Black Mountain: An Alex Hunter Novel 4

by Greig Beck

  The shop door swung open and Jackson emerged. Will jerked a thumb to the back of the SUV.

  ‘Throw that in, and let’s go.’

  *

  Will Jordan climbed out of the SUV and walked a few paces towards the start of the Black Mountain’s trail. He stared up at the mist-shrouded peaks. The low cloud obscured the Dome, but he knew it lay many thousands of feet above where he and his brothers stood. A freezing wind stung his exposed jug ears. Will ignored its bite, as did his little brothers – if you could call men over six-two and weighing over 230 pounds each, little. Jackson and Hank were silent too, their heads turned towards the distant peak. They knew Amanda had been found on the eastern slope, and pretty high up.

  The youngest, Hank, spoke first. ‘Gonna be cold up there.’

  ‘Yup, damned cold,’ Will answered without turning. ‘And maybe wet too, I reckon.’

  Hank hitched his pants a little higher and made a tsking noise within his cheek. ‘A man exposed to those elements for a few days is gonna be in a world of hurt.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Will exhaled, and watched a small ghost of warm vapour drift away from his mouth. He knew his brothers weren’t looking forward to the trek. All three had been hiking and camping in the woods before, but never for longer than a day at these temperatures. But if any of them were lost, Will knew that Brad wouldn’t hesitate to hike into Hell to look for his brother – and neither would he.

  Jackson gave his eldest brother a flat smile. ‘It’s okay for you, Frosty; you like being alone in the cold.’

  Will just winked in reply. As far as he was concerned, the cold and the discomfort meant nothing. And Jackson was right – he didn’t mind being alone at all; he liked it. Fact was, he found people annoying, his family excepted. One day, he’d buy a place in some remote part of the country and live there all by himself.

  He zipped up his heavyweight insulated jacket and lifted his pack. It clanked as the bear canisters inside knocked together, then crackled as the covering weather shield moulded to the shape of his broad back. He checked the matt black Browning Maxus shotgun, then, satisfied with the lethal-looking twelve-gauge autoloader, he lifted it over his shoulder and slid it down into a side slot in the pack.

  Once his brothers had their own packs in place, they checked their firearms – both were carrying large-frame Smith & Wesson revolvers, just like their missing brother.

  Will turned to his brothers, his face grim. ‘As long as it takes.’

  Jackson and Hank nodded solemnly and repeated the vow. ‘As long as it takes.’

  The three big men started off towards the ominous black peak.

  *

  Black Mountain, with its dense tree cover, was normally a quiet place at the best of times. But now, with winter coming on, even the wildlife seemed to have disappeared. Any sounds that did intrude on the graveyard-like silence were magnified, alerting potential hunters to an approaching or retreating quarry.

  Will was first to detect the faint sounds of heavy movement from further up the slope. Something or someone was ghosting them, staying close but just out of sight.

  They were about 5000 feet up, and he reckoned they still had a way to go to get to where Brad had likely hiked. As Will had expected, once off the formal path, the going had been slow and arduous. The morning’s clear sky had changed as the day had worn on. Now, in the evening twilight, the low cloud moved quickly overhead and the temperature had dropped from cold to bone chilling. Still, everything had been quiet and uneventful . . . until now.

  Will put one gloved hand to his mouth and used his teeth to slowly pull on the fingers to remove the glove and let it fall to the cold ground. He held up his hand. His brothers instantly got the message, and pulled their own gloves off and lifted their handguns from their holsters.

  Will lowered his hand to the shotgun, his fingers now sliding easily in against the cold trigger. He widened his stance and grounded his feet. The slope was rocky and steep, and the soil hard and unyielding underneath the layer of pine needles and frozen leaves. One loose step and a man could find himself a couple of hundred yards down the side of the mountain before he knew it. And now was not the time for those sorts of mistakes.

  He quickly organised his brothers into a loose skirmish line, with Hank closest, at twenty feet out to his right, and Jackson another twenty further along than Hank. Each strained to watch the upper slopes while also trying to keep one eye on Will. Jackson walked ahead a couple of steps so he could see around the bulky shape of Hank’s enormous red and yellow checked parka.

