Two Bigfoot Tales

by Dane Hatchell

  Two Big Foot Tales

  *

  The Sins of the Father

  *

  The Art of War

  Dane Hatchell

  This story is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other titles by the author:

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Table of Contents

  The Sins of the Father

  The Art of War

  The Sins of the Father

  The morning dew kissing the grass covering the hills in Willow Creek glistened in the arms of the rising sun. Antonio Garrett’s heart swelled to the magnitude of the beauty of the towering ponderosa pines and Douglas firs dotting the landscape. This was all an alien world compared to the suburban sprawl where he normally made use of his trade. The next week would earn him an additional week of vacation, a reward for reaching twenty years working as a surveyor for the state. Retirement no longer seemed to be a dream so far down the road that it wasn’t worth planning for.

  His boss gave him the assignment to survey the area for a new oil-drilling rig on the morning of April 1st. Antonio laughed, thinking his boss was playing a joke on him. Drilling for oil in the liberal land of fruits and nuts, also known as California, had become anathema long ago. The assignment turned out to be genuine. The permit had been granted by the Federal Government as a means of repayment on the debt owed to the People’s Republic of China, indicating that black gold had more value than U.S. green.

  All Antonio had to do was find an area a little more than a hundred acres square with land flat enough to accommodate a drilling rig. A pipeline would eventually be built once production proved itself, carrying the oil over to the nearby Pacific coast, where tankers owned by China International Petroleum would line up to receive. A hundred acres seemed like a lot of land to destroy to pay China back the blood money the country owed. In reality, the size was equivalent to a postage stamp on a 10’ by 10’ envelope.

  Believing to have found a perfect location, he was unexpectedly disappointed when his trek over a hill led him to a sparkling stream snaking through the terrain. The permit specified there were to be no natural waterways within the boundaries of the drilling area. Antonio unrolled the map provided and confirmed his location with his GPS. The map showing no indication of a stream meant that the mapmaker was in error. This made his job exponentially more difficult. What other misinformation did the map contain?

  Something short and brownish rustled through the tall grasses by the stream’s edge. At first, Antonio thought it was a wild boar seeking to quench its thirst. He lifted the field glasses dangling across his chest to his eyes, bringing more questions than answers.

  The animal wasn’t a hog, and as much as he tried to convince himself it was baby bear, he couldn’t. The unusual creature walked bipedal as man, resembling a chimpanzee in body size. What on Earth would a chimp be doing out in Willow Creek? Sequoia Park Zoo was the nearest zoo in the area, but he hadn’t been aware of any recent escapes. The winters were too cold for the animal to survive in the wild. This poor thing hadn’t been out on its own long.

  The hairy little beast stepped into an opening void of foliage. It wasn’t a chimpanzee or any other type of ape, and it certainly wasn’t a monkey as it had no tail. Instead, it was quite human-like in its facial structure and mannerisms. It had a thick brow and wide nose similar to artist’s renditions of what Neanderthal man must have looked like. Its facial hair matched the length of the hair on its head, and blended down covering its whole body except for an area of the upper chest.

  The Bigfoot legends are true! Antonio thought. Everyone far and wide knew of the elusive creature, teetering in intelligence somewhere between man and beast. Willow Creek had been a hotbed of Bigfoot activity in the late ’60s with the Patterson-Gimlin film, capturing the creature in broad daylight for fifty-three seconds. Tourist can even book a room at the Bigfoot Inn and visit the Bigfoot Museum while enjoying a stay in the town of Willow Creek.

  The tiny Bigfoot playfully grabbed at small insects leaping in the grass, convincing Antonio that this was not a hoax. Even though he knew that Green Activists would create any diversion necessary in order to stop the coming oil project, including pulling a stunt using Bigfoot.

  The only camera he had was the one built into his cell phone. It was good for up-close pictures, but failed miserably when it came to capturing images from a distance. With visions of one hundred dollar bills raining from the sky, Antonio sneaked down the hill toward the stream, using the trees to hide behind along the way.

  When he feared venturing any closer might get him discovered, Antonio peeked from behind a thick, black oak and focused on the young Bigfoot. It was definitely male, as genitalia never lie. The hominoid seemed to be quite pleased with his hunt, munching contently on a frog, the evidence a leg hanging down from the corner of his mouth.

  Antonio was just about to snap the picture when the image suddenly blurred. He looked up to see a mountain of a hairy beast standing nearly seven feet tall and only a few feet from him. The mother of the young Bigfoot looked none too pleased at his interest in her child.

  She lowered her head and stared Antonio directly in the eyes. She peeled her lips back and showed beast like teeth that were as long as a lion’s.

  He was two steps into a frenzied retreat when her fist caught him between the shoulders, knocking him face first onto the ground. He spun around as fast as he could, and held his hands out before him.

  “No! Please! No! Let me go. I won’t hurt you. Let me go!”

  The Bigfoot towered over him with her chest heaving.

