The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster

by Frank E. Peretti

  She screamed.

  Was that Rachel? Just above her, something let out a roar so deep and loud she felt it in her chest. She wriggled and looked up just in time to see Rachel leap over her and land directly in the bear’s path. Rachel’s hair bristled like a brush, enlarging her outline.

  The two huge bodies collided like a thunderclap, then rolled and grappled, impacting tree trunks, shattering limbs, throwing leaves and dirt, pounding and gouging the ground. Beck heard it and only partially saw it until Rachel stood in a shaft of ghostly moonlight, hefting the huge black mass as it kicked and flailed. With skill, quickness, and astonishing power, Rachel took the bear’s head in both hands and whipped its massive body about until the neck bones crackled and the bear went limp. She whipped the body again. It hung like a sack of lead from her hands, motionless. She shook it to be sure, then dashed it to the ground, heavy, contorted, and dead.

  Reuben was still bawling. Leah was moaning and clicking at him, no doubt trying to calm him down. Jacob huffed from somewhere close, pushing toward them through the undergrowth.

  Rachel was still angry, her hair bristling, her nostrils steaming, her canines flashing in the dim light. She reached down, grabbed two handfuls of bear hide, hefted the bear over her head, and dashed it to the ground again. The guts tore loose with a mashing sound that made Beck wince.

  Beck ventured only one look. She couldn’t see the bear’s eyes, only its tongue protruding from its mouth and glistening in the dim light, a row of white teeth—and the head grotesquely twisted and dangling, nearly severed.

  Rachel breathed heavily as she came toward Beck, hands extended to gather her up.

  Beck cowered, shied away. Don’t. Don’t touch me.

  She’d heard terrible screams before and been terrified. She’d seen Randy Thompson’s brutally murdered body and wondered what hideous monster could have done such a thing.

  Now, looking up into Rachel’s dark and wrinkled face, she knew.

  Nine

  The cold of the night was creeping into Sam Marlowe’s feet, but since he was strapped into the bear stand on the side of a tree, there wasn’t much he could do other than wiggle his toes and flex his ankles. The rifle was cold and heavy. Dew formed on the barrel, and his hands complained, threatening to cramp. He held the rifle in one hand while he flexed the other, then traded hands and flexed again.

  The woods were alive; the night shift was on duty. Leopard frogs in the nearby streambed called each other at regular intervals; a crowd of coyotes howled and yapped in their usual, ghostly fashion, never there as much as out there somewhere. Every few seconds, a bat flickered like a giant, ghostly moth across the field of his night goggles.

  Below him, the half drum of rotting refuse sent up its stench, but so far, no visitors.

  Wiley Kane almost dozed off, but one tiny snore brought a quick elbow from Steve Thorne, the only one allowed to sleep at the moment. Kane lifted his night goggles long enough to rub his eyes, then went back to scanning the woods.

  Movement down by the cabin caught his eye immediately, but he was disappointed. The half drum of grease and doughnuts had attracted its first visitor: a skunk.

  Well. Somebody was bound to show up.

  Beck held on, her arms around Rachel’s thick neck, her legs wrapped around Rachel’s middle, as Rachel hurried once again through the forest, floating in her strange, bent-kneed gait, back slightly stooped, long arms gently, silently moving tree limbs aside as they passed through. Leah strode about thirty feet ahead of them with Reuben on her back, a vague, cloudy shape in the dark that melted in and out of the shadows and hardly made a sound. Somewhere in the enfolding web of forest and thicket ahead of Leah, Jacob was leading, and somehow, Leah could see him. Where they were going, only Jacob knew.

  They broke out of the forest and followed a dry streambed awash in cold, silver-blue moonlight. The path was littered with deadwood and crisscrossed with the weather-checked remnants of fallen trees. Mountain slopes formed black walls on either side, and directly above, Lyra twinkled beneath the Milky Way. Now Beck could see Jacob far ahead, a silhouette in light but invisible in shadows. He strode across the river rocks and leaped over fallen logs, maintaining a demanding pace the two females were expected to keep up with, even with heavy children on their backs.

