Bear Flames

Bear Flames Jesse Haley hated to admit it, but waking up naked, drunk, and with a pounding headache was increasingly becoming the norm for him. He rolled over and felt a wave of nausea crash over him. With a groan, he suppressed it and opened his bloodshot, teary eyes. The sun was just coming up, little rays of light shining into his eyes like lasers. He groaned again and closed them. “s**t,” he growled. Unsurprisingly, he felt dirty—and with a struggle, he opened his eyes and looked down at his naked form. This morning was no different from every other morning. Sometime during the night, it appeared he’d fallen into a mud pit, rolled around in some leaves, and decided to just sleep off his drunken stupor instead of washing up. His life was nothing but drinking and going out to the forest to blow off some steam. It wasn’t the forest he wanted to be in, of course, but it would have to do. Jesse Haley’s life was in complete shambles. He’d been living in upstate New York for the better part of a year. Summer had passed and he’d survived a brutally cold winter in a tiny apartment above his favorite bar. Then he’d been evicted for not paying his rent—or bar tab—and summer had rolled back around again. The cool fall nights were almost back again, and Jesse couldn’t imagine waking up in the forest in the middle of a winter. Waking up in a forest naked after a night out was bad enough. But at least it was warm. With a grunt, he finally sat up. Glancing around the tiny clearing he occupied, he was unsurprised to find his clothes were nowhere to be found. He stood up, head swimming, and braced himself, hands on knees, until the moment passed. He checked behind the nearest tree. No clothes. Nor behind the next, or the next, or even the next. Glancing up at the sky, he tried to judge the direction of the sun to give him an idea of where he was. After a few moments, he realized he was lost. He didn’t recognize any of his surroundings. For the first time that morning, something surprised him. He was completely lost. The other nights he’d shifted after a drunken night he’d stayed fairly close to the places he knew. Last night, however—things must have got out of control. He struggled to remember what had happened. He didn’t remember a bit of the night before. He didn’t remember what bar he went to, what he drank, who he’d met, or even that he’d shifted. He knew that he must have drank. He assumed he had drunk the hard stuff—the headache told him that. He might have met someone last night, or he might have sat in the corner brooding by himself—either was a possibility, though if he had to guess, he’d probably sat in the corner all by himself. Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d shifted or not. I had to have shifted last night—it’s how I blow off steam. And after all, I woke up naked in the forest—what else could have happened last night? But the fact remained: he just didn’t know. His drinking was becoming a problem. He had no problem admitting that. But he didn’t think he would change anything, either. With a sigh, he decided it was time to figure out just where he was. And the best way for him to do that was to shift. Haley was a bear Shifter—the only thing left in his life that was an absolute certainty. His career, his friends, and his family had all disappeared. But he couldn’t change what he was, even if he had wanted to. So he shifted. He wasn’t sure what it was like from an observer watching him—he only knew how it felt to him. He could feel himself growing stronger. His senses became sharper. Smells, sounds, everything came flooding in. He could see birds in the tree, naked to the normal human eye. He could smell a stream a hundred yards off. He could hear the very faint sound of a vehicle, probably miles and miles away. His limbs were longer, more heavily muscled, and his claws dug into the soft loam of the ground he’d been sleeping on. And all of that didn’t make him feel a damn bit better. With a roar of frustration that slowly became a yell, Jesse shifted back into his normal, boring human form. His headache hadn’t cleared one bit. His frustrations hadn’t either. He wouldn’t find out what happened to him, but at least he knew where a road was located. With a sigh, a curse of frustration, and a shake of his head, Jesse Haley started walking. Behind a Goodwill Jesse found a sack of donated clothes. With a shred of guilt, he ripped it open and searched through it with muddy hands until he found a pair of jeans and a ragged shirt that might fit his heavily muscled frame. He looked down at the mess he’d made and ran a hand thoughtfully along a heavily bearded jaw. His long hair was even longer than it had been a year ago. He’d let himself go. But who could blame him? Bare feet on the concrete, he walked down the sidewalk. At least he knew where he was now: only a few blocks from the bar he so frequently used to visit. He kept walking. He knew if he even thought of going in there, he’d have the cops called on him. It wasn’t worth it. Luckily, Jesse wasn’t completely homeless. Sure, he spent most of his time passed out drunk in random bars or the forest, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d planned ahead. He’d used the last of his savings to rent out a cheap motel for five months up front. He still had a couple of weeks left before he’d have to pay more or get out. He’d also planned ahead and bought himself an ample supply of liquor and TV dinners, canned goods, and other food that wouldn’t expire. He didn’t have the keys to the room, of course, but a quick explanation to the woman working the front desk sorted him out. They knew him here, even if they didn’t like him—and looking at himself in the mirror when he stepped into his room, he couldn’t blame