Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  Mackenzie and Megan faced each other, one with a knife in the throat, the other in the stomach. Staring at Megan with evil determination, Mackenzie reached up and curled her fingers around the handle poking out from under her chin. She slowly pulled. The knife made juicy crinkling sounds as a tent of skin rose around the blade when it slid out. The blade came loose, and blood squirted.

  Mackenzie made slurping sounds as she tried to speak. Through the groans and wet gurgles, Becky could make out what she was saying: Bitch.

  Then she stumbled and dropped. Her back hit the coffee table and crushed it. She fell to the floor, the thin wood exploding under her. With her arms splayed wide and legs parted, she looked like somebody ready for a nap that had simply collapsed onto the bed.

  As if waiting on the crazed woman to drop first, Megan suddenly pitched back. Holding out his arms, Gunner caught her before she pounded the floor.

  Becky looked around. Blood and madness surrounded her.

  Trish started to crawl forward, using one arm as a brace and the other bent and pressed to her stomach. Natalie met her halfway, hugging her. She heard the little girl ask if she was okay.

  “Fine,” said Trish. “Looks worse than it is…”

  “You’re bleeding,” said Natalie through her sobs. The little girl bawled the hardest yet, nearly screaming as Trish pulled her close.

  Hell of a kid, Becky told herself. To go through so much and not break down until it was over. Trish’s eyes rose above Natalie’s head, a mournful expression on her face. Becky offered something that she hoped was a smile. Trish couldn’t return the gesture. She lowered her face onto Natalie’s head and they cried together.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” said Gunner. “Megan! Stay awake!”

  Becky turned. Gunner, on his knees, held Megan in his arms. Her back swathed the bends in his elbows, her arm draping the floor. Long hair spread across the floor in a puddle of bright tangles. Wincing, Gunner looked Megan over, saw the knife, contorted his face, and looked at the ceiling. Becky could tell he didn’t know what to do, whether he should pull the knife out or leave it in. Whether he should lay her flat on the floor or keep holding her.

  Gazing above him, Gunner started to cry.

  Megan’s hand slowly rose in front of his chest, moving past his neck. Her fingers shook as she stroked his chin. Gunner gasped and looked down at her.

  “I’m not sleeping,” said Megan. “Kind of hard to when a knife’s lodged in your stomach.”

  Laughter broke through Gunner’s sobs. He shook his head, tried to speak and only laughed again.

  Relief sapped Becky’s strength. She dropped onto her rump. The floor was hard and uncomfortable underneath her, but she didn’t care. Pulling her legs to her breasts, she hugged her shins, resting her chin on her knees. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, flapping her lips.

  Thank God.

  Though none of them were unscathed, they were alive. She felt something like honor for all of them, especially Natalie, who’d turned into a warrior to protect her family. The bond the Thompsons had formed over the years was unbreakable and Becky smiled knowing true unconditional love was what had kept them together.

  Kept them alive.

  But her newfound elation was short-lived.

  Paul was still out there. And so far as she knew, so was the Bigfoot.

  43

  Paul hated heights. Hated hiking in the mountains. And even more, hated being inside tall buildings and driving over bridges. But trying to maneuver along this skinny rafter was worse than all of those others combined. He felt the floor sag under his feet, felt it tremble as it strained to support his and Striker’s combined weight. He hated peering over the edges of the noodle-thin railing, but Striker had told him to check all over. Each time he gave a quick glance over the side, his legs wobbled. His knees felt like sand that couldn’t keep his legs straight. His vision turned wavy, ears buzzed.

  Coming up here to look for a monster and I’m worried about how high up I am.

  Paul shook his head, regretting the vertigo it caused. His hand slapped the railing. Fingers gripped. And he felt it waggle in his hold. Not secure at all. If he were to put any of his weight against it, the bar would break without much effort.

  So don’t lean against it, dumbass.

  Paul took a deep breath that felt cold when it entered his lungs.

  Striker stopped in front of him, leaned over the railing, and aimed the rifle down. He looked like a sniper, ready to fire the killing shot.

