"Couldn't we just…" the sheriff began, but her voice tailed off. She knew, we all knew, what had to be done. That didn't mean we had to like it.
An unspoken command had us all raising our weapons at the same time, and the best I can say about it is that it was quick. Afterwards we couldn't get out of the shaft quickly enough and I think we were all feeling the same. I could hardly have felt any worse had it been a human mother and children we'd left down there and I knew I was going to see those eyes in my dreams long after the smell in my nose and throat dissipated.
"Okay, where’s this fucking wolf then?" I said. "I came here to kill monsters, not babies. It's time we went home. I need a beer."
-17-
It was a wee while before anyone else said anything. We stood in silence between the shaft mouth and the woods, smoking and thinking, all lost in their own thoughts.
"I'm open to suggestions," the cap finally said. "I'd like to think there's only the one big fucker left. We could do with a bit of luck. But how do we find it? It doesn't seem to be too bothered about finding us."
I was only half-listening to him. The stench of blood and shite and pish was still heavy in my throat and nose and it wasn't going away until I could get rid of the parka and have a good wash. But at the same time several things were running through my head; the sheriff's mention of 'the wrong kind of bait' for one, along with my earlier roller-coaster Skidoo ride and poor Jennings' final, brave attempt to do something right. And that's when my big mouth got me into trouble again.
"I might have an idea, Cap," I said.
I walked just behind him on our trek back down to the research station, outlining my plan. By the time we reached the cabins I had him convinced. The sheriff was going to take more time to bring around.
"I don't like it," she said. "It's too risky."
I laughed at that.
"In case you hadn't noticed, risky is kind of what we do."
She smiled thinly.
"And in case you hadn't noticed, this is Canada and you're not Canadian. If you're set on doing this, you'll have me along on shotgun."
And that's how, ten minutes later, I was sitting on the Skidoo in the forecourt of the main building with the sheriff tucked in behind me, both of us with rifles and the wee black box zap switches, both of us already beginning to regret signing up for it. The cap and the lads were busy bringing the trucks back round to reform the gauntlet. My grand idea was to recreate Jennings' last ride, but get it right this time, and bring the big wolf back with us, a lamb to the slaughter.
Of course, if there were more out there than just the big one, I was probably setting myself and the sheriff up as lunch, but I was trying not to think of that as I loosened the brake, turned the throttle and the Skidoo buzzed and rattled taking us across the forecourt and down the same deer trail I'd come up in a hurry the last time out.
This was as far as my plan had taken me; I had no more other than to drive around the deer trails in a widening circle and hope the big bastard got curious or hungry or both. The foul stench still rose from my clothing and if I could smell it, a wolf was certain to. Whether it would attract or repel remained to be seen.
I drove us down the trail as far as the hollow with the garage, hoping it would be that simple and the big beastie would be there, but we had no such luck. It was an easier ride than the last time though; we were going mainly downhill, and the sheriff, unlike Watkins, was able to follow my moves into and out of any curves to ensure the machine kept balance. I turned at the garage, ninety degrees to my left to take us up out of the bowl and uphill. The trail brought us up to the main track. I crossed that and kept going uphill, new territory for me now and a deer trail that was originally good and wide but narrowed alarmingly with every second we kept going up.
I was about to stop and try to reverse to better ground when the sheriff tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to my left.
Something big...huge...was pacing us through the trees; it looked to be on another deer trail parallel to ours, a narrower one that was causing it to force its way through the foliage, disturbing snow as it went and alerting us to its presence. I tried to take aim but the Skidoo bounced too much and I knew that if I stopped I would be losing any, however tiny, advantage we might have.
So I did the opposite; I pushed the throttle to its top setting and we shot up that trail slicker than shite. I was looking for a path or an offshoot of this trail that would take us round to the camp. I knew the wolf was between us and safety but I'd deal with that if I needed to; for now, my plan was to get ahead of it, make a turn left and hope that the bastard followed us back to the station.
The trail ahead wasn't narrowing any more, but it was getting lower, the branches now skimming the top of my parka hood. It looked like little more than a shoulder-width tube ahead of us.
"Get down," I shouted, hoped that the sheriff had heard, and bent to the handlebars like a speed rider as we entered an almost pitch-black tunnel. I had visions of us getting stuck in there while the Skidoo engine whined and the wolf turned up to find its dinner pre-packed but we burst out into broad daylight seconds later. I was so surprised I almost didn't notice we had come out on the rim of another basin-shaped hollow. The Skidoo lurched alarmingly as we went down into it, and almost toppled on straightening up at the bottom. I kept the throttle running high, hoping for enough momentum to get us across and up the other side. At the same moment the wolf made its entrance, launching itself over the rim even as we passed underneath it. If I'd had time and forethought I could have lifted a knife and gutted it from sternum to balls as it went over but right then I was just thankful to duck under it, head left and launch the Skidoo into open air over the rim of the bowl. Its bushy tail brushed my face then we were off and away.
"It's coming at us," the sheriff shouted.
Of course we still had the wee black boxes, but I didn't want to give it a scare now, not when my cunning plan was working. All I had to do was find my way back to the station and the waiting ambush. The lads would do the rest.