  The image was hauntingly familiar. Men. Always showing off. She could have named Jacob Reed instead.

  Oh, Beck, such thoughts! Jacob was a bloodthirsty, flesh-tearing beast; Reed was a man, and what she wouldn’t give to be home with that man right now! Sure, he was one-upping and offending her at every turn in the trail, but that was just his clumsy, male way of helping her grow. He’d pushed himself and her before, and she’d been offended before, but it was his way. He was a man who relished strength and youth, but still a boy tripping over himself trying to grow up. He meant well, and sometimes, like right now, she could see it that way.

  She laid her head on Rachel’s shoulder. She missed Reed, ached for him.

  Rachel’s pace, once steady, now slowed. Beck glanced ahead. Jacob had stolen to the opposite side of the streambed and become a dark extension of a dead snag’s shadow. He remained still as Leah and Rachel, trudging and tired, caught up. Leah moved silently to where a tall hemlock and a hollow stump stood side by side and became one of them, standing still, dark, and massive. Reuben dropped silently from his mother’s back and became a stump. Rachel located herself in a thicket and became a bush, blending her own outline with the shapes around her. Beck settled into the bushes beside Rachel and remained still, satisfied that the leaves would hide her.

  Now only the forest made sounds—the barely noticeable whisper of the breeze, the occasional squeaking of a tiny creature under a rock, the faraway screech of an owl. As far as the forest knew, even as near as Beck could tell, the Sasquatches weren’t there.

  So what was happening? What was this all about? The only information Beck could glean came from Rachel, who peered intently toward a clearing beside the streambed. Beck searched the clearing, shifting as stealthily as she could to peer through the leaves and branches.

  Her heart quickened at the same time her mind balked with uncertainty. Just beyond the tops of some obscuring grasses, she saw a patch of bare ground, and in the middle of that ground, an incongruous pile of roundish objects.

  It was fruit. Apples, pears, even some bananas.

  So this was where Jacob was taking them. He had to have been here before.

  But fruit meant humans, so what was this really? It was hard to imagine someone had placed all the fruit there just to be nice to animals. It had to be bait, and if so, for what purpose? Were hunters in the trees, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to walk into their gun sights?

  The Sasquatches must have been wondering the same thing. They remained still, watching, listening, sniffing, wanting to know all there was to know about this place. If Jacob had been here before, it hadn’t lessened his caution.

  Should I call out? Should I make some noise?

  She thought better of it. Silence and stealth were the rule now, and she was freshly aware that violating the rules could get her killed. Fear had become a given, never gone, seldom lessened, but she couldn’t let it control her or make her do something stupid. She had to think, plan, learn, and wait. There would be another way, sometime, somewhere.

  After another long moment of silent watching, listening, and smelling, Jacob finally broke off from his concealing shadow and moved forward into the clearing. Leah followed next, and behind her, like a half-sized copy, came Reuben.

  Rachel sighed as if with relief and rose slowly from the thicket. She took one more look and listen, then slipped into the clearing. Beck followed close behind her, limping but standing on her own, trying to step where Rachel stepped and be just as quiet about it.

  The others reached the fruit first and wasted no time grabbing it up and gobbling it down. Rachel hesitated at the edge of the bare ground, then took a step. When she didn’t get
growled at or clobbered, she took another. Jacob tossed an apple her way, which she immediately grabbed up, but that was the only toss she got. She drew closer.

  Hungry as she was, Beck was still more interested in the surroundings. She was unable to see anything amiss in the black wall of the forest. She heard no gun bolts sliding, no camera shutters clicking. She saw no blinking red lights from camcorders. Even so, this whole thing had to be a setup. Domestic, store-bought fruit didn’t appear in the middle of the wilderness without some human with a plan.

  Then she realized the ground under her feet felt different. Peering down, she saw that it looked different too. She reached down to touch it; her finger sank to the second joint in loose soil. The ground had been tilled and raked, much like a garden prepared for planting. Her boots sank in, making impressions.

  It hit her.

