The Yeti

by Mike Miller

The cold was happy to welcome Baxter back with its own frigid shawl. Baxter huddled into himself, drawing the blanket around his shoulders to combat the weather. He staggered out into the wilderness, discovering that several of his joints and muscles were not fully cooperating with his commands. He shuffled along the path around the bend to where he had nearly been executed until the monster had begun its assault. It was also where he had last seen the monster feasting on the dead.

  Ahead in the darkness now was a large mound of indistinct shape, which made Baxter pause. He crouched down low as the only camouflage available to him now, and squinted his eyes to peer for further insight into the mysterious object. Confident that at least the massive stack was not moving, he cautiously crept towards the object, hoping it might yield a pleasant surprise for a change.

  With each passing step, more details became visible. The weak moonlight cut sharper lines to define the shape, drawing stark edges amongst the tangle of muddied shadows as Baxter drew nearer. He clamped his eyes shut and concentrated on the blackness, an old army trick to more quickly induce night vision. When he reopened his eyes, there was no mistaking the identity of the strange structure.

  The pile of the dead had grown significantly. Now the collected corpses formed a small hill that easily dwarfed Baxter in height. Fingers, limbs, torsos and heads all met at odd, irregular angles and not at their usual connections. Together the pieces formed a cavalcade of gore, a hodgepodge of blood and tissue that was shaped with the same carelessness found in a pile of sticks. Frozen blood seeped from open wounds, often where pieces had been entirely severed from the frame. The frigid temperatures had turned the blood into black columns of preserved dripping.

  Baxter covered his mouth as he gagged at the unholy monument. Thankfully the usually foul stench of death was no longer detectable or else the nausea would have been unbearable. However, Baxter’s empty stomach had nothing to vomit in sacrifice anyhow.

  When he regained enough strength to gaze upon the devilish sculpture of suffering, he searched for any recognisable faces while softly reciting a prayer for their souls. Most were mangled beyond any semblance they had when alive. After surveying as many frightful visages as he could locate amongst the carnage, there were no signs of either Snider or the woman, though they could well be buried amongst the wreckage of the other bodies. What that news meant to Baxter, he was unsure, but it remained a fact to ponder and occupy his mind.

  Upon closer inspection of the hoarded bodies, Baxter noticed that all the equipment too was stacked in amongst the remains. Rifles, packs, assortments of gear were all part of the collected mash of carcasses. He circled the heap while surveying the surrounding territory for any loose objects which might be of use. Though splashes of dark blood scarred the ground in abstract formations, Baxter found nothing besides rock, ice and viscera.

  Flowing along the path around the cliff and up the mountain was a thick trail of blood, the obvious wake for where the white devil had taken his carnage. While he was tempted to immediately investigate where that path could lead up the mountain, Baxter knew that he should maybe travel in the opposite direction, which would eventually lead around the gorge and back to civilisation. These were the only two options available since the bridge had been obliterated. Baxter hoped he would even be fortunate to survive long enough to have the luxury of deciding which route to take.

  From all the searching for anything of use, Baxter found a spare sword in its sheath and a single boot with a severed foot still inside it. The boot was worthless, even a few sizes too small, and his own had held just fine through the ordeal. But the sword would be useful yet. Even just the simple feel of the weapon in his grasp was nice. The feeling of power and protection was especially reassuring after being disarmed for so long. With the hilt held tight in his glove, only now did Baxter finally feel again like a well-trained soldier of the British military. Though he seemed destined to die out in this rugged world, his warrior honour was restored with the sword tucked under his coat and into his belt.

  A shiver rattled his teeth together to remind Baxter that he needed to warm himself. The layers of clothes were damp with sweat, and without his heart furiously pumping blood through his system under the threat of attack, there was now the threat of falling asleep never to awake.

  Baxter returned to the pile of the dead, and began to search for some flint, tinder, fuel, or anything else that could start a fire.

