Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  “I don't think we're in any hurry,” said Howie, looking at Trish.

  “Nope. You're the one who has to get up in the morning, not me.”

  “Not working at the hospital tomorrow?”

  “Nope. They cut some of our hours back since things have slowed down around here.”

  “Slowed down…?”

  “Wow. That sounded bad, didn't it?” Trish shook her head, laughing. “Did I sound like I want things to be chaotic?”

  Howie sat up. “No, not at all, you tragedy-addicted madwoman.”

  Trish playfully swatted his arm. “I don't want to hear that!”

  “I take it since all the vacationers are leaving, the ER business isn't booming?” Paul said.

  “Exactly,” she said, shaking her head. “We don't have any more people accidentally shooting themselves in the leg, or shooting each other.”

  “What?” Paul gaped at her, confused.

  Trish's mouth slowly dropped as if she was starting to catch on to a joke. Looking at Howie, she pointed at Paul. “You didn't tell him about it, did you?”

  Leaned back on the couch, Howie shrugged. “It never came up.”

  “What never came up?” asked Paul.

  There was a beep followed by a blast of popping static. “Sheriff Thompson, this is Junior, come in, over.”

  “Shit,” said Howie, sitting up with a groan. “Should've cut the damn thing off.”

  “He'd just call you on your cell,” said Trish.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Howie reached for his belt. Attached to the side was a radio. How Paul hadn't noticed it jutting from Howie's hip before, he had no idea. Unclipping the radio, Howie raised it to his mouth, and squeezed the button on the side. “Yeah, Junior, what's up?”

  “Got a break-in at Walt's Drugstore.”

  “And? Radio Schneider and tell him to get his ass over there.”

  “He's patrolling the beaches, it's his night.”

  “What about Lillard?”

  “He's investigating a domestic disturbance. Plus, ol’ Walt is at the drugstore himself, and is demanding you to come out there. I can go, if you can either send someone to watch my post, or maybe I can call in somebody.”

  “No, Junior, don't bother. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Great, Sheriff. I really appreciate it. I'll let Walt know.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Groaning, he returned the radio to the clip on his belt. “Well, there goes our night.”

  “It's all right,” said Trish. “There'll be other nights.”

  Howie nodded, though his frustration still showed. “So, looks like we get to have a date night. Nice romantic evening listening to crotchety Walt.”

  “I don't want to go. Can't you drop me off on the way?”

  “Trish, that'll tack on another eight minutes. I won't get to the drugstore for twenty minutes then.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Why doesn't she just stay here?” The question had left Paul's mouth before he'd realized it was going to. When both heads turned in his direction, he quickly added, “I'll go with Howie and she can stay here and keep an eye on things. That way, I’ll get a quick training session and you can pick her up when you drop me off.”

  Howie’s eyebrows curled upward. “Wanting to go check out a B and E on your first night in town?”

  Paul made a face. “Sounds like a blast.”

  “I'll stay and watch the kids,” said Trish. “I don't mind.”

  “That's fine,” said Howie. “It's better than going on this run. I'd babysit instead, too.”

  Trish laughed, then hugged him. She kissed him, quick and sweet. “Hurry back.”

  “As fast as I can,” he said, standing.

  Paul also stood, already wishing he hadn't suggested going along. He could have stayed here with Trish, most likely, but he was too worried about Howie thinking he had hidden motives in mind. He wanted to stop stressing himself about it, but for whatever reason, he couldn't stop.

  “Thanks for going with him,” said Trish.

  “No problem. Just don't have any boys over while I'm not in the house.”

  Trish mocked a gasp, putting her fingers to her mouth. “How could you accuse me of such things?”

  “It's that Howie Thompson you run around with, he's a bad influence.” Paul shook his finger at her.

  Laughing, Howie started for the door. “It didn't stop her back then and it doesn't stop her now.”

  Trish laughed. “I know. What's wrong with me?”