  Footprints. She and the beasts were leaving them everywhere— which was precisely the idea.

  Rachel nudged her, but Beck paid no mind.

  Footprints! She saw this once on a TV nature show, and now here it was for real. Some nature lovers were hoping to capture the footprints of wild animals. They’d prepared this site with loose soil and bait, and whether they were here now or would return later, they were keeping an eye on it! Beck looked for a trail somewhere, some path the humans had used to get here. She had to find it and remember it.

  Rachel nudged her again, and Beck took a pear from her hand.

  Footprints. Beck started stepping and limping around the site in any loose soil she could find. Got to leave some footprints!

  Rachel followed her, offering her a banana and obliterating every footprint Beck left.

  She took the banana and retraced her steps, trying to put her footprints back, but they were much shallower this time. Rachel kept following her, curious, flattening the impressions under her big, soft feet.

  “Rachel, don’t!”

  “Mmm.”

  Beck stopped to eat the banana just so Rachel wouldn’t follow. Rachel stopped and ate her apple.

  While hurriedly eating the banana, Beck spotted some unstomped soil near the edge of the tilled circle. With the empty banana peel in her hand, she limped to the place. Rachel followed, protective and fascinated.

  With her finger, Beck began scratching numbers in the ground. 2. 0. 8 . . .

  Rachel squatted beside her and watched in the same way she watched everything Beck did, with utmost, unbroken attention. She reached down herself and ran her finger along the ground, leaving one furrow, then another, captivated by the activity.

  Beck could only hope Rachel would remain distracted so she could complete the number. 9. 6.

  She heard the others stirring behind her, rising to leave. Please, just two more seconds! 9. 2—

  Jacob huffed. The party was over.

  The banana peel tumbled to the ground. Beck’s finger was still extended to write as she lurched into the air and flopped over Rachel’s shoulder—Rachel’s best attempt so far at loading up her kid.

  “Nooo! L-l-l-leh . . .” Let me finish!

  Rachel was already trotting out of the clearing, following the others. Beck hung on, gripping, grappling, trying to get right side up. She finally got one hand around Rachel’s neck, then the other, and then her legs astride Rachel’s middle, resting on the hips, as the whole family vanished into the woods again.

  Hope. Beck hadn’t gained as much as she wanted, but at least she had a start on it.

  The gorilla was doing a clumsy line dance without a line, the tops of its running shoes plainly visible above its phony, slip-on feet. It carried a placard that read “Apes Have Rights,” and from under the plastic ape-faced mask, a young man’s voice chanted in a monotonous cadence, “Freedom for our brothers; freedom for the apes! Freedom for our brothers; freedom for the apes!”

  He was one of about a dozen chanting protestors gathered for their Thursday morning demonstration outside the York Primate Center, an old but renovated brick structure on the Corzine University campus. The gorilla suit was a new feature Cap hadn’t seen before.

  On the other hand, Cap, in a loud, tropical shirt, straw hat, Bermuda shorts, and sunglasses, was a sight the protestors hadn’t seen before. Not that he was that unusual; the protestors, most of them students with too few causes and too much time, liked to dress in outrageous ways to draw attention. Besides the gorilla, there was a cheap, K-Mart version of the orangutan from Disney’s Jungle Book, an overweight Tarzan in a loincloth and fright wig, and a scientist in a white lab coat spattered with red paint. When Cap joined them and took up their chant, they were happy enough to count him as one of their own.

  It was mostly during the summer months that these folks displayed themselves at the Primate Center’s gated parking entrance, waiting for the “ape killers, torturers, and exploiters” to venture in or out. Any car arriving or leaving would have to run the gauntlet and endure the latest chant of outrage. Cap had driven this gauntlet on many a Thursday himself.

  Someone had given Cap a sign to wave: “Where Have All The Primates Gone?” He held it high, utilized a few dance steps of his own, and tried to blend in as the chant broke apart and abated in the lull between cars.

  “Hey! You’re new here.” He was being addressed by the group’s leader, a brassy-voiced young woman with garish purple hair and enough metal in her face to set off an airport alarm.

