BLOOD COLD: Silas Hill Book 2

by Allan Burd

  Which, right now, is all that’s going to keep me in one piece.

  Weng Chi charges me like an enraged animal, lunging with incredible speed, launching into a combination of attacks strong enough to tear flesh from bone. I figured he was bat shit crazy, but the sheer ferocity of his strikes still surprise me. I pull back to evade a crushing crescent kick, duck beneath a high velocity reverse punch, and narrowly sidestep a downward strike of his staff that would have cracked my skull in two. He’s completely out of control, well into psycho mode, and I’m the target of his unabashed rage.

  “Only a fool disarms in the middle of a fight,” he says.

  “Only a dick doesn’t know when to stop,” I snap back, throwing fuel on his fire.

  He comes at me again, first with a jabbing feint of his staff, then rotating around so he can smash my head in with the other half. But now it’s my turn to rage. I slide under his strike and unleash a hard jab that snaps his wrist, feeling the small bone fracture beneath my knuckles. I don’t waste time savoring the sensation. Before he can step back, I spin into a crescent kick of my own. He wrongly assumes I’m going for a body shot, thrusting his forearm forward to protect his midsection, clearing the way for me to bring my heel down hard on his toes. His good hand glances off my shoulder, an attempt to push me away. I grab it, twist it in a way it’s not supposed to go then smash it with an elbow strike rendering it useless. His staff drops. I pivot, rapidly scoop it up, fake stepping away before sliding inward again smashing the staff into his kneecap. He yelps, momentarily dropping to one knee before quickly rising.

  “I will beat you,” he says, spit dribbling from his chin like a rabid dog.

  “With what? You have nothing left to fight with. I disarmed you, disabled both your hands, and limited your movement so you can barely run. Had enough?”

  “I can still move well enough to crush you,” he screams, stupidly lunging again. There are dozens of moves I can use to end this easily. This time I choose the most painful. I feign swinging the staff at his head, allow him the easy block, then reverse the staff’s direction, spin around him like the kung fu master that I am, and sweep the staff upward into his balls. If he’s lucky, his steroid shrunken testicles are residing somewhere up in his stomach playing hide and seek. If he’s unlucky, a shattered nut is the lesson that will remain with him the rest of his life.

  He drops to both knees, his hands between his legs, the agony of the blow rendering him speechless. I walk around so I can say my final words to him face to face. “You attacked an unarmed man half your size with a weapon that hits like steel. You show no kindness or mercy to anyone around you. You disgrace this temple.” Then I’m reminded of something my father taught me, something that Master Yong did not. It’s not a fight until someone gets punched in the face. With that thought, I throw my clenched fist right into his mouth. He hits the ground face first, his bloody lip dripping onto the dirt.

  There’s quiet all around me. No other student moves in to aid him. None of them utter a word. They stare in disbelief until the student Weng Chi injured limps forward, clasps my hand admiringly and raises it with a holler and smile on his face as broad as a channel. The other students rise and cheer, gleefully returning to their training upon Yong’s command, two of them patting me on the back before dragging Weng Chi away to the nearest infirmary.

  “Come,” Master Yong orders me, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face.

  I follow. When we’re away from the other students I say, “You could have stopped that. You should have stopped that.”

  “Then the lesson would have been lost.”

  “You wanted me to beat him up?”

  “Weng Chi is irrelevant. He will choose to return with a more humble attitude or, most likely, not return at all. He matters not. What does matter is what you showed them.” He tilts his head toward all the students, now training with renewed enthusiasm. “Since he arrived, Weng Chi has been pushing them around. They fought back, but in their hearts and heads, they never believed they could defeat an opponent that much larger than themselves. They doubted the power of Kung Fu. Your display today removed those doubts. You bestowed upon them the gift of confidence. You have showed them the path. Anything is possible if you put your mind to it.”

  “Oh, in that case…”

  “It was a lesson I could not teach them. Your return was timely… which makes me wonder, why did you come back?”

