Monster

by Frank Peretti

  Beck pressed backward into the tangle, dismay becoming dread, and dread becoming terror. Reed no longer a factor? What did that mean? Then it occurred to her—she was not back in her own world. This was not a human being come to save her, but an articulate, educated beast. She could see in his eyes what she’d seen only moments before in the eyes of his creature.

  He was there to kill her.

  She turned and bolted into the bushes.

  He dove, grabbed her by her collar, and jerked her backward, off her feet. She fought, striking and flailing, as he dragged her out of the thicket by her collar, by her hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept saying.

  Reed heard a scream, very close. He checked his GPS.

  He was picking up Blip Number 6, uphill, bearing 005, not more than 200 yards through dense, young growth. “Sing! I’ve got her! 005! Can you confirm?”

  Sing saw both blips on her screen, with Reed converging. The image was fuzzy, fading in and out of her awareness, becoming meaningless to her. “Go to her, Reed.”

  She backed her chair away from the computer and put her head between her knees. The pain made her whimper. She checked the towel she’d been using, and fresh blood dripped on it the moment she lifted it from her head.

  She didn’t remember toppling to the floor. She only remembered seeing the ceiling as high as the sky above her and hearing the faint sound of a helicopter before she fell asleep.

  Beck was facedown in rocks, needles, and grass, trying to squirm free, flailing her arms at nothing, struggling for breath as Burkhardt’s knee pinned her to the ground. He clamped his hands on either side of her head; she peeled them loose. He gripped her forehead and the back of her head and began twisting. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to do this.”

  She grabbed, clawed, kicked, but couldn’t resist his strength. Her neck twisted, twisted some more. Her scream became a gargle. He was going to snap her neck, kill her like all the others, carry out what his beast couldn’t. Abruptly, his grip forced her head backward, and then—

  He was gone. His weight lifted from her body as if a huge eagle had plucked him up. She got her arms and legs under her, ready to dig in and get away—

  The sky was blotted out by blackness that moved, roared with anger, and held Burkhardt aloft as if he weighed nothing. With long, tree-trunk arms, the monstrous shape hurled Burkhardt across the clearing.

  Burkhardt hit the ground, tumbled, struggled to right himself—

  He looked up—way up—and the sight paralyzed him.

  Beck was amazed, relieved, and terrified.

  It was Jacob, vicious and defensive, taking position between Beck and Burkhardt with black hair bristling, fangs bared, and arms ready to dismember.

  Burkhardt’s rifle was only a few feet beyond his reach. He noticed it, tried to ease toward it.

  Deputy Dave Saunders had an iron grip on the wheel and a determined set in his jaw as he drove his squad car through Abney, lights flashing, and veered onto Service Road 221. Behind him came another squad car carrying two more deputies, a squad car carrying two Idaho State patrolmen, an ambulance with four paramedics, and behind that, a light-green rig carrying three shotgun-toting forest rangers.

  Cap rode in the squad car beside him, hand on the dash, eyes intent on the road. “How far?”

  Dave got on the radio. “Chopper Oh-9, we are entering road 221 at Abney. Any fix on the motor home?”

  High above, piloting a National Guard helicopter on loan to Idaho Fish and Game, Jimmy Clark eyed the old road that snaked through the rolling, forested terrain. Two sheriff’s officers rode with him. Where the road began to fade from brown dirt to green weeds, Jimmy spotted the silver rectangle he was looking for. “Car 12, I have the motor home, about four miles up the road. No activity, but we’ll stick around. Drive safe, everybody.”

  Dave drove as fast as “safe” would allow, the wheels pounding over ruts and potholes, the car nearly bottoming its springs. The other vehicles stayed right behind him.

  Burkhardt had just grabbed his rifle when Jacob plucked him off the ground by a wad of his jacket. The scientist dangled in the air, legs kicking, face stretched with horror, trying to chamber a round, trying to aim his rifle. Jacob didn’t wait for Burkhardt to resolve such issues but threw him into the brush, where he tumbled and thrashed out of sight in the tangle.

