A/N: Chapter 11 for you. I own nothing but the story. Quick warming: Language and gore in the chapter. Happy reading!

It took one dose of buckshot to put Smokey out of his misery.

Finally. I thought, as the smoke cleared, and the bear slumped to the ground, now a lump of rapidly-cooling meat. It's over. I thought with relief, as I put I slung the gun over my back and approached the carcass. It was just by the mouth of the cave, and I intended to make quick work of disposing the bear's body. I'd known the cave was on our property, but I didn't every really come near it.

I wonder how the hell I'm going to get rid of this. I thought, as I pulled the trap off of the bear's leg. There weren't exactly any convenient dumpsters nearby, and I didn't reckon zombie-bear meat was good for jerky.

I was just going to grab the other, still-open trap from the ground, when I heard a growl from deep within the cave.

It wasn't a Denver growl. Oh, no. It wasn't even a plain old zombie growl.

It was a bear growl.

It sounded mad as hell.

And it was getting closer.

Fuck. I thought, as I got up and ran. FucfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK

I didn't look behind me. If I did, it would mean death. A long, messy, painful death. Instead, I just got the hell out of there. I could hear it growling behind me, its paws hitting the earth, youidiotwhydidn'tyouconsidertheremightbemorethanonebearFUUUUCK

I managed to scrabble up a tree, which is no easy feat when all you have around you are maples and pines, but that's what getting chased by a rabid bear will do for you.

The behemoth snapped at my heels as I hauled myself up, foaming at the mouth, eyes red and rheumy. Hell, the bear I'd shot back there was positively benign compared to this…

Even though I was running on fear and adrenaline, and even though I was struggling to stay on the awfully narrow branch that was the difference between life and bear food, and the bar was shaking the tree like a rain instrument, a little voice in my head still managed to, through all the FUCKs, say, You failed a spot-check, idiot.

And, even through all the above-mentioned, another part of me managed to reply, No shit, Sherlock.

Man, I was royally screwed.

The bear stopped shaking now, and it was circling the tree. I still had the hunting rifle, but at that point, I was having trouble staying on the damn branch, much less aiming and shooting.

I hope to God that thing is too messed in the brain to climb I thought, vehemently, as it watched me with hungry, angry eyes.

Then the bear started clawing again, with renewed vigor, shaking the tree even more, as I clung to the trunk in an attempt to stay on. Crap. How long would this thing stay up before the bastard knocked it over?

Then I heard the scream.

It wasn't a scream of fear. Far from it, in fact. It was a scream that said, I'm going to fuck you up. Badly.

I'd heard it before, and it seemed to be eons away, but had only been two weeks ago.

It was Denver, and he was on the hunt.

A blur hit the bear, snarling and screaming, attacking with all force.

I didn't have time to watch, as my hands finally slipped, and I plummeted from the tree. Roll. I thought as I fell, and I tumbled head-over-heels as I hit the ground. The rifle slipped off its strap as I dropped, but I still had my handgun at my side, and then out as soon as I could tell up from down.

The bear didn't notice me. It had other matters to attend to. Denver, for one thing.

He was attacking it with tooth and claw and god-know-what-else, never relenting, growling, snarling, tearing, slashing, biting….

The bear fought back in its own way, trying to cuff him with an arm, or bite into him with a slavering maw, but Den was too fast, too light, and too furious for the bear to get a good grip on him.

Watching him, he seemed almost inhuman; the screams, the blood on his claws, the merciless way he tore at the bear's thick hide…

This is his true nature. Said a voice in my head, treacherous, though I thought I had silenced it long ago. The wild fury with which it fights, and hunts, and if it weren't for sheer luck, this would have been your fate.

And I didn't argue with this, because it was true. If it weren't for luck, I would've ended up as a pulpy mess on the ground. As the bear seemed to be heading to, as it was.

