I’m happy to find warm clothing and weapons have been provided, but they’re not for everyone. Future Kuzneski hands out three pistols. One to me, one to Cassie and one to the younger Kuzneski. The handguns lack the decimating stopping power of his shotgun, but I’m comfortable with the P220, and it packs a punch. Giant or not, a few 10mm rounds will take care of our demi-god problem.
“Don’t I get a gun?” Flores asks, his accent still hideous, but who knows, maybe that’s how hillbillies talked in the past?
“Why is the country bumpkin coming with us again?” Future Kuzneski asks.
“He knows the mountain,” I say.
“Better than you?” the older Kuzneski doesn’t sound convinced.
“Nobody know this mountain better than a bootlegger,” my father says. “Living here, hunting here…” He nudges me. “Even working here ain’t nothing compared to running, hiding, and fighting with the law. I reckon he knows these hills better than the lot of us combined.”
Flores just nods in agreement, and Future Kuzneski rolls his eyes.
We’re led outside and to what looks like an open manhole cover. Two guards stand on either side of the hole, shifting back and forth, trying to look tough despite the cold.
“Everyone in,” Future Kuzneski says.
I go down first without questioning him. The tunnel is dimly lit by recessed yellow bulbs. Thick cables run along both side walls. The floor is flat and textured, providing traction for the small vehicles parked nearby.
Younger Kuzneski drops down from the ladder behind me, takes one look at the vehicles, and says, “You’re kidding me. They’ve got freaking mini-tanks and flying drones, and we’re taking golf carts?”
Owen arrives next. “Cool!” He claims a front seat, and I sit beside him, behind the steering wheel of the second vehicle. My father and Cassie join us, while both Kuzneskis and Flores take the lead cart.
“Try to keep up!” Future Kuzneski says, and then he guns the electric vehicle. The tunnel leads down a gentle slope, which becomes steadily steeper, following the mountain’s grade. Branching tunnels cut off to the sides, some leading straight out, some angled down, some reversing back uphill. It’s like an army of mole men have been busy creating an underground minotaur maze.
Future Kuzneski seems to know the tunnels well enough, taking several turns without missing a beat. He’s either faking it, or he knows exactly where he’s going. After just ten minutes, we screech to a halt beside a ladder leading up to a closed hatch.
Without waiting for permission, I start up the ladder, unlock the hatch, and shove. There’s a moment of resistance before I get my whole body under it and heave. A thin seal of ice cracks, and snow tumbles in and across my face. I lift the heavy metal disk, and more than a foot of snow, up and away. Pushing snow aside, I climb out of the hole, draw my weapon, and scan the mountainside. Several sets of footprints descending the mountain from above are just ten feet away. Mixed among them is a trail of massive, bare footprints.
I follow the trail downhill and nearly stagger back into the hole, numbed by what I’ve discovered. Had Flores not braced me with his hands, I would have. “Watch where you’re—” His rebuke catches in his throat. He’s seen it, too. “Oh…God…”
37
“Dad,” I say, leaning over the hole. “Stay down there. Cass, stay with them.” The argument on the tip of her tongue is cut short when I say “Please,” and my voice actually cracks.
“What the hell did you find?” the elder Kuzneski asks, showing no sign of following us to the surface.
“I’m going to either need you and your shotgun up here, or just the shotgun,” I say to him. “Take your pick.”
The debate takes longer than I’d prefer, but he steps toward the ladder, shotgun over his shoulder.
“Chris,” I say, using his first name to help distinguish which of the two I’m talking to.
Doesn’t work. They both look up and say, “Yeah?”
I point my finger at the younger of the two. “Stay put, but I’ll be needing that.” I shift my finger to the handgun he’s holding. Without any resistance, he tosses the weapon up into my hands. As the older Kuzneski climbs, I address my father. “Only reason you should come up here is if I call you. Sit tight until we get back.”
“What if you don’t get back?” Owen asks.
It’s a great question to which I don’t have an answer.
“We’ll jump that hurdle when we get to it,” my father says, then looks me in the eyes. “But come back.”
