Chapter Twelve: Big Middle

Greg was breathing heavily as he withdrew the gun from its holster. The bear was approaching fast, and he needed to act. He pointed at the treetops, not wanting to hurt the animal if it could be avoided. He started to pull back on the trigger, but loosened his finger when the bear stopped, lowered her head, and backed up. She let out a call to her young before turning and loping off into the forest. The cubs tumbled over themselves in their haste to join her.

Greg lowered the weapon, dumbfounded. What on earth had scared them off? Did she recognize the sight of a gun? He turned to check on Sara, holstering the gun and dropping to his knees beside her. No sooner had they made eye contact, branches cracked and a deep growl was heard. They slowly turned.

Greg fumbled on the draw this time due to the pure shock at the sight. It was a different bear. This one was bulkier, and had already begun charging. He pulled himself to his feet and backed away.

He shouted at Sara to stay down and waited until she ducked, covering her head with her arms. The bear was too close. There was no time for a warning shot. He lined up his shot and pulled the trigger.

The recoil felt stronger than it should have, sending a sharp ache through his exhausted muscles. The crack echoed throughout the forest. Birds flew from their branches to seek a more cheerful and less noisy place to share their songs. Insect activity went silent, but the shot had the opposite effect on the bear. It roared when the round hit its side but instead of backing off, the bear seemed incensed. It sped up to target Greg, leaping over Sara's huddled form.

A huge paw shot out, striking his side before he could squeeze off another round. Greg went flying, the gun flung from his grasp. He tumbled to the hard ground yards from where he started out.

The impact knocked the air out of him. His side was tingling and he risked a glance downward. He hadn't felt the bear's claws slice through his skin but the torn shirt and blooming red stain were proof. Beginning to acknowledge the new ache, Greg let his head thud onto the ground.

Aware its prey was going nowhere, the bear ambled over to him. From this angle the creature's size could be best respected: easily four- or five-times heavier than a man, with fangs and claws bigger than human fingers. Greg's brain was telling him to get the hell out of there, but his body refused to act. He groaned and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, he was flipped onto his back and an overwhelming force crushed down on his chest. Lungs incapable of expanding and body unable to do anything about it, he simply lay, fading in and out. Auditory memories as fluid as a stream rippled through the fog of his brain.

Nick's disembodied voice, seeming to come from a scorpion's mouth: "Stay with me, buddy. Don't pass out now. Breathe through it."

Harris, standing over him, pity in his voice: "If it means anything, kid, I wouldn't have made you suffer for this long."

Whitney, in his ear, her arm cutting off his air: "Everything would have been perfect. I would have kept you forever..."

Sara, observing casually to a Grissom from another decade: "If we kept it on for long enough, I think we could match the blanching,"

"Greg!"

The shout was far and near all at once. It floated into his ears and echoed through the haze that enveloped his mind. He wanted to hear more, because this shout was different than the other voices. It came from outside, not within, and as it receded, he grabbed on.

Opening his eyes did little to help his confusion. Everything was a blur. His body jolted instinctively from need of oxygen. This movement and pain helped clear some of the fog from his eyes, and he took in the massive force pinning him down. It was no weighted dummy lowered onto him to simulate a large woman for case research. It was something huge and furry, and that wasn't his cup of tea, either.

The weight was crushing. He heard and felt the cracking of his ribs and little by little the last molecules of air were pushed from him.

The gun. It wasn't in his hand anymore which made it useless to him. Where had it landed?

As if in response, a shot cracked through the air. Greg clenched his eyes shut and waited for the pain; for the beast to fall onto him or take a chunk out of his neck…

"Stay down!"

Sara heard his shout and obeyed, hunkering down and covering her head with her arms. It wouldn't do much against a six-hundred-pound brown bear, but she could think of no other defense.

The crack of the gun echoed against the surrounding trees and Sara heard the bullet whizz by above her. The echo was soon covered by a loud roar. She felt something huge brush over her and hunched down lower as the smell of the beast overwhelmed her.

