Suddenly Tracy’s shots lit up a shimmering, metallic canopy above him in eerie stop-motion. He aimed the shotgun skyward and fired again. And again. And again. He knew the blasts had hit something, because he could hear the impact. But all he could see were sparks and flashes in a myriad of colors. This couldn’t be real.
Something hit the top of Hyde Hall’s stone chimney, and some stones clattered on the brittle boards below, filling the air with mortar dust.
Steve guessed an aim and fired. The mass above him lurched backward and collided with the wall nearest the river. Boards cracked and splintered, and the ground trembled under his feet.
He could hear Tracy coming across the road, still screaming. “Get out of there!”
Hyde Hall took another blow, and a splintered board whistled by Steve’s head. He ducked down, then ran in frantic leaps, bounding over the foundation and rolling into the dirt.
Tracy was nearby, groping, muttering a mile a minute, trying to reload in the dark. She was frantic, out of her mind.
A cloud, a shroud, a formless mass of black went skyward, hiding the stars, kicking up rapid, chugging volleys of wind. The sound moved out over the river, then weakened, slowed, and dropped earthward.
From the size and duration of the splash, a mountain had fallen into the river.
Steve was into Hyde Hall and out again with his 30.06 and his backpack before he knew it. He found Tracy in the middle of the road, still fussing with her rifle. “Come on!”
“Where’d it go?”
Tracy’s question was answered a moment later. The creature was aloft again, pounding at the air, kicking up wind. They fell to the earth out of instinct, out of terror. Tracy gave an anguished cry. Steve covered his head. They could hear and feel cold water and spray from the river falling around them.
The sound moved up river, then came down again with another thunderous splash.
“We got it!” Steve yelled, scrambling to his feet. “It’s hobbling, we hit it!”
Tracy curled up on the ground and took a few moments to breathe, just breathe.
He scrambled through the brush to her. “You okay?”
Her voice, like her nerves, was in tatters. “I have no idea!”
“Good shooting!”
She flopped in the grass on her back, unable to move. “What— what now?”
“We’ll go back and get our gear. We need the lights, and we’ll have to reload.”
She struggled up on one elbow, looked toward the river, then up at him, then toward the river again, discerning what he was thinking and not liking it.
He offered her his hand. “Come on. We’re going after it!”
Sam wasn’t all that big or tough, but the guys in the platoon were still afraid of him. He could stare down anybody, and there was something spooky about him, like maybe he could sic some demons on you if he wanted. We got along okay ’cause any time Sam felt like bragging I’d just listen.
From a memoir written by Dennis Mason, an old army buddy of Samuel Harrison Bly, sent to the Bly family after Sam, fifty-three, disappeared in 1981
Ten
PERFECT
THEY WERE cursing the darkness, longing for daylight, for steady hands, cramming ammunition into the rifles and shotgun in the quivering beams of their flashlights, their bodies trembling with stark terror and adrenaline.
“Two more, two more,” Tracy said, and Steve dug the cartridges out of the box and slapped them into her hand. She jammed the first into the magazine; the second flipped out of her shaking fingers and disappeared into the tall grass.
Steve shined his light on the ground while she groped for the fallen cartridge. He was looking toward the river and the mountain slope just beyond it, pained by the passing of each precious second. That thing was still alive out there and getting away. If it managed to hide itself somewhere, perhaps crawl into a cave and die, they might never find it at all.
Tracy found the cartridge and slammed it in. She got to her feet and slung the rifle over her shoulder.
“Let’s go,” said Steve.
They headed for the river, stumbling in the dark, thrashing through the brush.
“What was it? Did you see it?” Tracy gasped as they ran.
“I saw a lot of sparks, and that was about it,” Steve said.
“Where’d it go?”
“Upstream. Watch your step.”
They reached the embankment just above the rolling current, then moved upstream. The riverbed widened, and they stepped onto a shore of dry river rocks.
