The Yeti

by Mike Miller

Above the two, the monster had maintained its grip of the failing bridge, also zooming down and in with the line. As it maintained a spot higher on the swinging line and with a significantly larger mass than even the combined men beneath it, geometry dictated that the beast would be first to collide with the wall. With a blunt thud, the creature’s body smashed against the jagged cliffs with enough force to dislodge its grip on the bridge.

  Since the creature absorbed the majority of the impact, Baxter and Horace’s own collision against the cliff was greatly tempered. Baxter had also skilfully angled the wooden slats of the bridge to cushion the blow as well.

  But despite those advantages, Baxter still crashed into the hard stone surface with devastating force. The slam knocked the wind from Baxter’s lungs, though he maintained his hold onto the bridge’s loose rope siding, which now hung vertically like a disjointed spinal cord. Breathless and exhausted, Baxter worked to pump oxygen back into his body. He gasped heavily as a heaping breath of frigid air filled his lungs.

  The white demon above him had bounced off the rocky surface and began to fall. Noticing that the gigantic monster was plummeting towards him, Baxter shrank his body to hug the surface, squeezing his broad shoulders and back into as flat an amount of space as he could muster. He watched one of the creature’s hands whiz past his face as it flailed for a hold. The paw’s talons flew narrowly past Baxter’s right cheek. Then it swept through Horace’s leg as if it weren’t even there, leaving a sash of blood in its wake.

  The creature tore its nails into the rock wall as it tumbled downwards, sending clouds of debris bursting off the surface as it swung wildly for a hold. Then its right hand successfully sunk its fingertips into the cliff. The claws dragged through the stone to leave a trail of parallel grooves in the hard surface behind each finger. The creature finally managed to stop its descent once all four of its limbs grasped the rock. It looked up at Baxter and snorted. With one giant arm reaching above itself, the thing began to climb upwards, easily ascending the steep incline as if crawling on flat ground.

  Horace’s head hung limply as the pair of men swayed softly on the dangling bridge in the mountain wind. He hadn’t any reaction to the large gash that streamed blood down his ankle and foot. Alive or not, the boy was now just dead weight. Since Baxter could now support their weight with some new toeholds, he worked to pry apart the boy’s arms. They were locked into place around Baxter’s waist and twisted through his belt. But once Baxter finally freed one of the boy’s arms, he simply had to dip his hips, and Horace’s other arm slid away of its own accord.

  Baxter couldn’t help but feel sorry for sending the boy down into the void. But if young Horace was not dead already, he would soon be. Baxter imagined that he had mercifully killed the boy in his sleep.

  With loose limbs flapping behind him, Horace drifted down into the void. Baxter watched the boy fall directly towards the creature, as he could only barely see the white monster behind the Horace’s tumbling body. Only now in the afterlife would the young private prove useful in deterring the beast, hopefully to somehow slow the monster’s progress up the wall.

  But the creature nimbly shifted its weight to its side while flattening itself against the cliff face, successfully dodging the human projectile. Just when it appeared that the boy would slip past the monster into the infinity below, the animal’s serpentine tail lashed outwards to pluck Horace from his fall. In a flash, the creature had lassoed the boy around the waist with its robust tail, and now carried the inert boy upwards as it resumed its climb.

  Shrugging off his astonishment at this mystical entity’s latest trick, Baxter crawled up the broken bridge to escape the yawning jaws of both the monster and this chasm. The nagging aches of his recent ordeals were obliterated by a renewed rush for survival. With swift and coordinated movements, Baxter could not have scrambled anymore furiously up the makeshift ladder than if he were climbing away from the flames of hell itself.

  With the monster’s sprawling reach, it was quickly regaining terrain on its prey. The cliff almost quaked with every thunderous clap of the monster’s hands into the solid stone. But as the wooden bridge rhythmically trembled with the constant pawing of the beast, Baxter could detect a different sort of vibration trembling though his hands as well.

