BIGFOOT WAR.

by Eric S. Brown.

Author Introduction.

Welcome to the world of rural, small town America. If you grew up in a small town, you can likely relate to many aspects of this tale. I grew up in the mountains of North Carolina and have been a horror fan since I was four years old. As a child, the one monster who haunted my nightmares the most was Bigfoot. I will never forget a book I read in kindergarten about a lone man trapped inside a mountain cabin, surrounded by a pack of sasquatches who were trying to get inside and tear him apart. Most of the research on the sasquatch today suggests that if such creatures do exist, they are gentle giants or at least do not attack humans unless threatened.

This book, in spite of the large amount of research I did in writing it, is based much more on the beasts that lurked in my nightmares and kept me awake at night when I was young rather than any hard science. The sasquatches in this book are tribal, more intelligent than cryptozoology believes them to be, and certainly much more violent and vengeful. My version of Bigfoot is also larger, stronger, faster, and has a level of muscle density that in some cases defies the laws of biology in regards to body ma.s.s. All that said, if you're holding this book in your hands, you're likely a fan of sasquatch horror yourself and perhaps, like me, you were disgusted by the way most sasquatch films feature only one monster and at best show us a glimpse or the implied notion of more during the final battle scenes.

I set out to write a book that was not only frightening and fun, but also to give fans like me a tale that finally brought an entire tribe of sasquatches into play, and showed what such a pack of creatures could do if they entered the world of man. This is a book about monsters and primal fears, so prepare yourself for a journey into my nightmares.

- Eric S. Brown.

I would like to dedicate this book to my son Merrick, Danny Hall Brown, my friend in horror Brent Hyatt, and Bigfoot junkies everywhere.

BIGFOOT WAR.

Prologue.

The stink was terrible.

Jeff stood behind his brother, Scott, as the younger boy knelt and poked with a stick at what looked to be a liver. Other bits and pieces of the cow lay scattered about the field around them.

Jeff struggled not to be sick. "Stop that."

Scott looked up at him. "Come on, bro. This is awesome!" He got to his feet. "This had to be aliens! Look at this. I doubt even a grizzly could have torn the thing apart like this."

Jeff grimaced. There was nothing cool or awesome about death. The poor cow had been ripped to shreds. He wondered if it had suffered or if whatever did this gave it a quick death before this pointless mutilation.

Scott noticed his reaction and punched his shoulder. "You nerd. Why do you always have to spoil everything by thinking about it too much? Don't be such a loser."

Jeff stared at the blood drying on the gra.s.s as Scott went back to his examination of the cow's remains. He wished he'd never followed Scott and his father out here. He didn't need this aggravation. There was a math test tomorrow and he should be in his room studying for it not babysitting Scott, but he knew his father needed him. Without him riding hard on his younger brother, Scott would be out there in the woods shadowing his father, in turn making it impossible for him to find the animal that did this and kill it before it could attack more of their livestock.

Another man might have called the sheriff after finding a mess like this in their pasture, but their father was a third-generation farmer and the gruff, hard-headed type of man who firmly believed you dealt with things yourself. Jeff wasn't worried about him. He remembered the time his dad hit the bottle too hard a few weeks after his mother died. It'd taken the sheriff and four deputies to take his dad down and restrain him. Even with that many of them, it was still a fight. Jeff also knew his dad was one of the best hunters in Macon County and that tonight the man was stone sober and on his game.

Scott's head snapped up. "Do you hear that?"

Before Jeff could respond, he heard it, too. It was the sound of something large tearing its way through the trees toward the field they were in. A gunshot rang out amid the noises of snapping tree branches and the rustling of the underbrush.

Their dad broke from the tree line and ran toward them. His face was pale and ashen, covered in sweat. "Run!" he yelled. "Jeff, get Scott in the house now!"

Jeff grabbed Scott by the arm, jerking him into a run. They headed for home, nearly dragging the younger boy thanks to pure adrenaline and force of will. He didn't look back as an animal-like roar shook the night. It was so loud it seemed to echo all across the valley. It sounded like a cross between a raging bear and an angry man screaming at the top of his lungs. The loud thunderous impacts of the thing's feet smashing into the ground at the end of each of its long strides shook the ground. Jeff's breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself on, dragging Scott with him.

The house was in sight now. The kitchen screen door swayed slightly from the evening's breeze as it hung partially open. The porch light still burned above it.