  Beck was suddenly surrounded by reddish-brown hair as huge arms enfolded her and pulled her in. She fell against a familiar bosom, felt a sweaty heat, inhaled a disgusting stench, and for the first time in a week, felt perfectly, wondrously safe.

  “Mmm!” Rachel grunted, looking down at her. Beck had seen that expression before, when she awoke in Rachel’s arms in a patch of huckleberries.

  Jacob tromped halfway into the brush, watched Burkhardt’s still body for a short time, growled a last word, and then he was satisfied. He stomped out of the bushes and started to leave, but not without an obligatory glance in Beck’s direction.

  She wanted to smile, to thank him, to give him a hug, but of course, he would not understand such things. She only hummed her thanks, looking just below his eye line.

  He huffed back at her as if to say, This doesn’t mean I like you, and vanished into the trees.

  Beck tried to relax. She had to deal with Rachel somehow, had to—

  Rachel tensed, her arms closing tightly against Beck. Danger. Beck could read it clearly in Rachel’s manner. Was Burkhardt still—

  The brush across the clearing opened, and Beck gasped audibly. Her legs weakened and her hands began to shake.

  It was Reed, hard-run and sweating, holding a rifle, suddenly motionless at what he saw.

  She couldn’t express what she felt in words, only a Sasquatch sound, a long, mournful cry as she hung in Rachel’s arms, trying to believe.

  twenty

  Reed was prepared to confront anything, but the scene before him was impossible to fathom. It was as if time had folded back on itself and he was below the waterfall again. The creature he never quite saw that night stood across the clearing plainly visible, a reddish version of Arlen’s photograph, but so much bigger in real life. Just as before, it held Beck—but what had happened to her? The pitiful woman in that creature’s arms was dirty all over, smeared with mud and . . . it looked like manure! Her face was bruised, and one eye was puffy. Grass and weeds hung from every chink in her clothing, the front of her shirt was stained with blood, and now she was making sounds like an animal.

  In the center of the clearing lay a grotesque, fly-infested corpse that shattered all of his previous assumptions.

  Rachel growled low in her throat and began to back away.

  Beck shot a hand toward Reed and cried out like a Sasquatch, pleading, “Ohh, oh-oh-oh, Reeeeed!”

  Rachel hesitated, huffing air through her nostrils, her arms like steel, on the verge of fleeing. But something held her here; maybe, just maybe, she recognized this stranger.

  Beck detected Jacob’s stench. He hadn’t left.

  Reed didn’t move, but he had a round in the chamber and his finger on the trigger.

  Beck had cried out his name. He said hers, very quietly. “Beck.”

  “Look at me,” she said, her hand extended toward him. “Don’t look at her; look at me.” Beck was talking!

  “Are you all right?”

  The big red beast was huffing, nervous, spooked, ready to attack, or ready to run—Reed couldn’t tell which it would be, but he would shoot either way.

  He heard a low growl coming from the trees behind the beast and recalled the multiple footprints, especially those of the alpha male. He forbade himself to be afraid, but his hands were getting icy.

  “Reed,” Beck called quietly, “you have to bow. You have to show them you’re not a threat.”

  Reed had to be sure he’d heard her right. “Bow?”

  Beck sensed that Rachel was warily checking out this intruder, which was a good sign. In a different situation, Rachel never would have
stuck around at all. Beck kept her hand stretched out to show friendship and connection, hoping Rachel would read it that way.

  “Bow, Reed.” She pantomimed a slight bow. “Bow down.”

  Reed bowed only a few inches, his eyes taking in his target, his rifle pointing only slightly away.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.” He looked up. “Don’t look at them; look at me!” He dropped his eyes and met hers. “We have to show them we know each other. Just look at me—and don’t smile!”

  He wasn’t smiling anyway, but he relaxed his expression as best he could. “Good, good, good. Don’t show your teeth; that’s a threat. Now maybe you’d better put the rifle down.”

  No way. “Can’t do it, Beck.”

  There came that growl from the trees again. Reed saw something moving back there—if that was the top of the thing’s head, it was a lot taller than Reed would have expected.

  Beck made that weird guttural sound again, reaching out with both hands, “Ohhhhh, oh-oh-oh!” Then she clicked her tongue. “Tok! Tok!”