  With Baxter hoisting himself up the dangling wooden path, the ladder gave way as if he had managed to somehow rip it from the wall. Baxter realised that someone above had severed one of the bridge’s final two connections. The rope walkway now hung crookedly and spun as Baxter strained to reach a handhold on the rock wall itself. The worn bridge was destined to die down in the gorge, but Baxter wanted no part of that fate. He searched frantically for another location to support his weight, but the sheer rock was uniformly flat beside him, offering little relief to sojourn on the climb.

  He could feel the construct quivering from the hacking above on its ultimate lifeline. And then it was cut.

  When the bridge freed from any moorings to earth, Baxter became briefly suspended in air before gravity could sink him to his doom. His left hand clung to a thin crevice, and he shifted his weight off of the bridge just as it plummeted into the gorge. Scraping his foot along the surface, he managed to jam it into a small fissure in the stone. The newfound footing allowed him to hang precariously from the cliff wall to prevent his fall. The fingers of his hand ached from the demands of supporting so much weight, and his right hand scoured across the stone for purchase as if it were attached to a blind man.

  Beneath Baxter, the long length of disembodied wood and rope plunged down towards the monster. This was something the white beast could not avoid, and it clattered across the creature’s hide, making it howl not from pain but anger. The bridge slapped the beast across its hideous face while the ends tumbled down around the creature’s chest like a gigantic scarf. Frustrated at the impediment, the monster wrestled with the wrapping before finally casting the bridge aside with a snarl. Throughout the brief struggle, Horace’s body remained firmly ensnared in the creature’s tail.

  But the distraction had bought Baxter a few precious seconds to scamper up the cliff wall. At this current rate, Baxter calculated he might need several minutes to scale the complete height of this bare wall. The estimate also provided for the fact that he be lucky enough to find an adequate path and have the strength to serve him for the journey. When a throaty snarl demanded his attention, Baxter knew he only had seconds before the monster easily caught him.

  “Christ, they’re both still there,” Finnegan exclaimed from above, standing on the wooden port that had previously housed one end of Jienen Bridge. He sheathed his sword and drew his rifle.

  Snider was equally distressed at the news, looking down at both Baxter and this strange fiend. Both climbed up the raw stone surface as they refused to succumb to gravity’s pull. “Shoot them,” Snider sighed while readying his own firearm.

  “Which one?” asked Finnegan, training his gun down on the targets .

  Snider cursed the fact that he could only shoot one of the two.

  The creature was an arm’s length away, so Baxter began to prep a plan of retaliation once he was inevitably captured or assaulted in the next moments. Eyes and ears were always a particular vulnerability on any foe, though its short pointed ears were largely covered by a thicket of shaggy hair. Baxter settled upon doing everything he could to destroy the beast’s eyes, preparing himself to leap from the cliff and onto the beast. Now within reach of its target, the monster raised its right claw back behind its head to strike Baxter.

  A pair of gunshots thundered down from above. The rush of a hot zephyr warmed his scalp as Baxter could feel the bullets whiz past his forehead, making his hairs quiver like reeds blowing in a field.

  The shots plunked into the monster’s chest with the sound of pebbles plopping into a pond. The creature reeled back from the projectiles’ impact as two dark blue wounds appeared on its body. The thing incredulously examined the miniature blows in its chest, then gazed
fiercely up the cliff side at the origin of the attack.

  Baxter used the distraction to scramble away from the fiend, not up the cliff but to the side.

  The white demon screeched a long, shrill cry providing Baxter ample opportunity to gaze deep within the black pit of its gaping mouth and gasp at its horrific stench. As its long wail reverberated off the stark walls of ice and stone, the monster rushed up the cliff face with renewed vigour.

  Baxter braced for impact, but the vile thing scampered right past him at such a speed that it might have been running along flat ground. Baxter was mercifully grateful that the new assault had reprioritised the monster’s next victim.