So close, he thought. Once they were inside, they could lock the door against the terrors of the night and everything would be fine. Jeff felt Scott fighting against his hold on him.

"No! Dad!" the younger boy wailed.

A second gunshot cracked in the darkness behind them followed by their father screaming obscenities, obviously frightened and desperate. This was followed by a wet, thumping noise that reminded Jeff of the noise made by a deer being hit by a speeding car.

It was the last he ever heard of his father that night.

He reached the door to the kitchen, crying and dragging Scott behind him. He steeled himself, refusing to turn and see what was chasing them or what had befallen his father as he flung Scott in front of him and sent his brother sprawling onto the kitchen tile. He stepped inside, jerking the door tight behind him. Only then did he allow himself to turn enough to lock the door and brace his shoulder against it. Instinct took over as the giant fist burst through the door's thick wood, splintering it, sending shards and dust flying. Jeff threw himself backwards, barely avoiding the huge, groping, hair-covered hand as it reached for him. His backside erupted with pain as he hit the floor. He heard Scott yelling, but his brother's voice sounded distant as if it came from another world. The hand withdrew itself, tearing the door from its hinges in the process. Jeff caught a glimpse of something enormous and covered in brown, blood-matted hair before he rolled onto the living room carpet.

Scrambling to his feet, he was on the run again, heading for the stairs that led up to the second floor. His dad's bedroom held an a.r.s.enal, but the thought of the weapons stored there brought him no comfort. Jeff's only thought was to hide. Hide and pray the monster went away. He hit the stairs, taking them two or three at a time with each fear-induced bound, half crawling and clawing his way to the top. The house was full of noise. Screams, breaking wood, creaking floors, then came the roar that shook the walls. Jeff whirled his head around, suddenly realizing Scott wasn't with him. His face and forehead smashed into the stairs' guardrail. Then there was only blackness.

When he awoke, the night was silent and still. His nose felt . . . wrong. It hurt like the blazes. His trembling hand found the swollen lump on his forehead and withdrew itself as fresh waves of pain poured over him. The house's lights were out and the air smelled of blood, death, and wet animal. He lay there in the darkness, heart pounding in his chest, listening.

Questions that longed for answers ran through his mind. Where was his dad? Where was Scott? Was the monster gone or was it down there in the shadows somewhere waiting?

After what seemed like an eternity, Jeff hauled himself to his feet, using the railing to keep his balance. Not willing to risk venturing down the stairs, he made for his father's bedroom. He felt around in the pitch black of the night until his hands found one of his dad's shotguns. He checked the weapon, making sure it was loaded by pumping a fresh round into its chamber, then sat on the edge of his father's bed as a gentle rain began to fall outside the house.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he prayed for help to come and the nightmare to end.

That horrible night was fifteen years in the past now, but it still haunted Jeff Taylor. He fiddled with the car's radio, trying to find some music to help drive the memories away. Finally he settled on listening to "Highway to h.e.l.l." The song was certainly appropriate. He nodded his head along with the beat. This was going to be his first time back on the streets of Babble Creek, North Carolina, since his father and brother's funeral all those years ago.

He reminded himself he wasn't a frightened, nerdy little boy anymore. Two tours of active duty in the army had made him into a man his father would have accepted and been proud of. This time, he was going to be the hunter, and the monster of his nightmares was going to pay for what it did to his family.

Tom.

Babble Creek was a small town. One would be hard pressed to find a more rural area of North Carolina. The town was surrounded on all sides by forests and farms. Its crime rate was almost nonexistent and its streets were usually peaceful. The beauty of the town and the woods around it was almost surreal by the standards of modern America.

Tom sat on the bleachers of the town's sole football stadium, where the Babble Creek Cougars got their b.u.t.ts handed to them every season, taking a drag off his fifth cigarette over the past half hour. He gazed off at the setting sun behind the mountains. Tom finished his smoke and flicked the remains toward the field below. He wished the whole place would burn to the ground. This past season was Babble Creek's worst and the upcoming one looked just as bleak. Somehow he'd managed to keep his job, but that was largely in part because no other coach with real experience would move out here to the middle of nowhere. Babble Creek wasn't exactly a career-building opportunity for anyone who wanted to move up to college ball or the professional leagues.

He coughed loud and hard, hacking a glob of brownish phlegm onto the bleacher in front of him. It was definitely time to start thinking about quitting, but with the stress he was under from the school board and the town to make the Battle Creek Cougars into a team that was at least even second worst in the region, he knew it would be impossible for the time being. He was already taking an expensive and pointless anti-smoking medication that Justin suggested he try a few months back.

