Through the forest, Max could hear the familiar voice of Principal Whedon, squawking angrily and calling for his young charges. He and Archer turned at the sound.
“Who’s the little guy with the lip caterpillar?” asked Archer.
“My principal, and if he finds you out here talking to us, he’ll lose his tiny mind.”
“I’ve seen better-looking hobgoblins.” Archer’s smile vanished as he spoke to Max now. “It’s not too late for you to jump on board. There’s a good bounty on this bigfoot. I’ll go seventy-thirty with you; that’s a big bag of notes, chap. A damn sight more than whatever that journalist offered you for assistance.”
“You saw that?” asked Max, wondering how much of his business over the last day Archer had witnessed.
“Lyle Cooper, reporter for Grapevine. Writes a column called ‘The World of Weird.’ Raining bullfrogs, UFOs, Elvis sightings—you know the kinda thing.”
“He was a real buttmunch.”
Archer’s great barrel chest rumbled with a belly laugh. “Now there’s something we agree on. Think about it, Max: you and me, brothers in arms, the bright new future of monster hunting. We’d make one helluva partnership.”
“This client of yours. Who is it?”
Archer shrugged. “A sorcerer in Palm Springs. Needs the heart and a few more components for a particular spell. Something to do with summoning a sand demon in the desert. Are you in then or what?”
“I was never in, Archer. You and I are chalk and cheese. You seek to kill where I seek to save.”
Archer gave Max a look that suggested the younger boy might’ve grown a second head. “Save them? You’re mental. The only good monster’s a dead monster.”
“There are plenty of monsters out there that mean us no harm. I don’t want your blood money.”
Archer stretched. “Suit yourself. I’ll let you pass on this one, but you do realize at some point in time you’re going to come running to me for help. You’d better hope I’m in a benevolent mood when that happens. Rejection can really hurt a man.”
More shouting from Whedon, much nearer now, told Max that he needed to be getting back. He turned to go.
“Oh, and just so you know, it’s not entirely about the bloody money,” said Archer. “I’m going home with a prize as well.”
“Whaddaya mean?” said Max, pausing before returning to face the wrath of Whedon.
“A Sasquatch scalp,” said Archer as he was swallowed by the shadows of the forest. “That trophy’s all mine.”
FOURTEEN
THE LAST SUPPER
Max’s eyes were clenched shut, the noise chilling his bones to the marrow. A chorus of chomping and tearing, rending and ripping, as teeth tore into flesh in an orgy of ravenous destruction. He’d heard those sounds before—in the sickening din of feasting zombies, ravenous werewolves, and vampires lost in a blood-blind feeding frenzy. These were the sounds of nightmares, of terror and torment. They kept the norms awake at night. They came with the territory for Max.
He opened his eyes.
For a mob of hungry kids, the students of Gallows Hill Middle School could make one heck of a racket when eating hot dogs and burgers. Admittedly, it had been a long day, which could transform even the most mild-mannered individual into a bit of a monster. The police investigation at dawn seemed like weeks ago, and the hours since had been action packed. A late meal by the fire was bringing the traumatic day to an end, with students and teachers alike exhausted. Principal Whedon and Mrs. Loomis sat on a log across the fire pit. They made an unlikely pair of bookends, both yawning as the day’s rigors caught up with them.
“Slow down,” said Max, as Syd inhaled a hot dog the size of a skateboard. When she smiled, her whole face distorted. She looked grotesque, and she knew it. Max chuckled. “I can see what Abel Archer sees in you.”
“You fink cho?” replied Syd, her words distorted by her head full of food. “I’m irridigible.”
“I’m going to assume the word you were trying for was irresistible,” said Max. “It’s hard to argue.”
One by one, as the meals were finished, paper plates were tossed into the fire. Whatever preservatives had saturated the burger and dogs ensured each dish went up in unholy green flames. The children cheered, drawn to the blaze like moths. Max clambered over his log and turned his back to the fire, reclining so that he was facing the river. The light of the moon had transformed it into a shimmering field of silver. Let the others have the flames, thought Max. I’ll take the cold moon every time. His reverie was interrupted as Syd flopped down beside him, wiping her greasy face on the sleeve of her hoodie. Stifling a belch, she gave him a dig in the ribs.
