Killer

He was sitting there, all rumpled and untidy, peering through his misted spectacles at her. A great warmth welled up in her chest. She reached for him. And then the polar bear came in through the back of the tent.

The bear, a young male just entering his prime, had been hunting the edge of the pack for seal but had found none. Earlier that evening, however, his attention had been caught by the sound of the explosion, and he had gone to investigate. Over a mile downwind he had picked up the smell of the humans, and he would have gone on his way except that he picked up also the smell of the soup. His hungry stomach churning inside him, he had thrown himself into the water at the point where the floe had broken away, and had swum with floundering, rapid strokes to the source of the delicious smell. Silently he had skirted the island of ice, keeping effortlessly in the water, protected from its great cold by his ample layers of fat. He had found a quiet place to land, and had crept up silently on his great fur-covered paws. The smell of humans was very great now, and he moved like a ghost; but a ghost of muscle, teeth and claws. When he saw the tent, he didn’t know what to make of it, and so, with all the logic of the wild, he attacked it. He reared up behind it and brought both his great front paws down on it. The short, blunt claws ripped through it like paper. Something in it screamed: he charged.

Kate saw its huge shadow just before it attacked, and she stared, transfixed, through that eternal moment as the shadow fell, and the black talons destroyed the tent wall. Then, framed in the tatters was the flat, evil head, its eyes ablaze, black lips stretching back from scarlet gums and yellow teeth in a terrible growl.

She screamed, and then she was rolling for the way out, pulling her father with her. He followed her, yelling at the top of his voice. The bear floundered after them with a roar, but it became entangled in the tent and was forced to pause.

At Kate’s first scream, Ross sprang awake. He heard the thunderous roar as he was pulling on his boots, and understood immediately what was happening. “Bear,” said Job, also struggling with his boots. Ross nodded and threw himself through the tent flap. He slewed round in a flurry of ice and took in the scene at a glance.

The bear had risen to its full height and was tearing the tent away like so much wet tissue paper. Warren and Kate were running away towards the fire. Quick and Preston came out of their tent, also running.

“The guns,” yelled Ross; and the three of them made a dash for the supply tent. They threw boxes and crates hither and thither looking for the three crates, two of guns, one of ammunition.

“Here,” yelled Quick. “The carbines.” He was tearing at the top. Ross found the ammunition and smashed the top in with one blow of his left fist. “Neat trick,” said Preston, as he opened the second box of rifles. Quick slammed a magazine into one of the carbines just as the bear tore the tent from its face, and charged after Kate and Warren. He aimed and fired. Ice kicked up beside the charging animal, and then the gun jammed.

“Christ!” screamed Quick. Preston was wrestling to load the long, sleek shape of a Weatherby Varmintmaster.

Warren tripped over the discarded survival-gear box and fell full-length while something metallic slid from it across the ice towards Kate. He struggled helplessly to rise, slipping on the treacherous ice. The bear caught up with him, and rose above him, ready to strike.

Then Job was there, astride the doctor, whirling a lumberjack’s axe in front of the bear’s face. The bear paused, and roared wildly. The axe flashed down, only to be struck aside by a contemptuous blow from the monster’s paw. The doctor, on all fours, was almost at Kate’s knees. Job turned to run, and the bear caught him. Ross was running wildly towards them, carrying Quick’s useless carbine. Kate brought up the silver object from the general survival box: a Very pistol.

“No,” cried Ross. “You’ll get Job.”

There came a crack from behind him, and a heavy bullet from Preston’s Weatherby smashed into the bear’s shoulder. Its head came up, great strings of saliva dripping from its jaws. It began to bend Job backwards. The rifle cracked again. Ross saw the bear’s flesh jump. It roared. Job was hissing in pain now, as the bear fought to get a crushing grip on him. Ross swung the carbine back over his shoulder like a club, then forward with all his towering strength. The stock landed with a dull thud against its wounded shoulder. The bear hurled the gasping Job away and turned. Ross smashed it over its nose and catfooted away.

CRACK! A hot wind burned past Ross’s cheek. The bear paused. Ross turned. Preston, reloading the Weatherby, Quick with a Remington 7mm Magnum. Ross ran. The bear charged. Preston fired again. The bullet mushroomed into the bear’s shoulder: it didn’t even limp.