  “You love the excitement that being married to a small town sheriff brings you.”

  “She must be thrilled easily,” said Paul.

  “Whoa, below the belt,” said Howie, laughing. “Ouch.”

  “Don't forget about the break-in,” said Trish.

  “Right,” said Paul. “The men must go out and protect the village.”

  Howie shook his head. “Maybe he should stay here with the other kids.”

  Paul waited at the door while Howie hugged Trish and snuck another kiss. Again, Paul smiled watching them. They were still in love, after so many years together. He wondered what their secret was. He might ask Howie about it sometime.

  The air outside was crisp, slightly cool with a mild breeze. If it was this cool in August, Paul was curious what the nights in September might be like.

  Howie's cruiser was parked halfway down the driveway. Paul got into the passenger side as Howie climbed behind the wheel. A locked pump-action shotgun separated their seats. The wood stock was clicked into place in the floor and the barrel had been fit into a groove in the ceiling. A small laptop was on a tray, attached to an arm that led to the dashboard.

  His eyes returned to the shotgun. It was larger than any he'd used himself. Seemed a little intense for such a small beach community.

  “Is this a required accessory for us Seashell Cove bluecoats?”

  “Became mandatory in the spring.”

  “Why?”

  “Safety precaution.”

  “Precaution from what?” Paul remembered what Trish had said earlier, and how she hadn't gotten to finish telling him about it. “Does this have to do with what Trish was talking about?”

  “It does.” Howie cranked the car, pulling the lever behind the wheel down to R.

  “Planning on telling me about it?”

  “I'm surprised you haven't already heard.”

  “I guess I am, too, if it's such common knowledge.”

  “Well, baby brother. Seashell Cove has become quite the popular place to visit.”

  “I take it this isn't a good thing?”

  Howie backed down the driveway, using the side mirror to see. “Helps the economy.”

  “But it causes you to keep a riot gun wedged between the seats?”

  The car rocked as the tires bounced over the shallow gully between the driveway and gravel road.

  “It's not the tourism,” Howie said.

  “So, then it's…?”

  “The Bigfoot.”

  Paul recalled the giant fake head on the hood of his 4Runner. He’d laughed at the old man’s explanation.

  Bigfoot Beach.

  Howie stepped down on the gas. As the car shot forward, the siren wailed, red light pirouetting outside the windows. Paul stared at his brother, waiting on him to laugh, or to show some kind of suggestion that what he'd just told him was a joke.

  Howie remained silent.

  4

  Nights like this made Deputy Perry Butler despise his job. As a kid, all he’d ever wanted was to be a cop. Watching cool shows like Miami Vice had given him the impression that not only did being a cop help people—it was cool. Now at thirty-eight, plodding along the beach with concrete feet strapped to the bottoms of his shoes, he understood just how damn naïve the kid version of himself was. If he could go back in time and confront the adolescent sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV while Sunny Crocket snuck into a drug dealer's house, holding the gun in tha
t awesome pose of his. “Find a different dream!” he'd scream, grabbing the slightly drooling kid by the shoulders and shaking him.

  As much as he hated his work, there wasn't much else he was qualified for. Not in Seashell Cove, anyway. He could always move in with his parents and take some online courses for some certifications if he really wanted to try something different.

  No thanks.

  Just thinking about being back under the same roof as his mother again was enough to keep him here on the beach, lugging these muscle-straining blocks under his feet.

  It wasn't so bad, really. He only had to do it two nights a week, sometimes only one. It was Mayor Caine's idea. Leaving some footprints at night for the tourists to find in the morning kept them coming, which in return kept revenues up for the local business. Also, it ensured nice bonuses flowed into the police department. And together, it all made sure Barefoot Beach and its mollycoddling town, Seashell Cove, didn’t wither away like so many small beach towns had in the last few years.

  Get out there and leave those Sasquant prints…

  Rarely would the mayor call the cryptid by its appropriate name.