  Hank looked from the slope to Will, and then back. He breathed out a question, loud enough for Will to hear: ‘Could it be Brad?’

  Will didn’t take his eyes off the hill, but his mouth turned down and he shook his head slowly. He took a step forward, cocked his head slightly and strained to hear – there was a faint sound, like a giant bellows working, just over the small ridge. He was conscious of his fingers starting to numb from the cold – he’d need to replace his glove soon, or when the time came to pull the trigger, he wouldn’t be able to.

  There was a grinding, snapping sound from over the ridge, as if something was being ripped, bent or broken, followed by a thumping sound Will both heard and felt beneath his boots. From the end of the skirmish line, Jackson whispered loudly, ‘What the hell is that?’ and leaned forward to look at his brothers.

  Will turned briefly to motion for Jackson to stay quiet. The snapping and grinding turned to a deeper bouncing thump. As Will’s eyes focused on Jackson at the far end of the line, Hank, in the middle, just . . . disappeared.

  The man-sized boulder that had taken him out hurtled and bounced down the steep mountainside, Hank with it, breaking small trees and ricocheting off larger trunks and outcrops of exposed stone. It struck an enormous spruce a hundred yards further down, leaving Hank’s body a flattened riot of colour and fluids against the scarred bark. The echoes of the collision with the boulder died away.

  ‘Haaank!’ Will screamed.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Jackson moaned, holding both hands to his head.

  ‘Wha-what just happened?’ Will whipped his head back and forth. Confusion swirled in his mind like a fog.

  ‘Hank?’ Jackson started to walk stiffly down the slope, calling to his younger brother as though trying to rouse him from sleep. ‘Are you okay, Hank?’

  Will gestured towards the mess against the tree trunk. ‘He’s not fucking okay, he’s –’

  Another sound: stealthy but heavy. Will reacted quickly, spinning with his gun up. He flicked the weapon one way and then the next, trying to pinpoint the sound with the long barrel.

  ‘Show yourself!’ he shouted, and then a little quieter he said, ‘Where are you?’

  His breathing came in rapid pants and his heart raced in his chest. He could still hear Jackson bleating Hank’s name over and over, and he turned to yell at him to shut up – just in time to see something collide with his brother, something colossal, covered in greasy, matted red fur. In the time it took Will to raise and aim his shotgun, Jackson was lifted and smashed into a tree trunk. There was a brittle snapping sound, which could have been the breaking of branches or the splintering of his brother’s bones beneath his thick jacket.

  Will groaned, feeling his soul shrink. His whole body was suddenly as cold as the snow. He screamed Jackson’s name, then swore and fired his gun, but the distance was too far and the pellets lost much of their penetrative force. The enormous figure bent over Jackson simply turned its head to him in response.

  Will froze at the sight of its face – a mask of pink boiled flesh, with features that were almost human, but grossly large and deformed. Its eyes pinned him to the spot – definitely not human, but intelligent . . . and cunning.

  Jackson moaned and raised one feeble hand. The creature turned its attention back to him, lifted his broken body in both its hands and spun to whip it against the trunk with such force that something flew off the top of Jackson’s body. Will hoped i
t was his brother’s cap, even though he couldn’t fail to see the spray of red across the white ground.

  Will charged with the shotgun raised. He fired, pumped and fired again. The creature made an unnerving whooping sound that was almost as loud as the blast of the gun. Will couldn’t tell if he’d hit the thing or not – I should have, he thought, I’m a fair shot and the distance isn’t so great. But the creature showed no sign of being injured or even discouraged by the tungsten-iron shot pellets that must have struck its huge frame.

  In a flash, it was up the steep hill, much faster than Will could hope to follow. It disappeared over the ridge; Will could hear it moving at speed, presumably towards some form of cover.

  He raced to Jackson, but all that remained was blood, a few fragments of ripped clothing and something that could have been hair-covered skull fragments. The body was gone.