  On the outside surface of the pile of dead bodies, Baxter’s queries yielded nothing. So he took his sword and started to hack and pry away at the frozen corpses. He preferred not to do any further harm to the deceased, so he reverentially concentrated on chiselling the frozen blood away that bonded the bodies together.

  After separating a young soldier from the pack, he found a full set of intact gear on the dead boy’s back. Prying open the sticky cover, Baxter became awestruck at the sudden good luck to have immediately found everything he could need. Certainly the unknown private had packed his gear well, immediately offering rations, spare clothes, blankets, shelter, a pistol and ammo. Most importantly, Baxter now had a flint.

  He decided to make his homestead in a small alcove amongst the cliff, one which afforded the most shelter from the elements. To have journeyed down either departing track would have exposed him to the elements. First, he swept away the snow and loose gravel to make a tiny clearing. Next, he returned to the grisly collection of bodies for some fuel. There he was able to dislodge several wooden firearms, whose stocks would be ideal for burning. Then to his surprise, he became ecstatic to find his own Minie rifle amongst the human debris, along with its special ammunition and ramrod. Though the rest of his own personal gear was perhaps stored separately elsewhere, he checked the action and the sight, both of which seemed fully functional. As the faithful firearm still passed muster, he slung it over his back while lugging the rest of the firearms the short distance back to his camp.

  It only took a few minutes for Baxter to break a few rifle stocks and pile them together in a small pyramid. Surely there was ample kindling to harvest, but Baxter instead opted to include a few dead bodies in his timber. They would be less work to prepare for burning, and would at least be provided an honourable cremation since they would never be given proper burial.

  Gently tapping a small pouch, he coated the wood with a fine layer of gun powder. Content with his work, he struck the flint that sparked a roaring blaze and a hearty smile of satisfaction. The warmth on his body was the forgotten touch of a true love. For the first time in a long time, he was happy, and so he laughed.

  His next order of business was to feed his aching stomach, so he popped open a tin of beans and another with some minced meat. He devoured both items quickly and decided to go for seconds and thirds. Although he had greatly diminished his limited supply of food in his feast, he still happily propped his back up against the wall to watch the hypnotic flames dance before him to lull himself to asleep.

  In the distance there was a soft thud. If Baxter had fallen back into dream, he was keenly awake now. If it was his imagination, he would not relax again until he was sure.

  The world was still dark, and his time with fire had muted his ability to see in the dark. Carefully he brought his rifle around and loaded it, though the stealth was unnecessary. With the fire still burning, any visitor he may have had would have been instantly alerted of his presence, while they could remain invisible on the outskirts of the light. While the gun was good at felling a target over a hundred yards away, its range was useless when he could barely see twenty feet beyond the fire into the darkness.

  Another soft crunch of movement on snow sent him into a frantic tizzy. “Who goes there?” he bellowed. He swept the barrel of his weapon back and forth across the space before him, knowing that the target could well appear right before him at any moment.

  There was a thick snort like a large animal’s, and Baxter knew the monster had returned. The creature’s arrival made the night wind even colder as a quic
k shudder fiercely rippled through his body.

  With his one rifle still at vigil, he let it sway back and forth at the darkness like the roving beam of a lighthouse. With watchful eyes trying to discern any shapes within the dark void which surrounded his meagre campfire, he stooped over to try and load a salvaged pistol. The process took far more time with only one hand, but eventually he was able to load the chamber, cock the hammer, and was ready to fire. With the rifle growing heavy in weight, he rested its butt against the ground, allowing for the hand gun to serve as its defensive proxy.

  With the flame’s flicker, the perimeter of light danced across the icy gray ground, but still the landscape remained barren. He wondered how much time had passed since the last detection of an intruder, that maybe he had just imagined a trespasser. Perhaps he was all alone, and his bored mind invented the company in his dementia.

  Baxter shut one eye, the muscles in his brow straining to clamp it close. Then he switched, now leaving the once-closed eye open while tightly sealing the other. He alternated between the two, careful to never shut both at the same time to leave him blind. The process took a while, but at last he was satisfied that the forced darkness had enhanced his night vision.

