The Mountain King

by Rick Hautala

  “She’s dead, you know!” someone shouted.

  The sudden voice echoed like a gunshot off the cave walls. The guarding creature roused itself, glared over at the corral, and snorted viciously.

  “She’s dead! Mary died last night!”

  It was Phil’s voice, ringing out strong and clear, no doubt to let Mark know that he, at least, was still holding out.

  “She couldn’t take it anymore, you lousy son-of-a-bitch!” Phil yelled, his voice starting to edge up into hysteria. “She couldn’t take it anymore. None of us can take it anymore!”

  The creature shifted to its feet and started over toward the captives. As soon as its back was to him, Mark raised himself into a crouch. He supported his arm on one knee and drew a careful bead on the back of the creature’s head, carefully tracking the creature’s movements. Holding his breath for a second, he was just about to squeeze the trigger when he remembered that he didn’t have enough bullets. If he used one now, it might well prove to be the one he would need later. One on one, he just might have a chance.

  Keeping as quiet as possible, he slid down from the ledge and, resting his rifle back behind his shoulder, dashed across the cave floor toward the creature. As soon as Phil saw what Mark was doing, he started yelling again, hoping to mask the sound of his friend’s approach and draw the creature’s attention.

  “Are we next?” Phil hollered. “Is that it? Which one of us is going to be supper tonight, huh? Tell me that!”

  The creature grunted angrily, keeping his eyes on Phil as Mark rapidly closed the gap between them. At the very last instant, the beast sensed approaching danger. Letting loose a wild roar, it spun around just as Mark swung the rifle around in a wide arc.

  “You motherfucking bastard!”

  The butt of the rifle smashed the side of the creature’s head with an impact that shattered the skull and blew a red spray of blood into the air. Without another sound, the creature spun around in its tracks, took a couple of wobbly steps backward, and then dropped to the ground. Its body twitched for a second or two, and then lay still.

  “Awright! One for the good guys!” Phil shouted hoarsely.

  Mark straddled the creature’s corpse and then, shouting with every hit, slammed his rifle butt into the creature’s face enough times to turn it into a bloody pulp. He was lost in a whirlwind of finally being able to release his rage. Sweat dripped from his face, and his whole body was trembling when he finally realized that there was nothing recognizable left of the creature’s head. Stepping back, he let the rifle drop from his hands.

  “Well, he sure as shit ain’t going anywhere,” Phil said.

  Mark was panting heavily as he smiled grimly over at his friend. Then he quickly vaulted the fence and went over to where Mary lay.

  “Did you mean what you said, Phil? Is she really—”

  He stopped himself short when he saw that Mary was slumped against the rock, her head tilted back and her mouth wide open. Her unblinking eyes were glazed over as though she were staring far into the distance.

  “Shit!” Mark whispered.

  Tears formed in his eyes, but he knew the cold, hollow grief that filled him was for Sandy, not Mary. He knelt beside the woman, gently closed her eyes, and composed her stiffening hands in her lap.

  “I—I’m awfully sorry,” he said, turning to Jack. His voice was little more than a tattered gasp.

  “I don’t think she could have lived with the pain anymore,” Jack said, sounding barely able to speak himself. “She—I think she just gave up—after seeing what they did to that girl—last night,” Jack said.

  “That was my .. . daughter,” Mark said, surprised that he could speak at all.

  After a moment, Jack closed his eyes and said, “I— I’m awfully sorry.” Fat tears, which he didn’t even try to wipe away, streaked the thick grime on his face.

  Trembling inside, Mark stood up and brushed his hands on his legs as he looked at Phil.

  “Jesus, Mark!” Phil said, lowering his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t even recognize her.”

  Mark forced himself to look over at the stinking pile of offal, knowing that, mixed in somewhere with the rotting flesh of deer and other animals were the last human remains of his daughter. He was shaking, nearly blind with grief as he walked over toward the pile. The smell of death and rotting flesh assailed his nostrils, making him gag. He saw, resting on its left cheek amongst the stripped bones, decaying flesh, and rotting pelts, his daughter’s ruined head. Framed by her dark hair, her smashed face was chalky white and streaked with splashes of dried blood. Her eyes were wide open, staring, as though a photographic flash had caught her by surprise. The raw, red stump of her neck ended with a short length of spine protruding from the base. The sight of it twisted Mark’s stomach. He fell to his knees and dry-heaved.

  “Mark! Listen to me, Mark,” Phil called out.

  “There’s—there’s—nothing—you can—say,” Mark whispered as he doubled over, clenching his arms over his stomach, and fought against the waves of sour acid that were bubbling up out of him.

  “Come on, Mark! Don’t look at it! You—you have to remember her for who she was, not . . . not like that!”