“I reckon I’ll do my best,” I say.
“Do better than that,” Cassie says.
I smile at her, lingering over the hatch, not because I’m lost in the melodrama of what could be our last goodbye, but because I really don’t want to face the carnage behind me.
“You looking for a smooch?” Future Kuzneski says. He’s reached the top of the ladder. I’m blocking his ascent.
I lean back and let him pass. He climbs up through the thick snow, then stands and dusts the white away. “Now, what in the hell has your panties in a—”
He turns and sees it.
“Fuuuuck.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Flores says, his phony accent gone, his military demeanor showing through. He’s out among the mess, crouched down, inspecting the remains of horrific violence.
“Hey,” I say, catching his eye. I toss him the handgun.
“Thanks,” he says. “This used to be two people.”
I look over the scene, trying to control my puke response, and I do my best to unpack the details. While the rest of the forest is coated in a smooth layer of thick snow, the patch of white just downhill is a wavy mess. Warm lumps of flesh and coagulated blood have melted through the snow before freezing in place. Body parts are scattered over the forty-foot wide area, strewn about at random.
“Were they eaten?” Future Kuzneski asks. He’s pitched forward, hands on knees, a little bit of drool dangling from his lip.
“Hey,” I say to him, and nod my head at his shotgun. “Stay on guard or give it to me.”
He slips the AA12 around his shoulders and into his hands, but looks no more ready to do battle.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Flores says. “Everything is here. Well, almost everything.”
“What’s missing?” Future Kuzneski asks.
I notice a moment before Flores reveals the horrible detail. “There’s no skin.”
And with that, the elder Kuzneski retches into the snow, adding one more pocket melted by human fluids.
Chased by the scent of bile, I trudge into the field of death. Visually, the carnage is mind numbing. I see bits and pieces of bodies that I can’t even identify. Unexpected colors jump out at me—white and yellow. I’ve seen death before, but not like this. The only thing keeping me together is that the scene has been frozen solid and made odorless.
The trees around us, many of them pines, where there will one day be oaks, sway and groan in the wind, keeping me on edge.
Tsul’Kalu could still be nearby.
“Why take the skins?” Flores asks, standing. He ejects the pistol’s magazine, inspects the rounds, and slaps it back in.
“I don’t even want to guess.” I wade through one of a few clean paths to the death field’s far side, stopping when I see a large set of bloody footprints leading away, following a much smaller set of prints.
For all I know, Inola is one of the two people torn apart and scattered behind me, but I don’t think so. Or maybe I just hope not. Inola is resourceful. I didn’t get a good look at her two friends, but if they were part of Boone’s bedraggled clan, I wouldn’t expect much for them. If not for Inola, I’m sure they would have died before Tsul’Kalu found them.
“Let’s move,” I say, following the oversized footprints that are twice the size of mine. If foot size is relational to height, that would put the giant at a little over twelve feet tall. Flores follows without complaint, but Future Kuzneski lingers by the ope
n hatch.
“Close that,” I point my gun at the open hatch, “and move your ass, before I put a round in it.”
He hesitates a moment and then closes the hatch. Tsul’Kalu could never fit through the small hole, and I doubt he could force his way down, but I don’t see the point in taking chances.
The tracks take us downhill, weaving a chaotic path through the shrunken pine forest. I can’t tell if Inola was trying to leave a confusing trail, or was just running in a panic. If she saw what happened to the others, panic would be understandable. Muscles in my gut twitch with tension at the idea of confronting a giant from the past capable of skinning people alive. It’s not just brutal, it’s malicious, which I suppose could be explained by the Nephilim theory. But demons fathering children with human women? I shake my head at the idea. It’s more likely that this is a man with a genetic aberration, or a human growth hormone disorder—like Andre the Giant, though I doubt he could have torn a person apart with his bare hands.
When I pause to inspect the trail ahead, Flores and Future Kuzneski stop beside me. After a moment, Kuzneski says, “So are you going to tell me who this wolf in a hobo’s clothing really is?”
