Danni got to her feet and walked over to the dead creature. She grabbed the end of the poker sticking through the back of its head and gave a yank. The only movement was an involuntary twitch from the dead sasquatch. The makeshift weapon was stuck fast in its thick skull.
No matter. She spent the next fifteen minutes searching the now quiet house. She felt a little guilty about doing so, but realized the owner was beyond caring at this point. Unfortunately, her search didn’t turn up any firearms as she’d hoped. Richard Barrows appeared to have been more fisherman than hunter. However, she did find a hand axe and a sturdy looking filet knife. It wasn’t much, but she tucked them into her belt nevertheless.
She turned, meaning to go, but then hesitated – finding she couldn’t just leave Allison lying there in the kitchen. The thought that the beast had been eating her friend threatened to make her retch again. There was always the possibility that something else might make its way into the house to finish the job. The smell of blood and death might lure another of the creatures. She wouldn’t allow that.
Danni took a candle from the kitchen and placed it beneath a curtain in the living room. Within seconds, it ignited and began to spread. She felt a momentary twinge of regret in doing so. She was wantonly destroying someone else’s property. Didn’t Richard say he had a daughter ... Kate? A vague memory reminded her that had been the name of the woman running the general store. Were they the same person? Sadly, she had no idea. Whoever Kate was, though, assuming she was even still alive in this damned town, Danni felt that perhaps she was doing her a small favor. Burning the place to the ground was kinder than leaving her to find her father’s remains. The sight in the kitchen would probably be enough to unhinge anyone. No, it was better this way – a fitting funeral pyre to her friend and the man who had welcomed them both into his home. It was the best she could do.
As the fire began to spread in the small home, Danni walked out the front door, not bothering to close it behind her. Her eyes were dry, a look of determination in them, as she strode into the darkness.
I’m coming, Harrison.
Chapter 31
The fire at the Barrows’ residence wasn’t the first in Bonanza Creek that night, nor would it be the last. At the edge of Main Street, the blaze at the late Ben Reeves’ bar looked like it might be starting to burn itself out. However, then the flames found several barrels of home-brewed liquor that he sold to a few of his regulars. This was hi-test hooch, more than capable of pulling double duty as both beverage and engine degreaser. The barrels exploded with a dull boom, the contents fueling the fire and causing it to flare up higher. Embers were thrown high up into the air, some landing on neighboring buildings, where they began to smolder.
Across town, something similar was about to occur. It would be more remote than what happened at the bar. Although, had the lone witness to its occurrence been able to speak, he would have certainly agreed that it was far more spectacular.
Kurt Bachowski, last of the Bachowski clan who had settled in Bonanza Creek over a hundred years ago, or so his father used to claim – despite having moved there just a year before Kurt’s birth, after a few run-ins with California’s finest – didn’t know that, though. He continued toward his destination with absolutely no thought as to whether it would be nothing more than a smoking crater just a few minutes later.
He saw the lights in the Clemons’ place from fairly far away. The trail he’d been following wasn’t particularly dense, and in the darkness of the night, their house had shone like a beacon. He’d never gotten along particularly well with either Grace or Byron, nor they with him. They considered the Bachowskis to be little more than poachers. In turn, Kurt saw them as a bunch of sissified survivalists. As far as he was concerned, take away their fancy equipment and they’d be useless.
All things considered, though, he was glad to see their place. As long as they had a gun for him to use, and he suspected they had plenty, he could deal with them looking down their nose at him. He had heard via the Barrows bitch about the gun shows that they frequented. Supposedly, they were always coming back home with new toys. It didn’t matter much to Kurt. So long as they didn’t hand him some Chinese piece of shit that’d jam just as soon as shoot, he’d be happy. Then he could make his way back to his own place and get to his own stash of firearms. Maybe his weren’t as fancy, but they were well cared for and dependable.
He took a look around before abandoning his concealment. He didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary, so he made his way to their front door – giving a quick knock on it. “Grace, Byron,” he said in as loud a voice as he dared. He then knocked again. For a moment, he thought he heard movement inside, but it might have been his imagination. The blinds were drawn, so there was no way to be sure.
He decided to try the back door instead. Walking around the house, he noticed that their truck was missing from the driveway. That figured. They were out, probably off somewhere sleeping in one of their fancy tents complete with air conditioning. Shit on that. He wasn’t above a little breaking and entering if it meant saving his own ass.
He got to the back door, unaware that Grace Clemons’ mangled body lay in the grass only a few yards away. He’d been considering breaking a window or just kicking the damn door in, but it wasn’t necessary. The back door was ajar, lying closed against the jamb.
He was busy thinking damn fools are practically begging to be robbed as he pushed it open. Thus, he was caught completely by surprise when something charged out of the house at him. He fell back with a cry, raising his arms in a defensive gesture – prepared to give it hell for what it had done to Stan. It might kill him, but he’d do his damnedest to gouge its eyes out first.
