The Roaring Page 11

“Roger!” Heather wailed too late as she opened up on the tribesman in front her. She put a three-round burst of fire into his stomach that blew his guts apart. She spun almost instantly, firing another burst that ripped into the chest of another of the tribesmen, killing him where he stood.

  Those were the only bursts Heather was able to get off though as a tribesman managed to leap within reach of her and batted her rifle from her hands with his club. Heather went for her sidearm, yanking it from the holster on her hip. She dodged a second swing of the tribesman’s club at it came at her face as her pistol spat hot lead into him. The tribesman staggered backward, blood running from the hole the bullet had torn in the right side of his chest.

  Heather didn’t see the blow coming that sent her sprawling on to the ground, but she sure felt it. Another of the tribesmen had bashed her back with his club. The pain was so intense she could only try to blink it away and grit her teeth. Before she could recover, the battle was over. The tribesmen were on her.

  One of them grabbed her arms, pinning them to the ground, as two others caught hold of her legs to keep her from kicking her way free. The fourth and last other surviving tribesmen took a seat on top of her. His legs spread over the sides of her body as he looked down into her eyes.

  “Come on, you fragger!” Heather raged, struggling against the hands that held her. “Just get it over with!”

  As if he understood her words perfectly, the tribesman atop her sunk the blade of his knife into her stomach. Heather screamed as he twisted the blade about inside her. When he was done, he slowly withdrew the blade and raised it to his lips. He licked at her blood as it dripped from the crude weapon and smiled.

  Barely able to stay conscious, Heather dug down deep and found the strength to spit into his face as leaned in close. Her saliva splashed onto the yellow paint smeared upon his skin. The tribesmen jerked back in anger, shouting words she couldn’t understand to those that held her down. One of them shouted something back at him. They seemed to be arguing over what to do with her. The tribesman atop her rubbed at his groin, smiling. This only enraged the other tribesmen more.

  Heather wished she was a spy like in the movies instead of a merc. Having a cyanide capsule in one of teeth for situations like this one was something she didn’t have. She was too weak now to keep fighting against the hands that clutched her arms and legs. All she could do was pray that she was a more attractive meal to the others than she was a sex object to the native on top of her.

  Another tribesman appeared to loom over her where she was being held down. His paint was different than those of the others. It was a bright red that resembled congealed blood. The other tribesmen went quiet as he looked her over. He squatted to sniff at her skin and then rose to his feet with an expression of pure disgust.

  The red painted tribesman gestured to the one who sat on top her and mumbled a series of grunt-like noises. The tribesman atop her snarled at the one painted red in anger. Heather realized that the new tribesman must be either a chief or shaman of some kind by how the others deferred to him as if he had authority over them.

  The red-painted leader smacked the tribesman atop her hard across his cheek. The lesser tribesman lowered his head in shame as the leader spoke again. He gestured at the knife the one on top her held and then at her.

  Obeying without hesitation, the lesser tribesman raised his knife high above his head in both hands and brought it down into Heather’s chest. Heather’s body bucked as its blade plunged into her heart. Then there was only a cold darkness and eternal silence. Her life had come to an end and her mission was over.

