Dawn of the Yeti

by Malone, Winchester

  Now I plod along with the group, a guard on either side, Meredith behind, also guarded by another two. The fifth treads a few steps ahead, blazing the trail for us to follow.

  It feels good to be on the move again, out of the cave’s stale air and the smell of meat. The wind blows snow into my face and eyes, stinging, reminding me that I’m alive. My legs enjoy the freedom of movement, though I’m still tied—they merely extended my line, allowing small steps, which lets me move, but not well enough to run. I stumble a few times and am caught by my neighbors.

  From the sun’s movement, I can tell that we’re moving east. And I know where we are going: the Jo-Bran’s city. There is nowhere else that they’d take us. I’d heard stories and rumors from other, friendly packs, before packs even existed. Tales about the Banjankri and their sacrifices to the Jo-Bran, to appease the monsters and keep them from attacking the Banjankri packs. Appeasing the gods. Though if the Jo-Bran are all that’s left to worship, I lost my faith years ago.

  The Banjankri stop at the crest of a small hill. From this vantage, I can see the Spire we left behind, the site of our downfall. I should’ve listened to Charles. It’s about a day’s travel—if we were headed to it, instead of away from it. I wonder where Charles is and hope that he’s still alive, still going. Though I can’t find any reason why he would, why any of us do.

  A thermos is thrust in my face, the cap off, the thin smell wafting into my nostrils. I turn my head away and brace myself for the coming attack. But it never comes. The offering Banjankri shrugs his shoulders, takes a gulp and passes it to my other guard.

  I sneak a glance at Meredith, who drinks from another thermos without any sign of disgust. How she can do such a thing is beyond me. And it takes me back to when we found her.

  * * *

  “Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” Angelo says.

  I can tell he’s uneasy, as am I. Charles is a few paces ahead, peering into a half-standing tent flap.

  “We need to see if there are any survivors,” I say, stepping over a large patch of red snow.

  “And food,” Charles says. “Don’t forget the food.”

  How could I, I think, but I don’t say anything. We haven’t eaten in a day—the last of our supplies having run out the night before. Charles grabs a small chunk of frozen blood and pops it into his mouth when he thinks I’m not looking. I saw him do it a few weeks ago when the food was low, and it turned into a screaming match. I’m not about to have one here, not in front of Angelo, not amongst the dead.

  I stoop and sort through a loose backpack. There is blood covering half of it, looking in the darkness like a glob of sky dripped and was soaked up by the fur bag. Inside, I find a few books, worn and well used, spines broken. There are a few photos, but I toss them aside without looking at them: It’s better not to know who this belonged too, who they were trying to remember, to forget. My own haunting figures wisp through my mind, but I brush them away with the focus of food.

  “You just going to stand around or are you going to help?” Charles says. He’s staring at Angelo.

  “Leave him be,” I say. “He’s on the lookout. Right?”

  Angelo shoots a quick look from me to Charles and back, then nods.

  “See,” I say, my eyes pointing to Charles. “He’s doing his job.”

  Charles scuffs away, kicking a discarded doll.

  I rummage a bit more and find a few cans of vegetables. “I found some peas.” I hope this will buffer the last few minutes, but neither of the other two even looks my way, Angelo focusing on the night, Charles crawling through one of the still standing tents. I tuck the cans in to my own pack and head further into the camp.

  It surprises me that any of the stragglers are still trying to stay in such large groups. They must still think it’s safer in numbers. It’s just a bigger target. An easy kill. From the look of things, it looks like the majority of the camp must’ve been made up of children. There are more toys spread around than I’ve seen in a long time. All the broken dolls and action figures symbols of the lost kids, the lost future.

  A stuffed lion rests at my feet, his stuffing half-hanging out, gutted. I see my daughter cradling something similar, the stuffed bangle tiger my wife and I got her for her fifth birthday, before everything went wrong. I can see her smile. Both of their smiles. I kick the lion. It floats through the air for a brief moment, arcing into the night before landing with a scream.

  I whip around to see Angelo standing to the west side of the camp. He backs up as both Charles and I run his way. “What is it?”