  Paul stepped beside him, took another deep breath, and turned. Looking down, he saw they were just now above the volcano. It felt as if they’d been shuffling along the shuddering platform for hours.

  Thick tube-like casing of the stage lights stuck out a few inches beyond the footbridge. In the quick glimpse he managed to get of the volcano, he saw tattered streamers reaching up and flailing in the gust of wind caused by the fan. He supposed at one time it was meant to replicate fire or erupting lava. Now the flimsy bands were too old and torn up to do much other than make rattling sounds. The hole for the volcano was wide and round, like an oil drum. It looked fairly deep. Dark until the swirling winks of the fan blowing air upward to operate the plastic flames.

  He was about to turn away so he couldn’t see how far down it was but movement arrested his attention. Straining his eyes, he stared down.

  A hand reached up from the other side of the volcano’s mouth.

  Paul’s skin went tight.

  Elongated fingers curled over the rim. The haggard nails were nearly black.

  A matching hand slapped down beside it.

  “Oh, shit,” said Paul.

  Striker looked at him. “What?”

  Paul slowly lifted his chin toward the volcano. Striker turned. He felt the big guy’s body tense as the beast pulled its gargantuan body up, hoisting with its arms as if climbing out of a swimming pool. Its huge feet landed on the rim, making the rubber slump and expand, molding around its soles. The beast didn’t straighten up, remained in a squat, gazing up at them through its beady yellow eyes. Its bulging forehead broke in the middle, forming two downward slants that flashed with rage.

  It roared.

  We’re out in the open with nowhere to run.

  Paul gulped. He understood they’d been led into another trap right before the beast sprung. Its body launched, soaring high, arms reaching up. Striker loosed cusswords as he started firing. Paul watched the bullets zip past the beast, watched one dig a runnel across its collar bone. The beast roared again, this time with some pain. Though the bullet left no real damage, it did make the Bigfoot slightly turn midair.

  Now it was off course.

  Instead of landing on the platform like it had probably intended, it was a few inches short. Paul watched its face change from seething rage to regret. Its roar lowered to a confused moan before it fell out of sight.

  Paul felt a moment of triumph before the floor rocked under his feet, throwing him against the railing on the other side. Just as he’d expected, the bar snapped like a twig and he kept going. He released the rifle and reached out for the dangling metal bars.

  And missed.

  His hands closed on nothing but air. He dropped.

  In his tilting point of view, he saw Striker lurch at him. Felt fingers brush the front of his shirt, latch on. Buttons popped and flew.

  He saw the deepening blue of the sky washed in a yellow-orange glaze, showing it was nearing evening. Saw his foot appear in his line of sight as he performed a backwards flip.

  Then he was falling, head down, the speed of his plunge increasing. A wall of dingy fur filled his vision. He glimpsed a beefy hand make a grab.

  His leg was yanked, jerking his plummet to a jarring halt. The contents of his pockets rained down. Chewing gum sprinkled past his arms. His wallet smacked his chest, tumbled down his neck, and dropped into the volcano. He heard it get minced in the fan. Its flakey remains sprayed out.

  His shirt hun
g around him like useless wings while his arms pawed the air. Looking up, he saw his body extending high. One leg kicked out. The other was straight and stiff, caught at the ankle by the Bigfoot that hung by its other arm from the light rack as if it were a large branch.

  “Shit!” screamed Paul. “Striker!”

  “Paul!”

  The big man’s head appeared above the railing. He looked down and, for the first time, Paul saw something that could’ve been fear on the man’s scarred face.

  “Get me up!” cried Paul.

  “I…” Striker shook his head, looked around.

  “Hurry! It’s not going to hold us much long—”

  The tinny rafter’s high-pitched wail cut Paul off. It dropped like a drawbridge below Striker. The tracker flew back. Paul saw his arms flapping as they vanished above the rafters.

  Sparks exploded and sprinkled down like twinkling snow. The light rack broke, bursting into a loud pop of blue sparks and fire. The platform continued to swing back.

  Paul felt his foot come free. He began to plummet again.