  END

  Read on for a free sample of Bigfoot Abomination

  Author Bio

  Eric S Brown is the author of numerous book series including the Bigfoot War series, the Kaiju Apocalypse series (with Jason Cordova), the Crypto-Squad series (with Jason Brannon), the Homeworld series (With Tony Faville and Jason Cordova), the Jack Bunny Bam series, and the A Pack of Wolves series. Some of his stand alone books include War of the Worlds plus Blood Guts and Zombies, World War of the Dead, Last Stand in a Dead Land, Sasquatch Lake, Kaiju Armageddon, Megalodon, Megalodon Apocalypse, Kraken, Alien Battalion, The Last Fleet, and From the Snow They Came to name only a few. His short fiction has been published hundreds of times in the small press in beyond including markets like the Onward Drake and Black Tide Rising anthologies from Baen Books, the Grantville Gazette, the SNAFU Military horror anthology series, The Good, The Bad, and the Merc (the third anthology set in the best-selling Four Horsemen Universe), and Walmart World magazine. He has done the novelizations for such films as Boggy Creek: The Legend is True (Studio 3 Entertainment) and The Bloody Rage of Bigfoot (Great Lake films). The first book of his Bigfoot War series was adapted into a feature film by Origin Releasing in 2014. Werewolf Massacre at Hell’s Gate was the second of his books to be adapted into film in 2015. Major Japanese publisher, Takeshobo, recently bought the reprint rights to his Kaiju Apocalypse series (with Jason Cordova) and it was recently released in Japan. Ring of Fire Press will be releasing a collected edition of his Monster Society stories (set in the New York Times Best-selling world of Eric Flint’s 1632) sometime in 2018. Eric’s other upcoming books include Alien Yeti (from Severed Press) and CASPER Alamo (from Seventh Seal Press). In addition to his fiction, Eric also writes an award winning comic book news column entitled “Comics in a Flash” which won the Preditor and Editor award for best nonfiction work a few years back. Eric lives in North Carolina with his wife and two children where he continues to write tales of the hungry dead, blazing guns, and the things that lurk in the woods.

  Chapter 1

  Earth’s Present

  Darkness wasn’t Cole Rainwater’s friend, but he was drawn to it like a junkie hooked on heroin.

  He was there again, hunting with his uncle in Owls Bend near Mark Twain National Forest. The fog was thick that morning. He could practically chew each breath of cold air. It tasted a bit like the funk of dried leaves and acid-resin pine needles. At least the mosquitos slept in for the morning. The cold did nothing to keep the spider’s under the covers, though.

  As usual, spiderwebs fanned across the trails in every direction. Cole hated spiders. There was something icky and flesh-crawling about those eight legs. With his rifle barrel in the lead, he cut through a silky arachnid’s net. It split in half and whisked to either side. He looked in time to see the web’s creator scurry from the edge onto a low-lying branch overhead. It was a Writing Spider, and it was huge! Had that beast been in the middle waiting to catch its breakfast, Cole would have found another trail to take. For a moment he thought about shooting it but knew better because Uncle George would get mad at him for scaring game away over a spider.

  Cole lowered his head and looked for Uncle George, who had stepped somewhere out front out of sight. No matter, the two of them had hunted the area together before and knew where to meet up. They were hunting squirrels and would be firing up into trees, so there was no danger of shooting each other.

  Déjà vu enlightened the moment. Cole had been here before. He had done all of this before. The spider web draped over his rifle barrel like strands of cotton candy and glistened in the morning sun. A quick wipe with his gloved hand cleaned it. Some chemical in the spider web could etch the bluing on the rifle’s barrel if he left in on there.

  Cole looked about, and an ominous feeling of dread held him in its clutches.

  A squirrel a few trees over started barking.

  The bad feeling evaporated as the thrill of his hunter instincts pushed it aside. Hunting was more than just something to do on a Saturday morning. There was something satisfying that words couldn’t describe when stalking prey. His heart beat faster. His hearing amplified and eyesight focused clearer.

  The squirrel chattered on. Nothing would enter its domain without getting a good tongue lashing and the threat of a whipping tail.

  Stepping carefully toward the tree, keeping his head low and approaching wi
th obstacles shielding his advance, Cole made his way to get off an unobstructed shot.

  The squirrel was bad-ass enough to stand its ground. Good. It was a noble act but would soon lead to its death. Something that small should have been given enough sense not to provoke a larger animal. Cole knew that rats were smart and that squirrels were basically long-tail rats with a better publicist. But he couldn’t remember one time a rat ever stood its ground. It was always ‘head for the hills’ when discovered.

  A clear shot now opened before him. The squirrel’s tail fluttered like a squirmy red worm cut in half. It was almost daring him to shoot! Cole was happy to take the invitation.

  The rifle went up, and he carefully peered over the top until the front and rear sights aligned. He methodically pushed the button near the trigger, disabling the safety. As his finger reached for the trigger, the dreadful feeling returned and immobilized him.

