The Mountain King

by Rick Hautala

  But no matter what he thought, Mark couldn’t deny the sense of danger he felt pressing in on him from all sides. In a deep, primordial way, he sensed that he was being stalked. From all the years he had spent hiking, hunting, and camping in the Maine and New Hampshire woods, this was the first time in his life that the forest had actually held the threat of genuine, deadly menace.

  “But it couldn’t have been what I thought it was,” he whispered. “No fucking way?”

  His eyes darted to one side, following the faint crackling of leaves from somewhere deep in the darkness.

  I was just freaking out a little . . . because Phil fell off the cliff . . . I probably imagined the whole damned thing! he thought, even though it felt a lot like he was trying to convince himself.

  But whatever the case, Phil was in all likelihood still up there on the mountain, maybe still crumpled at the base of The Zipper, either dead or seriously hurt. Mark had been so intent on getting down off the mountain before dark that he hadn’t gone down to check. Now that he had time to think about it, he knew he still wasn’t thinking clearly, that he was letting his imagination get carried away.

  And worst of all, he couldn’t decide what to do next.

  Should he continue down off the mountain so he could go find help? Or should he head back up and do whatever he could to find and help his injured friend, even if it cost him his life? Maybe Phil had staggered away from the cliff and was now lost on the mountaintop.

  Mark’s thoughts were shattered when a loud roar suddenly filled the night.

  “Jesus Christ!” he shouted as he leapt to his feet.

  The howl rapidly built to a piercing shriek and then immediately faded. It echoed in the forest for several seconds, leaving behind an uncanny stillness.

  Mark’s eyes darted back and forth as he tried to pinpoint the source of the sound. His grip on the hatchet tightened as he stood up, crouching defensively, and scanned the surrounding darkness. Every wavering shadow cast by the fire seemed fraught with danger as he waited for the sound to be repeated. When it was, it came with a deafening roar and a flurry of dark motion as something charged out of the forest and headed straight at him.

  For a single heartbeat, Mark was paralyzed with fear. He felt more than saw the two eyes that were locked onto him. They burned with a cold, green fire. There was a heavy thumping sound of feet trampling the forest floor as the black shape rapidly closed the distance. Long arms reached out. Firelight reflected off two sets of long, curved claws. An instant before it was too late, Mark ducked to one side as he swung out wildly with the hatchet.

  The blade connected with ... something.

  The shock of contact almost tore the hatchet from his hand as a loud howl of pain and anger filled the night, so close his ears began to ring.

  The figure streaked across the open fire-lit space like a midnight freight train and then disappeared into the inky gloom of the forest. A thin haze of yellow dust from the forest floor swirled in its passing, the only visible indication that something had actually gone by. Silence dropped like a blanket over the forest, broken only by the raw gasping of Mark’s breathing as he crouched defensively and scanned the shrouded forest.

  “Come on! Come on, you son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled.

  His insides were trembling wildly as he shook the hatchet above his head.

  “Come back here and fight me!”

  He paused and listened, but could hear only the thundering rush of his pulse in his ears. The night was cold and silent, but it still seemed laden with danger. Mark stood rooted to the spot, his body tensed as he waited for another attack. Already his exhaustion and the sharp bolt of fear were giving this encounter the eerie dissociation of a bad dream, like it hadn’t really happened. Shuddering wildly, he ran his hand across his face.

  “Jesus! Gotta get a grip ... Gotta get a grip,” he muttered as he shifted back and forth, straining to catch sight or sound of whatever had just tried to kill him.

  Nothing but impenetrable silence filled the forest.

  After a while, Mark relaxed his guard a little and sat back down at his campfire to watch and wait. He knew he would be inviting another attack if he started traveling before morning, so he piled more wood onto the fire and let the blaze reach high into the night sky.

  Hours later, just as the first hint of dawn tinged the eastern sky, he packed up his few supplies and started out on the trail again, his hatchet in hand. He was determined, now, to get back to town and report the incident. After that, he would return to the mountain to search for his friend. Only this time, he was going to come well armed.

  All day, Mark hiked through the forest, keeping to the blazed trail that was the shortest route out. His progress was aggravatingly slow because he was tensed, expecting to be attacked at every turn. Shortly after noontime, nearly faint with exhaustion, he paused for a quick lunch at the crossing of the Bull branch of Sunday River. He was still more than five miles from the nearest road, and from there he had no idea how long it would take to walk or hitch a ride back to Hilton.

  The day grew steadily warmer. He wanted desperately to rest but didn’t want to chance getting too comfortable and falling asleep. He was surprised that all day he hadn’t encountered any other hikers. Perhaps the bad weather yesterday had discouraged any plans anyone might have had for a weekend hike up Agiochook. The rushing roar of the Bull River masked all other sounds, so he ate hurriedly and then continued his trek, knowing that he had to get out of the woods before dark.

