by Merry Jones
‘But where? Are they going underground?’ Pete pushed the door again, just a little, letting in some light. He noticed a light switch on the wall. The hut had electricity, a mini fridge. He was about to flip the switch on, see if the lights worked, when Bob shoved the door closed again.
Pete gritted his teeth, pushed it open.
‘Dammit, Pete. Close it, the way it was.’
Okay. Enough. Pete was done. ‘Fuck you, Bob. I’m out of here.’ Pete opened the door and, ignoring Bob’s frantic whispers, started out of the shed. Two guys walked toward him, deep in conversation. Not looking his way. He darted back into the shed, not daring to close the door.
He stood in the shadows, waiting for them to pass, watching the ground outside the door. Not paying attention to indentations or markings, staring at them without seeing them.
Only after the men had passed and he was slumping on the floor to rest did the markings take on definition. Pete realized what he’d been looking at.
‘I told you to stay in here. What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ Bob scolded. ‘You’ll get us killed.’
Wordlessly, Pete grabbed Bob’s shoulder and pointed outside.
‘What?’ Bob resisted. Until he looked down and saw the ground.
The footprints were unmistakable. More than twice the size of a human’s. How had they not noticed them when they’d approached the shed? But there they were, clearly defined, pressed into the dirt.
The monster they’d seen in the night had been here. Might still be nearby. Might even be kept here by the locals – that would explain the barbed wire fence. Bob and Pete might have walked right into its lair.
‘Shit.’ Bob sank to the floor, leaning against the wall. ‘Shit shit shit.’
Pete sat beside him. His whole body hurt. He didn’t give a damn about destroying the fossil fuel companies or blowing up the pipeline or becoming famous or changing the world. All he wanted to do was go home.
A parade left the snack bar, two by two. Ranger Daniels led ATF agents, state cops, gas company and pipeline people. Media. Hank and Captain Slader. Daniels carried a folded stretcher.
As they passed, Sylvie ran up to the news anchor. ‘Did you read my report?’
The woman didn’t stop, seemed not to recognize her.
‘I gave it to you yesterday, remember? All about the Bog Man?’
The newswoman’s photographer answered her. ‘Of course. Thank you. It’s great. We’ll be in touch.’
Sylvie walked along with them, not giving up. ‘Be careful out there. Don’t underestimate him. He’s unpredictable. They’re saying another man’s missing. Seems like the Bog Man’s taken another one.’
Another reporter overheard. ‘The Bog Man?’ he asked. ‘Who’s that?’
The first newswoman winked at her photographer, nodded at Sylvie. ‘This woman has all the details,’ she told the reporter. ‘We talked to her yesterday, got all the background. You might want to spend some time with her and catch up.’
Sylvie latched onto the new reporter, telling him about the Bog Man. She was still talking when the group reached the end of the campground parking lot where the trails into the woods began.
Daniels divided the group up, sending the ATF, pipeline and gas company people toward the blast sites. He was taking the state cops, the captain and Hank to the spots where the bodies had been found, right near Hank’s campsite.
They set off, the captain following along, hearing Daniels complain about having to send the ATF and pipeline investigators off on their own. About how short-staffed he was. About the lack of control he had over what went on in the park. About his need to do four jobs because of budget cuts.
‘Tell you what,’ he said to anyone listening. ‘Half the trouble we’re having now wouldn’t have happened if I’d had rangers out there patrolling the woods. We wouldn’t be talking about bombers and explosions, that’s for sure.’
Slader didn’t comment. Daniels was a whiner, as far as he was concerned, grumbling about how impossible his job was. How he had two deaths and two explosions to deal with, plus an injured woman. How he had to deal with the local population, too, and assure them that they and their properties adjacent to the park were safe. How was he to do it all? Daniels didn’t stop, just went on like a little girl. Slader wanted to deck him. He had his own problems, and nobody heard him bellyaching, did they?
At one point, Hank approached him. ‘Captain, with everything that’s happened, my wife and I want to get home. As soon as Ms Russo’s ankle is attended to, we’d like to finish giving our statements and take off. This afternoon, if possible.’
