Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

Becky smacked her hand across the back of Mackenzie’s bare leg. She turned, glaring down at Becky. She still wore Styles’s shirt but the buttons had been popped. It hung open over her breasts, covering them except for the sides. She thrust the jagged rock at Becky. “You slapped me, bitch!?!”

  “They’re not the problem,” said Becky. “The only one being loud enough to distract me is you! Now shut the hell up! The bullet’s in deep. I need you to entertain him as much as possible so I can pull it out. He won’t quit jerking away and if he doesn’t be still I’m going to keep jabbing him.”

  The anger seemed to drain from Mackenzie. Nodding, she sunk to a crouch near the Bigfoot’s head. He turned to her, looking up, mouth moving as if whispering to her. She continued to nod, stroking his face, running a hand through the shaggy hair of his head, saying soothing things to him. It really seemed to help calm him down.

  She couldn’t help watching with a vague interest inside the repulsion. Mackenzie really seemed to care for the monster, and it looked as if it cared about her.

  And it wants me for a grotesque threesome.

  Frowning, Becky grabbed the bottle of vodka and poured some more on the wound. The beast groaned, but not very loud. Mackenzie quietly shushed him, continuing to talk to him in a sweet voice.

  Before setting the bottle down, Becky took a quick sip. The vodka burned a path down her throat, spreading warmth into her belly. It was much needed and helped to settle the shakes ravishing her insides.

  The pliers plunged again, searching for the hard piece once more. It didn’t take long to find it this time. She squeezed the pliers. She twisted her wrist this way and that. There was some hesitation as a squelching sound like raw meat being torn apart came from the wound.

  Gritting her teeth, Becky wrenched back her arm. The Bigfoot roared the loudest yet, shaking Becky’s lungs, jostling her insides. Mackenzie leaned over and hugged him, patted his sore-spotted chest.

  When Becky lifted her hand, a flattened bloody nub of lead was clamped between the pliers’ rutted mouth.

  The Bigfoot’s roars subsided to a groan. Huffing, its chest rose and dropped. It lifted its head, flat nostrils flaring as it seemed to try to sniff the bullet. Becky turned it so the beast could see it, then angled it at Mackenzie.

  It was a large bullet. No doubt it had damaged some vital organs inside. Plus all the blood the beast was losing…

  “I’m not sure if he’s going to…”

  Mackenzie shoved the rock in Becky’s face. “Shut up. Don’t even say it. Stitch him up.”

  “Mackenzie, listen to me…he needs real medical attention…and I’m not any kind of doctor.”

  Mackenzie coldly laughed. “Sure. I’ll rush him to the ER. No problem. You stitched the other wounds, stitch this one…”

  Becky glanced down at the thread and the blood-crusted needle. She sighed. “Mackenzie…he’s lost a lot of blood…” When she looked up at Mackenzie, she saw the woman had tears streaming from her eyes. Somewhere she felt pity for the crazy woman, even knowing what she’d done. “Okay. I’ll stitch him up.”

  “You do that. We’ll all hang out here for a little while, let him rest. We can work as a team to wait on him. And when he’s feeling better, we’ll get out of here.” She turned to the others. “And if you all help, just play along like we need you to, we’ll leave you be. I see no need to kill any of you, especially since so many people know my boo exists now.”

  Becky noticed how Mackenzie kept referring to things in a plural sense. Meaning, she had all intentions of taking Becky with her.

  Because the beast has my scent…

  Wasn’t that what Striker said?

  A cold feeling squirmed inside Becky. She grabbed the needle and thread with shaky hands. The blood had dried on her fingers, leaving a filmy dark layer over her skin. It made soft crinkling sounds whenever her fingers flexed.

  It took her a few tries to get the thread through the eye of the needle, but finally she managed. All those years of working in a library repairing books were paying off with her stitching abilities. The other lacerations had been smaller than this last one, though, and easier to sew. She looked at the large cavity in the beast’s side. It wasn’t bleeding as badly as it had been. Becky wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  One thing was certain, she realized. Once the beast was asleep, she was going to kill Mackenzie. And if she could kill the Bigfoot as well, even better. There was little doubt they would kill the boy, but she would bet the beast would want to take the women with them. Kind of a bizarre bestiality version of Charlie’s Angels.