-18-
I figured we were heading along the hillside above and parallel to the road I needed to be on to get back to the station, but I couldn't find a trail heading downward that would get me to it.
"Go faster, it's gaining," the sheriff shouted in my ear.
Again I thought about the black box, and again decided against it, saving it for any last minute disasters. I didn't dare look back; the scenery was coming at me too fast to take my gaze off it. The sheriff's rifle went off but I don't think she hit anything for another shout came seconds later.
"Faster!"
It sounded serious. I already had the throttle at its maximum extent, so it was a moot point anyway. All I could do was keep going and hope for clear ground ahead.
We burst out of the tree line like a cork out of a bottle and I saw the research station laid out below me; we were high to the north of it, near the trail that we'd taken to the mineshaft earlier. I had to throw the Skidoo into a left-hand curve if I wanted to head down to the buildings where the trap waited. I tried to make it as large and long a curve as possible but even then we nearly didn't make it. The back end of the Skidoo lurched as something hit us from behind, the sheriff yelled out an obscenity I hadn't heard since my auld dad hit his thumb with a hammer, and we damn near toppled over, but after a roll to the right then a steadying roll back, the Skidoo caught on the snow again and we sped off. A quick glance to my right showed a huge gray wolf righting itself out of where it had tumbled into the snow. Its gaze never left mine as it stood and in one smooth movement launched itself after us again.
I said a silent prayer that the cap had everything ready, pointed the Skidoo downhill and pushed the throttle back up to its maximum level.
The sheriff shouted behind me.
"Come on then. Are you a wolf or just a big pussy?"
I didn't think she was talking to me.
The short trip down to the forecourt passed in a blur of fl
ying snow and adrenaline and as before when the action came it was fast, furious and almost over before I realised it was happening.
I saw the two trucks lined up either side of the station entrance to form the gauntlet. I couldn't see any sign of the lads but I knew that had to be there, trusting the cap to have got the job done. I started to slow down; if I hadn't I'd have hit the station doors and probably broken both out necks, but the slowing brought panic from behind me.
"Are you fucking mad, man?"
I didn't answer that, but brought the Skidoo round in a skid that sent a wall of snow flying, and threw myself off into a roll that had me lying down, weapon in front of me, aiming at the open end of the gauntlet.
The wolf was there, still coming forward. Its gaze wasn't on me now but on the sheriff; she hadn't managed to roll away so easily, and lay trapped below the Skidoo. She was trying to get at her rifle but it too was trapped by the machine's weight. Her mouth was still working though, and she screamed her frustration at the wolf.
"Come on then," she shouted. "I'm right here."
The wolf was still coming ahead, more cautious now, sniffing at the air as if it knew there was trouble even if it couldn't see it. I could have taken a shot right then, but I knew that if I only wounded it, it would be off and away into the forest again and would probably be less likely to fall for the same trap twice. I bided my time.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Wilko and Davies creep round to stand behind the beast to block its escape.
The sheriff had her wee black box in hand. Her gaze met mine, and I knew what was needed. I fetched out my wee box and we both pressed at the same time. The wolf barely slowed but it did stiffen, and the hairs of its mane seemed to stand on end. At the same moment the cap leaned out of the window of the right-side truck and shouted.
"Fire!"
The noise of all four of us firing simultaneously almost deafened me. Somebody had got lucky; the wolf staggered, almost fell under the impact of two rounds in its chest, a spray of blood showing shockingly red against the snow. It refused to go down but it turned tail and attempted to flee. I couldn't take another shot; the chance of hitting one or other of the lads was too much of a risk. I saw the cap push the red button on his box. The wolf stiffened and gave him time to put two rounds in the wolf's flank but it was still gaining momentum when it reached Wilko and Davies.
The lads didn't flinch. They didn't have any time to go for their own boxes. They stood their ground and each put three shots right in the center of the beast's broad chest. It stumbled, its front legs went from under it and it fell to the snow at their feet.
Davies stepped forward and calm as you like he put a round between its eyes and it finally went still. He looked over at me and grinned.
"Not bad for a darkie and a wee poof, eh, Sarge?"
I rose and was about to head over to have a look at the body when the sheriff shouted at my back in an exaggerated American accent.
"I know you gentlemen have been through a lot, but when you find the time, I'd rather not spend the rest of this winter trapped under this fucking Skidoo."
-19-
We sanitised everything before we left. Siphoning off the gas from one of the trucks gave us more than enough fuel for the job. The cap did the business with the Alma in the mineshaft; he wouldn't let any of the rest of us do it. We burned the big wolf in the hallway of the research station and helped the fire spread to the rest of the center and the outbuildings.
It was getting on for night-time again by the time we drove the remaining truck back into town. The cap called in the all-clear and the sheriff treated us to beer and pizza in the local bar while we waited for the choppers to bring back her people and take us away.
"And what do I do if we didn't get them all?" she said as we all lit up smokes and relaxed for the first time since our arrival.