  Now what was he supposed to do?

  “Reach out to me, like I’m doing.”

  Reed cradled the rifle in his left hand and slowly reached with his right, an eye on those trees.

  “Look at me, Reed!”

  How far do I trust her?

  The big red creature huffed, eyeing him with obvious suspicion as the trees behind her quaked.

  Come on, Big Red, he thought. You know me. We’ve met before.

  Beck pushed to get free of Rachel’s arms but was held tight. As for Jacob, Beck recognized his breathing from the last time Reed came too close. “Reed? Reed, listen to me. I don’t think they’re buying it.”

  He tightened his grip on the rifle.

  “No! No, just put it down.”

  “Can’t do it!”

  “They’ve seen hunters before. It scares them.”

  Reed had to trust Beck or shoot. He looked into Beck’s eyes one very long, final time.

  “Reed . . .”

  He found her. He finally saw, under all that filth, the Beck he’d known was there all along—the confident, competent woman he’d grown to love. He slowly stooped over and set the rifle down.

  “Stay there now,” she said. “Stay bent over. Don’t look up.”

  He bent low, eyes to the ground, every bit of common sense telling him this was death for sure.

  The growling behind the trees stopped.

  Beck forced herself to relax. She looked up at Rachel and hummed in as calm and happy a tone as she could. Rachel gazed down at her, then cocked her head, eyes troubled.

  Beck reached for Reed again, not pleading this time, but expressing happiness. “Hmmm . . . hmmmph.”

  Across the clearing, Reed sank to all fours.

  Rachel’s arms relaxed. “Hmm.”

  Beck told her, “Friend. My friend. Hmm. Tok! Tok!”

  Rachel eyed Reed for a long, careful moment, as if she was finally sorting out where she’d seen that strange creature before.

  “See?” said Beck, patting Rachel’s arm. “You know him. You’ve seen him before.”

  Rachel quit huffing and just stared.

  Reed stayed on the ground but was poised to grab his rifle if anything went wrong.

  Rachel drew a deep breath, sighed it out, and slowly relaxed her arms. Beck stepped down, limping slightly, one hand holding Rachel’s, one hand toward Reed. “Look at me, Reed.” He lifted his face to hers, and she could see hope flooding his eyes. “Don’t get up. Let me come to you. I have to come to you.”

  She gazed back at Rachel one last time. Rachel seemed perplexed and troubled, but when Beck let go of her hand, she withdrew it, letting it fall to her side.

  Beck turned toward Reed and limped across the clearing, passing by the fallen monster. She could muster only a quick, fearful glance in its direction.

  It was the longest wait of Reed’s life, but he kept to the rules, watching Beck come closer, stepping and limping over rocks, easing through grass and low brush. When she was only ten feet away, she said quietly, “I think you can get up now.”

  He rose slowly, meeting her eyes, careful not to look at the—

  She fell into his arms.

  He embraced her as she held him, kissed him, clung to him, stinking like a sewer but totally, wonderfully Beck. He was still cautious, checking the area over her shoulder, almost dancing with her as he scanned a full circle, wondering what became of Max Johnson, checking the location of his rifle, wondering what the Bigfoot might do—

  The Bigfoot. He stopped and stared.

  Beck turned. “See, Rachel? He’s—”

  It was as if a dream had ended. The creature was gone. The brush and trees were motionless as if they’d never been disturbed.

  Cap pressed his fingers against Sing’s carotid artery. The pulse was weak but steady. “Sing! Sing!”

  She opened her eyes. It took her a moment before recognition settled, but finally she smiled. “Cap, you’re all right.”

  “So are you,” he lied. He kissed her gently, almost imperceptibly on the cheek, afraid he might snuff out whatever spark of life remained.

  “Hello,” Sing said to all the wonderful people in uniform who were stepping around Steve Thorne’s dead body to get to her.

  The medics went right to work, assessing her vitals. One shined a light in her eyes. The pupils responded.

  She pointed to the wall beside the computer station.

  The medics were too busy saving her life to look. Cap and Dave followed her direction and found a thin spattering of her blood and some of her hairs on the wall. In the center of the pattern was a bullet hole.