  “I swear to Christ,” Mark said. His fists were clenched and shaking, and his voice was low and thrumming as he straightened up. Tears were pouring from his eyes, but he wiped them on his sleeve as he looked up into the dark recesses of the cave ceiling and listened to the vibrating echo of his voice as it rose louder and louder. “You know—”

  “. . . know . . .” his voice echoed.

  “I think they did it—”

  “. . . did it . . .”

  “out of revenge.”

  “. . . revenge . . .”

  “Come on, Mark. You’re talking crazy now,” Phil said.

  “No, I really think so. I think all along they’ve been hunting me, maybe ever since that day you fell off The Zipper. I think they tracked me back to my house. I think one of them, maybe the one that was looking for me, killed Dennis Cross, thinking it was me. And I think—I think they went back down there and took Sandy out of pure spite because they hadn’t found me.”

  “I don’t blame you for freaking out, all right?” Phil said. “But don’t you think you’re giving them a little too much credit? If they had been—”

  “I don’t care what you think, so just shut the fuck up! It doesn’t fucking matter! Sandy’s dead, and I swear to God—” He shook his clenched fists wildly over his head. “I swear on the bones of my daughter that I’m going to hunt down every last one of these bastards—whatever the hell they are—and I’m going to kill them all, with my bare hands if I have to!”

  Turning to Phil, he lowered his voice and said, “I gave my word that I’d come up here and not leave until I found you, and I’ve done that. But once I get you and Jack and—” his voice choked off, and he had to force himself to continue “—and come back for Mary and what’s left of Sandy, I promise you I’m not going to rest until I see every one of these bastards dead!”

  A shiver rippled through him when his last word echoed hollowly from the ceiling of the cave—

  “... dead! . . .’”

  Chapter Thirty

  “He ain’t heavy . . .”

  “Can’t you just hike back to town and come back with some help?” Jack asked. His voice was high and edged with tension.

  Mark looked at him and shook his head. “Look, I don’t particularly like the choices, either, but just what the hell do you think these creatures will do to you once they come back and find another one of them has been killed?”

  “Good point,” Jack said, running one hand down the side of his face.

  “First things first,” Mark said as he fed a few more sticks into the fire. “I have to get you guys out of here—someplace safe.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Phil said, snorting with laughter as he slapped his useless legs. “And just how do you propose to do that?”

  Mar
k started pacing back and forth across the cave floor while he pondered the situation. He knew he couldn’t leave both men here while he went down the mountain to get help. Even if he left them his rifle, they wouldn’t stand a chance without enough bullets to finish off the four surviving beasts. And that was assuming there were only four more. For all they knew, there might be dozens of these things living in other caves on the mountain or spread throughout the forest.

  But Mark was convinced that he had to get at least one man down off the mountain now, carrying him all the way if he had to. Even if there was some place for them to hide outside the cave, the creatures obviously had a keen sense of smell and would eventually track them down. He felt uncomfortable admitting it, even to himself, but his first loyalty was to Phil. If he was taking anyone, he would take Phil. Jack was much worse off and needed more help, but that also meant he might not survive the hike down. Besides, Mark didn’t have much water or food to leave behind for both of them, so it was tantamount to consigning them to death to leave them behind in the cave.

  “How about up on the ledge, where I was hiding last night?” Mark said, glancing at Jack. “If I can get you up there, and take Phil with me, they may think we all got away.”

  Jack stared back at him with a glazed, defeated expression, as if he could clearly read Mark’s loyalty to Phil and saw that his chances of surviving this ordeal were the least of anyone’s.

  “Yeah—I suppose so,” he finally said through cracked lips. “It—it doesn’t really matter now, I guess, . . . now that Mary’s—”

  “Don’t you go giving up now,” Mark said with a

  forcefulness in his voice he didn’t really feel. The memory of Sandy’s horrible death was still too fresh, too painful in his mind. He clapped Jack on the shoulder and gave him a bracing shake.

  “I don’t think you’re in any condition to handle the trip down. Let me get Phil back to town, and then I’ll get back here with some armed men and clean these bastards out. That’s as long as you can hang on. Hiding up there on that ledge is gonna be your best bet.”

  “Without a weapon?”

  Mark considered offering Jack his rifle, or maybe his Swiss Army knife, but he knew that would be foolish. If the creatures found him, he wouldn’t be able to fend them off. It was going to be challenge enough getting down off the mountain while there was still enough daylight even without these creatures chasing after them. Out in the open, he and Phil were going to have to protect themselves if they were attacked.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Mark said, “but there’s nothing else I can think of right now.”

  “And what if you don’t make it back?” Jack asked, his voice trembling wildly now. “What if—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make it back. I promise,” Mark said even as dark doubt filled his mind. “For the past few days, dozens of men have been out here on the mountain, searching for me.” He wished now that he had seen even a single searcher yesterday. Had the police given up the search for both him and Phil?

