was amazed at how tired two people could grow of each other in such a short amount of time. It reminded him of when their punk band, Bad Citizen Corporation, used to tour—back when Greg still went by the stage name Fred Despair, and Marco played drums. They were just four young beach kids who took off in a van to conquer the world, fighting over who had to drive and who got to sleep as they hurtled down the highway in the dead of night, bouncing between backwater clubs and living off of less than twenty bucks a day. It surprised him sometimes that his brother Tim was the only one who didn’t make it out alive.
Greg took a bite of bacon, letting the grease coat the inside of his mouth. He knew that all this heavy food should be taking a toll on his body, but the constant hiking kept him lean and mean for his age.
Marco set a steaming mug down on the table in front of him.
“What the hell were you screaming about in there? You scared the crap out of me.”
“It was just a nightmare.”
Just a nightmare. The same one he’d been having a couple times a week since losing his Virgil Heights Police Department badge last year. Even after months at this remote cabin in the mountains, away from the news coverage and constant reminders of the kid he shot—the kid in the blue cap—it kept coming back.
Greg was nervous that the nightmare might never go away, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his roommate.
“Doesn’t take much to scare you these days, Marco.”
“Sounded like there was a raccoon in there with you.”
“You afraid of raccoons now too?”
“Hell yeah. Little bastards are mean.”
Marco wandered off to do the dishes. Greg pushed his plate away and headed into the living room. Every piece of furniture in the cabin had come up the mountain from Greg’s childhood home in North Bay. There was more hunting and fishing gear in the closets than most sporting good stores kept in stock.
He glanced at the family photos that lined the paneled walls. His brother and his dad had both been gone for many years now, but Greg still felt their presence whenever he was up here. Breathing the clean air and wandering around the wide-open spaces reminded him of who he really was, and what really mattered. It took his mind off of the murder and mayhem that followed him around those days like an angry black cloud.
Marco came over to refill his mug. The smell of the fresh coffee brought him back to reality. Greg motioned to the packs leaning against the wall by the front door.
“You ready to get going soon?”
“I don’t know, bro. Seems kind of gnarly.”
“It’s just a week.”
“And a hundred miles.”
“It’ll be good to get out of this little cabin for a while…before I strangle you.”
Greg punched Marco on the shoulder. Marco returned the favor.
“Whatever. It’s your birthday.”
Marco went back to clean up the mess in the kitchen before they left. Greg stepped outside to wait on the porch. The sun poked up behind the mountains to the east; shafts of light danced across the hood of his baby-blue El Camino in the distance. He studied the dents and dings that covered the body, and the long crack that still split the windshield. They’d brought some gear with them to fix her up, but never got around to it. He was beginning to wonder if they ever would, or if it even mattered any more.
A woodpecker hammered out a rhythm nearby. It echoed off the surrounding hills and briefly interrupted the almost constant silence. Greg scanned the pine trees that ringed the cabin on all sides, trying to spot the bird. He was still looking when Marco dragged both packs outside.
“What was that noise?”
“A big scary monster coming to eat you.”
“Hilarious. But seriously—you’re bringing a gun, right?”
“No guns on the trail, Marco. That’s the rule.”
“That’s your rule.”
“And it’s my gun.”
They shimmied into their straps and headed off side by side. Marco had his pet iguana, Godzilla, tucked under one arm like a football. Greg reached up and adjusted his ear buds. The thin black cords flowed from the sides of his head and came together at the back of his tattooed neck. The cable snaked along the outside of his pack and into a smartphone connected to a solar charger. His eyes were on the dirt road ahead of them, as Black Flag kicked into “Rise Above.”
“Dude!”
A few hours later, Greg was twenty yards ahead of Marco on the Pacific Crest Trail. It wound through a desolate stretch of the San Bernardino Mountains seventy miles north of LA’s foothill communities. He was sure that his partner was just freaking out about his own shadow again.
There was a steep incline to their right covered in sagebrush and sunbaked rocks. To their left, the trail dropped down to a flat valley floor. A thick stand of pines stood between them and the green fields below. A pungent smell swirled in the air all around them, along with a swarm of annoying little bugs. Greg wiped the sweat from his eyes and was transported back to the cliffs above the tidal pools in the Bay Cities—to the night he saved his best friend Junior and her son Chris from a serial killer.
He was relieved when Marco pulled him back from this flood of unwanted memories.
“Dude! BEARS!”
Greg smelled them before he saw them: a full-grown black bear with two furry cubs tumbling around at her enormous paws. Marco stood behind the imposing ursine trio, slowly backing up the trail. His eyes were bugging out of his head. Greg tried in vain to get his attention.
“Marco, listen to me. They won’t hurt you. Just don’t run—”
“Run” was the only thing Marco heard. He immediately ditched his pack and took off at a sprint in the opposite direction. The sudden commotion spooked the two cubs, and it looked like momma bear was about to give chase. Greg knew that Marco had plenty of experience outrunning middle-aged cops, but bears were a different story. He screamed at the top of his lungs to save his friend’s life: “Hey, bear! Over here!”
The bear rose up on its hind legs, casting a twisted shadow several yards long. It was more than seven feet tall, gnashing its teeth and swiping at the air. Greg tried not to panic. He’d spent whole summers in these mountains as a boy, and had heard every piece of advice about how to deal with bear attacks. His father always told him to make a bunch of noise and jump around, so that’s what he did. It didn’t work.
The bear dropped down to all fours and charged at him. A rippling mass of muscle and fur was on him in a heartbeat. Greg’s only option was to take off toward the valley. The heavy pack helped him keep his balance as he gained momentum, but he couldn’t sustain it. Gravity took his feet out from under him, so he finished the trip down to the tree line by sliding on his back. He bumped and skidded along while brambles and jagged stones tore at his exposed skin. The trees were coming up fast when a gunshot split the air.
