Speaker 1: War of the Species by Greg Ballin. My friends were
several miles south of deer Camp, anxiously hoping to fill
their deer tags. I wanted to take some shots too,
with my nikon and my new twelve hundred millimeters zoom lens.
I didn't mind the constant teasing on the six hour
drive to Five Pawns Wilderness in upstate New York, but
it got a bit old on the two hour height
to the remote woodlands. One can only hear the p
words so many times my friends weren't in the best shape.
Their beer bellies and love handles spilled over their blaut
camo double chins, overflowed tight and flannel collars, and wheezing
from carrying those heavy frames and extra pounds were clearly audible.
My retorts regarding the less than stellar physiques hid a
few raw nerves, and by the time we'd set up camp,
the light hearted animosity was all but forgotten. They'd planned
their hunt and I'd planned my route for pictures. These
were my friends of twenty five years. We all shook
hands and headed into the deep forest on opposite directions,
them to fill their tags in freezers and me to
fill a sim card with photos. I had been walking
and taking pictures for over two hours. The forest was kind,
providing me close up shots of deer, dozens of bird
species and squirrels, and a few fox that sprinted into
their den as I photographed them. Fall provided a kaleidoscope
of colors and background for some amazing scenic shots. The
miles of hiking and walking, along with carrying my camera
and bulky pistol, took a toll on my legs. I
stopped by a creek and splashed some water on my face,
and I flopped down upon a large moss covered rock.
The autumn sun was getting low in the sky, adopting
an orange glow versus the yellow shine of early afternoon daylight.
The GPS on my phone could take me back to
our camp easily, but navigating a strange forest in the
dark wasn't the smartest move. I'd have to move fast,
but I was confident I could beat the setting sun.
I took one last splash of cool water before heading
back to camp. The woods were eerily quiet, and the
constant afternoon breeze ceased rustling the leaves. Nothing in the
forest moved, a blanket of silence. Dominated everything around me.
Dread crept from my lower back up my spine, raising
the hair on the nape of my neck. I hastened
my pace, following the GPS indicator on on my phone.
Rapid light footsteps off a narrow game trail paced me.
I stopped to listen. The steps fell silent. I was
breathing hard, sucking in deep breasts, and gulping the air.
The footsteps circle behind me. My hand fell off my
camera case, caressing the grip of my forty four magnum
Tucked in my shoulder holster, my right index and middle
finger unsnapped the locking loop, and my hand circled the
pistol grip, slowly freeing the eight inch stainless steel barrel.
I continued walking, and my past not as frantic, but
quick and determined. The footsteps followed, staying hidden deeper off
the trail. I'd gone another half mile, ignoring my woodland stalker,
but keeping my ear peeled. If the steps grew closer
and the woods erupted in the yelping of coyotes, the
scream of a child through the howling, my stalker was
a kid. A tore through the forest, chasing the horrible,
terrified shriek. A pack of large codies surrounded a tiny
child covered in black clothing. One of the canines leapt forward,
tackling the child, and I screamed a warning and then
fired my revolver in the air. The creatures broke off
their attack to face me a new threat. Fear raced
through every fiber of my being. These weren't coyotes. They
were far too big, with savagely large teeth. One of
the canines rushed forward, gaping, maul open and threatening to
rip me apart. I fired, and a plume of flame
and a concussion roared through the forest. The wolf like
creature dropped in a heap barely ten feet from me.
The three other creatures growled and hissed angrily, burning red
eyes locked in the still smoking barrel of my weapon.
