Kendall and Madden were obviously concerned about the same thing. "Let's get started," he barked, "and remember, if it ain't somewhere in the vicinity of one of the torches and you can't get a response out of it, be prepared to defend yourself. Stay alert!" Jake Madden could be very convincing.
I made myself a part of the trio to the left of the torch on Madden's left flank. One of the men in my cluster carried a pump action 12-gauge, the other carried the torch. I had my fingers nestled around the reassuring old Mauser. The one with the shotgun kept looking nervously back at Madden.
The flickering lights of the kerosene torches created crazy, surrealistic patterns. The pines formed a virtual canopy over us, somehow creating the illusion that they held the fog prisoner. Twigs snapped. Shimmering gray-green images appeared, unreal and threatening. The collective mind was becoming an even greater threat than our unseen adversary. Something darted, scurrying frantically for the protective cover of the underbrush. Now and then there was a shout or a nervous laugh. "Is that you Frank?" another shouted. "Damn it Roy, when I say somethin', answer me."
Another nervous laugh.
There was no way of knowing how much ground we covered. It didn't seem possible, but this sweep was actually slower than the earlier one. Now there was the added dimension of the darkness. I stumbled and righted myself, finger inching through the trigger guard. The hair on the back of my neck had begun to bristle. The other hand had coiled tightly around the handle of the flashlight.
I had just looked over in Madden's direction when it happened. The youth to my left stopped. His arm darted out in front of him, his finger pointing into the swirling montage of the fog in the trees in front of us. "I saw somethin'," he stuttered.
For a split second I saw it too. Then it disappeared. Instinctively I reached out and touched the torch carrier on the arm. He halted, his anxious eyes nervously searching the area immediately in front of him. Now Jake had stopped. When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. "See what? Where?"
"It was the kid over here on my left," I hissed back.
The young man with the torch circled around behind me and moved in beside his friend. "Where'd you see it, Tommy?" He hoisted the flame higher, inclining it forward.
"There! See that?" Tommy stuttered.
There was something there, all right. I didn't so much see it as feel it. It was too brief, like a sudden cold chill, there and yet not there.
"That you, Harlan?" Jake barked.
There was no answer, only the sound of a small branch snapping.
I suppose it was the culmination of everything, of rubbing the already frayed fibers of the fearful mind, of the subtle sound in the trees overhead, of the otherwise eerie silence, of the perceptions of fear — but suddenly it was reality. The night was shattered by an almost cannon-like roar. Bolts of orange flashed out like a snake's tongue, piercing the gray blanket and slamming into their target. There were shouts, frenzied footsteps, confusion. The young man beside Madden had fired four times; now he was transfixed.
"There it is again," the boy shrieked.
"I didn't see nothin'," another protested.
Madden took a step forward. "Damn it, Harlan, if you're in there, you better say somethin'."
The silence was only punctuated by labored breathing.
"Tommy," Jake snarled, "get your butt over here."
Both of the boys sidled up to Madden.
"Show me where," he challenged.
Tommy pointed.
There was something there, all right — an image that wouldn't crystalize, a bad dream, no beginning, no end. I shuddered.
"Researcher," Madden snapped, "over here!"
I took several steps forward, fingers cramping around the handle of the Mauser.
"Flash your light up in that tree," he whispered. "Keep your movements slow."
The index finger of my right hand was coiled securely around the trigger. My left hand clutched the cumbersome flashlight. From there on I like to think it was one fluid movement; my thumb jammed the switch forward and the beam of light pierced through the fog and darkness like a laser. I was dead on. It was still there, and my stomach began ricocheting around like a crazed pinball machine.
"Oh, my God," Madden muttered.
There were no reference points. It simply was. It had a bloated, misshapen head that was dominated by slit-like, yellow, dulled eyes that glared down at us in open defiance. All of its other features seemed to be lost in the twisted mass of variegated tissue that constituted the head. Only the crooked, cud-chewing mouth possessed its own definition; it was an uneven black slit that slashed across its face, seeping thick, oily juices as it masticated its food.
It grunted an unintelligible prehistoric threat, weaving slowly back and forth on a precarious perch high above us. The detail of its indescribable shapeless body was lost in a squatting mass, partially concealed by fog and branches. It blinked lethargically, making no attempt to escape the probing light.
"Holy shit," Madden muttered again, "what the hell is it?"
Words failed me. My stomach was churning and stale air was clogging my throat.
Slowly, almost as if oblivious to our presence, the thing worked its massive two-thumb, three-fingered claw up to its mouth and belched out a chunk of something, disdainfully discarding it like a piece of spoiled meat.
The boy with the torch leaped aside, then bent over and held the illuminating flame down to inspect the rejection. It was mangled and blackened, giving off a rancid odor.
Suddenly he reeled, his knees buckling. He stumbled forward in the dirt, vomiting. When he managed to look up, his eyes were glazed. The scream finally escaped. "Oh God, Jake," he screeched, "it's a man's hand!"
We all stared up at the beast in stunned, almost stupified silence.
Almost majestically, the creature raised its massive arm and pointed. The beam of my flashlight traced out the length of the branch until we saw the creature's gruesome prize. Harlan Gorman's long, now featureless body was draped like a giant gunnysack over the limb. At least I thought it was Harlan. A body without a head is not the easiest thing to identify.
Cosmo always said that you can tell a great deal about a man's passions by the manner in which he fires his weapon. Jake was only the first. In his case it wasn't self-defense. Self-defense had nothing to do with it. It was classic outrage. He jerked the ponderous .38 out of its holster and fired twice, two cannon shots that ruptured the silence. He fired again… and again. Each of the chunks of lead seered into the creature with a sickening thud. Its huge disfigured hand moved clumsily to the point of impact as the monster stared back at us in bewilderment.
Suddenly the eerie setting was a battlefield; the volley that followed was violent and instantaneous. The gray, saturated, choking air was momentarily violated by brilliant flashes of yellow and orange. The terrifying sound of gunshots thundered out all around.
The thing screamed and pitched forward, plummeting to the earth no more than 15 feet in front of me. For one fleeting moment my eyes locked on those dull, yellow slits of life and then they closed. There was a brief convulsion, an almost plaintive whimper — and silence.
For several minutes, no one moved.
PART 6
It was approaching two A.M. by the time we reassembled in the front of Palmer's Market next to the checkout stands. Old man Palmer had balked at Jake's request at first but had finally relented. The acerbic old man had gone home in disgust, sternly admonishing Madden that he and he alone was responsible in case anything was missing.
Jake walked wearily over to one of the store's large display coolers, took out a Moosehead, opened it and gulped down several swallows. With a bit of a flourish, he smacked his lips, wiped them off with his shirt sleeve and hefted his bulk up on one of the checkout counters. Somewhere during the course of events he had lost his hat, and now his shaggy blond crop of hair only added to the overall impression of disarray.