  Will screamed his brother’s name to the sky, then said it again, softly. He looked down the slope to the crumpled mess that was Hank. He felt freezing tears on his cheeks and opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the energy to scream again. He sank to his knees amid the ruination that was the last of his brothers. He was alone. Four had become one, and he felt the loss as keenly as if he had forfeited his limbs.

  Snow started to float down, bringing a deeper silence with it. People said big Will Jordan always wanted to be alone. He’d finally got his wish.

  *

  Will regretted pursuing the creature further up the mountain. Though his desire for vengeance was strong, his body was exhausted, as was his ammunition, and he wasn’t sure he’d even hit the thing. He could hear the crush of its heavy footsteps as it circled him in the twilight shadows. It was as if it wanted him to hear, was playing with him, always staying just out of sight, just out of range.

  Will drew his handgun and tried to sight along its shaking barrel. His fatigue pulled heavily at him as he tried to hold it steady. He knew he needed the creature to come a helluva lot closer to have any chance of hitting it. Things have gone to shit, he thought. And I goddamn walked them all into that shit.

  He looked down the slope; he needed to get away from here. Even though his anger still burned hotly, reason told him that out here by himself he’d soon die. He needed to come back with a bigger gun, a lot more shooters . . . maybe some dynamite.

  He took a step back, and then another. The wind had come up; it wailed softly through the tops of the trees, sounding sad. That was appropriate. Will’s cheeks stung where the tears for his lost brothers had dried; the ice crystals left there burned his skin raw. He took another step back, and looked slowly from the upper slope down the steep incline, judging where to place his feet when he broke into a run.

  Time was against him. In another hour it would be pitch dark, and then . . . He didn’t want to think about being on this mountain in the dark.

  The crunch of heavy footsteps came again, and the coarse sound of a giant pair of bellows being worked – in front of him, then beside him, then to the left, then right. Perhaps it’s just the wind in the trees, he thought without conviction. He looked down the slope again, fear creating an urgency in him.

  Will slid the backpack off his shoulders. He wouldn’t need its contents; wouldn’t need any of the survival gear he’d packed – there was no way he’d survive a night here now. He sucked in a huge lungful of breath, and tensed his muscles, ready to leap. He stole one last look up the slope – and exhaled as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  It was Hank . . . about fifty feet up, leaning against a tree. His body was slumped against it and he looked hurt, but it was him for sure – his red and yellow checked parka was unmistakable. Maybe it had been his brother moving around all this time, hurt and confused. Inside, Will knew it wasn’t possible; he’d seen Hank’s body smashed against the trunk of the tree. There was no way he could have survived that. But still . . .

  ‘Hank!’ Will slogged ten feet up the slope towards him.

  He wasn’t moving, just sort of leaning, propped against the side of the tree. Will looked around. Silence. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

  He climbed another twenty feet. Damn this darkness, damn the cold, and damn dropping my pack – he couldn’t see properly and wished he’d at least kept his flashlight.

  He climbed another ten feet.

  ‘Oh, God, no . . . Hank.’

  He made a gagging sound in the back of his throat, and his teeth bared in a disgusted grimace. He didn’t need to go any further. The placement of the body and the bulky material had been deceiving. Closer, and from a different angle, he could see Hank’s crushed and flattened frame, the broken skull that had been roughly stuffed back inside the jacket’s hood. Will knew what this was – a decoy. The same strategy duck hunters and deer stalkers used to draw lone animals in.

  He felt fresh tears burning his cheeks as a soft, crunching footstep sounded behind him.

  ‘Bastard!’

  He spun, raising his weapon at the same time, but he never got to fire. The booming whoop froze his fingers on the trigger and he was lifted roughly into the air.

  Will Jordan joined his brothers.

  NINE

  Matt Kearns pulled into the Asheville University car park and let the pickup’s engine rumble to silence. He sat in the cabin and inhaled deeply, enjoying the sylvan charm of the green campus, and the bright blue midmorning.

