by Rick Hautala
The hike up the mountain was exhausting but uneventful. The sky remained cloudy, and a raw, knife-edge wind drove at them out of the north. Throughout the day and especially at night, when they camped just below the tree line at the base of the summit, Mark found himself wishing he had brought along a gun. There had never been any clear indication that they were being tracked or followed, but after thinking about the “creature” that had attacked Josh O’Connell’s cows and how close that was to where he had been attacked by some kind of creature, Mark almost expected another encounter like the one he’d had a few nights ago.
Although they lived in neighboring towns, Mark didn’t know either of the two rangers personally; but the situation didn’t exactly lend itself to friendly conversation, not when it seemed more than likely that they were here to retrieve his friend’s body. After supper on the first night, with darkness pressing in on them from the surrounding forest, Mark stood by the campfire and whittled on the maple branch he’d been using all day as a walking stick. Thin curls of bark dropped into the flames and sputtered.
“Carving anything special there on your walking stick?” Wally asked. He held a fresh cup of coffee up to his mouth with both hands, and blew over the top to cool it.
“Not really,” Mark said, shrugging and unable to think of anything more to say.
“I used to have one helluva great walking stick,” Wally went on. “An old Penobscot Indian from up ‘round Millinocket carved it for me. Had a big bear’s face carved on the top. Looked like a Christless war club. I used it for ten, maybe fifteen years before I lost it. Hiking up Mount Katahdin one time, I dropped it off a cliff like a damned fool.”
“Too bad,” Mark said softly. He held himself back from mentioning that the only thing he had ever lost over the side of a cliff was one of his best friends.
Raising the stick to his eye like a rifle, Mark sighted down the long, smooth shaft. After a few more passes with his Swiss Army knife, he gripped the top end tightly and shook it to check its heft. Satisfied, he cleaned the knife blade on his pants leg, folded up the blade, and slipped it into his pocket, then knelt by the fire to warm his hands. Although Mark never went hiking without a walking stick, this particular one, he feared, might have to serve a different purpose; he wanted to have something close at hand that he could use as a weapon—what Wally would call a “Christless war club”—in case the creature that had attacked him before was still lurking in the area. He was tempted to tell the rangers his fear that they might be in more danger than they realized, but he let it drop, not wanting to sound like a nervous, greenhorn fool in front of the rangers.
“Hard to believe it’s only nine o’clock,” Sykes said suddenly. He was the younger of the two rangers, no more than twenty-five years old, Mark guessed.
“Gets dark early now,” Wally said without looking up as he sipped his coffee noisily.
“Cold, too,” Mark said.
“Yeah, but at least we don’t have any Christless mosquitoes chewing our asses,” Wally said.
Trying his best to sound casual, Mark stretched and said, “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll settle down for the night. We want to get started as soon as the sun’s up, right?”
“Sure thing,” Wally said. “I heard John volunteer to get up and fix us breakfast in the morning, ain’t that right, John?”
“Uhh—yeah, sure,” Sykes said, knowing that in the pecking order of this small group, he was what Wally kept calling the “littlest pecker.”
“G’night then,” Mark said.
He walked over to his tent and zipped open the flaps. Feeling a bit foolish still holding on to the walking stick, he climbed inside, undressed quickly, and slid into his sleeping bag.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
For several hours, he just lay there, watching the soft glow of the campfire flickering on the tent walls and listening to the muffled conversation of the two rangers outside. Their words eventually blended with the night sounds around them, and then, the next thing Mark knew, the forest was alive with the raucous songs of morning birds. Grunting softly, he rolled out of his sleeping bag and crawled to the front of the tent. In the dim gray light of dawn, Sykes was kneeling in front of the campfire, feeding the flames some dried branches to get the blaze going again. His misted breath hung around his neck like a silver scarf.
“Mornin’,” Mark said softly, his teeth chattering. He didn’t like disturbing the hushed serenity of the forest. He was a bit amazed—and relieved—that he had slept so soundly and that there had been no problems during the night.
He fished around until he found his clothes, zipped opened the tent flap, and crawled out into the chilly dawn. The first thing he did was wander over behind some trees and take a piss.
The campsite was still shrouded in shadow, but the first slanting rays of the morning sun lit up the snow-covered mountain peak like a fiery cone. Mark helped Sykes get breakfast going, and by the time the food was ready, Doyle had roused himself and made an appearance.
The three men ate in silence. Their agreed upon plan was to leave this campsite set up as a base camp. It was no more than an hour’s climb to The Zipper. From there they could begin their search for Phil. After breakfast, they cleaned their eating utensils, stowed their food high up in the branches to discourage squirrels and other scavengers, and draped their sleeping bags over branches to air out.
Then they headed out.