The captain couldn’t care less what Hank and his wife would like. But he didn’t want to get into a discussion, so he simply said he’d do what he could. As Hank hurried ahead, Slader lagged behind, watching and listening. Assessing the state cops, wondering if they’d heard what Hank had said. What they’d thought about his request. Both walked in silence, not revealing anything. Not making small talk. They were strictly business, which might mean they’d be eager to push him aside and take over the investigation. Slader hoped so. Maybe he could slip away right after he briefed them.
Up ahead, Hank picked up his pace. ‘Harper?’ He ran up the trail. ‘We’re back. Ready to go?’
Seconds later, Slader followed the others into the campsite. Saw Hank standing next to a half-folded tent, shouting Harper’s name.
He got no answer.
The captain looked around. Saw the tent flattened on the ground. A half-empty pot of oatmeal congealing on the stove. An open first-aid kit on the ground near a log. A bunch of scientific stuff – looked like soil and water samples – along with water bottles, canned soup and other supplies spread out on a tarp beside the tent. And a Winchester lying in a clump of weeds.
What he didn’t see seemed more significant. He didn’t see Harper Jennings or Angela Russo with a broken ankle.
He didn’t see anybody at all.
Dammit. Slader clenched his jaw. He had a pretty good idea what had happened. Fucking Josh had happened. Of all the locals, Josh was the biggest worry. He’d taken it upon himself to start trouble, and now he’d gone and collected more outsiders. It had been bad enough that he’d messed with the guys from the pipeline. But now he was taking weekenders? The captain could only imagine the women’s reactions, screaming in terror as a Sasquatch came galumphing into the campsite, believing that he was real. Because, honestly, the first time he’d seen that get-up, even he’d been convinced. Real bear fur. Custom-made prosthetic limb extensions that allowed for balance and flexibility.
But forget Josh’s ape suit – the man had become a liability. This time, state cops were involved – state cops who knew that two women were missing, who would call in reinforcements, who would instigate an all-out search and bring in the FBI. Christ, the situation was worse than he’d feared, and evolving too fast. Spiraling. He’d hoped to rein everyone in at the meeting, organize modest symbolic efforts, synchronize events, but, because of Josh, it could be too late. Slader crossed his arms, leaned against a tree. Josh was an idiot, overstepping his authority, unable to foresee the consequence of his actions. And he’d probably gotten the locals prematurely into an all-out war.
The state cops began to question Hank. ‘When did you last see your wife?’ the sergeant asked. ‘Where exactly was she? How did she seem when you left?’
The corporal stooped beside a rock. ‘Sergeant?’ he called. ‘You need to see this.’
Slader went over, too. Looked at the rock. Saw blood on it. A significant amount of blood. He watched the sergeant study the thing. Watched him look, narrow his eyes and squint at Hank. Slader knew the look. Knew what the sergeant would be thinking. Having seen blood, the sergeant would no longer trust Hank. In fact, might doubt Hank’s whole story.
Hank didn’t seem to notice what the cops were doing. No longer yelling for Harper, he was kneeling near the tent, examining the ground.
‘Look here,’ he called the other
s over. ‘See? I found four or five distinct shoe prints.’ He pointed them out, one by one, moving across the campsite, pointing out impressions on the ground. ‘And look, a bunch of them – at least three – go off this way down the trail.’
The state cops exchanged glances. The captain watched, knowing that they didn’t buy a word Hank was saying. They figured he’d planted the tracks, and they were going to let him keep going just to see where he’d lead them. Probably to his wife’s body.
Slader didn’t think the cops were right, but he also had doubts about his own theory. The campsite was orderly with the tent laid out, supplies neatly arranged. If Josh had been there, all that would have been trashed. Besides that, Josh’s outfit was bulky. He’d have had trouble taking two people at once – especially when one of them had a Winchester around. Most confusing, though, were the footprints. Josh always acted alone, deliberately leaving one clear gigantic set of Bog Man prints. But, if this site had been trampled by several pairs of normal-sized feet, then – damn. What had happened? The captain’s stomach wrenched, insisting that he might not want to know.
Daniels’ radio squawked. Slader overheard Penny from the snack bar say that some hunters had come in, complaining that their campsites had been vandalized overnight. They’d found big footprints, and one guy swore he’d seen a huge Big Foot creature.
Daniels signed off and scratched his head. He stepped over to the captain. ‘This weekend gets weirder and weirder.’
Slader nodded. Waited a beat. ‘I’ll take off in a few and deal with the hunters. You and the state guys can manage this.’