  I think about it and I’m not even sure. I shrug. “I’ve been through a lot of rough stuff lately.” Yong looks skeptical. “I know. I’m always going through rough stuff. It’s my job. But I mean rougher than usual. I fought a devil recently, maybe the devil, and it made me rethink the way I look at the world. There are monsters out there worse than even I imagined. I guess I came back here because this place always made sense to me and, for the moment at least, I need things to make sense.”

  “That is unfortunate.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you leave tomorrow,” replies Yong.

  Chapter 6

  Yong notes my confusion. “Did you know it is possible to enter a trance so deep that you converse with God?”

  “You mean Buddhism?”

  “Perhaps the highest form,” he acknowledges. “It seems God thinks you should go to Tibet.”

  I stop cold in my tracks. I flashback to a similar conversation I had with Father Miguel where God told him the same thing. A chill runs up my spine.

  “He expects you to leave tomorrow. He says you are ready.”

  I involuntarily shiver. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He says it’s a mission, very rewarding, right in your wheelhouse.”

  “He used those words?”

  Yong shrugs. “There is a temple, once called Rongpu Li, long abandoned and forgotten that lies two days north of the Rongbuk.”

  “That’s yeti country,” I tell him.

  “Yes,” he replies matter-of-factly. “A man named Kiltrace is waiting there for you. When you find him, you will know what to do.”

  “That’s a little cryptic.”

  “That is all he would tell me,” says Yong.

  “Father Miguel does say our Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “Your Lord, though I find our conversations quite enlightening.”

  “Well… next time you chat with him, ask him why he doesn’t talk to me directly.”

  Master Yong laughs. “If a voice spoke to you in your head, would you believe it?”

  “Male or female?” I say before pausing. “Yeah, probably not. So, tomorrow, huh? I’ll need more time than that to prepare.”

  “I have already prepared everything you require.”

  We share a meal and some good memories. By nightfall, he brings me to the cabin where I’ll be spending the night. It’s sparse; a piece of wood and a blanket, but it’s all I need. I smell the incense burning and it reminds me of the peace of mind I found here. I recite a Sutra, meditate, and read a little bit before I go to bed. I sleep well. In the morning, I inspect the gear Master Yong left me for my trip.

  Where I’m heading, the weather’s going to be frigid, so I start with the clothes laid out for me; thermals, parkas, boots, gloves, etc… all perfectly my size. I check the linings, and by the stitch I immediately know the clothes were hand-made and they’ll have no problem keeping me warm. Which, of course, brings up the obvious question of how—

  “You knew I was coming?” I ask out loud, without turning my head, alerted by the sound of light footsteps behind me.

  “Apparently, I knew before you did.” Master Yong tosses me a GPS tracker. “The coordinates of your meeting with Kiltrace have been preprogrammed.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “I imagine he’ll be the only other person there.”

  I lift what looks like a jumbo pocket into the air and ask, “I’ve never seen a sleeping bag quite like this.”

  “It is uniquely designed for your journey,” he says proudly. “
The quilted inside provides full insulation and cushioning. The outside is made from a flexible polymer fiber. It’s very high tech. Feel these.” He wraps his hands around the edges. I touch it and feel something thin, long, and hard beneath, like the rod of a fishing pole. “There are two of them, one sewed into each side. They are conduction lines. You push this button and an electrical current pulses through the fabric, expanding it into a hardened shell.”

  I push the button. The sleeping bag expands outward, like two humongous bowls slapped together. I knock it with my knuckles. “It’s hard as a rock.”

  Master Yong lifts it with ease. “But lightweight. And the inside is soft like a bed.”

  “So I’ll sleep like a turtle.”

  “You will be snug as bug in a rug,” he says with a smile. Master Yong twists a knob and the sleeping bag deflates and collapses to a size I can fold up and store in my backpack. “Easy to carry too,” he adds.

  “The next evolution in cold weather camping gear. You’re quite the Q. What else did you prepare for me?”

  He’s shows me standard issue mountain climbing gear; grapple, pick ax, rope, then drops a case on my bed. I snap open the clasp. Inside are my Lupara, my Beretta Storm, plenty of ammo and everything else I like to carry with me when I’m confronting monsters.

  “No silver?” I ask.