“Okay, here we go,” Steve said quickly, his light sweeping over the expansive riverbed ahead of them. The rocks, normally above the river’s level and sunbaked this time of year, were wet, as if a wave had just washed over them.
“That first big splash we heard,” said Steve. “There was another one farther upstream.”
They ran, chasing the circles of light from their flashlights over river rocks, clumps of grass, boulders, and high-water debris.
Then Steve noticed that the bushes around them were dripping, the rocks darkened and glistening. This was the second point of impact.
They stopped and searched every direction with their lights.
The river slid quietly but quickly over the rocks. Here and there, water rippled and splashed around a boulder. They waited. They listened.
A limb snapped somewhere across the river. There was a thrashing in the brush.
They shined their lights on the river, probing its depths. The river ran wide and shallow here, maybe shallow enough to ford, Steve thought. He slung his rifle and shotgun over his shoulders and went in first, wading several yards into the moving water until it was up to his knees. He waved with his light and Tracy followed. Inch by inch, they waded through the painfully cold water. The moment either of them lifted a foot off the slippery rocks, the water carried it sideways. They slipped, stumbled, and helped each other regain their balance. Finally, they made it to the middle of the river, where the water was well over their knees. They pressed on. The water began to drop away. She felt a surge of hope. Then relief. They were going to make it.
Finally they splashed through water only ankle deep and made it to the opposite shore, their legs numb with cold, their hearts racing. They hurried through tall river grass, away from the sound of the river, then stopped to listen. They felt vulnerable, exposed. Whatever they were after, there was no longer a river between them, only darkness, which had to be to the creature’s advantage, not theirs.
They heard it again, moving slowly through thickets and dry twigs far up the mountain.
Steve looked at his watch. “Two-fifteen,” he whispered. “Two more hours and we’ll start getting some light.”
Silence. They listened. Nothing.
“But what is it?” Tracy asked. “We don’t even know what we’re chasing.”
“We know its approximate position,” Steve replied. “If we can keep tabs on it until daylight, we might get a look at it.”
Tracy’s light swept across Steve’s face. “Did you know you’re bleeding?”
“Where?”
Tracy brushed the hair from his brow to expose a wound. He winced a little, touched it, saw blood on his fingers.
“How bad is it?”
“Not too bad. You banged your head on something—or something banged you.”
“It didn’t hurt until now.”
He pulled out a bandanna and tied it around his head. That would do it.
“No lights unless absolutely necessary. Let’s go.”
They started up the slope, sometimes on all fours, pushing through thickets and deadwood, grabbing at bushes and limbs, groping for footholds. It was impossible to be silent. They had to pause frequently to listen. Sometimes they could hear a sound above them, sometimes not.
They pushed up the steep grade through thick, low growth for several hundred feet and finally broke through to a more gradual, grassy slope peppered with outcroppings of rock. They were in the open agai
n. They crouched low and listened.
Above them, there was a slow, dragging sound. Dry leaves, twigs, and gravel grated against the rocks. Some pebbles tinkled and pattered down the mountain. The sound was closer now. They were closing the distance.
Steve paused. “We’d better pace this a bit. I don’t want to catch up with it, not in the dark.”
“This is crazy,” Tracy whispered. “We don’t even know what that thing is. And what if—what if you’re right? What if that thing killed your brother, and Maggie, and Vic?”
“I’m sure it did. And I want it.”
Tracy could only repeat, with genuine fear in her voice, “This is crazy.”
He touched her shoulder gently. She took it as comfort. Then he pushed her a bit. “Let’s spread out. Stay about fifty yards over that way. We’ll whistle to locate each other.”
She wasn’t happy about it, but she moved away from him, carefully making her way across the rocky meadow while he began working his way toward a tree line above him.
They advanced up the mountain, pushing into thick pine and fir forest, taking it slow, closed in by branches, foliage, and blackness. Slowly. Slowly. There were no trails here, no easy hiking. Sometimes they could hear movement higher up the mountain; mostly they only heard each other.