  Jack considered a moment, then nodded and sighed. “Yeah—I guess so,” he said, not sounding at all convinced.

  Mark hurriedly cut the vines binding Jack’s legs. He was surprised by how light the man was when he picked him up and carried him over to the bottom of the ledge. Using his jacket as a sling, he hoisted Jack up into the niche, then took the longest, strongest piece of wood he could find from the pile of firewood and gave it to him.

  “Use this if you have to,” Mark said.

  From the cold gleam in Jack’s eye, he knew they both understood that this was a futile gesture, but Jack smiled his thanks.

  “Here’s my canteen and some food,” Mark said, handing Jack his day pack. He wished he could think of something reassuring to say, but nothing came to mind so, hoping he hadn’t just signed Jack’s death warrant, he left him there.

  “We’re gonna need this to get down the cliff side,” he said as he knelt down beside Mary’s corpse and cut the vines holding her legs together. He gathered up all of the discarded rope, tied the ends together, wound it up in a thick coil, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he went over to Phil.

  “It’s going to hurt like a bitch when I pick you up,” he said, turning around so Phil could get on him, piggyback style.

  “You don’t know the meaning of the word pain,” Phil replied as he hiked himself up onto his friend’s back.

  Once in position, Phil wrapped one arm around Mark’s neck and settled into place. Mark gave him the rifle to carry and warned him that if there was danger, he was going to have to drop him so he could use the rifle.

  “ ‘S long as you don’t break my legs,” Phil said with a forced chuckle.

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. I wish to hell you could have lost a few more pounds before we tried this, though,” Mark said. Already he was puffing as he started toward the cave opening. He knew he was crazy even to be trying this, but it was the best—it was the only plan he could come up with.

  “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” Phil said with another hearty laugh; then he was silent as Mark made his way through the main chamber and negotiated the narrow passageway, following the faint yellow circle of his flashlight back to the cave opening. They had just made their way through the outer chamber when a voice, echoing in the darkness behind them, called out.

  “Hey, Mark! Mark!”

  “Yeah,” Mark shouted, already feeling winded from the effort.

  “I don’t think I like this idea,” Jack shouted. His voice was wound high with tension.

  “Don’t worry. Just stay down and be quiet!”

  “No. Please. Don’t leave me here! Come back! Please!”

  Mark hesitated a moment. His knees were buckling beneath the weight of his friend as he turned and looked back into the dark maw of the cave.

  “Please—?” Jack shouted. “I—I know I won’t be able to stand it here alone. I don’t want them to find me. They’ll kill me! They’ll rip me to shreds, just like they did—did to—”

  His voice choked off abruptly, and Mark was thankful that he hadn’t said Sandy’s name out loud.

  Taking a deep breath, Mark called back. “Just hang in there. I’ll be back here to get you within twenty-four hours. I promise!”

  “I hope so,” Jack yelled, sounding not at all reassured. “I sure as shit hope so!”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Traces of Red

  The sky was overcast that morning, a dull, gunmetal gray when Polly left for work at ten o’clock. She was still hoping that she would find an opportunity to hit the road, so she hadn’t bothered to take her suitcases out of the car trunk. This morning, though, convinced that the police had her under surveillance, she pushed aside any thoughts of leaving ... for now.

  No, she told herself, she had to act as if everything was one hundred percent normal . . . even considering that her boyfriend had been murdered less than a week ago, her husband was somewhere up on Mount Agiochook looking for his missing and presumed dead friend, a police search party was out there hunting for him, and her stepdaughter had moved out of the house last night.

  You never saw this on “Ozzie and Harriet,” she thought with bitter sarcasm. No wonder she hadn’t been sleeping well for the last several nights. The tension was definitely starting to get to her. Why, just last night, sometime around midnight, she had awoken, absolutely convinced that someone was in the house. She had sat up in bed and listened as footsteps moved stealthily around downstairs. Her first thought had been that whoever had killed Dennis had come back for her, but she had been too frightened to do anything, even to dial the police. Instead, she had cowered in her bed, shivering as she listened to the footsteps come slowly up the stairs. She had closed her eyes, feigning sleep, and waited with bated breath, absolutely convinced that the intruder had opened her bedroom door a crack and had looked in on her before leaving.

  Her first thought—the one she wanted to believe— was that Mark had come h
ome. But Mark would have turned on all the lights and made a lot of noise downstairs before coming upstairs to talk to her before getting into bed.

  No, if it hadn’t been a dream—and now, in the diffused light of the overcast morning, that seemed the most likely explanation—then someone had broken into the house last night.

  Before breakfast, she had checked upstairs and down, but hadn’t noticed anything valuable missing. Still, even now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

  Maybe it was simply paranoia, thinking that the police still suspected her for Dennis’s murder, but she couldn’t stop thinking that it might be something more than that.