  Angelo crouches down and wraps his arms around his knees.

  Charles is the first to reach the site, his face wrinkling into disgust. I take a spot beside him, building myself up for the soon to be witnessed horrors.

  At first, all I see is blood. Blood everywhere. But then I notice its source. A Jo-Bran, torn to pieces, like someone had stuffed a live grenade down its throat. I step away, the smell reaching my nostrils.

  I check on Angelo, who is still huddled a few feet away. This isn’t something someone his age should have to deal with. That anyone should have to deal with.

  “Something’s moving,” Charles says.

  “What?” Sure enough, in the midst of the blood and muck, a large ball starts to open. I’d assumed it was just the Jo-Bran’s torso, it looked the size. Angelo comes up next to us and stares, his mouth agape. I want to tell him to go back, to look away, but I can’t speak.

  The three of us continue to stare as the ball opens up, gushing more blood and removing entrails with blood-stained hands. Hands. I take a step forward. Angelo tugs at my coat, but I brush him aside, needing a closer look. I can see it now, a woman, covered in blood and guts, huddled in the middle of the snow, the middle of a decimated camp, shutting out the death and destruction by curling into a ball.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, still searching for a face. A few bones pop from the unfurling person but no words. I hunker down. Then see its face. Her face. Covered in blood, her hair plastered to the sides of it like a newborn, she meets my eyes with hers and they cut straight through me, assessing my very soul and weighing out my fate. Those aqua eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  Those same eyes are staring at me now, as Meredith sips her stew. My eyes fix on hers, and I can’t look away. It’s as if she’s trying to say something, but I don’t understand the flecks of her irises. And before I can decipher them, we’re on our feet again.

  Our plod continues for another few hours, the sun leaning to the west, sinking into sleep. My captors hiss back and forth, laughing and pushing one another as we go. Goatee shoves me in the back on occasion, just enough for me to fall on my face, then be jerked upright be he and the others. I don’t say anything, or do anything. It’s what he wants. A cat toying with a captive mouse. Unlike the mouse though, I don’t keep running. I just walk.

  From nowhere, the Banjankri pick up the pace, something unsettling them. The leader stops every now and again, searches the horizon, sniffs the wind. I do the same, but can neither see nor smell anything that sets me on edge. Whatever it is, they look worried.

  Just as the sun dips it toes in the horizon, I think I hear it, what’s put them on edge. A howl. Long and loud and shrill. Not a Jo-Bran. Wolves.

  We’re still a few hours from the city and will need to find shelter for the night. In the half-light, I can see the thorn of the Spire, the tip pressing into that of the sun, popping it. It looks no more than a black pin.

  Goatee forces me forward, the lot of them starting into a jog. I try to keep up the best I can but find it hard with the short length of rope binding my legs. After my third fall, the Banjankri cut the strip and prod me along with a spear in my back. They don’t press too hard though; they’re too focused on what’s outside our realm of vision, behind the snow drifts and what lurks in the hills nearby. The leader holds tight to the hills, searching for some shelter for the night. Even in this predicament, I wish we were closer to t
he city, closer to the end, to be done and over with.

  The head of the Banjankri is about 100 feet ahead, when he stops and turns to the rest of us waving wildly with his hands and speaking louder than I’ve heard any of them before. The rest of us pick up the pace, once again breaking into a run, the guards talking in excited tones. I think about breaking off, figuring that this is my chance to escape.

  I wonder if Meredith would follow, hope that she would. But what could we do? Where would we go? What if she didn’t? We’re almost to the leader and my chance is all but gone. I decide to break off. In five, four, three, two…

  A terrible snarl sounds from a few feet ahead and the leader of the Banjankri collapse under the weight of a savage wolf. It doesn’t hesitate, not taking the time to look menacing or snarl or howl over its kill, it tears into him. His screams quickly turn to gurgles as the wolf rips out his throat. I freeze, as do we all, watching in horror as the Banjankri is devoured. All thoughts of my escape disappear from my mind.

