Bigfoot Beach

by Kristopher Rufty

  The young man who’d been thrown through the window stood up. Dazed, he saw Paul and was opening his mouth to say something when the arm burst through his chest. Somehow, the guy’s heart was clutched in the hand protruding from the chest as if being offered to Paul.

  Paul squeezed the brake handle. The ATV bounced and rocked to a halt.

  The kid’s bright blond hair fell into his eyes as he slowly looked down. He saw his heart on the flat of the hand. He watched it offer a couple lethargic beats before going still. When he looked back at Paul, his eyes looked confused. Mouth moving, he tried to speak. Then he dropped to his knees.

  Poor kid.

  “Sorry,” muttered Paul. He raised his gun.

  The beast was gone. But the scattering crowd remained, screaming and crying.

  Striker dismounted his ATV, bringing his rifle up and letting the base drop into the flat of his hand. He looked around, dodging fleeing screamers.

  Paul wiggled back on the seat and threw his legs over the side. He hopped down. On the sand, his eyes scanned the area, searching for Striker. The patrons of Quincy’s had all but fled the establishment. Only a few lagged behind, looking confused as they sidestepped the prostrate bodies dispersed about.

  “Striker!”

  The big man appeared at the main entrance. He stepped up to the broken railing the boy had crashed through. “Gone,” he said.

  Paul nodded. “I have to use the phone, call all this in, get in reinforcements up here fast.”

  “No. We have to keep after it. This is exactly what he wants.”

  Paul stared at the tracker. The harsh ultraviolet rays that threw glowing daggers off Striker’s rifle hurt Paul’s eyes. “What he wants?” Nose wrinkled, he shook his head. “You’re saying he planned this?”

  “To keep us distracted, yes. This was a diversion.”

  “For what?” asked Paul.

  “So he could get away.” Striker punched a tilted post, the broken section of railing bobbed from the impact. “And we fell for it. But that’s okay. We’re not finished with him yet.” Striker took a step back and threw his leg up. The sole of his boot hit the tilted post and knocked over. It broke away from the porch with a splintery crack and crashed on the sand. Then he leaped from the top, landing in a squat. Slowly, he stood up.

  As the big guy approached his ATV, Paul said, “I’m the acting authority figure in this town at the moment.”

  “Who gave you that right?”

  “I did. When everybody else was slaughtered by your Bigfoot. And we have to call this in.”

  “It’s being handled,” he said, pointing behind Paul.

  Turning around, Paul saw a small congregation of spectators. All of them had cell phones. A couple of them held them out, the tiny lenses documenting this pointless disagreement. Those who weren’t recording were shouting for ambulances and police assistance to be dispensed from whoever they were talking to.

  Striker was right. It was handled.

  “If we wait for them to get here,” said Striker, “the beast will be long gone. Who knows how long it’ll take us to find it again? The plan hasn’t changed. We stay in pursuit.”

  Paul nodded. “All right. Where?” He gulped. His spit tasted like sand and he could feel grits sprinkled down the back of his throat.

  Striker mounted his ATV. “Hell if I know. We’ll keep following his trail. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig, he’s weak, and all he wants is to find some place to rest. Some place quiet, some place where there aren’t any people.”

  Paul nodded. “All right.”

  “Let’s go,” said Striker.

  His ATV brattled to life.

  38

  Becky had an arm around Trish’s waist, helping her walk. The poor woman’s legs couldn’t stop shaking as they made their way through the kitchen. She kept Trish angled away from Mackenzie’s sprawled body and the blood spreading red around her on the linoleum.

  Blubbering and sniffling, Trish moaned as if in pain. And Becky knew that she really was. She wasn’t hurt in a physical sense, but beaten by her emotions. The pain had started in her broken heart and spread through her entire body.

  Megan appeared in the living room’s doorway. “Here,” she said. “I’ll take her.”

  Nodding, Becky slipped out of Trish’s hold and helped Megan take her position of support. When Becky was sure Megan had her, she stepped back, rubbing her lower back. There was dull pain that made it hard to stand up straight.