  No. That’s not going to happen.

  She looked at the little girl, saw her shaking in her brother’s arms. Her face was pressed into the nook of his neck and shoulder. Becky hoped Paul wasn’t dead. Not just for her sake, but for his children’s sake. They wouldn’t be able to move on without him. They were a tight-knit trio that desperately needed each other. And Becky had to wonder if things would be different, could she somehow fit in with them? She liked to think so.

  As she stabbed the needle through the lips of the hole and pulled the thread through, she hoped Paul was okay.

  ****

  Paul threw a blanket he’d found in the trunk of a cruiser over Blake’s battered remains, avoiding looking at the ruin of his face and throat. It resembled a peeled banana—the jaw ripped down the front and left hanging by a curve of skin in front of a pulpy band of red.

  There was no sign of Becky anywhere. No indication that she’d been hurt or killed by the beast or Mackenzie. Striker told him they’d probably taken her with them. Paul hoped so. That meant she was alive, at least for now.

  The cars had been vandalized—slashed tires, busted windows, and smashed radios. There was no way they could drive any of the vehicles out of here, and no way to call for help. Striker’s cell phone was still in storage at the station, and Paul had left his in Howie’s Suburban. He hadn’t been able to find it.

  “Why’d they do this?” Paul asked Striker, standing up.

  Striker, standing beside Howie’s SUV, dropped the mouthpiece of the radio on the ground. He walked around the side, and stepped to where Paul stood at the rear by Blake’s body. “I guess they’re just covering their asses.”

  “But if they thought we were dead, there wouldn’t have been any need to do this.”

  “Well…they thought we were dead. Because if they hadn’t thought so, we really would be.”

  Paul nodded. He knew it, too. “So nothing works?”

  Striker shook his head. “Even my handheld radios are destroyed. Found them busted on the ground. Five hundred bucks a piece…” He shook his head again, the words turning to angry mutters that Paul couldn’t understand.

  “Where’d they go?”

  Striker turned to Paul. “Good question. There’s blood over here, a lot of it. Followed the trail to the car.”

  “Blake’s car?”

  “Yeah. It’s wounded pretty bad, so we might be able to find the blood and just follow it.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the bastard’ll bleed to death.”

  “I doubt he’s wounded that bad. But he’s definitely weakened. And that works in our favor.”

  What was it going to take to kill this thing? Paul must have pegged the beast point blank several times. One bullet from a Ruger like his would easily drop a big man. But the Bigfoot was able to walk all the way through the caves, kill Blake, and smash all these cars before moving on.

  And it has two women with it, one of them being Becky. He wanted to get to her as soon as possible. Thoughts of what it might want to do to her tried to invade his mind but he wouldn’t allow them to enter.

  Striker walked to where the sand of the beach met the parking area. A cool breeze came from the ocean, stirring his short hair. The scar under his eye was a pale line that reflected the sunlight twinkling off the water.

  Somewhere in the distance a seagull squawked over the crashing sounds of waves. The sounds
were something Paul would have found soothing in other circumstances.

  “No blood over here, but I found a print.”

  Paul joined Striker. He saw the large footprint that definitely belonged to the Bigfoot. The toes pointed toward Caine’s house.

  “There’s another one,” said Paul, pointing to one further up. “How are they spaced so far apart?”

  “That’s its gait.”

  “Jesus…”

  “It sprints when it runs. With a stride like that, it’s able to cross distances pretty quickly. Probably just scooped the women up and carried them over his shoulders.”

  “I thought you said it’s weakened…”

  “It is.”

  “Jesus.”

  “We’re still in for a hell of a fight when we catch up to it.”

  “Where do you think it went?”

  As soon as the question left his mouth, Paul seemed to have the answer already waiting. In a synchronized motion, Paul and Striker’s heads turned.

  Mayor Caine’s house sat like a sinister dwelling with the possibility of horrors inside. Somehow, Paul knew the possibility was accurate.

  35

  “Do I really have to use this on her?” asked Becky.

  Mackenzie scowled. “Yes.”