  “No!”

  She reached down and grabbed each of his arms around the biceps and lifted him straight into the air until eye level. Her head was twice as big as his. Antonio was afraid she would be able to open her mouth wide enough to swallow his head whole.

  Instead, she increased her grip so tightly he thought she would pinch his arms in two. He couldn’t control his screaming, which only increased her ire.

  The Bigfoot lowered his feet to the ground and put her foot across the top of one of his. She lifted him back toward the sky.

  Antonio instantly felt his ankle start to separate from his foot, and seconds later, it tore free. Blood squirted down in quick pulses from the stump.

  He screamed so hard that his vocal cords ruptured, filling the soft tissues with blood. But the pain didn’t stop there as his left arm tore away from the socket of his shoulder.

  She held h
im in the air by one arm alone. Antonio’s chin dropped to his chest with the onset of shock. The Bigfoot held the detached arm and slapped him in the face with his own hand, trying to keep him conscious.

  Antonio dry heaved, then spit up what was left from a quart of orange juice and a protein bar he had for breakfast.

  She let him fall ungracefully to the ground.

  Antonio slowly drifted to the sanctuary of unconsciousness, though not in time for him to feel his other arm rip from his body.

  *

  In the black void of night silhouetted amongst a million shimmering stars, a S-70C Firehawk helicopter circling 300 feet above ground cut through the serenity of the sleeping forest.

  Three mercenaries under contract with Redwater USA along with the private pilot had unsuccessfully scanned the area using night vision, seeking to find a suspected killer bear in Willow Creek.

  “We’ve been up here for nearly two hours. Don’t you think it’s time to call it quits?” Austin said, to Jefferson, the team’s leader, over the open channel radio through the headsets.

  “Might be . . . might just be time at that. I’ve seen nothing larger than a rabbit so far.”

  “That there bear is hiding in his cave somewhere in a deep sleep. They don’t wake up during the night. That’s where the saying ‘sleeping like a bear’ comes from,” Juice, the roided up ex-Marine said.

  “No, dumb-ass. Bears hibernate during the winter, and that’s where the expression ‘sleeping like a bear’ came from,” Austin said.

  “Bears hunt at night as well as day time. When I was at Boy Scout camp, one came through and helped himself to the hotdogs and buns. It had to open the ice chest to get the hotdogs. Bears are pretty smart, you know,” Jefferson said.

  “Well, he’s outsmarting us right now for sure. I say we put down. It’ll be light in an hour, and we can track him the old fashion way,” Juice said. “I love the thrill of the hunt.”

  “I was really hoping we could take care of this from up in the ’chopper. Once we’re on the ground, a hiker, or worse, a Wildlife agent could run across us. Do you know how fast we would be hauled off to jail? We aren’t permitted to hunt bear, especially with these fully automatic AR-10s. The Chinese are paying us to take care of the problem and get the hell out. They don’t want us to get caught,” Jefferson said, looking away from the viewfinder toward his companions. “Besides, I wanted to try out the M60 machine gun. My dad hunted antelope in Vietnam during the war from his Huey. I’ve got Polaroids of his kills to prove it. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “I bet he hunted a few mamasans and papasans in the rice fields too,” Juice said.

  “McCoy, take us fifty yards east and drop us off in that clearing,” Jefferson said, and frowned at Juice in disapproval.

  “Roger that.” McCoy slowly maneuvered a civilian version of the Army’s famed Black Hawk, the S-70, normally used in firefighting and medical rescue, with the aid of his night vision goggles.

  The side doors slid open as McCoy steadied the controls at twenty feet. Jefferson gave a thumb up to the two others, who immediately responded in kind. He and Juice would repel from the aft side together, with Austin taking the starboard side out. It would be up to McCoy to keep the bird level until the three reached the ground.

  Jefferson counted to three, in perfect unison the hired guns dropped to the ground below.

  In the cover of the darkness, having followed the mysterious creature that hovered in her sky, the female waited from behind a tree.

  Just before any boots hit the ground a terrific snapping noise crackled from above. The whine in the helicopter’s engine shifted higher in cadence. It listed starboard and lost altitude, sending the whirling blades biting into the earth.

  The Bigfoot watched as the interloper crashed in a cloud of flying debris and dirt. She had brought it down with an eight-foot sycamore sapling she uprooted from the earth, hurling it like a spear into its mighty ‘wings.’

  Before Jefferson could drop to the ground and cover his head, a piece of the helicopter’s blade caught him from behind. It severed his right leg above the knee and tore through the other, breaking his thigh bone.

  Juice hit the ground and rolled over, cycling the action on his AR-10 as his training so ingrained. The helicopter engine wound down like a dying banshee in the distance. Jefferson’s screams for help had him on his feet and rushing to the aid of his team leader.

  “Jefferson! Buddy, what’s the matter?”

  “My legs . . . ARGHHH . . . it HURTS! I can’t move them . . . I don’t even know if they’re still there,” Jefferson dug his fingers into Juice’s arms, as he kneeled by his side.

