Monster

by Frank Peretti

  Beck tried to calm her, quiet her down. “Shhh, now! Shhh! Rachel, don’t do this! The hunters will find you!”

  Rachel shrugged her hand away, and Beck shied back a step, stricken by the tableau of a grieving mother and her dead, mangled child, incredulous at the revelation in the child’s reddish-brown hair: “I was her! You thought I was her! No wonder you wanted my hair the way it was.”

  Ka-wump! As if he’d dropped from the sky, Jacob came leaping over the log and thudded like a falling timber right next to them. Beck jumped with a yelp, but Jacob paid her no mind. Growling and scolding, he yanked Rachel to her feet and shoved her against the log, trying to knock some sense into her. She quit howling but kept crying. He pushed her from behind, herded her, swatted her, got her moving around the log.

  Rachel did not look back to find Beck. She just went around the log, still whimpering, with Jacob huffing at her to be quiet.

  Beck stood there. Alone. Amazed. Nonplussed.

  Rachel didn’t look back.

  When they reappeared on the hill above the log, Jacob was hurrying her along, pushing and grunting. She obeyed and climbed the slope in front of him, her soft feet taking hold of the ground with sure steps, her head hanging as she wiped her tearstained face. They disappeared behind a tree, reemerged, passed behind another tree, then two, and then the forest shrouded them like a closing curtain and Beck saw them no more.

  Somewhere in the deep forest, out of sight, Rachel quit whimpering and Jacob fell silent.

  Beck backed up a step, and noticed that she could. She looked over her shoulder, down the hill, and realized she could go there. She looked up the hill. No Jacob. No Rachel. No group.

  What about the woman? Beck listened carefully, rotating a full circle. The woman was silent, which could mean she was gone, or lurking, or stalking, or trailing the Sasquatches . . .

  There was no time to fret about it. There was no option but to get moving, to find a landmark or trail, to get that GPS turned on and make sure the hunters found only her.

  She ventured One Small Step downhill, slowed by the pain in her body, her ankle complaining but carrying her. Other steps came after the first, from tree to tree to ledge to stump to tree to fallen log, farther down and still farther down, always peering ahead, always hoping to sight something familiar emerging through the ever-changing curtain of trees.

  Just one more time, she looked back. The Sasquatches were gone. She was no danger to them.

  She pulled the GPS from her shirt pocket and pressed the on button. The LCD screen lit up.

  Sing just had to accept it. She couldn’t explain it; she wasn’t expecting it; she could hardly comprehend it, but there it was: Blip Number 6.

  “Reed . . . I have Beck on my screen.”

  The screen faded to black; her thoughts disintegrated into nonsense and she began to dream.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed before she jerked awake, forced her eyes open, and brought the screen back into focus.

  “Reed, Max is heading for Blip Number 6. He can see where Beck is. Reed? Reed, do you copy?”

  No answer.

  Beck studied the screen on her GPS as she hiked a meandering, limping course down the mountain slope, heading for what looked like a stream on the moving map, hoping to find another human being.

  “Hello! Is anybody there?”

  She was alone, and she knew it. She was a stray, a straggler, and a perfect target for a predator. No wonder Rachel never let her wander off.

  “Hello! I’m Beck Shelton! Is anyone there?”

  Keep moving, girl; keep moving. Find those hunters.

  Was she making that noise? She stopped. The rustling she heard continued. It came from up the slope, back among the trees where anything could hide.

  “Hello!”

  No answer—just the snap of twigs, the rustling of some brush.

  Reed crouched in a thick cluster of young growth, not sure enough of where he was to keep moving. He may have slipped by Sam on his way uphill, but there was only one way to be sure.

  He pressed the on button.

  The screen told him he was a little upslope and a little south of where he wanted to be. “Sing? Do you read?”

  Her voice was weak but tense with excitement. “Reed, I have Blip Number 6, bearing 342, close to Lost Creek. Max is closing on it!”

  Something in Reed came alive again. He zoomed out on his screen to find the creek, to orient himself to the bearing.

  Sam’s blip appeared like a ship out of the fog, closer than ever.