  Then he saw it. He slung his rifle back off the ground to aim both of his weapons at his newfound target.

  On the farthest fringes of light from his pyre, he could see the creature. The monster’s bulk and body was not visible, still shrouded in darkness, but the strange double pupils of the creature twinkled now from the campfire, as each of the beast’s eyes housed a pair of tiny, perfect circles married to one another. The demon’s face hovered in the air like the floating mask of a hellish spectre. Its two horns only became discernible whenever its body shifted so that they would obscure part of the monster’s face in silhouette. Baxter watched the beast’s nostrils flaring with deep breaths. The gentle sway in its skull also indicated its steady panting. Baxter marvelled that the monster’s mouth left no signs of breath in the air. While his own nervous body expelled constant plumes of mist with every heavy exhale, the creature did not.

  Now it paced along the side, careful not to cross into the circle of light. With both weapons growing heavier in his hands, Baxter still tracked the monster with his weapons. The monster’s face remained remarkably calm, with only its bright white pupils flashing dark from the occasional blink. The creature’s thin lips quivered, as if about to hesitantly start a conversation. The mouth gnashed open and close, as if its oversized jaws were practicing how to eat Baxter.

  It was not enough that the devil had returned to claim him. Now the thing also wanted to play with him, tease and torment him by testing his frayed nerves throughout an extended kill.

  Baxter could feel his mighty arms yielding to the inevitable weight of the weapons held aloft in the air. The agony of the wait began to break him.

  “Come on!” he screamed loudly at the creature, though the sudden outburst in the total silence did not faze the beast a lick. “Come on, you damned demon!”

  Baxter was surprised at his own aggressiveness and stupidity. He tried not to be so riled as to fire first upon the beast and officially start the fight. Perhaps the thing would peacefully leave of its own volition.

  But while Baxter had succumbed to emotion and distress, the monster’s disembodied face remained equally calm and composed. It watched its frightened prey like a keen scientist, as if noting and plotting the events in a thoroughly detached and mathematic manner. The beast’s tiny white pupils twinkled with an intelligence, restlessly shifting about as it worked to capture the entire scene.

  The two weapons rattled metal on wood as his limbs trembled with exhaustion and fright.

  The corners of the monster’s mouth curled upwards, puffing out its taught cheeks. The lips parted and spread, offering a glimpse at the slivers of jagged teeth. With the strange, menacing smile, the monster vanished back out of sight. Though it could no longer be seen, its footfalls faded in volume away from Baxter.

  Was the departure a ploy, thought Baxter, a skilled strategy to catch himself off-guard? The careless steps of the monster certainly sounded like it had departed, though Baxter had already learned that the gigantic entity could move with complete silence and stealth. As a compromise between rest and vigilance, he lowered the rifle to his side though kept the pistol on alert.

  From the shadows, the monster flew at Baxter. The massive thing moved in complete silence except for the gentle crushing of the trampled snow underfoot. Leading with its two giant paws reaching out for him, the beast’s wide mouth also yawned open in anticipation of devouring him.

  Baxter scrambled back on his heels, trying to circle around to keep the small fire between them. But the large animal covered the ground too quickly for him to evade, and it was upon him in a second.

  He emptied the revolver’s six shells into the monster’s face as quickly as possible. Through the discharged smoke, he could see the bullets ricochet off the animal’s face to leave small blue scars. While the shots rattled the thing, they only stopped its attack momentarily.

  Tossing the gun aside, Baxter continued to retreat backwards upon his heels while circling the fire. The fiend could easily have crossed over the fire to reach Baxter, yet it respected the flames by keeping a safe distance in pursuing Baxter around its circumference. Its long legs easily outpaced Baxter to catch him again quickly.

  By now Baxter had hoisted the rifle up with his weak arm. Taking aim from the hip, he fired. The rifle’s bullet was a much harder smack to the face of the demon, taking off a chunk of white flesh from its cheek.