  Becky looked down at Natalie. She sat in the chair, eyes staring at her feet. Her face was wet, eyes puffy and raw. She didn’t want to use the duct tape to bind her to the chair, but she was afraid if she didn’t, Mackenzie would. And Becky figured the crazed bitch wouldn’t be anywhere as delicate as she would be.

  Crouching, Becky looked up at the little girl. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Natalie acted as if she hadn’t heard her.

  Becky looked at the others, arms and legs wrapped to the chairs, sitting around the table as if about to eat. But that would be impossible, since a strip of gleaming silver had been placed over their mouths. Sets of wide eyes watched her as she began using the tape on Natalie.

  She did the little girl’s legs first, rolling the tape around her ankles. She tried to keep the bondage as loose as possible. Next, Becky did her wrists. Palms flat on the arms of the chair, she taped her wrists around the narrow posts.

  Becky stood, tearing off one last strip for the little girl’s mouth. She dropped the roll onto the floor, then held the piece up to Natalie’s mouth between her thumbs and forefingers. Natalie lifted her head, shook her hair out of her eyes. The look on her face was blank, eyes looking past Becky as if she didn’t notice her.

  Right before Becky pressed the tape to her lips, Natalie started to say something, but it was cut short. The tape silenced the words.

  “Wha…?” asked Becky.

  She wanted to tear the tape back off and ask her if she heard the little girl correctly.

  To Becky, it had sounded as if she was about to say: Look out.

  Look out for what?

  Becky felt somebody was right behind her. Looking back, she glimpsed Mackenzie as she lunged at Becky. A large kitchen knife swung down.

  Becky tried to spin around, but her feet tangled together and she fell against the table, just missing landing on top of Natalie. Mackenzie slammed against her, grunting, bringing the knife down.

  Becky managed to get her arm up. The blade skidded off Becky’s forearm, slitting a path of fire across her skin. The sharp point flew at her face. Ducking to the side, she felt the blade part the hair that was falling out of her ponytail.

  Mackenzie kept pushing, all her weight throwing Becky onto the table. Leaning over her, Mackenzie hefted the knife up and slammed it down. Becky caught the wild woman’s wrist to stop the blade’s plunge a hair before it punched into her chest. She held her there, trying to shove her back, but Mackenzie’s strength was impressive and surprising.

  “He’s mine…” said Mackenzie through gritted teeth. She brought her weight up on the tips of her toes and slammed it down.

  Becky shoved back, keeping the knife poised a breadth above her. “You…can have him!”

  The muffled cries of the others filled the room.

  “He wants you to come with us…” Mackenzie strained. A vein bulged in her forehead. Spittle hung from her bottom lip. “He’ll want all the girls…I know he will…But he’s not getting you…or them…”

  Becky realized what was going to happen, why Mackenzie had made her tape the others. She was going to kill them all. Starting with Becky, she’d easily make her way through the rest of them.

  “Don’t you think he’ll be pissed if you kill us?” Becky tried to kick Mackenzie, but her foot only bounced off the woman’s side, hardly affecting her.

  “He’ll forgive me…I’m carrying his child!”

  The strength tried to drain from Becky’s arms, but she managed to snatch it back. She shoved with all she had, throwing Mackenzie back. The table’s legs groaned across the hardwood floor.

  Becky stood up. Saw Mackenzie charging, the knife above her head. The shirt flowed behind her like a cape, opening up the front and showing her swinging breasts. She brought the knife down.

  Becky rolled to the side. As she fell off the table, she glimpsed the blade stabbing into the wood where she had been. Deep. By the time she landed on the floor, Mackenzie was struggling to dislodge it from the wood.

  Mackenzie’s announcement reverberated in her mind. She was pregnant. How was this even possible? It didn’t make sense. Maybe she really wasn’t. Maybe she was just crazy enough to think so.

  But for some reason, Becky believed her. She knew it was true.

  And the beast must know it, too. That was why he was so protective of her.

  Jesus Christ this is some sick shit!

  Mackenzie tore the knife from the table. She turned, spotted Becky on the floor, then twirled around to face Natalie.

  Ignoring Becky, she swung the knife at the girl’s throat.

  “No!” cried Becky.