  The bullet hit with a loud whack! Reed spun and went down with a cry, grasping his shoulder.

  “Reed, Sam is coming uphill toward you!”

  Reed had to grab a breath before he could answer, gasping with pain. “Sing. I’ve been hit.”

  Beck quickened her step. A human would have answered when she called. She moved downhill, ducked behind some trees, froze, and listened.

  The sounds were following her, moving down the hill: a thump, a dragging, another stick breaking.

  She leaped and limped to the next tree and listened again. She may have heard more noises, but now the gurgle of a creek was making it difficult to tell.

  A creek?

  She limped to the next tree and peered around it.

  A ravine. A creek. It had to be Lost Creek!

  Thump! Drag. Thump! Drag.

  She ducked behind the tree and peeked uphill.

  Through the spaces in the trees she caught a flash of black hair, a patch of yellowing flesh.

  Whatever it was, it was walking.

  Beck only whispered, “Jacob?”

  The woman screamed in reply, so close Beck could hear the rattle of phlegm in her windpipe.

  Beck spun, tried to run, but her legs were weak and she fell headlong.

  The cry of the banshee blasted over her, around her, so close and so loud it hurt.

  Thump! Drag. Thump! Drag.

  nineteen

  Reed disappeared from Sing’s screen. “Reed, don’t do this to me! Be alive, please!”

  With a few fumbling tries, she zoomed in on Sam’s blip. He was shifting back and forth as if searching.

  Reed ducked and wove around trunks and undergrowth as quickly and silently as he could, mimicking the stalking techniques he’d seen Pete use, half-guessing his bearing, hoping, praying for enough time to live, to stay ahead of Sam, to get to Beck and end this. His GPS was off. For now, he would have to be invisible.

  Beck rolled to a stop, righted herself, looked up the slope—

  Thump! Drag.

  It emerged from behind an ancient fir, thumping on one crooked leg and dragging the other, still raw and bleeding from a bullet wound. It wavered, grabbed at one tree and then the next with long ape arms to steady itself, wheezing hoarsely, teeth bared and canines glistening. It was every bit as large and powerful as Jacob, but bent, twisted, deformed. Its black hair was sparse and patchy, bristling like quills from its jaundiced skin. The wrinkled head was nearly bald, and one half of the face was peeling, blistered and scabbed from a recent burn. When it saw her, it glared with bulbous yellow eyes and screamed a scream Beck could feel.

  It came after her, hobbling on uneven legs, careening, its long arms guiding it from tree to tree as it descended the slope.

  Beck leaped aside as it rumbled past. It planted a hand on a tree and spun around, fell, rose again, and crawled up the hill on all fours, thumping and dragging, grabbing and pulling, a crooked, arthritic hand clawing to reach her.

  Beck screamed as she turned to escape up the bank, her strength ebbing, the humus crumbling and giving beneath her feet. She screamed again with all that was in her as a huge hand swung close enough to strike her foot but not grab it.

  Thinking like an animal, Beck wailed a Sasquatch wail of alarm, loud and throaty, again and again, grabbing roots and small bushes to pull herself away from those hands, those teeth, those glaring eyes.

  Reed heard the screams—Beck’s s
creams; he’d know her voice anywhere—and it was all he could do to keep his cool, stay smart, and not break into a blind run. Sam was still a factor, and Reed would never be able to outrun him.

  He found a hiding spot behind some rocks and collapsed there, taking off his hat, struggling out of his jacket. Hang on, Beck!

  The thing fell on its face as its legs buckled; it writhed and flailed until it was moving again, hobbling on twos, walking on fours, stumbling on threes, shoulders uneven, knuckles skinned and bleeding. It lagged behind long enough for Beck to break into a clearing where patches of maple and elderberry grew through a crisscross of wind-fallen trunks. She came up against a wall of brush and fallen trees with no way over or around.

  The creature broke into the clearing, huffing and wheezing, froth on its chin, eyes crazed. Thump! Draaaagg. Thump! Draaaggg.

  Beck turned, her back against the brush pile, her arms and legs tangled in an explosion of shoots, leaves, and branches. She cried out again, looking for a way out, over, under, anywhere.

