by Joe Hart
“You got me! How much do you want? A million? Two? Whatever you say, big guy,” Elliot yelled above the wind, which whipped his words away like autumn leaves.
“Half,” Jones said barely above a whisper.
Elliot didn’t actually hear the word, but he saw Jones’s mouth form it and knew what he had said. He swallowed and blinked at the other man.
“What did you do to Larry?” Elliot asked.
The answer came back so quickly that Elliot realized Jones must have been waiting for the question. “Exactly what I’ll do to you unless we split this fifty-fifty.”
Elliot grimaced but slowly nodded. He didn’t want to split the money, but felt his neck weakening and his head bobbing up and down like one of those stupid toy dogs in the back window of an old woman’s Cadillac.
“Good. Now, where are the trucks taking these—”
Jones’s words were cut short when his radio squawked to life. “Jones, come in, come in. We have a breach on the east end of the valley. Alex is gone. There’s a fucking smear on the ground where he was positioned! Jesus Christ!”
Jones quickly reached for the radio, his eyes growing darker as his lids closed until he was almost squinting. “Say again? A breach on the east side?”
“Yes! Fuck me! It’s something big! I just caught a few flashes of it in the lightning. Must be a fucking bear or something! It’s all white! I think it’s heading down into the site.”
Jones frowned and his eyebrows nearly touched as they drew together. A fucking polar bear is attacking the site? he thought.
“Okay, Jimmy, move in on the threat, but do not engage until I say so. Mark, you read me too?”
There was moment of silence and the punctuation of thunder, and then the guard’s reply came. “Yeah, boss.”
“Good, come in from the south side of camp. Converge on the threat and wait for my orders, now.”
A sound abruptly carried through the soaking air and penetrated their chests with a bass thrum. It was some sort of machine, Elliot concluded, an earthmover grinding gears or a drill shaft shearing off in mid-turn. Both men stared back across the dark abyss that separated them from the lit work area around the drill site and the men’s mess tent. Over the cacophony of thunder and wind, they heard something else.
Peals of high-pitched sounds weaved their way through the air. Both men stood still in the downpour, heads cocked at strange angles, as if trying to identify a song playing in another room.
Jones looked back at Elliot, who now stood nearby with his shoulders slumped.
“You get these loaded up, and so help me, if you drive off without me, I will hunt you down myself.”
Without waiting for a reply, the mercenary ran into the darkness, unslinging his short machine gun as he went. A moment later his outline faded into the darkness, and Elliot was alone.
Elliot turned and trudged through the thick mud toward the containers. There was no way he was letting that fucking ape screw him out of twenty million dollars. No way. Elliot reached gingerly inside his wet coat and fingered the small pistol concealed there near his left armpit. When the time came, he’d deal with Jones and be gone before anyone had time to figure out what had happened.
With a new resolve, he strode through the pounding rain toward the lit cab of the flatbed truck, where he knew his last employee would be fast asleep.
Jones rounded the side of a small storage shed and paused. He gazed through the wet darkness as he knelt near the structure. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but the sounds coming from within the mess tent were another story. Screams that he didn’t think men could issue were rolling over one another, along with another noise he assumed was the bear. It was a deep, guttural sound that reverberated in his bones.
What kind of fucking bear makes a sound like that? he wondered, and he began to let his instincts take over. His intuition had led him through many tight situations over the past years. From burning jungles that smelled of decay and burnt hair to dark streets in the Middle East where he could still feel the wet slickness of men’s blood running hotly over his hands. He was a killer, plain and simple. There were two kinds of people as far as he was concerned: the ones who died and the ones who made the others dead. He had learned early in his life which group he wanted to be a part of.
So a fucking bear wasn’t going to impede on his fair share of this job. He and his men would put it down, and he would go back to the loaded truck, shoot Elliot in the head, and have the driver of the truck haul the lithium water and himself to the drop-off point, where he would collect the money from Elliot’s contact. Then maybe a chartered jet out of the country to retire. He had heard Spain was nice this time of year. Hell, he’d even send a little check to Alex’s widow.