Next, she heard a loud blow and a shout. An object clattered against a tree, bumping into her arm as it settled, then another, bigger thud as something landed further off. She heard the bear's steps moving away and finally looked up.

Only the hind end of the bear was visible as it stood over something on the ground about ten feet away. Greg was nowhere to be seen, and common sense implied the bear's attention was on him. How had he gotten from just next to her to there so quickly? Raising herself a bit more and searching the ground nearby, Sara spotted the dropped gun. She promptly grabbed it and raised it in trembling hands.

Visibility was poor thanks to the rain, and she hesitated. What if she missed? Her hands shook from cold and adrenaline. She was out of her element. Back in Vegas, chasing murderers, kidnappers, rapists, and pedophiles, she would have been able to deal with a stressful situation with steady hands.

The bear raised a paw and roughly clawed the object over. Now she had a clearer shot, so Sara tried to ignore the fact that Greg had rolled into her view and that the bear's mouth had opened, jaws descending. She pulled the trigger and a small chunk of fur and flesh flew from the bear's shoulder. It roared furiously, lunged briefly at her, then took off into the forest. Apparently, two shots were the most it was willing to accept from these humans.

Sara sat frozen, gun barrel following the bear's form until it vanished behind the dense foliage. She was pulled from her near-trance by the realization of what just happened, along with the panicked thought of: 'Greg!' She crawled to his side, dragging her ankle and clawing at the muddy ground for traction.

He lay on his back, fingers grasping at the forest floor at his sides. One side of his shirt was torn and blood was seeping through the fabric. His eyelids fluttered as his eyes threatened to roll upwards. Sara placed a hand onto his chest. She glanced around to be sure the bears were still gone before gazing back at him.

Only the whites of his eyes were visible now and his lips had turned blue. Greg wasn't breathing. She patted his cheek urgently but received no response.

His hands stilled at his sides. After a moment, even his unsuccessful attempts to draw in air ceased.

Sara's fingers at his neck picked up a rapid pulse. He was alive, so why wasn't he breathing?

She searched him, returning to the wound on his side. She lifted the fabric from his skin, revealing four slashes running parallel to his ribs. Burgundy bruises were already forming over the ones from the previous day and around the cuts. There had been enormous strength behind the blow.

Repeating a warning from a year in the past, Dr. Holland's voice entered her mind: "Greg has had a collapsed lung, and if he's subjected to trauma, it may take less to collapse it again."

His face was shockingly pale and his heart beat with such force that the veins on his forehead and neck stood and throbbed visibly.

It wouldn't beat much longer if he didn't start breathing.

She ducked quickly and sealed her mouth over his, plugging his nose. She blew a breath into him, watching from the corner of her eye as only one side of his chest rose. She was well aware that mouth-to-mouth would not fix a collapsed lung but he needed to breathe, even if not at full capacity. A person can live with a pneumothorax, at least for a while. Greg had done so before. Was it too much to ask him to do it again?

Sara gave him a second breath then watched closely, murmuring "please, please, please," under her breath without realizing she was saying anything at all. Still, he did not make any attempt to breathe on his own.

His eyes rolled under his lids as if he was dreaming, and this made Sara wonder if something in addition to a collapsed lung was holding him back. What if he was having a hallucination and was too scared to breathe, or his own mind was stopping him from doing so?

"GREG!" she cried. She didn't expect the bears to return, but there were still several rounds left in the gun so she wasn't too worried about drawing them back in with noise. She took his face into her hands and shook him lightly. "Damn it, Greg! Don't do this. Please, breathe!"

Receiving no response, Sara growled in frustration before once again blowing air into his body.

He twitched and she pulled back, hoping she hadn't imagined it. Suddenly he started to choke and lurched upward, inhaling hungrily. Sara caught and held onto him before he could go too far. His hands clutched her shirt tightly as he drew in ragged breaths.

