That wasn’t a drift of snow.
It rose up from the ground, a hunched shape seemingly molded from the snow.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
“Umph.”
It reached out with two long arms, parted the bushes, and lumbered cautiously out into the open. It moved like a gorilla, one fist down in the accumulation, its haunches low to the ground. Its long hair was stark white and blew sideways on the wind, replicating the movement of the snow. Had he not actually watched it emerge from the forest, Coburn could have stared right at it and never seen it. As it was, it started to blend into the scenery before his very eyes, save for the crimson streaks clumped into its hair from its chin down to the center of its chest.
“Umph. Umph.”
Its chest compressed and its shoulders flinched when it made the sounds.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
Its body was more slender than a gorilla’s, although it was difficult to truly tell with all of the hair. And the shape of its face was different. The short forehead sloped backward toward the hairline from an upturned pug nose, but the jaws didn’t protrude to nearly the extent of any simian. And the skin was pale, nearly translucent. It looked almost like Caucasoid skin over Negroid bone structure with an ape’s nose. It looked almost…human.
“Umph.”
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
“Come on!” Coburn yelled.
It leaned forward, stabbed its balled fist into the snow, and moved closer. One lumbering step, then another.
Coburn aligned the barrel of his rifle with its broad chest. From this range, he could blow a hole the size of a baseball straight through it. Maybe even through the tree behind it, too.
It stopped where it was, as though sensing his thoughts.
Why was it just crouching there? Like it was daring him to take a shot?
“Umph. Umph.”
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
It was as though it wanted Coburn to destroy it, but that made no sense. Why would it draw his attention to it, let him sight it down, when—?
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
Understanding struck him so hard he staggered backward and nearly tripped over Baumann’s head.
It was a diversion.
He swung his Remington to the left. There was another one. Nearly flush with the ground. Closer. Not more than a dozen feet away. He hadn’t even seen it slip out of the trees. It watched him through cold blue eyes, its face a Rorschach pattern of frozen blood. Its lips peeled back into something resembling a smile, its teeth rimmed with red along its gray gums.
He turned to his right. Another one. Even closer. Ten feet maybe. Two running strides and a lunge. A fraction of a fraction of a second. It held its left hand out to its side and unfurled its disproportionally long fingers. The creases in the skin were lined with blood. Its nails were short, but he could tell they were sharp, even from a distance.
Back to the one straight ahead.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
It bared its teeth in triumph. It knew that it had him cut off from any chance of escape, that he had one shot before they were upon him, and he would undoubtedly take it at one of the other hunters who were closer to him, the more immediate threats.
It knew it had won.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
Coburn’s plan had failed. Forward had failed. Down had—
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
Animal instincts.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
Even if he did reach help, no one would believe him. No one who hadn’t seen them. No one who hadn’t survived them. Not without proof.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
“Umph.”
One shot.
Three attackers.
They knew what he would do. They always did. They’d done this before.
Movement in the woods. There were more of them back there.
THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP-thump.
Animal. Instincts.
“rrrRRaaAHHhr—!”
Coburn squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the lead creature in the center of the chest with enough force to lift it from the ground and toss it backward into the bushes with a spray of scarlet. Ropes of blood trailed it through the air from the wound.
The ones to either side of Coburn froze and stared in shock at the fallen one bleeding the snow red, but he didn’t stick around to watch. He was already in motion before the body came to rest in the snow.
He dropped his rifle, spun around, grabbed Baumann’s head, and ran toward the edge of the cliff.
One thought.
Down.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Coburn leapt from the ledge. He cradled the head to his chest and tucked his legs close to his body.
A sensation of weightlessness.
An eternal sensation of weightlessness.
Time slowed.
“rrrRRaaAHHhrrr!” from behind and above him.
Impact.
His feet struck the upper canopy with an explosion of snow and pine needles. He cartwheeled forward, crashing through branches, bouncing from boughs, ricocheting down.
Down.
Down.
Branches cut his face, tore his clothing. He tasted blood.
He hit the ground on the steep slope in two feet of snow. His momentum carried him onward in a tumble.
There was no breath with which to cry out. A darkness blooming from inside of him, threatening to absolve him of sight, thought. He flipped downhill, landed on his back, slid on the ice under the snow.
Slid over rocks and weeds and tufts of grass.
Fired from the crest of a steep knoll.
Landed, tumbled, slid some more.
Stopped.
Alive? Not alive.
Dead? Not dead.
Pain.
He existed in a realm of pain. Somewhere between life and death, where either alternative would have been a blessing.
The screaming wind. Driving flakes.
He pushed himself above the accumulation. His breath returned only to be expelled on a bellow of agony.
“rrrRRaaAHHhrrr…”
Soft. Distant.
He tried to rise to his hands and knees, tried to crawl, but fell onto his face. Something tucked under his right arm. He didn’t look at it, but he knew it was important. He shoved it up under his jacket, against his chest.