“Yep, irresistible,” repeated Max.
“What’s your problem, grouchy pants? It’s Archer, right? You don’t like him. What is it? The looks? The accent? Are you seriously peeved he’s here?”
“Ha!” said Max, a little too indignantly. “Would you listen to yourself? I couldn’t give a flying rat’s ass about Boyband. He’s a big lunk o’ dumb, and furthermore he’s bad news.”
“You sound like my mom now.”
Max wagged a finger. “Then your mom speaks a lot of sense.” The two of them laughed. “Nah, Archer’s just one more piece of a disturbing jigsaw. Something’s going on in these woods. The creatures, the bigfoot, the backpackers—”
“You think they’ll find them?”
“Frank and Sissy? I’m hoping so. But the longer this goes on with no sign, the more I’m fearing the worst.”
“I’m amazed they haven’t told us to pack our bags and head home to Gallows Hill,” said Syd.
“Why should they? Two adults have gone missing. As things stand, no crime has been committed.”
“Still,” said Syd, shivering as she looked up and down the river at the trees along the opposite bank. “These woods. Man, they’re creepy.”
Max couldn’t argue. He stared directly ahead, across the water, to the great swathes of pine trees that loomed over the creek. Like Syd, he could see shadows shifting within the darkness, could hear the strange sounds as the forest came to life. Upstream, twinkling fireflies floated across the water, drifting from one bank to the other.
“I’ll keep you safe, Perez,” said Boyle, appearing between them from the other side of the log.
“Speaking of creeps,” muttered Syd. “Thanks, Boyle, but I’ll take my chances.”
“Don’t tell me Helsing’s your knight in shining armor?”
He clipped the back of Max’s head, causing him to turn and face the fool.
“What happened to you quitting your bullying, Kenny? I won that contest, or is your memory selective?”
Boyle came right up to Max, putting his forehead onto Max’s and pushing hard. His head was solid as a rock. Max grimaced.
“Once the English dude turned up, he voided the bet.”
“Lucky you,” said Max, jerking his head away from Boyle’s, aware that Whedon would be watching them from across the camp.
“Listen,” whispered Boyle. “Keep it under your hat, Perez, but I’m heading out to carve me a yeti tonight. I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”
Max shot Boyle a dark look. “It’s a bigfoot, Kenny. Not a yeti.”
“Whatever, numbnuts.”
Boyle headed back to his friends.
“Maybe we should try to stop him,” whispered Syd. “He could do something stupid.”
“No chance. That knucklehead’s all mouth. He wouldn’t dare go into the woods at night. I hope you appreciate all his bravado’s for your sake, Syd. It takes a great man to act so persistently dumb.”
Max pulled the tuft of russet fur from his pocket. If not bigfoot, then what? He twirled it in his fingers, tugging it taut, the coarse fibers strong as wire. He sniffed it gingerly, the musky scent bestial, acrid. To a norm, it would have prompted a p
rimordial memory, a deep-rooted fear of the dark places, of hellish horrors, of things that go bump in the night. To Max, it reminded him that things were going to get mad, messy, and monstrous—and soon.
• • •
LYLE COOPER WATCHED IT ALL FROM HIS HIDING PLACE across the creek from the camp. Stakeouts were arduous affairs at the best of times; spying on a group of schoolkids would be frowned upon by any right-minded civilian, but this was a big story. Those kids knew something about what was going on in these woods. Cooper’s hunches had never let him down before, and this occasion was no different. Cooper simply had to watch and wait for the kid to lead him to the story.
