Mountain of the Dead

by Jeremy Bates

“There!” Vasily cried, aiming his flashlight toward a patch of trees whose skeletal branches stretched into the night like the arms of an oversized monster.

  “Where?” I said, half in terror, half in exhilaration.

  “There!” he repeated, now jerking his light to the north, as if following the creature’s progress.

  I swung my phone about.

  “Where?” I cried.

  “There!” he barked.

  “Where?”

  “There—it was right there…”

  “There’s nothing—”

  “It’s gone!”

  ⁂

  Once the pandemonium settled, I said, “Who else saw it? Fyodor?”

  “Da, I saw,” he said.

  “Disco?”

  He was now just climbing out of his tent and tugging on his jacket. He shook his head.

  “Check your phone,” Olivia said.

  I replayed the footage I’d shot. I could hear all of us shouting like fools, our voices small and tinny, but the video revealed nothing but jerky movements and the black night.

  “Dammit!” I said. To Vasily, “What did it look like?”

  “Big,” Vasily said. Then he shook his head, as if at a loss for words. “Big.”

  “Fast,” Fyodor said.

  “Yeah, but what did it look like?”

  “It was too dark,” Vasily said. “I saw—a shape. More movement than anything specific. But like I said, it was big. I think it was bipedal.”

  “Footprints!” Olivia said, taking Vasily’s flashlight and charging in the direction the creature had fled.

  “Olivia!” I said. “Get some clothes on!” Like me, she wore nothing but her long underwear.

  She didn’t heed my advice, so I retrieved my Maglite from my tent, threw on my jacket and boots, and started after her.

  When I caught up to her, she was stopped thirty feet from the tent, staring at the ground before her.

  Illuminated in the beams of our lights, impressed in the snow, were massive, barefoot tracks. Each print must have been at least seventeen or eighteen inches long and half that wide.

  “Are they human?” Olivia asked.

  I had to admit they appeared human with the divergent, although unusually short, hallux, and the long, tapered heel. But I said, “No way. Not unless there’s some eight or nine foot freak wandering the woods out here.”

  I lit up the tracks in both directions. Set forty inches apart and staggered, they came from the river, passed well to the east of our tents, and continued northeast into the forest.

  Disco, Vasily, and Fyodor joined us.

  Seeing the footprints, Disco swore reverently in French and crossed his chest.

  “My God,” Vasily mumbled.

  I snapped a dozen photographs of the nearest impressions, placed my booted foot beside one print to serve as a scale-bar, and snapped a dozen more.

  Then I filmed a video. “We’re in the Northern Ural Mountains,” I said, holding my phone horizontally in front of my face, turning in a circle, my breath blowing frost in the cold air. “About twenty kilometers south of Kholat Syakhl. It’s January 31, 2017. We discovered these tracks”—I aimed the camera at them again—“just now. They’re at least two times the length of my foot and proportionally broad. There appears to be a big toe projecting at an angle, a second toe, and three smaller, lateral toes grouped together.” As an afterthought, I added, “We have no idea what left them.”

  I clicked off the video.

  In the silence that followed, the darkness felt thicker than it had moments before, more sinister, and I realized how vulnerable we were at the moment.

  “We should build up the fire,” I said.

  ⁂

  Sitting around the now-roaring fire, properly dressed for the freezing night, I found myself shaken all the way to my core. Something was out here. Something large and bipedal. I kept replaying the sounds I’d heard upon waking. The same stick-banging sounds I’d heard with Olivia the other day. Who made them? What made them?

  I said to Fyodor, “No warning? Nothing? You were on watch.”

  “I was sleeping,” he said simply.

  “Sleeping?”

  “I was tired,” he said with a shrug.

  “We could have had real proof of this thing! Fuck, man.”

  “You have photographs of the footprints,” Olivia pointed out.

  “Footprints don’t mean shit!”

  The flames licked and cracked and tangoed several feet high. I tried to temper my anger. Sitting on watch for two hours, in the cold, with nothing to do but stare at your feet, was pretty dull. I knew that. I think I’d nodded off a couple of times myself during my shift. It could have been me who missed spotting the creature. It wasn’t right to blame Fyodor.

