Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  “Was that the last time you saw her?”

  “No. Like suckers for abuse, we went back to visit her again. It was bad. Really bad. That was the last time. Then Howie called a couple months later with an offer I couldn't refuse. He had a house lined up, a job, and a good family town for the kids.”

  “And a Bigfoot.”

  Paul laughed. The bouncing it caused helped loosen the pinch in his chest and swelling in his throat. He hadn't realized how close to crying he actually was.

  “And me,” she said. She stopped walking, turned to face him. “I'm glad you're here, Paul. I don't know why, but I feel so completely comfortable with you. I hate what you had to go through to get here, but I'm happy you finally made it.”

  He couldn't believe what he was hearing. This seemed like an appropriate opportunity to kiss her, but he still wasn't convinced he should try. Maybe it was just a confidence booster that his pitiful story had brought out of her. She could still be saying anything she might offer to a friend who obviously needed some encouraging support.

  When she hugged her arms around his neck, he realized she wasn't just trying to perk him up.

  Leaning down to meet her, his lips brushed hers.

  Then a deep blood-curdling roar ripped through the night.

  Paul and Becky jerked their heads toward the shuddersome grumble with a unified gasp.

  Little pinpricks of coldness traveled up Paul's back. And he had to agree with Becky's prior description of the roar.

  Almost human, but not quite.

  18

  The ocean seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds Paul heard as he struggled to keep up with Becky were the squishes their feet made in the sand. Even the waves, when they burst onto the shore, somehow seemed muted. He hadn’t given it much thought earlier, but now as they jogged along the sand, he wondered where the other night strollers were. The beach was deserted: no bonfires, couples walking together, joggers, nighttime parties, or even bums. He knew from experience bums liked to prowl around the piers, begging for spare change to those who happened to walk by.

  The water looked like black oil with a swath of sparkling blue from the moon hovering above the ocean so low that it might be about to dip into the sea. So far away from the pier, they didn’t have its lights to see by, but the grayish, crater-filled disc in the sky provided plenty.

  “Where are we going?” asked Paul.

  “You heard it!”

  “Yes, and it looks like we’re heading towards the noise.”

  “We are. And I think I know where it is. Earlier today, your brother was with Mayor Caine and they were covering up some kind of crime scene.”

  “What?” Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What kind of cover-up?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice bouncing. “I took pictures, but Thompson made me hand over my memory card. Cops were everywhere. I think it’s something about some missing teenagers, but I don’t have any specifics.”

  Gunner was out with some teenagers last night.

  Paul wondered how close his son had come to being among the missing.

  “I bet it’s over in that area,” she said, huffing.

  Paul wanted to pull her, kicking and screaming if he had to, back the other way. Instead, he ran with her.

  The roar resounded another time, triggering a patter of cold taps up his back. Whatever it was sounded angry, and somehow sad.

  And very close.

  The flat stretch of beach continued onward endlessly. To their right were sandbanks, lining the edge of the shore like sandy hillocks with little grassy sprigs poking through the top. Bushes and shrubs ran across the top like shaggy green hair. Beyond that was a barrier of darkness the woods provided.

  “Up there,” she said, pointing to the top.

  They started up. It took some exertion, feet sliding on the sand, stumbles, but they finally made it to the top. Bushy stalks slapped Paul’s shoulders, bristly leaves scratching his forearms and cheeks as he sunk to a crouch. Keeping low, they peered over the top and stared down to the sand below. Though it was heavy with shadows on the far side of the sandbanks, Paul could see the white carpet of sand. Nothing was down there. No person, no animal, and no Bigfoot.

  “This was where it came from, right?” asked Becky.

  Paul waved his hand ahead of them. “I…well—yeah, it sounded like it.”

  “Right?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then where is it now?”

  “Not down there.”

  Becky squinted, leaning forward as if doing so would make whatever she was looking for suddenly appear. “See any footprints?”

  Paul copied her stance, straining his eyes to see. “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  “It doesn’t mean they’re not there. We can go look.”

  “We will.”

  “Think someone’s pulling something? Like with the fake feet casts?”

  “I don’t know—maybe.” She rose to her knees, arms slack to either side of her, knuckles in the sand. “We would’ve seen it if it had run.”

  “It?”

  “Yes. Him, it, whatever. Either direction, we would have seen it when we were approaching.”

  “But if it ran that way,” said Paul, pointing into the darkness that was a like a thick black wall several feet ahead. “We wouldn’t have seen it if they went there.”

  “I would’ve,” she said. “I was staring this way the whole time.”

  “So it was on the other side of this bank, we’re agreed on that.”

  “Right.”

  “And unless it turned to vapor and floated away, it should still be down there.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So why isn’t it?” Becky threw her shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug like a pouting child. Paul sighed. “Maybe there’re speakers hidden somewhere.”

  Becky looked at him. At first she was smirking but the simper expression broke away. “You might be onto something there.”

  Together, they stood up. Becky slowly turned her head one way and another. Her pose was tense and ready, hands clenched into fists, but by the time she had given two complete scans of the area, her posture slouched. “Nothing.”