them in the slightest. His hair and beard were matted with mud, leaves, and even a twig. His forearms were covered in dried mud. His bare feet were almost black with grit. The jeans were too tight and the shirt was ripped in several places. Muddy skin showed through those holes. He took off his clothes and took stock of his reserves. His beer was warm, stacked in the corner, and his liquor bottles lined the dresser. He cursed himself for spending money on beer when he should have spent it on liquor; he only had a few bottles left. His cases of beer were more, yet they wouldn’t get him as drunk as he would need to be to deal with actually being Jesse Haley. They also wouldn’t last until his rent ran out—and as far as he was concerned, running out of booze would be even worse than living on the street. He had plenty of food, though the thought of eating anything made his stomach churn. He peeled off his clothes and turned on the lukewarm shower. He rinsed himself off, watching the mud practically plug the drain at some points. He felt better afterwards, though his headache was still there. Looking in the mirror, Jesse was disgusted with himself. One of the members of the Forest—a man who used to save people—and now, I can’t even save myself. What have I become? He didn’t answer that question. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer. That evening, Jesse found himself sitting in the bar down the street from his motel. Luckily, when he had walked in the front door, the angry bartender had handed him his wallet—and it even had twenty bucks leftover in it that he’d won in an arm wrestling contest a few nights back. It looked like the night was going to turn around after all. He quickly bought himself two shots and, after some serious consideration, decided to splurge on a beer. He downed one shot, then the other, and slowly sipped his beer. It took him a lot to get drunk—he was a Shifter, after all—but the shots in quick succession succeeded in warming his face ever-so-slightly. He ordered another two shots, then another beer, then another shot. The television was showing nothing good—the news was on, and Jesse had never been one for news. He ordered another shot and found himself out of money. “Put it on my tab,” he told the bartender. “You ain’t got a tab,” the man growled back. He glared at Jesse. Jesse glared back and looked around him. The bar was mostly deserted. There were a couple of good ol’ boys playing darts in the back of the bar. He ran into a lot of those types up here in upstate New York. Jesse had always been what those kinds of guys called a city slicker—and he was proud of it. He had thrived in the urban jungle of New York City. And now here he was, trapped in a small town that he didn’t even know the name of, 100 miles north of New York City, his life in shambles. It doesn’t have to be, he reminded himself. After all, that was true. He’d done this to himself. After what had happened… I could go back. All I have to do is go back. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He didn’t know if it was embarrassment, shame, or the simple desire of wanting nothing to do with the old lifestyle. It was painful, after all. One of his best friends had died inches from him—and he’d done nothing to prevent that death. He’d failed like he’d never failed anyone before. What did that say about him? It was better that he’d disappeared. He wasn’t good enough to be a member of the Forest anymore. He wasn’t a good person. He didn’t deserve the friends he’d had before he’d decided on his self-imposed exile. What are they up to now? Do they miss me? Mac? Buckner? Ortega? The rest? Do they even care? Do they wonder where I went, if I’m even alive? Or have they forgotten about me, forced me from their memories like the horrible event that forced me away? He pushed those thoughts away and turned his eyes to the television mounted above the bar—and they all came flooding back. “Turn it up!” he ordered, standing up so fast that the bar stool fell backwards. The bartender glared at him. “Turn up the damn TV!” “You don’t tell me what to do in my own bar, friend,” the bartender growled. He was an older man, half the size of Jesse, yet his attitude told him he had no problem dealing with men like Jesse. Jesse’s eyes were glued to the TV. The news headline was something he’d never thought he’d see: the man who had burned down the Forest, who had caused the death of his friend Peterson, had been arrested for the crime. Jesse couldn’t help but smile for the briefest of seconds. The police had finally figured out who had killed Peterson. And Jesse Haley knew exactly what he needed to do. He was going to go back home, to New York City, and he was going to find that man, and now that he knew exactly who he was, he was going to kill him. The smile faded as he felt a hand grasp his shoulder and squeeze tightly. Everything he’d been thinking of—sweet, sweet revenge on the man who had ruined his life—faded immediately. Jesse took a deep breath and could smell one of the men that had been playing darts in the corner. He turned his head ever-so-slightly, seeing the man out of the corner of his golden eyes. The man was obviously drunk. Behind him, the other two men closed in, watching intensely to see what was going to happen. Jesse took another deep breath and tried to steel himself for what was going to come. These men were looking for a fight. He knew they would do anything to get it—and he intended not to provoke them any more than he already had. “You listen here, slick,” the first man said. His breath was hot on Jesse’s ear as he leaned close. The scent of alcohol and chewing tobacco washed over him. Jesse suppressed a shudder. “You don’t ever tell Richard what to do in his own bar. Ever again.”