The Beasts Of Stoneclad Mountain

by Gerry Griffiths

  THE BEASTS OF STONECLAD MOUNTAIN

  Gerry Griffiths

  Copyright 2017 by Gerry Griffiths

  www.severedpress.com

  DEDICATION

  For my daughter, Genene

  1

  James Payne lounged in his lawn chair under the overhang of the cave, reading one of his Louis L’Amour westerns. The paperback was missing the front cover, and the pages were about to fall out of the spine, but that didn’t deter him from continuing the saga of the marshal single-handedly trying to protect the townsfolk from the ruthless outlaw gang.

  He flipped the page, bumping his elbow against the barrel of his 30-shot magazine Bushmaster automatic rifle leaning against the armrest.

  It could hardly be called a sporting hunting gun—more of an essential weapon for protecting one’s property.

  He took a break from his book, dog-eared the page, and tossed the reading material onto the backpack just inside the cave. The cavern went back twenty feet, was ten feet wide, and was high enough to walk upright to the rear of the hollowed rock.

  Marijuana stalks hung from clotheslines stretched across the width of the cave, the ends anchored to carabiners wedged in the crevices in the walls. A large blue tarpaulin was on the ground where James would bring in his lawn chair and trim the buds off the stalks. A couple canvas picking sacks with neck straps were on the ground next to some tilling spades, shovels, rakes, and hoes leaning against the cavern wall.

  He had a modest setup for cooking: a frying pan and a pot for boiling water and a double-burner portable Coleman camp stove. For lighting at night, he had one flashlight and a kerosene lantern. His sleeping accommodations consisted of a dirty mummy goose-down bag on top of an inflatable air mattress that demanded to be frequently filled up with air with a foot pump as it had a slow leak.

  Besides preparing the next shipment for transport down the mountain, eating, sleeping, and suffering mind-numbing cabin fever, even though he was in the great outdoors and it was a cave, there wasn’t much more for James to do during his solitary five-day durations sharing the duties of the family business, other than to read.

  James raised his arms and stretched. He got up from his chair, leaving the slumped webbing in the shape of his butt.

  He glanced out at the lush field of ten-foot-tall marijuana plants—last count there were somewhere over two hundred—clustered tightly together, surrounded by the dense forest of broad-leaf bur oaks and white pines.

  It was the perfect spot for cultivating weed. The soil was rich, and it was secluded, an arduous four-hour hike up the steep and treacherous mountain, miles away from the nearest farm. James thought it was overkill having to climb so far up the mountain, but that was how his eldest brother, Landon, wanted it, so what choice did he have?

  And there was no worry of hikers or campers stumbling onto their operation, as there were no proper trails in the rough terrain. Nothing on the mountain, but abandoned moonshine stills, more natural caves and forgotten mineshafts, and maybe the occasional reclusive hermit that didn’t want to be bothered by civilization and could care less about the Payne brothers’ moneymaking venture.

  While James spent most of his lonely hours on the mountain, reading, his other three brothers could care less about books, especially the twins, Jacob and Mason, who would rather drink moonshine and play mumblety-peg barefoot—even though Mason had self-amputated two of his own toes with bad knife throws from being too drunk to care, and his lack of depth perception because of his one eye.

  But James knew better than to talk down to Jacob and Mason as each of his brothers weighed over two hundred fifty pounds and looked like true mountain men with their rough appearances and wooly beards. Their jobs were, when the time arose, hauling the packs of hemp down the mountain.

  James’ older brother, Landon, was head of the family business and was in charge of distribution. Only on rare occasions did he come up to the field.

  James was glad that this would be his last night on the mountain until his next time around. All he could think of when he was up here alone, were his brothers carousing at home, getting drunk on two hundred proof pure grain alcohol and having a good time.

  Sometimes they got out of hand, but Landon quickly interceded, as he swore he’d be damned if he’d let them drink themselves blind.