"There's money in Bigfoot stories isn't there?" the cap said. "Spread the word on the internet and you'll be up to your arse in tourists, conspiracy theorists, cryptozoologists and nutjobs in no time. It'd put the town on the map again though?"
"Alternatively, you could just give me a call," I said.
"I could just give you a call anyway," she replied, and gave me a long warm kiss that still had me smiling hours later as the chopper took us up and away on the first leg of the long trip home.
The End
Read on for a free sample of Cryptid
Chapter One
53° 19.44' North Latitude 131° 57.31' West Longitude
Graham Island, British Columbia
July 1996
McKinney wasn’t sure how long the two of them had been fighting their way through the island’s dense forest wilderness – but it seemed like an eternity. A sharp salty burn around his face told him that there must surely be several deep scratches across the delicate skin of his cheeks and forehead; wounds and contusions caused by the thickly entwined branches they had been forced to fight their way through as they had fled in abject terror.
The man was close to exhaustion. He weaved unsteadily forward, forcing himself onwards, desperately grasping any protruding branch or foliage that was available to aid him - dragging himself up yet another interminable rise on the undulating forest floor - spurred on by a glimpsed promise of a small, rare area of clearing in the trees – a space he had spotted scant minutes earlier when they were higher up a previous slope. He reached it, finally staggered to a stop and held up trembling hands before him - he wanted to know what condition they were in. What McKinney saw made for a grim picture; they were lacerated, raw; fingers and palms had been flayed and were bleeding – the wounds on his hands mute evidence of the herculean effort to tear a path through dense copses and tangled undergrowth on a rough roller coaster terrain. Yet, strangely, despite their appearance, they barely hurt him at all.
His lungs, however, were quite another matter. A pair of shredded, fluttering balloons barely contained within the fiery cavern that was his chest. The clean, fresh smelling shirt he had put on seemingly a lifetime ago, now adhered stickily to his flesh – a stained mangy hide that he had begun to shed – comprised of filthy, ripped wet cotton infused with the pungent stink of acrid sweat and fear.
McKinney desperately needed to rest even if it was for just a few moments. He dazedly looked around at his surroundings, trying to control his ragged breathing and triphammer heart – wait! They were finally in luck! McKinney noted the tree line that bordered the small clearing in front of him. It looked manmade – a firebreak maybe? It didn’t matter – all that did matter was it revealed what looked to be a clear path leading down from the tangle. They had miraculously, or so it seemed to him at this moment - stumbled upon - or had been guided to - what must be a well-defined loggers' trail.
His body was trembling with sheer fatigue and adrenal overload, especially the muscles in his calves and thighs. Putting out a hand, he supported himself against the nearest cedar. The bark felt rough to the touch, unyielding; yet somehow it comforted him with its ageless, solid strength. His trembling form oozed copious amounts of sweat from every pore he had, giving any exposed area of the skin an oily, unpleasant sheen. The clouds of midges and other buzzing insects - tiny, hateful denizens of the forest, closed in on him instantly now he was no longer moving, sensing a tasty salt feast.
McKinney was too fatigued to even attempt to bat the miniature whining harpies away. He just let them be. They happily fed off him.
The young girl, Bobbie, who had been several yards behind him in the tree-festooned, nightmarish tangle finally caught up to him. Noisily she staggered up to join him, coming to a swaying stop beside McKinney, and tremulously leaned her tall willowy form against his sodden back; the sounds of her breath were tortured gasps.
He was so exhausted that even this simple act of elicited comfort from the girl was almost enough to push him down to the forest floor. With grunting effort, he straightened, forcing himself away from the cedar tree’s welcome respite - in doing so he unceremo
niously shoved his female companion back and away from him. With some slight vestige of chivalry, McKinney did manage to turn around in time to support Bobbie’s sagging form so she didn’t end up falling onto the moist mulch. Going down now would have meant certain death for the young woman. In his present condition, McKinney wouldn’t have been physically able to lift the girl onto her feet. Their pursuers, he reasoned, couldn’t be far behind. He glanced back and up into the forbidding timberland in the direction they came from. They had to keep moving, McKinney instinctively understood. It was their only real hope of survival.
There had been a total of fourteen people on the university field trip – thirteen men and one woman who had tried to make a stand against the horrors that had relentlessly pursued them. The others were gone now – their efforts to fight back a futility – they had been horribly killed. McKinney and the girl had only survived the massacre because he had grabbed Bobbie’s hand and they had fled for their lives.
McKinney believed in God. He did. With every fiber of his being and soul. In the Holy Father and his infinite mercy. So why had He let these appalling things happen to them? Why?
He attempted to close his mind off to block the memory of the terrible ways in which he saw and heard his fellow students and their professors die. But he couldn’t quite manage it - the grotesque images and sounds he had witnessed would not leave him. They echoed in his mind…ripples on a bottomless blood-red pool of abomination – unspeakable things that no one should ever have to see or hear. It made him glad though in a bizarre kind of way. It was that abhorrence and his utter dread that kept McKinney running on despite his utter exhaustion – desperate to try to escape – so that the others’ gruesome fate wouldn’t become his or Bobbie’s.
Operation: Yukon Page 9