  Then she seemed to drop two feet in height.

  Arms flapping, Becky shrieked. “Help me, Paul!”

  Staring in shock, Paul watched her sink into the dune. She was down to her thighs before he blinked. “What’s wrong!?!”

  “Something’s pulling me!” She dunked down to her belly, eyes getting bigger with each tug. “Help!”

  Paul dove, landing hard on his stomach. The compacted sand punched the wind out of him, but he still grabbed her hands. Getting to his feet, he remained crouched in a squat as he pulled. He felt her climb, saw her become dislodged down to her hips. Then she was yanked back down, yanking Paul down to his front again.

  He kept his grip, though he could feel her fingers starting to slip through his sweaty hold. Becky’s screams hammered his ears like spikey jabs. He turned his head, trying to muffle her cries as he got to his knees. Then he leaped over her head, releasing her hands long enough to slip his arms under hers and pull with all he had. His feet sank into the sand down to his ankles.

  He expected something to grab his feet as he pulled. Nothing did, and Becky kept rising. Once her knees appeared, she started moving them as if running. She didn’t go anywhere, just jogged in place while fighting to break her legs free.

  Finally, they burst from the sand. She toppled over the side, bringing Paul with her. They tumbled down the incline, crashing through bushes and hitting the flat turf. They rolled to a stop. Paul jumped to his hands and knees and crawled to Becky. He helped her to her knees.

  “What was that?” he shouted.

  “Its hands were so big!”

  Getting to his feet, Paul leaned over, pulling at her. “Come on! We have to get out of here before—”

  The sandbank’s wall exploded in a gritty clou
d that engulfed Paul, filling his eyes with granular bits, blinding him. He staggered back, digging at the sand with his fingers. Blinking only made it worse, like trying to stare through an hourglass of sand-filled water. Feet tangling, he dropped onto his ass.

  “Paul!”

  “Becky!”

  “Oh my God—he’s real!”

  Paul viciously dug at his eyes, pulling out little grits of sand. It helped to unclog his vision, but it was still wet and blurry. He could see something large and coated in fur moving toward them.

  It roared.

  The powerful din shook Paul’s insides.

  Thunk. Thunk.

  Paul recognized the heavy punches as footsteps.

  Coming toward them.

  “Becky! Come my way!”

  Becky screamed.

  Through the flooded goggles that were his eyes, he saw the beast approaching Becky, holding out a long, thickset arm. Its giant hand was fully extended as if wanting to give her a high five.

  It grunted, softly and curious.

  “Stay back!” she shouted.

  A whining whimper, almost like a coo, followed. To Paul it sounded like the thing was trying to be sweet. It gripped the bottom of her shirt, twisting the fabric in his hand.

  “Get the hell away from her!” Paul shouted.

  The beast stepped back, ripping her shirt. A tidbit of fabric dangled from its fingers as it gave another bone-shaking roar, holding out its massive arms like someone ready to hug. Paul understood if something that size hugged him, he would be crushed during the embrace.

  The beast charged.

  Paul saw it quickly narrowing the distance between them.

  A click resonated behind Paul, followed by a whistling pop that loudened as orange light started to brighten a dome around them. A sparkling ball punched into the dune wall, bursting into crackling flashes. In the orange smolder, Paul glimpsed the beast’s face. Even through tear-soaked eyes, he could see it.

  Not quite humanoid, but close enough with its bulging proboscis flaring out to two caverned nostrils. Infected scabs were spread across its bulky brow. Yellow eyes were set deep into a projecting face, the forehead a furrowed block above them. When it opened its mouth to roar, Paul saw its teeth were mostly humanlike, except for the canines which came to two narrow points. Not quite fangs, thicker and rounder on the ends.

  Another spangled ball struck the sandbank beside the other that continued to pop and sparkle wildly. The combination of the sizzling orbs threw down writhing shadows across the sand.

  Paul remained in his spot as if planted, unable to move. The beast scurried in reverse, holding its arms in front of itself like a shield. It roared at the sparklers, then stomped at one. Paul assumed it burned itself from how fast it snatched its foot back and hopped around in an irate tantrum.

  Then the beast spun around and sprinted off into the dark.

  Paul dropped forward, bracing himself up on his hands. Panting, he looked at Becky. She lay on her side, head turned away, gaping at the vicinity the beast had fled. He could see her flat stomach through her tattered shirt, her navel a wink on flesh. Sweat beaded across her smooth skin.

  “Are you all right?” asked Paul. His voice sounded like he was hearing it through headphones.

  Becky turned to him. Opening her mouth to respond, her face quickly stretched into a cry.

  Paul spun around.

  Approaching was a man, holding a gun that looked more like a cannon from the Civil War. He was dressed in fatigues: navy green cargo pants tucked into knee-high army boots. He had a vest stocked with a large Bowie knife and grenades over a dark T-shirt that stretched over his muscular torso. Arms lined with thick roots of veins and boulder-like biceps hung by his sides. On his head was a military beret with graying neatly cut hair waving out from underneath. A brush of stubble for a beard was divided by a deep scar on his cheek reaching down from his right eye.