  The other Banjankri run, screaming, towards the wolf, brandishing their spears. Goatee even has a shotgun. Meredith turns to me, motions to the hills with a slight nod. I follow her pointing chin and see a line of wolves cresting the snowcaps. There are five of them, including the one currently tearing into the Banjankri. Monster for monster.

  The shotgun fires and I see the first wolf drop in a spray of red, the top half of its head exploding into shards and brain spatter. As if this were their cue, the wolves descend, heading straight for the group of Banjankri.

  I can’t help but stare, watch in horror as they tear into one another, spears jabbing into eyes, mouths, teeth rending flesh, tearing it away one maw-full at a time. And the snarls and screams fill the air as the blood spatters the snow in rainbow arcs. It’s Meredith that finally pulls me away, takes my arm, and drags me in the opposite direction.

  We head up into the hills, trying to get away as fast as possible. My mind shifts to the footprints we’re leaving behind, and I know that if any of the Banjankri survives, they’ll be able to find us without much of any trouble. The gunfire, screams and howls break the almost black night. We run.

  The snow crunches. Overhead clouds drift into the moon’s budding gaze, turning the black even darker, making it hard to navigate. We stumble, but keep moving forward and away, the sounds still seeming to come from just over our shoulders. I can hear Meredith breathe, myself. Mine are shorter, more gasps than breath. And I suddenly realize why she drank the soup. My strength is all but sapped, and we can’t be more than 100 yards away. I stop, tearing away from her to catch my breath.

  Another shot rips through the sky. Then silence.

  Both of us look back, but there is nothing to see, it’s too dark, too far away. Meredith tugs at my arm and drags me to the side of a hill, pushing me down into a divot.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. I point to the tracks.

  Meredith’s eyebrows knit over her fluorescent eyes. She doubles back and starts running circles around the different hills. Though I appreciate her efforts, I know it won’t matter. They’ll find us if they want to. If anyone is still alive.

  She drops down beside me and huddles close. It’s the first time we’ve ever been alone, this close. Her arms wrap around me, pulling me tighter. And the world fades.

  * * *

  It’s a Sunday morning and I can smell pancakes drifting in from the kitchen. Krista, my daughter, must be making us breakfast. Genevieve nuzzles into my neck, her nose tickling the short hair. Sun filters through the cracks in the blinds, warming us even further. I feel cooked all the way through, too warm and drowsy to move. So I stay, breathing in the scents of flour and syrup, basking in the sun, the warmth, the comfort of my wife’s arms.

  Chapter Ten

  I come back to a gun barrel aimed in my face, a frantic Goatee screaming at the two of us. We put our hands up. Two spears point in our direction as well. We stand, the three enemies yelling us, prodding us with spear point and gun barrel. They march us back the way we came, and I realize how feeble our attempt was. It failed before we ever started. I failed, being too stupid to not keep up my strength, regardless of what the meal consisted of.

  When we near the cave, the aftermath of the battle oozes out like a wound. Blood and body parts, both man and animal, are strewn across the area, connected by the thin trails of red, almost black in the night.

  From what I can tell, the only Banjankri to fall was the leader, though the youngest, looks to be in a bad way. He’s propped up against the cave’s entrance. I think of Angelo, am reminded of his broken form, the limbless heap of cloth.

  The mobile Banjankri push us into the back of the cave, forcing us to sit. They scream at us for another moment or two, but the spear-wielders soon stop and stoop to start a fire. They talk in low tones. The shotgun is still in our faces, shifting from one to the other. Goatee’s good eye fixed on the two of us. He’s looking at us like this is all our fault, his eyes easy to read, a children’s picture book about his feelings. Goatee is mad, they say. Goatee hates you. Goatee wants you to die.

  I don’t move, hardly breathe, not wanting to set him off, make that trigger click. We finally gain a bit of relief when the youngest moans in the corner. After a few glances from the younger Banjankri to us and back, Goatee heads off to tend to the wounded. Though he doesn’t leave until I get a few kicks in the ribs and the still-warm barrel shoved into my cheek.

