The bigfoot apocalypse b.., p.1
The Bigfoot Apocalypse Box Set II, page 1
Bigfoot War
Frontier
Outbreak
By: Eric S. Brown
* * * * *
Bigfoot War: Frontier
Bigfoot War: Outbreak
Copyright © 2012 Eric S. Brown
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or photographs contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or artist.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art By: Gary McCluskey
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Ebook Layout and Design By: Jason Thacker
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Bigfoot War: Frontier
Author’s Note
These events take place prior to those of Bigfoot War IV.
The sun fell in the sky, sinking ever closer to the mountains in the west. Tall, green grass stretched to the horizon in all directions as Clint and Logan rode towards them. Both men were tired and the day had been a long one. Clint was on edge still expecting to run into a war party of Indians at any moment. When their group had taken shelter at Fort Steel, the soldiers there had warned them that the Indians in these parts were up in arms. Clint was rather attached to his scalp and had no desire for it to be hanging as a trophy on some savage’s belt. There had been signs that showed there were indeed Indians around that they had come across earlier in the day but Logan assured him, they had nothing to worry about. Logan was a professional scout and guide who’d seen several wagon trains of folk through this region. Clint didn’t doubt Logan’s competence but he was keenly aware of his own luck. It always seemed to lean heavily on the bad side of things. Of all the men in the group, somehow Clint had ended up being the one to ride ahead with Logan to make sure the way was clear despite the fact that he was a terrible shot and most of the other men jokingly called him City Slicker. He was a jeweler by trade and this whole experience was rather unsettling to him. If it wasn’t for his wife’s insistence, he would still be back east right now. . .but however much he might hate it out here, Clint had to admit there was land to be had and money to be made in the West. They could start over and open a new shop with no threat of the competition that had nearly drove him out of business back home before they had pulled up stakes and headed westward.
“We should make the woods by nightfall,” Logan said, spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice into the grass.
Clint looked at Logan, meeting his gaze but said nothing.
“You’re still afraid of the Indians aren’t ya? Don’t be,” Logan patted the Winchester resting across his saddle. “I’ve had run ins with them before. They’re hunting soldiers not us. Unless they’re really riled up, odds are they’ll leave the two of us alone. We’re not a big enough of a threat to worry them.”
Though he nodded, Clint remained unconvinced. They rode on in silence. As their shadows grew longer and the sky above darker, they reached the woods below the mountain pass just as Logan had predicted they would.
“We’ll camp here,” Logan informed him, bringing his horse to a stop. “In the morning, we’ll start back and fetch the others.”
Clint dismounted and tied his horse next to Logan’s at the edge of the woods.
“I’ll take first watch,” Logan said, “You go on and get some rest city boy.”
“What about supper?” Clint complained as his stomach growled angrily.
“No fire tonight. Ain’t any sense in asking for trouble.”
Clint frowned. He had some hardtack tucked away in his saddlebag. It would have to do. Clint dug it out and gnawed on the tough bread as Logan made a show of checking his rifle. He supposed Logan did it to help him rest easier but it didn’t help. It only reminded Clint that they were alone and far from any kind of civilization.
Darkness rolled in hard and fast. Sleeping on the ground was something that Clint was getting used to, but that fact still didn’t make it comfortable. He lay awake listening to the sounds of the night. As sheer exhaustion began to claim him and his eyes drooped closed, an inhuman cry echoed among the trees. Clint bolt upright, his hand grabbing the rifle that rested in the grass beside him.
Logan was awake and alert, his own eyes scanning the tree line.
“What was that?” Clint demanded.
“Don’t rightly know,” Logan admitted. The night was a clear one and the stars above gave them enough light to see a little. Something moved in the woods not far from the camp.
“Whatever it is, it’s big,” Logan grunted. “That’s for sure.”
The thing in the woods shrieked again. The cry was earsplitting and filled with anger.
“A bear maybe?” Clint asked.
Logan laughed despite their situation and shook his head. “Ain’t no bear. You heard that didn’t you? Almost sounded like a man.”
Clint saw Logan gave him a quick glance as he added, “Ain’t no Indian either. You just keep that rifle in your hands and ready. Whatever it is, if it comes along in this direction, we’ll fill it so full of bullets it won’t be recognizable anyway.”
Thinking he heard a trace of fear in Logan’s voice, Clint nearly wet himself. If whatever the thing was could rattle someone as rough and experienced as Logan, they could be in real trouble. Then Clint saw it. Logan must have seen the beast too because Clint heard him whisper, “Lord in Heaven. . .”