However, the Clemons’ dog, Zeke, had no interest in any conflict with Kurt. It bounded past him and ran off baying into the night.
He cursed and threw a rock in the direction of the fleeing dog, missing it by a country mile. Damn thing had nearly given him a heart attack. “I hope you get eaten by a bear!” he yelled after it. Oh well. Yet another thing that served the Clemonses right, as far as he was concerned.
He collected himself then stepped inside, immediately regretting the decision. The place was trashed. It was like a bomb had gone off. Furniture was overturned, shelves had been torn from the walls, and their table had been smashed. Either Grace and Byron had gotten into the mother of all fights, or he wasn’t the first intruder in their home that evening. No wonder the damn dog had bolted like a bat out of hell.
He briefly considered that he should probably follow the mutt, but being so close to salvation was ultimately too tempting. He’d spoken to them enough times to know they probably had a stocked gun cabinet in their basement. A decent cache of firepower was probably less than twenty feet away. He considered his options and decided to chance it.
Kurt stopped in the doorway and listened. Hearing nothing, he took a tentative step further in. It was still dead silent, so he continued. He stepped over a small pile of debris, never knowing that beneath it lay the very same rifle that Grace Clemons had decided against bringing on her ill-fated perimeter sweep.
He came to a hallway. Before him lay the Clemons’ living room. It was likewise in shambles, but no movement came from within. To his right, at the end of the hall, was a doorway. Kurt didn’t need to get any closer to tell that whatever else had been in here wasn’t too fond of politely knocking. The door had been ripped right off its hinges. He looked to the left and saw three more doors, all intact. He turned in that direction. Might as well go with the odds.
Kurt had barely taken a step when he heard a thump coming from the far end of the hall. He froze. What followed was the sound of wood being splintered. He looked back toward the open doorway and saw a shadow move. Something was still in there.
He was too far in to make a retreat now. It was all or nothing. He tried the first door he came to. It opened smoothly and quietly. Kurt peered inside and silently cursed. It was just a closet.
; He crept further down the hall as a ripping noise came from the room behind him. I hope those are just curtains, he thought, coming to the second door. It was ajar, which was a small miracle as far as he was concerned. If not, then third time’s gotta be the charm. Thankfully, though, that wasn’t necessary. He pulled it open and saw stairs leading downward. He blew out a quick sigh of relief and clicked the light. The switch flipped to the on position with a loud clack. Immediately, the sounds in the other room stopped, as if whatever was in there was listening.
Deciding not to wait around to see if it was curious, he bolted down the stairs. The bottom two creaked as he stepped on them. If the thing upstairs had suspected something before, it definitely knew he was here now. As if in confirmation, a bellowing roar came from above. He had a moment to consider that if hatred could be vocalized, this was what it would sound like.
Kurt looked around. He was in a game room of sorts. A few stuffed trophies hung on the walls. There was a comfortable looking loveseat on one end, facing toward a big screen TV. There was even a foosball table off to one side. Where were the goddamned guns, though?
He could hear it coming, and like a fool, he had left the damn cellar door open. Quickly scanning the room, he saw there was still hope. There was another door, this one leading toward the back of the house.
He ran to it and tried the handle, finding the goddamned thing locked. The beast roared again, now at the top of the stairs.
“The hell with this,” he said and savagely kicked the door. It held. He did it again, and that time the lock broke with a loud crack. The door swung open. He chanced a look behind him and saw hairy legs descending the stairs.
Thinking quickly, he turned and shoved the TV to the floor. The screen shattered, spreading glass and electronics. Hopefully, it would be enough to slow the creature down.
Kurt bolted into the other room and stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw. He had earlier joked about the Clemonses being a pair of hack survivalists, but he didn’t know the half of it. Two entire walls were covered in ordinance of various calibers. He wasn’t particularly up on the finer points of gun control, but was pretty certain some of the stuff there was illegal.
Scratch that, he was very certain. On the far wall was what appeared to be a rocket launcher. He had seen one in a Rambo movie once. Beneath it was a box covered in lettering he couldn’t read.
“Shit on toast,” he muttered to himself in disbelief.
Had the creature not bellowed again, this time with a slight note of pain as it stepped on the broken glass, Kurt might have stood there gawking until such time as it came up behind him and tore his head off. The noise – Dear God, it sounds like it’s right behind me – spurred him into action.
Fortunately for him, the Clemonses were well-organized. Beneath where the guns hung were neatly labeled cabinets. He quickly opened a drawer and saw boxes of ammo corresponding with the pieces hanging above it. Unfortunately, the one he opened first was all small caliber.
Dashing across the room, he grabbed an assault rifle from the wall. He tore open the drawer beneath it and, sure enough, there was a whole stack of fully loaded magazines. Hearing movement behind him, he quickly grabbed one and slammed it home before turning to face the beast.
