up the mountain, scrambling for handholds, all four feet meeting in the middle of his body then exploding up and away. Its glossy coat rippled as waves of fat undulated with each powerful thrust.

Jack knew if he took the switchback, he was dead. He’d run right into the bear’s path. But if he charged straight up like the bear was doing, he risked tumbling all the way back down to the lake.

And he’d still be dead!

He took a sharp breath and leapt off the trail, grabbing brush, snapping saplings, and snagging vines that might hold his weight. He was less than fifty feet from the lip of the ridge, scrambling hand over hand, rocketing ahead with powerful thrusts of his thighs whenever he found solid ground.

He grabbed a tiny hemlock seedling, ready to vault the rest of the way up, when he felt hot breath. The bear was right on his on his ass, stinking and bellowing. Jack jumped, but his feet slipped in a patch of loose sand, and he rolled sideways instead.

The bear roared and leaped. Jack closed his eyes and prayed the end would be fast. When nothing happened, he looked and saw the beast tumbling and rolling. He’d slipped in the sand too, the sapling that failed to hold him still grasped in a paw!

The bear arrested his roll before too long, but Jack whooped in triumph.

He heaved himself up over the limestone lip of the ridge. He ran down the trail toward the ranger station, limping, barely able to put weight on his right foot. He’d pushed his body so far beyond its limits that it screamed at him from everywhere.

His muscles forced him to slow as he neared his truck, reserves evaporated. His limp twisted into a stagger. He looked over his shoulder, and there was the bear again, vaulting onto the path 100 yards away.

Jack thrust his hand into his jeans for his keys, but they weren’t there. “I checked!” he screamed. “I had them before I left the lake!”

The bear honed in on the noise and rolled on even faster.

“You idiot!” shouted Jack as he reached into the other pocket. His keys had been there all along. His hands shook as he tried to unlock the door. He couldn’t hold the key still.

The bear loomed closer and closer.

“Fuck!” Finally, with two hands to do the job, hyperventilating, Jack slipped the key in the lock, and … Click! The door popped open.

But the bear was on him. As Jack dove into the cab past the steering wheel, he felt fiery trails erupt and burn down one thigh. He screamed and looked over his shoulder to see the bear pulling a giant hand back.

Then the great beast’s mouth opened wide, and he roared in outrage around dripping yellow fangs. He thrust his head into the cab to finish the job he’d started with his claws.

Jack screamed and kicked, helpless.

Then the bear let out a mild squeak. His eyes opened in something Jack later described as intelligent shock. He backed his swollen body out of the cab, swiped at the hood in disgust, and ambled away as if on a Sunday stroll.

Jack didn’t decide where to go. He just drove. Down the hill to Lake Superior, past the decaying little villages along the shore where almost nobody lived, headed east hoping for a hospital or a cell phone signal.

When he came to the turnoff for the Crossroads, he pulled over and muttered, “Fuck it.” His seat squished with blood as he reached into the glove box. He pulled out a first aid kit then gritted his teeth and swore as he wrapped his mangled thigh with gauze.

When he stepped out of the cab to do a better job, his leg buckled under him. But at least the bleeding seemed to have stopped. By the time he got back behind the wheel, he’d chosen his route.

He’d need gas, anyway, so he’d stop at the Crossroads one last time. He’d ask some damn pointed questions, and if Sonya didn’t like it, he’d show her his mangled leg and demand answers.

“What the hell just happened to me?” he asked as he set off.

The ramshackle old hunting lodge looked dark and foreboding when it loomed into view 3 hours later. Jack felt sick to his stomach just looking at it. Or maybe that was just blood loss from his gashes.

He pulled into the gas station across the highway, surprised to see a crowd gathered. Dozens of people, more than he’d ever seen in the area, more than had ever gathered at the inn.

He spotted Sonya and her grandson the bear butcher. There was Paul, the creepy little slaughterhouse boy. Old Glen Miller stood in the center of the crowd beside Len, the Chicago insurance salesman who hadn’t taken a bear this season.

As Jack staggered out of the cab, his leg refusing to carry his weight, the boy turned and spotted him. “Jack! Jack! You made it just in time. Come watch!”