Flores gives him the same answer he gave me. “Sergeant David Flores, U.S. Army Ranger. Retired.”
“So you were with future him?” Kuzneski asks, and then looks at me. “And you knew.”
Tension builds.
Kuzneski’s grip on the AA12 tightens.
A howl tears through the air. Downhill. Not far. It sounds angry. Primal.
I hold a finger to my lips and then creep forward. Flores follows on my six, while Kuzneski pauses for a moment before joining us. I’m sure he’d like to complain about our situation, or the fact that I lied about Flores and my now-dead older self, but he shows uncommon restraint by keeping his mouth shut.
When the trail takes us into open terrain, I leave it and head for the cover of thick trees. I move between the tall trunks in a crouch, creeping closer to the sound of a deep resonating huff. The giant is irritated.
Then I see it. Just the back of its head at first. The size of it and the deep red color of its hair make me feel like I’m in a sci-fi movie, like what I’m seeing is being controlled by a gaggle of people wielding remote controls. But it also has a very alive quality to it—the way the hair blows in the wind, the fog rising with each throaty breath—that tells my brain two things: this is real. And: get the fuck out.
Ignoring my brain’s second order, I stalk closer, placing each foot into the snow as slowly as possible. The giant’s skin is pale, but covered in tufts of hair, thicker than what’s on its head, but just as dark red—almost maroon.
Like blood.
We’re just twenty feet behind the beast when I hold up a closed fist. Flores and Kuzneski both hold their positions behind two trees.
When the giant stands, I reel back. I thought it was already standing. Its thirteen-foot height eradicates my genetic aberration theory. No human being has ever been this tall. The tallest person I’ve ever heard of was in the Guinness World Book of Records, and he was just shy of nine feet. That’s impressive, too, but overly tall people are lanky. They look awkward. Unable to grow into their height. They’re stretched out. This giant looks more like an oversized extra from the 300 movie. His sculpted muscles twitch just beneath the skin, exuding power.
With a flick of its arm, the thing flings a beige colored cloak around its back. For a flash, I see its waist, wrapped in tan fur.
It’s the mountain lion, I realize. The giant had been nude, and is now making new clothing. My eyes flick back to the cloak, and I nearly retch. Two human skins have been tied together in a bloody tapestry, still slick with gore on the inside.
He’s not a man, I think. He’s a monster.
The demon story is more and more likely.
I force my eyes away from the skins and focus on the rest of him. Despite his reputation as a hunter, I don’t see a single scar on Tsul’Kalu, at least not from behind. With a grunt, he slams his huge hands into the ground, throwing snow and dirt behind him.
He’s digging. Rooting something out. Or someone.
I catch Flores’s and Kuzneski’s eyes, hold up my gun, and mouth the words, “On three.”
Both nod.
I lift my hand, raising one finger.
With a quick glance around the tree, I pick my target—the giant’s head.
I raise a second finger, imagining my next steps. I’ll slide out from behind the tree and fire three rounds. My instinct will be to put a few rounds in its core, too, but I’ll leave that to Kuzneski. The short version is that when I raise my next finger, Tsul’Kalu isn’t going to look much better than the carnage he left in his wake.
My fingers lock at two when I hear a loud crunch of snow behind me. Did Flores or Kuzneski move? How could they be so careless?
Tsul’Kalu grunts and whips his big head around. For a moment, his eyes lock on me, peeking out from around the tree. He squints at me with intrigue and then…amusement?
This is wrong, my inner voice shouts. Get away. Get away now!
Then another crunch of snow pulls the giant’s gaze away from me, past Flores and Kuzneski. I follow the sound uphill and see the source for myself: a saber-toothed cat, low to the ground, ears folded back, teeth bared, and ready to pounce.
38
I’m not sure where to aim. Tsul’Kalu knows we’re here, and he needs to be put down. He’s as close to pure evil as I’ve ever seen. But he’s also got the cat’s full attention. I have little doubt it was stalking the three of us, but now it has eyes for the giant.