Leave the kid alone, or I'll kill you all, appointed
the gun, sweeping the barrel on each creature. They couldn't
understand my words, but the animals knew the gun was
a danger. Something came out of the woods behind the
wolf like creatures. Long powerful arms part of the tall
sapling pines like twigs. Its hands were massive, with long,
bony fingers ending in savage two inch claws. The face
was pure wolf, eyes burning like hot coals. The canines
retreated behind the man wolf, and the thing raised both arms,
growling as it charged toward me. I raised my weapon,
firing twice. The funk of three hundred grain magnum slugs
tearing into meat made a sick sound. The creature buckled,
falling on all four. Still charged forward, and it hit
me with the force of a freight train, knocking me
off my feet. Razor sharp claws swiped across my chest,
shredding my jacket and my camera straps, and slicing my
flesh like a scalding knife. Well. The pain burned, and
an agony of endless throbbing and bony fingers wrapped around
my throat, lifting me off the ground. I felt my
bladder empty. Hot urine ran down my legs as this
hell beast held me dangling two feet off the ground.
Fist like claws squeezed my throat, and by some miracle,
I still had my weapon. I pointed the revolver at
the beast's head, shoving the barrel into its tooth filled maw,
and squeezed the trigger its head exploded, and brain matter
and bits of skull carpeted the forest floor. The remaining
wolf like creatures howled in shock as their leader crumped,
blood still pumping out its exposed neck arteries. I hit
the ground hard, still gripping my gun. Adrenaline course through
my body. My limbs trembled with excess energy. The raw
fear ebbed away as I studied the dead creature. It
was easily eight feet tall, even without the head, which
was splattered across the woods. My mind struggled with what
my eyes beheld. Things like this existed only in horror
movies or bogus television documentaries. A weeping sound interrupted my
struggling brain. The child. How bad? Had that wolf like
creature harmed the child? What the hell was the child
doing in the middle of this isolated forest. I holstered
my weapon and leaped toward the unmoving form huddled in
a ball. Hey are you okay? The child continued to whimper.
As I got closer, reality kicked me in the groin again.
This wasn't a human child. What I thought was black
clothing was black fur or hair. The small being was
barely three feet tall. It was thin with lanky arms.
They were covered with black, matted hair. The tiny face
was the only part having exposed skin. The naked creature,
clearly a male, looked at me, eyes wide with fear.
I cursed my own stupidity. What child would be alone
in these desolate woodlands? What was I thinking earlier? You idiot? Yeah,
a kid following me. The boy was trembling, curled up
in a tight ball. Look, I won't hurt you, and
I held my hand out open. I hoped he would
understand the gesture. The howl of wolves echoed through the forest.
Oh man, those wolf lies like animals were calling reinforcements.
I needed to retreat fast, but I wasn't going to
leave this poor thing behind to get torn apart. I
reached out my open hand, moving toward him slowly. I
won't hurt you, I said. I kept repeating those words,
forcing my thoughts out, praying to God that somehow this
boy would understand my gesture. He pointed a tiny finger
toward my bleeding chest. Hurt. The word came out as
a guttural grunt, but I understood what he said. Was
this a wild boy somebody abandoned? Nothing about him made sense.
I saw the gaping wound in his leg, and I
pointed to it. Hurt, I repeated. I tore a piece
of flannel off my tattered shirt, dousing it with the
last of my water. Held up the soak cloth help.
I cleaned the wound and wrapped another piece of cloth
around his thin leg. As I tightened the makeshift bandage,
the answer dropped on me like an anchor. No, it
can't be. You're a baby bigfoot wolf men and now
a pint sized sasquatch with a dragon dropped from the
sky's next. The tiny boy stared at me with his
black eyes, his head tilted and almost a human look
of confusion, not understanding what I was saying. The wolf
cries were even closer. We had to go now, and
I took a wrist and gently picked up the child.
It seemed to understand, and it wrapped its long arms
around my neck and shoulders. My camera gear was scattered
across the leaf covered ground. I couldn't carry the child,
my weapon, and the camera gear. I would have to
leave it behind. Say goodbye to a two thousand dollars lens,
I thought. I took the child away from the battlezone
as fast as my legs were to carry us, stopping
only to glance at my phone's GPS screens. The howls
became deafening, My gut tightened, and the fear spread deeper
into my soul. I silently prayed. My friends heard the
sounds and were also on their way to camp with
their big boar rifles. I was woefully unprepared for this
kind of conflict. The sun was setting as I reached camp.
