Aliens 2035

Chapter 2-4

The late afternoon sun hovered, a bright, half disk above the maple and oak forest, its slanting rays heralding dusk less than an hour away. It bleached leaves and shimmered the air with a touch of silver. Standing in the bear blind, Bob Nitschke watched the forest intently for any signs of movement. He smelled only the dry odors of autumn and heard the high-pitched squeaks of a white-tailed deer echoing from the direction of Owl Creek, a mile away. The bear blind, built like a glorified kids’ tree house, had been set ten feet off the ground in the fork of a giant maple. The angle was perfect for a heart lung shot at any prey that came sniffing around the bait.

After checking his trail cams and replacing the batteries, he climbed back down and carefully stowed the rope ladder out of sight so that it wouldn’t dangle, alerting a bear there was something strange here. Satisfied, he handed the Pepsi bottle to his nephew. “Put the smell down. A bear won’t come around without the smell.” He watched Joey walk over to the bait, holding the bottle at arm’s length and pour it on the concoction of dog food, chocolate and maple syrup. “Make certain you cover your own tracks as you back away,” he cautioned.

The evening was cool and the air crisp with the aromas of autumn. Bob loved this time of year, especially traveling deep in the woods with Rusty and his hunting bow. The stillness was primeval and his thoughts ranged back to his caveman ancestors foraging and hunting every day. It was a life he could enjoy.

Joey dumped the rest of the awful smelling liquid and returned to the base of the tree stand. “Are you sure this stuff will attract a bear, Uncle Bob?” he asked.

“They love fats and sweets; need ‘em for hibernation.”

“What’s next?”

“We wait.”

His nephew gazed up at the tree stand about fifteen yards away from the bear bait. “We gonna wait up there?”

Bob shivered against the cold creeping in as night fell and remembered he could monitor any activity at the site with his cell phone while sitting in his Ford 350. The cab would be nice and toasty. Guess I’m not caveman material after all. He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” his nephew asked, eyes darting around for something unusual.

He slapped Joey on the shoulders. “Nothing, bub. We go back to the truck and wait for the camera to tell us when the bears come sniffing. Remember. I get the first shot.”

“Yes, sir.”

The truck was parked a quarter mile away and they had made it only part way back when Rusty, panting silently at their side, went stiff. A strange, mewling howl Bob had never heard in the woods before echoed through the twilight. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight. Rusty growled and lowered himself to the ground. Paws gripped the earth. He pointed in the direction of the bear bait.

Bob turned silently, like a hunter of old, his Black Ops, Diamond Infinite Edge Pro compound bow clutched in his left hand; a carbon fiber, Magnus Stinger, four-bladed broad-head arrow in the other. Every muscle tensed, ready to spring into action at the slightest movement.

A hundred yards away through the deepening twilight a tall, shaggy form stumbled from the edge of the trees. It stood well over eight feet, too tall to be a man. If it was a black bear, it was the largest one Bob had ever seen in this part of the country. It seemed to turn and look at them. Its large mouth opened and an eerie howl issued from it. A knot formed in Bob’s stomach. Rusty’s growl became an anxious whine.

“Is … is … it a bear?” Joey asked, voice wavering. He bent over suddenly and retched.

Transfixed by what he was seeing. Bob put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder warning him to be still.

The mewling noise continued, the unnatural sound unlike any animal Bob had ever hunted. It almost sounded like a wounded beast’s cry for help. Indeed, the way it stumbled around, it looked injured. The creature ignored the bear bait and staggered forward. It seemed to zero in on them and started moving faster in their direction.

Instinct took over. Adrenaline surging through him, Bob nocked the arrow in a fluid motion as he drew his bow up in front. The cam system made the seventy pound draw smooth as silk. The cord pressed against his cheek. The feathers brushed the soft skin under his right eye. He aimed and let go. The let off was effortless. The whole movement took less than two seconds.

The arrow found its mark in the animal’s chest. It whirled around crashed into the ground.

“You got him!” Joey cried and he threw up again.

Bob grabbed him by the arm barely noticing his own nauseated state. “You stay here. If anything happens, you run for the truck and lock yourself inside. Understand?”