The cat’s spotted gray fur slides over its muscles as it creeps nearer. While it’s closer to the ground than the giant, pound for pound I’d put them in the same class. The giant has human intelligence—I’m assuming—and impressive strength on his side, but the saber-tooth has massive paws hiding long retractable claws and a pair of eleven-inch-long canines. Of the two, the cat would appear to have the advantage. It’s built for hunting in the cold. But Tsul’Kalu, god of the hunt, has proven himself to be more than savage.
So I don’t point my gun at either of them. The only way we all survive this battle is to not be here when it ends. I raise an open palm to Flores and Kuzneski, ordering them to do the same.
Tsul’Kalu catches my eye, gives me a wry smile, like he’s in on a joke at my expense, and then turns his full attention to the cat. His confidence unnerves me.
The cat stops its approach, lowering itself into the snow, muscles coiled. Its back-end twitches back and forth. Eyes narrowing, its focus is unflinching—until the giant leans forward and bellows. The sound shakes through me, using my ear drums as punching bags.
The cat flinches back, its ears folding down tighter. Its massive jaws open, letting out a much quieter, but no less threatening hiss. As intimidating as Tsul’Kalu might be, the saber-tooth isn’t backing down. It doesn’t see the giant as a potential meal, it sees him as competition infringing on its territory. Like all predators, it will fight to the death—even when the odds are against it—to protect its hunting grounds…and the prey within them, which right now includes us.
With surprising speed, the cat launches from the snow.
Tsul’Kalu raises his forearm to block the attack and quickly learns it was the wrong move. The cat’s massive canines pierce the forearm, punching through one side and slipping out the other.
Instead of a flash of pain in the giant’s eyes, I see…pleasure.
Then they fall back into the snow, the cat’s rapid-fire claws raking at the giant’s sides.
And he doesn’t scream.
Not once.
With the battle fully engaged, I shout, “Inola!”
I take a step closer to where the giant had been digging, but I don’t have to get any closer, or repeat her name. She crawls from a subterranean den, likely maintained by some Ice Age creature that’s made itself scarce. Her face twists in revolt when she sees the giant and th
e cat locked in mortal combat, but then she run-trudges through the snow. She’s shivering hard, her meager clothing not up to the task of fending off the frigid endless winter, but she’s still clutching the Winchester.
Why didn’t she shoot it? I wonder, but I decide now is not the time to ask. I shed my jacket and wrap it around her. “Let’s move!”
Kuzneski doesn’t need to be told twice, but Flores wavers. “We could kill it now. Both of them.”
He’s right. Between the four of us, we could probably make sure neither beast walks away from this. But I suspect neither of them will already, and Inola is hypothermic and in danger of losing some fingers and toes if we don’t get her warmed up. “The people we can save are more important than the ones we can kill.”
Flores smiles. “That was the first time you sounded like him. Like you.”
“And what would he have said if one of his people wasn’t immediately obeying an order?” I ask, helping Inola uphill, past Flores.
“Move your—”
“—fucking ass, soldier,” I finish for him.
“That’s the line.” Flores falls in behind Inola and me, watching our six, or maybe just watching the battle unfold. I don’t turn back to look, but I can hear enough. Tearing flesh. Breaking bones. The savage cat’s roar. The most unnerving thing about the audio-savagery is that through it all, Tsul’Kalu never makes a sound. No scream of pain. No roar of anger. Just silence.
Part of me wants to believe it’s because he’s dead, that the cat’s initial attack did him in and now it’s just venting on his body. But I don’t think that’s the case. The giant’s confident eyes burn in my mind. He knew he would survive, and that smiling stare was a promise that we’d meet again.
The uphill climb through knee-deep snow feels like a dream, arms and legs pumping hard, getting nowhere, the monster creeping up behind us. But every time I look back, the forest is clear, and we’re making actual progress. I lose sight of Kuzneski, but find him again, waiting by the open hatch. He’s got the AA12 pressed against his shoulder and aimed straight at me when we round a tree.
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