Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination

by Dane Hatchell

  “I bet he hunted a few mamasans and papasans in the rice fields too,” Juice said.

  “McCoy, take us fifty yards east and drop us off in that clearing,” Jefferson said, and frowned at Juice in disapproval.

  “Roger that.” McCoy slowly maneuvered a civilian version of the Army’s famed Black Hawk, the S-70, normally used in firefighting and medical rescue, with the aid of his night vision goggles.

  The side doors slid open as McCoy steadied the controls at twenty feet. Jefferson gave a thumb up to the two others, who immediately responded in kind. He and Juice would repel from the aft side together, with Austin taking the starboard side out. It would be up to McCoy to keep the bird level until the three reached the ground.

  Jefferson counted to three, in perfect unison the hired guns dropped to the ground below.

  *

  In the cover of the darkness, having followed the mysterious creature that hovered in her sky, the female waited from behind a tree.

  Just before any boots hit the ground a terrific snapping noise crackled from above. The whine in the helicopter’s engine shifted higher in cadence. It listed starboard and lost altitude, sending the whirling blades biting into the earth.

  The Bigfoot watched as the interloper crashed in a cloud of flying debris and dirt. She had brought it down with an eight-foot sycamore sapling she uprooted from the earth, hurling it like a spear into its mighty ‘wings.’

  Before Jefferson could drop to the ground and cover his head, a piece of the helicopter’s blade caught him from behind. It severed his right leg above the knee and tore through the other, breaking his thigh bone.

  Juice hit the ground and rolled over, cycling the action on his AR-10 as his training so ingrained. The helicopter engine wound down like a dying banshee in the distance. Jefferson’s screams for help had him on his feet and rushing to the aid of his team leader.

  “Jefferson! Buddy, what’s the matter?”

  “My legs . . . ARGHHH . . . it HURTS! I can’t move them . . . I don’t even know if they’re still there,” Jefferson dug his fingers into Juice’s arms, as he kneeled by his side.

  “Hang on, buddy. I’m going to take care of you.” Juice scanned his flashlight over Jefferson’s body, panning to a bloody stump on one leg and a mangled mess of the other. The lower part of his right leg lay twisted a few feet away.

  Swallowing hard, he knew the situation was hopeless. “You’re cut pretty bad. I’m going to stop the bleeding.” Juice pulled off his belt, tightening it around Jefferson’s right thigh until the bleeding almost stopped. Then, used Jefferson’s belt and did the same to the left leg.

  “Give me something for the pain! I can’t take this,” Jefferson gasped.

  Juice sprang from his dying leader’s side and rushed toward the downed bird, tripping along the way. While reaching down to keep himself from hitting the ground, his hand landed on a human body.

  Everything had happened so fast that he had forgotten about Austin and McCoy. He scanned the body from the feet to the head, or where the head should have been. Austin too, was a victim of the disintegrating helicopter blades.

  Jefferson cried out, snapping Juice back to his mission of locating a medical kit. The smell of fuel in the air only complicated the situation.

  The helicopter rested on its aft side. Juice pulled himself up and fell into the cabin. He quickly maneuvered his way over to McCoy, who was lifeless, and still strapped in.

  The fumes from the fuel had Juice feeling lightheaded. He checked McCoy for a pulse, but found nothing. He couldn’t imagine what killed him, as it was a short plunge after all. It reminded him of a seemingly minor crash at the end of a race that killed his childhood hero, Dale Earnhardt.

  He climbed his way back out and dashed toward Jefferson with the medical kit in his possession,

  “I’m back! I’ve got some morphine for you. I’ll have you feeling better in no time.” Juice fell to his knees and franticly searched the med kit for the morphine. Once in his hand, he returned his light to his leader’s face and saw death had paid a visit while he was gone, and stole the soul of his friend from his body.

  Juice felt just like he did when his grandfather had died, alone, and somehow responsible. His grandfather had fallen under a tractor in the field. Juice was playing nearby, but could do nothing to save him other than run for help. By the time he found a neighbor and returned his grandfather had bled to death.

  A sharp snap of twigs breaking from behind brought a net of cold fear over him. He cursed himself for becoming emotional and letting his guard down. Turning as quickly as he could, he didn’t expect to be lifted off the ground and his AR-10 yanked from his grasp.

  A hairy brute illuminated by the dim light of the moon held him helplessly by the throat. It wasn’t a bear, and as stupid as it seemed, his only thought was that he was about to be killed by Bigfoot.

  The savage creature snarled while she squeezed the life out the intruder.

  Juice’s body went limp. His soul moved on to join the others.

  The Bigfoot and her son would eat well this day.

  *

  “Good Lord! Look at this place,” Steve Evans, attorney, said as he rode shotgun in his BMW.

  “If I were you, I would take your Beamer in for a tune up when we get back to the city. Have them change the air and cabin filter for sure. You could grow a garden in all the dust and dirt we’ve picked up. They’re going to charge you double for a wash and detail,” Manuel Valenzuela said, paralegal, and personal friend of Evans.

  Evans looked over at Manuel. “Why are you so interested in the upkeep of my car?”