  “Hang on, buddy. I’m going to take care of you.” Juice scanned his flashlight over Jefferson’s body, panning to a bloody stump on one leg and a mangled mess of the other. The lower part of his right leg lay twisted a few feet away.

  Swallowing hard, he knew the situation was hopeless. “You’re cut pretty bad. I’m going to stop the bleeding.” Juice pulled off his belt, tightening it around Jefferson’s right thigh until the bleeding almost stopped. Then, used Jefferson’s belt and did the same to the left leg.

  “Give me something for the pain! I can’t take this,” Jefferson gasped.

  Juice sprang from his dying leader’s side and rushed toward the downed bird, tripping along the way. While reaching down to keep himself from hitting the ground, his hand landed on a human body.

  Everything had happened so fast that he had forgotten about Austin and McCoy. He scanned the body from the feet to the head, or where the head should have been. Austin too, was a victim of the disintegrating helicopter blades.

  Jefferson cried out, snapping Juice back to his mission of locating a medical kit. The smell of fuel in the air only complicated the situation.

  The helicopter rested on its aft side. Juice pulled himself up and fell into the cabin. He quickly maneuvered his way over to McCoy, who was lifeless, and still strapped in.

  The fumes from the fuel had Juice feeling lightheaded. He checked McCoy for a pulse, but found nothing. He couldn’t imagine what killed him, as it was a short plunge after all. It reminded him of a seemingly minor crash at the end of a race that killed his childhood hero, Dale Earnhardt.

  He climbed his way back out and dashed toward Jefferson with the medical kit in his possession,

  “I’m back! I’ve got some morphine for you. I’ll have you feeling better in no time.” Juice fell to his knees and franticly searched the med kit for the morphine. Once in his hand, he returned his light to his leader’s face and saw death had paid a visit while he was gone, and stole the soul of his friend from his body.

  Juice felt just like he did when his grandfather had died, alone, and somehow responsible. His grandfather had fallen under a tractor in the field. Juice was playing nearby, but could do nothing to save him other than run for help. By the time he found a neighbor and returned his grandfather had bled to death.

  A sharp snap of twigs breaking from behind brought a net of cold fear over him. He cursed himself for becoming emotional and letting his guard down. Turning as quickly as he could, he didn’t expect to be lifted off the ground and his AR-10 yanked from his grasp.

  A hairy brute illuminated by the dim light of the moon held him helplessly by the throat. It wasn’t a bear, and as stupid as it seemed, his only thought was that he was about to be killed by Bigfoot.

  The savage creature snarled while she squeezed the life out the intruder.

  Juice’s body went limp. His soul moved on to join the others.

  The Bigfoot and her son would eat well this day.

  *

  “Good Lord! Look at this place,” Steve Evans, attorney, said as he rode shotgun in his BMW.

  “If I were you, I would take your Beamer in for a tune up when we get back to the city. Have them change the air and cabin filter for sure. You could grow a garden in all the dust and dirt we’ve picked up. They’re going to charge you double for a was
h and detail,” Manuel Valenzuela said, paralegal, and personal friend of Evans.

  Evans looked over at Manuel. “Why are you so interested in the upkeep of my car?”

  “Because, when you’re ready for a new one in a couple of years, I’m going to buy it from you. I love this car, and I can’t afford a new one. Why do you think that I’m always volunteering to drive when we visit clients?”

  Evans had never given it much thought. He was happy for Manuel to drive. It gave him time to look over the last minute details of impending business.

  “The worst trailer park I’ve ever seen looks like Buckingham Palace compared to this Indian Reservation,” Evans said. “Most of these houses look like they were put together from scrap wood. Look over there! My God! Is that cardboard on the front of that house?”

  “Native American Reservation,” Manuel corrected. “You don’t want to offend the locals. You’re right though. This Reservation is awful.”

  “I know just what this place needs to fix things right,” Evans said.

  “A casino?”

  “No, a match.”

  Manuel shook his head. “I think we’re here.”

  The BMW stopped in front of a sun-weathered shack constructed of lapped plywood of various sizes, with an aging Chevy truck parked on the side. A man appearing to be in his thirties sat on an old wooden rocker staring at the peeling paint on the narrow porch. A cloud of dust following the car rolled over him.

  Evans opened the door and stepped out. “Excuse me, are you George Smith?”

  “That is my legal name,” Smith said, looking up.

  “Mr. Smith, I’m here about your application for a license to become a tour guide.”

  “You drove out here to bring me my license? You could have just mailed it, you know.”

  “Well, not exactly. If you will allow me . . .” Evans closed the door, reached in his jacket for his card, and walked toward the front steps. Manuel exited the car adjusting his belt, and followed. “This is my associate, Manuel. We work for Higgins & Shustler, LLC. We are representing China International Petroleum Corporation, and we are interested in obtaining your services.”