My friends were nowhere to be seen, and the wolf
house seemed to be everywhere. In my brilliance, I had
managed to piss off an entire army of wolf like monsters.
Good job, idiot, I muttered, desperately, igniting the largest campfire
I could control safely. The warmth in the light was
small comfort as darkness wallowed the forest. My companions set
away from the flames, wrapped in the thermal blanket. The
tiny sasquatch devoured two blueberry nola bars and three pieces
of deer jerky. I ransacked my friend's tents, desperately looking
for anything I could use as a weapon. Jim had
left a semi auto twelve gage shotgun behind in a
box of heavy slug grounds. I loaded the shotgun to
you with six rounds and reloaded my revolver. I had
two speedloaders prepped, expending the last of my pistol ammunition.
The blood curdling howls were barely twenty yards away. The
hairs on the nape of my neck stood, and my
spine tingled, and every instinct I had told me to run.
My brain knew there was no place to run toward.
The firelight was my only protection. The woods around my
camp rustled with footsteps. They were here, following the scent
of our blood through the three plus miles of forest.
The child bigfoot shrieked a cost so loud and powerful
my ribs and stomach vibrated inside my body. The world
went silent. Three wolves broke from the tree line, sprinting
toward me. I fired the shotgun into the burning red eyes,
and the animals dropped. Two larger wolfmen broke from the forest,
hurling rocks in my direction. I ducked as the softball
sized boulders whizzed over my head, crushing my buddy's tent.
I emptied the shotgun toward their heads, splattering one skull
but striking the other in the chest. Twice. The wounded
one stumbled forward. More wolves appeared, leaving the tree line,
approaching the camp. I emptied my revolver into the wolfman,
giving a silent thanks that it finally fell to the ground.
The three wolves stopped and then retreated slightly. I was shaking,
but I managed to reload six more slugs into the
shotgun and another six rounds into my revolver. I was
pitifully out matched, only prolonging the inevity. They must have
sensed it. The woods erupted and five wolf men charged,
followed by a dozen of the four legged beasts. I
emptied both weapons, barely slowing the oncoming onslaught. The wolf
slammed into me, knocking me backwards, its tooth filled mal
snapping inches from my throat. I was fighting for my life.
Desperation gave me strength, though, and I got my legs
under this creature, and I pushed it off with the
last of my waiting strength. The animal fell back, landing
in the blazing campfire. Its shrieks of pain gave me
some satisfaction as its heavy fur set of blaze. More
wolves tore through the camp, destroying everything in their path.
The iron hard claws of a man wolf wrapped around
my throat. The large thing snarled, holding me in mid air,
and a single claw tore through my shoulder. But I
refused to scream. I go to die. This bastard wasn't
going to hear me howl in pain. A basketball sized
rock flew from the darkness, crushing the wolf barely three
feet beside me. Another type of wolf echoed through the forest.
The wolfmen and their canine army fell silent. I was
tossed away like a rag doll. The canine army formed up,
growling and hissing, and the ground beneath me shook with tremors.
An angry stampede of large, heavy footsteps charged the campground
from the opposite direction. My little sasquatch friend must have
called his parents, and they brought the rest of the family.
I crawled toward the young creature. It was wounded, blood
hemorrhage to spilling on the green grass and staining at red.
Several large rocks were batted away by the wolfmen, and
I dared to look up. Ten of the wolf men
stood ready, and at least a dozen massive wolves stood
by their growling. Upon a command, they charged forward toward
the stampede. I scrambled over to the child, shielding it
with my battered body, desperately covering us with the remnant
of my tent. The child was shivering, or was that me?
The night roared with sounds louder than any lion or
angry elephant could ever hope to match. The shrieking and roaring,
and sometimes the screams of agony continued for almost twenty
terrifying minutes. Without warning, the forest went silent, and the
roars and screams of rage and agony didn't fade gradually.
All sound just ceased. My thundering heartbeat was the only
noise defying the silence. I lifted the piece of tent
off of us. My campfire was still crackling, burning brightly.
