The Yeti

by Mike Miller

  The men still bound on the road all watched Snider strangely disappear in a quiet and solitary trance.

  Finally, one of them dared to break the silence. “Sir, please,” asked Finnegan, writhing in his constraints. “Get your head out your ass for a minute.”

  But still Snider did not respond. As his sunburnt neck pulsed even more hotly with rage, he realised that those turncoat bastards had the jump on them by hours, and there was little he could do about it.

  At the end of the colonel’s stare into the far distance, the tiniest block dot appeared on the horizon. It was as if Snider’s rage was so full and robust that it became manifest. An approaching angel or demon, the speck grew in size and shape, tumbling toward the group of waylaid soldiers with increasing speed. The men still bound on the dirt strained to peer over at whatever strange apparition had left their leader spellbound, but none of them could see a thing from their lowly vantage point.

  Snider smiled, and the nebulous entity transformed itself into a miniature horse carriage. If he had his druthers, the carriage would approach at a quicker pace than the lackadaisical ambling which its driver dictated. But Snider supposed that its appearance along this desolate path was fortune enough. Perhaps fate had decided to swing back in his favour after abandoning him just hours ago.

  As the coach approached, the native driver peered out towards Snider to be sure that this odd stranger was in fact blocking the trail. He shouted sharply in anger, urging the fellow aside. When his bad eyes could finally perceive the outfit of an English commander, he quickly yanked upon his reigns for the horses to come to an immediate stop.

  “Why the delay?” a woman shouted from within the carriage. When she poked her head out of the car to better address the driver, she stopped her inquiry upon seeing the dozen men captive aside the road, while Colonel Snider alone stood before her ride. “You!” she gasped.

  “You,” he replied slyly, recognising the woman as Conrad’s scorned associate from the train station that morning.

  “Is there any problem?” she asked politely, wiping a frazzled hair from her forehead while adjusting her cowl to better present herself as a lady of the cloth.

  “No, sister,” he said, approaching the carriage. “I do believe that everything will be just fine. Everything.” Snider slowly advanced on the vehicle while suspiciously studying the driver, the woman and their cart. “My name is Colonel Randall Snider of Her Majesty’s Military, also currently serving on behalf of the East India Trading Company. And you are?”

  The woman wanted to remain indignantly silent. Privately she yearned to flee this sinister scene, an unsettling arrangement of defeated soldiers and their eccentric leader. Out here where these soldiers had limited authority, it would be a slight trifle to just gallop away, even if that meant trampling a few of these bound grunts underfoot.

  Snider sensed the woman’s reluctance to cooperate. To keep her from running, he burrowed his vision into her light green eyes like a cobra seducing its prey. “Ma’am?” he said suavely, his thin brown moustache crinkling into a charming smile. “Ma’am?”

  She shook her head as if awaking from a trance. Clearing her throat, she finally introduced herself. “You may call me Sister Janice Dover.”

  “Pleasure,” Snider said, tipping his head in a respectful bow but keeping his eyes upon her.

  “Sir, can we please be freed now?” begged Finnegan, rolling on the ground as he futilely wrestled against his restraints.

  But Snider walked to within a few paces of the bewildered lady and rested his right hand comfortably upon her carriage as if he owned it.

  “What do you want?” she asked, now weary that he might even attack her. This peculiar devil had appeared out of the ether, then apprehended almost a dozen soldiers to leave them all captive on the road. With no visible signs of transportation to this desolate spot between the outskirts of society and nowhere, the scene struck her as quite the malevolent phenomenon.

  He smiled a row of teeth that were too white, too straight and too perfect for a British soldier. Without saying a word, he leapt onto the carriage and pulled himself atop the driver’s seat, forcing the carriage’s elderly driver aside. When the Englishman glowered angrily at the driver, the frail man eagerly abandoned the post altogether to hop down to the road.

  “Hey,” Finnegan hissed at the displaced driver, while motioning his head to encourage the man to move in his direction. The old driver was so shocked from being usurped that he automatically went over to free the captive lieutenant for fear of further intimidation by these white bandits.