  Don't leave them everywhere, though, he’d continued. Walk for a little bit, making a nice spread as if the stupid thing doesn't know where it's going. Then take them off and carry them to another location and leave some more there. It'll screw with the people, make them wonder how it can go from here to there. It might even make them think there’s more than one!

  Lack of monster education aside, Perry thought the mayor’s ideas were pretty good. Even Sheriff Thompson agreed, though he didn't approve of the methods that pulled it all together.

  It's for the town's survival.

  Since the murder of Ethan Wilson and the disappearance of Mackenzie Dalton, rumors of a Bigfoot in Seashell Cove had run rampant. It was the footprint that started it. And the countless sightings and animal mutilations since have kept the legend alive. Whenever things quieted down, Mayor Caine sent them out to leave the tracks.

  Nothing like an Abominable Foot to pull in some tourism, he'd say.

  And tomorrow Perry's lower back would feel like it had been stretched on a rack. That was all right, though, he was off duty, so he could just lie on the couch all day. At least Sheriff Thompson never had them doing these stunts when they had to work the next day. He might really quit if that was the deal.

  Probably not.

  Perry strained to raise his foot, letting the weight of the concrete shoe pull it back down. It hit the sand with a crunchy thump. As he was about to bring the other foot around, he noticed a pair of prints in front of him matching the ones he'd already made.

  He froze. Standing with one foot out and one behind him, he studied the prints. Frowning, he removed his flashlight. He clicked it on. A narrow pipe of light parted the darkness, and threw a disc of light down on the mysterious prints.

  He saw two more a few inches in front of his shoe. He followed their path with the light. The tracks continued forward.

  Did I already do this section?

  Looking behind him, he tried to retrace his steps in his mind. He'd started down there by the fence. Shining the light, its reach couldn't touch the tilting pickets, or the netting that ran alongside it. He'd come a long way, he knew, but couldn't pinpoint the areas he'd already covered. There was a point where he'd circled back to make it look as if the creature might go into the ocean. That was farther back, wasn't it?

  He had no idea.

  Damn. I should really start marking my path.

  This had to be his prints.

  What if it isn't?

  A prickle of fear tightened his bowels. He suddenly felt as if he might have to visit the toilet.

  It's my prints. There's no other explanation for it.

  He put the light back on the trail. Though he knew he must’ve been the one to make them, he wanted to see where they went. Maybe one of the other officers assigned to the beach patrols had done them.

  Wouldn't someone have found them by now?

  Maybe, maybe not.

  Perry started moving, struggling with the damn concrete platforms. He should take them off, but he wanted to leave another trail heading off. Plus, two sets like this would really throw people for a loop. Maybe people would start thinking there was a Bigfoot herd!

  He continued to slog his way along the ocean, listening to the soft crashes of the waves when they met the shore. At least the ambiance was nice. Made the job somewhat easier, listening to such a relaxing soundtrack provided by the ocean.

  A few minutes later Perry was cussing the ambiance. Focusing on the waves helped keep his mind off the work, but it also made him have to pee. He'd hold it a little while longer, until he could take off the concrete feet. His knees felt so tight, he feared the ligaments were bowing like a slingshot and might propel his kneecaps through his skin.

  Enough was enough. He stopped walking. He stood there, hands on his hips, head leaned back and panting as if he'd sprinted for miles. Looking behind him, he guessed he'd barely made any headway from where he'd first noticed the peculiar tracks.

  Taking his flashlight, he aimed it ahead. The prints continued a little ways, suddenly veering off to the right. The jittery splash of the light ignited large depressions in the sand curving back, heading in the direction Perry had been coming from. Looked as if they’d given up on this direction and turned back.

  The light continued to follow the foreign patterns, and Perry turned to keep his eyes on them. As he threw his leg around so he could turn completely around, the light landed on a solid furry mass.

  “Oh-shit!”

  Perry pointed the light up as he pulled back.

