Page 109 of River & Rue

The picture builds, little by little, until there’s no room for doubt.

Terror floods me, momentarily whitening my vision. It tells me I’m prey, that I need to run run run, but a deeper, more primal instinct demands I stay unmoving and quiet.

A twig snaps close enough it might as well be a gunshot. I flinch hard, coppery fear spreading across my tongue. Beside me, River stirs. A new level of panic unlocks, spurring me into action. I shift toward him as fast as I can without making any noise, privately cursing the mummy bag I was so grateful for hours ago. Right now, I’d rather be freezing and free than toasty warm and trapped, but I can’t risk pulling the loud-as-hell zipper.

My heartbeat pulses in my eardrums as I move in tiny increments. When my face is finally aligned with River’s, I cover his mouth with mine CPR-style. His brows furrow, lips parting slightly. But he doesn’t wake until I exhale into his mouth.

As his eyes fly open, I draw back and shake my head fast, mouthing, “Bear.”

He stiffens, nodding quickly.

Something blunt moves across the wall behind me, the swishing sound dominated by heavy puffs of breath. I bite my lip so I don’t cry out.

River mouths, “No food. It’s okay.”

Then a low growl assaults my eardrums, and there’s nothing remotely okay about the aggression in it. Icy-hot panic crawls over my scalp and down my spine. I bite my lip harder, the need to flee so visceral my bones burn with it.

River’s eyes flicker to the nearest backpack, a shadowed lump several feet from our heads. He’s thinking about the bear spray, and I have no way to tell him that’s the wrong backpack—his is in the corner farthest away from us.

Fabric screeches as something a lot harder than a nose drags over it. Claws. I picture them shredding through the nylon, shredding through us. My ears buzz. The walls close in, strangling me.

A scream builds in my throat.

At the next high-pitched whine of fabric, River rips down the zipper of his sleeping bag and yanks me across him. As I land, the collar of my bag opens several inches. Cold air rushes across my chest. My lungs fill, then solidify as a thump vibrates the ground, followed by chilling, bass intonation.

River dives for the wrong backpack. Instantly torn from my paralysis, I scramble out of my sleeping bag and dive for the other, then tear into it blindly.

A piercing, rapid clacking fills the air. The side of the tent where I was sleeping bows inward, poles squeaking in protest.

River grabs my upper arm, clamping his other hand over my mouth just in time to muffle my involuntary scream.

“Forget the spray. We have to get out of here.” He breathes the words into my ear. I nod, flinching as the tent shakes violently.

River takes my hand in a grip of steel, his other fumbling for the zipper pull at the base of the door.

The tent stops moving.

We freeze, neither of us breathing as we listen for a clue to the bear’s location.

A new chorus of sounds erupts outside. Snarls, growls, and sharp, rapid barks. The bear huffs and makes that awful clacking sound again. It’s petrifying, right out of a horror movie, but it also means we can hear as they move away from the tent.

River crouches, pulling me into the cradle of his body. We tremble together as the snarls and barks reach an ear-splitting crescendo. The bear releases a bellow that reverberates in my teeth.

Savage canine growls clash with a disturbing, pulsing moan. There’s another heavy thud. Brush rustles, the sound fading as the bear moves back into the forest.

Just outside the tent door, smaller claws scratch at the dirt. A snarl is cut off by a yip. A familiar yip.

“Holy fuck,” whispers River. “Is that…”

My breath catches between a laugh and a sob. “Lenny. It’s Lenny.”

I reach for the zipper on the flap.

“Rue, wait. She’s obviously not alone. We don’t know if it’s safe.”

But I feel it—I know.

I find the glimmer of his eyes in the dark. “I can’t explain it, but we’re safe. I promise.”