  So as the men eventually untied one another from their knots, they all studied Snider with alarmed curiosity. Their colonel did not speak to them, nor even bother to look their way. Instead he absent-mindedly played with the reins in his hand while a blank stare filled his countenance.

  Eventually the entire group was free again, yet the consortium was assembled idly in a ragtag hodgepodge, their glorious crimson outfits now soiled with dust. “Move it!” Snider screamed, and the men scrambled into regiment.

  “There ain’t enough room for of us,” whispered Horace as he jostled with some other men to board the cab. Nobody bothered to answer as they all wrestled for the few available seats.

  Janice watched the small horde of men grunting and tussling to invade her carriage. The first few slipped through the entrance to eagerly take seats next to her. She whimpered quietly and tried not to cry.

  Chapter X

  The Arrival at the End

  In the small mountain village of Kreelampa, the only place that served any food and drink after sundown was the Lekiri’na, which roughly translated as “Dead End.” Ownership knew that competition was nil, so they did not care about the squalor of its facade. Currently populating the premises was an assortment of ruffians, scallywags, blackguards and other deviant entrepreneurs who only inhabited this remote area of the world because they were barred from everywhere else. Some were refugees with nowhere else to hide, but most were enterprising smugglers and mercenaries who knew that the greatest safety was afforded by the most dangerous environment. The British outpost around the way from the town promised some semblance of regional authority, but the white men rarely bothered to travel over to this dangerous dive. The bar was the cornerstone for a lost and undiscovered territory not indicated on most maps, and its denizens could not be more pleased with the accompanying anonymity.

  “What is this place?” said Baxter, eyeing the large rectangular building with strange music and chatter spilling out from it. There was no sign to indicate the name of the establishment, just a series of three red hand prints on a piece of wood above the door to serve as signage.

  “Beats me,” responded Conrad, equally enthralled by the alien sight. As the few other shacks that composed the town were all shuttered and dark, there was little doubt this was the right place to meet their associates. The burning light from the windows had marked their target from almost a mile away in the dark night.

  Throughout the front door, various men shuffled in and out, all bundled in inordinate amount of furs whereupon they resemble reanimated piles of dead animals. The flicker of torchlight from within cast eerie shadows of the patrons onto the outside snow. The general outward appearance of the plain establishment felt like a primitive throwback to a different century, as if the journey up the mountain had transported the soldiers into a different era.

  Baxter sized up the locals while pulling his great coat higher over his chilled neck. He parked the carriage up alongside a hitching post, and the vehicle a distinct anomaly amongst the pack mules and scraggly mares already stationed there. Several strange men peered at the arriving strangers with the same level of suspicion with which the soldiers treated them in return.

  “Are we here?” asked Gregory groggily, rubbing his eyes awake from a deep nap.

  “Watch the gear,” ordered Conrad. Though disappointed, Gregory still dutifully obeyed by retreating back into the cart to prep his
rifle.

  The two veterans hopped to the ground and carefully watched each passerby as if they were about to be assaulted.

  “Should we bring a firearm?” asked Baxter.

  “Like you should even ask,” Conrad said, tucking away a second loaded pistol into his belt while patting at the sabre also dangling at the ready. So Baxter began to load himself as well in anticipation of any trouble. “From here on out,” Conrad said quietly, tucking a small knife into his right boot, “we are at war. Let nothing stop us until we stop ourselves.”

  Baxter appreciated the sudden change in attitude. He was happy to find the old dog’s silliness had dissolved. The compatriot he had long respected now hardened himself for battle upon entering this unknown world on the outskirts of civilisation.

  They deferred to several other visitors entering the tavern so as not to have anyone behind them. Then the two entered side by side, as if forming a wall to prevent anyone from escaping.

  Walking through the front portal into the bar, Baxter noticed a set of broken, rusty hinges where a door had once been.