  Dave took a penlight from his pocket and shined it into the hole. He smiled. “The slug’s in there.”

  The medic tending her wound smiled. “Pretty good scalp wound, but no penetration of the skull. She’ll make it.”

  “Sing,” Dave asked, “what about Reed and Pete?”

  “Reed’s looking for Beck.” She gasped. “And Max is still up there!”

  Cap told Dave, “Adam Burkhardt.”

  Dave eyed the computer. “Can you show us where?”

  “Lost Creek.” Sing tried to rise but couldn’t. She gestured toward her computer. “Help me up there.”

  Reed gave Beck a kiss, giving no thought to the mud, blood, and filth, then immediately turned his attention to her battered face and bloodstained shirt. Her nose and mouth had been bleeding, then apparently wiped and smeared with a dirty rag. “Are you . . . what happened?”

  “I got in a fight.”

  “Somebody hit you?”

  “My snotty little cousin.”

  “But you’re, you’re all right? Nothing broken, nothing . . .”

  “I’ve been worse. But I’m with you now, and—”

  She gasped, her eyes looking in horror over his shoulder.

  Reed spun, then froze.

  Max Johnson emerged from the brush, limping, in pain, his shaved head scratched by branches and bleeding. He sighted down his rifle at them.

  Reed spoke quietly, without moving a muscle. “Max, it’s over.”

  He wagged his head, his eyes burning. “I’m sorry, Reed. I have to survive.”

  Beck whispered, hiding behind Reed. “He made the monster.”

  The pieces flew together in Reed’s mind. “Survive as what? You want to end up like your creation? A killer?”

  The man was trembling. The barrel of the rifle oscillated in erratic circles. “It’s a natural process. It’s been going on for billions of years.”

  “Max—”

  “Burkhardt!” he spat. “Professor Adam Burkhardt!”

  “Okay,” Reed lowered his voice. “Professor Burkhardt. You see? You have a name. You’re a person, a man; you’re more than that thing you made.”

  The faint sound of a helicopter grew louder, coming closer.

  Reed never broke eye contact. “And now, just look at yourself. Is this Professor Adam Burk
hardt standing here? Is this something he would do?”

  Burkhardt was shaking. “I don’t want to do this! But I have to survive!”

  Reed insisted, “As what?”

  Burkhardt glanced at his creation.

  The sound of the helicopter grew louder and then appeared from the southwest, heading directly toward them.

  “Professor. When that chopper lands, what are they going to find standing here? A man, or a monster?”

  Burkhardt could no longer sight down the rifle. His eyes strayed, looking far away, filling with tears. The rifle drifted to one side and then sank as his resolve melted.

  At last, his gaze fell and he began to quake, weeping.

  The chopper rose overhead, circled, and began to settle toward a landing site beyond the trees.

  “Professor. It’s over.”

  Burkhardt sank to his knees, sobbing in shame and remorse.

  Reed reached into his shirt pocket. The handcuffs were there, for this moment. He pulled them out. “Professor Burkhardt, you’re under arrest.” He took the rifle from Burkhardt’s weak and trembling hands and handed it to Beck. “It’s my duty to advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  He cuffed Burkhardt’s hands behind his back.

  Jimmy Clark and the two sheriff’s officers were aghast when they first arrived, and Jimmy had not yet recovered even as he snapped photos of the scene and of Adam Burkhardt’s monster.

  Click! Click! Click! The clearing from several compass directions.

  Click! The location of the monster in the clearing.

  Click! The monster, wide shot.

  Click! The apelike feet, missing the opposing toes.

  Click! A close-up of the burn injury on the side of the head, compliments of Melanie Brooks and her pan of hot hamburger grease.

  Click! A close-up of the bullet wound in the leg, compliments of Sheriff Mills.

  Click, click, click! Jimmy lowered the camera and shook his head—something he’d been doing incessantly since he and the officers arrived.

  Reed had just finished using the chopper’s first aid kit to clean Beck’s wounds and prepare a cold compress for her face. Now he came over to take one last look before they left for the chopper.