Bigfoot Abomination

by Dane Hatchell

  BIGFOOT ABOMINATION

  Dane Hatchell

  Copyright 2017 by Dane Hatchell

  Chapter 1

  Earth’s Present

  Darkness wasn’t Cole Rainwater’s friend, but he was drawn to it like a junkie hooked on heroin.

  He was there again, hunting with his uncle in Owls Bend near Mark Twain National Forest. The fog was thick that morning. He could practically chew each breath of cold air. It tasted a bit like the funk of dried leaves and acid-resin pine needles. At least the mosquitos slept in for the morning. The cold did nothing to keep the spider’s under the covers, though.

  As usual, spiderwebs fanned across the trails in every direction. Cole hated spiders. There was something icky and flesh-crawling about those eight legs. With his rifle barrel in the lead, he cut through a silky arachnid’s net. It split in half and whisked to either side. He looked in time to see the web’s creator scurry from the edge onto a low-lying branch overhead. It was a Writing Spider, and it was huge! Had that beast been in the middle waiting to catch its breakfast, Cole would have found another trail to take. For a moment he thought about shooting it but knew better because Uncle George would get mad at him for scaring game away over a spider.

  Cole lowered his head and looked for Uncle George, who had stepped somewhere out front out of sight. No matter, the two of them had hunted the area together before and knew where to meet up. They were hunting squirrels and would be firing up into trees, so there was no danger of shooting each other.

  Déjà vu enlightened the moment. Cole had been here before. He had done all of this before. The spider web draped over his rifle barrel like strands of cotton candy and glistened in the morning sun. A quick wipe with his gloved hand cleaned it. Some chemical in the spider web could etch the bluing on the rifle’s barrel if he left in on there.

  Cole looked about, and an ominous feeling of dread held him in its clutches.

  A squirrel a few trees over started barking.

  The bad feeling evaporated as the thrill of his hunter instincts pushed it aside. Hunting was more than just something to do on a Saturday morning. There was something satisfying that words couldn’t describe when stalking prey. His heart beat faster. His hearing amplified and eyesight focused clearer.

  The squirrel chattered on. Nothing would enter its domain without getting a good tongue lashing and the threat of a whipping tail.

  Stepping carefully toward the tree, keeping his head low and approaching with obstacles shielding his advance, Cole made his way to get off an unobstructed shot.

  The squirrel was bad-ass enough to stand its ground. Good. It was a noble act but would soon lead to its death. Something that small should have been given enough sense not to provoke a larger animal. Cole knew that rats were smart and that squirrels were basically long-tail rats with a better publicist. But he couldn’t remember one time a rat ever stood its ground. It was always ‘head for the hills’ when discovered.

  A clear shot now opened before him. The squirrel’s tail fluttered like a squirmy red worm cut in half. It was almost daring him to shoot! Cole was happy to take the invitation.

  The rifle went up, and he carefully peered over the top until the front and rear sights aligned. He methodically pushed the button near the trigger, disabling the safety. As his finger reached for the trigger, the dreadful feeling returned and immobilized him.

  Cole had been here before. He had done all of this before.

  Then the smell wafted through the cool breeze, unleashing an avalanche of memories. A barnyard odor laced with other pungent notes that provoked primordial fears. The hairs felt prickly on the back of his neck, and his bum hole puckered a few times.

  Cole was scared to look at where he knew the monster watched. But look he would, just as he had done the first time.

  From a distance, it could have first appeared to be a tall, robust tree stump, rotting and without branches. Its form looked animal-like, though. Perhaps even like a bear standing tall to reach something good to eat from above. This was no bear because it was now obvious it was shaped like a man. A ‘man’ with long reddish-brown hair that covered its body, save for face and chest. Cole had watched enough of the Discovery Channel to know this creature could only be a bigfoot.