  “Come on, Mrs. Thompson,” said Megan. “Let’s get you in here.”

  Trish sniffled, tried to breathe. She made some jerky moans and shambled alongside Megan into the living room.

  Following them, Becky watched as Megan struggled to remain strong. Most might be convinced Megan was doing a good job of it, but Becky could tell the poor girl wanted to join Trish in her misery. But she wouldn’t allow herself to submit to her sentimentalities. She knew Gunner needed her help, and not only did she want to be there for him, she was probably glad to have the distraction. Anything to keep her mind off her father’s…death, she’d gladly welcome.

  Megan helped Trish down to the couch, where she fell onto her side and hugged the pillow.

  Natalie, clinging to her brother’s leg while he sat in a chair with Megan’s laptop on his knees, squirmed away from him and ran to her aunt. She climbed onto the couch and settled into the space between Trish’s arms. Watching this, Becky put her fingers to her mouth to hold back her emotions. Her chin trembled.

  Trish pulled Natalie close and bawled harder as Natalie softly patted Trish’s head.

  Becky looked away, tears filling her eyes. Her eyes locked on Megan’s. They shared the same sorrow. Becky gave a terse nod. Megan returned the gesture and turned around.

  Gunner sat in the chair, his fingers paused above the laptop’s keys. He watched Trish and Natalie. His eyes were grim. Frowning, he looked back down at the computer. Becky could tell how much he wanted to be with them, but he was busy trying to find a way to reach the outside for help.

  “I found some Wi-Fi,” he said, smiling slightly. “No password required.”

  Megan, cramming herself into the chair with Gunner, hugged him.

  “It’s working?” Becky asked. Hands on her hips, she stepped closer.

  “Sort of,” Gunner said. “We only have one bar, but I’m connecting to it.”

  “Thank God,” said Megan.

  Becky smiled, though she felt no different inside. She was worried about Paul now, just as she imagined Gunner, Natalie, and even Trish probably were. He was out there with Striker, trying to bring an end to this. She wouldn’t feel relieved about anything until she knew it was over. She supposed everybody else felt the same way—offering a false sense of hope for the others’ benefit, but surrendering to defeat on the inside.

  “I’m in,” he said.

  Megan squeezed him harder, whispered, “Good job,” in his ear.

  “Great,” said Becky. “Go to Seashell Cove Sheriff’s Department dot com, there should be a link for emergency contact.”

  “It’s loading slowly,” he said. “But I see it.”

  Becky looked around the room. Though she wasn’t expecting to find much in here, she at least thought she might find a poker for the fireplace. Anything that could be used as weapon in case they needed it. She found nothing.

  “Be right back,” she said.

  “Where’re you going?” asked Megan.

  “Grabbing a knife from the kitchen. We need something, in case…”

  Gunner pursed his lips. Nodded. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “Nobody should go anywhere alone…just in case…”

  “Right,” said Megan. She wiggled her way onto the arm of the chair, draping her tawny legs over the edge. “But you keep trying to contact the police. I’ll go with Becky.”

  Gunner turned in the seat. They shared an uneasy look. Becky saw in his worried gaze that he didn’t want her to go. She was tempted to tell Megan to stay, but knew
it would be a good idea to have somebody with her if she needed help.

  “I’ll be fine,” Megan said, leaning forward. She gave him a quick kiss, then stood up and walked over to Becky.

  “Be careful,” said Trish through her sniffles.

  Though she sounded pitiful, Becky was glad to know her mind was back in the room with them. “Will you be okay with Natalie?” Becky asked.

  Trish sniffled again, rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, and sat up. She pulled Natalie’s back against her side, hugging her from behind. “I’ll guard her with my life.”

  Becky’s throat tightened. She turned to Gunner. Thin layers of moisture glittered in his eyes.

  “I know you will,” he said. He looked at Becky, huffing out a breath that rattled his cheeks. “Do it quickly. By the time you get back, the page should’ve loaded.”

  “Okay,” she said. She grabbed Megan’s hand. “Come on.”

