Inheritance
I ate a kid called Ash Tremblay yesterday. Parts of him, at least. The good bits. The crunchy skull, the brain, a juicy haunch. I was about to knuckle down to the messy business of stripping the skin from his back so I could feast on his organs when a ranger shot me in the face. It was Frances Locklear, of all the two-legs, from the National Park Service in Anchorage. I couldn’t believe it.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Frances. She respected our kind. Kept a healthy distance. I ran into her once on the other side of the mountain, near Spencer Lake. She was fishing for trout and had earbuds in. Singing along merrily to what I now know was Depeche Mode’s ‘Enjoy the Silence’. Oh, the irony.
There’s a story circulating among two-legs that if you play music or sing when you’re out in the woods it deters bears. I mean, maybe if you’re an especially bad singer or enjoy Coldplay at full volume, but it has the opposite effect on me. I’ll come and say hello, see what you’re up to. Besides, tinny speakers don’t cut it. Someone should inform Samsung and Apple that their phones are not effective bear repellent. I scared the bejeesus out of two hikers last month when they finally noticed I was shadowing them from behind the bushes. I stalked them for over a mile before they fled in terror. I was only trying to listen to their music. Kendrick Lamar, I think. Not sure which album.
Anyway, there was Frances by the lake, oblivious. This will be funny, I thought. I’ll amble up behind her and yawn, watch as she shits her pants. She didn’t though. After the initial moment of shock and a glance at her out-of-reach-so-don’t-even-think-about-it rifle, she tugged the buds from her ears, took a knee, bowed her head in deference to the fact her life was now entirely in my paws, and nodded towards the fish she’d caught, hoping I would eat them rather than her.
I was impressed. Plus, it seemed like a sweet deal, so that’s what I did. A free breakfast is not to be sniffed at. I’ll let you live this time, Frances, I thought. Go forth and tell your colleagues this unlikely tale. See how many of them believe you.
Have to say, I’m annoyed with her now. If I’d eaten her instead of those fish, this unfortunate incident could have been avoided. The bullet went through my lip and shattered a couple of teeth, which is bad news. It’s early summer, and I have a ton of eating to do before the big sleep. It’s going to be tough building up fat reserves if I can’t chew properly. Frances might just have done me in. Still, I guess I was eating a teenager, and two-legs tend to frown upon our species indulging in such activities. If only he hadn’t been so tasty.
The bullet went through my lip and shattered a couple of teeth, which is bad news.
Ingesting Ash’s brain is causing me significant problems. Young Ash is the first two-legs I’ve devoured. Pops warned me about the risks, but I never really believed his stories. I seem to have absorbed the kid’s memories and with them a surprising amount of knowledge about the two-legs’ world. I know everything about this kid, all sixteen of his miserable years.
For example, last week in Girdwood, Ash was especially mean to his little brother, Cedar. He was idling behind a dumpster out the back of the Mercantile when Cedar and his friends rolled up on their bicycles. The boys didn’t notice Ash as they dropped their bikes – he’d picked a solid spot for lurking.
I’ve not been into town since I was a curious youngster, but I’ve heard from Ralph One Ear and his crew of trash raiders that surprising treats can be gleaned from those dumpsters. They go at night, so the two-legs don’t freak out at the sight of grizzlies rummaging through their leftovers. I’m much larger than Ralph though – too big to lumber through town, even under cover of darkness.
Ash watched as Cedar began locking his bicycle to the railing with a chain. This was met with hoots of derision from his friends Benny the Whistle and Shadonk-a-donk. Don’t ask me what’s going on with the names two-legs choose for their offspring these days.
‘What’re you locking that up for?’ said Benny the Whistle. ‘We’ll only be in the Merc for five minutes, asshat.’
‘So no-one steals it,’ Cedar replied. ‘Duh.’
‘Who’s gonna take your shitty bike?’ Shadonk-a-donk asked. ‘One of the dumb tourists?’