The fighting was certainly slowing down. The gashes on the bear were too deep; and its mad swipes became less sure, less strong. Denver was slowing down , too, and his claws became less random and furious, and more precise. Still, they were too mobile for me to get a definitive aim with my Glock, without risking hitting Den.

However, it was a risk I never had to take, since he ended it for me.

With a final, feral snarl, he bit into the bear's throat, shaking and growling as the bear teetered, blood spurting from under the zombie's teeth. Then, with one, final, drunken, desperate swipe, the bear swayed, and hit the ground with a thud, defeated, and dead.

I lowered the gun, slowly, taking in what I had seen. It had happened in the matter of minutes; no, seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime. I got up from my crouched position, standing, looking at the bloody scene before me, the adrenalin draining from my system and leaving me dazed.

Denver didn't move from the top of the bear.

"Den" I called. He didn't respond.

"It's over. You killed it. Let's get home and get you patched up." I said, holstering the Glock once again.

Den still didn't move. He just stood there, crouched, breathing heavily.

"Den?"

Then, at the sound of my voice, he turned. Something isn't right. I thought, and my hand automatically flew to my pistol.

Time slowed down for me then.

The second he saw me, he let out a scream-a broken, feral thing, that scream was—and pounced. I backed up, gun out, heart racing, terror running through my mind. He landed on my, full-force, snarling.

It was just like before, when I first encountered him.

Except, now, my gun was loaded.

I held it up to his head in an instant, finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

He didn't claw, or attack; instead, he growled, a low, savage sound that warned to become something bigger.

There was still blood around his mouth.

"Denver. It's me. Marcy." I said, my voice quiet and shaking.

My gun arm was as steady as a rock.

"Please stop. I know you can hear me. Don't make me shoot. Please."

My heart was going a million miles a minute.

Denver didn't move, and just kept growling.

It'll be OK, he'll go back to normal any second now, and I'll scold him and get him home and clean off the blood and read Chapter 8 of General Tacticus. I thought desperately, through the haze of fear.

Then I looked into his eyes.

These were not the friendly brown eyes I had grown used to over the weeks. These weren't the eyes of the person who learned to speak, or that I'd cleaned blood off of, or that I'd read to.

These were the eyes of a hunter, a cruel and savage thing whose only purpose was to kill.

And I was about to die.

I pressed the gun closer to his head, but I couldn't pull the trigger.

Then, something flashed in those scary eyes of his and he blinked, just for a moment.

He looked down, and his eyes widened, like he was surprised to see me.

Then he sprang off me, turned, and ran.

I waited there, until I couldn't hear the sound of his hands hitting the ground any longer, headed off for who-knows-where, leaving me on the ground in the woods of northern Maine, with only the wind howling in the trees for noise.

I don't remember the walk back home.

Maybe I looked like a zombie. Maybe I didn't. All I remember was the spreading numbness, through and around me, like a cold, steel cage that surrounded me.

When I got inside, I bolted the door, leaned and against it, staring, but not seeing.

All I could hear was the voice in my head, that had warned me the whole time, and that I had ignored; But now, it was ringing, clear as a bell, through all of my other thoughts.

I told you so.

And now that it had the floor, that damn voice wouldn't shut up.

I told you not to trust it. That...thing that just nearly killed you. Again.

What the hell were you thinking, Mar? Playing doctor to a zombie? Re-enacting Born Free? It was a killer, Marzia, an animal, and nothing more. You knew it. But you didn't listen. You should have shot it the first time, and then again, just to be sure. Put it out of its misery, and get on with life. But you didn't, did you?

Now look at what happened.

I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I couldn't. Because that goddamn voice was right.

It'd been right the entire time.

Then, I really did cry, because it hit me like a ton of bricks: If I wanted to live safely up here, and survive, like Dad wanted, Denver would have to die.

I cried. I cried and wept and sobbed and all the other conceivable verbs that you could think of that involved leaking saltwater from your eye-holes because you had to kill your best friend.

