“Get me out of this thing!” he screeched, fingers fumbling for the toggle that kept him from emerging from the bag. Sissy reached for him, trying to help, her fingernails leaving scratches across his shaking hand.
From outside, there was a low growl.
“Please, god, no!” Frank screamed, as he was shaken furiously from side to side by his legs. Sissy’s hands clutched at his freed arm as his face twisted into a mask of horror. Frank’s cries rose higher as Sissy held on with all her might. Then with a vicious yank he was torn from her grasp and dragged, wailing, into the darkness.
His screams stopped suddenly, and Sissy found herself alone. Her panicked breathing changed to stifled sobs. Her hands found the flashlight beside Frank’s bedroll, trembling as she picked it up. She tried hitting the switch once, twice, three times, her fingers numb with shock. On the fourth attempt the light burst into life, and Sissy cast it over the bottom of the tent, then aimed the beam at the gap in the flaps. She kept the flashlight trained on the thin sliver of darkness as if that might hold back the night, and whatever terrors lurked within it. She held up the crucifix that Frank had given her.
When the tent flap eventually peeled back, and the Beast of Bone Creek appeared, Sissy’s own scream caught in her throat. The tiny crucifix slipped from her hand. All strength and sanity evaporated in that terrible moment, as a monster from her childhood, forged from nightmares, returned: breath steaming, teeth bared, eyes aglow with hunger.
EIGHT
MORNING IS BROKEN
Max had enjoyed better nights’ sleeps. Truth be told, he’d had more enjoyable tooth extractions. Whedon’s full repertoire of snores had been deployed over the course of the night, from gentle clucking through full-on buzz saw. Furthermore, his skin was alive with fresh insect bites. Whether they were flying, crawling, or flesh-eating insects was difficult to tell, but the Great Outdoors had certainly lost its appeal. Weary and aching, he’d fallen out of bed to a commotion in the lodge’s main room, where raised voices ensured that nothing in Bone Creek remained asleep. The sight of Syd poking her head around the doorframe made him reach for his sleeping bag, drawing it over his boxer shorts in an attempt at dignity.
“What part of ‘Boys’ Dormitory’ don’t you understand?”
“Whatever, Helsing,” she said, rolling her eyes and dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “Pull your pants on and make yourself decent. You need to get out there to hear this.”
Hopping into his jeans, Max followed his friend into the lodge’s communal room, where not only the boys were gathered, but also the girls. Whedon and Mr. Mayhew stood beside Gideon, blocking the exit. The tour guide was all smiles, trying to calm the growing clamor. Whedon was less compassionate.
“Keep it down! You need to cooperate. Listen to what Mr. Gideon has to say.”
The little man smiled appreciatively at the principal’s stern words before addressing the kids.
“There really is nothing to be alarmed about, children. This is just a routine investigation from the Bone Creek police. A minor case of missing persons is all. I’m sure they’ll turn up safe and sound. In the meantime, I’ve got a full schedule of fun planned for us, starting with kayaking—”
“Who’s missing?” shouted Ripley from the rear of the mob.
“Yeah, who are they looking for?” added Shipley beside him.
“Please, guys, don’t worry yourselves,” said Gideon. “We have good police in Bone Creek. They’ll find our lost lovebirds, fear not.”
“Lovebirds?” hissed Max to Syd. “Is he talking about Frank and Sissy?”
“Yeah. Seems they disappeared in the night. They’ve left everything: their gear, their tent, even their backpacks.”
“It’s bigfoot,” said JB quietly. “That’s what everyone’s saying.”
Max could see the gossip flittering around the common room, could read the word upon the lips of his schoolmates. Max concentrated on what Gideon had to say over the flood of dumb questions.
“Boys and girls, I’m very confident that the police will locate Mr. Gunderson and Ms. Peterson. I promise you that nothing untoward has befallen our neighbors. There’s every chance that they’ve set off early for a day’s hiking.”
“They left their boots, you said!” shouted Boyle, not letting the tour guide off the hook. “And all their clothes.”
Gideon smiled and wagged a finger at the bully. “Then maybe they’ve gone for a bracing skinny-dip!”