"It's okay. It's okay, just breathe."

He leaned against her, his breath hot against her shoulder.

"Where did you go?" she asked gently, unable to stop the tears from falling.

The sounds of the forest disappeared some time ago. The silence in their wake is absolute.

"Don't worry, Greggy. I'm here."

Despite the words spoken, this voice is not soothing in the least.

'No,' he denies, refusing to open his eyes. She is there, and a visual confirmation is neither needed nor wanted. She is so close he can smell her. She's taken the bear's place: leaning over him with a hand pressing on his chest. Not only is she impossibly strong and heavy, her very presence is suffocating. She breathes his air, exchanging it for stale, empty fumes that cannot be reused.

He'd rather face the bear.

"You know I don't take kindly to being told 'no'," she chuckles coldly, "but as always, your disobedience is amusing."

His lungs burn and his heart tries to pound its way out of his chest.

"GREG!"

That's Sara!

"Don't listen to her. Listen to me."

He is beginning to feel like he shouldn't listen to anyone…particularly himself.

"Damn it, Greg! Don't do this. Not again."

"That's all you're good at, isn't it? Disappointing her?"

'Shut up,' he wills.

"Please, breathe!"

With this latest command, the paralysis broke. And when he breathed again, he could think of nothing else but filling his lungs completely.

But waves of stabbing pain originated in his chest and traveled across his shoulders, wrapping around his back like a venomous hug. No sooner had he taken in a few frantic gulps of air, the coughing kicked in. The pain was too much. The panic was too much. A shout entered his ears

was that me?

and the world tilted and spun. Warm arms encircled his torso, anchoring him in place. He had yet to open his eyes this time around—adding sight to his list of overwhelming senses was an unattractive thought—and they could be anyone's arms, but Greg was convinced they were safe.

Softly, near his ear: "It's okay. It's okay, just breathe."

Like the arms, the voice presented no threat. Greg clung to it and to the comfort it carried.

"Where did you go?" the voice added.

The question intrigued him in his oxygen-deprived delirium. Where had he gone? For that matter, where was he now, and should he be elsewhere?

Is this real, or is this a dream and the other, reality?

The chill he felt at this prospect was bone-deep. He shook, breaths coming in short, harsh sobs.

The comforting voice continued speaking to him, urging him to relax, but it was becoming more difficult to focus. An icy fist thrust into his chest, squeezed his heart and lungs, and twisted them to trigger a sharp, tortuous ache that tried to drag him back in time again.

This time he knew that he cried out, although the sound was muffled and barely sounded like him. He felt the yell leave him, taking with it more air than he could afford, but he couldn't keep it in. He thought he might be dying, possibly having a heart attack.

Whether the place with the warm arms and the soothing voice was dream or reality, it was where he fought to remain. As quickly as it began, the grip on his chest let up some, and he began to wheeze weakly.

"Oh god, Greg, you're—"

The voice expressed more concern now, and Greg felt himself falling slowly backwards in time and space without the ability to stop, or resist with anything but a small moan. He fought hard to stay on this side of the border of sanity and insanity, finally prying his eyes open to search for something else to hold onto.

He cried out hoarsely and his body tensed. She felt warmth against her stomach and pulled back from Greg somewhat. In her urgent struggle to get him breathing she had all but forgotten his most recent injury. She looked down and to her horror saw the blood flowing freely from the slashes in his side. It had soaked through almost his entire shirt and Sara's as well.

Sara forced him carefully to the ground. In his condition, he shouldn't be trying to stand up.

Once down he remained tensed. She pulled back and searched his eyes again. They rolled about fearfully. After another look around, she rummaged through the bags until she found one of her hooded sweatshirts and pressed it firmly against the jagged slashes on his side. He moaned again and his face twisted into a grimace.

"Sorry."