  The section of platform crashed against the volcano’s rim and stopped. The sharp tips of metal stabbed into the cushiony rubber, transforming the falling bridge into a ramp. Paul’s back hit the metal and he began to slide down.

  Twisting, he looked above him. The volcano’s hole was only inches from the top of his head. If he went over the edge, he’d go headfirst into a spinning fan.

  NO!

  Paul slapped the platform’s slick surface. His fingernails scraped metal as he struggled to find purchase. Realizing this wasn’t working, he looked up. His eyes landed on his boots. He spread his legs, digging his toes into the inch-high section of wall on the skinny bridge. It didn’t stop him, but he felt his speed decrease immensely. Slapping his hands flat on either side of him, he came to a lethargic halt at the end of the platform. His head drooped over the edge. Hot air buffeted his face, threw his hair wildly.

  Huffing, Paul swallowed the lump of fear that had formed in his throat. “Shit…shit…” He took a deep breath, unable to comprehend how close to a horrible death he’d come.

  A roar from above pulled him away from the shock he felt trying to numb him. Paul forced his hands to move from the platform and grip the raised rim that had saved his life. Holding onto the edges, keeping his toes dug into the sides, he performed a painful sit-up. Then he swung his legs around, felt them dangle over the edge briefly, felt his pants flap against his ankles, felt the hot air blowing his legs.

  His boots slapped the metal behind him.

  Now he was on his hands and knees, facing forward. His body trembled as he checked the durability of the slanted rafter. It seemed as if it would hold him, the volcano acting as a brace that supported its bulk.

  Paul heard another growl. He looked up. Crawling, the Bigfoot was much closer to the top. It reached for the platform that was still intact where the section dipped down. A few more steps would lead it to higher, albeit unstable, ground.

  Smoke billowed from down below, most likely from where the lights had landed. It filled the platform with thick swirling walls. A dark shape appeared between the railings like a gatekeeper preventing access.

  Striker.

  He recognized the big man’s mass right away. He also recognized the gigantic rifle that was leveled at the beast’s chest.

  “Down to us, huh?” Striker asked.

  Paul thought he’d been talking to him, but he quickly understood the question had been directed to the Bigfoot.

  The Bigfoot loosed something that was part growl and groan. It dropped down to one knee, as if surrendering.

  “Look at me,” said Striker. “I want to see your face.”

  Paul watched the beast’s head tilt back. It understood Striker, comprehended the order and followed it. Were all Bigfoots like this one?

  “See this face before you die,” said Striker. “You killed my Papa and now I’m going to kill you.”

  Striker lowered his head to the rifle. The beast looked away.

  Paul waited for the blast.

  Click!

  Paul jerked as if a grenade had detonated. Another click resounded, then another.

  “Shit,” muttered Striker.

  Paul felt his mouth go slack. The big guy was out of bullets.

  Quickly, Striker swung the gun behind him as if it was baseball bat. He brought it down, but the beast was already rising and easily caught it before it connected. Jerking the gun from Striker’s hands, it snapped the weapon in half as effortlessly as a pencil. Then it tossed the halves over the edge.

  Striker screamed as he pounded the beast with his fists.

  Not again!

  Paul jerked his Ruger from the holster and trained the sight on the hostile shadows above. The Bigfoot would be an easy target if it was standing still. But it was busy fighting with Striker. If the beast moved, his bullet would tear through the tracker. Like in the cave, he was in a bad situation. Just the slightest error would kill the wrong person.

  Paul put the gun away. He wasn’t going to hesitate this time. He started climbing. His brother had tried to square off with the monster and had been killed. He didn’t want it to happen again.

  Going up, Paul didn’t take his eyes away from the fight.

  The beast grabbed Striker’s vest and jerked him off his feet. Holding him up, the beast roared at the man dangling from his burly hand. Striker pounded the Bigfoot’s arms, the top of its head, to no avail. What saved his life this time was the vest’s ripping up the middle. Striker’s arms slipped through the holes and he fell.

  This seemed to annoy the beast even more. It roared at the sky and tossed the vest over its shoulder. The heavy garment smacked Paul’s chest hard enough to knock him back. He trundled down the incline but was able to stop himself easier this time. Rolling over, he got to one knee and lifted the vest.