  “Yetis are a different class of monster. Conventional bullets will have the same effect as silver ones.”

  “So I have all I need?”

  “Have you ever encountered a yeti before?”

  “Just read about them,” I answer.

  “They are faster and stronger than the texts describe,” Yong says. “I packed your Lupara because I know it gives you comfort. However, no matter how good a shot you are, small caliber bullets won’t do much.” He removes the top layer of the suitcase. Beneath it is one white hand grenade.

  I think about the last time I needed a grenade, when a three-headed dog chased me through Hell. The thought unnerves me, but I keep my cool.

  “Only one?”

  “This way you will use it wisely.” Yong then shows me what looks like a pack of gum. He slips it into the coat pocket and says, “For when you need a breath of fresh air.”

  “Thanks. I’ll use that wisely too.”

  “Remember, Silas, these creatures are death. Very few who have engaged them have survived.”

  “I’ll try to keep my distance,”

  I gather up all the gear. My time here at the temple is done. With a bow I bid Master Yong farewell. It’s time to go.

  Chapter 7

  A private plane and a day and a half later, I’m parachuting over a vast snow-covered mountain range as high and as close to my contact coordinates as I can go. The winds are rough, but I land safely, lose the chute and trek forward, pondering the entire time why it’s necessary to meet someone in this literal god-forsaken frozen nowhere. I would have much preferred a cozy beach on the coast of Del Mar. But no… this is where the voice that pops up in other people’s heads tells me where to go. I spot a place where I can climb, put the pick ax, spikes, ropes, and hammer to good use, and six hours later I find a safe plateau to put down for the night. The rocks behind me keep the wind off my back, so I start a fire and take in the view.

  The snowcaps glisten like white gold. The geology undulates like musical notes on Mother Nature’s glorious scale. A setting sun casts a pale haze of purple prior to it descending below the horizon. I truly get a moment to realize how magnificent life is and how precious and special everything is on this planet. The temperature has a minus sign in front of it, but there is a warmth of spirit up here that more than compensates. Suddenly, the choice of location doesn’t seem so bad.

  I relieve myself, as quick as I can so my pecker doesn’t freeze off. Then I polish off some rations, expand the sleeping bag, climb inside and grab some z’s. In the middle of the night, I’m awoken by a fading howl that reverberates off the mountain slopes. It’s faint, far enough away not to unnerve me, but disturbing enough that I try not to think about the nightmare that is waiting for me tomorrow as I curl up and go back to sleep.

  By dawn’s light, I’m up and moving again. The snow is thin. My boots tread the surface, making the trek quicker than I expected. After a few hours, I check the GPS and notice I’ve arrived at the preprogrammed coordinates. Unfortunately, Kiltrace, or anyone for that matter, is nowhere to be found. To my left, a stone path barely rises above the windswept snow and dirt. I spot a scrap of fabric lodged in one of the rocks. It’s weather worn. Only in a small area does any retention of its original greenish color remain. It’s rough to my touch.

  An inhuman roar interrupts my detective work, so loud it slices through the sharp whistle of the wind. It’s what I heard last night, only infinitely closer and coming from below. Even odds it belongs to the resident yetis and unfortunately the path leads toward the sound. I follow the dull stone to a circular hole in the ground around four feet in diameter with a ladder chiseled its side. I grab my flashlight and climb down into a high tunnel with mortared walls solid enough to silence the wind. Patterns are carved into the granite reminiscent of ancient Chinese architecture. Metal slats loosely grip rotted wooden torches that look like they haven’t been lit for centuries. Moist blades of grass seep between the cracks. I cautiously make my way through emerging into a large room with a roof open enough to let the sun through. Aged tapestries slackly cling to rocky walls. Cracked remnants of pottery lay scattered in the corners on the floor.

  All of it tells me I’m in the right place—the ancient temple of Rongpu Li. The question is where do I go next? Exits lead to five corridors which branch off like fingers. I’m fond of flipping people the bird, so I take the middle one. It’s a dungeon-like curvy passageway that leads deeper into once occupied place of worship. Sunlight pierces the ceiling in thin cylindrical beams well placed to light the way. The wind comes with it, whistling an eerie hum. Soon I’m through it and back outside on a balcony with a low parapet that overlooks the enormous mountain range beyond. A vast plaza lay below. It’s as if I stepped through the temple’s mouth and am standing on its tongue looking down upon where crowds once stood.