The child held on to me with a grip of fear,
and I struggled to stand, and the pain in my
chest and shoulder were almost unbearable. The child pointed at
the bloody, gaping wound in my shoulder hurt. It grunted.
I nodded, instinctively, holding it like it was my own hurt.
I whispered back. My foot kicked something large flashlight rolled
a few feet from me, and I knelt down, ignoring
the searing pain, and picked up the light, and by
some miracle, it survived. The hideous onslaught. A three thousand
candlepower beam punched hole in the darkness beyond the fire.
Now dial the beam into a wider setting. Cautiously walking
toward the now silent battleground, the spotlight bathed several still
figures sprawled on the blood soaked earth. Two wolfmen were
quite literally broken in half. A being that I could
only identify as an adult bigfoot was sprawled over a
large stone. Foes carved away a large section of its torso.
I moved the light in a semi circle. The field
was a sea of death. A large wolf was whimpering
in pain, its hind leg twisted in an unnatural angle
as blood poured from its mouth. Dear God in Heaven,
I said, that was all I could come up with.
As my brain struggled to comprehend the level of ferocity
needed to inflict these mortal battle wounds, I heard movement
and I spun the beam of light. A large wolf
man was carrying away a dead comrade. It looked at
me and then turned swallowed by the dark forest a
few meters away, being easily ten foot tall, was helping
another hairy creature limp away from the carnage. The battle
was fought, and they were carrying away. They're dead and
assisting the wounded, and I had no interest in discovering
who was the victor or who was the vanquished. From
what little I observed, both sides suffered heavy losses. I
carried my wounded friend back to the campfire and did
my best to clean the puncture wounds in its upper arm. Hurt,
it whispered as I tied more flannel shirt around his
arm as a makeshift bandage. I nodded sadly as the
images of death and blood stained my conscience hurt. I
could feel myself going into shock. Bigfoot was real. What
other horrors lay out in the wilderness that I scoffed
at as mere fairy tales? The wolfmen or the dog men,
as the documentaries had labeled them, were supposedly supernatural creatures
with paranormal abilities. I'd heard stories about them. They were
the enemy of the s squatch, the fairy tale version
of lions and hyenas natural enemies and rivals battling over food.
And t territory, each killing the other with no remorse.
Both factions fought some kind of turf war, and I
was in the middle of it. Was this round one
with the survivors licked their wounds and regroup and re engage.
Where were my friends? It was well passed dark, and
they should have been back by now, had they met
a horrific end like I almost did. The small one
tapped my shoulder, pointing toward the darkness. Zaba. A si
squatch easily twelve feet tall, emerged out of the darkness.
My bowels clenched. I'd already peed myself at least three times.
I struggled not to soil my drawers. Next to the
behemoth stood a definite female, shorter and more demure, but
easily eight feet tall and capable of killing me with
one blow. I had no means of defending myself, not
that I considered shooting these creatures. The female took several
steps towards me, and the child continued to repeat Saba.
I assumed that meant mother. I picked up the little
bigfoot and carried him toward his mom. My insides were jello.
Every nerve frayed as I struggled not to soil my underwear. Saba,
I said loud enough to be heard, and presented her
the child. Massive hands relieved me of the baby bigfoot.
The mother studied the flannel bandages as the child kept
repeating hurt. The mother looked at me and nodded her
head and actually smiled. I nodded back as a smile
decorated my face. The massive male grunted once both turned
and disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. My body was shaking.
Fear and shock and terror simultaneously rocketed through me. I
dropped her one, allowing myself a moment to recover. Struggling
to rationalize the horrors I'd witnessed, I knelt in silence
for several minutes before daring to stand. The woods were
alive with noise again. The horrors had passed. A cold
mist settled over the woodlands, chilling my bones in a
different way than the earlier terror. I needed to focus
on survival and forced my brain out of the shocking
deuced fog. I sorted through the camp wreckage and salvaged
a pillow and a sleeping bag and a first aid kit,
and I patched myself up as best as I could,
and I scavenged for food that had been kicked around
the area. I piled several more logs on the fire,
hoping the roaring blaze would discourage any more visitors. The
carcasses of the dead wolves and wolf men around my
camp had also been retrieved. My gut told me there'd
be no more fighting tonight. More death would be senseless.