Cooper checked that the feet of his tripod were stable before looking through the camera lens, focusing in on the boy. He was leaning on a log, girlfriend by his side. That girl had attitude in spades. The two of them were staring directly his way. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they could see him. They couldn’t, of course. Cooper was well versed in picking the most secluded, secretive places from which to secure his scoops. The local police thought he was staying at Greenwoods’ Guesthouse, after leaving him with express instructions to stay away from the forest. Fortunately, those two officers made the Keystone Cops look like Holmes and Watson.
He reached into his rucksack and pulled out his flask of coffee. The lid spun off, and he took a swig. The steaming brew warmed him, perking him up as he readied himself for a long night. His other hand brushed his immaculate coiffure of slick black hair. Ladies loved the hair. Back went the flask as the journalist kept his eyes fixed ahead. The opposite bank had been where all the activity had happened. Just upstream was the spot where the two from Minnesota had been camped. Many of the hunters had already set off higher into the mountains, seeking out the deepest, wildest parts of the forest, but that gut feeling told Cooper they were on the wrong trail. The beast would return to the site of its first attack; he was sure of it. And when it did—FLASH—the photo would be his.
Cooper had spent a career being mocked by so-called “serious” journalists. They took great delight in belittling his stories, especially those that featured in Grapevine. Cooper was no fool. Most of those stories were indeed hokum—sensationalist nonsense that was just there to shift numbers. It might have been made-up gossip, but some was his best work. “I Married a Martian” was still the most read article on the Grapevine website, and had secured him guest appearances on a number of late-night cable talk shows. Those TV spots in turn helped to promote his book, The World of Weird. Of course, if this story broke—the first pictures of undisputed proof of the existence of bigfoot—his career would go stratospheric. Interstellar. Hell, maybe even Lyle Cooper could marry a Martian!
The snapping of twigs behind caused him to sit up straight on his folding stool. That annoying raccoon was back, on the scavenge. There was a still-warm tuna melt in Cooper’s rucksack, destined for his belly: he’d be damned if he was going to lose it to some jumped-up giant squirrel. He reached slowly down and picked up a branch from the forest floor. It felt heavy, good in his hands. It would feel even better when he’d whacked that raccoon with it.
“You picked the wrong guy to pinch a panini from, varmint,” whispered Cooper, turning to strike the animal.
There was no raccoon behind him.
What starlight found its way through the trees was suddenly blotted out, as a great shambling shape lurched out of the darkness. The beast’s body was coated with a wiry, rust-colored hair that bristled across its leathery flesh. As broad as an ox and with an enormous barrel chest, it towered perhaps eight feet tall, dwarfing the seated reporter as he craned his neck to look up. This was not what Cooper expected. The beast’s hand shot forward, seizing him around the throat. Then the journalist felt himself being lifted into the air.
Cooper kicked the stool away, legs jerking frantically as he danced to the hangman’s jig. He looked into the monster’s face, expecting to find no intelligence there, only the mindless indifference of nature. Instead, the gaze that held his was cruel and cunning, the beast’s yellow eyes widening and then narrowing as it measured up its victim. The reporter felt the monster’s clawed fingertips digging into his neck, squeezing his windpipe.
Cooper brought his right hand back before lashing out with his makeshift club, aiming for the brute’s grotesque face. The beast’s other hand came up, seizing the heavy branch and tearing it from Cooper’s grasp. The man watched as, seemingly in slow motion, the creature raised the branch high above that terrible, monstrous head. It came down with lightning, sickening speed.
The first strike split Cooper’s temple, flattening that glorious, pampered coiffure. The next strike broke his skull. He was dead by the time the third strike descended.
FIFTEEN
HEAD COUNT
“I want all of you to get your stuff together!” shouted Principal Whedon, his voice making the walls of the boys’ lodge tremble. “Now!” he added.
Yesterday had been crazy, but the bedlam Max awoke to this morning was something else. He looked across to JB, who was already sitting up in his bunk, blinking as he retrieved his glasses from beneath his pillow. Max jumped out of bed and scurried into the corridor, where he found a frantic-looking Whedon standing by the lodge door, peering outside.
“What’s going on, sir?” asked Max, trying to shape his mop of brown hair into something that resembled order.
