Raging Bull

It's been two weeks since the crash. Two weeks since the engine stalled on the flight to Uranium City, two weeks since my bush plane dropped out of the sky. I have a decent idea of my location, perhaps 72 miles southwest of Lake Athabasca, shoved into the thick bush like a bread crumb in a shag carpet. I left Prince Albert two weeks ago, with a stop in La Ronge, and then flew north. But the plane had other ideas and thought it would be fun to try to swim through the trees. I managed to wrestle the speed down to a crawl so the impact wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the trees immediately split my plane into pieces, tore it apart like savagely sharp teeth, leaving its carcass a tangled mess of metal and wire.

The wreck has given me a little shelter, but each night is getting colder and colder, and the shredded husk of the cabin isn't enough.

I trudge carefully through the brush to the pond, the wet leaves underfoot slick and tempting my balance. The pond is probably 100 yards from the wreck, and it's the only place I can see that has a break in the tree line. I keep a signal fire there, prepped and ready to go, although I haven't seen another aircraft for eight days. By now the search will have been called off; there's no way anyone could see my wreck from the air. I vainly attempted to signal a helicopter that flew overhead with some flares, but it was no use in the bright sun. Too many shadows dancing around the trees. Too much wind to spot unnatural movement.

I gave up on rescue not long after. It was a panic-filled nightmare of a night, giving up, and the anxiety still lingers in the pit of my stomach, but at this point it's impossible to distinguish from hunger.

I have a meagre survival kit in the cockpit. A .357 revolver, big enough to take down a bear if I hit it in the right spot, but not so big that the barrel was damaged in the crash. A hatchet and sharpening stone, which has honestly saved my ass a hundred times already, some dried meals purchased from military surplus, some matches, survival blankets, dry socks, boots, and candy. I didn't think to switch it out for my winter survival kit, which has a goose down jacket and gloves in it.

Two weeks ago it was warm and sunny, at the edge of fall, with warmish nights and starry skies, but that's not the case anymore.

The winter chill comes at night. The leaves have dropped, slipping under my boots as I reach the pond, and I shiver when the wind cuts through my thin jacket, as if it can reach my very bones.

I try not to think about what's going to happen in a few days. I probably should make a plan to survive out here long term, but it almost seems pointless. I ran out of food eight days ago. I started snaring rabbits, which there's a lot of around, but I know that eating too many will kill me just as fast as not eating anything. Rabbits have no fat, just lean protein, and it can cause protein poisoning. Or 'rabbit starvation'. I try not to think about what will happen when it makes my brain melt, but I’m aware enough to know that it already has.

To top it all off, the cherry on the ice cream sundae (I spend an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about food to the point where I imagine a fat steak is sitting right in front of me but it dissolves when I try to grab it, sending my head into a whirlwind of frightening confusion and sweaty anxiety, constantly reminding me that I can never be sure what's real anymore), I broke my wrist in the crash. I'm lucky considering that's all that's broken, but I have nothing but a crappy sling. No painkillers, nothing. The pain takes up the rest of my time. Being in a constant state of hunger dulls any sense of the pain getting better, any idea that my wrist might be healing itself after all.

I reach the pond, out of breath and aching and throbbing bones, chilled and shivering, when I realize that I must have dropped my little cooking pot somewhere in my stumblings. A groan escapes my throat. Now I have to trudge all the way back down the path, forcing myself to concentrate in order to find it, confirming that my mind is going if I didn't notice myself dropping it.

I stare at the pond for a bit, wondering why the orange reeds look like spaghetti, before snapping out of it and turning back.

What was I looking for? Right. Pot. I stumble back the way I came, my eyes glued to the path I forged in the bush, eyes swivelling from side to side, doubling back when my focus shorts out for a second, then resuming the hunt for the silver pot. I'm distracted by my boots, a bright yellow stripe methodically popping into my sight, left, right, left, right. I grab a rock thinking it's my pot, realizing when it's too heavy to lift that the rock is wet and therefore a bit shiny.

