Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  Digging his elbows into the dirt, Paul shoved upward with his lower back. For a moment, Striker didn’t budge. Then he began to dip to the side. Paul angled to the right and thrust harder as if performing some kind of intense workout routine. And to Paul, it felt like one. Working with his hips, it pulled the muscles in his lower back and thighs taut, as if trying to peel them into a ball of misery.

  Finally, Striker dropped onto his side. Relief flowed through Paul’s body in a tingling current that felt wonderful. He looked around. Spotted the Ruger and moved. On all fours, Paul crawled to where his gun lay in the dirt. He picked it up, fingering the dirt out of the barrel as he looked at the melee before him.

  Howie, with Mackenzie on his back, was slamming backwards against the cavern wall. Each hit pounded against Mackenzie’s back. Though she hadn’t released his brother, she was definitely showing signs of weakness. Any moment now she would fall off his back.

  The Bigfoot had palmed Bubba’s head and was pushing him back. Bubba’s arms flapped. The hand gripping his .45 pulled the trigger, firing rapidly, as if hoping one of the bullets would catch the beast. None did. The bullets skidded off the walls, whipping through the tight area with whistling zips.

  One bounced off a jut of rock beside Paul’s head. He felt bits of rock and the heat of the spark the bullet caused before it was thrown in another direction.

  “Shit!”

  Paul dived forward, landing on his front.

  Bubba’s going to kill us all!

  Bigfoot swatted the gun away, forced the big man to his knees, and kept pushing. Sounds like cracking wood came from Bubba’s back.

  Raising the gun, Paul almost started firing wildly. But he steeled himself, made himself steady the shot.

  Bubba’s body crumpled and burst like a balloon with too much air. Innards exploded from his front, his ribcage popped wide through his chest like an opening boney hand.

  Paul fired four shots.

  Spats of red appeared in the beast’s arm, side, and two in his leg. Roaring, the beast whipped around. His eyes locked on Paul, and he felt the gun become much too heavy in his hand.

  “Oh, shit on me…”

  Another roar and Paul felt what was left of his courage drain from him. Crouching, the Bigfoot spread its arms as if wanting a hug. Then it stepped forward to charge.

  Caine’s arms wrapped around the beast’s leg as if it was heading for work and the mayor didn’t want it to go. The Bigfoot stopped, looked down.

  Caine lifted his nodding head. Patches of crispy bubbles had spread over his cheeks from the fire. Some of his hair had been burnt away, leaving melted streaks of coagulated flesh and hardened ridges. Curls of smoke rose from his scalp.

  “You were supposed…to help us!” screamed Caine.

  The Bigfoot tilted its head as if confused.

  Caine took in a phlegmy breath and screamed, “You were supposed to…save this town!”

  Paul didn’t know if a Bigfoot could smile. But he swore this one did—a cocky smirk that reeked of arrogance. It jerked its foot away from Caine’s pathetic grasp and lifted it above Caine’s head.

  Paul saw what was coming. “No!”

  The massive foot stomped down on Caine’s head, flattening it with a juicy crunch. When the foot lifted off, Caine’s skull was a trodden bloody ruin. The beast slid a little to the side, as if stepping in loose mud, and started for Paul.

  “Oh, shit on me…” Paul muttered.

  The beast was sprinting at Paul, bent forward, arms pumping.

  Shoot it, Paul! You’ve got the shot!

  He glanced down at his limp hand, the fingers that barely curled around the Ruger’s handle. It felt too heavy to lift, as if it were a car that he needed to pull above his head.

  In his peripheral vision, Paul was vaguely aware of Howie flinging Mackenzie forward, flipping her over his shoulder. Styles’s loaned shirt flew wide, showing Mackenzie’s bare rump, the backs of her thighs and bottoms of her feet on her way down. Her back pounded the ground. Air puffed from her mouth. She lay on the muddy sand with her arms splayed wide on either side of her.

  Paul shook the fog that was slowly covering him from his head, thinning the cloud that had been shutting his body down to shock and his looming demise. Somewhere in his mind, he knew it would be easier to let the void take hold, to dumb him to what was happening.

