To Catch Us

I remember being curled in the back corner of the VW Bug, the vinyl seats vibrating beneath my curled up legs, piles of supplies stashed with me: blankets, clothes, cloth diapers for my baby sister, a tent, dishes, boxes of powdered milk. The bug was our residence now, carrying us from home, away from the bad men who were after my dad. Mom said the men were pretend, but we still had to leave.
+++++The night before we were supposed to stay with my dad’s friends, but they wouldn’t let us in – kept us out in the tent, in the rain. My mom was upset, dad quiet. I kept having to go pee out in the grass, escorted by my mom or dad, dropping my pants to my knees. Why couldn’t we come in? This was strange grown up noise that was confusing and gave me a twitchy feeling in my belly.
+++++Now we were driving through Yellow Stone Park on a single-lane highway, empty, cutting through the dark forest. My dad informed me we would drive all night. We had to.
+++++“Why?”
+++++“Bears.” Usually we would swing into a park or field and pitch tent. Once a ranger kicked us out, but usually they let us be when they saw us, a young hippie couple with a little kid and a baby. But there was no camping on the side of the road here. Too dangerous. Bears.
+++++Keeping my eyes glued on the black forest whizzing by, I imagined the bears – giant, black, enraged – lurking beyond the tree line. I was fatigued, but refused to sleep, my eyes wide, my body alert, waiting for a savage bear to come tearing out of the woods to attack us.
+++++Some areas outside were lit by moon, and I saw several large shapes, gray and ghostly in the moonbeams, log-like, but not. Bear shit. A creature who could make that would be a giant, towering over our Volkswagen. And those massive creatures were out there. We can’t stop, I thought, as we raced along the yellow line, my dad focused and silent, my mom suckling the baby. No other cars. Just the rumble of the engine passing through silence. Even my dad was scared. He was the one who said we couldn’t stop. I had to pee, but I didn’t dare say anything.
+++++I pushed my face and hands against the cold glass, trying to spot the bears in the darkness, the window getting moist and foggy from my breath. Scooting across the seat to check the other side, I caught sight of a big dark blob just beyond the rear window. I froze. The black mass was directly behind the Volkswagen, touching our car. Not a bear, its shadow. The beast had to be a breath away, so close it cast a shadow of blackness behind us. It was running as fast as the road whizzing by. He’s going to catch us, I thought, attack us, kill us.
+++++I hid under the fuzzy wool blanket and called to my dad, but my voice was gone. I tried again – a little squeak, but no response. I called louder, but no one answered.
+++++Maybe it’s gone now, I thought. I peeked up, but the shadow was right on us. I wailed and ducked back under the covers, trembling, trying to bury myself deep in the rubbery seats and piles of crap. I tensed my muscles, crunched my face up and wrenched myself tighter into the corner.
+++++Over the engine’s muffled rumble, I heard something beating – the bears angry footsteps slapping the ground, keeping perfect pace with our car, right behind us, waiting to pounce, to crush us, to snatch the car and hurl it off the road, to rip us to shreds, running full speed, to catch us, waiting for us to slow down or stop. Don’t stop. I start saying it: “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” Squealing it into the blanket. No one answered. The running footsteps continued, smacking, slapping, to catch us. To catch us.
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Dylan Gilbert spent many years in New York City working as an actor in everything from performance art to Shakespeare. He now lives with his wife and teenage son in New York’s Hudson Valley.  His fiction has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Westchester Review, Slow Trains, The Oddville Press, Red Fez, and other literary journals. For more information visit www.dylansstories.weebly.com.