Mark was tingling with expectation as he gripped his hiking stick and followed the two rangers up the steep, rocky incline. Most of last weekend’s snow had melted, but in sheltered areas large patches still glistened with a dull blue glow. The morning air was surprisingly cold out in the open. All three men snuggled into the collars of their down jackets.
They moved off the marked trail and made a bee-line for the base of The Zipper. As much as the terrain allowed, they walked side by side in order to cover as wide a swath as possible leading up to the cliff edge. Sheer ice made the going a bit difficult in places, but by pushing hard, they made it to the cliff in a little under an hour.
“This is the place, huh?” Doyle asked as they stood at the bottom edge of the cliff and looked up. Still shrouded in shadow, The Zipper looked like a long, wide slippery-slide made of red granite.
Mark nodded silently as they all looked around.
“See anything?” Doyle asked.
Mark shivered as he stared up the steep incline, remembering how helpless and terrified he had felt the instant he realized his friend had gone over the edge. Now, after being scoured by wind and weather for even only a few days, there was absolutely no trace of their passing. The dark spot Mark had seen at the foot of the cliff, what could have been either Phil or his abandoned backpack, was gone. No tracks were visible in the remaining patches of snow below.
“Well, let’s have ourselves a look around,” Doyle said simply.
They quickly spread out around the base of the cliff and started examining the area carefully. Wally found what looked like one small splotch of dried blood on the rocks at the base, but that was all. Between the sheltering rocks, drifted snow was six inches to a foot deep, but there was no indication that anyone had broken the smooth surface.
The three men fanned out wide, keeping within calling distance as they searched the side of the mountain for even the slightest trace of the missing man. After more than an hour of fruitless searching, Doyle called them back together.
Mark, who was the furthest away on the steep downside of the mountain, was about to start back when he caught sight of something in the snow between two rocks. He whistled shrilly and waved for the two rangers to join him.
“What’s this look like?” he asked, pointing to the wide, rounded depression in the snow.
“A footprint,” Doyle said simply, kneeling down and studying the print carefully.
“Yeah, and a pretty goddamned big one, at that,” Mark said. He found it difficult to contain a rush of excitement. He wanted to mention the large creature he
had seen, but didn’t want either of the men to think he was crazy or something.
“You know, it snowed for the first time this year last weekend when my friend and I were up here, so this print has to have been made since Saturday.” He regarded the track a moment, then added, “And I’d guess that wasn’t made with a hiking boot, either.”
The print did, in fact, look as if it had been made by a bare foot. At the front, there were five rounded indentations that could very well have been made by toes.
“It’s human, no doubt about that,” Doyle said. “But you know, especially this time of season and this high up where the weather changes so drastically, any impression in fresh snow is going to melt and refreeze dozens of times. I think that’s what makes this look so big. It expands every time it does that.”
He measured it against the flat of his hand. Even with his fingers spread wide, he couldn’t span the width of the print.
“Naw,” Doyle said, standing up and shaking his head authoritatively. “This wasn’t made by no Christless bare foot.”
Unconvinced, Mark shook his head as he stared blankly at the impression. He took a deep breath and said, “Well, at least we know what direction to head.”
Keeping several paces apart, all three men started moving in the direction the single footprint indicated, but after spending the rest of the day searching the rough terrain, they still came up empty. Other than the small splotch of blood on the cliff side, and that single footprint, there was no other indication that Phil or anyone else had been up here recently.
As the sun started to set in the western sky, they reluctantly headed back down the slope to their campsite and a supper of beans and brown bread.
“You know what I think?” Sykes said once they were settled around the campfire after supper.
Doyle cocked an eyebrow at his partner as if surprised that he would offer an opinion.
“I think that, come next summer, or maybe in a year or two, a couple of hikers are gonna come across a pile of bleached bones.” He looked squarely at Mark. “And then we’ll know what happened to your buddy!”
For a flashing instant, Mark wanted to slug the man, but he let the rush of anger pass, opting instead for silence. After an uncomfortable hour or so sitting around the campfire, the conversation limited mostly between the two rangers, Mark went to his tent to sleep.
Like last night, he found it difficult to sleep, but eventually he drifted off. He awoke some hours later from a dream.
He had been standing at the top of The Zipper, looking down into a thick cushion of pure white snow. Blinding white. His fear had steadily mounted as he watched the snow begin to churn as though it were alive. First two hands, thin and blackened with frostbite, reached up out of the snow; then a face broke through the surface. Mark stared in horror as the pale, gaunt face of Phil Sawyer looked up at him, his eyes sparkling with fiery anger. Phil furiously dug himself out of the deep pile of snow and then, once he was free, started to scuttle up the steep incline of the cliff. He moved like a huge spider.
“You left me here—”
Phil’s voice rasped through black lips, cracked and bleeding.
“You left me here to die! . . . So I’ve come back for you!”
Mark awoke to find himself sitting straight up, his eyes wide open, his face slick with sweat, and his breath burning like a hot coal in the center of his chest. Both hands were clapped across his mouth, forcing back the scream that was threatening to burst out of him.
