The Bear Hunter-

The Bear Hunter

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge



George Quintana finished his breakfast, and rinsed the bowl in the sink. He looked around his new fifth-wheel toy hauler recreational vehicle with some pride. It had been reinforced to his specifications, so that he could haul it confidently behind his Ford F-450. The large diesel engine and four-wheel-drive were necessary to haul himself and his toys deep enough into the woods to suit his purposes.

He stepped back into the toy section of his ample mobile mansion. His creation sat silently in place, secured by the travel webbing. George hummed a bit to himself as he began breaking down the webbing to free his creation. Once the webbing had been removed and stowed, he disconnected the electrical power line and the air lines.

The huge exoskeleton sitting before him sucked light into its mat-black finish. He had gone to considerable trouble to reduce reflective surfaces on this model. Off-the-shelf parts had to be refinished or covered. Custom pieces, and there were many of these, had to be sent out for powder coating or other specialized finishes. George had machined much of the creation himself.

George reflected on his inspirations. His father tinkering in the garage, or cleaning and maintaining his several hunting rifles. Crabfu, the long-time mechanical genius who had resided on the Internet for decades. Thomas Edison. Leonardo Da Vinci. Walt Disney and his Imagineers. As he reflected, he adjusted various elements of his creation.

As he strapped himself into the behemoth, George remembered his father’s passion for hunting. A passion he had passed on to his mechanically inclined son. Rifle, bow, black powder and pistol hunting. They had done it all.

Remembering his father’s untimely demise from a heart attack gave George pause. He brushed away a tear, and then finished the process of enmeshing himself in his creation by inserting his arms into the arms of his colossus. He snapped five toggle switches inside the left arm with his left hand, and the colossus came alive.

Slowly, deliberately, he moved his left arm toward a robust button on the wall of his toy hauler. The servos within the behemoth’s left arm responded and moved to this command. With the back of his surrogate left hand he pushed the button, being careful not to foul the three sharp blades that extended from that mechanical hand like claws.

The rear door to his mobile home and shop began to descend into a ramp. The rail mounted seat on which his mechanical being sat slid forward. Once clear enough to stand, George did so. He checked the read-outs in his heads-up display. All systems were good to go.

He stepped forward, and moved away from the vehicle. The rail mounted seat retracted and the doors closed. George was now outside, equipped in his new creation, deep in bear country. George took a few steps, and again checked the display. The indicators were still good. He began walking into the woods, seeking his prey.

As he sauntered through the woods, he used the strength of his amended systems to clear the path. While the gyro guided balance system was robust, George still proceeded with caution. Taking time to move a downed tree or other interfering object would be less costly than causing his creation to tumble.

Getting up off of the ground in this thing had proved challenging in the lab. George did not want to test the process in the field. Not in the very heart of the realm of the brown bear. Anywhere else would be embarrassing. Here, it could be deadly.

George checked his shielding as he approached the first baited area. His arms and legs were fully encased. Forearms and lower legs were armored with a fairly heavy gage alloy. The upper arms and legs were somewhat lighter in gage, but reinforced by heavy bars. His torso was enveloped in a reinforced mesh, a compromise to allow for air flow and reduced weight. His head was encased in a helmet with a Plexiglas face plate, and flexible reinforcing columns along his neck.

The power for the unit was a combination of electrical and pneumatic systems. He carried enough compressed air to power his system for two hours at minimum use. The tanks and batteries resided in housings on his back, along with a small compressor. The compressor was powered by propane, and would be used after the hunt to renew his air pressure.

George found the first bait disturbed, but no bear was present. He turned toward his second bait, and moved slowly through the woods. Even before he entered the clearing he could hear the bear rooting about near the bait. George stepped quietly into the clearing, and watched his quarry.

The bear was confused and frustrated. The blend of bait scents George had concocted was intended for that purpose. So far his quarry had not noticed him. George watched the young male, assessing how the battle would go. He had not yet engaged a creature so magnificent in combat. This would be his first battle.

It was time. George spoke a gentle command into the microphone. From a speaker mounted in his chest guard the challenging bellow broke forth. A sound bite, but a well chosen one. A bear’s challenge.