  Cole had been here before. He had done all of this before.

  Then the smell wafted through the cool breeze, unleashing an avalanche of memories. A barnyard odor laced with other pungent notes that provoked primordial fears. The hairs felt prickly on the back of his neck, and his bum hole puckered a few times.

  Cole was scared to look at where he knew the monster watched. But look he would, just as he had done the first time.

  From a distance, it could have first appeared to be a tall, robust tree stump, rotting and without branches. Its form looked animal-like, though. Perhaps even like a bear standing tall to reach something good to eat from above. This was no bear because it was now obvious it was shaped like a man. A ‘man’ with long reddish-brown hair that covered its body, save for face and chest. Cole had watched enough of the Discovery Channel to know this creature could only be a bigfoot.

  The bigfoot stood with its large eyes peering into Cole’s very soul. He couldn’t tell if it was contemplating an attack or if maybe he was there for the squirrel too. Knowing the rules of mother nature of predator and prey, making a dash for safety might inspire the monster to give chase. He racked his brain and couldn’t remember ever hearing of bigfoot eating humans, but he was afraid to bolt and find out for himself.

  Still, he couldn’t just stand there and not do something. For a moment, his mind went down the path of pointing the gun at the creature and shooting to scare it away. But what if that didn’t work? His gun was a .22 caliber rifle and would be useless against a hulk like that.

  Fear had clouded his memory, but now the déjà vu returned.

  He pushed the rifle’s safety to ‘on’ and backed away. Soon, the bigfoot was out of sight. With no sign of pursuit, Cole turned and ran to find his Uncle George.

  “Good morning Salem, Missouri. Time to get up and shave, shower, and get in ship-shape to start the day. This is your ol’ pal Al on KQKY bringing you the best of Classic Rock of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. Guess what time it is? It’s time to get the lead out!”

  Cole reached over and slapped at the alarm clock until the music stopped playing. Hearing a Led Zeppelin song this early in the morning was too much even for him. Something like Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” would be better. As depressing as the lyrics were, it still was a soothing tune to wake up to and make the bed.

  The reoccurring nightmare over, the mire of sleep released Cole from its chains. He had encountered the bigfoot some four years ago when he was ten. Of course, no one believed his story. Reports of bigfoot in the region were rare but not unheard of, usually told by some drunk hunter. His father blamed his hallucination on sugary cereal. Cole loved Froot Loops with marshmallows. He had eaten them for years without a similar incident. Regardless of what people thought from that day on, Cole had delved headfirst into the world of the paranormal, aliens, and cryptozoology.

  He sat on the edge of his bed with his dangling feet hovering above the floor. The sheets were moist with sweat as was the hair on his neck. He ran his hand from the back of his head to the front of his high and tight haircut. Summer was coming, and he had let his dad talk him into getting a military-style haircut. At first, the short hair on his sandy-brown head made him look bald. But in less than a week enough had grown for him to look more like his hero, the wrestling champion, John Cena.

  The floorboards felt cold as he slid from his bed. Socks were the first of the clothing to go on. Stepping into each one at a time, he stood before the mirror, with his elbows out and his fists near his belly button. Flexing in front of the mirror showed his time lifting weights was paying off. His pecs, deltoids, and biceps were coming along nicely. Although if he had to be honest with himself, his arms looked like toothpicks compared to John Cena’s.

  He imagined what he’d look like sporting Cena’s guns. As he flexed, he realized he’d look stupid with arms disproportional to the rest of his body. Adding Cena’s chest to his arms would make his head look three sizes too small. Plus, his legs would look like beanpoles. After a big sigh, he realized that it was going to take years and a lot of working out to look like Cena.

  Pants and shirt went on next, and then a quick trip to the washroom before heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

  The aroma of brewed coffee warmed the air as Cole went about his morning ritual. Grab a bowl and spoon and place them on the table. Get the cereal and drop it off while going to the fridge for the milk. Take the milk and pour it into the bowl until half-full, then put the milk back in the fridge. (His dad didn’t like the milk sitting out to get warm.) Then, dump the cereal out of the box until it nearly spilled over. This week his dad had bought him Cheerios, which wasn’t too bad for his liking. Of course, he hurriedly snuck in two spoons of sugar before his dad, who was in the washroom now, made his entrance.