  Once the aberration passed by him, Baxter watched as Horace bounced by as well, still stuck in the embrace of the monster’s tail. While practically face to face with the dead boy, Baxter was shocked to see the boy’s eyelids flutter open. In a daze, Horace looked about at his surroundings and situation like waking from a disorienting dream. When he realised his circumstances, his eyes grew wide as he screamed in terror. “Oh God!” With both hands he futilely tried to pry himself from the tail’s grip, but he continued to be carried upwards. “Help me!” he pleaded, his big, boyish eyes staring directly into Baxter’s. Horace extended a hand outwards to Baxter for rescue.

  Despite risking his own position to hang securely on the wall, Baxter instinctively reached out his own hand to grasp Horace’s. Their fingertips touched as Baxter’s hand slipped for a firm handshake. But then the lad bobbed out of reach, and both hands hung outwards towards one another like they were bidding farewell.

  “God help you,” Baxter prayed softly under his breath.

  With a few more steps, the monster reached the corner of the cliff and disappeared over the edge. The last part to vanish from sight was its tail curled around the frightened Horace, who suddenly disappeared over the rim of flat ground as if jerked away by an anchor cast into the ocean.

  Baxter hung his head in memoriam for Horace and the other poor souls at the slaughter as the monster’s reappearance ignited a new wave of horrified screams. Then Baxter continued his climb up the cliff side.

  While the going was not easy, oftentimes having to double back in uncertainty, Baxter found enough ridges, ledges and crevices in the stone to steadily proceed upwards to the top. Beyond finding the next fingerhold to heft himself upwards, the biggest obstacle to his climb was his own body, burning in exhaustion and pain from this latest challenge. Fortunately, his athleticism responded well, as his well-conditioned musculature refused to succumb to this gruelling task. His seasoned will assisted the effort by ignoring his body’s pleas for respite and retirement.

  With the monster out of sight, the only evidence of the creature’s continued existence were the gruesome screams of the dying. Occasionally the odd gunshot would ring out, intermittently followed by one of the monster’s angered yowls. The sounds then grew more faint as the battle moved up the mountain. With increasingly less frequency, the sounds of battle and death eventually died into silence, leaving only the mild whistle of the wind on the ice.

  With only a few feet left to climb, Baxter dreaded the final ascent back onto flat earth. His demented mind imagined the monster waiting for him to climb into its jaws, or perhaps it was passing the time for the fresh meal by gnawing on the bones of the dead. While the day was still bright enough in twilight, the sun had now vanished behind a thick bank of clouds to shroud the world of ice in a new layer of cold. Baxter’s shivering hand reached up over the ledge of rock, and grasped a firm bump that nicely sleeved his fingers. Hoisting himself up with easier-than-expected results from the excitement of the finish line, Baxter sank his armpit onto the corner and used his entire arm to drag the rest of his tired body onto the flat stone floor.

  Baxter tumbled onto the ground with exhaustion, like reaching dry land after a marathon swim. He gasped for air while trying to invigorate his sore limbs to continue the fight to survive, as he had no idea what more was needed now to do. His fingers cramped into curved hooks, and he strained to flex them back into their normal lines.

  Rolling onto his stomach and then raising his head off the ground, Baxter looked around. Off some thirty yards away, he saw the monster slowly lumbering amongst a gory battlefield of the dead. The closest hiding spot Baxter could find was the remnants of the sniper’s bluff he had constructed to fend off Snider’s army. He dashed as quickly and as quietly as possible for the blankets and rocks that might conceal him from the giant predator.

  The white monster seemed oblivious to Baxter, its broad back turned towards him as it was engaged in some unknown act of concentration. Besides the creature was a pile of the dead, a garish mound of corpses bathed in a layer of dark red blood. While other dead bodies and severed limbs were still splattered across the terrain without any uniform pattern, it was as if the monster had gathered the bodies onto that spot as a monument to its killings. Baxter hurried while carefully watching the beast, his panting breath forming puffs of mist.

  Nearing the set of rocks and the snow-covered sheet, Baxter slid on the ground and underneath the concealing blanket. Yet his boots crunched small bits of gravel with a sharp grating noise that called out the creature’s attention. Baxter dropped the edge of the blanket over his body, fully hiding himself from view as the monster turned to inspect the sound.