The bear spun around like lightning, standing on his rear legs and looking quickly from left to right. He did not find the bear he was looking for. The strange contraption standing in the clearing caught his attention, but was not immediately perceived as threatening.

George stepped forward. The bear dropped to his four feet, and ambled forward. The creature appeared more curious than angry, but he tossed his head displaying his confusion and concern. George moved more quickly.

The bear reared and charged. George tucked down to keep his center of gravity low and hit the bear in the chest with a head butt. The bear swung with a paw and struck the shoulder of his strange enemy, then lost his balance and fell backward.

George moved in quickly, swinging his clawed left arm downward to disembowel his worthy opponent. The bear was quick, and rolled away back onto his feet before the blow could strike. The creature came around quickly, hitting the side of George’s helmet hard enough to cause a ringing in his right ear. The blow rocked the exoskeleton sharply to the side. Servos hissed and whined to keep the vehicle upright.

The bear turned swiftly and hugged George in the mid-section. The jaws and teeth dug and snapped, denting the wire mesh shielding that protected George’s mid-section. The vehicle stabilized, and George tried to clear his mind for the fight. The fierceness of the assault had overwhelmed his senses.

The bear grew frustrated with the resilience of his opponent’s belly. He reared back and dug in again. Something snapped, and George felt part of the meshwork protecting his flesh push against his stomach. Nearly in a panic, George forced himself to think.

Quickly he bent down and grabbed the bear’s rear legs. George lifted the beast, holding the huge creature upside down. What to do with it?

Both George and the bear stopped fighting for a second when there was another roar from behind the exoskeleton. It was a strange sound, incongruous in the situation. George recovered first, realizing that the compressor motor had started in order to renew the air pressure in his system.

Taking advantage of the bear’s confusion, George released the grip of his right hand and brought the claws on the back of his hand down in a swipe across the exposed belly of his enemy. The bear screamed in agony as the blades opened his flesh.

Overbalanced by the great weight in his left hand, George’s systems once again hissed and howled trying to compensate. Realizing that he might topple over, George released his grip on the bear.

Entrails dragging on the ground, the bear turned and again charged. George managed to get a grip on the creature’s shoulders, holding it away from his own torso. George had no idea how close the bear was to breaching the shielding on his own belly, but he was unwilling to let the animal test the matter.

The bear began to slow. Loss of blood was finally ending the struggle. Soon George realized that the only thing holding up the beast was his own exoskeleton. He tossed the beast to the ground, and drove the blades of his left hand deep into the animal’s throat. His final blow was met with a sluggish outflow of blood from the resulting wound. In moments the animal was dead.

George grabbed a foreleg of the beast, and began dragging it back toward his camp. He was almost within sight of his camp when the low-pressure alarm in his exoskeleton began chirping. Dropping the beast, he started jogging toward his camp. He hit the big button on the outside of the door to his rig, and waited for the door to drop and the seat to deploy.

He had just seated himself when he heard the next alarm. The compressor was out of fuel, and was shutting down. In moments he would have been operating on emergency electrical, with just enough power to move the unit a very short distance. He had cut this one very close.

Once the unit was safely inside his mobile shop, George initiated the shutdown procedure and began separating himself from his creation. He had some difficulty getting the guard covering his chest to open, and had a fleeting vision of starving to death, trapped inside the strange device.

Finally the guard sprung away, and George was free. He examined his creation, and found it largely intact. He could see that he had come very close to losing the battle due to a flaw in the chest guard design. George took a few pictures of the damage, already working on design improvements in his head.

George whistled as he worked. He plugged in the helmet camera to his main computer, and began downloading the images from the battle. He got everything connected, so that he could recharge the system. He still needed to go out and get his trophy.

While the vehicle recharged, George put on the tea kettle and then headed for the shower. He figured he had two hours before the system was ready to go. A shower and a quick meal. Nothing much, though.

Tonight George intended to feast on a very fresh bear steak.

Hunter

Hunter

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge



It was Byron’s “turn in the barrel.” He wasn’t even sure what obscure joke it was for which that was the punch line. He knew what it meant, however. Today he would be blooded as a warrior in his warriors’ clan. This was an important day.

He checked his knives. One on the belt, one in each boot. He had a protective gauntlet for his left arm. All unauthorized weaponry. Nobody would notice the additions to the standard armor as he made his way to the gunship. Nobody ever noticed.