  Still, I wanted to blame him. I wanted a scapegoat. Because the fucking thing had been within thirty feet of us, and we missed it…

  “So what’s the deal?” Disco said. “This is three times now, three encounters. Why’s this…forest giant…is that what we calling it?”

  “I don’t like that name,” Olivia said. “It gives me the creeps.”

  “What do you want to call it, sha?”

  “I don’t know. But can’t we think of something better?”

  “The boogeyman?” Vasily remarked.

  “This forest giant,” Disco said. “Why’s it so interested in us? What did we do to it?”

  “Maybe it’s merely curious,” Olivia said. “We’re obviously not your typical Mansi tribesmen. Or maybe it’s simply been traveling in the same direction as us. We passed it somewhere between Sector 41 and here, and it only now caught up. It doesn’t have to be following us.”

  “Whatever it’s motive,” Vasily said. “It’s gone. Into the mountains, it seems. We won’t be seeing it again.”

  I frowned. “You want to just let it go? Just like that?”

  “We barely have supplies to last us another day, Mr. Smith. What do you propose we do?”

  The feeling that Vasily wasn’t telling me everything returned, stronger than ever, and suddenly I was hit with a bout of paranoia. This was a setup. Something was out here, not a fantastical forest giant but something the Russian authorities didn’t want me to uncover, something connecting their military to the Dyatlov incident, and they were trying to scare me away with all of this fairytale nonsense.

  Did Fyodor work for them? I wondered, looking at the guide. Had he been the one banging on the trees? Had he faked the footprints?

  He’d been on watch when…

  No, impossible. He’d been sitting right here, by the fire, seconds after the stick-banging ceased.

  I said, “I think we should follow the tracks as far as we can.” I held up my hands. “Hear me out. You guys already agreed to climb the mountain tomorrow.”

  Vasily said, “As far as the Dyatlov group’s final—”

  “Yeah, yeah. So we follow the tracks as far as the Dyatlov group’s final campsite. We won’t be doing anything different than what we already had planned. If we see this thing on the way, we see it, if we don’t we don’t.”

  “You don’t think it’s a bit dangerous following it?” Olivia said.

  I did, a little. Wild animals are dangerous and unpredictable. They care nothing of where you thought you placed in the natural order of things. If they catch you in a vulnerable position, and they decide you’re a meal, then you’re a meal.

  Nevertheless, I also knew we couldn’t not go after the creature. The possibility of capturing photographic or video evidence of an unknown and apparently intelligent animal outweighed whatever risks might be involved in such a pursuit.

  So with exaggerated assurance, I said, “It’s hardly dangerous. It ran away from us. It’s probably more afraid of us than we are of it.”

  Vasily said, “Remember what Raya Anyamov told us, Mr. Smith. Her people believe a forest giant attacked the Dyatlov group.”

  “That was a long time ago. This is very unlikely the same ani
mal. And besides, she said one of their hunters shot it a week prior to the supposed attack. Which means it had been angered, provoked.”

  “Exactly,” Olivia said. “So far this one’s been benevolent because we’re just some interlopers in its territory. But that could change if it thinks we’re tracking it. It could turn on us.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it, Olivia. Look, it will be daylight soon, and chances are miniscule we’ll even see it. So we go as far as the Dyatlov group’s campsite—that’s what we’re here to do—then we turn back. No big deal. Disco?”

  “I’m in, neg, you know that.”

  “Vasily?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. But then he nodded.

  Olivia sighed loudly and shrugged. Fyodor, who’d been watching all of this stoically, snorted in disapproval and stomped off toward his tent.

  CHAPTER 22

  NORTHERN URAL MOUNTAINS, USSR, 1959

  LAST DAY TO LIVE

  At first light they searched the forest surrounding the tent for any sign of what Igor had seen the evening before. They didn’t find anything, not even a set of tracks, which wasn’t surprising given that snow had fallen continuously throughout the night.

