Max was about to reply when he felt something rush past him under cover of the fog. He doubled over as Gideon passed, lashing out with Splinter, but the stake caught only thin air. Then Gideon came back the other way, racing behind Max, claws raking the small of his back. He felt the cuts open up instantly, cold and stinging as he cried out.
“You know, Max,” said the beast as he circled. “What you did to me in my cellar was terribly poor form. I do worry for our friendship. . . .”
Max was running full tilt, straight for the trees, away from the river. He’d never been a fan of gloating victory speeches. The mist exploded beside him as the horned horror pounced, landing where Max had been standing a heartbeat earlier. Max could hear the satyr giving chase, his hooves kicking up the earth as he charged Max down. The frantic boy launched himself back into the woods, weaving between trees and trying to shake the satyr off his tail. It was hopeless. The monster knew the forest better than any man. Max’s mind was racing. He needed to even the playing field, and that left only one option.
“Come here, Helsing!” cackled Gideon, lurching around a tree toward the boy, his devilish head lit up with murderous glee.
Max let go of the branch he’d seized, allowing it to spring back at the fiend’s head. Gideon caught a face full of pinecones, screeching with annoyance. Max ran like hell through the woods, past Gideon’s lodge, headed toward the only terrain that felt remotely like his.
Max ran back to the bunkhouse.
TWENTY-NINE
TURNING THE TABLES
Max sprinted, back through the maze of trees and waist-high mist, toward the boys’ lodge. He bounced up the bunkhouse steps and arrived on the porch. He gritted his teeth as he felt his shirt clinging to the flesh of his bloody back. Max straightened, determined not to show the satyr that he was weakened. He clapped his hands and waved at the mist.
“Yo, Mr. G!” he yelled. “I think we’ve got a leaky faucet, and we’re all out of toilet paper!”
He didn’t have to wait long. Black horns appeared through the mist, like a smoking devil at the gates of Hell. Gideon strode purposefully through the fog, snarling, eyes glowing like fiery infernos within that demonic red face.
Max spun around and dashed into the bunkhouse, hearing the satyr’s hoofed feet stamping up the steps behind him. The beast dipped his head as he navigated the doorway, turning to allow his horns through the opening. The moment he was in, Max launched the oil lamp that had hung from the ceiling. It exploded over Gideon’s head, leaving his hideous face soaked in choking paraffin oil. Max retreated toward the middle of the room, relieved to have got a good solid hit in. The satyr charged, head down like an enraged bull. Max stamped a foot, hard. The faulty floorboard shot up, rotten end aimed squarely at the beast’s huge chest. The length of timber became a spear, set in the ground to meet the onrushing enemy. It splintered as the satyr struck it, but not before great shards of wood punctured Gideon’s crimson flesh, tearing open skin and muscle as he smashed it aside. The monster looked down in disbelief at the daggers of wood that were protruding from his torso. When he looked back up, the next wave of the assault came at him.
Max was in the kitchen, cutlery drawer emptied on the counter, his hands a blur as he threw whatever he found at Gideon. The satyr advanced unsteadily, arms shielding his oil-blinded face, his chest bleeding, as knife, fork, spoon, and rolling pin showered down upon him, followed quickly by the drawer itself. With the utensils expended, Gideon lowered his muscular arms, which were studded with forks, potato peelers, and can openers, only for the huge chili pan to strike him sweetly across the jaw.
“Match point!” shouted Max as the satyr staggered back, a cracked hoof sinking into the fresh gap in the floorboard. Gideon twisted, trying to pull it free, only for Max to swing back the other way, catching the fiend with a backhand.
“Helsing hits it straight down the line with a winner!” he yelled.
A clawed hand shot out, snatching the frying pan from Max’s grasp and turning it on him. He danced back, landing with a thump as the satyr buried the pan into the floorboards as if it were an ax. Max was scrambling back now as Gideon pulled himself free. The boy was up on his feet, dashing for his bedroom at the end of the corridor, opening doors as he went and slowing the monster down. He heard the doors slamming back on their hinges as the enraged satyr followed. Gideon crashed into the bunkroom, seeking the boy from Gallows Hill.