  From their years spent travelling around the world, both Baxter and Conrad had suffered worse odours than the foul stench that greeted them as they entered. Still, that sage, olfactory experience did not prevent either from gently gagging at the bar’s putrid stench, a sour and sick combination of sweat, booze and rot. Despite the fact that this establishment offered both food and drink, it smelled more like a cold morgue than a warm meal. The debauched scene of festive scoundrels rivalled that of the filthiest battlefield barracks. Whereas both newcomers were used to this style of mess, neither of them by no means enjoyed it.

  A layer of thick opium smoke hung in the atmosphere with its distinctive tinge, which particularly offended Conrad. “Bloody filth,” snorted Conrad as he went to cover his nostrils with his coat. But Baxter quickly slapped the hand away as the gesture would target the old warrior as a weak novice. At first startled by his friend’s assault, Conrad understood the rationale. He embraced the stinging vapours of the drug, but defiantly muttered, “Disgusting.”

  Baxter was tempted to deem the squalor and filth as barbaric, yet restrained himself from passing judgment upon a foreign culture since he too was often ignorantly condemned. Certainly it was not a place he wished to inhabit or stay.

  The place was filled with people, all stumbling over each other in the limited space. The luckier men were able to find seats upon stools and benches, while the truly powerful patrons entertained women upon their laps. Craven onlookers with deranged lust behind their pupils surrounded the few females, prompting the girls to huddle closer to any man they thought the better alternative to the leering throngs of madmen. Scattered about the vast room were the vacant eyes of men and women lost to booze and the black tar smoke.

  A smaller man bumped into Conrad and spilled his overflowing drink to the floor. Despite the obvious disadvantage in size, the man cursed something angrily in his foreign tongue at Conrad, but carried on without any further aggression.

  Baxter noticed that a majority of the patrons were armed, some with actual guns though most sported crude clubs or blades. The soldiers’ appearance caused little stir in the relaxed commotion, but Baxter could feel pockets of quiet within the din where the natives were quietly judging his exotic features, though many of them had skin as dark as his, if not darker.

  Like most of the peoples of this sub-Asian region, his height easily towered over the average man by a good couple inches. Baxter’s altitude afforded him the murkiest layer of smoke to endure, which he tried to fend off, but eventually succumbed too with a rasping cough.

  Conrad led him slowly through the crowd, looking for their destination.

  Amongst the shuffling tide of riff-raff, Baxter’s attention was caught by a peculiar oddity in the scenery. Alongside the near wall away from the bar stood a young man dressed in a plain black robe and hood. The rest of the men in the bar were weathered and scarred. They were all filthy dirty wearing mismatched clothing while covered in garish displays of grubby hats and facial hair. However, this particular boy was unique by his simple demeanour and attire, marking him as an outsider like the soldiers. His face was boyish and smooth, his black hair shaved short to his scalp. However, his eyes seemed just as hard as any others. And while most people in general shied away from returning Baxter’s gaze, this young lad refused to flinch when his gaze met the soldier’s. Baxter tested the boy’s will by peering even harder, now with a more menacing look. The young man slowly sipped from a plain clay cup without even blinking.

  The contest was interrupted when Baxter received a slap on the arm. “There,” Conrad said, pointing to a back corner. Baxter followed Conrad’s pointing finger to a particularly loud congregation in the farthest portion of the wide room.

  “You see him?” Baxter asked.

  “No,” Conrad said, while trying to gain vantage from peering on his tiptoes. “But I hear him. Come on.” Conrad pushed through the packs of swirling drunks with renewed determination.

  The two arrived at the outer ring of a dense audience circling some unknown event, all cheering wildly at the spectacle. From the crowd’s epicentre, a voice shouted. “Huzzah! Take that, you bastard!” Though the cheer was in English, it still sent the crowd into a tizzy of emotion.

  Someone shuffled past Baxter rubbing his body against his. It took a moment for Baxter to realise he might have been the victim of a pickpocket. He spun around but it was too late to find who the culprit was. He ran his hands over his coat and pants pockets and was pleasantly surprised to find everything intact. Baxter felt ashamed to have been spooked so needlessly.

