“‘Survival in the wilderness,’” he read aloud, adding, “Subtitle: With Some Crazy Bastard Chasing You. Life Support Technology, Inc.”
He opened the booklet and read the copyright date: 1969. Right up to date, perfect, he reacted. He looked at the opposite page. Although we may be unable to control our circumstances, it read, we can control how we operate and live within them. True, he thought. But will I be capable of doing that?
He turned to the next page and read: “The purpose of this booklet is to aid and insure your survival and rescue under wilderness conditions in North America.”
Reassuring, he thought. Except that the booklet lacks a chapter entitled What to Do If a Maniac Is Chasing You to Kill You.
The introduction mentioned five basic needs. Water. Food. Heat. Shelter. The last one surprised him. Spiritual Needs. Sounds good, he thought, although I’d be glad to exchange all those needs for a loaded rifle. Whoever wrote the booklet simply hadn’t prepared it for a prey in flight. He drew in deep, trembling breaths. Maybe Spiritual Needs was a necessity. He’d hold that in abeyance.
Remember, the booklet read, we tend to magnify the hazards of strange and unfamiliar surroundings. True enough, he thought. But how was it possible to overmagnify Doug chasing him with a bow and arrow through these unfamiliar surroundings.
“Oh, well,” he said. Another trembling breath. The booklet wasn’t designed for that sort of thing. What it was designed for could well be of value to him. Bless Marian for secreting it in the pocket of his shirt. It might make all the difference.
He ran his gaze down the list of basic suggestions. Treat injuries. Shelter and fire of prime concern. Select a site close to water. Signal fires? Hardly. Assume that you are going to have a few days’ wait for rescue. Double hardly. He had to keep on moving.
“Stay clean,” he read. A daily shower with hot water and soap. Keep underwear and socks as clean as possible. Keep your hands clean. Avoid handling food with the hands. Sterilize heating utensils. Hardly again. He just wanted to make it alive and first to Doug’s cabin, then drive away with Marian like a bat out of hell. A shower a day with hot water and soap? Sure.
“‘Fear of the unknown weakens one’s ability to think and plan,’” he read aloud. That I buy, he thought. I’m not going to let that happen though.
He turned the pages rapidly. No point in studying anything until (or unless) the need came up. Snow Blindness and Frostbite. Not likely he’d need to consult that section. Snake Bite. He hoped he wouldn’t need that entry. Fire Starting. Absolutely. Bless you again, Marian. Water. Undoubtedly. Temperature and Wind Chill Chart. Doubtful. Shelters. More than likely. Food. Definitely; he hoped the booklet described wild food he might run across—berries, seeds, roots, plants. On that the booklet could prove invaluable. Signaling. Not very likely. Snares. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he could catch Doug in one of the illustrated ones—the hanging snare, the dead fall, the “twitch up” trigger snare. But they were all for smaller game. And how could he possibly guess exactly which way Doug was going to come? Moreover, even if he set up a snare, Doug would certainly recognize it in an instant and all that careful preparation would turn out to be a waste of time.
Fishing Hints. Definitely a possibility. He was going to need some solid food if he was going to maintain the strength to reach the cabin. Knots. Probably useless—unless he could get one of them around Doug’s neck. Didn’t he wish.
“Travel” was the last section. He saw the opening sentence. the best advice is: stay put.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad advice.”
He turned to the last page and, despite all weariness and anxiety, had to chuckle at the titles of reference books by Euell Gibbons. Stalking the Wild Asparagus; Stalking the Blue-Eyed Scallop; Stalking the Healthful Herbs.
“Those are the titles I really need,” he said.
He stiffened abruptly at a noise across the stream.
Frozen, heart beginning to throb jerkingly, he saw, in a clearing some fifteen yards distant, a bear with two cubs.
He assumed that she was a black bear—didn’t Doug say they were the only bears in this region? This bear was cinnamon-brown though and while one of the cubs was the same color, the second one was dark brown with orange tips on its ears.
What do I do now? he thought. He saw no answer but one—to remain immobile. If he jumped up and ran, the mother bear, thinking to protect her cubs, would likely pursue him. He doubted if shouting at it and waving his arms would dissuade a mother bear. And certainly he could not expect to speak it out of attacking. All this thought in a few seconds as he sat unmoving, afraid he might cough or sneeze or make the slightest noise.
A swooping movement in the air caused his gaze to jerk upward. A huge bald eagle was descending quickly in a shallow glide, then hovering above the bears. The cubs scattered in terror, followed protectively by their mother.
But the eagle wasn’t interested in them. Could it have possibly lifted one of them if it had been interested? Bob wondered.
It paid no attention to the cubs though, instead suddenly sweeping over the stream, braking wildly, then dropping like a stone into the water to grab a large fish in its talons.
Bob twitched as the mother bear came charging across the clearing, heading for the stream. As it thrashed into the water in an ungainly lunge, the eagle tried desperately to rise and carry away the flopping, struggling fish. It wasn’t strong enough however and as the mother bear came too close, it let go of the fish and soared up rapidly into the air. The bear braked clumsily in a splash of water and seized the fish in her mouth, then carried it back to her cubs.
As the three of them disappeared into the woods to supper on the fish, Bob stood on unexpectedly shaky legs, braced himself, then started along the bank of the stream as quickly as he could.
He’d cross it later. When he was—hopefully—well out of range of mother bear and her cubs.
7:22 PM
How soon would it be dark now? he wondered. Did he have another hour of light—or, at least, enough light to see his way? He’d have to hope and pray for that. Pray? he reacted. Somehow, the notion struck him as hypocritically absurd. He had to make this on his own. Whatever his beliefs, he had to go it alone. There was no other way. Prayer would only distract him now—or worse, give him false hope.
Up ahead, he heard the sound of water. This was much louder than the sound of the stream; rough and rushing water, how wide he couldn’t imagine. Would it even be possible to cross?
Four minutes later, he knew. This was a river, more than twenty feet wide, its current so rapid that he knew immediately he couldn’t ford it as he and Doug had done yesterday. There was no possible way he could wade across it; he’d be instantly swept away in the racing current.
Did he have to cross it? he wondered suddenly. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out the compass and checked it.
His cheeks puffed out as he released a dismal exhalation. “Naturally,” he muttered. The river had to be crossed. Unless Doug had given him inaccurate instructions about using the compass. Was that possible? He found himself unable to believe it. Above all, Doug would want this chase to be authentic. It would be of no satisfaction at all to him to win this game by cheating. He didn’t have to cheat anyway. Bob was sure that Doug had total confidence in his ability to win this awful game.