This story originally appeared in Unnerving Magazine. “Play Dead,” ©2022 Thomas Pluck.
Play Dead
I slowly peel back my eyelids and immediately wish I was still out cold. The Kodiak's roar fills my ears, pierced by sharp, intermittent squeals. The old man's final words, as the beast ate its fill.
He takes a parting shot with his sidearm. The bear swats his head clean off in response. It lands next to me with a flap of scalp peeled off like a worn baseball. Facing away, so I don’t get to see whether the human brain can live on its own for nearly a minute after beheading.
And I don’t get to tell the old man who I am, and why I would face a wounded Kodiak bear to watch him die.
I won’t get to see a lot of things, if I don’t keep still. Play dead, that's what they tell you, right in the visitor's guide.
Alaska.
Hunter's paradise.
#
“Play dead, baby,” Mom whispered. “Like Buddy used to.” She bit her trembling lip. Her bloody hand tight over my mouth. Held me to her wound, let the blood soak my shirt. But Buddy wasn't playing, Mama, I wanted to say.
The developer's men started their campaign to drive us out when they fed my dog Buddy hamburger mixed with glass. Dad said he ran away, but my big brother Kyle told me. He'd found Buddy whimpering, shitting his own guts out.
“A warning,” Kyle said. He swung his baseball bat at the air. “They want us out, to make that stadium. Let 'em come. I'll take 'em.” He had his tough face on, but the sweat sparkling on his peach fuzz upper lip betrayed him.
That night, I listened at our bedroom door, to our folks in the kitchen.
“They want me to run scared? They don't know who they're dealing with,” Dad said.
“I love this house, you know that.” Mom's voice. “But it's not a home any more. The whole neighborhood's gone. Squatters moved in. I found crack vials by the crosswalk.”
“Someone's got to fight, babe.”
“Why's it have to be us? Always us. With the strike, everyone walked through, but not you.”
“It wasn't just me there. And we won.”
“Yeah, but the ones who worked didn't lose a month's pay.”
“They'd have lost a lot more, if it wasn't for us.”
“This is different, Frank. I'm scared.”
“You don't think I was scared? The trucks rolling through the line, we had to dodge out of the way. Jerry lost a toe.”
“What are we gonna lose? They're too big, Frank. Sometimes you have to back down.”
“Maybe if we take a stand, the newspaper will take up our cause,” he said. “The little guy. People will come back.”
They didn’t.
#
“A thing of beauty, isn't she?” the old man said. He had a broad face. When he smiled or frowned, it was like Teddy Roosevelt on Mt. Rushmore, judging you.
The rifle looked like a double barreled shotgun. I don't know much about guns, except which is the wrong end to be on. This one was beautiful, though. Gilded, he called it. The wooden stock glowed like embers dying in a fire. The bluing of the barrels had depth, dark seas. He turned a lever and the barrels tilted forward. Two abysses where the bullets went. He closed it up, just as smooth.
“Not a sound. The Rolls Royce of guns,” he said. “Hold her, son.”
I'm not his son, just the closest he had to one. I married his daughter. I love my Laurie, I do. Maybe not in the beginning, but over the years she’s become my rock. She taught me patience, and soothed my rage. The rifle weighed heavy in my hands, smooth and polished. It cost more than I made in two years. The accumulation of wealth never did it for me. I handed it back and feigned respect. Rich men like you to treat their possessions with the same reverence they do.
“Both barrels are sighted on the same target, for the follow up shot. Saved my life, with the lioness.” He aimed at the stuffed cat in the corner. Its golden eyes were the size of a fist. “The females are more dangerous than the male. They do the hunting. I ever tell you how I shot it?”
“No sir,” I said, and sipped my 40-year single malt. Settled on my heels, to hear the story again.
“You can call me Dad, you know. You're coming on my next hunt. Are you a hunter?”
“Yes sir,” I nodded. “Been hunting a long time.”
#
We were watching the Giants come back in the final quarter when the developer’s men shot up the house. The TV exploded. Kyle's head, next. My side burned like the time I spilled the coffee pot on myself. Mom howled and held my limp body.
Dad moaned as he crawled to the door.
Loud footsteps, cries of protest. Flat slaps of pistols fired in the small room. My ears rang and Mom fell on top of me. Hiding my tears with her body.
I did as she told.
Played dead. Didn't even peek once.
I heard the snip of scissors, and men talking. I stayed limp as rough fingers yanked my hair and cut a hank off.
“Sick bastard wants this for his trophy case,” one of them said.
I scared the crap out of the paramedic who tried to bag me. They put me in foster care. Good people. They adopted me. I took their name and everything. I send money to them every month.
When it came time to tear down the stadium they built on the graves of my family, to put in a new one with more luxury boxes, I hired on. By the time we were done, I was a foreman, and had caught the old man's eye.
I had gumption, he said. He liked that.
#
So I married his daughter, who never liked him much. And he took me to hunt the biggest predator on land. Kodiaks on the Alaskan islands. I didn’t see the point. Bears only wanted to eat salmon and screw. Why not leave them alone?
But that wasn’t his way. Man’s way.
The old man's double rifle boomed and the Kodiak's shoulder exploded in red mist. Like he'd thrown a tomato at it, and about as effective. The beast charged, and my legs melted, my brain bowing to some ancient caveman instinct to flee.
“I got him,” the old man said. His follow-up shot splattered flesh off the bear's head, baring skull. Just like with the lioness. His guide would issue the coup de grace.
When the guide raised his slug gun to finish the job, I shot him.
“Son—” the old man said, eyes wide.
“I’m not your son.”
The bear took him down with an elemental rage. I started on the speech I’d prepared all these years. I figured the bear would take one thing at a time. Foolish assumption on my part. Bears don't care who shot them. After it bowled him over, the beast came for me. Slapped me with its catcher's mitt paw, tore my chest open with meat hook claws, and tossed me like the proverbial rag doll into a big pine. The fancy rifle’s stock and my right femur both splintered. I fell in a heap, and went still.
Just like Mom told me, all those years ago.
The bear went back to work on the old man, knocked his head off and started in on its morning meal. Maybe it would leave once it had its fill. The pain in my leg was incredible. But it was nothing compared to my hate. I couldn’t tell the old bastard who I was, but if there’s a hell, he was looking up, and he’d know.
It would be a long crawl back to the cabin.
I can play dead for a long time.
###
Spare, ghastly, but thoroughly satisfying. You haiku'd it.
Harrowing.