  “Not really. I used to work here.”

  “At the Primate Center?”

  “Yeah, a little bit, but mostly in Bioscience. I taught biology.”

  Tarzan quit talking to the gorilla and they turned to listen.

  “Why don’t you work here anymore?” the leader said.

  “I was fired.”

  “Cool,” said Tarzan.

  “How come?” asked the gorilla.

  “I kept finding problems with Darwinism,” said Cap.

  The response was predictable: the little gasps, the incredulity, the wagging heads, the side glances and snickers.

  “You’re kidding!” the young woman in the lab coat cried. “I thought you were a biology prof!”

  “Mm-hm, molecular biology.”

  “How can a biology prof have a problem with Darwinism?”

  “How can a Darwinist have a problem with anything?”

  “So what are you doing here?” She sounded just a little suspicious. “Do you care about our brothers?”

  “You mean the apes?”

  “Yeah, the apes! They’re our brothers, our closest relatives!”

  The gorilla added, “We’re 98 percent chimpanzee.”

  Cap tried not to sneer. “We taught you that.”

  “So they have rights just like we do,” said the woman, “and we’re gonna stay here until those rights are recognized!”

  That was a prompt. The others all cheered, “Yeah!”

  “Rights for the chimps!”

  “Set ’em free!”

  Cap countered, “Have you ever been in there? The primates aren’t being abused. This is noninvasive research, strictly behavioral. The worst they do is give the primates cucumbers instead of grapes.”

  Some moaned, others wagged their heads, some rolled their eyes. Tarzan even got hostile: “Hey, don’t lie to us, man!”

  “They’re being held in cages, aren’t they?” said the orangutan.

  The woman got right in Cap’s face. “That’s what they want us to think! Sure, maybe the apes here on campus aren’t being abused, but what about the ones they take off campus?”

  “Off campus?” Cap asked. “How do you—?”

  A girl decked out like a tree with a toy chimp in one of her branches—her arm—shouted, “Car coming!”

  They scrambled into lines on either side of the driveway and took up the chant, waving their signs. “Freedom for our brothers; freedom for the apes!” The gorilla broke into his line dance; Tarzan yodeled a yell; the orangutan spun in circles, waving his arms; and the little tree swayed in the wind as the gate lifted and a
car rolled through.

  Cap bolted from the curb and stood in front of the car. “Hey! Hey, Baumgartner!”

  The driver braked abruptly, then honked.

  “You’re gonna get arrested!” the little tree cried out to Cap.

  Cap raised his sunglasses as he leaned over the hood of the car. “Baumgartner! It’s me, Capella!”

  The driver quit honking and stared through the windshield.

  Cap took off his straw hat.

  “Cap! Michael Capella!” The driver rolled down his window and stuck out his head. “Cap! Are you crazy?”

  Cap handed his sign to the gorilla and ran around to the passenger’s side, shouting through the closed window. “We’ve gotta talk!”

  Baumgartner anguished a moment, then reached over and opened the door.

  Cap settled into the passenger’s seat and closed the door behind him, blocking out the din of the chants. “Sorry for the getup, but they wouldn’t let me in to see you.”

  Dr. Emile Baumgartner hit the gas. “Well, let’s get out of here before anybody sees you.”

  Fleming Cryncovich, twenty-three-year-old, unemployed son of an unemployed miner, stood there and stared, his head wiggling back and forth in tiny, unconscious expressions of awe and amazement. His spidery hands shook, awaiting orders for an appropriate gesture from his stupefied brain. Words wouldn’t come to his lips, only little gasps and Ohhhhs.

  It was early morning. The shadows were still long, which brought out the footprints in stark relief. He’d been hoping for years to capture just one Bigfoot print, pressing on and wasting bait while the world laughed and his parents shook their heads. Sometime since yesterday morning, it all became worth it.

  His hands shook so badly he had trouble pulling his camera from its case. He forgot for a moment how to turn it on. He nearly dropped it trying to focus.

  Click! He shot from one side.

  Click! He shot from the other.