Chapter Ten
Promotion
“Hey, I’ve got some good news for you.”
Mark was slumped in a cushioned chair in the employees’ lounge with his feet up and his eyes closed. An untasted cup of coffee had gone stone-cold on the table beside him. He roused himself the instant he heard the voice of Sam Barker, his department supervisor.
“Uh—yeah,” he said, vigorously rubbing his face with the flats of his hands. “Sorry ‘bout that. I was— umm—”
“You were sleeping on the job,” Sam said, his voice sounding flat. Only the faint trace of a smile told Mark that his boss was ribbing him.
“Yeah, well, I have been kinda stressed out lately . . . ‘specially these last few days.”
Sam hooked a chair by the rungs with his foot and dragged it over so he could sit down beside him. Folding his beefy arms across his chest, he sighed heavily and leaned back.
“Can’t say as I blame you,” he said. “Everyone I know is pretty damned upset ‘bout what happened to Phil. He was a good worker and more than that—a good friend. By the way, how’s the search going? You hear any news?”
Mark shrugged weakly, wishing to hell his mind would clear; but fatigue and worry over the past week had worn his resistance down.
“The rangers and I came down off the mountain day before yesterday ‘cause of the weather. We . . . didn’t find anything.”
Sam grunted and frowned.
“They lost a day or two because of the weather, but I’d guess right now, between the men the Forestry Department and the police have put out, there’s got to be better than fifty men up there.”
“Think they’ll find him?”
Again, Mark shrugged and shook his head.
“I hate to say it,” Sam went on, “but I don’t see how anyone could last up there this long without supplies, not with how the weather’s been lately.”
“No, I don’t suppose,” Mark replied distantly.
“Well, I’ll tell you this much,” Sam said as he leaned forward, staring earnestly at Mark. “I know you’ve been grinding yourself pretty hard about it. You went back up there looking for him, and Phil’s wife told me how you’ve been over to see her, offering her support.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“Yeah, but you know, you can’t let something like this take over your life.”
“It’s not taking over my—”
Sam cut him off with a quick wave of his hand; then he pointed a finger at him as though scolding him. “Lookie here! When I told you to take the week off, I meant it.” He stared harshly at Mark for a moment. “You’re not doing me or anyone else any good, dragging your ass around like this. Christ, the way you look, I’d say you sure as hell need some time off.”
Mark took a deep breath but found that he had nothing to say.
“Now if I have to, I can get the company doctor to enforce what I’m telling you. And you know I will. But I’d rather see you cooperate with me, all right? Go on home and get some sleep—I mean some real sleep, not just dozing for fifteen minutes during your break. You have to forget about what happened up there. Let the authorities take it from here on out.”
“Yeah, but I can’t forget,” Mark said so softly under his breath he wasn’t even sure if Sam heard him.
Sam shifted his weight forward and stood up. Looking down at Mark, he said, “Oh, and there’s one more thing. I want you to report to my office at seven-thirty sharp on Monday morning. I want to go over with you some of your new responsibilities as shift supervisor.”
“What—?”
“You heard me right,” Sam snapped. “You’re getting a promotion. Staring first thing Monday morning, you’re first-shift supervisor in the department.” Satisfied by Mark’s surprised reaction, Sam snorted with laughter. “No more third shifts for you, bud. Who knows? Maybe it’ll improve your sex life.”
Mark stood up and fumbled to shake his supervisor’s hand as he sputtered his appreciation. Still unable to believe what he had heard, he watched as Sam left the room; then he went over to the sink and dumped out his cold coffee. Just as he was leaving the lounge, a group of workers entered. They were chatting and laughing together, but as soon as Dan Jenkins, a young man who worked with Mark in the paper coating division, saw Mark, he stopped short and nailed him with an angry stare. Catching the instant tension, the other workers all fell silent and drifted over to the coffee machine. Folding his arms across his chest and standing in the doorway, Dan watched with na
rrowed eyes as Mark approached.
“Well, well, well,” Dan said, “I just heard you’re gonna be big-time boss now.”
Frowning, Mark said, “Oh, yeah? Where’d you hear that?”
Dan smirked and shook his head. “The scuttlebutt. ‘Course, I figured it was bound to happen ... I mean, now that Phil’s out of the way.”
A red flash of anger filled Mark. He clenched both fists and took a threatening step forward, but Dan didn’t back down.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Mark said, his voice low and trembling.
“You know damned right well what it’s supposed to mean,” Dan said, straightening his shoulders and looking more than ready to fight. “It’s supposed to mean that I think you knew all along that Phil was going to get that promotion over you, even though he’s only been with the company a little more than a year.”
“You don’t know shit, you little fuck—”
“And I think it means you might have had something to do with Phil not making it back from the mountain—”
