Killing Bigfoot
Randall James tossed and turned, knowing he needed sleep, but
the more he tried, the more it eluded him. He plucked his watch from the
nightstand; 2:47 a.m. With a grumbling sigh, he sat up, rubbed his face, and descended
the stairs.
After starting a pot of coffee, he dropped to the couch and
turned on the camera connected to the television. It didn’t matter how loud,
now that Anna and the kids were gone. It’d been three months and it hadn’t
gotten any easier. He didn’t have time to dwell on it because, after a moment
of static, the picture revealed the thick forest of one of the local mountains,
and a logging road. After about thirty seconds, a hulking black figure appeared
from the trees. The video was disappointingly blurry, but it looked like a
black bear walking on its hind legs. There was something in the creature’s gait,
though; something that made it obvious that it wasn’t a bear at all. Randall
continued watching, both transfixed and frustrated. Facial features were all
but invisible due to the poor quality of the video, but he was, and had always
been, convinced that there was some kind of two-legged, humanoid creature
inhabiting the local forest. Most commonly, it was called Bigfoot or Sasquatch.
The Tibetans called it Yeti.
Most of the locals regarded it as a myth or hoax, and yet,
sightings, encounters, and tracks continued to be found with astonishing
frequency. Skeptics would cite the fact that no skeletons or bodies had ever
been found, to which Randall replied, “So? When have you ever found a bear’s
body, or a deer’s? Why haven’t they found skeletons of them? If that’s
your basis for whether or not a creature exists, then the forest doesn’t have anything
living there!”
For her part, Anna had thought his hobby rather cute,
when they first married. Later, it became a source of friction, particularly as
his gear became more expensive and sophisticated. Because of his single-minded
focus and lack of interest in anything else, their friends drifted away one by
one. About eight years into their marriage, the arguments began in earnest, but
all it did was cause him to retreat further into his research—an obsession that
haunted nearly every waking moment, and not a few of his dreams, as well.
The creature in the video crossed the road, glanced over its
shoulder, then continued walking downhill through thick brush, with no more
effort than a man strolling down a sidewalk. The creature had a rather peaked
or dome-shaped head, arms that seemed a little too long; more primate than
human—and stout, muscular legs. It vanished into the trees, and after a few
seconds, the video went dark.
Randall downed a cup of coffee and watched it two more times,
then pulled on his boots, coat, and hat, and retrieved his Winchester 70. The
trusty rifle was something he hoped he wouldn’t have to use, but he’d be happy for
it if things got crazy. He added a Maglite, tent, binoculars, fluorescent
lantern, mummy bag, cot, a bunch of beef jerky, a case of MREs that he wrinkled
his nose at, a five-gallon water can, and a metal coffee percolator. Atop his
growing pile of gear, he placed the item he prized most for this expedition—his
Sony RX10 Mark II. The camera was fast, with nearly instantaneous auto-focus,
and it was great in low light conditions. Moreover, he didn’t have to carry a
bunch of bulky lenses. The camera wasn’t top of the line, but it was sufficiently
rugged without a lot of fussy auxiliary stuff.
As he loaded
everything into his old army rucksack, his thoughts wandered. With a little
luck, he felt sure that he could prove the existence of Bigfoot to the world;
most of all, to the zoological and anthropological communities. If he could
pull this off, not only would his name be nearly as famous as that of Bigfoot himself,
but Anna would see him on TV and come back with the kids. They could be a
family again.
Shaking himself from his reverie, he yanked hard on the
straps, cinching his supplies a little harder than necessary. He shouldered the
ruck, grabbed the rifle and water can, and loaded the Jeep.
The predawn fog made the headlights nearly useless. As his
speed slowed to a crawl, his thoughts drifted from Bigfoot to Anna and the
kids, then back to Bigfoot. His thoughts were interrupted by the pavement
transitioning to dirt. He began winding his way up Mount Carlson on the same logging road where the original video
had been shot.
The road was wide and surprisingly well maintained, and
after about twenty minutes, he rounded a bend where he found the tiny camp spot
he’d plotted on the map. Darkness had given way to a thick, gray fog that enveloped
everything in an impenetrable mist.