  Though it was another hour before sunset, daylight seemed to wane under the dense forest canopy. He figured he better prepare for nightfall and light the lantern inside the cave. For dinner, he planned on eating some pulled pork and heating a pot of corn kernels on the camp stove.

  That’s when he heard something moving about out in the field.

  The tall plants swayed, as whatever it was, cut a path behind the rows.

  James reached down and picked up his Bushmaster. He tucked the butt stock into his shoulder and aimed the weapon, aligning the front sight on any intended target that might show itself.

  By the heavy, scuffling footfalls, it sounded big. There were a few black bears in the area, but they always seemed to keep their distance. Normally, he would be alarmed, but he felt confident holding his assault rifle. Besides, he knew not to back down from a bear and that they could be easily intimidated if he acted aggressive.

  “Come on, Mr. Bear. Show yourself,” he taunted.

  The plants continued to move.

  He clicked off the safety, slipped his forefinger inside the trigger guard.

  “I’m warning you!”

  He heard a rustle and then everything went still.

  James approached the field, slowly, one cautious step followed by another, ready to fire at the smallest provocation. He squeezed down a row. The ripe-for-harvest milky-white buds on the plants gave off a skunk-like odor.

  He used the muzzle of his assault rifle to prod back the leaves and then stopped to listen.

  A distracting breeze picked up, rustling the leaves in the surrounding trees.

  “This is your last chance! You better get!”

  A dark figure lurched out from behind the plants on his left. James swung the barrel of his gun around and pulled back the trigger as the thing dove back into the marijuana bushes for cover.

  The bullets strafed the tops off the plants.

  James heard a loud grunt followed by an ear-piercing primordial scream that was so loud it echoed through the forest. He tried to rationalize what he had just seen. It had all happened so fast. It had been enormous, covered with thick, grayish fur.

  That was no bear. A bear would have kept charging, plunged him into the ground, and mauled the life out of him with its sharp claws. This creature seemed to sense danger the moment he pointed his gun.

  Whatever it was, James knew he had hit it, as there was blood splatter on the leaves of one of the plants.

  And then he heard a tormented yowl.

  Ice water jetted through his veins. Even though he was brandishing a high-caliber weapon, James felt somewhat unprotected, like somehow the situation had reversed, and he had suddenly become the prey.

  An arm swung out from behind the tall foliage and cuffed him upside the temple with such a tremendous blow that it almost took off his head. He fell back and landed on the hard ground, dropping his rifle during the fall.

  Flat on his back, James gazed up, struggling to catch a breath as the impact had knocked the air out of his lungs. Blood seeped into his eyes, blurring his vision.

  The leathery sole of a giant foot hovered over James’ face then stomped down.

  James screamed as his forearm snapped on his right arm. It was like someone had dropped an anvil on him from a considerable height. He glanced over and saw the contrasting white of a spear tip of bone sticking out of his brow
n coat sleeve.

  A black-furred beast came down on top of him, smothering him with its thick, pungent coat. James gagged and reached up, grabbing a handful of coarse, matted hair.

  With his face buried in the noxious hair, and still not knowing what was attacking him, James felt his left ankle seized by a powerful hand and his leg lifted off the ground.His leg began to twist in a circular motion, and kept on turning, forcing tendons and muscle to tear as his kneecap ground out of the socket and the toe of his boot pointed in a ridiculous direction.

  James had never felt such pain, not even while his abusive, psychopath father beat him within an inch of his life when he was ten years old.

  “Please…oh God…please stop…” he cried.

  And then, if it was even possible, the pain further increased when his leg was wrenched out of his pelvis, and a wet gush poured over his groin.

  His attacker grunted, and then James heard something cast into the air and land somewhere off in the field.

  Even buried under the tremendous weight of his thickly furred assailant, James’ body went cold as he rapidly bled out, the bright red seepage draining into the rich, furrowed soil.

  He thought of his brothers, wishing he were home, reading a western, as he gazed up for the last time into the humongous gaping mouth, filled with broad tombstone teeth, bearing down on his face.