He tried again. Crawled.
Forward.
Down.
Help.
One hand in front of the other. One knee in front of the other. Again. Again.
“rrrRRaaAHHhrrr…”
Still distant, but closer.
He somehow managed to stand, staggered forward. Fell. Stood again.
One foot in front of the other.
The cracking sound of ice beneath him.
Stream. He was on a frozen stream.
Streams led downhill to larger bodies of water.
Downhill.
Coburn limped into the blizzarding snow.
Down.
* * *
The pain kept him sharp, focused. The pain kept him alive.
Ribs were broken, but he no longer tasted blood. His right fibula was fractured, but it wasn’t a weight-bearing bone. His left radius was broken, Colles-style, forcing him to carry his arm against his chest to stabilize it. He used it to hold his cargo in place under his jacket. His head pounded mercilessly. He was undoubtedly concussed. Conscious thought gave way to animal instinct. He knew that should he stop moving for even a minute, he would be dead. So he concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, moving forward. He concentrated on heading down. And he fantasized about finding help.
Help: it was the shining light at the end of the tunnel; the culmination of all of his hopes and dreams; his entire world embodied by four little letters.
In
addition to heading downward, he stayed downwind so as not to leave a scent trail. He left false tracks; backtracking in his own footprints before heading in a different direction entirely. He dragged a pine branch behind him to scour his footprints. He walked on ice or rocks whenever and wherever he could. He tried not to break any branches, trample any shrubs, or snag his clothing on brambles. He slid down embankments and wound through valleys. He ate only when he absolutely had to, and then only sparingly. He sucked on icicles to stave off dehydration. He held his bladder until he was able to find a place where he could break through the ice and urinate directly into the water, which swept his smell away. There were even times he suspected he slept even while he was walking.
He became an animal, in his mind and in reality.
The cold sustained him. It forced him to keep his eyes open, forced him to take deep breaths, forced him to keep moving his legs. It diminished the pain.
From time to time, he heard them. Far away, distant echoes rolling through the mountains like thunder. He swore he heard them barreling through the trees behind him, but whenever he turned, all he saw were the branches shaking in the breeze. He heard their grunts, that repeated fist-to-the-gut sound, and yet never saw them. After a while, he realized his own mind was conjuring most of the noises and began to doubt his sense of hearing.
Every second of life was a gift, a gift endured in infinite agony, but a gift nonetheless. Each hour that passed brought him closer to help. He began to hope. He began to plan. He started to envision different scenarios: barging into a rancher’s house and awaiting Medevac while deputies radioed directions to field units; walking into the Sheriff’s Department, slamming Baumann’s head down on the desk, and flying up into the mountains on a chopper with a heavily armed SWAT team; leading a small army into the hills to wipe each and every one of those monsters off the face of the planet.
Day turned to evening and evening to night. Darkness fell and he made a wish on the lone star he’d seen through the cloud cover in days, and then sacrificed hope to wage battle with his fear.
They come at night.
And still he placed one foot in front of the other. Despite the pain, despite the sensation of bone grinding against bone, despite the rib fragments that prodded his lungs with each inhalation, despite the bitter cold and the frostbite gnawing at his bare skin, despite the fear and the loneliness and the isolation and the memories of his dearest friends being butchered. Despite it all, he endured.
One foot in front of the other.
Forward.
Down.
Help.
November 21st: Rocky Mountains
Today
A part of him knew that night had become day, but that part now resided in the darkness of his mind. His body was an automaton; a machine capable of little more than shivering and breathing. And walking. Walking and stumbling and falling and pushing himself back to his feet only to walk and stumble and fall again.
Forward.
Down.
Help.
He had no idea where he was, no idea how far he had traveled, or how far he had left to go. Every tree was identical to the last, every peak a twin to the one he just passed, every valley a bottleneck opening onto another just like it.
Forward.
Down.
Help.
His toes vanished for long stretches of time, only to announce their return when they caught fire inside his boots. His fingers did the same. Alternately freezing, burning, and vanishing.
Forward.
Down.
Help.
Dawn. Sunrise. Morning. Afternoon. Sunset. Twilight. Night. All irrelevant concepts, words to mark time when time itself, it seemed, had ceased to exist. Or at least ceased to matter.
Forward.
Down.
Help.
The him that was him was no longer him. The legs that supported him were no longer his. He was the river beneath the ice, flowing slowly and sluggishly, yet inexorably downhill.
Forward.
Dow—
Darkness.
Coburn regained consciousness with his face in the snow, vaguely aware that he had fallen yet again. He coughed out a mouthful of snow and pushed himself to all fours—
—only to awaken in the black world again. He couldn’t breathe. He panicked and pushed himself up on trembling arms. It took all of his strength to rise to his knees so that he could claw the snow out of his eyes and mouth.