Randall unloaded the Jeep and began setting up camp. He had the
feeling that something was watching him. As he hammered in tent pegs, there was
a loud whistle from the forest. He stopped hammering and listened. A moment
later, further away, came an answering whistle. He felt uneasy and looked
around, but the fog was thicker than ever. He waited for a few minutes, but
after hearing nothing more, continued hammering in the rest of the pegs. He
picked up the Winchester, checked that it was loaded, and placed it on the cot.
The feeling of being watched was stronger than ever, and for a brief shuddering
moment, he wondered if he were the one being hunted…
Later, the fog gave way to a sort of watery, gray light that
revealed the craggy peak of the mountain. At the timberline, he could see a
stone building that jutted out of the bare mountainside. He recalled a
newspaper article a few years previous,
about an investment company that was building a resort up here. He hadn’t heard
anything about it in a long time though, and through the binoculars, he saw
that the place looked dilapidated—abandoned...
In spite of the different noises he’d heard, Randall felt
himself begin to unwind. He built a fire, brewed coffee, and dug into his
stores of beef jerky. He kept the rifle close. Sitting on his cot, he pulled
out the Sony and practiced focusing it through the open flap of the tent, finding
what the best range was. He knew that if there was Bigfoot activity in
the area, his best chance was to get perfectly clear photographs of it—him—whatever
it was. Better yet, if he could find bits of hair, the DNA might be able to
prove the existence of some kind of hominid—a missing link of some kind…
It was an unending source of frustration to him, and to other Bigfoot believers,
that there were almost no clear images of the creature. Strapping the camera
around his neck, he headed down the road. After about half an hour, he heard
the sound of rushing water. Picking his way down from the road, he rounded a
copse of trees to find a wide, shallow river. He looked up and down the bank, checking
for an access point that was wide enough for deer, bear, or other large
animals.
The sun was beginning to slant lower in the sky, and not
wanting to be caught in the rapid darkness that comes to the mountains, Randall
pressed his way up the hill and back to the road. Around the halfway point, he
heard a knocking noise, like a branch being smacked against the trunk of a
tree. He felt the back of his neck prickle with that same feeling of being
watched and quickened his pace, wishing he’d thought to bring the rifle.
He arrived back at camp and stoked the fire. It was dark
now, and the fire cheered him a little. He made more coffee and tore open an
MRE packet. As he ate, he felt a growing excitement. He’d originally planned to
just take photos, but he began to think about actually killing Bigfoot.
If he could bring in an honest-to-god corpse, there would be no room for doubt
or skepticism. On the other hand, if the creature proved to be more human than
primate, he could find himself going to prison instead of becoming the darling
of late-night television.
Later, as the fire fell to embers, his eyes grew heavy. He
zipped the flap of the tent closed, pulled his boots off, and doused the
lantern. He burrowed into the mummy bag, and quickly fell asleep.
He awoke some hours later, instantly wide awake, heart
hammering. He lay still and quiet, hearing the crunch of heavy footsteps
outside his tent. A nearly suffocating, oily, animal stench assaulted his nose
and he grimaced. He heard the sound of heavy snuffling, as if a bear were
sniffing around. At that moment, Randall became all too aware of how flimsy the
tent was, and a sour trickle of fear washed through him. He stealthily slid out
of the mummy bag, heart still pounding, grabbed the Maglite, the rifle, and body
slung the camera. He’d barely taken a single stride toward the tent’s entrance
when he heard a deafening, guttural cry and the sound of something massive
crashing through the brush. He dashed out of the tent and shone the Maglite in
the direction of the noise, but the creature was gone. He shone the light
around the perimeter of the tent, but found no tracks or anything else in the
thick carpet of pine needles.
Rummaging in his supplies, he pulled out several large pieces
of jerky, bound them together with a piece of paracord, then slung the bundle
over a high branch, suspending it about twenty feet off the ground. He then
moved his cot until it was nearly against the opening of the tent, zipped
enough to conceal himself, but with enough room for the camera. He lay on his
stomach on the cot, camera pointed into the clearing where he’d hung the bait,
keeping still and quiet. Time passed, and his thoughts returned to Anna and the
kids, the photos he would take of Bigfoot, and his appearance on television…
He must’ve fallen back to sleep, because he became aware of
a growling and thrashing in his camp, and the acrid, almost skunk-like odor of
the creature. He jumped, knocking over the rifle which promptly discharged with
a roar, and then fell out of the tent, dropping the camera. He swore, grabbed
the camera and rifle, and bolted in the direction he’d seen the creature run.