Tom wondered why he'd moved to this cursed place to begin with.

Still wishing a forest fire would wipe the football field off the map, he got to his feet. It was getting late and the "boys" would be waiting on him to make his nightly visit to Hank's. The bar was dirty and poorly kept, but Hank let him buy his drinks on credit during the summer, understanding full well how teachers got paid thanks to his departed wife. Besides, the beer there wasn't bad at all. He just hoped his piece-of-c.r.a.p Ford would crank over to get him there. As he walked into the parking lot, he sensed a change coming on the air. Surely it was time for something good to happen in this sinkhole.

He got in his car and slapped the steering wheel with a grin as the engine turned over on the first try.

Becca.

Becca cursed as the phone rang again. She knew it was Ms. Johnson before she answered it. She lifted the receiver to her ear. "h.e.l.lo, Babble Creek Sheriff's Department."

"Oh, thank G.o.d! Sheriff May. The U.F.O. has started wailing now. It's terrible. Just this long constant blaring sound. It's scaring my cats to death. Why poor little Sissy . . ."

Becca cut her off as politely as possible. "Ms. Johnson, we've been through this before," a"a thousand times over the last two years, Becca thoughta" "as long as you stay in your house, the aliens can't get you."

"I know, Sheriff May," Ms. Johnson said. "It's just the blaring is so loud. Do you want to hear it? Let me get the phone over to the window."

Sighing, Becca leaned back in her chair, listening to the sounds of the old woman wrestling her long outdated phone through the kitchen. Ms. Johnson was a nice enough lady if you met her at church, but unlike some of the other older folks of Babble Creek, she was always well-dressed, charming, and if anything, overly polite. She was the kind of lady who showed up on your doorstep with cookies if you were new in town, or sent you a card if you were in the hospital even if you hadn't spoken for years. When the sun went down on the weekend, though, and she was in her big house out off Faulk's Cove Road, she was a whole different person. Surrounded by her precious horde of feline companions, Ms. Johnson seemed on the verge of being a full blown paranoid schizophrenic. She called every weekend since Becca was elected sheriff with the same old story about lights and U.F.O.s in the woods by her house.

A trooper by nature and determined to do a good job in her new office, Becca actually drove all the way up to Ms. Johnson's house every weekend for two months to find nothing but trees, darkness, and fireflies. Finally, she sat down with the elderly woman over cookies and tea, and had a long talk with her. Becca convinced the old woman through simple logic, a.s.surances, and her limited knowledge of science fictiona"twisted to suit her purposes, of coursea"that she'd be safe as long as she stayed inside her house. "You see their transporter beams can't get to you in here," she remembered saying. "You have to be outside, in the open, for them to get a proper lock on you."After that, Ms. Johnson still called every weekend, but Becca never had to go up in person again. Usually a brief, friendly reminder of that talk calmed Ms. Johnson right down. For whatever reason, though, it wasn't working tonight and this was the first time Becca could remember Ms. Johnson's delusions included the description of the aliens howling.

The noise of the old lady wrestling with her phone cord ceased. Becca sprang forward in her chair as she heard the garbled noise over the line. It was a horn. A horn that sounded like it belonged to a large truck. She blinked in surprise and wondered what in the devil was going on up in Faulk's Cove.

"You hear that, Sheriff?" Ms. Johnson asked, returning to the line. "They've been doing that for the better part of a half hour."

"Ms. Johnson, thank you for calling this in. You stay in your house, okay? I am coming over there."

"Thank you, Sheriff May," the old lady said, but Becca didn't hear her. She was already hanging up the phone, ready to make her way to the door.

Tom.

Tom slammed down another shot of whiskey and slapped the bar with his palm. It burnt like Hades as it ran down his throat. "Whooee!" Though he was a heavy drinker during the off season, whiskey wasn't his drink of choice. The men around him cheered him on. Fred smiled underneath the beer-drenched, graying beard that covered his lips. Terry giggled like a teenager.

"Hits hard, don't it?" Fred half-shouted even though he sat directly beside Tom.

There were perhaps a dozen other people in the place. Not a large crowd. Even on a Sat.u.r.day night there simply wasn't that many real drinkers in Babble Creek that came here to do it. Sometimes, Tom wondered how Hank managed to keep the doors of this place open despite the small number of patrons and his overly generous tendencies.