  “Because, when you’re ready for a new one in a couple of years, I’m going to buy it from you. I love this car, and I can’t afford a new one. Why do you think that I’m always volunteering to drive when we visit clients?”

  Evans had never given it much thought. He was happy for Manuel to drive. It gave him time to look over the last-minute details of impending business.

  “The worst trailer park I’ve ever seen looks like Buckingham Palace compared to this Indian Reservation,” Evans said. “Most of these houses look like they were put together from scrap wood. Look over there! My God! Is that cardboard on the front of that house?”

  “Native American Reservation,” Manuel corrected. “You don’t want to offend the locals. You’re right though. This Reservation is awful.”

  “I know just what this place needs to fix things right,” Evans said.

  “A casino?”

  “No, a match.”

  Manuel shook his head. “I think we’re here.”

  The BMW stopped in front of a sun-weathered shack constructed of lapped plywood of various sizes, with an aging Chevy truck parked on the side. A man appearing to be in his thirties sat on an old wooden rocker staring at the peeling paint on the narrow porch. A cloud of dust following the car rolled over him.

  Evans opened the door and stepped out. “Excuse me, are you George Smith?”

  “That is my legal name,” Smith said, looking up.

  “Mr. Smith, I’m here about your application for a license to become a tour guide.”

  “You drove out here to bring me my license? You could have just mailed it, you know.”

  “Well, not exactly. If you will allow me . . .” Evans closed the door, reached in his jacket for his card, and walked toward the front steps. Manuel exited the car adjusting his belt, and followed. “This is my associate, Manuel. We work for Higgins & Shustler, LLC. We are representing China International Petroleum Corporation, and we are interested in obtaining your services.”

  The steps echoed hollow as Evans climbed. The porch sagged under his two hundred and fifty pounds of bulk. Manuel waited in front of the car.

  Smith remained calm toward the abruptness of the uninvited guests.

  Evans reached to hand Smith the business card.

  Smith snaked his hand from underneath his seat pulling out a twelve-inch Bowie knife, and started digg
ing dirt from under his thumbnail with it.

  Evans quickly pulled his hand back. “I’m not here to waste any of your valuable time, Mr. Smith. Let me get straight to the point. There have been a series of unfortunate accidents in the Willow Creek Forest. The area seems to be inhabited by a mysterious creature of some sort. It has killed at least one man, others are missing, and we suspect may have met a similar fate. Most believe it to be a crazed bear that made the attack. But photos have us wondering if perhaps it’s something else.” Evan reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a white envelope, and handed it to Smith.

  Smith took the envelope with the hand holding the knife. Evans winced as the blade came toward his hand.

  After looking at each photo, Smith placed them back in the envelope. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Mr. Smith, this controversy is costing my client money. We want this problem to disappear,” Evans said. “Do you have any idea what this creature is? Furthermore, are you the man to handle it?”

  “I’m the man. I’ve got two hundred insurgent’s scalps in my closet from my last four stints in the Army to prove it.”

  “Really? Two hundred scalps?”

  “No, it was a metaphor. I’m quite successful at what I do, though. Why did you come to me? Why not someone else? I’m not even licensed yet.”

  “My client has a problem. I need to take care of this problem as quietly as I can. My first attempt failed miserably. I want to go old school with this now. I need a skilled hunter who can track this beast down and take it out. I know of your military history, and I was hoping that you possess some of the unique instincts of your heritage. When I called the State License board looking for a Native American that lived in the area that could work as a guide, your name was the only one to pick from.”

  “I know the land well. My great grandfather taught me the ways of my ancestors. I’ve even seen tracks like these before,” Smith said.

  “You have? What are they of then?” Evens said.

  “Sasquatch, Bigfoot, all the silly names given to the Wise Man of the woods.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you would say that. That’s obviously what the prints seem to indicate,” Evan’s said. “It may be a bear, suffering from rabies or another illness. Or it all could be a deception perpetrated by one sick individual. You may find that the beast you’re looking for walks upright on two legs and uses deodorant. There may be a madman on the loose.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “A thousand cash now for expenses, two thousand when the job is complete.”

  “That’s the best you can do for an unemployed Vet? The economy is rough out there. I can’t even buy a job. It’ll cost you more.”

  “Okay, in respect for your service to our country, I can bump it up to three thousand on the back end.”

  “I want nine.”

  Evans removed another envelope from his jacket, and counted out ten crisp one hundred dollar bills, folding them in his hand. “I can give you four. In the end you’ll have five thousand dollars in cash that you don’t have now. Take the deal, Mr. Smith. It’s hot, and my friend and I need to get back to the city.” He held out the money.

  Smith frowned and let out a huff of bad air. “I will take the job,” he said, as he took the money, squeezing it in his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith,” Evans said.

  Manuel walked by the porch in front of Smith handing him a cell phone and a small leather bag. “This is a satellite phone that can be used anywhere in the world. Use it to update us on a regular basis, or if you get into any kind of trouble. There will always be someone to take the call. It’s programmed only to dial one number. The bag contains extra batteries, fully charged. This deal is strictly confidential. You do not have permission to take photos or contact any member of the media during your mission, or once it’s complete. We represent a very powerful corporation, Mr. Smith. I would advise you in the strongest way possible not to do anything to violate their trust.”