Byron grabbed his gear bag and exited the barracks.



“Ready, Poet?” Said Chief, companionably. He said it loudly, and in Byron’s ear. Otherwise the sound of the gunship’s beating blades would overwhelm the sound.

He hated being called Poet. He hated his real name even more. At least the nickname had some degree of affection in it.

Byron nodded, saying nothing.

The gunship passed slowly over the prison below, and then moved out toward the perimeter. Byron sat behind the automatic rifle mounted in the doorway of the ship. His first patrol as gunner. Free fire zone. Nothing was to be left alive in the perimeter. Nothing.

He racked the gun, and checked the ammo belts. Byron scanned the desert below.



“Ready, Poet? Gunship seven spotted a movement away from the compound.” Said Chief.

Byron just looked down the sites of his rifle. So far he had killed two coyotes today. Mostly he wanted his shift to end. He didn’t want to admit his fear.

The gunship did a slow swing in the direction from which the report had been made. The Mojave Maximum Security Prison had no walls. A compound of very rudimentary buildings, a deep well, and little else. Supplies were airdropped in. So were new prisoners.

Byron scanned the desert below. To insure no survivors from escape attempts, helicopter patrols flew constantly around the isolated prison. Rapid-fire weapons, scanners and detectors. Nothing lived in the perimeter.

“Gunship six kicked the kit. We’re going for insertion.” Said Chief. He touched a tomahawk hanging from his belt. “Sure you won’t try this?”

Byron just shook his head. He had trained with knives. The same kind of knives in the kit gunship six had dropped near his quarry.

Someone was attempting to escape from Mojave. That someone was probably now armed.

Byron adjusted the items in his own kit one more time, as his own gunship swooped down to hover over the desert floor.

“Good luck, Poet.” Said Chief.

Byron slid out to the skids, and then dropped to the ground.

“Hunter One is in play.” Called Chief. It went out over the radio, but Byron knew it had been said more for his sake.

Byron didn’t look up as the gunship pulled up and away. He was, for the next few hours, no longer a prison patrol officer. He was a Hunter. The game was unauthorized, but sanctioned by growing tradition.

He looked toward the ridge that hid his quarry.

Hunter? Hunted?

“We shall see.” Said Byron. He crouched low, and began working his way toward the ridge.

Vengeance

Vengeance

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge



Lisa hid in the barn, making her final preparations. Three days and nights she had stayed here, watching and learning. Patience was always the most important quality in the hunter. Her grandfather had taught her that, in the long ago days when he had taught her the art of the bow. More important than the shooting. Patience brought the hunter to the place where the shot could be made.

She hid the pack and gear under some hay. Nothing inside would lead back to her people. They were already dead. None were left to take revenge upon. They had all been taken from her during the war.

As she tied down her loose clothing, preparing to move in stealth, she remembered them all. The invaders had killed her grandfather, her father and her brother outright. Seven men, veteran fighters, had taken their home, their land, and their lives. They had spared her mother’s life. They had spared her own.

It was only a matter of weeks. Weeks that seemed like years. They helped themselves to the fruits of their little farm. They helped themselves to her mother. Most of all, they helped themselves to her. Time after time. She retreated within herself, became like the walking dead. She remembered that darkness.

She checked her bow. She selected three arrows, her best. She would only need one, but her grandfather had taught her to be prepared for a missed shot.

As she waited for first light, she remembered her mother. The men had required her to work, as well as serve as a plaything. Her mother could not hide inside herself. She suffered in full consciousness, slave to the men who murdered her husband, her father, and her son. She had found strength to try to comfort Lisa, even in her own suffering.

Lisa shed a tear at the memory. It slowly coursed down her cheek. She was lost in the memory, and paid the tear no mind.

Her mother did not last long. Not being as interesting as her young daughter, she often was subjected to pointless abuse. One day the playfulness of her captors was too much, and she died. Lisa was not even sure of the cause. Something just broke.

Her mother was not buried. Like the rest of her family, her mother was cast into a ravine.

No longer just a plaything, Lisa became the servant of her captors. They were less abusive toward her than her mother, but still demanding. The change of duties brought her back to herself. She began plotting revenge.

