Why is it so quiet? Moments ago, the savagery of the attack splintered the cabin’s furniture into pine pulp, churning the air with gale force volume. Now the only sound is my ragged breathing, bubbling with spit and froth. Bracing my back against the bedroom door, I slide down its length and hit the floor. Pain scorches like an electric shock from my knee to my spine. Terrified of what I will see, I force myself to look at my right leg. My knee is splayed open, blood pooling in the exposed fissure. My lower thigh is swollen and purpling where four deep punctures ooze wet crimson, soaking my torn khaki pants. The blood-borne stench registers as a metallic saccharine taste on my tongue, triggering a violent gag reflex. Mopping my face with my shirt sleeve, I mutter, “It’s not that bad”—a pathetic effort to calm myself. I need to get out of here before it comes back. I fumble for my cell phone in the pants front pocket. The pocket is ripped away—the phone is gone. My face heats with panic. What would Dad do? He kept guns at the cabin, but they’re long gone. When he learned his cancer was terminal, he shipped the firearms to his brother in Colorado. Dad was a career Marine. He gave me his cleft chin and his growling baritone voice, but not his towering height or his measured gravitas. He didn’t engage in conversations with me; he conducted lessons. Recollections surface… The Four “E’s” of Field Survival he insisted I memorize and recite: #1: EMERGENCY aid for the wounded. I need to wrap my leg to staunch the bleeding. As a result of my weekend visits to empty out the cabin, there are no sheets or towels, no first-aid kit. Time to improvise. I tear off long strips from my shredded pants and wrap my leg with the makeshift bandages. It hurts like hell. It was reckless to enter the cabin after I spotted the broken window near the front door. Dumb luck that I saw the beast before it saw me, and a miracle that I was able to kick it off me and barricade myself inside the bedroom. #2: EVALUATE your situation. Slumped against the door, lightheaded with pain, I struggle to organize my frenzied thoughts into an action plan. Dad built his hunting cabin in isolated timberland. No electricity, no landline, spotty cell service. The nearest Ranger station closes at sundown. My best chance for rescue is to find my phone. If not, the only escape with my bandaged leg is down the front porch stairs and across the clearing to my truck. And something else—the gnawing hollow in my gut. It’s been hours since coffee and toast at home. I wonder if there are any supplies left in the cabin’s pantry. I think of Sarah, at home with Jimmy. She’ll start to worry soon. #3: EVACUATE to a safe location. I need to move. As I roll on my side to attempt to stand, my gaze shifts toward the bedroom’s narrow window. Fir trees loom, stark silhouettes against a shimmering sky, the last light of the dying day before the onset of the dark. Then I see it. A hulking shadow lumbering past the window frame. I hear the sounds: the muffled grunting, the rasp of curved claws on the front porch planks. It knows I’m here. [TO READ THE REST OF THE STORY, visit my Contact page form, fill in your email address, and type "KEEPER" in the message bar.]