The boy nodded.

“Rusty, guard Joey.”

The dog took a position in front of the boy, teeth bared.

Bob handed his bow to his nephew. He pulled a replica Bowie knife from its sheath in his boot and a replica Colt .45 Peacemaker from its back holster next to his spine. Heart hammering, he cautiously approached the prone beast. Ten feet away he knew it couldn’t possibly be a bear or a man. But the sight he saw was equally impossible.

The hairy head was more frightening than the unnatural sound it had made. It was twice the size of a human, with a brow of bone like a flying buttress. More bone circled deep-set eyes, wide and dark blue. A flat-bridged nose dominated the center of the broad, almost humanlike face, the nostrils flaring above thin lips shoved out by a prognathous jaw. Dense hair covered greenish skin.

The neck was thick and squat as if some giant puppet maker had squashed it onto broad hairy shoulders and an equally broad chest. The stomach was flat and muscled like a body builders. The arms were long limbed and thin for a beast so large. The legs were like oaks. Thick hair the color of new, green tree growth matted its body from head to toe. The feet were the strangest part of it. They were huge, as if some comic book artist had added them as an amusing after thought.

The creature huffed and reached out a large hand, the four fingers and thumb curled tightly. Bob aimed his pistol at its head. The creature huffed again and looked at Bob. The eyes seemed to glow from within. His thoughts turned fuzzy, Bob couldn’t tear his gaze away from the creature. The face, for all its beastly qualities, was remarkably man-like and the light dying in the dark red eyes held more than simple simian awareness. It made a strange strangling whimper as if all the light of the world was dying out in its final moment of consciousness. It shuddered once and then lay still.

“Can I see it?” yelled Joey.

The question brought Bob out of his mesmerized state. He stared at the creature and blurted out its name. “Sasquatch. I shot a Sasquatch.”

For a moment he was paralyzed with remorse. Then Joey’s voice yelled again, much closer this time. “Can I see it?”

Bob waved him back. He bent over the beast. He saw, next to his arrow, a bigger, bloody hole just above where the heart would be in a man. But there was no blood. Instead a Jell-O like substance, the color of pus, accumulated around the wound and was congealing into a dark liquid. It was shot by somebody else. With an injury like that, it couldn’t have traveled far. He scanned the surrounding woods, saw nothing; tilted his head, listening, and heard nothing. Maybe they don’t know which way it ran. Better get Joey out of here.

Bob gripped his arrow and pulled it free. Pus clung to the blades. He stood, holding the arrow so the gore wouldn’t drip off onto his hand. He checked the angle of the trail camera. It had caught everything including his shot. Proof of Sasquatch was on the trail cam’s flash drive now, and on his phone.

“Is that Bigfoot?” Joey asked.

Bob whirled around. His nephew was craning his neck to see the creature. “I thought I told you to stay back.”

“I just wanted to see.”

“Well, you’ve seen enough. We have to get out of here.” He took his nephew by the shoulder and marched him away.

“Did you kill Bigfoot?”

Bob shook his head. “I don’t think so. It was already dying from a gun shot.” And we’d better get out of here or we could be next. “C’mon. Run back to the truck.” He whistled twice and Rusty joined them.

They reached the truck. Bob put the bows in the back cargo area and laid the arrow next to them.

He drove quickly on the rutted, forest service road, the speed making a bone-jarring ride. Within a few miles he hit the Escanaba Cutoff Road and quickly sped toward home. He checked the rearview mirror. No other headlights. He slowed. His racing heart eased. He glanced at his nephew, who sat still, eyes wide, thoughts oblivious to anything but the sight of a dead Sasquatch.

“Hey, bub,” he said. “You and I are going to make this our little secret for a while. Okay?”

“Well, duh,” Joey said. “It’s not like anyone wants to brag about killing Bigfoot. It’s against the law.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it on Animal Planet.”

“That’s it.”

Breathing easier, Bob drove on. He thought of the arrow, the Sasquatch’s pus still intact on the barbs. Enough for a DNA sample, and I know just the man to contact.