  Becky wasn’t quick enough to stop her.

  Glass shattered. A noise like a hammer striking raw meat followed, then came the recoil of a gunshot. Red burst high on Mackenzie’s chest, spinning her like a top. The knife flew from her hand.

  Mackenzie’s back struck the island, throwing her legs forward. Her back came down, legs swung high and over. Her feet brought her all the way around. She vanished on the other side.

  Becky, on the floor, looked up at Natalie. She expected to find the girl’s throat had been slit, blood pouring from the wide gash.

  There was no blood. No wound. Just a crying little girl, eyes screwed shut.

  She was fine.

  Not fine…but alive.

  Getting to her knees, Becky hobbled to Natalie and wrapped her arms around the little girl. Becky stared over the top of her head, down the table to where a set of tall windows were. One of the panes was broken. A few jagged pieces of glass still hung inside the frame. A man stood outside the window, a rifle lifted to his shoulder.

  “Paul!” Becky shouted.

  Heads turned. Seeing him, they started calling out through their gags.

  Then an explosive roar overpowered their excitement. Becky felt the floor tremble under her knees. She looked back.

  The Bigfoot stood in the doorway. His gauze bandages looked bright white compared to the darkness of his dingy fur. He looked at the kitchen island, head lowering. Becky couldn’t see Mackenzie, but she knew the beast could.

  Head titled back, the Bigfoot roared at the ceiling. Pots and pans hanging above the stove fell from their hooks, clattering when they hit the floor.

  More glass shattered. More gun blasts rung out. Becky saw three pops of red appear across the beast’s chest. It turned away, running out of the room as holes punched into the wall after it.

  “It’s going to the front!” she heard Paul shout.

  “Got it!” Striker’s voice.

  A loud crash came from deeper in the house. More gunshots. A roar. Then even more gunshots.

  The door in the dining room was kicked inward. Becky s
creamed until she saw it was Paul who’d entered. Relief gushed through her. She tried to stand up, but her legs shook too much to allow it. He looked rough, beaten. He had a swollen eye that was already turning black, and blood caked the front of his shirt. Specks of red covered his face like freckles of blood. His hair was clumpy on top and looked sticky with blood.

  He looked around the room. He nodded, as if affirming to himself that his family was fine.

  “Help me get them loose,” he said to Becky.

  Nodding, she pulled away from Natalie. She started on her while Paul went to Gunner. He got his son loose a lot sooner than Becky did Natalie. The little girl winced when Becky peeled the tape from her mouth. When she was free, Natalie pushed past Becky and ran around the table.

  “Daddy!”

  “Hey baby,” he said, dropping down to one knee. He pulled his daughter into his arms and held her. His other hand, reaching up, grabbed Gunner’s leg and pulled down. Gunner dropped, falling against his father and into his arms.

  Becky glimpsed the disheveled hair at the back of Paul’s head. She saw blood through his curls, the pink pulp of a wound underneath. He’d been hurt.

  That’s okay. Hurt can be dealt with…at least he’s alive.

  And so was Striker. She wondered if there was anybody else.

  Seeing Trish and Megan were still tied up, Becky ran around the other side of the table and freed Megan. Together, they worked on Trish.

  Once Trish’s mouth was uncovered, her first words were: “Howie? Where is he?”

  Paul held his children closer, eyes pinching tighter.

  “Paul?” said Trish. “Paul! Where’s…?” Her words faded away.

  Paul pulled away from his children. Becky stepped over to them and took his place. Megan crouched behind Gunner and hugged him from behind, crying.

  “I’m so sorry Trish…he…” Paul started to cry.

  Trish’s lips trembled. Eyes closed. Her face crumpled into furrows of agony. “No…no…no, no, no…”

  “I’m sorry…” said Paul.

  Crying, Trish slid out of the chair, sinking to the floor. Paul crawled to her and pulled her against him. She fought his hold at first, slamming his chest with her fists. Her hits didn’t look hard enough to hurt him. He kept holding her as she bawled, screamed, and kept telling herself it wasn’t true. Paul never let go. Eventually she succumbed to his embrace. Though she didn’t hug him back, she allowed him to hold her.