A patrol of local men came by one day. Lisa was bound, gagged and held by one of the men in a back room. The others arranged themselves in ambush. Though killed to a man, Lisa was proud of her neighbors. They reduced the number of her captors to four.

With fewer of them, she was less often busy meeting their carnal needs, and more the servant girl. She heard them talk. She learned where they lived. She learned that they were the lesser-trained tail of some aspiring emperor’s army. Their task was simply to occupy and pacify the local populace, preventing organized resistance.

They were just thugs, terrorizing and murdering.

After a seemingly infinite time had passed, the men had a meeting. It was agreed that three would go out and seek news from the emperor’s forces. One would remain to keep their little nest warm and safe. He would insure their captive remained where they could continue to enjoy her hospitality.

They were gone two days when her opportunity presented itself. They did not know that her grandfather had taught her to keep and use a blade. She had been a part of the occasional slaughter of chickens and lambs from the time she could handle a knife. She could keep a blade sharp, and use it well.

She did use it well. Complacent in his martial skill and superior strength, he attended too closely to the meal she had made him. He bled his own gravy onto his plate, his throat slit clean and wide.

Lisa took only as much time as was necessary to get her gear together. She found her grandfather’s best bow, and clutch of arrows. To this she added what other arrows she knew of around the farm. She dressed in her brother’s clothing, grabbed her gear, and then made her way into the woods.

Her enemies were now reduced to three. She waited and watched on the edge of the forest for two days. Her remaining captors returned at close to noon on the third day. She watched them enter the house, and then run out again. She had left the man she had killed sitting at the table. They ran about, searching for her.

Not finding her, they settled into their captured house. She continued to watch from the woods, living on cold foods she had brought out and stashed in the woods. No fire, nothing to give away her presence.

The next day she watched them leave early in the morning. They were apparently going home. The little band of three made their way toward the road that would take them back to their own land. They had come, raped and murdered, and now were just leaving!

Lisa made her way quickly through the woods. She knew of a good vantage point over the road. Her vengeance was not yet complete.

She was in hiding for less than an hour when the three passed below her hiding place. A clear shot presented itself, and she took it. Now there were only two.

They searched hard, coming close to the place she had hidden on two occasions. When they finally tired of the hunt, they vanished into the woods. They were headed back in the direction from which the came.

After some time had passed, Lisa went to the road to strip the body of her enemy. She was not surprised to find that his companions had already done so.

Lisa began working her way slowly through the woods, parallel to the road. Several times large knots of soldiers came along, and she had to hide. Over the course of several days, the groups became smaller. Never so few that she could pick one off with any safety. Never did she see her quarry hidden in the herd.

She continued to move steadily along.

A week on the move brought her to a small village. She lurked about, eventually learning that this was the village of one of her captors. Three days of lurking, hidden sleeping places, and stolen meals brought her at last an opportunity.

Her quarry wandered drunkenly from an inn at the edge of town. From her hiding place under a wagon she watched him lurch out of town toward some farm in the distance. He never made it home. She left him with two arrows in his back, laying face down in the mud and dung.

Lisa came slowly out of these dark memories. Two more weeks it had taken her to find the village of her last captor. The last couple of days taught her his location and habits. The light coming in through the barn door told her it was time.

She made her way slowly toward the barn door. She waited for a cart to pass, and then ran low to the cover of a wagon in the yard. Under the wagon, up against the fence on the other side. She could see the door clearly. It opened, as she knew it would.

Her quarry stepped forth, looking back and waving to somebody. He had not even turned when the arrow pierced his neck. She let him turn and look at her before she loosed the second arrow. It pierced his chest, and he fell.

A scream broke the morning. Shutters flew back, and heads poked out of various windows in the little village. A woman, round with child, stepped out of the door from which her quarry had just come. She looked down at the man who had been Lisa’s tormentor. She looked up at Lisa.

Their eyes locked. Lisa heard the sound of two more lives breaking. Two more victims of the evil that had engulfed her.

“Vengeance is not sweet.” Said Lisa, the bow dropping from her numbed hand. “It is very, very bitter.”

Lisa drew her knife, and turned the blade in her hand. Throwing herself forward, she fell upon it. Another scream rent the morning. Lisa realized it was her own.

She longed for satisfaction, but it evaded her as the darkness overcame everything.