All other thought was wiped away as a man came diving out of the tent as though it was on fire and he was doused in gasoline. He landed heavily in the mud and started crawling away from the tent.
Showtime, Jones thought, and he brought his short weapon up to his shoulder and gazed down the barrel at the doorway, where he knew the bear would appear.
What came out of the tent defied logic, reason, and even imagination. The pale-white skin, the grossly elongated head, and the overly long legs and arms wouldn’t compute in Jones’s mind. He had never seen anything like it. It was huge. And it was angry. Jones watched, stunned, as the man crawled under the refueling tower and huddled into the fetal position. The thing followed with long, powerful steps, its legs hinging the wrong way but propelling it forward smoothly nonetheless.
With a swipe of an enormous hand, the beast knocked the fuel tower over. When it hit the ground, it split like a large egg dropped on concrete. Hundreds of gallons of fuel poured out. Jones watched as the creature took a step back and knocked one of the powerful floodlights to the ground. In an instant, heat and light flooded the entire work area in a brilliant yellow.
Jones fell back behind the shed and felt the whoosh of air from the explosion rush by. After a moment he returned to the edge of the shed and peered into the inferno. The man who had crawled under the tank was on fire, yet the pain must have been too much to vocalize. He was running in a straight line without making a sound, the rain hissing off of his burning flesh. He ran nearly twenty yards that way, until he met the unyielding ends of a large bundle of steel pipes. There was a dull thud that echoed hollowly from the other end of the pipes, and the man fell in a burning heap that didn’t move again.
The mess tent was also aflame. He could hear coughing and screaming coming from inside, as the men beneath the canvas slowly roasted in the extreme heat that was creeping farther and farther across the ground. That sucks, Jones thought as he looked for a flash of pale flesh in the light of the flames.
Jones instantly scanned the area. The beast was nowhere to be seen. He grabbed his radio from his breast pocket and jammed the speaker close to his grizzled face.
“Jimmy, Mark, do you have visual on that fucking thing?”
There was a horrible second of silence and Jones thought he was alone, and then the radio crackled to life.
“Can’t see it, boss. What the fuck is that thing?” Jimmy responded.
“Mark, do you have it?” Jones asked.
“No, I lost it during the blast. Wait. I see something on the slope below me,” Mark said.
Silence stretched out, and Jones was about to call out to Mark again when his voice came through low over the static.
“Nothing, I don’t have it boss. How should we pro—”
It was as though Mark had suddenly shut his mouth. Jones waited for several seconds and then broke the quiet.
“Mark? Mark? Jimmy, can you see Mark from your position?”
“No, he was higher up on the side hill to the south, and now I don’t see him,” Jimmy said.
“Come in from your side, and I’ll swing right. If that fucker’s over there, we’ll flush him out,” Jones said.
Jones didn’t bother to listen for a reply. He was already
moving, his body tense and low as he ran quietly across the small alley between the shed and a row of pickup trucks. Lightning flashed as he moved, and he used the flicker of light to take in his surroundings. Nothing moved in his direct path or to either side. His footsteps quickened, and he ducked and slid to a stop under a large flatbed trailer. He waited. The heavens flashed, and he surveyed his immediate area. Again nothing moved, and he set out once more.
After nearly a minute of running and stopping, Jones crept up behind the rectangular shape of a porta-potty and glanced around the side. The southern slope near the work site was barren. The sage that grew on the side of the hill wasn’t high enough to hide a deer, let alone a twelve-foot-tall pale-white monster.
His eyes snagged a strange shape farther down the hill, closer to one of the large drilling units. It was an oblong shadow among the deeper darkness. Jones squinted and waited for the shape to move. It didn’t. He waited for the lightning, and when none came, he cursed quietly under his breath and slid around the side of the toilet.