I did this in a very un-survivor-like fashion, but I did it anyways.

It's for the best. I thought, as I wiped my eyes and loaded my Glock. You need to trap game and haul water and chop wood and repair the roof, and you can't do that with a rabid zombie around, can you?

I was starting to get the numb feeling all over again, but this time, it was colder.

Meaner.

Less human.

Besides, I thought, looking at the weapon in my hands. It's better for him to die this way, than by starvation, or sickness.

It's mercy.

By the time I was ready, my weapon was loaded, my eyes were dry, and I felt nothing. Dead-mode came over me.

Nothing but all business.

I walked to where I'd last seen him, his eyes wild, and claws red. I had the gun out, and I felt no fear. I didn't even feel the old air around me as I went on.

If something moved, I shot. No shaking. No nervousness. Just coldness.

I must have thinned the squirrel population around there by 3-fold by the time I found the bear.

It was still lying there, stiff and stale, rigor mortis setting in already. It looked like a prop in a play; Eyes glassy, maw still gaping, dried foam and blood still around its mouth, sitting on the stage after its part was finished, with no indication of the role it played in all this.

I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel anything. I kept walking.

There were blood-spots on the ground, heading west, towards the cave.

Something in my head, no more than an echo, really, worried about Den being hurt, but it was silenced by the cold part of me.

It's just a round of pest control. I thought. Nothing more.

I followed the trail to the cave, walking, never stopping.

The other bear was still by the front of the cave where I'd left it, sick and sad, and as prop-like as the other one. The bear-trap was gone, and the blood-drips went into the cave.

I felt no fear at this. I just pulled out the flashlight I brought, turned it on, and walked in. The heavy stench of musk, blood, decay, and (above all) bear hit me, but I kept walking, even as the bones of animals crunched under my boots.

The cave hit a curve.

I heard growling, and, as I hit the corner, my finger flew to the trigger, and the gun was up in one hand, and the light was in the other. I turned the curve, and there he was.

He was hunched over, obviously in pain, and he hissed as the beam of the flashlight hit his eyes. I lowered it, revealing the bear trap clamped on his left leg, the jaws deep into the flesh.

He can't pounce. I thought. An easy cleanup.

Part of me wanted to go to him; To hold him and bring him home and heal him and bring life back to the way it was, before, but then the cold part of me stopped me and said, No, because even if you cure him, and he acts tame, one day he will pounce on you, and you won't have your gun, and you will die.

"Den?" I asked. There was no shaking here; Just a quiet, hopeful question I wanted an answer to.

There was only growling.

"Den?" I asked, again, daring to hope. "Are you in there? It's me, Marzia."

The growling only continued, and he made a pathetic attempt to shift his weight; To drag himself closer, to jump; But the trap stopped him, so he simply hissed.

And then, I knew he was gone to me; the Denver I loved and cared for had died, and in his place was this rabid, savage thing, whose only goal was to tear me limb from limb.

I wanted to cry, but I had no tears left to shed.

So, instead, I spoke.

"Den." My voice was quiet, and cold; it sounded sad and echoing against the cave's walls.

"I'll make this quick, because I know you're in pain."

I was aimed on target. One hit, and it would be all over.

"I'm sorry."

My hand was straight, and steady.

"I'm sorry for saving you. For not killing you the first time, or the second time. I should have ended it there. It would have been better…."

All I could hear was my own, slow heartbeat.

" …For the both of us."

I couldn't do it.

"I love you, Den."

I had to do it.

"And…"

It was an act of mercy.

"I'm sorry."

There was a sound of gunfire. It hit the target, finding its mark, straight and true.

The body swayed and teetered in the dark of the cave, before striking the ground, twitching for a moment, and then finally lying still.

A/N: That's it for Chapter 11. I see an epilogue in your future, so heads up.

A quick note: I will be taking a break from posting for about a week, so no updates for a bit. Thanks for your support, favs, and reviews, you really make my day!

Until next week,

-Author