  The bigfoot stood with its large eyes peering into Cole’s very soul. He couldn’t tell if it was contemplating an attack or if maybe he was there for the squirrel too. Knowing the rules of mother nature of predator and prey, making a dash for safety might inspire the monster to give chase. He racked his brain and couldn’t remember ever hearing of bigfoot eating humans, but he was afraid to bolt and find out for himself.

  Still, he couldn’t just stand there and not do something. For a moment, his mind went down the path of pointing the gun at the creature and shooting to scare it away. But what if that didn’t work? His gun was a .22 caliber rifle and would be useless against a hulk like that.

  Fear had clouded his memory, but now the déjà vu returned.

  He pushed the rifle’s safety to ‘on’ and backed away. Soon, the bigfoot was out of sight. With no sign of pursuit, Cole turned and ran to find his Uncle George.

  “Good morning Salem, Missouri. Time to get up and shave, shower, and get in ship-shape to start the day. This is your ol’ pal Al on KQKY bringing you the best of Classic Rock of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. Guess what time it is? It’s time to get the lead out!”

  Cole reached over and slapped at the alarm clock until the music stopped playing. Hearing a Led Zeppelin song this early in the morning was too much even for him. Something like Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” would be better. As depressing as the lyrics were, it still was a soothing tune to wake up to and make the bed.

  The reoccurring nightmare over, the mire of sleep released Cole from its chains. He had encountered the bigfoot some four years ago when he was ten. Of course, no one believed his story. Reports of bigfoot in the region were rare but not unheard of, usually told by some drunk hunter. His father blamed his hallucination on sugary cereal. Cole loved Froot Loops with marshmallows. He had eaten them for years without a similar incident. Regardless of what people thought from that day on, Cole had delved headfirst into the world of the paranormal, aliens, and cryptozoology.

  He sat on the edge of his bed with his dangling feet hovering above the floor. The sheets were moist with sweat as was the hair on his neck. He ran his hand from the back of his head to the front of his high and tight haircut. Summer was coming, and he had let his dad talk him into getting a military-style haircut. At first, the short hair on his sandy-brown head made him look bald. But in less than a week enough had grown for him to look more like his hero, the wrestling champion, John Cena.

  The floorboards felt cold as he slid from his bed. Socks were the first of the clothing to go on. Stepping into each one at a time, he stood before the mirror, with his elbows out and his fists near his belly button. Flexing in front of the mirror showed his time lifting weights was paying off. His pecs, deltoids, and biceps were coming along nicely. Although if he had to be honest with himself, his arms looked like toothpicks compared to John Cena’s.

  He imagined what he’d look like sporting Cena’s guns. As he flexed, he realized he’d look stupid with arms disproportional to the rest of his body. Adding Cena’s chest to his arms would make his head look three sizes too small. Plus, his legs would look like beanpoles. After a big sigh, he realized that it was going to take years and a lot of working out to look like Cena.

  Pants and shirt went on next, and then a quick trip to the washroom before heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

  The aroma of brewed coffee warmed the air as Cole went about his morning ritual. Grab a bowl and spoon and place them on the table. Get the c
ereal and drop it off while going to the fridge for the milk. Take the milk and pour it into the bowl until half-full, then put the milk back in the fridge. (His dad didn’t like the milk sitting out to get warm.) Then, dump the cereal out of the box until it nearly spilled over. This week his dad had bought him Cheerios, which wasn’t too bad for his liking. Of course, he hurriedly snuck in two spoons of sugar before his dad, who was in the washroom now, made his entrance.

  A few oat-rich Os paratrooped to the table as the spoon went into the bowl and then up to his mouth. The cereal crunched between his teeth, and the sound reminded him of a horse feeding from a trough. When he wasn’t able to slip extra sugar in bland cereal, he felt like he was eating horse food.

  Slippers scuffing the hall carried into the kitchen. His dad had on his pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. Robotically, his focus never left the coffee pot, where he grabbed a mug from a hook under the counter and poured a cup. He brought the mug to his nose, and his eyes magically showed signs of life. “Morning.” He shuffled over to the table and removed the sugar bowl top. Lifting the bowl, he sprinkled sugar into his coffee. Most of the sugar made it; some landed on the table.