Steve halted. He had been pushing branches out of the way, snapping some of them off. Suddenly he felt no branches. They seemed to have been broken off already. He clicked on his flashlight for a better look. The space ahead of him was clear. Yes. The branches were freshly broken.
At last. He’d actually found the creature’s trail. He whistled to Tracy, then softly called her, and she rejoined him. They followed the trail of matted-down grass, broken limbs, overturned stones, fresh, clawed dirt. Measured against the trail usually left by big game, this creature was leaving a superhighway.
They climbed, and they climbed some more, and always, the unseen creature stayed just ahead of them, as if matching them step for step. It would push through branches and kick over rocks, and they would follow the sound. It would fall silent, and they would wait. Then it would move again, and they would follow again, and on it went.
FRIDAY NIGHT had become Saturday morning, and the darkness was showing a hint of gray when Charlie Mack finally fell asleep, his body thrown fitfully across his bed now stripped of sheets and blankets by the night’s ravings and terrors.
Phil Garrett had long since passed out on the floor, his fears momentarily forgotten somewhere in his liquor-scrambled brain, the pain over his heart quelled by the booze, at least for now.
Harold Bly slept rather well through the night, except for one brief moment when he was awakened by what sounded like distant gunfire. He gave it a good listen, some careful thought, and then smiled to himself and lay his head down again, unruffled. The rest of his night was uneventful.
FOUR O’CLOCK rolled around, and the stars began to fade behind a sky of dark blue velvet. Across the valley, the ridgeline of the far mountains was emerging from the night, sharp and distinct. It would be a clear, crisp morning.
With the light of dawn, Steve quickly made a new discovery: blood on the ground, some more on a low limb.
“It’s wounded, all right.”
They quickened their pace, still following the trail, now seeing spots of fresh blood every few yards.
The forest gave way to acres of broken, tumbled rocks, a vast rock slide. They followed the blood trail across it, the rocks teetering and tilting under their feet, their ankles stressed and aching. Then came more forest, mostly thin, wind-ravaged pines, the roots groping for any available crack in the rocky ground.
They were close to the ridgeline, the jagged, rocky spine of the mountain. The air was cold and thin, and now, especially after a night of hard climbing and no sleep, both Tracy and Steve could feel the altitude.
Tracy sank to an inviting rock to rest a moment. Steve, after some consideration, joined her. She was breathing hard now, but so was he, and he had a pounding headache.
“Oxygen debt,” he muttered. “Hypoxia.”
“Try exhaustion,” she complained. “That thing’s wearing us out, and we aren’t even wounded. I’m cold, I’m still wet, and my feet are killing me.”
Steve couldn’t blame her for griping. He was pretty miserable himself. But he wasn’t about to give up. “Have you noticed this creature’s behavior?” he asked. He looked ahead and could still see some drops of blood for them to follow.
“What do you mean?” Tracy asked, wincing as she rubbed one of her sore ankles.
“He keeps giving himself away, unlike any other animal. If he just would have hidden quietly we would have lost him, but every time we stop to listen, he makes more noise.” He paused to breathe, to survey the vast mountain stretching below them. “From one perspective, you could say we’re chasing him and making him retreat. From another perspective, you’d think he was leading us, almost daring us to follow him. It’s strange.”
“Strange is right,” Tracy agreed. “When do you think he’s going to run out of blood?”
“I don’t know, but that has to be a factor by now. He can’t go on forever.”
“Neither can we.”
Steve rose to his feet. “So come on, let’s end this.”
“Tell him that.”
Steve started out again, following the drops of blood, and Tracy stayed with him, listening intently and warily eyeing the ridge above.
The trail followed just below the ridge for another mile and then disappeared around a towering formation of rock. A blind corner. They stopped.
“Great spot for an ambush,” Steve whispered.
Steve brought the 30.06 down from his shoulder, and Tracy did the same. They each chambered a round.
Then, necks craning, backs close to the rock, they inched their way around the corner, watching ahead, above, behind.