I had nothing left. An exhaustion overtook the waning adrenaline rush,
and I crawled into the sleeping bag. And I let
the blackness of oblivion claim me. I succumbed to the
pain of my wounds and the shock to my psyche.
It was even money if i'd make it through the night.
I woke to the sound of birds and chipmunks. Everything hurt.
A cool breeze hit my face, forcing me deeper into
the sleeping bag. The memories of last night trickled into
my head. The fear grew inside me. I was exposed
and vulnerable. My body was a mass of pain and
knotted muscle tissue. The ribs on my left side ached
with each breath. I inhaled, deep, wincing, unzipping the sleeping
bag and painfully wriggling out. My jeans and undergarments were
damp and reeked of furine. How many times had I
wet myself during the battle, And how deep was my
shock after that battle that I didn't even feel the discomfort.
Our once orderly camp lay in ruins, completely destroyed. God
only knows what happened to my friends. Were they alive
or had they met some horrible fate last night, a
fate I had somehow been spared well. The fire was
still going, and I took a few minutes to stir
the embers and feed the flames, and the warmth was comforting,
and I scrambled through the scattered belongings and found a
change of clothes and some wet naps and several bottles
of water strewn throughout the camp. Daylight made it easier
to salvage what was left of our supplies, and the
crewed wet nap, bath and a change of clothing made
me feel a little better. I spent more time inventoring
what supplies weren't trampled or destroyed. The tents were beyond salvage.
Uler of food miraculously survived unharmed. My friend's beer cooler
was a total loss, as was the propane cooking stove
and two bags of dried goods. Sometime during the evening
and early morning, raccoons and other scavengers found the cookies
and crackers and bread no other dried goods scattered by
the rampaging wolf army. I salvaged what I could, which
wasn't much. I crunched the cookie as I carried back
a small number of recovered supplies. I hung a kettle
of water over the fire and enjoyed a cup of
instant coffee with dried creamer. It was getting warmer as
the sun rose higher into the sky. The shock of
last night lingered in my system. I didn't know if
these things were watching me, ready to finish what they
started last night, or if they had moved on or
to another part of the woods to recover and regroup.
I was exposed and literally helpless. Curiosity gradually replaced my
sense of fear and shot I needed to find my
revolver and the shotgun, so I painfully made my way
to where I'd made my last stand. The table was
knocked over. My super red revolver lay half buried under
kicked up debris, and by some miracle, the weapon was
unharmed and the last six round speed loader lay barely
a foot away. The shotgun was buried under tent debris,
and the remaining slugs were scattered among the earth. I
managed to find half the box of shells my friend
left behind with the weapon. I took a minute reloading
each weapon, replacing the shoulder hoster and cycling a slug
round into the shotgun chamber. There was a false sense
of comfort. Being armed weapons gave me a small but
misplaced sense of security. Armed as I was, I was
still no match for the horrors living in these woods.
Last night's encounter made that all too clear. Where were
my friends? That was my objective through the morning, find
my friends and get the hell out of here. I
made my way toward the main battleground, expecting to see
a field of devastation, but to my surprise, several deer
were grazing at the clearing's edge, and a flock of
wild turkey meandered through the middle of the torn up clearing.
All dead were gone, the blood soaked rocks were missing,
and the red stained grasses were plowed under with a
fresh coat of dirt. More signs than These creatures were
not just intelligent, but synthient. I headed into the woods
on a northwest game trail, following the hike laid out
by my friends the day before, and I silently prayed
that they had found refuge somewhere and we would meet
up within the next hour or two. Had been hiking
for over an hour, following a well used game trail,
I found their tracks and I knew I was heading
in the right direction. Shit large wolf tracks intermixed with
my friends. I quickened my pace, ignoring the searing pain
in my left lung. The trail turned a sharp corner
and I came across another hellish scene. Blood and tattered
fragments of clothing and over a dozen empty brass casings
from my friend's rifles littered the area. Small pine saplings
were bathed in dark, dried blood. They were attacked by
the wolves, and they did fight back. My grip on
the shotgun tightened and I raised the weapon, turning a
complete circle, ready to empty the tube with the slightest movement.