  Zolotaryov was relieved. He wanted to put the mystery sighting behind them. They were isolated in a desolate and hostile environment. They needed to remain focused on reaching the summit of Mount Ortoten.

  After a breakfast comprised of hot cocoa and boiled oats, Zolotaryov found himself craving a cigarette. The others had sworn them off for the expedition, and he wasn’t going to light up in front of anybody, so he snuck into the trees for a quick nicotine fix, scrubbing the smell from his hands with snow when he’d finished.

  Throughout the morning chores Igor remained uncharacteristically stoic. To compensate for his dour mood, the others adopted an air of exaggerated ebullience. Kolya and Kolevatov told jokes and wrestled each other. Rustem posed for a photograph in his burned coat, which he’d hung too close to the stove while they’d slept. Zina and Lyuda hummed together one of their favorite songs. And Georgy drafted a couple of articles for their playful newspaper The Evening Ortoten. One announced that Doroshenko and Zina set a new world record assembling the stove, while the other claimed that something mysterious dwelled in the Northern Urals around Mount Ortoten. Everyone chuckled nervously when he read this out loud—everyone, that is, except Igor, who glared at Georgy for a long moment before shaking his head in quiet disapproval.

  After they’d untethered, rolled, and stowed the tent, they constructed the labaz, a temporary storage shelter where they would stow whatever wasn’t absolutely necessary before the difficult trek to Hill 611, and Mount Ortoten beyond. Then, at ten o’clock on the morning of February 1, they broke camp, setting off under the bulks of their lightened packs.

  ⁂

  It was the coldest day of the expedition yet. A strong wind blew in from the west, slicing through their layers of clothing and freezing their exposed faces. Heads bowed against the elements, the Dyatlov group skied in single file over virgin snowpack four feet deep, the work so exhausting they were soon sweating despite the subpolar temperatures. Every so often Igor paused to rest, but Igor was rarely one to rest, and it became clear to everyone this was a thinly veiled excuse so he could study the way they had come, to make sure they weren’t being followed. Zolotaryov wanted to tell him to cut this out. It wasn’t helping the morale of the group. Yet he held his tongue. He was an outsider among these students, a last minute tag-along. He didn’t feel it his place to question Igor’s actions, especially in front of the others.

  When they stopped for lunch, they snapped a few photographs, but the typical smiles and spirited poses had been replaced with determined faces and bleak landscapes, nine young hikers pushing the boundaries of their endurance.

  Over the next hour the coniferous Siberian forest opened around them as the trees struggled to survive in the high elevation and harsh climate until only the occasional stunted birch or emaciated pine poked through the white crust of snow. Many of these leaned at drunken and twisted angles, and depending on your state of mind, they were either pictures of sublime beauty or hellish abominations.

  Abruptly Igor brought the group to a halt. Zolotaryov looked up from his ice-crusted skis. He couldn’t see much through the milky haze of snowflakes. He slugged off his rucksack and was about to slump down in a drift next to Zina and Lyuda when he noticed Igor and Rustem speaking quietly to each other but using forceful gestures.

  He glided over to them. “What’s happening?” he asked, stopping himself with his ski poles.

  Rustem snorted. “Igor has taken us to the midpoint between Hill 1096 and Hill 805. He wants to climb the ridge.”

  Zolotaryov frowned. Hill 1096 and Hill 805 shared the same steep slope rising over one hundred meters. It was possible to climb it to enter the pass to Mount Ortoten beyond. However, the plan was to camp at Hill 611 today, where there would be trees to protect them from the wind, and firewood. “The sun sets at five o’clock, Igor,” he said. “It will be dark soon. We can’t ski in the dark.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling him!” Rustem said.

  “If we leave now,” Igor said, “we can make it to the northeast tip of Hill 1096.”

  “There will be no shelter up there,” Zolotaryov said.

  “We have the stove. I filled it with firewood this morning. We will be warm.”

  “But why don’t we simply go to Hill 611?” Rustem said, almost whining. He could become petulant when he didn’t get his way, Zolotaryov had observed. “That is the best spot to make camp. On the other hand, if we get caught up there…”

  They turned toward the miasma ahead of them.