  Becky turned, gave another glance at Trish and Natalie, and left the room with Megan. They followed the short hallway to the kitchen, and entered.

  With a gasp, Becky jerked to a halt. She gazed inside.

  How? There’s no way…

  Becky stared at the vacant spot Mackenzie was lying in earlier. Left behind was a crimson puddle. She quickly swiveled her head, looking all over. Though there was evidence of her hasty retreat, she didn’t see Mackenzie anywhere.

  “Oh no,” whispered Megan. “Where’d she go?”

  “She’s gone,” said Becky.

  “How can you be sure?”

  Becky pointed at the floor. A trail of bloody footprints started behind the counter and carried to the back door. It had been left open, slowly swaying from the breeze outside.

  Mackenzie was alive.

  And she’d escaped.

  Becky ran through the kitchen, made a wide step over the footprints, and stopped at the door. She stuck her head out. She looked in all directions and saw no sign of Mackenzie anywhere. Surely there would have been some blood or something. Pulling her head inside, she slammed the door and locked it. Megan watched her, her hands clutched together at her chest. Her arms squished her breasts. On her way back to Megan, Becky jerked a knife from the block on the island. She noted one was already missing.

  “Let’s check on Gunner,” she said.

  Hearing the boy’s name seemed to be what Megan needed to pull her back from the shock trying to grip her. She blinked. “Gunner.”

  Together, they hurried into the hall. Their feet hammered the hardwood, shook the walls. Becky entered the living room first, Megan second. Becky felt the girl slam into her back when she jerked rigid.

  Gunner looked pale. His hands, no longer on the computer, were flat on the arms of the chair. His fingers dug into the front padding, picking at loose threads. When they’d left him, his hair had been only slightly damp. Now it was soaked, his bangs clinging to his forehead by sweat. His eyes jerked toward them, wild and dancing between the lids. Then they shot back to the couch.

  Becky followed his panicked leer to the couch.

  On her knees, Trish was on the floor, braced on straight arms. Tears glazed her face, dripping from her jawline. Natalie stood beside her, arms rigid by her sides. A bare leg reached out on either side of the girl’s thin waste, Natalie leaning between them. The shins were sprinkled with nicks and cuts, the knees pale and smooth. A third arm reached around Natalie’s chest, a hand flat on her torso, holding her back. A knife’s sharp tip was pressed against the side of her neck, denting the skin. A hand with calloused knuckles gripped the handle so tightly the scabs were splitting and making fresh blood. The arm was covered by a khaki sleeve.

  Mackenzie’s evil face appeared from behind Natalie, her hair a wild bushel crown. Spatters of blood left dark markings on her face.

  “My God,” muttered Becky.

  Mackenzie smiled. “Hello again.”

  39

  The old Comet Crash Putt-Putt Hut was an abandoned stretch of displays and obstacles on the other side of a rusted chain-link fence. The condition of the parking area alone showed Paul that it hadn’t been used in years. A casualty of Seashell Cove’s financial crisis that had begun closing down businesses left and right. Part of the disease that led to them embracing the Bigfoot prospect as if a Godsend that would save them from ruin. He hadn’t truly grasped how desperate people like Caine must’ve been to even consider such foolishness. Now he understood. Fraught mentalities lead to dumb things, and being the mayor, Caine had taken great risks to ensure his town’s survival.

  If only he wasn’t such an idiot…

  They’d left the ATVs in the sand. Crossing the parking lot, their boots made scraping sounds on the sand that carpeted the blacktop. Through the gritty layers, the faded yellow lines of parking spaces looked pale and old.

  From the course obstacles Paul could see, he thought it resembled a miniature golf course more than putt-putt. A faded volcano jutted from the center, filled with cracks and fissures that showed the gray of the mold underneath. That one must be the final hole, he thought, as he followed Striker. Get a hole in one and the volcano probably erupted.

  Striker pointed at a dark wet spot on that had turned the sand scattered on the parking lot dark and wet. Blood. A lot of it. How this creature was still walking on its own accord was a mystery to Paul. How much blood did the damn thing have to lose before it finally ran out?