But I saw nothing, and the chipmunks chattered endlessly, and
the sparrows and crows seemed oblivious to any threat. Three
gray squirrels scampered through the grad, ignoring my presence. Were
they dead, torn apart limb from limb like I would
have been if not for the sisquatch army. I was
afraid to keep looking, afraid that if I kept going,
I'd find the hell beasts, and I too would have
forfeited to my second chance at life. Was retreating the
act of a coward? Could I live with myself if
I didn't go on? What rational sane person would believe
my tale? I was in the middle of warring species.
Were my hunting buddies casualties of that war taken by
the dog men and their wolf like army. Nobody would
believe me. I lived through it, and it still sounded
like the ravings of a lunatic covering up the murder
of his friends. I'd like to say courage pushed me forward,
but fear of three murder accusations, along with some courage,
motivated me to continue. The blood trails continued another one
hundred yards. There, partially buried were the bodies of my friends,
torn to pieces and half consumed. I couldn't stop my
screams of despair. They died the horrible death I was spared.
I had to hike out and inform the park rangers,
and the police owed them that much. Maybe I'd be
placed in a psychiatric ward instead of prison after I
told my tale. But I had to take the chance,
so I had faith maybe somebody would believe me. Maybe
the moon was made of cheese. I turned and headed out,
knowing I was doomed no matter what kind of tale
I told. I was in the hospital for two weeks,
in the psych ward for another several months. The park
rangers found my friends exactly where I said they would be.
They found my camera and lenses and shredded pack and
confirmed the devastation of our campsite. The police questioned me
five times three with light detectors and experts in the
field of criminology and psychology. All the experts said I
was telling the truth, or what I believed was the truth.
The forest rangers found massive footprints and paw prints in
the outlying woods by the clearing. Their searches were far
more thorough than mine, as they returned with fur and
hair and blood samples for DNA analysis. The tests on
the samples must have corroborated something in my fairy tale.
The looming threat of murder charges magically evaporated, and some
science nerds came to my room asking me all sorts
of questions. The official word was that I was attacked
by a stray pack of wild dogs and my friends
were the victims of a savage bear attack. I knew
it was all bullshit. They knew that. I knew it
was bullshit, But the key to getting released from detainment
was swallowing the BS tail and keeping my mouth shut.
Sweat streamed off my body. Another night waking up screaming,
reliving the horrors in my sleep. No amount of alcohol
or sleeping pills could get me through the night. Two
thirty am, like clockwork for the past five months, I
crawled out of the sweaty sheets, making my way to
my bowflex working out became my occupational therapy, much to
the dismay of the neighbors in my condo complex. I
had no one to talk to and no one to
share the horrors of my reality. I knew a dark
truth about the world and was forbidden to speak of it.
Who would believe me anyway? Two hours of exercise in
tai Chi and my mind still wasn't calm, and I
stared at the half empty bottle of jim Beam on
the top of my refrigerator. My booze wasn't going to
put my inner demons to rest. No matter how much
I drank, I couldn't drown those horrors. They were surfaced
every night, though, and I would slip into my sneakers
in a hoodie and my five in the morning heavy
bag session awaited me at the anytime fitness. After that,
I'd get my morning coffee and read the paper and
stare out the window, watching the blissfully ignorant lead their
annoyingly normal lives, unaware of the horror surrounding them. I'd
explored miles of woodlands around my home, and the woods
were full of small coyotes and deer and a few
black bear, nothing out of the ordinary. I should take
comfort in that, but it just pissed me off further.
Why didn't we just hunt here? You'd all be alive
and together I could live as one of the blissfully ignorant.