The beast stood over nine feet tall. Its yellow eyes shined like a cat’s in the darkness of the trees. Its arms were thick with muscles, covered in mangy hair like the rest of its body, and were much longer than a man’s as they dangled at its sides. The beast made no move towards them. It merely watched them as if waiting for them to make the first move. Sweat born of fear beaded on Clint’s forehead and dripped into his eyes. Keeping his Winchester pointed at the beast, he quickly wiped the sweat away with the backside of his other hand. Logan shouldered his rifle and Clint saw him taking aim at the beast.
Somehow the thing must have known what a rifle was. It roared and charged forward as Logan’s finger squeezed the trigger. The Winchester cracked. Clint saw Logan’s shot smack into the beast’s chest but the bullet didn’t even slow the monster down. If the shot hurt the beast at all, it gave no sign of it. Logan was working his rifle’s lever to chamber another round as the beast plowed into him. One of the beast’s large hands grabbed Logan. Its fingers sunk deep into his flesh, digging into his ribs, as Logan screamed. The beast lifted Logan effortlessly from the ground by the fingers buried inside him. Logan’s screams became a blood clogged gargle as the beast flung him into the trunk of a nearby tree. Clint heard the crunching sound of breaking bones as Logan’s body smashed into the trunk and blood splattered into the night air. The beast turned to face him as Clint opened fire. He aimed for the beast’s head and missed. The beast marched slowly towards him showing no fear of the weapon in his hands. It was as if it somehow sensed his own fear and didn’t see him as a threat despite the rifle. Clint chambered another round and fired again. This time his shot smacked into the beast’s shoulder. The beast drew ever closer to where he stood as he worked the Winchester’s lever a third time. He prayed a silent prayer as he took aim and squeezed the trigger again. The beast’s left eye exploded in a spray of red tinted pulp and blood. The monster shrieked like a wounded cat and staggered a few steps backwards. It recovered quickly, shaking its head about and flinging blood then gave a deep, guttural growl of pure rage. Clint screamed as it lunged at him with superhuman speed. The last thing he ever saw was a giant, hair covered fist coming towards his head.
*~***~*
Ray sat in the saddle of his horse, leaning slightly forward, as he watched camp being broken. Men, women, and children scurried about their wagons getting ready for another long, hard day on the move. The group wasn’t overly large, numbering around fifty or sixty travelers total. There were nearly twenty wagons in the train and usually four other riders like himself who kept guard and acted as scouts surrounding them at any given time. Ray wasn’t very good with people unless he had to be and thus far had only bothered to get know a few of his fellow travelers. They all shared one thing in common, the desire to start over and seek a brighter future. What that future might be though varied on a case by case basis. Some looked westward for gold, others land, still others he supposed just for the adventure and being able to brag about having made the journey. For himself, it was none of those things. Ray Warren, as he called himself now, just wanted to stay free and keep breathing. There had been trouble back east that he needed to escape and for him like some of the others the West was his only hope of another chance, a place where he wouldn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder for the bullet in the back that he deserved.
No one knew why Logan and the city fellow had never returned but after giving them two extra days in which to do so beyond their appointed time, a vote had been taken and the wagons rolled on. Tension was running high and no one wanted to admit that the Indians rumored to be on the warpath in the area might have gotten them. Ray hadn’t known either of the two men well, but his gut told him Indians weren
Ray looked up as David came riding over to join him.
“Morning,” David tipped his hat as he drew up his horse beside Ray’s.
Ray nodded at him.
“Weren’t you on the night watch?” David asked.
Ray shrugged. “Don’t matter none. I ain’t tired yet.”
David frowned at him. Ray knew he meant well but something about David just rubbed him the wrong way. David was one of those confident, overly pleasant folks you either just loved or hated. That was how he had ended up in charge of the wagon train, Ray’s opinion being in the minority. David had been a law man back east and you could see it in how he carried himself and the shiny Colt holstered on his belt.
“You should get some rest,” David urged him. “Earl can take your place. That old boy snored up a storm last night.”
Ray grunted. “Done told ya, I’m fine.”
David appeared offended but his annoying smile stayed on his lips. “Suit yourself then, but I need everybody on lookout especially sharp today. We’re far enough away from Fort Steel now that we’re really on our own ya know? If any Indians come calling, we need to be ready for them.”
That said, David tugged on his horse’s reins, turning it about and headed to where the wagons were busy forming up to roll out. Ray watched him go, gritting his teeth at the frustration of dealing with the former law man and forced himself to calm down.
*~***~*
“Mama!” Jocie called. “Vincent’s doing it again!”
Darlene sighed sitting her handful of breakfast dishes into the back of their wagon and then snapped, “Vincent Edward Jenkins! You leave your sister alone this instant!”