The bunkbed tipped forward, crashing down onto the stumbling satyr and trapping him in the doorway. Max dove forward from behind the toppled bed frame, striking the beast over the head with the tin pee bucket. It clanged hard, crumpling against the shiny black horns. Max snatched up the matchbox from his emptied rucksack, fingers grasping a clutch of them and striking them on the abrasive strip. They burst into life and Max flicked them at the satyr. They showered down over Gideon’s oil-soaked face. There was a woof as his head and shoulders went up in flames. Then Max sprang back, skidding toward the window as the screaming monster broke the bunk apart. Up went the window, squealing on its runners, as Max threw a leg out.
Gideon dove forward, face on fire, landing on his belly and driving those shards of wood deeper into his chest. He roared, snatching Max’s other foot by the ankle, dragging him back into the room. Max tumbled, landing in the debris from the tipped bed, the satyr raising a clawed hand up, ready to rip the boy open. Max’s grabbed a mattress and threw it up before him. The black taloned fingers tore through the material, sending springs and filling flying about the room. The satyr pulled it apart, that grotesque, smoking goat head shooting forward, yellow eyes narrowed, sharp teeth set in a vengeful grin.
The snow globe shattered as it came down into the monster’s smoldering face. Liquid and white flakes sprayed everywhere as the glass punctured cheek and eye. Max drove it home with an angry cry, twisting the snow globe’s base into the satyr’s face as the beast bleated in a blind panic and drew back. Hooves came up kicking and thrashing as Gideon tried to pluck slivers of glass from his eye in vain, black blood streaming from the socket.
Max was up, jumping through the window, but the satyr followed, even with only one good eye. Max swung himself out, clinging to the frame as Gideon thrust his bloodied and burn-blistered head through the gap. A horn gored Max’s stomach, tearing a bloody gash across his belly, but he clung on. Once both horns were through, and ready to strike the boy again, Max grabbed the base of the raised window and jumped. The paneled sash came down like a guillotine. Wood and glass shattered, ripping into the back of the monster’s neck as Max was swallowed by the mist and landed on the wet grass. He rose unsteadily, woozy, just as Gideon began tearing about the broken window frame. He was trapped for now, but the more he struggled, the bigger the hole in the wall became. Big enough, eventually, for him to follow the teenage monster hunter.
Without waiting for the satyr to escape, Max was running again, slower this time, as he sought a place to hide. Syd and the injured trio should have found the cop by now. Help would be on its way, in one way or another. He was exhausted and battered, and the coldness was spreading across his belly. He pulled his bomber aside, saw the red patch on his white tee spreading. As with the wound on his back, he had no idea how deep it was, but he was losing blood. He bounced off the girls’ bunkhouse wall, tripping and almost going over. Landing on a knee, he struggled to his feet once more and stumbled on. Behind him, in the darkness, the Beast of Bone Creek worked himself free from his timber trap.
Max was at the boathouse, grabbing the door in a bloody hand. It was chained shut. Cursing, he picked up a rock and pulled out Splinter, placing the stake’s silver head over the lock. He struck it once, twice, and on the third attempt the lock broke free. The chain links rattled and the door was open. Max slipped inside, pulling it closed behind him. Then he backed up slowly, careful not to disturb the walls of stacked kayaks and rowboats around him. This should do the trick, he reckoned, keeping a han
d over the wound in his stomach.
“Come on, Jed,” he whispered, praying his mentor might come to the rescue. “Whenever you’re ready, old man. Whenever you’re ready.”
THIRTY
NOWHERE TO HIDE
The yo-yo went up. The yo-yo went down. Max sat in the antique Native American kayak at the back of the old boathouse, spinning his old toy, hiding in the shadows. The building was on the water’s edge, a launch at its heart where kayaks could be lowered directly into the river. He was waiting for someone, anyone, to kick the door in and save the day. The yo-yo was a means to focus his attention, to keep him awake. He was damp, dog-tired, and had a cut in the guts that hurt like hell.
“You should see the other guy,” he whispered to himself.