  “Then we should stop talking and get moving,” Igor said.

  “This is about what you saw, isn’t it?” Rustem said, shaking his head. “Come on, Igor! You’re acting like a child.”

  Ignoring Rustem, Igor faced the group and announced in a loud voice: “Time to go! Follow me!” He started off, his chin tucked against his chest to protect his face as much as he could from the savage headwind.

  The others climbed back to their feet. Some appeared doubtful, but they all obediently followed. They had too much respect for Igor to question his judgment.

  Grumbling, Rustem fell into line too, and Zolotaryov took up the rear.

  The going proved arduous, and when they reached the bottom of the ridgeline, they were forced to turn their skis and sidestep up the gradient. During the ascent they could see nothing but looming snowdrifts and rocky outcroppings. When they reached the top, the already truculent weather took a drastic turn for the worse. Dark storm clouds corralled the setting sun. The headwinds doubled in force, churning the fresh powder into a wall of uncompromising white that made it impossible to distinguish land from sky.

  Yet Igor persisted in a northwest direction, and just before sunset at five o’clock he signaled a halt in what appeared to be a barren wasteland of snow. Zolotaryov could see no landmarks by which to navigate. The damned blizzard had deadened visibility to zero. He had no idea how far they had gone and no real idea where they now found themselves, except somewhere on the western face of the unprotected pass.

  Turning in a circle to observe the inhospitable environment, squinting against the barrage of icy spicules pelting his face, Igor announced they would make camp where they stood.

  Rustem immediately protested. “This is madness! We need to return to the valley and start over in the morning.”

  “We will not!” Igor snapped. “We’ll lose an entire day’s progress! And do you want to repeat that climb tomorrow?”

  “He’s right, Igor,” Zolotaryov said. “This storm is bad. We should go back—”

  “No!” Igor said. “We will camp here!”

  Too exhausted to argue, Doroshenko and Kolevatov and Zina were already shrugging off their packs, and soon everyone was helping to pitch the tent on the western slope of
Hill 1096, or in the tongue of the indigenous Mansi tribesmen, Kholat Syakhl—the Mountain of the Dead.

  ⁂

  As the group worked in the glacial conditions, daylight faded to a phantom twilight before surrendering to complete darkness. By the time they realized they had set up the tent with the entrance facing the wind, they couldn’t be bothered to rectify the mistake. In fact, they were so bone-weary they didn’t bother assembling the stove for dinner, settling instead on a meal of cold meat and dried bread. They ate silently in candlelight. No songs were sung. Nobody instigated the usual discussions on love and poetry and science.

  All the while gale-force winds pounded the walls of their canvas refuge, an ubiquitous reminder they were imprisoned on a mountainside in the midst of a harrowing blizzard. Some of the members of the group, if not all of them, blamed Igor for their dire predicament. They would not speak the accusation aloud, but their smoldering hostility was palpable. Zolotaryov could feel it poisoning the atmosphere in the tent as surely as he could feel the cold in his bones.

  This would not have been the case a day earlier. They were all experienced hikers. They knew what they had signed up for, the dangers associated with any expedition into remote wilderness. They knew nature could turn against you without notice. They knew people sometimes made mistakes, and you had to take those mistakes in stride.

  But today was not yesterday. Igor was not the man he had been twenty-four hours before. He remained withdrawn, fidgeting with his ice axe and mumbling to himself. He refused to eat with the rest of them, instead choosing to sit sentry at the threshold of the tent’s south-facing entrance, staring into the snow-ravaged night.

  When Rustem remarked that Igor was allowing the scant heat generated by their combined bodies to escape outside, Igor glowered at him. Then, without a word, he secured the door flaps and nonchalantly cut slits in the canvas wall, so he could continue his vigil.

  This was the point when concern tipped toward enmity, when the seeds of mutiny sprouted within the team. Even so, they were in the middle of nowhere, as effectively isolated as a galleon at sea. They could not banish Igor into the storm, for this would be a death sentence. They could do nothing but put up with his paranoid antics until morning and perhaps try to talk some sense into him then.