  Although he never saw or heard anything to indicate that he was being pursued, he still couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that something was tracking him. Worn down by exhaustion, he began to imagine that he was being pursued by Phil’s ghost, which was hungry for revenge for leaving him dead back at the base of The Zipper. The bright, sunlit forest held dark, menacing shadows that seemed to coil as they waited to spring out at him. The pleasant songs of birds and the soft hiss of the wind in the pines overhead were grating, like fingernails being raked across a chalkboard. Even the blue vault of the sky seemed somehow dull and lowering, as if it wanted to press him down into the cold, dark earth.

  Mark was nearly delirious when, just before dark, he staggered out of the woods onto Route 26. With the sun setting behind him, he guessed home was in the opposite direction, so after taking a quick swig of water from his canteen and adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, he started down the road, heading east. He was anxious to meet the first car or truck going in his direction, but there was never much traffic on a road like this, so he walked on as darkness spread from the woods like an ink stain over the road. Dazed from fatigue, Mark didn’t even hear the semi bearing down on him until a blast from the air horn shattered the night.

  “Christ!” he shouted as he wheeled around on one foot and snapped up his thumb. There was a loud gasp of air brakes and the soft, tearing sound of tires skidding on asphalt as the truck downshifted and slowed to a stop. Mustering a last burst of effort, Mark walked up to the sixteen-wheeler as the passenger’s door swung open. He heaved his backpack off and clambered up into the cab.

  “Thanks for stoppin’,” he said breathlessly.

  The driver looked at him with a curious expression. “Thought I’d better. I wouldn’t want to read in the newspaper how the next truck passin’ by turned you into street pizza.”

  In his exhaustion, Mark missed the joke as he settled back against the seat and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “If you don’t mind me sayin’, you look like shit warmed over,” the truck driver said.

  Mark rolled his head and stared blankly at him as he nodded. “Umm. You wouldn’t by any chance be heading to Hilton, would you?”

  The driver stepped down hard on the accelerator and revved the engine. The truck growled like an angry beast in the night, and Mark couldn’t help but remember the howl that thing had made when it had attacked him the night before.

  “I’ll be passing through,” the driver said. He po
pped the gear shift into first and stepped on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward.

  Mark didn’t respond. His head was thrown back against the seat, and he was already sound asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Back Home

  “Before I drive you home, I’d like to take you over to the hospital, if you don’t mind.”

  Guy LaBrea, Hilton’s police chief, was frowning as he watched Mark, who was sitting in his office, shivering as he sipped at a cup of coffee. It was his second cup within fifteen minutes. Guy didn’t like the way Mark’s eyes were so red-rimmed and runny. His skin looked sallow, almost sickly; and from what Mark had just finished telling him, Guy wasn’t so sure Mark was thinking all that straight, either. “Not packing a full seabag,” as he liked to say.

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Mark said, his voice soft but firm as he fought to maintain a rational tone. “All I need is a hot shower, maybe a bowl of soup, and a good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.”

  Guy almost said something but remained silent.

  “What I want you to do is get a search party organized to go up there and find Phil.”

  “Sure, sure I will. I’ll get on the phone and do just that . . . just as soon as I haul your ass into the emergency room so the doctor can check you out.”

  Mark shook his head angrily.

  “For Christ’s sake, Guy! For all we know, Phil’s still up there, either dead or unconscious at the base of The Zipper. If you don’t do something about it, then I sure as shit will!”

  “No need to get all wound up, okay?” Guy said. “Truth to tell, I don’t see how Phil could’ve lasted the night up there—not with how cold it’s been getting lately.”

  “Christ! What are you talking about?” Mark shouted, but then he checked himself, sat back, and forced himself to relax. Then, against his will, he started snickering softly to himself. “Oh, I get it. You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Well, I think you maybe—”

  “Are delirious, right? Maybe a little out of my mind or something, is that it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Mark set his coffee cup down carefully on the desk beside him, fighting hard to keep his hand from trembling.

  “Well you’ve got it wrong, Guy! Dead wrong!” He clenched his hands into fists and pounded them in frustration against his legs. “I know what I saw, all right? I know it!”

  “Yeah. You say you saw Bigfoot.”

  “Jesus Christ, Guy! I don’t know what the hell it was! I just know I saw this ... this thing that had no right being there. It sure as shit looked like some kind of bear or ape or something, but . . . but—fuck! I don’t know ...”

  Guy let loose a small laugh that fueled Mark’s anger.

  “You won’t think it’s so fucking funny after you send someone out there and find Phil’s body, now, will you?”

  “No, no,” Guy said, suddenly sobering up. “It’s not that at all. It’s just—for a second there, I had this image of Bigfoot, you know, hitchhiking from Oregon to Maine.”

  “Jesus Christ! This is Phil Sawyer we’re talking about!”

  “I know, I know,” Guy replied. “Look, Mark. As soon as you agree to let me take you into the emergency room for a quick checkup, then I’ll get on the horn to the Forestry Department and—”

  “No! I want you to do it now!”