  “I get it, good lawyer, bad lawyer,” Smith said

  “It’s only business, Mr. Smith. Strictly business. If it does turn out to be a genuine Bigfoot out there, my client will never be able to start drilling. We can’t allow that, now can we?” Evans said.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Then we do understand each other. Thank you, Mr. Smith. Goodbye and happy hunting.”

  Manuel gave Smith a nod. He and Evans returned inside the vehicle.

  “You low-balled that guy and he took it!” Manuel said.

  Evans removed a paper towel from the door’s side pocket and wiped his face. “To be a successful lawyer, you have to rely on precedent.”

  “China International gave you twenty-thousand dollars in cash to buy this guy. What precedent made you think you could take him for five?”

  “Well, the Indians sold Manhattan for twenty-four dollars in beads, right? I figured that if it could work once, it could work again.”

  “What will you do with the rest of the cash if he completes the deal?”

  “Smith will have his five grand, the problem will be eradicated, C.I. starts drilling, I keep the rest. Business expenses if you will. It’s not cheap to keep a BMW on the road. And I won’t bore you with how much it cost to keep a mistress entertained.”

  Manuel let the day’s events stew in his mind, feeling dirty inside, wondering if he had made a poor choice in choosing a career.

  *

  It had been over twenty years since Smith communed under the shade of the mighty forest. The sweet perfume of untainted air filled his nostrils and purged the inner rot of civilization from his mind. He was one again with nature, just another animal in the forest as his brothers the deer and the rabbit.

  He became lightheaded with the intoxicating freedom induced by the forest. He ran, weaved around trees, dodged low hanging branches, and skipped across protruding roots and gullies. He was one with the Sky Spirit. One with Mother Earth. He was Istaqa, the ‘coyote man,’ his Native American name his great grandfather called him.

  As he ran through a natural clearing, ghostly images appeared around him. Ethereal wigwams dotted the land, offering shelter made from bark and animal hides. Cooking fires sent black smoke into the blue skies and filled the air with hearty smells of savory food. Children chased about playing games, while their mothers busied themselves with daily chores. His ancestral fathers looked down from above and smiled, welcoming a lost spirit back to his true home.

  As he ran, a foreign shape above the ground caught the corner of his gaze, giving him pause, and bringing him back to the confines of the physical world. He slowed to a stop, breathing heavily, and drank from his canteen. The weight from his backpack suddenly felt five times heavier. In a slow march, Smith headed toward the mound, rubbing water from his hand to the back of his neck.

  It was a shallow grave covered in grasses and pine needles, under a layer of rocks. As near as he could tell it appeared to be less than a couple of weeks old. He immediately began to pull the rock and grass away to discover the hidden treasure.

  As he scratched through the first layer of covering, the smell of death rose to greet him. It was then he realized that the grass was foxtail, an aromatic grass. That, along with the pine needles, helped cover the scent of the decaying body. Only a creature possessing a higher level of intelligence would have learned to do that.

  The dead foliage parted to reveal a tuft of reddish brown hair, which led to the head of a Bigfoot beast. There it was before him, the recluse neighbor of his forefathers. Insects and decay had marred the façade of the magnificent creature, leaving it with a withered scowl as if it shunned the daylight that had disturbed its eternal rest.

  Smith moved down the mound, cleared the grave of covering, and discovered that the Bigfoot that had died was male. Bigfoots mated for life. He now understood why a rogue Bigfoot had become so brazen and violated an unwritten pact with man. She was scared and alone without her mate. Smith knew there was
nothing more dangerous, not even a band of insurgents, than the wrath of an irrational Bigfoot female.

  *

  Morty Drucker crashed through the forest of Willow Creek, wishing he had doused himself with bug spray. Misquotes and gnats didn’t normally bother him like this the closer he approached his weekly bath date, which was only two days away.

  The police made his mission more difficult by blocking a ten-mile accesses to the forest until the bear problem had been eliminated. If he hadn’t known about an old logging road, he would have been denied any chance.

  A gnat tried to enter a nostril, but he managed to shoo it away. A black fly found its target and bit through his pants on the left check of his butt.

  “Sun’o-bitch!” Morty removed the lid from a Mason jar he carried and took a sip. Then, poured a little of the moonshine in his hand and dabbed it around his face and neck. It burned, but in a good sort of way, making him feel impervious to the pesky insects from the inside and out.

  His heart swelled with hope in his adventure. Lady Luck seemed to be calling him by name when he heard the police report a few days before, intercepting it over a scanner. They said that a helicopter went down in Willow Creek Forest. But the newspaper printed that no flight report had been filed with the FAA, and no pictures were allowed of the wreckage. The site had been off limits ever since. Morty knew what the police were hiding. It had to be Roswell all over again.

  If he could get to the site, he could find some scrap pieces and parts of the crashed UFO. Maybe something unique enough with some super-special properties that could be back-engineered and bring in millions of dollars. He needed to get to it before anyone else had a chance to steal his fame and fortune.