Max cataloged the injuries he’d dished out to Gideon, or whatever it was he’d become. A satyr, supposedly the guardian of the forest, but this one clearly never got the rule book. Acid burns to the legs, lantern to the face, slashed torso from a floorboard, fork wounds to the forearms, concussion from a frying pan, bucket to the brain, head set on fire, snow globe to the eye socket, and a wood-and-glass guillotine crashing down upon his neck. If Max thought he’d had it bad, that put things into perspective.
Max had been under no illusions; there were drawbacks to every job, and his unusual line of work was always going to have its downsides. Lousy hours, unexpected skirmishes with all manner of flesh-hungry fiends, curses that kick into gear on one’s thirteenth birthday—these all came with the territory. A shortened life expectancy was pretty high on that list of negatives, of course. He’d been aware of the perils since he’d been in diapers. His father had drilled that into him, as had Jed after Dad’s untimely death. It was a dirty job, but someone—a Van Helsing—had to do it.
Everyone had their time to go, and Max’s was most likely going to be at the hands of the monster. He’d always imagined it was going to be a vampire that finally got him. Let’s face it—there was history there. He’d never expected a satyr might be the beast that did the deed. Just showed how wrong a kid could be.
Crack.
A twig snapped outside the boathouse. Max let the yo-yo zip back up to his palm. He held his breath. Footsteps, in the damp grass, heavy ones, were approaching the building. A snorting exhalation of breath, followed by a wheezing growl. There was a loud thud as something hit the outside of the boathouse wall. Then two more impacts, a fist striking timber.
“Little pig, little pig, let me in. . . .”
Max cringed as the sound of claws scraping along wood accompanied the satyr’s progress as he stalked down toward the front of the building. The wall squealed and rattled as the bladed fingers caught every panel.
“Who’s trapped now, Max Helsing?”
Max looked back toward the door and spied the telltale trail of blood on the ground that had marked his passage. Cursing, he climbed out of the Pequawket kayak and looked around for a backup plan. The water was always an option, but how far would he get without the monster spotting him? His hands brushed across a rack of oars and twin-bladed paddles as his eyes shot up to the rafters. More boats were stored there, stowed away in the rickety building. It was too cramped. Too confined.
He heard footsteps on the jetty floor, saw the shadows of those hoofed feet appear through the crack of faint light at the base of the door. Black claws reached through the gap between door and frame as it creaked slowly open, loose chain rattling. The satyr stepped into the room, burned, half-blind, and bloodied, towering over Max as he looked in vain for an escape route.
“What a chase you gave me, Max Helsing, but the game is over.”
“We could’ve made this work,” said Max. “Bone Creek was big enough for all of you.”
“Never,” growled Gideon, taking a step toward the boy.
As its hoof struck the wooden floor, the building shook, dust showering down from the ceiling. That surprised Max. The satyr, too. The monster looked at his big black cloven foot, back to the walls, and then to Max.
“Did I do that?”
Max didn’t answer. He was too busy jabbing an oar beneath a great tower of canoes. He cranked down hard, dislodging the bottom one and sending the eight balanced on it toppling. They came down onto the satyr in rapid succession, striking Gideon repeatedly, sending him crashing heavily into the wall. Max heard the building groan with the impact, saw the whole structure shift to one side as it transformed from boathouse into lean-to. The groaning continued as a timber came free from the roof, thundering down to bounce off the satyr’s shoulder and knock him to his knees. Gideon screamed as a second beam fell, glancing off a horn and splitting it.
A canoe tumbled from the rafters, bashing Max’s back and sending him to the floor. More boats fell, the building roaring now as the walls and ceiling began to tear themselves apart. Max had landed beside the ancient handmade kayak. As the roof collapsed directly overhead, he reached across and took hold of the animal-skin boat, dragging it toward and over him. He was cocooned beneath it as the building tumbled down around him. The kayak’s hull caved in as wood, metal, and boat rained down. Max winced, turning his face, holding his breath, expecting the cured hide to break at any moment. Somehow, it held together, shielding Max from the debris until all fell silent once more.