  His head cleared, his vision became steady, his hearing, which had turned muffled and bubbly and seemed to squeal from the gunshots, became crisp again. He felt the gun in his hand. Now the familiar weight was no longer a handicap, it soothed him. It gave him courage, power. It gave him hope.

  He raised the Ruger.

  And was too late.

  The Bigfoot was right on top of him, reaching down, still running. Any moment now, Paul would feel those beefy hands clamp down on his head and rip it from his body. Now he wished he would’ve let the shock take him.

  Howie slammed into the Bigfoot’s side, intercepting him as if Paul was a quarterback about to be sacked. Howie speared him at an angle. His shoulder pounded the beast’s side. The Bigfoot, bent slightly toward Howie, stumbled away from Paul.

  Pulling back, Howie stood up and started throwing punches into the beast, quick repeated jabs in its side and stomach. Paul saw Howie’s fists pounding where the Ruger’s bullets had nailed it.

  Growling in pain, the Bigfoot twirled and threw back its long hairy arm. Howie ducked the swing and landed four more quick raps to its wounded side.

  Paul aimed the Ruger. If he fired now, he might hit Howie.

  “Howie! Move!”

  Ignoring Paul, Howie kept hitting. Blood squirted in red ribbons from the bullet wound, splashing Howie, darkening the front of his uniform.

  Paul wanted to shoot. There was a good chance he wouldn’t hit Howie, but he wasn’t completely sure. He was tempted to put one in Howie’s leg to get him out of the way, but he didn’t want to hurt his brother, the man who’d just saved his life.

  “Howie move!”

  Howie was about to throw another jab into the Bigfoot’s side, but suddenly stopped. He looked at Paul, panting, his face dripping with the beast’s blood.

  Then Howie’s face switched to one of surprise and he was hoisted off the ground. The Bigfoot, an arm gripping Howie’s crotch and the other the nape of his neck, held him up. Howie’s back was above the Bigfoot’s head, arms flapping, legs kicking as he squirmed to get free.

  “No!” screamed Paul, aiming the gun. His finger started to pull the trigger, but Howie suddenly blocked his shot.

  For a brief moment, Paul wasn’t sure how this had happened. Then he realized Howie was being hurled down.

  The Bigfoot brought its knee up.

  Howie’s back folded over the beast’s thick thigh. His shirt bulged in the stomach, then a crooked hunk of spine burst through the tanned fabric, tearing the shirt into shards around Howie’s navel.

  Paul didn’t realize he was screaming until he felt something in the back of his throat come loose, killing his cries. He watched Howie slump off the Bigfoot’s leg. He fell onto his side, facing Paul. Blood was already trickling from the corner of his mouth, forming a dark blob in the squishy sand.

  Paul’s eyes landed on the protruding tip of spine. Saw the blood spilling from his brother’s stomach. Saw the Bigfoot bent at the waist, a hand to its side. Saw its long gnarly fingers pressed to the bullet wound, the dingy hair matted with crimson splashes. It was winded, taking in heavy breaths that rattled in its chest like soft snores.

  Paul shook his head. He wouldn’t accept what had just happened. No way had his brother just—no this didn’t happen.

  “Puh…Paul…” Howie coughed up blood.

  The shock began to dissipate, shoved aside by rage that made Paul’s skin feel as if he’d been in the sun too long. Paul gave a roar of his own.

  And pointed the gun at the Bigfoot.

  His finger started tugging at the trigger. The gun kicked in his hand. Blasts dea
fened his ears. The rotten egg odor of gun smoke filled the air. He didn’t know how many bullets actually hit the beast. But he was still pulling the trigger well after the gun had stopped jerking. There were no more blasts that sounded like explosions, only hollow clicks of an empty pipe.

  Then something heavy minced the back of his head.

  Paul dropped.

  In his dimming vision, he glimpsed Howie, wincing and struggling to breathe. He caught a quick glance of the Bigfoot on its knees, and Mackenzie going to its aid. She dropped the coconut-sized rock that was dark and wet with Paul’s blood, and began to assist the beast to its feet.