Jack just shook his head, done with trying to figure Paul out. The boy ran over and grabbed the nozzle out of Jack’s hand. “I can do it!”

“Wow!” he said, eying Jack’s blood-soaked jeans. “Are you OK? They found ya, huh? They came for you! How’d you get away?”

As Jack’s vision started to haze over, another voice interrupted. “I told you to stay at the inn. Oh, Jack! Just look at you!” Sonya bustled at him, made him sit on the running board, and thrust a paper cup of hot coffee into his hand.

“Drink this, tons of milk and sugar. It’ll help.”

Jack sat dazed for a moment, sipping, grateful to have somebody take charge. Then as his mind cleared, he remembered the boy’s words.

“Yes, Paul,” he said. “They came for me. They damn near killed me. They didn’t behave like any bears in this world ever behave. And you KNEW. How the hell did you KNOW all along?”

The boy stared, not smiling, not frowning, just looking. “Because I always know.”

Jack snapped his head to Sonya. “He caught me! The biggest bear CAUGHT me. He HAD me, then he just stopped just before he fucking ate me. For no reason, he stopped and walked away. What the hell kind of hunting lodge are you running? What the hell kind of place is this? Who are you people?”

“We’re people who like you, Jack,” hissed Sonya. “And we’re people who are sorry. We tried, or at least Paul and I tried. All you had to do was listen to us. I was already fixing things with Len the night before you left. Then you had to go and run off!”

Jack remembered Sonya’s hissed conversation with Len in the hallway, and shook his head in confusion.

“Shh!!” whispered the butcher’s boy. “They’re here, I can smell them.” He grabbed Jack’s arm to help him up. “Come watch. You’re safe now.”

“You shot the last bear of this year’s hunt,” said Sonya as the trio walked slowly to the edge of the crowd, Jack dragging his bloody leg behind him. “Nothing’s free, Jack. When you take, you have to give back. That’s ancient.”

She nodded over in Len’s direction. “But I was fixing it. I did fix it, or Len did early this morning. The same time your bear changed his mind about having you for breakfast.”

Paul nodded his pale head, eyes shining. “The exact same time. I felt it.”

“Now watch,” said Sonya. She pointed a gnarled finger as the butcher handed a flask to Len, who tipped it into his mouth. Jack could practically taste the syrupy blackberry brandy.

“That hits the spot!” growled Len. “Just what I needed after dragging that bear for hours today. I thought I’d never get him to my truck!”

Jack’s mouth popped open as he hissed at Sonya. “But he didn’t get a bear! He was so pissed off the last night of the hunt! His last chance to use his tag.”

“Says who?” asked the old innkeeper. “Len just drove in here with a dead bear in the back of his shiny new truck. My worthless grandson just tagged it for him.” She held up a form. “I got the state paperwork right here. All official and legal, saying this here bear got took at sunset Saturday night. You wanna tell me different?”

“But that’s poaching!”

“Piss on that! You think them damn bears give a damn about our laws? This is ancient, Jack. I told you the Crossroads had been here forever, longer than any human can remember tales about.”

She looked at the boy. “The people who live here connect to that ancient, don’t we, Paul? Some of us more than others.”

When the boy nodded, Jack opened his mouth to argue and demand sense.

Sonya shushed him. “It’s over, Jack. Watch the ancient balance for one more year.”

Jack listened as the forest turned itself off like an unwanted radio. He listened as the rustling and snapping started. He listened as the smell overpowered him.

Len cried out, “What IS that?”

As the slaughterhouse boy slipped his hand into Jack’s, the crowd parted, leaving Len to stand alone facing the forest.

Jack closed his eyes. He gasped as the screaming began, but Len’s voice chopped off before it really got started.

“Best damn bear hunt in North America,” whispered Sonya. “But it does scare some off.”

This is the conclusion of some spooky fiction inspired by a hunting trip I took to Michigan’s deserted upper peninsula. The Crossroads is real, as are Sonya, Paul, and Glen Miller. The human population of the UP really is melting away. Are the bears really that scary and tapped into ancient spiritual mysteries? Why don’t you drive up and find out?

Miss the first parts? Click here!

James Finn is a former Air Force intelligence analyst, long-time LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Queer Nation and Act Up NY, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].