Sacrament Read Free

put on the planet to do.'
    'We're all doing his work just being alive,' Guthrie replied. 'Adding to the trash-heap.'
    'Well at least I won't be adding to the population,' Will said, and started from the threshold towards his jeep.
    'You and Sister Ruth both,' Guthrie called after him. There was a sudden eruption of fresh barking from his dog,
a shrillness in its din which Will knew all too well. He'd heard camp dogs raise a similar row at the approach of
lions. There was warning in it, and Will took heed. Scanning the darkness to left and right of him he was at the
jeep in half a dozen quickened heartbeats.
    On the step behind him, Guthrie was yelling something - whether he was summoning his guest back inside or
urging him to pick up his pace Will couldn't make out; the dog was too loud. He blocked out the sound of both
voices, man and animal, and concentrated on making his fingers perform the simple function of slipping the key
into the lock. They played the fool. He fumbled, and the key slipped out of his hand. He went down on his
haunches, the dog's barking shriller by the moment, to pluck it out of the snow. Something moved at the limit of
his vision. He looked around, his fingers digging blindly for the key. He could see only the rocks, but that was
little comfort. The animal could be in hiding now and on him in five seconds. He'd seen them attack, and they
were fast when they needed to be, moving like locomotives to take their quarry. He knew the drill if a bear
elected to charge him: drop to his knees, arms over his head, face to ground. Present as small a target as
possible, and on no account make eye contact with the animal. Don't speak. Don't move. The less alive you
were, the better chance you had of living. There was probably a lesson in that somewhere, though it was a bitter
one. Live like a stone and death might pass you by.
    His fingers had found the dropped key. He stood up, chancing a backward glance as he did so. Guthrie was still
in the doorway, his dog, her hackles raised, now silenced at his side. Will hadn't heard Guthrie hush her; she'd
simply given up on this damn fool man who couldn't come out of the snow when he was told.
    On the third time of trying, the key went into the lock. Will hauled open the door. As he did so he heard the
bear's roar for the first time. And there it was, barrelling out between the rocks. There was no doubting its
intention. It had him in its sights. He flung himself into the driver's seat, horribly aware of how vulnerable his
legs were, and reached back to slam the door behind him.
    The roar came again, very close. He locked the door, put the key into the ignition and turned it. The headlamps
came on instantly, flooding the icy ground as far as the rocks, which looked as flat as stage scenery in their
glare. Of the bear there was no sign. He glanced back towards Guthrie's shack. Man and dog had retreated
behind the locked door. He put the jeep in gear and started to swing it round. As he did so he heard the roar
again, followed by a thump. The bear had charged the vehicle in its frustration, and was rising up on its hind
legs to strike it a second time. Will caught only a glimpse of its shaggy white bulk from the corner of his eye. It
was a huge animal, no doubt of that: nine hundred pounds and counting. If it damaged the jeep badly enough to
halt his escape, he'd be in trouble. The bear wanted him, and it had the means to get him if he didn't outpace it.
Claws and teeth enough to pry the vehicle open like a can of human meat.
    He put his foot on the accelerator, and swung the vehicle around to head it back down the street. As he did so
the bear changed tactics and direction, dropping back onto all fours to overtake the jeep, then cutting in front of
it.
    For an instant the animal was there in the sear of the headlamps, its wedgesnouted head pointing directly at the
vehicle. It was not one of the pitiful clan Guthrie had described, their ferality