"Line him up another. It's on me," Fred ordered the spry-looking old man behind the bar.

Hank reached for the bottle, but Tom shook his head. "One's enough for me. Just keep the beer coming."

The door to the street opened, letting inside the last rays of the day's dying sun. Tom's mouth fell open as he spun on his stool to see Jeff Taylor standing in the doorway.

"I don't believe it," he half-slurred-half-muttered as he leapt from his seat and charged Jeff. "Jeff Taylor!" he shouted. "Never thought I would see you again."

Tom noticed the sour looks that fell across the faces of his friends and decided to ignore them. Jeff looked shocked, too, as Tom closed in on him.

"Tom Railsback?" Jeff asked as Tom grabbed his hand and pumped it up and down.

"Yeah, it's me. What has it been, like, ten years, now?"

"More," Jeff said.

Tom turned back to Fred and Terry. "This is my old buddy, Jeff. We fought in the Gulf together." Still doing his best to disregard the tension filling the air, Tom pressed on. "What in the heck are you doing in a little town like Babble Creek?"

Jeff's expression was as cold as ice. "Coming home," he said with a bitter tone in his voice. Jeff nodded at Fred and Terry as if he knew them but couldn't recall their names.

Finally, things began to click for Tom. "You're from here?"

"Born in this town. First time I've been back since I was twelve."

"You still crazy?" Fred asked with a sneer.

Tom didn't know what was going on between them, but he sensed it wasn't good. From experience, he knew Fred was in the mood for a fight and didn't want to see the big redneck get hurt.

"You got a place to stay?" Tom asked hurriedly, interrupting their exchange as he put his arm over Jeff's shoulders and led him from the bar. He could feel Fred and Terry glaring after them as they left. "Catch you boys later," he called over his shoulder as he shoved Jeff along faster. "My buddy and I got some catching up to do."

The night air was warm and humid. The stars were beginning to show themselves in the growing darkness above the glow of the street lights. Jeff followed Tom into the parking lot. As they walked Tom asked, "What was all that about?" He fished a cigarette from his jacket pocket. "I gather you weren't all that popular here as a kid."

Jeff didn't answer.

Tom changed the subject. "Seriously, you got a place to stay?"

"Not yet."

"There's only one hotel in town, but it's nice. This old woman runs it. Can't remember her name."

"Gracie," Jeff said.

Tom blinked in surprise. "Yeah, that's it. How'd you know that?"

A smile crept onto Jeff's lips. "You haven't lived here very long, have you, Tom? Babble Creek isn't exactly known for being a hotbed of progress and change."

"Guess not," he agreed with a laugh, "but, man, am I glad to see you. You were always my good luck charm in the war. You kicked some serious b.u.t.t and saved mine more times than I can remember. It's about time something good came to this sinkhole of a town."

Becca.

Becca radioed Powell as she drove along the winding road of Faulk's Cove to let him know where she was headed. Powell was the only one of her deputies on duty tonight. The tiny sheriff's department of Babble Creek consisted of six employees and one of those was Cindy, the half-witted, big-chested receptionist the mayor stuck her with.

"Powell," she called into the radio again. "Powell, you better not be asleep again."

The radio crackled as he responded. "No, ma'am," he said. "I was just taking a leak. It's pretty dead out here on Route 12."

Becca shook her head. "Look, I am heading to Ms. Johnson's. I think there's actually something going on up there tonight."

"Want backup?" he asked, stifling a snicker. "I hear those aliens got some wicked-mean heat rays."

"Powell," she said firmly.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, sounding more serious. "I'll watch over things until you get back. I'm heading back to the station now."

Becca watched the shadows along the roadside as she drove the last few miles. Between Ms. Johnson's s.p.a.ce aliens and the rest of the town's whispered stories of the infamous Babble Creek monster, sometimes she wondered if she was the only sane person in the whole town. At least the legend of the monster had some validity to it. The legends of it predated Babble Creek itself, and some years ago there was a family that had been reportedly attacked by it. Two of that family died that night. There was nothing to prove the monster's existence in the reports she had read back when she perused the department's files when she'd first taken office, but something about the case never sat right with her. The forensics reports were shaky at best and seemed haphazardly thrown together. The report claimed a bear was the culprit of those murders however and it fit with the damage done to the house where the attack occurred.

Becca rounded a bend in the road and slowed down.