  Guy sat back and rubbed his hands down the side of his face. “Christ, it’s dark as shit now. We can’t get someone up there till morning, anyway.”

  “I don’t give a shit! Don’t they have helicopters with searchlights or something?”

  Guy nodded. “Well, yeah—I suppose they do, but still, I don’t know if I—”

  “Forget what I said about what I saw or what I think I saw, all right? Just report a missing hiker and get those Forestry assholes out there so they can earn their pay this week!”

  “Yeah—well,” Guy said, “they earn their pay as it is, I suspect. Hell, just last July they more than earned their pay when they spent nearly the whole month looking for those two hikers from New Jersey that went missing. Remember that?”

  “Shit, yes. I was out there beating the brush a few days, myself. But this is Phil we’re talking about! This is the guy I work with at the mill day in and day out!”

  “Okay, okay,” Guy said, reaching for the phone. “I’ll give Fred Gibbons a buzz.”

  Guy held the receiver tightly while he looked up the number, then punched the buttons. While he was waiting for someone to answer, he added under his breath, “And right after that, I’m taking you down to the hospital . .. even if I have to cuff you to get you there.”

  “All right . . . all right! I’ll go!”

  Mark stayed where he was while Guy made the call. He was thankful that Guy omitted any mention of the “huge, dark, furry shape” he had seen. Then, once he was assured that a group of rangers would organize a search and go out first thing in the morning, he followed Guy out to the cruiser for the short drive to the hospital. He thanked Guy and told him he didn’t expect him to wait while the doctor checked him over. Once the brief examination was completed, Mark got dressed and walked out into the lobby. He intended to phone home for Polly or Sandy to come and pick him up, but he saw Guy sitting there, waiting for him.

  “I told you you didn’t have to wait for me.”

  “Hey!” Guy said with a shrug. “What are friends for? So, did you get a clean bill of health?”

  “Just what I told you. Dr. Blaine said all I needed was some rest.”

  “Cruiser’s waiting.”

  “Let me give Polly a quick call, let her know I’m on my way home.”

  After phoning home, Mark and Guy walked back out to the police cruiser. They spoke very little on the short drive out to Mark’s house on Cole Hill Road.

  Mark still seriously doubted how much—if anything— of what he had seen up on Mount Agiochook had been real. The glaring, antiseptic reality of the hospital had reduced the threat of that large, shadowy figure until it seemed to have no place whatsoever in the real world. Still, Mark couldn’t shake the gnawing worry that his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him, that he had seen—something. But how could it have been real?

  If his fatigue and fear hadn’t weakened him to the point of hallucination, that meant there really might be something—something dangerous up there on Agiochook!

  “What the fuck is Dennis Cross’s car doing in your driveway?”

  Guy’s voice broke into Mark’s reverie. He shook his head and looked up as Guy slowed down in front of Mark’s house. The cruiser’s headlights swept like a probing searchlight across the front of the house and the red Mustang parked there.

  “Goddamn! That son-of-a- . . .”

  Guy took a deep breath and held it as he pulled to a stop at the bottom of the driveway and killed the engine. Mark already had his door open and was halfway up the driveway, moving with a speed that bespoke his anger. Someone was sitting in the car. Mark knew it had to be Dennis because he was so damned fussy about his ‘83 Mustang he would never let anyone else drive it. He grabbed the car door handle and flung the door wide open, ready to drag the man out onto the lawn if he had to. Guy hustled up the walkway a few steps behind him, his hand on his service revolver just in case things got out of hand.

  “Hey!” Mark shouted, leaning his head into the car. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Ahh, I was—I was just on my way to work. Third shift for the next few weeks at the mill, you know?” Dennis stammered. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands as if he didn’t dare let go of it. “My—uh, my damned car started acting funny on me, so I pulled in to see if I could borrow some tools to fix it.”

  Mark scowled as he studied Dennis, trying to read if there was anything else beneath the stupid-ass grin he was wearing.

  “So, you got it fixed now?” Mark asked.

  Dennis nodded. “Yeah—yeah. Just blew a spark plug is all. Put a
new one in, no sweat.”

  “Your hands don’t look like someone who’s been working on a car.”

  “No, well, your—ah, wife let me wash up after I was done,” Dennis said. His voice had a slight tremor to it that made Mark suspicious, but he forgot all about Dennis Cross as he slammed the car door shut, turned, and went up the side stairs to the kitchen door. He hardly noticed as Dennis started up his car, backed out onto the road, and drove away.

  “Hey! Polly! I’m home!” Mark shouted as he strode into the kitchen. A moment later, Guy appeared in the doorway with Mark’s backpack in hand.

  For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then from somewhere inside the house a voice called out, “Mark? Is that you?”

  Scuffing footsteps approached. Polly walked briskly into the kitchen but then stopped short, her eyes widening with surprise when she saw Police Chief LaBrea standing there beside her husband.