  2

  “I think Casey needs changing,” Mia said, scrunching up her nose.

  “We’re almost there,” Clay replied. He kept one hand on the wheel and cranked his window down a bit to let in some fresh air. He shot a glance in the rearview mirror and saw Casey strapped in his car seat surrounded by a laundry basket of clothes and some suitcases. His one-year-old son looked pleased with himself, content to stare out the window and watch the world go by.

  Hell, that boy could lay some stinkers.

  “How’s he doing on diapers?” Clay asked, knowing that even if there was a store somewhere out on this endless road out in the middle of nowhere, which he doubted, he didn’t have much cash. Most of it had gone into the tank of the Cutlass just getting out here.

  “You know where you’re going?” Mia asked.

  He knew she wasn’t nagging him. She wasn’t the sort. It was just that there hadn’t been any road signs to follow and the countryside was looking pretty much the same after a while. “Sure. I was out here plenty of times when I was a kid.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “I don’t know, maybe six. It all still looks the same.”

  Mia stared out her window. “So you haven’t seen your uncle in fifteen years?”

  “That’d be about right.”

  “Sure glad your mom wrote him that letter.”

  Clay stayed to the right when he came to a fork in the road. “I wish she hadn’t, but what can we do? Hard to get a good job if you don’t have a trade.”

  “What does your uncle do?”

  “Handyman mostly.”

  Clay gunned the Oldsmobile up a dirt road and stopped at the top of a grassy hillock. To the east was the mountain range of forest with hundreds of miles of rough, impenetrable terrain that seemed to stretch right up to the clouds.

  A small, shingled-roofed cabin with a railing porch and stone chimney was down below, butted up to the edge of the woods.

  Not too far away was a neglected twenty-foot singlewide trailer in a patch of foot-high weeds.

  A silver antenna was mounted on the top of a mast, ten feet above the roof. The siding was rusted and it had a large dent near the front. One of the windows had a cracked windowpane. Three wood steps were below the door. The base of the mobile home was mostly trimmed with lattice to hide the underneath, but Clay could see some of the cinderblocks supporting the structure off the ground.

  “So, that’s it?” Mia said, assessing the trailer.

  “Could use some fixing up,” Clay had to admit. It would take some work. A lot of work, but who were they to look a gift horse in the mouth. From what he understood, Uncle Ethan was just helping them out as a favor to Clay’s mom. Times were hard, everyone knew that, but you never turned your back on family.

  “We should stop by the cabin and let Uncle Ethan know we’re here. Then we can go to the trailer and change the little poop monster.” Clay looked over his shoulder at Casey. “Bet you’d like that.”

  His son grinned as he squirmed his tiny butt in the car seat.

  Clay didn’t envy Mia’s job one bit.

  He drove down and parked in front of the cabin. Mia got out first and unbuckled Casey, taking him out of his car seat. “Whew. I’m sorry, Clay, but I’ve got to clean him up before we meet your uncle.”

  “All right, then.” Clay got out and looked around. The scenery was beautiful, that is if he ignored that monstrosity of a trailer.

  Mia laid Casey on the front seat and undid the pins on his cloth diaper. She held onto Casey’s ankles and lifted him up. She removed the soiled diaper and dropped it on the ground, then grabbed some wipes out of the diaper bag and cleaned the boy up.

  Clay walked up the front steps onto the porch and sauntered over to the front door. A slip of paper was hanging on a nail.

  “Uncle Ethan left us a note,” Clay said in a loud voice so Mia could hear. “Says he’ll be back soon, that we should go on in and make ourselves at home. Feel free to eat something if we’re hungry.” He looked over and saw Mia pick up the dirty diaper off the ground and slip it inside a plastic bag. “Better seal that up good,” he said, giving his wife a smile though he could tell she wasn’t too thrilled when she shot him a scowl.