  The balcony is slick with moisture and ice. I carefully make my way to its far edge. Air currents swirl and threaten to carry me over the parapet to a quick death. I grab on to it, peek over the side. It’s a long way down, a fact confirmed by the aging rubble which crumbles off at my touch and drops to icy ground far below. I back up, turn around, and look upward at a mountainous wall. A huge banner with large Chinese characters waves endlessly as if this was once the home of a great warlord. Claw marks fray the edges, telling the story of a once great people over run by creatures more fierce than they. It strikes a chord of fear in my heart. Whatever lived here before, nature and the yetis own this temple now.

  The reality quickens my resolve to make contact with Kiltrace and get out of here as fast as I can. Unfortunately, no matter the scope of my line of sight from this vantage point, I’m no closer to discovering Kiltrace’s whereabouts. I head back inside the long corridor that led me here, figuring that one of the other finger-like hallways will yield a better result. Unfortunately, I’m not going to get there. An extremely large yeti, about the size of a silverback gorilla is standing a few feet in front of me staring right into my baby blues and from the hungry look in his narrowed eyes and his display of yellowed teeth, I’m guessing he’s not here to say hello.

  Chapter 8

  In my business there are seven kinds of fucked. Stumbling upon a monster who sees you first and not having your weapons already pointed at them is number five. Personally, I think it should be number two because I’m about to crap my pants. I guess that the scary furball taking up the entire width of the corridor isn’t Kiltrace. Nor do I plan to ask. I bolt back toward the balcony so fast I don’t even have time to think up a nickname for my new friend—my customary mental ritual I have for every monster I encounter—though Dwarf Killer comes t
o mind. But he has to catch me first.

  The corridor bears left. I take the turn sharply thankful the yeti almost on top of me isn’t as graceful. He narrowly misses me, careening off the wall so hard he shakes the temple to its foundations. Snow and gravel rain down on our heads, but I couldn’t care less. All I care about is surviving because the yeti is coming fast and there’s no way I’m fleet of foot enough to get away.

  As I reach the exit arch, I simultaneously draw my Lupara and my Beretta Storm, rotate my body into a back dive, and slide onto the icy balcony firing as many shots as I can. Unfortunately, he’s so close I only get off one shot per gun before the furry white lug is on top of me. Luckily, they’re good ones; a bullet through the eye and another into its open mouth. They prevent him from biting me but I’m pinned beneath his crushing weight. Our momentum sends us careening out of control across the slick ice. I’m like a pancake stuck beneath a Zamboni. I can barely breathe. There’s no way I can slip free. Then we smash into the parapet at breakneck speed, he’s gone and I’m not.

  His mass and acceleration were too much for the old stone railing to bear. The upper portion buckled under the impact causing him to plunge below while the sturdier lower stumps remained intact and brought me to a hard stop. I peer down over the edge. It ain’t a pretty picture. The large white furball lay below in a frosty pool of its own blood, its limbs contorted in ways they were never meant to bend. I got lucky. Very, very lucky. I nickname my monster friend, Splat, recite a thankful prayer, and check my condition.

  I’m sore yet nothing feels broken. I take one last look down. I ponder taking a snapshot of the monster when I see I’m not the only one interested. Two more yetis emerge from the wild scampering toward Splat’s carcass. One’s about the height of a bobcat with stocky muscles that bulge through its fur covered hide. The other looks like a frosted version of Big Foot with a face so freaky he looks like he can scare the dead. I give the cute, cuddly one the nickname Snowball. The ugly sonuva bitch I grant the moniker Ghost. Then an even larger one emerges out of the whiteness, a truly massive beast that easily dwarfs the other two. He has to be twelve feet tall and thick as a bulldozer. He’s so imposing he makes Ghost and Snowball look like his nutsack. I’m not one that scares easily but, instantly, I’m terrified.