On the other side, the blood trail led upward over fallen, broken rocks and into a towering gap in a sheer rock cliff. They looked at each other.
“I think he’s come home,” Steve whispered. “You take that side.”
They separated again, Steve on the right, Tracy on the left, and carefully approached the opening, rifles ready.
The breach in the cliff was about ten feet wide and appeared to be the entrance to a larger cavity in the rock, a vast room, open to the sky. They couldn’t see how far back it went, but the walls reached at least sixty feet above their heads. They hurried to positions tight against the rock walls on either side of the entrance, rifles ready. It reminded Tracy of a police bust.
What now?
Steve motioned for Tracy to remain where she was, then stole carefully into the breach, his rifle level at his waist, the barrel aimed ahead. He advanced a few paces, stopped to look and listen, then advanced a few more.
Tracy leaned into the entrance, craning her neck to keep an eye on him, her rifle barrel aimed skyward. Elk fever was setting in, and she didn’t trust her trigger finger. The narrow passage took a slight turn, and Steve disappeared around a corner. Out of sight. Not good, she thought.
A moment passed.
“Steve?” she called quietly. “Talk to me, Steve.”
There was silence, and then he let out a tired, “Oh . . .” Tracy thought he sounded disappointed.
“Steve?”
“Come on in,” he answered. “Take a look.”
She slipped hurriedly through the opening, went up over a mound of rubble, then turned the corner to find Steve standing just inside, his rifle at rest in his hand.
On the floor at his feet, there lay a large mound of brown fur.
A grizzly. It was dead.
Tracy rested against the stone wall and sighed, feeling deflated. It was only a grizzly? Only a huge bear? She knew she was supposed to be relieved, be glad it was all over, be glad they’d succeeded in the kill, but—all this for a grizzly?
She engaged the safety on her rifle and let the rifle rest at her side. “You were right,”
she said at last. “It was a grizzly.”
Steve set down his rifle and shotgun. His disappointment was evident, as was his perplexity as he circled the bear, examining it. He checked the front claws, spread the jaws open to check the teeth, tried to estimate the length and shoulder height. He ran his fingers over the neck, the back, the belly, looking for wounds.
“Fairly young boar,” he reported, and then found a small metal tag on the ear. “Number 201. Marcus DuFresne would know all about him.”
“I don’t understand this,” she said, as events of the previous night started coming back to her. “How could this bear—I mean— were we imagining things?”
Steve withdrew his hand from the bear’s neck. Blood covered his fingers. He’d found the wound.
“Gotcha!” came a third voice. Tracy jumped. Steve grabbed his rifle. They both swung around, and then . . .
Recognition. Relief. They saw a familiar face in the narrow entrance. A beard. Wire-rim glasses. A cowboy hat.
Levi Cobb.
Tracy did not appreciate being scared like that, much less seeing this man in this place at this time. “What are you doing here?”
Levi remained in the entrance, one hand leaning against the towering wall. He looked up at the narrow strip of sky visible through the rift, then surveyed the tight pocket in which they all stood. “Saving your lives, I expect.”
Steve was angry. “By endangering your own? Don’t you realize we were on a hunt, that our nerves were on edge? We could have shot you.”
Levi was unruffled. “Oh, it was a hunt, all right. If I was the dragon, you’d be breakfast.”
Tracy only sighed and shook her bowed head. Here we go again.
“Go ahead,” said Levi. “Look around. Just say I’m the dragon. How would you get out of here?”
Tracy turned to walk away. “I am not in the mood for one of your lectures, Levi!” In this tight space she couldn’t walk far, but just to make a statement, she walked as far as she could.
Steve didn’t know what to think. True to form, Levi was mixing his weird superstitions and folksy ways with practical truths, which made it hard to dismiss him out-of-hand. Call him a fanatic or a nut, be enraged at his theatrics, but he was right about this cavity in the rocks: there was no way out. If there was a dragon and Levi was it, then . . . Steve couldn’t help being a bit embarrassed.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 22