  The thing bared its teeth, reached out—

  Boom! The left shoulder jerked violently as blood and flesh exploded out the creature’s back. It cried out in pain and horror, afraid, wondering.

  Boom! The right arm jerked and twisted, the bicep punctured and spurting red, the bone beneath snapping.

  Boom! The creature reeled backward, a puncture in its chest.

  It stood, glaring at Beck, teeth bared, reddening saliva seeping through its teeth.

  Boom! With another blast through its chest, its breath became a gargle. It teetered and swayed, choking, its eyes locked on Beck with murderous intent until they slowly closed in sleep and the creature fell with a wump! that shook the ground.

  It lay still. There was a momentary, unnatural silence.

  Beck could not comprehend that the danger was over. She pushed farther into the thicket, tried to get a foothold on the log, slipped and fell into the elderberry branches.

  Then she saw someone. A hunter in camouflage came into the clearing, stepping cautiously, rifle leveled at the creature.

  Beck couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She could only stare through the leaves.

  He went to the creature, now spread flat on its back on the rough ground. He poked it with his rifle, then pointed the rifle directly at the thing’s head.

  Beck turned her head away.

  Boom! One last shot.

  The hunter glanced around the clearing. “Hello? Beck Shelton?”

  He spotted her through all the helter-skelter limbs, and he appeared a little puzzled. “Beck? Beck Shelton?” Why was he staring at her? “It’s all right. The creature’s dead.”

  Language had left her. “Whoo . . . hoo . . . hoooo . . .”

  “Who am I?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m a friend. My name is Adam Burkhardt.”

  Reed lay among the rocks, unable to move. He switched on the GPS and spoke in a weak, trembling voice. “S-sam. Sam, why are you doing this? Why are you trying to kill me?”

  For the very first time, Sam replied. “It’s nothing personal, Reed. It’s something I was hired to do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not that complicated. Just call it survival.”

  Sing saw Reed’s blip on her screen, but it wasn’t moving. Sam’s was, changing course and heading directly for him.

  She mumbled into her headphone, “Sam . . . Sam, I can see you on my screen. I’m a witness.”

  There was an ominous silence as the blip kept moving closer to Reed’s position.

  Abruptly, Sam radioed, “You’ve got a hole in your head, so I figure I’ve still got a pretty good chance of catching up with you later. Reed? You still with us, buddy?”

  Reed’s voice was barely audible. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Beck pushed a few limbs aside. She studied the man, unsure about him. He was suddenly preoccupied, listening intently to the device in his ear. She could see a GPS on his sleeve.

  Sam Marlowe got a visual: Reed Shelton down, propped against a log, hand against his chest as if he were having trouble breathing. Sam steadied himself against a tree, sighted Reed’s back through his scope—“Sorry, pal”—and pulled the trigger. The body lurched with the impact, then remained still, flopped over the log.

  He sighed with relief. “About time.”

  Keeping his rifle ready, he stepped carefully into the open, approaching his target. He could see a good-sized hole through Reed’s jacket. He spoke into his radio, “Boss? You there?”

  “Go ahead,” Burkhardt answered.

  Sam reached the body. “Heard you doing a lot of shooting.

  Did you get what you were after?”

  “Uh, yeah, so far.”

  “Well, I just got Reed, so let’s close this up and get out of here. We’ve still got Thorne’s job to finish.”

  “Uh, roger. I’ll get back to you.” Burkhardt’s voice didn’t sound too sure.

  Adam Burkhardt set his rifle down, removed the earpiece from his ear, and turned off his GPS. “I guess that’s that.” He looked at Beck, who was still hiding in the bushes. “Don’t be afraid. It’s all over now. I, uh, I spent quite a few years studying these creatures.”

  For some reason, she couldn’t move.

  Sam shook his head. Burkhardt sounded as though he was having doubts again, which wasn’t good. Burkhardt set this whole thing up, and now he was becoming the weak link! Never send a boy . . .

  Sam grabbed Reed’s body by the shoulder and flipped it over.

  It was Wiley Kane, dressed in Reed’s jacket, his white mane stuffed inside Reed’s cap.