  A few oat-rich Os paratrooped to the table as the spoon went into the bowl and then up to his mouth. The cereal crunched between his teeth, and the sound reminded him of a horse feeding from a trough. When he wasn’t able to slip extra sugar in bland cereal, he felt like he was eating horse food.

  Slippers scuffing the hall carried into the kitchen. His dad had on his pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. Robotically, his focus never left the coffee pot, where he grabbed a mug from a hook under the counter and poured a cup. He brought the mug to his nose, and his eyes magically showed signs of life. “Morning.” He shuffled over to the table and removed the sugar bowl top. Lifting the bowl, he sprinkled sugar into his coffee. Most of the sugar made it; some landed on the table.

  “Dad, you ought to use a spoon,” Cole said, and then crammed in another mouthful of cereal.

  “Why dirty a spoon after one use?”

  “We could just leave a spoon in the bowl all the time.”

  “That’s unsanitary.”

  “We have a dishwasher.”

  “Yeah, that I load and unload. More work for me. You’re lucky I don’t make you do more around here.” Mark Rainwater wasn’t in bad shape for a thirty-five-year-old, but he could have taken much better care of himself. A widower and single dad for the last twelve years didn’t afford much personal time. He was a lineman for Midstate Electric. His normal eight-hour shift often expanded during weather events and his co-workers calling in sick or on vacation.

  “Uh, we need some more bananas,” Cole said, hoping to divert his dad’s train of thought.

  “Oh, really?” Mark’s sarcastic tone told Cole he picked the wrong thing to talk about.

  “Yeah, you know. I take one for lunch.”

  “I was walking in the woods the other day and guess what I found?”

  His gaze glued to the emptying bowl, Cole said, “I dunno.”

  “A banana, hanging from a string tied to a tree branch. Did you do that?”

  Barely audible, Cole said, “Yes sir.”

  “Cole, you shouldn’t waste food like that. There’s no bigfoot so there’s no need to leave bait.”

  “I had my wildlife camera set up in the woods. If bigfoot had taken the banana, I would have a picture of it. I’d be the first to prove bigfoot is real. Then, all the
guys at school wouldn’t make fun of me. I’d be a hero. We’d be rich. I bet I could sell the picture for a million dollars.”

  Mark’s ire subsided, evident by his slumping shoulders, and his head tilting to one side. “Son, you should concentrate on more important things than bigfoot or UFOs or ghosts. Spend more time with your studies. If you want a good paying job, you’ll need to go to college. You’re a smart boy, but you’ll have to make an effort. Don’t go chasing rainbows. Work on your fastball. Who knows? You might be good enough one day to get a baseball scholarship to Mizzou.”

  “You really think!” Cole’s face brightened.

  Forcing a smile, Mark said, “Well…its possible. I wasn’t good at sports, but your Uncle George was before he got in the car accident and messed up his shoulder. Who knows? You may take after him.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I may be only fourteen, but I know how the world works.”

  Mark giggled. “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s all about priorities. Do the important things first and then the fun stuff when you have time. I want a good job that pays lots of money so I can afford to look for crashed UFOs or go on hunts for bigfoot, and stuff like that.”

  “More power to you, son,” Mark said, and then raised a thumb. “Oh, the school sent an email saying that old man Douglas is complaining that some boys from the school are playing pranks on him on his farm. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  “No sir, I don’t.”

  “The prank, as Douglas called it, was leaving huge footprints and making a mess in his garden.”

  “You mean like bigfoot prints?” Cole said with excitement.

  “No, he said they were shoe prints. I want you to be clear with that fact so you don’t get any strange ideas about going over there. Stay away from the old codger. He spent some time in prison before buying his place. He doesn’t bother anyone and doesn’t like to be bothered.”