“Trouble, Helsing,” said Whedon, without looking back. “The very worst kind you can imagine.”
Max trotted over, bare feet slapping the boards as he peered around the principal and peeked outdoors. He saw Sergeant Earl stride past the porch, heading around the bunkhouse. He caught the sound of radio interference as men and women spoke into walkie-talkies. Whedon suddenly did a double take when he realized Max was almost perched on his shoulder.
“Are you deaf, Helsing?” he squawked, mustache bristling like a wire brush. “I said get packed. Right now. We’re leaving.”
“But what’s happened, sir?”
Whedon’s face was ruddy and blotchy, eyes twitching, his voice a whisper. “There has been . . . a murder.”
“Who’s been murdered?” Max gasped.
“Can’t say. Don’t know the details. It’s across the river there, on the other bank.”
Bizarrely, at least for Max, this was the first time he’d ever enjoyed a conversation with Whedon where he hadn’t been trying to bite the boy’s head off. In the rear of the bunkhouse, Max could hear the other kids all rising, getting their gear packed, and bickering with one another. Only he had bothered to come and ask questions.
“So we pack our bags, sir. Then what?”
“Mrs. Loomis and I have been asked to ensure we’re out of here pronto. Mr. Gideon has arranged for us to move to a guesthouse in Bone Creek. I strongly suspect I’ll be driving you all straight home, though. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one week.”
More of the boys were emerging from their rooms now to hear what had transpired. As they came forward, Max stepped back, slipping through the mob and returning to his room. JB cut a bedraggled figure in his pajamas, shoving his belongings into his backpack, as Max passed by and raised a finger to his lips. JB looked confused as Max took hold of the sash window and raised it quietly. Then he was craning his head to peek outside.
Sergeant Earl stood a short distance away, patting Walt’s back as his nephew emptied his stomach’s contents onto the grass.
“Let it out, son,” he said, within earshot of Max. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”
Beyond them, fifty feet away on the opposite side of the creek, a team of deputies worked, stringing up yellow crime scene tape along the bank. Even from this distance, Max could see the trunk of one fir tree was painted red with blood.
“Just ain’t natural, Uncle Earl.” Walt wheezed. “Only a couple of body parts left behind. The rest of him gone.” He clicked his fingers.
“Just like that. Seems whatever killed him dragged him into the water to cover its tracks. That’s one wicked beast we’re looking at that’s done this. Newspaper man comes to our town, seeking out a story, and this happens to him!”
“He was a gossip columnist. For Grapevine,” said Earl. “Bigfoot must have drawn him here. Him and all the hunters. We’ve got you to thank for that, Walt. Hope you’re happy now.”
“Sorry, Uncle.”
Earl checked his watch. “We got a busy day. Frogmen will be here within the hour. Sheriff’s department says the FBI has already been in touch. Coming in by chopper. This place is gonna look like the set of a Die Hard movie by the time we’re done.”
“Well.” Walt sighed. “It’s no longer a missing person investigation. Somebody’s been killed, by an animal. Or . . .”
Earl looked his nephew up and down. “Or what, Walt? The Beast of Bone Creek?”
Walt took off his hat and wiped his brow, the heat and stress of the morning clearly getting to him.
“They found prints, Uncle Earl.”
“Bigfoot prints?”
Walt nodded. Earl sucked his teeth. Max closed the bunkroom window.
“Hey, JB,” said Max, reaching up to Whedon’s bunk. “Keep an eye out for me.” He grabbed the principal’s backpack and hauled it down. Dropping it onto the floorboards, he loosened the drawstring and dove in.
“What on earth are you doing?” whispered the bespectacled boy.
“Cover for me,” said Max. “I’m begging you, buddy.”
The smaller kid stood at the door, fidgeting nervously, as Max rummaged through Whedon’s belongings.
“That’s stealing,” hissed JB.
“Can’t be stealing if I’m taking back what’s mine,” said Max. “Bingo!”
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 9