‘You never know,’ said Cedar, eyeing the group of middle-aged two-legs in bright puffer jackets who were waiting for the shuttle bus back to the resort.
‘Leave it,’ Benny the Whistle cautioned him. ‘What if we have to make a quick getaway?’
Cedar wrapped the chain back around the saddle stem.
The boys slunk into the Mercantile to line their hoodie pockets with Jolly Ranchers or whatever junk pre-teens are fond of shoplifting. That was when Ash made his move. Emerging from his hiding place, he picked up his younger brother’s bike and mounted it, popping wheelies as he waited for the kids to return.
When they did, the boys froze on the steps of the Mercantile even though their pockets were stuffed with stolen goods. This was merely the latest chapter in Ash’s summer campaign of intimidation.
This was merely the latest chapter in Ash’s summer campaign of intimidation.
‘Should’ve locked your bike, asshat,’ Ash said. ‘It’s mine now.’ ‘Give it back,’ Cedar ventured.
‘Nah, I’m taking it for a ride,’ Ash told him. ‘See you dicks later.’ The young two-legs watched helplessly as Ash pedalled up the inclined street.
When Ash reached the highway, he stepped off the bike, wheeled it onto the bridge and, in one fluid movement, raised it above his head and threw it over the guard rail. The frame and wheels were swallowed by the roaring white water below.
I am the eldest in my family by ten minutes. I have two siblings: a brother and a sister. We used to get along quite well, back in the den. Those were good times. Mom would bring us pawfuls of huckleberries and, once, an entire deer. She showed us how to pick our teeth with its antlers, impressing upon us the importance of dental hygiene. When we were old enough, she took us to her favourite spot by the creek. It was packed full of fish, sluggish and flaking – freshwater salmon who’d swum out to sea then returned to spawn and die. They had adapted to the saltwater ocean and were rotting to death, unable to make it back to Turnagain Arm.
With the glaciers receding, more navigable territory has opened up. You can walk halfway to Canada if you time it right.
We feasted every night for weeks, gorging ourselves on eggs and eyes. I still visit that spot at the end of summer. It’s easy pickings. Mom died a long time ago, but I always half expect to bump into my brother or sister at the creek. I haven’t seen them in years. With the glaciers receding, more navigable territory has opened up. You can walk halfway to Canada if you time it right. My sister probably has cubs of her own now. I’d like to see them, my nieces and nephews, although a visit from the ornery old uncle may not be the wisest idea. Instinct might kick in. I’d probably eat them.
Pops wasn’t around much after we were born for the same reason. Mom ran him off to ensure our safety. Once I was fully grown and had developed – and I’m being modest here – a reputation for ferocity around these parts, I sought my father out. I heard he was living over near Denali, which was one hell of a hike. But it was worth it. On a cold, clear night you can see the aurora. I would stand there for an age, staring up at the kaleidoscope of colours in the sky.
I found Pops living in a cave. He was old – almost thirty – and had fallen on lean times. His coat was dull and matted. He looked exhausted. Still charged out to challenge me, though. He was mighty relieved when I told him I was his son, and that I hadn’t come to kill him.
We spent a couple of quality nights hunting together. Pops regaled me with wild tales of his travels, conquests, battles with moose and other critters, and of the time a couple of two-leg hunters pursued him for six cycles. Despite his bulk, Pops was a master of evasion. On the seventh night, he snuck around behind the hunters while they slept and slaughtered their horses. After that, it was only a matter of time before he prevailed. He had led them so far out into the wilderness that they would never make it back on foot.
This is an edited extract from ‘Inheritance’, a short story by Chris Flynn in his recent collection Here Be Leviathans (UQP), available now at your local independent bookseller.
Join Chris Flynn on tour from 4 October to celebrate the publication of his latest book. For info regarding dates and appearances, head to Here Be Leviathans: The Tour, designed by O’Creative.