The creature was right there. It crouched slightly, too tall for the room they were in. At first, he thought it was the same one from before. Large breasts hung down almost to its waist, but there were no wounds in its torso. He’d peppered the creature that had killed Stan with a full load of .22’s. This beast was untouched. Holy hell, there really is more than one.
He tried to swing the weapon toward it, but the creature stepped in before he could do so. Should’ve taken a goddamned pistol! The beast grabbed the barrel of the gun with one hand and Kurt’s right shoulder with the other. It was massively strong.
He screamed, feeling bone snap. As it dug its claws into the flesh of his arm, his finger pulled reflexively on the trigger, causing the gun to go off. The bullet slammed into an ammo box, the same one with Russian wording that Kurt couldn’t read, and impacted with one of the RPG shells inside.
♦ ♦ ♦
A hundred yards away, Zeke – his limited doggie brain already forgetting the danger behind him – had stopped to pee on the side of a tree. Suddenly, there came a bright flash of light through the trees followed by a tremendously loud noise, enough to make him whimper in pain. A few moments later, an uncomfortably warm breeze washed over the frightened dog. He watched as the place he knew as home was blown apart by the explosion. He whined again, turned, then ran off into the forest.
A few days and many miles later, he was found by a good-natured hiker. When nobody answered a newspaper ad for the lost dog, the man’s family adopted him. He lived a good, long life with lots of love. His was a happy ending. The only remembrance of what happened in Bonanza Creek came late at night while Zeke sometimes dreamt. He would whine in his sleep, and his legs would move as his dream self ran from large hairy things in the woods.
Chapter 32
The smell of smoke kept getting stronger, even as he continued moving away from the bar, but Chuck didn’t stop to ruminate. That the fire was spreading wasn’t exactly a surprise. As far as he was concerned, though, he had bigger fish to fry right then.
He kicked in the back door of what he thought was finally the bed and breakfast. He’d weaved in and out of the woods, crossing small side streets that weren’t much more than overly wide deer trails. Normally, he’d have a good sense of his bearings. Unfortunately, he had gotten turned around pretty good while following that idiot redneck. It also wasn’t helping that all the movement had continued to pull stitches in his shredded stomach, the blood flow gradually worsening. He could feel it trickling into his pants and down his legs. It might not be life-threatening yet, but he was definitely starting to get a little lightheaded.
He bit down on his lip. The pain cleared his head for the moment, and he was able to think. Yeah, this was definitely the B&B. Though he hadn’t seen it from the rear, it was too big of a building to be anything else. This was the way. He was pretty sure his friends were somewhere on the other side of it. Not too long ago, he had heard a squatch bellowing into the night, its screams followed by a series of gunshots. Judging from the report, it might have been one of Derek’s big elephant rifles.
In the end, though, caution won out over his desire to run up through one of the alleys and pop out onto the main stretch. For starters, he couldn’t be certain they had killed it or that it was even the only one. Secondly, it would be just his luck to step out and get plugged by friendly fire. He didn’t think that scenario likely. However, this situation was different than any other they had been in. Even the most seasoned veteran could get jumpy and start shooting at shadows.
No, this way is best, he thought, entering a dark room, a pantry from what he could tell. His plan was to cut through the building and recon the street from the windows. If he saw his friends, he’d get their attention and join them. If not, he’d make a go for the SUVs and get himself some proper firepower.
The pantry led into a kitchen. From there, the gloom of a hallway beckoned. Chuck stepped out and flattened himself against the wall. He listened for a moment. There was no sound, so he began to move again.
A moment later, he heard a hollow thud. It had seemed to come from above him. A few seconds passed, and there came another noise. It could have been a grunt, although he wasn’t sure.
Some of those kids from earlier had gotten rooms on the second floor. It might be one of them, or it might be something else.
He was split on what to do. A small part of him desperately wanted to find his teammates and get something more substantial than a knife in his hands. However, he also had his duty to do. If there were survivors, he should find them. If one of the creatures was in here with him, he should at least make sure so they could come back and flush it out later.
Continuing on, his foot landed in something wet, causing it
to slip out from under him. He fell to the floor, agony coursing through his stomach as the last of his stitches popped. He gritted his teeth against the pain to keep from crying out. It was bad enough he’d potentially given his position away. He wouldn’t exacerbate the situation by screaming.
He put his hand on the floor to steady himself and felt more of that wetness. It had a sticky, tacky feel to it. Chuck didn’t need to see to know it was probably blood, a lot judging by how much was oozing through his fingers. He reached blindly in the darkness, there being no windows in the hall to light the way. Eventually, he found the body that he knew would be there. It didn’t take more than a few quick touches to tell him all he needed. Whoever it had been, they had been pounded into pulp.
Bigfoot Hunters (Tales of the Crypto-Hunter Book 1) Page 28