  As the man lowered the gun Paul realized it wasn’t actually a real gun at all. A flare gun. As the flares he’d fired sizzled to glowing slivers, the man reached Paul. “Everybody all right?” His voice was deep, nearly slurred in its thickness.

  Becky rolled onto her stomach as Paul dropped back, resting on his elbows. He felt drained and imagined Becky did as well.

  Becky looked up at him. Her hair had fallen into her face, thick twiglets of golden brown hanging in her eyes. “Was that a Bigfoot?”

  The man was silent for a moment. Then he said, “As a matter of fact, it was.”

  Becky and Paul shared a look of disbelief, but hidden in it was a not so subtle look that suggested conviction.

  “Freeze!”

  Paul jumped at the sudden barking demand. Looking past the soldier, Paul saw somebody approaching, pointing his handgun in front of him with both hands. As he neared, Deputy Lillard’s lanky form became decipherable. Giving Becky and Paul a couple fleeting glances, he made his way to the solider.

  “Are you two okay?” Lillard asked.

  “I was just asking them the same,” said the soldier.

  “Shut up! And drop your goddamn weapon. Now!”

  “Hardly a weapon, Deputy Fife.”

  “Do it, now!”

  “Fine.” He tossed the flare gun in front of him. It landed by Paul’s hand in a clinking thump. “Should I get on my knees?”

  “I’m the damn cop here.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Get on your knees!”

  The soldier sank to his knees. “My hands?”

  “What?”

  “Where should I put my hands? Behind my head?” My back? I suppose you’d like to cuff them?”

  Paul would have laughed had he been watching this on television. But since it was in the here and now, he couldn’t find any humor in the peculiar scene before him.

  “Who are you?” asked Becky, pushing herself back to her knees.

  “Call me Striker.”

  “Your name’s Striker? Really?” asked Becky, skepticism heavy in her voice.

  He stared at Becky long and hard. “My name can be whatever you want it to be.”

  “Whatever it is,” said Officer Lillard, his gun still leveled on Striker, “you can sign it on the dotted line at the station. You’re under arrest.”

  “On what grounds?” asked Striker.

  “Weapons on the beach.”

  “Did you see what just happened here?” asked Becky. “We were almost killed…”

  “I’m not sure what I saw,” said Lillard, removing the cuffs from his belt.

  Heavy treads of feet stomping through sand made all of them jump and cry out, except for Striker, who stayed unmoving like a handsomely toned statue arrayed in survival gear.

  He must have known it wasn’t the creature, Paul realized, as Lillard’s heavyset partner arrived. Leaning over, he panted through his chubby red cheeks. Paul couldn’t remember his name, but he wondered if the man might need medical attention.

  “You got them?” he asked.

  Lillard nodded. “Cuff this one.” He tossed the handcuffs to his partner. “We’re taking him under custody, but all of them are coming to the station.”

  “You got it.”

  The rotund cop walked over to Striker, still winded, and began pulling his arms behind his back. Striker didn’t resist, though if he wanted to, he could obviously make this arrest very difficult for the bumbling deputies.

  Paul stood up, held out his hand, and assisted Becky to her feet.

  Turning to face Lillard, she slapped her hands on her hips. “You can’t be seriously arresting him. He saved our asses.”

  Lillard held up his hand. “Not now, Becky. I’m not in the mood. I’m sure we all have questions and this guy probably can answer them.”

  Striker shrugged, smiling like a kid who knew a devilish secret.

  19

  Howie’s office was heavy with uncomfortable silence, save the ticking from the wall-mounted clock. Paul and Becky had been ordered to sit in the pair of chair
s in front of Howie’s desk until he arrived and neither had spoken since Lillard left them in here. On the way to the station, Lillard had radioed in and ordered Junior to patch him through to Howie’s home. Evidently, Howie had been awakened by the phone and was none too pleased to be disturbed. Paul had listened as Lillard briefly described the ordeal on the beach, leaving out all mentions of the Bigfoot. The only mention the beast had gotten was in a murmured ‘Possible sighting’ from Lillard.

  Paul fidgeted with his fingers, tapping the tips together, making funny shapes with them. A few times he’d made a church and opened it up to show the people. None of his hand games seemed to help make time go by any faster.

  Leaning back in his chair, Paul sighed, and returned to looking around. He saw the pictures of his nephews again in a tripod photo frame. All of them were muscular and attractive, a perfect snapshot of success-in-the-making. There was another frame with a family photo taken somewhere in the mountains with the five of them standing abreast in front of a gorgeous waterfall.

  Paul scanned plaques, awards, diplomas, and a bronzed pair of handcuffs on a plaque stating Howie was the world’s best sheriff.

  The rest of the office was plain. Dull paint and a bland strip of law enforcement brown wallpaper went around the entire room. It gave the overall impression of discomfort, like a principal’s office, and that was how Paul felt, as if he was waiting on his punishment to be administered.

  He jumped when the door swung open, banging against the wall and rattling the drab décor hanging from the walls.