“I ain’t buying that,” said Boyle. “I know how this stuff goes down, man. My dad’s the chief of police in Gallows Hill. Crime fighting’s in our blood.”
Max barely stifled a snort of laughter. He turned to Syd. “Can you cover for me? I’m gonna go take a look.”
“We’re not allowed out, Max. We have to stay in here until we get the green light to leave. Whedon’s barring the door.”
“Please, Syd. This is me you’re talking to. Just keep Whedon busy if he asks where I am.”
“Busy?”
“Tell him I’m in the bathroom, suffering from an assquake or something.” He tiptoed back to his bunkroom, barefoot.
“Max,” she hissed, but it was too late.
The paneled sash window provided little obstacle for Max, who pried it open and slid it silently up. He threw one leg out, then the other, lowering his torso through the gap until only his head and shoulders remained. He raised one hand, drawing the window back down as he clung on to the exterior sill, before allowing himself to drop onto the grass below. He landed deftly, rolling and coming up in a crouch.
Making a mad dash to the forest, Max quickly found cover in the tree line as he headed upriver toward where the couple from Minnesota had set up camp. An elderly police officer stood a short distance from the campsite, arms folded firmly across his chest. His glowering expression could’ve curdled milk, and his droopy white mustache gave him a look of abject misery. A second man, also wearing the uniform of the local police force, picked his way through the campsite. He was young, all vim and vigor as he stepped swiftly around the tent, snapping away with his camera. There had clearly been a ruckus; much of the missing pair’s gear had been tossed around the area. Max was immediately drawn to the tent itself, which sagged to one side like a half-deflated football. The white material was torn and tattered, fluttering in the breeze.
“What do you think, Uncle Earl?” asked the younger man, as Max settled in a dense thicket of bushes within earshot.
“It’s Sergeant Earl when we’re working.” The old-timer removed his hat and scratched the thin wispy hair of his scalp. “Don’t rightly know what to think, Walt. Ain’t no—”
“Bigfoot,” said the young officer, interrupting before his uncle could reply. The older officer shot him a withering look.
“This ain’t bigfoot,” said Earl.
The youth looked up. “You don’t think there’s been an attack, then?”
“I never said that,” said Earl. “But it ain’t bigfoot—there ain’t such a thing; didn’t your momma never tell you that? Maybe it’s a bear or somesuch.” He stepped forward and crouched before the tent to point at the shredded cloth as it was caught by the breeze. He made a swiping motion with his hand, inches away from the canvas. “These look like claw marks to me. Distance between them tells me we’re looking at a big one.”
“Grizzly?”
“Did you ever pay attention in school, boy?” said Earl, shaking his head at his nephew’s ignorance. “We don’t get brown bears in the White Mountains, which would make this a freakishly big black bear.”
“That usual?” asked a sheepish Walt. “A bear getting up close ’n’ personal with folk?”
“Not really. They’ll keep their distance normally, only coming into contact with humans if their habitat becomes threatened or unstable. The White Mountains is a big patch of wilderness. No need for them to be sniffing ar
ound here.”
“What about wolves?”
“We don’t get them up here, and that would be a bold or desperate wolf that chose to attack a couple of people. Besides which, the claw marks.” Earl held the span of his hand over the ragged slashes again. “Nope, it’s no wolf.”
The young officer stood tall and whistled. “I swear, Uncle Earl, this has got the Beast of Bone Creek written all over it. It’s bigfoot, is what it is.”
“It is not bigfoot,” repeated Earl, standing tall to tower over his nephew. “And you need to keep that flapping mouth shut, you hear? What we have here is missing persons. They’re in these woods somewhere, and I—we—will find them. I’ve already put a call in to Nottingham: they’re sending a scuba specialist out tomorrow to start trawling the river, but I’d hope this pair will have turned up by then. The last thing we need is rumor getting out that there’s honest-to-goodness bigfoot activity in Bone Creek.”
“But isn’t that good for business, Uncle Earl? This should bring in more tourists, surely?”
“Tourists?” exclaimed the older man. “This news will guarantee us every loon, goon, and news crew from the surrounding states turning up to catch sight of something that’s not real. That kind of exposure will get in the way of our search for this young couple. It’s entirely unhelpful. We need to keep this low-key. Nothing alarmist. You understand?”