  “Are you hungry, sweetie?” Mia asked Casey as she lifted him off the seat and toted him in her arms.

  Casey cooed and reached his mischievous hand into Mia’s shirt.

  “Just hold your horses, mister.”

  Clay turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. He waited for Mia and Casey before stepping inside. The front room was somewhat dark, as there was only one window, so Clay left the door open. A chair and settee with matching cushions faced the stone hearth. A large trunk covered with a small blanket served as a coffee table.

  Two rifles hung on hooks above the mantle over the fireplace. A large reddish throw rug covered a good portion of the planked floor.

  In a corner was a cedar hutch with glass cabinet doors on the top and drawers with more doors on the bottom section.

  To the side was the kitchen area. A sink, with a hand pump for drawing water, stood under the window. The wall was lined with shelves. Pots and fry pans were in easy reach on the bottom, food sacks and boxes, and canned goods taking up the other shelves.

  There was a black, cast-iron, wood-burning cook stove with a smokestack going up through the timbered ceiling, and a small dining table with two matching chairs made out of a dark wood, and a white pine chair.

  “I don’t see a fridge,” Mia commented.

  “That’s because there’s no electricity,” Clay replied. “There’s no power company out here.”

  Casey started crying. “All right,” Mia said, in an impatient tone. She carried the infant across the room and sat in the chair by the fireplace. She unbuttoned her shirt and drew out a breast for Casey to suckle even though she was finding it increasingly difficult to produce enough breast milk to satisfy her hungry baby’s insatiable appetite.

  Mia looked up at Clay. “We’re almost out of formula.”

  “Maybe there’s some evaporated milk.” Clay went over to the kitchen. He heard a vehicle approaching outside and looked out the window. A blue International Scout truck pulled up and stopped just outside the cabin. “It’s Uncle Ethan.” He turned and looked over at Mia. “You better button up.”

  Mia pushed Casey off and fumbled with her shirt. Casey grabbed hold of a button and refused to let go.

  “Casey, stop,” she snapped.

  Clay watched his uncle step out of his truck, followed by a large dog with a black head and droopy ears and a body covered with black ticking and
large spots. The dog paraded alongside the tall man up the porch steps.

  Mia was still struggling to close up her shirt, trying to discourage Casey’s persistent fingers.

  “Hurry,” Clay whispered as the cabin door opened.

  “Well, hi there…” Ethan said as he came in then stopped short when he saw Mia frantically trying to cover up. He politely turned away and looked over at Clay.

  “Glad you made it,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mia apologized, having to smack Casey’s hand so she could make herself presentable.

  “That’s quite all right,” Ethan replied.

  Clay came over and shook his uncle’s hand. “Thank you for giving us a place to stay.” He always looked up to his uncle, one reason being that the barrel-chested man stood six-foot-five and reminded him of the actor Clint Walker that played in that old TV western, Cheyenne.

  “My pleasure. How is Erma…I mean, your mom?”

  “She’s doing fine.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Clay looked at the doorway and saw the dog sitting obediently just outside the threshold on the porch. “That’s a good-looking dog. What’s his name?”

  “That there’s Blu. Got him from Alberta Blake. She’s a breeder of blue tick coonhounds and sort of the vet around these parts.”

  “Is he a good hunting dog?” Clay asked.

  “Well, he’s learning. Most time he’s too distracted.”

  “Don’t they just naturally pick it up?” Mia asked.

  “Not Blu. When he was born, he came out bottom first and isn’t quite right.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Clay asked.

  “He has seizures.”

  “Is he all right now?”

  “I hope so. He hasn’t had one for a few months.”

  “How do you think he’d be around Casey?” Mia asked.

  “Your little boy? How about we see?” Ethan turned and slapped his hand against his thigh. “Blu. Come!”

  The coonhound immediately got to his feet, pranced into the cabin and went directly over to Mia and Casey, and sat down beside the chair. He rested his chin on the armrest and looked up at Mia with an expectant gaze.