She leaned closer and looked him over. He appeared to be fighting a losing battle with consciousness, and although no one could blame him Sara didn't want to risk being unable to wake him again. She spoke his name repeatedly, trying to gain and keep his attention. Finally, his eyes found her and focused and she smiled, stroking his hair. She hoped that he couldn't read the sadness behind that gesture.

A corner of his mouth quirked upwards in an attempt at a grin. Sara laughed lightly, relieved that he at least seemed to know who she was. "There you are. Don't go anywhere, okay? Stay with me."

Before she could say more, static followed by a long beep came from one of the bags.

The radios. She had completely forgotten that an alert had sounded minutes ago.

She jumped into action, finding the bag and digging things out until she uncovered one. She jammed the 'page' button down and held the device to her lips. "Hello?"

Silence followed. During this time thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and raindrops began to fall again. Had she only imagined the sound? What if a button was accidently pressed by another item in the bag? Only ten or fifteen seconds had passed, but it felt like hours.

"Sara?" came a staticky but familiar voice.

She could have laughed with relief. "Jerker!"

"What is wrong?"

"Greg's hurt! He needs a hospital."

Another short pause, then: "You are in Finnemarka?"

"Yes," she responded. But the preserve covered quite a large area. Fortunately, only one parking lot serviced the entire preserve. "We're about 5 miles north of where the car is parked, I think."

Silence.

"Jerker?"

More silence followed and she could only hope that help was on the way.

Sara set the walkie down and turned back to Greg, who was gasping and holding an arm across his chest. The rain was coming down harder and she wished there was some sort of shelter nearby.

He coughed then choked, blood dripping from between his lips.

"No," she begged. With some difficulty she maneuvered him onto his side, and once there he spit up a large amount of blood. It spilled onto the ground where little gory rivers formed amongst the already saturated rocks and twigs.

The hoodie was tucked between his side and the ground so that the cuts weren't pressing into the dirt. She hoped the pressure would help slow the bleeding.

His eyelids began to flutter and brown irises drifted upward. His breaths became weaker by the minute with short, pained moans breaking in once in a while.

"Gregory Sanders, I swear if you leave me all alone out here, I'll never forgive you."

The words were harsh but they spilled from her mouth before anything could be done. They lingered in the damp air and, true or false, did not encourage Greg to stay conscious. His eyelids closed and when Sara desperately lifted them, she could only see white.

Suddenly there was another burst of static and a voice began to speak through the walkie. She swiped it up, holding it close to her ear. Most of what wasn't broken up was in Norwegian, but two words spoken in Jerker's voice stood out:

"…two hours."

A tone sounded from the device. Sara tried to speak into it but heard nothing more.

'Please let that mean a rescue team is on the way,' she thought.

Eyes darting back to the unconscious, trembling man at her side, Sara thought about how much could happen in two hours. His breathing had already worsened and the time between each breath shortened. The rain drummed against leaves, bark, and soil, joining in a chaotic composition that reminded how unforgiving nature can be.

The emergency blankets had dropped to the ground, forgotten during the attack, but now Sara snagged them. She shook one out and draped it over Greg, covering even his head to protect him from the rain. A couple of sticks stabbed into the ground propped the blanket up and away from his face. The other blanket, she wrapped around herself, but left her face exposed so that she could keep a look out.

She tucked the gun and the radio into the blanket to keep them both dry and close. Sara leaned back slowly against a tree trunk, grimacing from the sharp aches in her leg. She reached one hand under Greg's blanket, making sure that she could easily lay two fingers on the pulse on his throat. With her thumb, she stroked his face gently.

Two hours was a very long time. Would the bear return?

The rain showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. She waited.

Another muffled cough erupted from Greg and his body heaved as he tried to catch his breath. After reassuring herself that there was still no sign of the bears—or rescue—Sara crouched over and ducked partially under his blanket.

Awake again, his eyes rolled until they found her. She pressed her forehead against his and stroked his cheek.

"Help is coming. Hang in there."

He nodded and closed his eyes. Sara hoped she hadn't lied.