The sky was a beautiful shade of pink and orange.
As the sun rose, I sept my unusual brew, watching
the day star rise higher in the sky. The stream
of normals flowed in for their morning fuel, and I sighed,
rubbing my swollen knuckles. My mortgage payments were three months interrears,
and I couldn't focus on any kind of work. My
camera sat on the shelf, mocking me. The desire for
that perfect shot no longer burned in my heart. Taking
portraits and shooting weddings no longer appealed to me. I
pissed off several clients by simply canceling jobs. Soon I'd
be out on the street. I'd be homeless and jobless.
I should be afraid of losing my material things, but
I wasn't. I should be afraid of losing my home,
but I wasn't afraid of that either. I no longer
feared the normal. My terrors were nestled deep within two
hundred thousand acres of untamed wilderness woodlands that were best
forgotten and never trespassed by human feet or machine. Man
was not the alpha predator in those woods. Man was
the prey animal, like a deer, rabbit or wild turkey.
Man was on the menu. An epiphany befell me in
that corner booth, nursing my cup of tepid coffee. I
didn't belong among the living anymore. I should have died
with my friends. Maybe that's why I couldn't focus, or
concentrate or sleep. My clock should have been punched eight
months ago. Part of me desperately tried to convince myself
that I hadn't seen what I had seen. My experience
was a grand illusion born of some crazed hysteria. I
wanted to cling to that delusion and join the ranks
of the living again. My rational brain struggled unsuccessfully to
surrender to the false reality put upon me by therapists
in some unknown government agency. I knew what I had
to do. I had to go back and face the
unknown again. I was armed with awareness and knowledge this time.
Not that those two ideals would save me from being
torn limb from limb, but I needed to face the
demons that still haunted me. Mid Spring was the perfect
time to camp in the northern woodlands. The black flies
weren't hatched, and the mosquitoes couldn't endure the cool evenings
of a mountain spring. The snow had melted away and
the sun rose high in the afternoon sky, providing ample
ambient warmth. I camped in the same spot we had
before almost didn't recognize the area. The clearing had overgrown
with lush grass and clover, and the forests were green
with oak and maple leaves forming an emerald canopy over
the woodlands. I felt a sense of peace as I
set up my tiny camp, enjoying the sounds of birds
and chipmunks. All I had to do now was wait.
The dog men in the Bigfoot knew I was here.
You can't enter someone's home and have them not know
something somewhere was watching me. I couldn't feel it, but
I knew it. I emptied a nine pound sack of
apples and a three pound tenderloin i'd cooked before surrendering
the keys to my older brother. The wind would carry
the scent through the woods, and either Sasquatch or dog
men would smell the dinner bell. I didn't know whose
claim in this territory was valid. My guess was whichever
came to claim the meat was the winner of last
year's battle. I didn't have to wait long. The woods
went deadly silent, and I heard motion in the trees
barely twenty yards from my camp, behind the rows of
pine saplings. The thin trees parted and a side. Squatch
barely four feet in height, stepped into the clearing hurt.
It was the young one I befriended, and I reached
in my pocket, pulling out the three torn pieces of
flannel fabric. I held them up Friend, I called out
and pointed to the food offering. The youngster moved to
the apples, happily gorging himself. He slowly made his way
to me, extending his hand, and I reached out my
hand and our palms and fingers touched Friend. He grunted back.
He took the whole steak in one hand, grabbed three
more apples, and walked back to the woods. There, silhouetted
by the trees, was the same mother Sasquatch I'd seen before.
Not knowing what to do, I stood slowly and waved.
She lifted her massive hand, awkwardly repeating my gesture. Junior
shouted friend several times as they disappeared into the woodlands.
I had made successful contact. The Sasquatch family ruled here now,
and I hoped I'd be accepted and allowed to stay
here and continue making contact for whatever time I had left.
I had nothing else to live for, and it seemed
they didn't want me dead. Maybe out here where I
lost everything, I could find myself again. Maybe I could
finally find the peace denied me by civilization.