‘Feeling all right?’ Daniels asked him. ‘You’ve been quiet.’
‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Just don’t like all the excitement. Cops, ATF. Media. I’m thinking the locals are going to get stirred up.’
‘I hope not.’
‘You never know with those Hunt Club people. They’re at their limit with outsiders.’
‘Well, they better get used to them.’ Daniels looked back at the state cops. ‘There’s going to be a lot more outsiders around, at least for a while. Seems we got two women missing.’
Slader nodded toward Hank. ‘Think he killed her?’
Daniels started to say no, but hesitated, eyeing Hank. ‘Yesterday, I would have said no and sworn by it,’ he said. ‘But today? Christ, I have no idea. Nothing surprises me any more.’
According to the sun, it was mid-afternoon. Bob and Pete hid in the shed, beginning to understand that they’d be unable to get out of the place before nightfall. They’d stopped talking about the monster and its footprints. What was the point? Maybe it lived there, maybe it didn’t. Maybe it had just been passing through. Maybe the reason the local people were gathering was to decide how to get rid of it, like the villagers in the Frankenstein movies. But the monster didn’t matter; what mattered was how Pete and Bob were going to get out of there.
Pete had no ideas. The walls were too close, the space too dark. He couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand. Couldn’t stay still. Fidgeting, he peered out the narrow slit between the door and the wall, aching for open space and sky. Watching slices of the two big lugs holding rifles, standing by the fence. Those guys had been there a while, unlocking the gate when people showed up. Standing there, never moving. Why couldn’t they take a break just for a few minutes? Pete stood, shifted from leg to leg, felt like a prisoner.
Bob sat on the floor, sorting through the treasures stored inside the shed. ‘Can you stop?’
‘Stop what?’
‘Singing opera. What do you think I mean? Stop jumping around.’
‘I got to get out of here, Bob.’
Bob looked up at him. ‘You’ll be all right.’
‘No, you don’t get it. I’ve got to get—’
‘What you’ve got to do is calm down. Because you’ll fucking get us shot if you don’t.’
Pete took a breath. Shook his arms, his hands. Ouch, mistake. Even moving through air hurt his fingers. They were tender, raw in spots. He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be okay.’
Bob didn’t seem convinced. If his burns bothered him, he didn’t let on. ‘I wish we could smoke. You need to mellow out.’
It was true. Some dope would really help. Pete was jittery. Claustrophobic. Armed guards were outside. And at least one hairy monster. ‘What are those guys doing out there?’ he asked. ‘They’ve been there for at least an hour. Just standing there with their rifles.’
‘They’re guards. They’re on watch.’
On watch for what? The monster? Or maybe they were like cops at a roadblock, watching for fugitives. ‘Shit – you think they saw the sign? The one we took down and I used it to climb up on? Maybe they noticed it and they’re looking for us.’
Bob made a tsking sound. ‘Pete, think for a second. Why would they be looking for us at the gate?’
‘They found our stuff and brought it here. Maybe they figured out we’d come looking for it.’
Bob didn’t answer. He’d crawled to the corner of the shack, opened the mini fridge. A light came on inside it. ‘Guess what – the electricity works.’ He let out a gasp. ‘Shit, what is all this stuff?’
Canisters were lined up inside. Who knew what was in them. Bob reached inside, took a gray wad off a rack. ‘This looks … oh man. It looks serious.’ He held it out to Pete.
Pete took it, held it in the slat of daylight. It was a gray clump, harmless looking, like molding clay. He swallowed, stared at it. Fought the urge to drop it and run.
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ Bob said.
‘C fucking four?’ Pete’s voice cracked. ‘Jesus.’ C4 was powerful. The military used it. He handed it back to Bob. Gently. ‘Who are these motherfuckers? What are they doing with explosives?’
Bob reached for his backpack. ‘Maybe same as us. Putting an end to fucking fracking and gas pipelines.’
Pete leaned against the door frame while Bob took a quick inventory. A rocket launcher. Rifles. Military-style ammunition boxes. C4. And who were these people? Nobody. Hicks who lived out in the country. Thieves who’d stolen his and Bob’s meager supplies when they didn’t even need them. Damn. With their fancy arsenal, these guys would have no trouble taking out the gas pipeline. They’d be the ones to get all the fame and credit for standing up to the polluters and profit-mongers – even though he and Bob had planned it and tried it first – twice.