He made his way down the side of the hill. Movement caught his attention as he neared the shape on the far side of the drilling unit. He could make out a hunched figure carrying a short rifle tight to its shoulder hurrying through the rain to the shape that he was moving toward. He watched Jimmy stop and slowly straighten. The rifle dropped from Jimmy’s hands and he took a step back.
Jones stopped several yards away and pulled his machine gun tighter to his shoulder, sighting at the giant lollipop shape before him. The lightning flashed, and in the few seconds of flickering light, he saw much more than he wanted to.
Mark had been shish-kebabbed on a six-inch drill pipe that was jammed into the ground. The pipe ran up between his legs, into his ass, and through his torso, where it did a magic trick and sprouted obscenely out of what was left of his face and mouth. The pipe gleamed dully in the lightning, and Jones could see entrails hanging in thick red ropes from the top like streamers from a party favor. His mind suddenly went to the image of minnows he used to skewer on steel hooks when fishing as a child. In the jaw and out the mouth, cast and cast and it won’t go south. His father’s rhyme replayed crazily in his mind as he stared at the ruined body before him.
The lightning abated, and that was when Jimmy began to scream. It welled up from a low groan to a high-pitched shriek that Jones didn’t think any grown man could emit. Jimmy began to stagger backward, then turned and ran full tilt away from the gruesome display before them.
He was rounding the side of the drill structure when an enormous white hand swooped out of the darkness and grasped him around the chest and stomach. The hand was followed by the rest of the creature as it stalked out from behind the structure and into full view. It stood for a moment holding the kicking and screaming man in its grip, staring into Jimmy’s convulsing face with its black eyes.
For a second Jones thought he saw a hint of a smile pulling back the hanging jowls around the massive mouth, but then it was moving in a blur of speed. It took two large steps and slammed Jimmy into the side of the muddy hill. In one motion, the monster smashed and smeared the man’s body into a gooey mass on the side of the hill, sliding its hand up and away. An image of a man squashing a mosquito on his leg and wiping the remains off his hand sprang into Jones’s mind. He finally brought his gun up and pulled the trigger.
The muzzle flash from the weapon lit up the night like a miniature lightning strike, and bullets flew from the muzzle like angry wasps. Wounds opened up in dark punches of blood across the side of the creature. Jones heard it grunt with pain and watched it turn in his direction. He quickly readjusted his aim and squeezed off another burst of rounds that flew at the chest of the abomination, right where its heart should be.
The lead opened up a meaty hole in the center of the thing’s chest, and it fell backward, tipping on its strange legs. It hit the ground on its back and lay still, both arms out in a spread-eagle pose. Lightning flashed again, and Jones’s muzzle didn’t waver an inch. It stayed trained on the target lying on its back in the pouring rain. It didn’t move. He watched. He waited.
An arm flew up in the air, and it began to roll onto its side as it tried to regain its feet. Jones ran.
The last tank settled heavily into place on the flatbed truck. Elliot sighed his relief at the cargo finally being in place. It had taken a few minutes and a few extra thousand dollars to coax his sleepy-eyed driver out of the warm, dry cab of the truck and into the bucket operator’s chair, but he had done it. The massive truck and trailer now held the six tanks of lithium water, and they were ready to be hauled away.
Elliot looked around the immediate vicinity, his eyes squinting against the rain that refused to stop falling. Where was that fucker Jones? He hadn’t seen him since he had run off into the rain-drenched night holding that black machine gun. He had seen the flare of light that could have only come from lit gasoline and had wondered how well his security team was handling the renegade bear. He had snickered to himself in the rain. He hoped the bear would finish Jones off for him so he wouldn’t have to shoot the bastard himself.
At one point while he and John had been loading the tanks—well, he had stood by yelling profanities and needless instructions while John loaded the tanks—he thought he had heard gunfire. Chew him up bear, Elliot thought. He was done with this project, and he didn’t care if the whole work site burned to the ground and he didn’t get paid. The execs at Emerson would be pretty pissed when they realized that he’d hauled away and sold the lithium deposits from their land, but by then he’d be sipping drinks on the shore of his own island.