  The only option now was to hide and remain as still as possible, unaware of what exactly the creature might do. The enclosure provided some warmth and shelter, but afforded no information about the creature’s whereabouts or intentions. But Baxter was convinced the beast was on its way for him. With hushed breaths rattling his frail body, he heard slow footfalls crunching along the ground, growing louder with each step. There was no denying the creature was coming for him, and Baxter knew that after surviving everything else, that this fate was the particularly grisly doom which fate has devised especially for him. It seemed so obvious now how Baxter had remarkably prevailed on all of his dastardly expeditions of trickery and murder only to now suffer this special demise.

  With the devil coming for him, Baxter’s only refuge was to close his eyes in prayer. His thoughts were twofold with split ambitions: one part of his mind composed an appeal to the Almighty for the salvation of his soul while the other half pleaded in sincere apology to his love for failing them both.

  Chapter XXX

  Regrouping and Redirection

  The only reason Colonel Snider stopped running was because he could run no more. Though his body was robust and fit, it still pleaded to surrender and quit this mad dash up the mountain hill. As the scenery behind him was absent of the albino monster, his terrified mind convinced his spent muscles to stop pumping his legs. The fatigued body gladly quit, happy to know that it had earned the reward of rest. Now the only thing he could move was his lungs, as his breath rushed in giant gasps to replenish his exhausted system. Like a smithy’s bellows, the cold air being pumped into Snider’s body helped to cool the raging fire of his energy and fear.

  He looked about himself to find he was not alone. While there was thankfully no sight of the dreaded beast, he found a hodgepodge of survivors scattered about the path. Only four of his men had arrived at this solace. Far ahead on the path were Chiksai and his cohorts who were dutifully assembled together and prepping their gear to march.

  “What do you think you are doing?” demanded Snider with loud, militaristic pomp. The quick respite had provided enough fuel for him to forcefully now march upon this group. “Where are you going?”

  Neither Chiksai nor any of his men paid any heed to the angry Brit, but continued to talk quietly to each other.

  A few of the other soldiers down the path were drawn to the commotion, so they began to sleepily gather behind their irate commander.

  Snider held a finger out to jab in the direction of the unresponsive leader of the bandits. “Listen here, you. We made an arrangement to find the traitorous dogs—”

  The statement was interrupted by the
quick brandishing of a very large knife, a superior weapon that dwarfed the colonel’s finger in both size and menace. Chiksai’s missing finger was no obstacle for him to carve the blade through the air and stop within inches of Snider’s throat. As could be expected, the aggressive move quickly silenced Snider’s yelling.

  Twisting the point of the blade as if it pivoted on a tip, Chiksai communicated everything there was to say between the two men. But the bandit leader decided to grumble something in his native tongue anyways, a short statement that was performed very slowly and sinisterly just in case the Englishman was slow on the uptake.

  Snider was still furious, but was at a loss for action. The remaining survivors of his troops had collected behind him, and Snider noticed a gun dangling from nearby Private Hobson’s waist. He approached and entreated the firearm. “Here, here,” he instructed the boy with his left palm open and ready for the weapon’s reception.

  But before the boy could touch the grip of the gun, the Asians were alerted to its existence and the possibility of the Englishman’s crazed intentions. If the group of rugged mountain men had behaved aloof to their Western allies before, their entire attention was now devoted to Snider’s next move.

  The posse’s undivided focus intimidated Snider to freeze stiff in his tracks, as if the snowy climate had transformed him into living ice. Even his extended hand remained dangled outwardly and awkwardly in mid-reach for the gun. Hobson remained deathly still as well under the frightening gaze of the Asians, though his spindly legs trembled with fear.

  Chiksai dropped his pack of gear on the ground and approached the two soldiers. With Snider’s hand still outreached for Hobson’s gun, Chiksai instead intercepted the delayed exchange by plucking the gun from the lad’s belt as if it were a grape on a vine. Still, neither of the soldier dared stir.

  The bold move and equally cowardly response evoked a torrent of mocking and derisive laughter from Chiksai’s accomplices.