  The disc climbed a large body, brownish dingy hair, bald in spots because of puss-oozing scabs. It lighted a face, causing it to flinch, throwing an arm over its eyes. In the brief moment Perry saw the eyes, he noted their tiny size and yellow-brown color. The skin around them was bare and bulging. It had a flat nose, puffy lips swelling through a heavy beard and moustache. It looked almost like an ape, but more evolved, and much bigger.

  “You're…real…”

  Before Perry had noticed it had raised an arm, he felt its hand smack against his. The flashlight flew from his grasp, throwing his hand back with a snap like breaking celery. The pain was tremendous, exploding through his arm. When he raised his arm to caress his wrist, he felt jagged pricks of bone through the skin. Blood dribbled on down his fingers.

  Perry screamed.

  The Bigfoot roared back, drowning out Perry's cries. The force of its rancid breath blew the hat off his head, ruffled his hair. His cheeks flapped. The fetid odor singed his eyes, and filled them with water.

  A beefy hand punched into his mouth. He felt the enormous girth snaking down his throat, bulging his neck as if he was swallowing a tree trunk. The wiggling fingers gripped his esophagus and tore shreds away as it dug deeper. He felt it shove its way into his stomach, the massive hand curling into a fist as it crushed his stomach into a juicy wad. He could hear the moist crunches, could see the skin of his abdomen rippling like boiling water.

  The arm wrenched back.

  Perry was hoisted into the air with a double pop of splattering crunches. The arm, wedged through his gullet and holding his innards, carried Perry away. In his shaky vision, he spotted the denticulate tips of his legs from the knees down still planted in the sand.

  The concrete shoes kept them up.

  5

  “See the window?” asked Walt, pointing at the giant hole in the big display window.

  “I see it,” said Howie.

  “I think that's where they got in.”

  “I agree,” said Howie.

  Paul was impressed by his brother's unruffled response. If it had been Paul, his response probably would’ve been mordant. Where else could the perpetrator have entered?

  They'd arrived at Walt's Drugstore a couple minutes ago, and Walt had been waiting for them on the sidewalk in front of the stor
e with his arms crossed. Wearing plaid golf pants and a pink polo shirt, he looked to be approaching ninety, but still had a head full of coal-black hair, resolutely held in place with oil. One eye was squinted, the iris rolling loosely behind the lids, suggesting it was actually made of glass.

  When they'd stepped onto the sidewalk, Howie gave quick introductions. Paul offered his hand, only being met with a quick thrust of Walt's chin. Then he'd shown them the window.

  Howie peered through the busted glass. “I see a trash can on the floor in there.” He looked to his right, up the sidewalk. Nodded. “Yep. Looks like they took the trash can from right there and threw it through the glass.”

  Walt joined Howie, his hands not lowering from his hips. “How the hell did it wind up all the way over there?”

  “Maybe it rolled.”

  “Chief, come on. That far?”

  “What are you suggesting? They threw it so hard that it not only broke the glass but landed that far inside the store?”

  Now Paul was intrigued. Walking to the window, he stood next to his brother and looked in. It took him a moment to locate the trash can. When he spotted it, he was surprised at the distance it had traveled. On its side, it lay easily halfway through the store at the end of a path of debris.

  “So why didn't an alarm sound?” asked Howie.

  “Don't have one.”

  “You know it's county law that all businesses have alarms.”

  “Guess I missed that meeting.”

  “Then how'd you know there was a break-in?”

  “I saw the window when I was driving past. Went to Glory Doughnuts.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You can check the backseat of my car if you don't believe me, Chief. Got plenty more if you want any.”

  Paul hoped Howie checked. Doughnuts sounded great right now.

  “Maybe later.” Howie walked over to the door, gripped the handle, and gave it a tug. The door rattled in the frame but stayed closed. “Well, they didn't bust the lock. Why don't you let us in, Walt, so we can look around?”