  Conrad nudged himself forward into the wall of spectators, and while he couldn’t break through to the opening in the middle, he was finally able to secure a proper view of the action.

  In the midst of the swirling audience, the scarred and disfigured Douglas was one of four players afforded any respectable space as they huddled around a square board with several black, white and red circular pieces spread across it. The other three men were obviously locals, leaving Douglas alone as the only white man to be found participating in the game. Both Conrad and Baxter recognised the activity as caroms, a regional pastime that was a cheap impostor of the game of billiards. Neither fully understood its rules, but both had often seen it played in places both high and low across Southeast Asia.

  With his one red eye shut for added concentration, Douglas crouched over the board. His fingers poised carefully to flick one of the black discs.

  “Douglas, old boy!” Conrad cried cheerfully upon locating his acquaintance.

  At the sudden call of his name at the most inappropriate moment of the shot, Douglas’ hand involuntarily jerked to errantly knock the piece completely off the board. The small disc whizzed through the air to be caught by the ready hand of a large lout with a shaved head. This gentleman was noticeably taller and more muscular than the other men in attendance, proudly exposing his swollen arms though everyone else remained bundled from the cold. His lips parted in a smile to reveal a near toothless mouth.

  The crowd erupted in boisterous cheer. Douglas smashed his fist down upon the table, scattering the pieces into the air while cursing loudly. “Blast it!” he screeched in a high-pitched wail which pierced Baxter’s eardrum with its mad, feminine shrillness.

  “Easy there, fellow,” Conrad said amicably, his hand outstretched for a welcoming shake. Douglas had sunk his head into his hands in disgusted shame while the surrounding patrons continued their calamitous celebration.

  A sturdy Indian gentleman with full headdress and thick black beard approached. His fancy formal wear was made even lovelier contrasted by the drudge of the surrounding environment. From his waist hung a pair of broad sabres kept in glittering silver sheathes. The Indian rested a hand upon the back of the distraught loser to placate him, but Douglas’ low mumblings could not be heard through the din.

  When Douglas finally looked up from his despa
ir, he shrugged off the Indian and slapped away Conrad’s outstretched hand. The aggressive move made Baxter instinctively reach for a weapon, though Conrad was not alarmed.

  “Good to see you too, man,” Conrad replied cheerfully.

  “Blast it,” Douglas muttered. “You just couldn’t have picked a worse time to arrive, could you?”

  “So you lost a drunken bar contest,” Conrad said. “You can tell me all about the injustice on the road. I see you’ve gotten prettier since I last saw you.”

  “Every day. But surely I’d rather be marked like a man, then have the hair of an albino.”

  The two embraced in a brief yet friendly hug.

  “Here, meet my friend Baxter.” Douglas followed Conrad’s swept hand and was startled to find an African in uniform awaiting him.

  Baxter forced an obligatory smile for the introduction, but it was not reciprocated by Douglas, whose bitter mood was now exacerbated by disbelief. “Who’s the savage?” he sneered. “Does he even speak English?”

  “I certainly do,” Baxter said with forced joviality.

  “Well, strike me blind,” Douglas said in awe. “I never knew they could be trained to speak English. What an amazing age we inhabit.”

  From what Baxter had heard of this chap, Douglas was supposedly a highly-decorated ex-officer from the British ranks, an esteemed ex-colleague of Conrad’s. However, the immediate impression made upon Baxter was of an uncouth lush and bigot. This cretin vented his prejudice in veiled, cowardly remarks too, yet was supposedly the bold hero who would guide this expedition. The man’s many scars also spoke of a reckless danger that also appalled Baxter’s sensibilities. But to hate the book by its cover was one of Baxter’s prime peeves, so the African extended this scoundrel the benefit of the doubt as well as his hand for a civil introduction.

  “Now, now,” Conrad cautioned. “Easy on the humour, mate. Let’s shake hands.”