Bearly a Memory:Pacific Northwest Bears

By: Moxie North


There come those moments in life when you have a choice to make. Every person has the instinctual fight or flight mechanism in their brain. Brooklyn Nishi knew that and had learned to listen closely to that instinct from her father’s many lessons.

Haruto was a doctor, like his father before him. His family had emigrated from Japan before he was born to live the American dream. He was focused, dedicated, and often formal, even with his daughter.

Her mother, Maybelle, grew up in Louisiana and never quite fit in with that part of the South. She had free thinking ideas and wanted to go to a college where she wouldn’t stand out. Looking in California, she decided Berkley would be the perfect choice. That is where she met Haruto. She liked to call him Harry, and they fell in love while petitioning for signatures to end nuclear testing. They were polar opposites who constantly gave Brooklyn a well-rounded view of the world.

Which way she chose to act depended on whether she heard her mother’s voice or her father’s voice in her head.

Her mother would be the one that would stand up and fight. Raising her voice the loudest so her words would be heard. Her father on the other hand would assess, debate, then usually retreat. Today, they were silent in her head. No input, no words of wisdom, just static.

Right this moment, she was frozen in fear. Her hind brain, the part that kept her alive, was screaming play dead, you fool!

Brooklyn had chosen her career carefully. Her father wanted her to be a doctor like him. Her mother wanted her to be whatever she wanted as long as she was happy. She’d compromised and decided to become a nurse. She figured it was a noble profession with less schooling than a doctor, but more patient interaction. Then she realized bodily fluids were not her thing. Really not her thing.

She finished nursing school because she wasn’t a quitter and didn’t want to squander the money she’d already spent on her education. Then she switched gears to get her Bachelor of Science in nursing and then her Master’s degree. She’d been the hospital administrator at St. Luke’s now for almost three years. She loved working with people, away from the blood and gore.

Today she was facing blood and gore. A lot of it. She’d heard that an ambulance was bringing in a gunshot victim from outside their service area. This wasn’t totally unheard of when other hospitals had an overflow, or there was a disaster. Often, though, it was because they figured St. Luke’s was closer, and they liked to restock at her hospital more than others.

It was ten o’clock on a Friday night, and she was in no mood for it, so she was on her way down to have a word with the ambulance crew. Normally she’d have the ER relay her wishes, but she wanted to make it clear they weren’t a dumping zone.

When she walked outside to confront the ambulance crew, she saw they were in the last bay leading to the hospital. There was room for four aid vehicles at a time, so most took the first spot near the door. This vehicle was as far from the door as they could get, just a stone’s throw from the loading dock where supplies and laundry come and go.

This was not totally out there; maybe it was their lucky spot. What was confusing were the two rough looking jean-clad men in patched leather vests that were loading boxes into the back of the ambulance while three men wearing suits looked to be supervising.

The whole scene was confusing. It didn’t make any sense. When Brooklyn stopped short, wobbling on her tan heels, no one noticed her. Her palms went instantly damp, the clammy sensation traveling over her body. Nothing about what she was seeing was normal. Her brain was unable to process the scene before her.

But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to quickly deduce that someone was using the ambulance to move something they didn’t want anyone else to know about.

It was like something out of a TV show. Brooklyn’s brain was trying to keep up with the reality of her situation. The men in the leather vests appeared to be from some sort of motorcycle club. One turned, and she saw the back of his leather said Sick Devils. There was no way that was a knitting club.

Brooklyn could also see that while the bikers looked relaxed, the mob looking guys did not. They were nervous, eyes darting around. One of them had his hand tucked into his jacket, clearly ready to pull out something that would cause a body serious damage.