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