Walt shrugged. “Just sounds like bigfoot to me, is all,” he mumbled.
Although he continued to eavesdrop on the conversation, Max was no longer watching the grown-ups. He was scanning the undergrowth where he was hidden, a peculiar yet familiar feeling creeping over him. Whatever had encountered the Minnesotans last night had lain in wait in this exact area, Max was sure of it. The foliage provided perfect cover from the campsite—he could hide there for hours and the officers would never find him, not unless they climbed into the thicket. The ground was cut up with animal tracks, small paw prints, hoof marks from a deer, the regular stuff one would expect to find in woodland—no enormous hominid footprints. There was, however, a faint musty odor in the air that caused Max’s nostrils to flare. His head recoiled as his nose found its source.
Snagged upon a thorn was a tuft of rusty brown hair, about two inches in length. It was at head height with Max, confirming that whatever had been here, scoping out the campsite, had been big. He plucked the evidence from the bush, surprised to find the hair was wiry to the touch, coarse and fibrous. He gave it a second sniff, regretting it instantly. The musty odor, unmistakably bestial, caused him to gag. His gaze flicked back to the campsite at the sound of the deputy’s excited voice.
“See! I told you! What’s that if it ain’t a Sasquatch print?”
Earl had joined the deputy, leaning over his shoulder. Max could see it from his hiding place, though, clear as day: an indentation in the hard, packed earth close by the tent.
Earl whistled. “That could be Mr. Gunderson’s bare foot. I swear, Walt, if you weren’t my sister’s son, I’d think about having you discharged from the force.”
“Uncle Earl, look at it!” said the officer, exasperated. “It makes LeBron James’s feet look like a dwarf’s.”
Earl was no longer listening to his nephew. He was focused on the bushes, stalking slowly in Max’s direction, his eyes narrowed. Had he heard him? Max wasn’t about to find out. Tucking the tuft of fur into the back pocket of his jeans, he started to retreat, keen to get back to the lodge before he was missed. By the time Earl found his little hidey-hole, Max was long gone.
NINE
“MESSING ABOUT IN BOATS”
The boathouse was a deathtrap. Every wall was stacked with canoes and boats, balanced precariously on top of one another. As the kids ran amok trying to pick the right kayak, Whedon had screeched and squawked like a constipated cockerel, quoting a hundred and one health and safety misdemeanors. Max had been particularly taken by the moth-eaten Pequawket kayak at the back of the shed, all peeling hide and frayed stitchwork. Gideon had pooh-poohed his request to use the antique boat—apparently, the last thing the camp coordinator wanted to do was fish a drowned schoolboy out of the creek.
As if the boathouse wasn’t bad enough, then there was the water itself. While the girls showed restraint, trying to master the surging waters of Bone Creek, most of the boys wasted no time in charging, ramming, and capsizing their friends with piratical enthusiasm.
Max and Syd kept their distance from their more boisterous companions, having found a calmer stretch of water in the river. Max was wrestling with his kayak and losing the battle. Like rappelling, canoeing was a lot harder than it first appeared, at least for Max. Syd was having no such problems, circling him effortlessly while he fought with the current. All the while, Max kept his eyes fixed on the riverbank, scanning the tree line. That feeling that he was being watched, just like yesterday, hadn’t gone away. If anything, it was intensifying, making Max question whether he was being paranoid. Was there a beast loose in Bone Creek? A bigfoot? All evidence was pointing toward it. And why had it abducted the campers? Were they even alive? Max winced, his head spinning with unanswered questions. Whedon was marching up and down the bank, shouting orders at the children from the safety of dry land while Mr. Mayhew and Ms. Golden joined them in the water.
“I don’t like it,” muttered Max.
“Your life preserver?” said Syd. “I think it suits you. Brings out your eyes.”
Of course, Max’s floating device was bubblegum pink, the result of being the last kid into the boathouse.
He mimed dying from laughter before replying. “Frank and Sissy, funny girl.”
“Me neither, but what can we do? We’re here on a school trip. You haven’t got your monster-hunting hat on, Max.”