  With the creature paused in a daze, Baxter drew his sword and leapt forward. He slashed downwards with both hands behind the blade. Baxter wanted to hack at the thing’s neck, but as it was protected by the loping curl of the beast’s horn, Baxter settled on striking the top of the back. Once the sword cleaved through the animal’s mane, it collided with a squish before abruptly crunching on bone.

  Without a murmur of discontent, the monster swatted away the sword, onto which Baxter was fortunate to hold considering the formidable power of the blow.

  Baxter had opportunity to attack once more with his sabre, so he thrust for the neck again. The animal blocked the strike with its forearm, then launched its own offensive.

  Giant claws sliced through the air at Baxter, though he nimbly dodged the blows. But then one giant mitt came straight for him which he could not elude.

  Jabbing the sword into the creature’s palm deflected the blow to whiz by his head. The monster’s follow-up attack overwhelmed him though, and a pair of razor-like fingertips gashed him across the chest. Baxter was able to defend himself from the subsequent blow which would have carved open his head, but the powerful swing from the beast knocked the blade from his hand to slide across the ground and out of reach.

  Before the best’s next blow would surely destroy him, Baxter turned and leapt over the fire. While sailing through the air, the flames licked his stomach as he tumbled into a somersault on the opposite side.

  The gambit bought Baxter a short reprieve as the white devil refused to follow over the fire. It instead dashed around the side. With an angry snarl, the thing’s jaws and claws were poised to kill.

  Without much though, Baxter snatched for the nearest object to him for defence. He reached his hand into the base of the campfire to grab a broken rifle stock whose end was alight. In one swift motion, he jammed the burning article into the creature’s agape mouth.

  While the most successful of his other attacks had only stunned the creature, this assault wildly shocked the creature into withdrawal. Holding a hand to its mouth, the monster whined mightily as it retreated quickly into the blackness of the night to disappear from view.

  The campfire’s blaze had consumed everything else. So Baxter quickly tore apart his tent, wrapped the cloth around two of the support poles, and once the end was alight, he wielded a makeshift torch before him.

  The monster could not
be seen, but emitted a sour, angry roar that echoed across the terrain.

  “Come, you bastard! Come and have me!” was Baxter’s reply.

  Baxter’s breath was heavy, spent in large gales of mist from his mouth. He noticed he had even become rather wet with sweat from the tension and activity, so he wiped his brow and nascent beard with the back of his sleeve to better dry himself.

  Still there was no response but the usual silence of night. Baxter remained by the fire, trying to poke his light out for a better view of where the monster may have disappeared. He remembered his weapons and went about reloading blindly with one hand while he remained preoccupied with keeping sentry for another attack.

  Off in the distance he was alarmed to hear a commotion. An odd mixture of squishes, crunches and cracks bubbled from the vicinity of the pile of the dead. His mind tried not to speculate on the grotesque possibilities of whatever the monster was doing with its kills. The initial bursts of sound soon faded into a quieter cacophony, though the gruesome noises still continued at a softer tone and tempo. Eventually the noise faded to silence, leaving Baxter still wondering what exactly was happening.

  The longer the silence continued, the more Baxter felt like another violent ambush would erupt. He even constantly looked over his back at the sheer wall behind him, recalling the monster’s amazing dexterity on scaling these seemingly insurmountable surfaces. His eyes began to freeze over from a lack of blinking, making his vision murky.

  For perhaps hours Baxter remained seated against the wall behind his fire in constant vigilance for a reappearance of the monster. He used the time to wonder why he had been spared the creature’s continued wrath. If the fire had surprised the monster, Baxter knew it did no real harm. Gunfire, sword strikes, and even the torch were all futile in truly damaging the beast’s impervious hide.

  Perhaps the creature was taken aback by the darkness of Baxter’s skin. Though only visible in small patches beneath the layers of warm clothing, maybe his unique physical appearance was enough to alarm the animal from outright attack. Even in his emaciated state of fatigue, Baxter managed an audible chuckle at the ridiculousness of that theory, as the thing was clearly indiscriminate in its killings and was ready to obliterate him too, given the opportunity.