A light.
A distant golden aura through the shifting branches and blowing flakes.
He bellowed in triumph, an animal sound that summoned a warm trickle of blood from his trachea.
He managed to create momentum and willed his legs to carry him onward.
Help.
November 21st: Pine Springs, Colorado
Today
Screaming.
All of the people in the diner are screaming.
The man sees them only as silhouettes, for the elements and the snow have blinded him. Red blebs float through his field of view, but his resolve is undaunted. He rolls onto his side and manages to prop himself up against the wall. He’s on a dirty black mat speckled with blue salt crystals from the sidewalk. There’s a tear in his jeans where the skin shows through. It’s marbled black and purple. One leg is crumpled beneath him at an angle that should be causing the snow-covered man pain, or at least significant discomfort, but he is oblivious. He just sits there with his blood-spattered jacket hanging open, the bloody impression of a face on his shirt like the Shroud of Turin.
People distance themselves from the Snowman, crowding toward the back of the restaurant where a dumbfounded cook is silhouetted in the window below the carousel of tickets. The griddle and the fryer sizzle and smoke behind him, forgotten. None of them want any part of what’s about to happen, yet they are helpless but to watch.
The silhouette of a tall man approaches. A star shape glitters on his breast. His hat has a broad brim. A cowboy hat. His boots make clomping sounds on the tile as he approaches the Snowman on the floor, who cranes his neck in an effort to better visualize the man with the star. The standing man tilts his head toward his shoulder and whispers. There’s a crackle of static and a woman mumbles a reply.
“Help,” the Snowman whispers, but it comes out as little more than a sigh. Again he tries, “Help.”
“Show me your hands!” the Starman shouts. He reaches for his hip, gives a tug, tugs again. His belt jangles. After an awkward moment punctuated by the sounds of crying and whimpering and snapping grease and clattering plates and silverware, the Starman is pointing at the seated man with both hands held together in front of him.
The Snowman smiles and fresh blood seeps from the cracks in his tattered lips. He nods to himself as though in answer to a question only he can hear.
“Help,” the man whispers again and starts to cry. He leans forward and makes a horrible animal sound that could be a sob or a laugh or in response to any of the myriad emotions that rapidly play upon his face.
He reaches out and picks up the severed head. The eyes are sunken into the sockets and the cranium is misshapen from the Snowman repeatedly falling onto it. The lips are pulped and the front teeth are gone. One of them is stuck to the blood on the Snowman’s shirt. It is obvious both by the sight and the smell that the head has been separated from the body for some time. And even more obvious, judging by the rictus of pain frozen to the man’s face, that his passing must have been a singularly excruciating experience.
The Snowman holds the head out for the Starman, presents it to him like a gift, an offering.
“Drop it!” the Starman shouts. “Don’t you dare move a muscle!”
The Snowman holds it up higher in response, tipping it to showcase the ridges where teeth have gnawed bone.
“Jesus Christ! Put that goddamn thing down and raise your hands above your head!”
The Snowman falters. The expression on his face is now one of confusion. He leans forward to set the
head on the floor and barely keeps from collapsing. Something falls from the inside pocket of his jacket and makes a clattering sound when it strikes the tile.
“Back away from the knife!” the Starman shouts.
More screaming from the back of the restaurant.
The Snowman shakes his head and smiles again. This is obviously just a misunderstanding. It’s just a skinning knife. The tip isn’t even sharp anymore after using it to carve the names of the dead onto the wall. He can prove it. He can just pull it out of its scabbard and show the Starman that the blunted tip isn’t even sharp enough to prick his thumb.
“Back away from it! This is your last warning! Back away from the weapon!”
The Snowman grabs the knife from the floor, grips it by the hilt, and pulls—
The report is deafening.
The Snowman’s head snaps backward as he’s tossed toward the door.
The glass spider-webs away from the bullet hole.
It falls in shards onto the Snowman.
A crimson pool seeps out from beneath his head.
An arc of blood slowly dissociates into slender ribbons that trickle down the inside of the plate glass window above the scarlet-speckled booths, dribbling down the words painted on the opposite side of the glass.
ALFERD PACKER GRILL
HOME OF THE WORLD FAMOUS 72 oz. MONSTER SIRLOIN
ATTENTION BIG GAME HUNTERS:
WELCOME TO BIGFOOT COUNTRY!
Author’s Note
(If you haven’t read the story yet, stop reading right now. Right this very second, dammit! What? Are you blind or just trying to be difficult? Stop reading right this very minute or so help me…)
Now, for those of you who actually read the story and didn’t cheat, here are some fun facts:
The word “Sasquatch” is an anglicized derivative of the Salish Indian word “Sésquac,” which means “wild man.”
Early North American pioneers called them “skookums” (or the regional variant, “scoocooms”) and “mountain devils.”
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