  Grenades adorned the lapels, the trembling pins making clinking sounds.

  He looked up.

  Striker ducked a lashing arm, only to meet another that clamped around his throat. His scream was killed, replaced by a choking sound as he was hoisted high. His legs hung before the beast, kicking at its face and missing. The beast shook him from side to side, like a farmer trying to ring a chicken’s neck. Striker’s legs flew high on one side, shot back down and out the other way.

  Screaming, Paul got to his feet. No longer trying to climb, he ran. As if trying to mount a difficult hill, he leaned forward as he ascended. The platform trembled underneath him with each heavy step.

  Holding Striker out before him, the beast looked over its shoulder. It spotted Paul and its eyes widened when Paul jerked a grenade from the vest. The pin remained clipped to the garment.

  Grenade armed, Paul threw the vest away and jumped. He crashed into the beast’s back. It released Striker. Paul curved an arm around its thick hairy throat, holding on as he squirmed up the dingy wall of nappy hair. The Bigfoot reached over its shoulders, swatting and slapping. Paul felt stings on his face and back as he wiggled higher. His shirt was gripped, but he yanked his arm and tore the sleeve.

  Paul’s stomach flattened against the thick knob of the beast’s shoulder. He curled around the back of its neck like a human scarf, bringing his face close to the Bigfoot’s. Their eyes met. Feral rage boiled behind the yellow slits.

  Paul winked.

  Seeing this filled the beast with fury. Paul felt its undulating muscle through his clothes. It opened its mouth to roar.

  And Paul shut it up by shoving the grenade into its mouth.

  His arm vanished up to the elbow between its rock-like teeth. The beast shook and twisted, like a wet dog trying to dry itself. Paul watched the front of its neck bulge around the grenade lodging in its throat.

  Paul jerked his arm back. It was soaked in saliva. He slithered around the beast’s neck and tumbled over its front, landing in a squat. His face was level with the tuft of hair that covered its genitals. Tugging out his Ruger, he shoved
the barrel into the wild nest of hair, and pulled the trigger.

  Red surged through the matted hair as the bullet ripped through its groin. Muffled, the beast’s agonized screams rose above the hisses of the electrical fire below and the constant drone of the fan. Keeping one hand on its throat, the beast reached down to its ruined groin with the other. Its fingers came back stringed with thick blood.

  It stepped back, feet tangling together.

  And fell.

  Paul leaned over the edge, watching it roll like a giant hairy boulder down the ramp. Its feet went over the edge first, sliding into the gaping hole of the volcano. Juicy crunches overpowered the beast’s cries as blood showered out.

  Paul threw his fist into the air and loosed a celebratory cry.

  The fan spun and chewed, eating the beast up to its hips. Then it seemed to act as if it was clogged by the beast’s meat and locked up.

  The fan whined, the motor rumbled.

  Pawing at its throat, the beast’s eyes were wide and yellow. Paul saw worry through the scabs and hair, pinching its ugly face with deep creases.

  Something cracked. And with a screech of metal, the beast was yanked down, vanishing inside a chunky red fountain.

  The grenade detonated.

  Then the volcano erupted. An explosion of blood, gore, and sinewy chunks launched from the volcano’s spherical maw, ejaculating the mess high in a geyser of destruction.

  Paul leaned back, holding out his arms and laughed as he was drenched in the Bigfoot’s sloppy remains. Chunks splattered around him with sounds like a beef being pounded by a giant hammer. Paul didn’t care. To him, he’d been trapped in a prolonged drought, and the beast’s blood and innards were the rain to quench his thirst.

  A gap of time passed before the last bits of the Bigfoot came down. Still laughing, Paul lowered his head. Blood streamed down his face, sliding under his shirt. He felt more seeping between his buttocks, tickling his anus. Somehow, the spongy mess had even gotten into his shoes. Using two fingers pinched together, he dug mush out of his eyes. He blinked until he could see again.

  Then he remembered Striker, and his laughter died.