  ‘Now this is stress relief.’

  He pushed open the door, which gave a protesting squeal of hinges crying out for oil, and stepped down from the cabin just as two girls in tight, light blue university T-shirts went past. He afforded them a wide smile and ran his hand up through his shoulder-length hair. ‘Go the Bulldogs,’ he said, and made a bat-swinging motion in the air.

  One of the girls giggled and flashed a set of the whitest teeth he’d ever seen outside of a toothpaste commercial. He continued watching them as they disappeared around the corner. Yep, still got it, he thought, as he put both hands on the centre of his back and stretched, breathing in the clear air.

  Matt looked around at the campus – some new buildings in amongst the old, but still recognisable. Given its focus on liberal arts, it was hard to call the university traditional – it was more progressive, more . . . fun. Not academically as rigorous as Harvard, of course, but a different, freer atmosphere. Did anyone not look back on their university days fondly, he wondered.

  He smiled. Standing here in the sunshine, he felt an almost physical lightness, as though the warmth and clean air were scouring the dark corners of his soul. It had been several years now since he’d assisted in a joint scientific–military mission below the Antarctic ice. He’d survived, but many hadn’t. His comfortable life had been devastated by the revelation of another world, an ancient place where monsters slithered in the dark and people, people he’d loved, had died horribly. He hadn’t coped well. His relationships fell away, his work suffered. Though Harvard had extended his time off on compassionate grounds, he knew he’d never be able to remain there, trapped by wretched memories. He’d been looking for a fresh start, and when his old linguistics professor had sent him a message telling him he had retired, Matt had asked for his job.

  Asheville had jumped at the opportunity – and why not? Matt was a big fish – internationally respected, many papers published, Harvard pedigree, and references from leading public and private officials. Even from senior military figures – though these he’d kept in his top drawer. If he never saw a military uniform again, he’d die happy.

  The job had been formally offered, and now he was down here to meet the faculty. Fact was, he needed this job, not for the money, but for his sanity. He suddenly felt like he had a future again.

  Ahh. He tilted his head skyward and let the sunshine bathe his face. It had been nearly a dozen years since he’d left Asheville, but the place that held the best memories for him was the centre of the campus universe – the library. Matt sauntered across the quadrangle, his longish hair and boyish looks
allowing him to blend smoothly amongst the milling students. The Ramsey Library loomed before him, still able to evoke in him feelings of excitement and anticipation. It was an impressive structure, with square columns giving it an aloof, presidential appearance. Inside it was a different, warmer place, rich with information.

  He walked through the front doors and resisted the urge to turn into Cafe Ramsey, still tucked just inside the doorway. As in his day, students sat there sipping coffee, heads down over the books open on their tables. What had changed, though, was that most of them took notes on tablets or computers.

  Matt tutted his disappointment when he noticed another change – the automated donut maker had been replaced by an enormous pay coffee machine. That’s progress, he thought.

  He continued through to the library, taking a well-remembered path to his favourite hangout – the Research Centre. It was there that his languages professor, Henry van Levin, had imbued in him a sense of wonder at how ancient civilisations could still speak to scholars today through languages that were, in some cases, more works of art than written words. Together they had pored over pencil rubbings of the Rosetta Stone from ancient Egyptian to Classical Greek. He had got to know the Persians via 5000-year-old proto-Elamite scripts, and read fragments of the first Hebrew Bible in the Dead Sea Scrolls. It had ignited a passion in him that had turned into his career. He hoped old van Levin was in today; there was so much he wanted to discuss with him.

  As Matt made his way towards the front desk, he saw the familiar dark blue uniform of the police force. Two officers, one large, one small with a bristling moustache, were engaged in a muted but animated conversation with a middle-aged woman, possibly the head librarian. Matt approached with his hands jammed in the back pockets of his jeans, acting casual. He suspected he was invisible amongst the milling students. He leaned on the desk beside them and glanced at several glossy prints the officers had spread on the counter top. Each showed a piece of stone covered in symbols. His interest piqued, he edged closer.