Elliot reached inside his soaked coat and fingered the cold steel of the semiautomatic again. He was starting to question himself. Could he do it? Could he calmly pull the pistol out and shoot Jones in the back of the head? Could he ride away and leave the country tonight? Never look back and never feel remorse for leaving a dead man in the cold Idaho mud? Elliot sniffed and turned back to the truck. Of course he could. Where would he go tonight? He couldn’t go to his island yet. He thought Spain was nice this time of year, so maybe there.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching from the direction of the work site. He could hear the steady slurping sounds of boots slamming down and being pulled up from the mud. He swung his head toward the sounds and could see the dark outline of a man approaching at a run. After a few moments, he could make out the solid shape of Jones holding his gun close to his chest as he ran. And he was yelling something, but Elliot was already reaching toward his holster on the inside of his coat. All right, as soon as he gets close enough. Just pull and fire, don’t hesitate.
“Get in the fucking truck! It’s coming! Get in the truck!” Jones yelled again.
But Elliot’s mind was on a one-way track now, like a freight train rolling down a steep hill. He pulled his gun out into the dim glow from the truck’s running lights and aimed it at the approaching figure. His heart was slamming in his chest. His grip was firm on the pistol, but his arm shook like a flagpole in a gale. His finger tightened on the trigger. Squeeze, breath. Just like he had been taught by the high-priced firearms instructor whom he had purchased the Beretta through. If only his instructor could see him now, pointing a loaded gun at another man. Big no-no.
At the last second, Jones looked right at him and realized what was in his hand, but it was too late.
Two things happened in the same time. The first was the gun kicked up in an arc and a bullet sped directly toward Jones’s surprised face. The second was something huge and white came hurtling out of the darkness to Jones’s right. The shape didn’t slow down or change course as it slammed into Jones like a truck, lifting him from his feet before the bullet could tear its way through the skin, bone, and brain of Elliot’s top security guard. Instead, the bullet smacked wetly into the side of the thing as it passed, throwing a spray of fine blood up into the wet air around it.
Elliot blinked and shook his head as he turned and trie
d to focus on what was now happening to his former hired killer. The bear was standing over top of Jones, who lay on the sopping soil of the valley with his back and shoulders pushed painfully deep in the mud. Elliot stared at the white bear—that had to be what it was, didn’t it?
Although, now as it rose to its full height, he began to wonder, and when it reached down with giant hand and plucked the fallen man from the sodden earth with a squelching sound, all semblance of a bear faded away at once. That thing was no bear. Looking at it now, Elliot couldn’t begin to fathom how his mind had thought the word bear to describe what stood before him. It was tall, much too tall. And the stilted limbs were too long.
Elliot heard John yell something incoherent in the background. He jumped from his post atop the truck’s crane and started running as soon as he hit the ground. But Elliot didn’t turn to look; his attention was wholly focused on the spectacle in front of him.
The thing stood to its full height and pulled Jones up so he was in line with its oblong face and head. Jones had been knocked unconscious by the impact, but being lifted through the air seemed to have the same effect as smelling salts. His eyes opened, and he stared into the face of the creature. He looked into the blackened depths of its eyes, and when lightning flashed with the brightness of noon, he realized the presence behind those eyes was not just old but ancient and knowing. He felt naked within its grasp, and he could feel all the suffering and death he had ever caused being brought to bear and scrutinized under its stare. This more than anything made him scream, because he knew he was being held not by an animal but by something with reason and intellect. And there was no pity for him in its eyes, only judgment.
The Pale Man’s lips and jowls pulled back in a sharp grimace of anger and hatred, and it reached up and wrapped two long fingers and a thumb around Jones’s neck. With its other hand, it hooked two fingers over his shoulders and pulled.
Jones’s entire spine pulled free of his body and slid into the rain like a blade being unsheathed. The vocal cords in his disembodied head and throat emitted a choked whine that faded away quickly without air from his lungs to fuel the scream. The Pale Man stared into the head’s blank eyes for a moment, then tossed it aside like a piece of trash.