Max waited a moment, listening for something, anything, a sign that the beast was there. He gave the boat a shove, heaving hard, wood and splintered fiberglass sliding off the crumpled kayak and clattering to one side. The air was thick with choking dust, the boathouse now transformed to a pile of timbers and wood chips. Max looked about in vain, his vision obscured by the mist, as he tried to get above it. Slowly, he rose, every muscle aching, until his head was above the fog. Jagged shafts of wood and kayak jutted up all around him, a field of broken boats and torn timber that he’d somehow lived through. He allowed himself a smile of astonished satisfaction.
It was rather premature.
He sensed the beast rise from the mist behind him. He felt Gideon’s breath upon his neck, smelled his musky aroma, burned flesh, hair, and blood. Before he could move, the satyr’s hand was around his neck.
“Ruined,” Gideon whispered in his ear, his voice like crushed gravel. “Everything ruined. By you, boy. By you. Yours was going be a drawn-out death, away from here, in a dark place, far from the light. I was going to make it last. But time waits for no man or beast. You die now, Max Helsing. You shall—”
The satyr’s voice was cut off suddenly, choked into silence. He released Max, who fell forward, bouncing off the ruins of the boathouse and turning around. The satyr was now the one being held from behind by the throat. A tall shape had appeared at Gideon’s back, all thick dark fur and broad shoulders. Max knew immediately what it was: the Sasquatch had returned to Bone Creek. That was what had struck the boathouse.
The bigfoot lifted Gideon off the ground. The goatman’s legs kicked out wildly, hooves striking timber and kayak. Max saw the Sasquatch’s eyes glowing bright, narrow slits that promised vengeance. Its knuckles cracked as they tightened around the satyr’s throat. Gideon threw a hand back, scratching at the bigfoot’s face, but the Sasquatch turned its head away, grabbing the satyr’s straining arm and snapping it.
Gideon cried out, but his other arm was up, seizing the broken horn on his ravaged head. He yanked hard, the twisted black spike coming free with a wet rip. He spun it around in his hand and thrust it sharply behind his back.
The Sasquatch’s cry caused birds to take flight up and down Bone Creek, and drove the creatures of the night back to their nests, caves, and burrows. The satyr twisted the horn, pushing it deeper into the stomach of the bigfoot. The giant beast of the forest released Gideon. It collapsed beside Max, groaning and heaving with pain. Max fell across the bigfoot’s back, felt its warm fur against his face. Gideon weaved above them, a broken arm and missing horn now added to his long list of injuries, but he still managed to s
mile.
“They’ll find your remains,” said the satyr. “And those of your friends, who are cowering in the woods. They’ll find your killer, the bigfoot. And they’ll clean out any others, wherever they’re hiding, and any foul fairy or cryptid that gets in their way. And I’ll be watching over it all, the brave, heroic Gideon, the sole survivor of this night.”
The devil raised the horn, an ax in an executioner’s grasp, about to descend on the beaten boy from Gallows Hill.
“Bone Creek is mine!”
THIRTY-ONE
FRIENDS LIKE THESE
The satyr snarled as the curling black blade came down.
It never connected with Max, though.
The first arrow hit Gideon in the shoulder, causing him to drop his severed horn. The second struck the satyr in his chest, forcing air from his punctured lung. The third was left quivering in his throat, as the remaining eye on the side of his knobby head rolled in its socket.
The satyr collapsed slowly into the mist, turning and staggering on failing legs, like a ship going down in a storm. Then he was gone.
Max rose unsteadily from beside the wounded Sasquatch, and turned slowly toward the forest. A hulking figure coalesced in the fog, gradually taking shape. Abel Archer paced forward, prowling like a big cat. Another arrow was already nocked in his enormous bow, a murderous grin plastered across his face. Okay, thought Max. I’ll give him that one.
Archer may have been the first to Max’s aid, but he wasn’t alone. There was a twinkling of lights in the forest at his back as he was soon joined by others. They were led by a swarm of will-o’-the-wisps, fluttering around their heads, illuminating their faces like angels. There was Syd, carrying an unmistakable long-handled ax in both hands. Wing danced about her excitedly. Boyle followed, Frank and Sissy side by side behind him. Jed appeared, with Kimble on his shoulder, the little man’s fingers dancing across the barrels of his panpipes. “Holy moly,” said Archer, slinging his longbow across his shoulder. “Is that really what I think it is? A bigfoot?”
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 18