  “Dad, you ought to use a spoon,” Cole said, and then crammed in another mouthful of cereal.

  “Why dirty a spoon after one use?”

  “We could just leave a spoon in the bowl all the time.”

  “That’s unsanitary.”

  “We have a dishwasher.”

  “Yeah, that I load and unload. More work for me. You’re lucky I don’t make you do more around here.” Mark Rainwater wasn’t in bad shape for a thirty-five-year-old, but he could have taken much better care of himself. A widower and single dad for the last twelve years didn’t afford much personal time. He was a lineman for Midstate Electric. His normal eight-hour shift often expanded during weather events and his co-workers calling in sick or on vacation.

  “Uh, we need some more bananas,” Cole said, hoping to divert his dad’s train of thought.

  “Oh, really?” Mark’s sarcastic tone told Cole he picked the wrong thing to talk about.

  “Yeah, you know. I take one for lunch.”

  “I was walking in the woods the other day and guess what I found?”

  His gaze glued to the emptying bowl, Cole said, “I dunno.”

  “A banana, hanging from a string tied to a tree branch. Did you do that?”

  Barely audible, Cole said, “Yes sir.”

  “Cole, you shouldn’t waste food like that. There’s no bigfoot so there’s no need to leave bait.”

  “I had my wildlife camera set up in the woods. If bigfoot had taken the banana, I would have a picture of it. I’d be the first to prove bigfoot is real. Then, all the guys at school wouldn’t make fun of me. I’d be a hero. We’d be rich. I bet I could sell the picture for a million dollars.”

  Mark’s ire subsided, evident by his slumping shoulders, and his head tilting to one side. “Son, you should concentrate on more important things than bigfoot or UFOs or ghosts. Spend more time with your studies. If you want a good paying job, you’ll need to go to college. You’re a smart boy, but you’ll have to make an effort. Don’t go chasing rainbows. Work on your fastball. Who knows? You might be good enough one day to get a baseball scholarship to Mizzou.”

  “You really think!” Cole’s face brightened.

  Forcing a smile, Mark said, “Well…its possible. I wasn’t good at sports, but your Uncle George was before he got in the car accident and messed up his shoulder. Who knows? You may take after him.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I may be only fourteen, but I know how the world works.”

  Mark giggled. “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s all about priorities. Do the important things first and then the fun stuff when you have time. I want a good job that pays lots of money so I can afford to look for crashed UFOs or go on hunts for bigfoot, and stuff like that.”

  “More power to you, son,” Mark said, and then raised a thumb. “Oh, the school sent an email saying that old man Douglas is complaining that some boys from the school are playing pranks on him on his farm. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  “No sir, I don’t.”

  “The prank, as Douglas called it, was leaving huge footprints and making a mess in his garden.”

  “You mean like bigfoot prints?” Cole said with excitement.

  “No, he said they were shoe prints. I want you to be clear with that fact so you don’t get any strange ideas about going over there. Stay away from the old codger. He spent some time in prison before buying his place. He doesn’t bother anyone and doesn’t like to be bothered.”

  “I don’t have time to do anything like that,” Cole said as he stood and took his bowl to the sink. “I’ll be home a little later today. It’s Tuesday, and I have baseball practice.”

  “Remember to do your stretching exercises before you throw any balls.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I got this,” Cole said as he raised a thumb up at his dad.

  Something didn’t sound right with Douglas’ story. Huge shoe prints? That didn’t make sense. What if Douglas altered the story so that bigfoot hunters would stay away from his place?

  Cole had some thinking to do. If bigfoot was in the area, he would have to make an extra effort to capture it on his camera.