“Syd, it’s never off. I can’t just stop being who I am. If there’s something monstrous going down, I’m there.”
“Are you convinced this is monstrous?” she asked, keeping her voice low so the other kids couldn’t hear the conversation, though there was little chance of that. There was too much shrieking going on as Boyle and his buddies splashed water all over the girls around the bend in the creek. Within the din, Max caught a high-pitched squeal; if those idiots had found a beaver or otter to torment, there’d be hell to pay. He let his kayak sidle up alongside Syd’s, grabbing her paddle to stay upright.
“I might not have thought anything if I hadn’t found that rock drake yesterday. That got me spooked. Then those two go missing—and a possible footprint? And the fur in the forest? Yeah, I reckon something bad’s gone down, and I’d put my money on it being monstrous.”
“Do you think it’s bigfoot?”
“That tuft of fur I found could be Sasquatch. It was caught on the branches pretty high up, which would probably rule out a bear unless it was on its hind legs.”
“What about the footprint?”
“Faint but large,” replied Max. “Jed would probably be able to tell me what that fur comes from. He was a big-time hunter back in Grandpa’s day, before the world wised up and realized it was a pretty pathetic pastime.”
“Has Jed ever seen a bigfoot?”
“No idea. This is why I need to talk to him. But Whedon has my cell.”
Syd allowed her kayak to drift into the middle of the stream toward the faster-flowing section of the creek. “Gideon said we were all going to town after lunch for souvenir shopping. Maybe you can make a call then?”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Max, following her into more challenging waters.
From upstream, the braying sounds of Boyle and his friends continued to make Max’s skin crawl. Again, Max heard a high-pitched squeal. “You hearing that?” he asked with a wince.
“What?” asked Syd, but Max was already paddling clumsily upstream toward where the other kids were gathered.
He passed the girls, who had now firmly removed themselves from Boyle’s shenaniga
ns. Gideon was among them in his own kayak, after giving up remonstrating with their male counterparts. His overinflated life preserver looked like an enormous bosom that might explode at any moment. It made Max’s pink vest look positively cool. The water frothed around Max, white and volatile, as the river cut its way through a narrow channel. Suddenly he was around the bend in the creek. Boyle was in his element, Ripley and Shipley keeping a safe distance as he repeatedly struck the water with his paddle.
“Hit it again!” shouted Ripley, waving his own paddle in his meaty hands.
“Go, Kenny!” whooped Shipley, ever the grinning cheerleader.
To the naked eye, it appeared as if Boyle had lost his mind and was simply thrashing the water in a fit of idiocy. Max knew better, though. He heard the squeals again, shrill and panicked, causing his stomach to churn. They were squeals of terror.
“That is one freaky-lookin’ fish!” Boyle laughed.
He looked up just in time to see Max’s kayak crash into him.
“Incoming!” yelled Max, deliberately too late, as he maneuvered himself between Boyle and whatever he was pulverizing in the water.
“Helsing!” cried Boyle, as the kayaks collided and his almost went over. Max managed to give the other boy a knock with his paddle, catching him across the temple.
“Oops, sorry, Boyle!” he shouted. “How do you drive these things again?”
His hapless kayak act took little effort, and was working. Max drew the attention of the other boys with his blunders while Boyle struggled to remain upright. Half submerged in the turbulent water, Max spied what Boyle had mistaken for a fish. Fairy glamour had a way of tricking the perception of those who were uninitiated, but Max saw it for what it was. Whereas Boyle saw a dying fish, Max saw a water nymph.
She was perhaps a foot in length, a perfectly formed miniature humanoid, her flesh shimmering with iridescent silver scales. She twisted and twitched in the current, gasping as if she were breathing her last. Max could see the discoloration along her right side, where Boyle’s oar had damaged the skin, the scales flaking away from her body. Max remained between Boyle and the nymph, buying the fragile river spirit the time she needed to regain her senses. Her movements become stronger, more controlled, as she recovered from her shock. For the briefest, fleeting second, her eyes connected with Max’s. Then she rolled in the crystal clear water and kicked away, darting toward the deeper waters in a flashing streak of silver. Max smiled, cherishing his small victory as the nymph vanished from view.
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 6