‘Hungry?’ Bob had emptied their backpacks onto the floor. The ham sandwiches sat beside their leftover blasting caps.
‘Why’d you empty our bags? What are you doing?’
‘Tit for tat.’ Bob reached into the mini-fridge, grabbed a canister of something liquid. Stuck it into his backpack.
‘Wait, what is that?’
‘Not sure. But it’s something these guys think is worth cold storage.’ He reached for a wad of C4, stuffed it in beside the canister.
Cold dread wrapped around Pete’s stomach. ‘Bob, maybe we shouldn’t mess with that stuff—’
‘Bullshit. Serves them right.’ He sounded cheerful, almost giddy.
‘But what if the stuff in those containers is nitro?’ Pete had done research. ‘That stuff has to be kept cold. It explodes real easy if it gets above fifty degrees.’
‘I’m being gentle.’ He put in a second canister.
‘Look. We came here to get our stuff back. Let’s just take it—’
‘Oh, we’re taking it. With a penalty fine for stealing from us.’ Bob grinned, his teeth shining in the dim light. ‘Those fuckers are going to think twice before they rip anybody off again.’ His bag was loaded. He zipped it up.
‘Just be careful. Don’t bump it.’
Pete didn’t want to get blown up again. But maybe the stuff wasn’t nitroglycerin. And once it got dark, maybe they could have another go at the pipeline, beat these guys to it. Maybe. But dark seemed a long time away, and he didn’t know how he could stay cooped up until then. His body itched to move. His burns were
raw. And the shed was suffocating. Craving air, he pressed his head to the narrow opening at the door and peered out.
The two guys had walked to the gate, rifles strapped to their shoulders. As Pete watched, they unlocked the fence for a wiry guy with bushy eyebrows. He dashed past them, a radio pressed to his ear, and sped past the shed over to the mound of dirt, barking into the mouthpiece, ‘Wait. Not yet. I’m here. I’ll be right there, tell them—’
Then, as soon as he disappeared behind the mound, there was silence. The guy was gone.
Pete turned back into the shed. The walls leaned in, moving closer. He looked outside again, down at the footprints of the monster.
‘Think we’re dead?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I’m just saying. Maybe we got killed in the explosion.’
‘Don’t be a fucking asshole.’ Bob dropped the blasting caps back into Pete’s bag.
‘I’m not kidding. Something’s off. Like we’re in some alternate reality.’
‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’
‘Think about it. A big tall hairy monster? Things like that don’t exist in the real world. And people disappearing into a pile of dirt? It’s not natural.’
‘Stop doing that eye blink thing. Nobody’s disappearing. There’s got to be an opening back there. Get the fuck out of your psycho head. I mean it. Eat a sandwich.’
Pete leaned back, didn’t point out that Bob hadn’t explained the monster. He eyed the ceiling. It inched lower, teasing. He could almost hear it laughing.
Dead or not dead, something was seriously wrong about this place. He needed to get out of there, and soon.
‘Soon as it’s dark,’ Bob answered his thoughts. ‘We’ll get the hell out of here. And this time, we’re going to blow that sucker to fucking hell.’ He reached for a sandwich, unwrapped it, and took a bite. With his mouth full, he grinned at Pete. ‘Cheer up. When we’re done, maybe we can go back to the snack bar. You can try your luck with that girl.’
Pete didn’t answer. He was busy, caught up in a staring contest with a wall.
Captain Slader checked his watch. It was already after two; he needed to get to the Hunt Club compound. Everyone would be gathered there, simmering, ready to boil over. The locals weren’t good at waiting. Didn’t like to follow rules. Each one of them was a hothead, ready to pop, and collectively they were a rumbling volcano. He needed to get there, calm them down. Remind them that people were like sticks, much stronger bound together than acting on their own. Yes, he’d use that analogy again to contain them. And he’d put the kibosh on Josh. Whether or not he’d taken those women, what had he been thinking during the night, destroying campsites, stirring up hunters? Damned fool needed to lie low and leave his Yeti costume in mothballs for a while. When would the locals learn? That costume wouldn’t scare people away; it would rouse curiosity and attract weirdos from all over the world who’d swarm the woods, searching for the creature. No, he had to get over there and talk sense.