  Chapter 2

  Earth’s Future

  The mech-armor by the infirmary’s door waited for the human to bring it to life. The transmetal shell was of Skink design and retrofitted for his smaller body. He needed the armor to make him their equal. Humans were squishy bags of flesh with bones easily broken. Skinks averaged seven feet in height, with thick skin, and ropey muscles hardening their bodies like steel. If Mother Earth had blessed the reptiles as She had done evolving the mammals, the Skinks would certainly qualify as cousins.

  His name was Tarik. He was told his father was a recombinant mass of goo and his mother a petri dish. That was a strange answer to give a boy of four who had asked why he looked so different from everyone else, but it was the harsh truth. One of many harsh truths Tarik became aware of over the last twenty-five years. Life on Earth had changed drastically since the Skinks invaded and transformed humanity into a new species. Why had an alien race, after traveling hundreds of light years from their ancient planet, focused on genetic manipulation of the dominate species? It seemed that superior intelligence would have fostered benevolence, but the opposite was true.

  Now, humanity’s replacement, the Skinks referred to as Nu-Mans, were on a short path to extinction. Humankind’s replacement had a genetic time bomb ticking that would explode before the next generation. Tarik wasn’t one of the Nu-Mans. He was an anomaly and the last hope to save his home planet from an invading species.

  Hudson lay uncovered, with his eyes half-open, on a ten-foot-long bed. His hairy, wide feet jutted up like small tombstones right at the bed’s edge. The monitor to the side’s tiny speaker pulsed in a dull rhythm as jagged colored lines etched against the black screen. The dim light and stale air in the room choked the moment. The scene defined hopelessness. A death sentence with no chance of parole.

  “Tarik…” Hudson said weakly. His lips barely moved, and he continued to stare into the distance. The once sleek brown hair covering most of his body peppered now with gray, with coarse and matted patches like an animal in the wilderness.

  “I’m right here, Hud.” Tarik took a deep breath and lightly stepped toward his teacher, his friend. Did he have the right to call him his father? They were not blood-related. Their only connection shared DNA structures that all humanity had in common. Emphasis on had. Tarik was the last human on Earth, and Hudson was a Nu-Man.

  The Skinks designed the Nu-Mans to be a hardier version of primate, genetically splicing homo sapien DNA with that of the rare creature known as sasquatch. An endeavor that had failed miserably, but with little consequence to the Skinks. Altering human evolution was more of a source of entertainment than mee
ting some beneficial objective. The Skinks had what they wanted. A Planet still vibrant with life, water, and plenty of precious elements and minerals, unlike on their now dead home planet.

  “I’m sorry.” Hudson lifted his left hand to the side of the bed, with an open palm.

  Tarik took the invitation and placed a hand in Hudson’s hold. The Nu-Man’s gentle grip made him feel safe, despite the fact that if Hud made a fist, it would swallow Tarik’s hand entirely and fracture bones. “Sorry? You don’t have any reason to feel sorry for me. You’re the one suffering.”

  “Yeah. I’m suffering all right. There’s no way to sugar coat my condition,” Hudson said, sounding stronger as if Tarik’s touch commuted some of the human’s life force. “I’m sorry that you’re the only one. I can only imagine what it’s been like growing up without anyone else of your kind. Why, I remember the day you asked me when your body hair would start growing like mine.” A melancholy smile edged his lips.

  “I’ve grown to appreciate my exposed skin. A fast toweling after a shower and I’m dry.”

  “Hair hides a multitude of imperfections. It helps when attracting the ladies, too.”

  “That’s a problem I don’t have.” Tarik lowered his head.

  “I know, and it’s not like we didn’t try. The Skinks doomed us as a race after their refining of our genetics. Our only hope to one day retake Earth was to recreate the human species. It took thousands of tries to produce you. After that, we thought we had the process perfected. You know the rest of the story. After thousands of more failures, we finally gave up.”

  “It’s no more your fault that you failed than it was by your doing that I came to be. I’m just an accident, a genetic abomination.”

  “Maybe…” Hudson said. “I’ve thought a lot about that, and I’m reminded of something I once read. Look not at the things that are seen, but at the things that are not seen.”