Chapter Eight #2
Mutual respect would be a better option in her current situation. Still standing, the bear was roughly the same height as Zoe.
Don’t antagonize it, but also don’t act like prey. Be chill.
Her heart continued to pound against the inside of her breastbone.
It took all of her self-control to move slowly and with careful deliberation.
Any sudden move—even tripping—might trigger aggression.
She slid one foot backward on the dirty concrete, shifting her weight slowly, steadily, easing back.
Her gaze remained on the bear. She could not bring herself to look away for even an instant to check her progress or to make sure the path behind her was clear.
She took another easy step back, putting more distance between her and the animal.
The bear’s head nodded as it gave the air another sniff, then it turned and disappeared through the door to the mudroom, leaving the wooden door swinging on its hinges.
Zoe didn’t move. Indecision rooted her in place. Did the bear go upstairs into the house? Had it broken through a window or the glass door on the main level? Had it been living in the house? When she’d considered squatters, a bear was not what she’d had in mind.
Fuck.
She had two choices: See where the bear went or find somewhere else to hide. But where? She had nowhere else to go, and she was exhausted.
Make noise!
Her legs shook as she moved forward. “Hey, bear. I’m coming in.” She grabbed a rake and slammed the metal teeth into the cinder block wall. No huffing. No grunting. Nothing crashed.
Ten feet of space seemed like forever. Zoe used the rake handle to push the mudroom door open. Nothing happened. A foul stench wafted out. She shuffled forward. “Hello? Mr. Bear?”
She peered through the opening. The mudroom had been trashed.
Her gaze immediately locked on the back door and small broken window next to it.
The opening didn’t look big enough for Mr. Bear’s getting-ready-for-hibernation butt, but it had clearly used that exit.
Must have been a tight squeeze. She moved closer and spotted the bear running up the back slope and disappearing into the woods.
Three smaller shapes the size of dogs followed in its wake.
Her knees buckled, and she leaned on the wall for a full minute, catching her breath and willing her heart to stop its mad rush through her chest.
Not Mr. Bear. A mama bear. Thankfully, it hadn’t brought the cubs into the house. Zoe didn’t want to think about how the animal would have reacted if she’d accidentally cornered one of its babies.
When her legs steadied, she pushed off the wall and scanned the room.
The washer and dryer sported a few dents, and the laundry sink was askew.
The source of the odor, a huge pile of bear scat, sat on the tile.
The hooks, bench, and cubbies that once held skis and fishing gear had been pulled from the walls.
A small container was on its side, some grainy substance spilling out.
The lid had been flung across the room. Zoe shone her flashlight on the floor.
Birdseed. The bear had broken into the house for birdseed.
In September, it would be foraging almost nonstop to put on as much fat as possible in preparation for hibernation.
She returned to the garage for a shovel and removed the bear scat, carrying it up the backyard slope to the tree line and dumping it in the underbrush.
She also emptied the container of birdseed in the woods so Ms. Bear would not be tempted again.
Zoe left the back door open to air out the space.
She doubted the bear would be back—at least not yet.
She needed to get the van out of sight. She’d wanted to be inside, with the house locked up tight, before full dark. The bear encounter had messed up her timeline.
She climbed the steps to the main level, one large room containing a living space and kitchen. It didn’t appear as if the bear had found its way upstairs. Nothing was torn apart.
Unlike other homes in the area, this one had never been renovated.
The windows were small, and there was only one set of glass doors leading onto the deck.
The dim space looked almost cramped compared to modern standards, but Zoe was grateful for the dark, closed-in space.
Fewer windows meant fewer opportunities for anyone to see her, not that she would risk using the lights or fireplace.
The glass doors that overlooked the valley were grimy, but the view was still lovely.
The wraparound deck spanned three sides of the house and overlooked the valley below.
The wood railing peeled and flaked. Cracks split the deck planks.
The house had always been rustic, with its rough-hewn wood walls and wide-planked floors.
But when she’d come here, it had been maintained.
How long had it been since anyone had visited the mountain house?
She tried a light switch and was almost surprised when the overhead light turned on.
She quickly turned it off. On the odd chance that a neighbor had come to the mountain for a leaf-peeping getaway, she would keep a low profile.
No one could know she was here. Electricity meant more than lights, though.
A well supplied the house with water, and power meant that the pump might work.
She lifted the lever. Pipes squeaked and protested, but water sputtered, then rushed from the faucet.
The mineral smell of well water filled her nose.
The initial stream was tinted brown. Rust or mud?
Didn’t matter, the water quickly ran clear.
Relief surged through her. She’d brought some food and water, but having a source of water simplified meeting her basic survival needs.
The electric stove also worked. Hot food would be a bonus.
She let the faucet run while she checked the rest of the house.
Three small bedrooms and a single bath on the third level.
All empty except for dust, cobwebs, and scatterings of dead flies on the windowsills.
Satisfied that the house was empty—and therefore safe—she returned to her van and pulled it into the garage.
She used a fallen branch to brush away the faint imprint of her tires in the dry earth of the driveway.
The garage was windowless. No one would see her van.
From the outside, the house still looked vacant, and she would keep it that way.
Then she went back into the garage, closing and locking the door from the inside.
Back in the mudroom, the smell of bear poop clung to the air.
Zoe opened the cupboard where cleaning supplies had been kept.
She stared at a large bottle of Pine-Sol, memories stirring, eyes moistening. She brushed at her eyes.
No time for remembrances and sadness. Not yet.
She grabbed a small bucket and some rags and cleaned the floor. She was no clean freak, but even she had limits, and bear shit crossed them.
Then she found a square of old warped plywood and nailed it over the broken window. She tested the back door. It seemed strong enough, but the bear could likely break right through if it really wanted to get inside.
She retrieved a box of pantry staples, her backpack, and her sleeping bag from the van and carried them up to the main floor.
She had no idea how long she’d have to stay.
She’d been ready to run, but she hadn’t planned too far ahead.
Despite all her preparations, she’d never really believed this day would come.
You’ll be safe.
That promise hadn’t aged well.
Lying piece of shit.
Unzipping the pack, she fished out a protein bar.
There was food in the box, but she was too tired to prepare a meal.
She’d been awake and on the move for somewhere around thirty-six hours.
All she wanted to do was crawl into her sleeping bag and pass out until morning.
Safely inside the house, she removed her wig and freed her hair from the tight cap.
She massaged her scalp and ran her hands through her long locks.
She washed a glass and filled it with water, holding it up in the beam of her flashlight. Looked clear. She drank, tentatively at first, then with enthusiasm. Mountain water was cold with a clean, fresh taste that took her back in time.
Some people reveled in their memories. People with good ones, anyway. But Zoe didn’t often allow herself to look back. Her past was mired in grief, pain, and fear. She’d barely escaped.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Zoe froze.
Only one person knew the number of her burner phone, but he knew not to use it.
She pulled it out and stared at the screen.
A simple text should not generate a ball of dread in her belly.
It wasn’t a smartphone and she hadn’t stored any numbers in it. Every call would be labeled as unknown.
But this wasn’t spam. She recognized the digits.
Why would he text her? She breathed, then tapped the message to open it. The words tightened her lungs and choked off her next breath.
Need to see you.