  The tracker reached the ticket booth first at the end of the parking lot. A turnstile blocked immediate entrance. He paused and turned back, the rifle sweeping this way and that.

  Paul did the same, shouldering Howie’s semi-auto. His finger slipped behind the trigger guard, the skin brushing the sleek bowed metal.

  Howie.

  Paul couldn’t fathom his brother was dead, nor could he allow himself to focus on it. If he let his brother’s demise haunt him now, he’d be useless to Striker. And more importantly, useless to his family and Becky. They needed him now. Too many people were relying on Paul Thompson for him to let his grief cripple him.

  Sorry, Howie. I’ll mourn later. I promise.

  He figured once he began, he’d never be able to stop.

  Paul gave a quick scan of the parking lot. It was flat and empty, the asphalt a sunbaked ash color under the tan shade of sand. Weeds had sprouted from the cracks in the blacktop like parasitic growths that trembled in the balmy breeze.

  “Are we going to stand here all day?” asked Paul. “Or are we going in?”

  Striker smirked. “Fine, tough guy. Let’s move out.” He spun around and hopped over the bar of the turnstile in one smooth motion. His feet slapped the ground, the extra cargo on his uniform making a loud padded sound as it shifted. Standing straight, he turned around and waited for Paul.

  “Show off,” said Paul.

  He needed to brace his hand on the banister as he leaped, swinging his legs over. The unyielding ground jolted him when his feet smacked down.

  They hurried through the foyer area. Two stands had been placed on either side for payment and refreshments. Their shutters were down. A rusted latch kept them closed with an old padlock. Weeds protruded here and there. Some places were overgrown with grass. Vine-choked flower beds were all around. To Paul, it resembled how the world would look during a zombie apocalypse—desolate and wild.

  Striker paused at the first hole of the eighteen-hole course.

  “Where to?” asked Paul.

  Striker held out his hand, finger pointing up. Paul gave an involuntary glance up. All he saw was blue sky.

  “Smell that?” asked Striker.

  Paul hadn’t noticed anything at first, but now he began to detect a foul stench that reminded him of the deck of a fishing boat after the day’s catch had been gutted and cleaned. He nodded.

  A corner of Striker’s mouth arced. “He’s in here. Look for more blood.”

  Nodding, Paul walked in one direction while Striker took the other. Paul gave quick glances to the ground, the balconies above him tha
t ran over top of the course, and the shadowy recesses between small sheds and other buildings. So many areas for the beast to hide behind. He saw clusters of fake palm trees at the bottom of metal stairs that led up to where the course began. He paused at the bottom rung, turned and looked behind him. If he bypassed the stairs, he’d go toward a row of PolyJohns in front of a cinderblock barrier. It was doubtful the beast could squeeze into one of those cramped edifices. He turned to the left, where he’d left Striker and didn’t see him.

  Cold dripped down his spine. The big guy should’ve been easy to spot. He wanted to call out for him, but so far, they’d managed to be quiet. Shouting would give them away.

  Damn it. Where are you at?

  There wasn’t much back that way for Striker to search, so he couldn’t have gotten lost.

  It got him.

  Paul shook his head. He didn’t think so. Striker wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. He must be looking somewhere Paul couldn’t see.

  Paul turned around, faced the stairs. His eyes landed on a dark streak three rungs up. Blood. It dribbled over the edge, draining through the holes in the metal treads. He spotted a thicker smear on the railing that probably came when its body slid across.

  Another arctic tendril wormed through him.

  It’s up there.

  Paul looked up. The stairs led to a landing. He couldn’t see beyond the top step. For all he knew, the beast was sitting just out of sight. He might stumble right on it. Checking behind him again, he still saw no sign of Striker.

  Paul took a deep breath. His lungs felt like cold tubes inside his chest. This was it. There would be no more chances to kill this bastard. If they didn’t succeed this time, it would be because they were dead. Paul’s arms suddenly felt filled with cold lead. They could no longer hold the rifle. His legs weakened. He wanted to sit on the stairs, hug his knees, and wait for Striker to come back.

  What if he doesn’t come back?