Darlene didn’t even have to glance over her shoulder to know what was going on but sure enough when she turned, Vincent was sticking his tongue out and making horrid faces at Jocie. Vincent stopped and went pale, struck by the anger in her voice. She marched over to him and stood with her hands on her hips. “Young man don’t you have work to do?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Vincent answered. As he moved passed her and climbed into the wagon where Jocie had already disappeared to, Darlene sighed again, shaking her head. There were problems aplenty in her life without her eleven year old son adding to them. Her husband had died of the Pox last year, leaving her with debts that she couldn’t possibly pay. No one had stepped up to help her. Her husband had been a surly man, too attached to the bottle for his own good or theirs. Not even the pastor of the local church seemed to care about their plight. Darlene cried when the bank took the farm but tears didn’t change the fact that she had children to care for and feed. By chance, she had heard of the free land being offered in the West and their course was set. She worked the saloon and the streets for a month, selling off everything they had left too in order to buy the wagon and horses for this journey. Many of the men making the journey with them had expressed the wrong kind of interest in her, but Darlene swore her “street” days were over. Never again would she give herself away like that unless it was to a man she loved. David, Ray, and Earl did their best to keep those men under control and she was thankful for it. Even so, Darlene carried a concealed knife at all times and there was a double barrel shotgun hidden in the wagon if it came to it. The weapon lay buried among the stacks of their supplies and meager belongings, underneath the wagon’s cover. She wasn’t ready for a new husband yet, but Earl had caught her eye anyway. The big man was so compassionate and gentle despite his gruff appearance and size. She wondered what her life would have been like if she had met him before the deadbeat she had married. Jerry, her late husband, had deserved to get the Pox and part of her was truly glad he was dead and rotting in the dirt. Darlene got Vincent settled in the back of the wagon and raced up front to be ready for when David gave the signal to get moving.
Jocie rode shotgun beside her. Darlene couldn’t help but smile as she saw Jocie’s youthful, innocent eyes taking in the majesty of the landscape around them. Jocie turned her head to meet her with a smile as she climbed up to take the reins of the horses.
“We’re on our way Mom,” Jocie said.
Darlene nodded trying to see their situation as her excited and hopeful daughter did.
“You bet we are baby,” Darlene smiled back at her. “You bet we are.”
*~***~*
Pastor Page missed the fields of his farm and his congregation in North Carolina. The faithful members of his church had been like family to him. The Lord had worked wonders in the small town he had called home. Though there were still places where the more hardened men of the little community gathered to drink, there was no proper saloon. There were no dancing girls being exploited and abused. The greatest crimes were nothing more than mere disagreements and the residents kept their guns holstered. Crops grew full and green. There was very little sickness. Everyone helped one another and prayed together with him come Sunday morning. That valley among the hills had been so blessed that when the Lord called upon him to travel west to continue his witness to new flocks, Pastor Page did all he could to quiet that voice inside him. . . But no one could ignore the will of God forever. Pastor Page gave his farm to the town and surrendered his church to a younger man of God the Lord had sent to the town. After many a tearful goodbye, he had set out for the West with nothing more than the clothes on his back, the Bible in his hands, and his faith. Now here he was, like the disciples of old, allowing God to use him as the Lord saw fit. He had no wagon or even a horse of his own but the Lord had provided his way. The Watkins' took him in and he became a part of their family on this long and perilous journey. He sat on the front the wagon, riding next to John. Angie and their daughter, Grace, rode in the wagon’s rear beneath its cover. The sun was hot and bright in the sky above and a thick sea of green covered the ground around the slow moving wagon train in every direction as the horses strained and the wheels turned.
“What you reckon happened to Logan and that there city fellow?” John asked. “You think them Indians really got them?”
Pastor Page shrugged. “If the Lord had meant us to know, we would,” he answered in a gentle tone.
“Don’t suppose it matters,” John nodded. “It’s pretty clear there ain’t none of us here willing to turn back regardless of whatever lies ahead of us.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pastor Page agreed. The pastor was a large and tough built man. Before he had heard the Lord’s call and took to preaching the word, he had been a farmer like his father before him. Even after the Lord blessed him with his own church, Pastor Page had kept on farming just the same during his spare time. He as a firm believer that hard work and toil were good for the soul. All those years spent in the fields showed on his hands, tanned skin, and in his muscles. Of the men in the wagon train only Earl was bigger but it was impossible to say who was stronger. Pastor Page hoped there would never be an occasion to find out either. Like all men who lived off the land in this age, he was no stranger to violence. He never sought it out, but it had found him in his life more than once. There were times he had been forced to raise a hand to defend a battered wife or an abused child. Very few people he met ever took him for a man of God until they heard him speak and saw the well-worn Bible he rarely put down clutched tightly in his hands.
John interrupted his thoughts again. “Pastor, if those Indians do come for us, can I count on you to stand with me? I mean, I know killing is a sin and all but. . .”