It takes a second for the panic to alert me that something's wrong. A sharp pang in my gut, my mouth runs dry, the hair on my neck and face stands on end. I snap upright, black spots sparkling in my eyes, and immediately try to listen.

Huff, huff. Snap. Thick crack. Heavy. Something heavy is behind me.

Stomping, bone scraping against rock. Huff, huff.

My insides twist into knots and I slowly turn around.

Through the bush, a shadow catches my eye, a massive blob of dark huffing that moves from the right to the left. It's almost at my trail, and my brain recognizes the shape before I do.

Bull moose. Rutting.

The rut is mating season for moose. It's when the bulls turn into psychotic monsters, unable to see or think or do anything except destroy everything in their path. Their eyes glass over, their breathing is laboured and heavy, mind clouded in sick mania reminiscent of a feverish nightmare.

Bull moose. Right there behind me.

Panting, huffing, scraping massive antlers against rock, scrape, scrape, huff.

The bull twists his enormous head and takes down a dead tree with a sickening crack. He paws at the ground, grunting, a nauseating, primal sound that I can imagine comes from the depths of hell.

My blood runs cold. I start to climb before I know what I'm doing. The only thing my body can think of is to climb the nearest tree as fast as I can. Adrenaline throws my heart into hyper-speed, a dizzying and lurid panic, my hands and feet and face numb. I climb up as far as I dare until the branches start to bend underneath me. I look down and see the bull thrashing against the brush, huffing madly, growling and grunting like a demon.

I cling to the tree, wrapping my arms around it, vaguely aware of the sharp pain in my wrist, begging me to let go.

I latch onto that tree, my joints fused into position, nausea crawling up my throat as I watch the bull pace around, smelling something. Smelling me.

The tree rattles when the antlers make contact. The roots tremble under the casual collision. I picked a skinny tree. All the trees are skinny. They're all too skinny.

I stare at the bull, unable to look away when it concludes that my tree offended it. The moose steps back, and I hold my breath. With a violent surge of manic energy, the bull slams its head into the trunk. The tree cracks and I'm flung backwards, and my iron grip wavers. The bull lets out a horrific scream, the air cowering at the otherworldly sound, backs up, and then slashes at the tree with unnatural strength.

I watch as the bull slams its head into the trunk over and over again, splintering the wood, branches stabbing into the bull's face and nose and mouth. It still doesn't stop.

My grip loosens. Me wrist pleads with me to let go. I can't let go -

Shriek. Huff. Huff. Crack. Twist.

My stomach drops. I'm thrown to the side, my brain allowing my wrist to fall away.

I squeeze tighter with everything I've got left. Panic glues me to the tree, and I manage one clear thought; if the bull takes down the tree, which I'm sure it will, I'm dead.

I watch my death as it crashes into the splintering trunk once more. It rears back, preparing for another strike, when the panic abruptly vanishes. No thoughts. No nausea.

Just shaking and cold.

The bull lifts a dinner-plate sized hoof, pounding it into the ground, shaking the earth. It rears up and pounds both hooves into the ground, beating the leaves, shredding them to a grimy pulp.

With a final shake of its antlers, raking across the carnage, the bull charges down the path, crashing blindly through the brush.

It slips out of sight, but I can still hear it. The ground quivers, the air shakes. I don't let go of the tree. The trunk and branches are torn apart, exposing its innards like a carcass on the side of the road. The bull lets out another ungodly wail and I flinch, my eyes snapping shut.

Cold. I'm so cold. It's all I can think about. I'm so cold...

My eyes drift open. Cold. The ground trembles under me. The bull takes out another tree with a revolting crunch. Below me is its masterpiece, a tangle of branches and splinters and fur. Butchered with savage sharpness.

Shaking. Cold. No feeling. No panic. No thoughts.

My death charges through the brush, dragging along stripes of red and yellow with it.