  Reed could move now. He aimed his rifle from his hiding place in the rocks, only fifteen yards away. “Sam, drop that rifle!”

  Sam’s face flushed with surprise. He raised his weapon—

  Reed shot him through the heart, knocking him backwards. He dropped like a limp puppet.

  Reed rose only enough to make sure Sam and his rifle landed separately, then got on the radio. “Sing? It’s Reed. Can you hear me?”

  Maybe being shot in the head had something to do with it: Sing was still hearing Reed’s voice. “Reed, are you alive?”

  “I had to do some playacting. Sorry to scare you.”

  “Sam . . . Sam’s close!”

  Reed stood over Sam’s body and double-checked. “Sam is dead. I shot him with Wiley Kane’s rifle.” He looked about cautiously. “Do you have Max on your screen?”

  “No. He’s gone now. But I still have Beck.”

  “Get me there, Sing.”

  Sing was fading. Her answer came in disjointed pieces. “Head for . . . um, Lost Creek. The bearing is . . . 340. Less than a quarter . . . mile.”

  Adam Burkhardt sat on a log, wiping his close-shaven brow and staring at the grotesque, bleeding beast at his feet. “This creature was an experiment that went terribly awry.” He laughed. “Makes me sound like a mad scientist, doesn’t it?” He quit laughing abruptly. “Maybe I qualify. This is a terrible thing, just terrible.”

  Beck ventured to the edge of the bushes, eyes probing this man and the hairy, misshapen creature that had almost killed her. “Did it kill . . .” She could not recall the man’s name.

  “Randy Thompson?”

  She nodded.

  “Oh yes. It’s killed several people. We thought it had killed you.” His face was sad, and yet he seemed to marvel. “It was bred that way, bred to prevail—even though it can’t reproduce.” He pointed, almost proudly. “But did you notice it was trying to walk upright? We removed the big toes so it couldn’t live in the trees and would have to navigate mostly on the ground. We may have confirmed our theory, but then again, the knee and hip joints are unsuitable for bipedalism, so it’s hard to draw any conclusions.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. This does take a bit of explaining, doesn’t it? Well, have you ever heard how we’re all 98 percent chimpa
nzee?”

  Reed ran, ducked, swerved, jumped, ran some more, jamming more cartridges into Kane’s rifle as he went. He still didn’t have Blip Number 6 on his screen, but he had to be getting close. He’d entered a familiar stretch of old-growth forest; the terrain descended toward Lost Creek.

  Sing’s eyes were so heavy she could hardly keep them open. “Too far downhill. You want . . . 355.”

  Reed’s blip changed course, but its progress seemed agonizingly slow.

  “Sing, is Beck moving at all?”

  Sing closed her eyes. The motor home was rocking again, heaving like the ocean. She was getting nauseous.

  “Sing!”

  She opened her eyes. “Uh, now it’s, uh, 350.”

  “Anyway,” said Burkhardt, replacing his hat and eyeing Beck with a strange look of pity, “what we’ve taught people to believe, we have yet to prove, and now . . .” He indicated the beast at his feet. “Some could even say we’ve proven the opposite, which would be very difficult for us, to say the least. We wouldn’t want that fact to become too, uh, noticeable. Am I making any sense?”

  Beck could only shake her head.

  He stood, wringing his hands, obviously agitated, nervous. It made her nervous. “Well, here’s the situation: many, oh, at least half of the search party, thought it was a bear, and when they shot a large bear, they thought they had the villain, and they all went home. That was excellent! That took care of half the problem!”

  He stepped closer to her, his hands out in front of him as if gesturing. “And then there was a really wonderful hoax by some Bigfoot fanatics—oh, you should have seen it, footprints and everything! It provided an excellent dismissal of that contingent as crackpots that no one would take seriously!”

  He came so close that Beck took a step backward.

  “But then there were the people who actually saw our creature but were not killed—people like your husband, Reed . . . and you.” He grimaced. “If you just hadn’t been in the woods, things could have been different! As it is, you and your husband became a liability, and now, with your husband no longer a factor, that leaves you.”