  Darkness swarmed through Paul, taking away his sight. His last thought before a black emptiness filled him was of his kids.

  31

  Becky had no idea where they were. Blake seemed just as disordered, though he kept going, sweeping his flashlight this way and that. In his other hand was his handgun. Becky didn’t know what kind it was, but it had a long barrel and a cylinder. She had no clue what had happened to her own flashlight. Probably dropped it during the commotion back in the cave.

  God…

  The attack replayed in her mind in a series of jarring images. She couldn’t even begin to fathom them all. Maybe someday, if she lived, she could process everything that had happened. But right now it seemed impossible. Too much madness and things she’d been told all her life that weren’t real, actually were. And Mackenzie…God, what had happened to her? She’d somehow grown to worship the creature. Loved it. Killed for it. What kind of lunacy had she experienced for all her reason to abandon her like that?

  Stockholm Syndrome with a Bigfoot.

  It had been several minutes since any hollow reverberations of gunfire had drifted through the caverns. And that worried Becky. Hopefully it meant the Bigfoot had been killed, but for some reason she doubted it.

  Please let them all be okay.

  Remembering what happened to Lillard, she doubted he was okay.

  Poor Lillard…

  Blake’s head bopped and turned as he looked around. Groaning, he turned back, pointing the light behind him. It cut a narrow funnel through the thick darkness and ended as if smashed by the black. He suddenly turned to the side, pointing the flashlight ahead of him.

  Winded, sweat drenched Blake’s face. His shirt was dark with stains.

  The light pointed into a narrow corridor. It was much too short and skinny than any they’d come through on their way in.

  “We didn’t come that way,” she said. Her lungs felt tight and achy as she tried to catch her breath.

  “I don’t think we were…in here at…all…” Blake could hardly finish the sentence through his pants.

  He’s about to keel over. Is he going to be able to go much further?

  He’d been a deputy for as long as she could remember, and knew he had to be pushing fifty in age. Plus he was out of shape, and not just by a little. His gut towered over his crotch like an awning of fat. Becky didn’t know what she’d do if he couldn’t carry on.

  Blake pointed the light back into the narrow chasm as if considering going inside.

  There was no way he’ll fit in there. He might be able to go in a little ways, but he’ll probably get stuck.

  And even if he didn’t somehow lodge himself inside, they would have to crawl to get through. Since there was no way of knowing how deep the tunnel was she didn’t want to risk him not being able to handle the exertion.

  “Don’t think about it,” she said. “We’re not going in there.”

  Blake nodded, as if he’d needed to hear her state the obvious. “Right.”

  “Let’s keep moving forward,” she said.

  “We’ve been going this way for a long time,” he said. He took a deep breath and let it out with a soft wheeze. “I’m afraid we might be doing circles.”

  “There has to be some damn way out of this place.”

  “Right. The way we came in.”

  There had to be other ways. No way was there only one way in and out.

  “Let’s go,” said Blake.

  Walking slightly at an angle from Blake, Becky stayed close. She followed the funnel the flashlight made through the darkness before them. It turned every which way as they moved slowly.

  Several minutes later, Blake jerked to a stop. He flung the disc of light onto the wall.

  “There!” he said.

  Becky saw it. The orange X. One of the many Striker had drawn on the cave walls on their way through.

  “We’re going the right way!” said Becky.

  “Damn right. Come on.”

  They walked to the X and saw where the tunnel led to the right. Following it, they had to move single file to go through. This time, Blake had Becky take the front.

  “I’ll cover you,” he said.

  Becky was aware of how often the flashlight seemed to linger on her backside. All she saw in front of her was a dark Becky-sized shape thrown against the soggy sand floor. Blake was probably enjoying how her buttocks moved in her shorts. She regretted wearing them now, knowing Blake was getting a good view. But she liked how they didn’t restrict her, how her legs moved freely in them. It was the same shorts she wore when she would go hiking with her sister.

  Becky saw another X.

  “There,” she said.

  The light wavered across the gaudy marker.

  They kept walking.