It was tough going, but the weak light of early dawn was enough to see by.
Finally, he had Bigfoot on the run and he wasn’t giving up until he got what he
wanted. By god, Anna could do whatever she wanted; he had no control
over that, but he did have control over this, and he wasn’t going to screw it up! The
broken limbs and the sound of heavy crashing made it easy to track the
creature, although it was slower, as they were running steadily uphill. The
creature itself was amazing! It was
easily over seven feet tall, covered with dark brown hair, had heavy, muscular
shoulders and arms, no discernible neck, and powerful legs. There was a certain
grace in the way it moved, despite its
size.
It vanished behind
some boulders and Randall picked his way forward, walking, catching his breath.
There was a flurry of movement and Bigfoot reappeared again!
Randall slowed a little in confusion, because now, there were two Bigfoots, and what looked to be two juveniles with them—a whole
family! They were still headed uphill, quickly gaining distance. He bit his lower lip and began
running after them. The smaller adult looked back at him and emitted a piercing
scream that was answered by a roar from the larger one. They ran faster.
Randall focused on
putting one foot ahead of the other. The trail was growing steeper, the trees
thinning, the underbrush fading to a sort of loose shale and gravel. He could
now see the four creatures running toward the stone shelter of the hotel and
wondered if they were going to run around it. If they ran inside, he’d have them! His lungs and muscles burned, but damned if he was
going to let them get away.
Sure enough, they
entered the hotel. He slowed, catching his breath and cursing the elevation, advanced
cautiously, in case they were plotting some kind of ambush. The floor of the
lobby was littered with broken glass, pine needles, and dirt. He got the
impression that maybe this was where they were living. He picked up a large
piece of glass and threw it at the opposite wall where it shattered, just in
case they were going to charge at him. There was an abrupt scuffling noise, and
then a lot of metallic clattering and crashing.
Randall moved
forward and found double swinging doors with small, round windows. He peeped
through and saw that it was a sprawling, industrial kitchen of tile and
stainless steel. Pushing the door open as quietly as he could, he slipped
through, rifle at the ready. He smelled them again, but maybe he’d grown used
to it, because the odor didn’t seem nearly so pungent. He switched the camera for
the rifle. He looked around, but there was nothing beneath any of the long,
stainless steel tables nor along the backside of the kitchen. He kept close to a
huge freezer and stove, until the only uninvestigated space was against the
wall, to the left of the stove.
He came to a stop
and held his breath. He could hear them breathing less than five feet away. One
of the little ones was making a muffled whimpering sound, and he could hear a
soft growl—almost a purr—from the mother. Randall began inching forward little
by little. As he rounded the corner of the stove, the largest of the four—the
father, he assumed—emitted a roar that rattled every pot and pan and
reverberated through the room. Randall was amazed at how human the face
looked—not the face of a primate, at all!
Although Randall’s
attention was mostly on the aggressive stance of the father, he noticed the
mother huddled around the two little ones, protecting them. She, herself, was
sobbing and making panicked noises to the little ones. Randall raised his gaze
from the mother and children, and lifted the camera.
With another roar,
the father threw himself to the floor and huddled his mass around the others.
In that moment, Randall realized they were thoroughly terrified; they were a
family, and he had driven them into a frenzied panic. They thought the camera
was a weapon. Though contorted in fear, there was a real intelligence,
sensitivity, and goodness in their eyes and faces. In that flash of
understanding, he became profoundly ashamed of what he was doing, of what he’d
done, and rather than seeing himself as the bold adventurer, he
felt rather small. Part of him was screaming that this was the chance of a
lifetime; something the whole world was waiting for, that this was something
he’d been waiting for his entire life, but he couldn’t muster any of the old
enthusiasm, and lowered the camera. He met the shining, liquid black gaze of
the father’s eyes, and said quietly, “Sorry… I’m so sorry. I’m… I’m leaving,
now.”
He slowly left the
restaurant. Rather than bolting, the little family remained huddled together, which only made him
feel worse. Emerging from the darkness of the hotel, he saw that the sun
had finally burned off all the fog; the cloudless sky a piercing blue.
After breaking camp, he headed down the mountain in a
reflective state of mind. He stopped at a gas station to get a soda and turned
his phone on, pleased to have reception again. There was a text message from
Anna: “Hey, you! Call me. Let’s talk.”
-Frank H. Weeden
2017