  A fire starts in the middle of the cave, and the light is blinding after the cloud-covered night and the cave’s shadow. Even from here I can feel its warmth, my body finally shutting down after the day’s stresses. I lean back against the cold wall, shut my eyes, say, “We’re probably going to die tomorrow.”

  I don’t even know if Meredith hears me. As usual, she doesn’t respond, and I don’t look to see if she acknowledges the comment. She probably doesn’t. Even if she heard me, how does one respond to the cold hard truth? Some might cry, I suppose. Others will boil over with anger. But I know she’s different. It’s just a grain of salt to the woman found, birthed from the Jo-Bran’s middle.

  I keep them closed for another minute or two, basking in the respite of darkness. It allows me to think of other things, dream of other places, other faces, and be with the both of them. Soft hissing opens my eyes.

  Goatee huddles by the younger Banjankri, stroking his unhooded face. He’s hardly older than a child, fifteen, sixteen, tops. His face is full of fear, discomfort, even with Goatee stroking his cheek. But I can see why. Know why. The kettle is already over the fire and a glint of light shoots at me from Goatee’s hand.

  For one small second, I think, no, don’t do it. But then I remember our situation, remember that even as a child, this boy is a monster. He doesn’t deserve to live.

  With a few more words, Goatee eases the younger’s head back and slices across his throat in one fluid movement. The gash opens and pours, a broken vase, flowing down the younger’s front like a miniature waterfall.

  Goatee stays with him until the body stills, after the convulsions and gurgling stop. I can’t tell for certain, but I think I see tears in the corners of Goatee’s eyes. I want to see them there. I want to know that he is hurting, that something in him is broken and it’s all his fault. The instigator to his own pain—as we all are. The fire crackles in the middle of the cave, popping from the few bits of wood, lumps of charcoal feeding the flames. He sits beside the warmth while the other two go to work, removing the furs, hacking, cutting, peeling. Soon, there is nothing more than a blood stain at the cave’s entrance, a new smell of meat wafting through the cave.

  My mouth waters.

  And I don’t mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the daylight, the scene outside is even worse. The wolves, body parts, and blood stretch across a few dozen yards, spatters of blood frozen in the snow. The eyes are solid, glazed and milky white.

  We had a quick breakfast of the younger Banjankri. I forced my stomach to keep it d
own, told myself I was just eating a monster, doing the world a favor, and choked it down.

  Goatee is in the lead, his shotgun draped over his shoulder, ready for anything, be it an attack or an escape. The other two Banjankri—a pug-nosed man with a rope tied around myself and then he, and a unibrow, tied to Meredith and himself—lead us a few paces behind, giving Goatee his solitude, his time to mourn.

  “Serves you right,” I say. “You killed your own son.”

  Pug Nose raps me across the mouth, but with the padding of his mittens, it doesn’t feel like much more than a light slap. Goatee continues to walk on, unfazed.

  I raise my voice. “He wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for you.”

  This time, Pug Nose elbows me in the chest, the blow still light in pain but forceful enough to knock a bit of the wind from me. I wonder, while catching my breath, if this is a group that doesn’t remember the words they’ve chosen to forget. I know that many of the Banjankri speak English; they just choose not to. Others, like the boy, are raised without ever hearing much of the original language, forced to speak in the hiss and mumble of the Banjankri. Maybe English has just gotten stale for this group, the words sounding familiar but without meaning.

  “You killed him,” I scream.

  Goatee stops, halting the entire procession. I ready myself for another strike from Pug Nose, but the Banjankri freezes. If anything, he scoots further away from me as if he knows what is to come, what evils and horrors Goatee can produce. The four of us just stand there, watching him, waiting for him to move, either forward or backward. The shotgun taps on his shoulder. It starts to snow, tiny flakes that seem to be conjured up out of thin air. There are only the slightest strands of clouds in the sky, scudding way up overhead, closer to the sun yet colder than any of us. The tiny specs of frost may just be blowing off the hills, giving the impression of falling, that they came from somewhere outside and above the earth, but there is no breeze. Just the stillness of the too bright snow, the distant sun, and the tap of Blue Eye’s shotgun padding against his shoulder.