  A little ways longer and another X appeared.

  Blake moved up beside her as the space around them widened.

  “I think we’re almost there,” he said.

  Becky thought so, too. Though this area looked the same as all the others they’d been through, she thought it seemed more familiar.

  “Our footprints,” said Blake.

  She looked down and saw in the wash of light many sets of footprints. She recognized her petite pair among the many other larger ones.

  Blake took the front again, and Becky was glad to have the light off her ass.

  More minutes passed and a toothed portal of light appeared ahead of them in the distance. A chasm of brightness bore through the dark cave, pushing the shadows against the bumpy walls.

  Blake laughed. Becky cheered. Both started running. This corridor was wide enough that they didn’t have to worry about bumping against the blunt edges of the walls. As they closed in on their exit, it seemed to grow, opening like a wide bright mouth eager to swallow them.

  More like a large ass spreading to shit us out.

  Becky started laughing. Blake, having no idea why she was, decided to join in.

  The sunlight was blinding when Becky dashed from the cave. Glaring white filled her vision, triggering tears and hurting her eyes. A dark shape stepped in front of her and caused her to gasp.

  “We have to get to the cars and call for support.” Blake’s voice.

  Relieved, Becky nodded. “Okay. I can’t see shit.”

  “Me either, but I know the way. Come on.”

  She felt his pudgy hand take hers. It was slick with sweat as he guided her to the edge. Below them, rocks slanted down, their tops pointing up like spikes. Her stomach cramped, imagining those serrated tips piercing her.

  If we fall…

  She blinked away tears the sunlight had caused and could see a little better, though it still appeared as if she was looking through liquid contacts.

  Blake took her to a small footpath that etched through the rocks. It was very skinny and would be hard to maneuver. But if they were careful, neither of them should get hurt.

  “Shouldn’t be as strenuous going down,” said Blake.

  “Yeah, especially if we fall.”

  Blake frowned. “Let’s hope that we don’t.”

  “Already hoping.”

  Blake gave her a single nod. “You want to go first?”

  She figured she might make it down quicker if she was in the lead. But if she started to fall, nobody would be in front of her to stop her.

  And if Blake falls, t
here’s no way I could catch him. He’d take us both down.

  It would be safer with him in the front. Hopefully he wouldn’t trip, since nobody would be there to catch him.

  Though Becky didn’t like it, she said, “You go...”

  Nodding, Blake holstered his firearm and started forward. He sidled down the path, prancing as if moving over hot coals. Both arms out, he used them for balance.

  Following, Becky simulated his posture. She was surprised how much it helped. With such a steep slope, it took no time to pick up speed. Soon, the salty wind was whipping her. It threw strands of hair across her face, rocked her ponytail behind her. She felt the tips of her hair slapping the nape of her neck.

  The ridge started to level out as it neared the bottom. This threw off her momentum and she dropped forward.

  Blake caught her before she landed on the rocks.

  “Careful,” he said, helping her back up.

  Bent at the waist and panting, Becky nodded. She had a hand pressed flat on Blake’s flabby chest. She could feel his heart sledging behind the shirt. The fabric felt soaked, as if he’d gone swimming in his uniform.

  “Almost there,” he managed to say between huffs.

  Standing up straight, Becky took a deep breath. Her throat was dry and her lungs felt as if they were being slowly crushed between two bricks.

  Blake’s face had turned crimson under the sheen of sweat. “We can take it slower the rest of the way,” Blake added.

  Not quite jogging, Becky followed Blake onto the sand. The padded ground felt great on her feet after the hard surface of the ridge. It was tricky to walk on from how much it slipped under her shoes. She stumbled her way around bigger rocks to her left. Waves crashed against the shore behind her. She felt moisture in the air, adhering to her already slick body. Her tank top was glued to her back. Reaching behind her, she tugged it from her skin.

  The cars came into view beyond the chain cordon that shaped out the old parking area. Far off in the distance, Mayor Caine’s large house was a blocky dark shape against the bright blue of the sky. The peak of the tower stabbed into the sky as white clouds grazed in fluffy plumes behind it.