decay. Seventy brutal Alaska winters have a nasty habit of doing that to a place. Tommy and Buck walked along a gravel path strewn with debris; bits of rusted piping, metal girders. There was even a porcelain toilet propped up against a wall, a healthy crack right down the middle.
Buck raised the hand wrapped in the bloodied hanky and pointed straight ahead. In the distance Tommy could see the depot shed with a patch of side paneling that looked as though someone had been yanking at it. This was Buck’s handy work.
“You’re sure it was dead, right?” Tommy asked, trying to ignore the squeak in his voice.
“I can guarantee you I bashed its head in with a cinder block. Trust me, it’s deader’n a doornail.”
A minute later they arrived at the shed. On a patch of yellowing grass was a cinderblock caked and crusted in blood, just like Buck had said. And on the metal siding was a thin red line that ran down one of the grooves. The place where Buck had cut himself. Again, just like he had said. But the creature was nowhere to be found.
Tommy looked over at Buck. The stunned look on the old man’s face slowly twisted into alarm.
“There’s no way it could have survived that…” Buck was mumbling as he scanned the ground for a trail of blood and found none. Neither did Tommy. He was about to suggest that they split up and search for where it might have disappeared to, when something far above them blocked out the sun. A cloud had just passed over. At least that was Tommy’s first thought, but deep down he knew that clouds don’t make a sound like the one he had just heard. Clouds don’t sound like industrial sized fans pushing at the air in great swoops. Both men looked up into the sky, blinking at the sun, and it was then, at nearly the same instant in time, that their jaws fell open.
What had blocked out the light was no passing cloud, no Jumbo Jet flying far overhead, but the wing of something that defied logic. Tommy tried to speak, but his mouth felt like it had been filled with a bucket of hot sand. Beside him, Buck’s chapping lips formed a perfect O. And for a moment they stood at attention, watching as something inexplicable circled overhead.
Tommy spoke first. “You seeing what I’m seeing? Wingspan’s gotta be nearly thirty feet. Oh God, Buck, what is that? What is that damned thing Buck? Buck, what in sweet he-”
Buck grabbed the meat at the back of Tommy’s arm and squeezed as hard as he could. Tommy yanked free with a yelp and for another timeless second both men stood staring at each other, the same thought telegraphed on their faces: “Run!”
Tommy looked down and like in slow motion saw the blood dripping from Buck’s hand. A small puddle had collected in the gravel by his feet. And a terrifying thought struck him with the force of a hurricane. He was thinking of the great white shark again, but no sooner had this thought begun to solidify than it was drowned out by the shriek—a nerve shattering sound—so loud it sent the hairs on the back of their respective necks straight up. When Tommy looked up again, the creature had already started to dive.
Both men spun on their heels. The car couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away. But right now that felt like the longest hundred yards of their lives. They were two men who in all their collective years had never backed down from a single fight. Two men who could hold their own under any circumstance. Two men who were running with everything they had.
• • •
Tommy was the first to fall. He tripped over a rusted metal pipe and went sprawling along the gravel path, arms stretched out like Superman. The flapping behind him had become deafening. Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp!
But he didn’t dare look back, especially when he saw the expression on Buck’s face up ahead as he glanced over his shoulder. The old man’s face had gone the color of sour milk. Tommy scrambled to his feet and it was about then that he felt the
Buck raised the hand wrapped in the bloodied hanky and pointed straight ahead. In the distance Tommy could see the depot shed with a patch of side paneling that looked as though someone had been yanking at it. This was Buck’s handy work.
“You’re sure it was dead, right?” Tommy asked, trying to ignore the squeak in his voice.
“I can guarantee you I bashed its head in with a cinder block. Trust me, it’s deader’n a doornail.”
A minute later they arrived at the shed. On a patch of yellowing grass was a cinderblock caked and crusted in blood, just like Buck had said. And on the metal siding was a thin red line that ran down one of the grooves. The place where Buck had cut himself. Again, just like he had said. But the creature was nowhere to be found.
Tommy looked over at Buck. The stunned look on the old man’s face slowly twisted into alarm.
“There’s no way it could have survived that…” Buck was mumbling as he scanned the ground for a trail of blood and found none. Neither did Tommy. He was about to suggest that they split up and search for where it might have disappeared to, when something far above them blocked out the sun. A cloud had just passed over. At least that was Tommy’s first thought, but deep down he knew that clouds don’t make a sound like the one he had just heard. Clouds don’t sound like industrial sized fans pushing at the air in great swoops. Both men looked up into the sky, blinking at the sun, and it was then, at nearly the same instant in time, that their jaws fell open.
What had blocked out the light was no passing cloud, no Jumbo Jet flying far overhead, but the wing of something that defied logic. Tommy tried to speak, but his mouth felt like it had been filled with a bucket of hot sand. Beside him, Buck’s chapping lips formed a perfect O. And for a moment they stood at attention, watching as something inexplicable circled overhead.
Tommy spoke first. “You seeing what I’m seeing? Wingspan’s gotta be nearly thirty feet. Oh God, Buck, what is that? What is that damned thing Buck? Buck, what in sweet he-”
Buck grabbed the meat at the back of Tommy’s arm and squeezed as hard as he could. Tommy yanked free with a yelp and for another timeless second both men stood staring at each other, the same thought telegraphed on their faces: “Run!”
Tommy looked down and like in slow motion saw the blood dripping from Buck’s hand. A small puddle had collected in the gravel by his feet. And a terrifying thought struck him with the force of a hurricane. He was thinking of the great white shark again, but no sooner had this thought begun to solidify than it was drowned out by the shriek—a nerve shattering sound—so loud it sent the hairs on the back of their respective necks straight up. When Tommy looked up again, the creature had already started to dive.
Both men spun on their heels. The car couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away. But right now that felt like the longest hundred yards of their lives. They were two men who in all their collective years had never backed down from a single fight. Two men who could hold their own under any circumstance. Two men who were running with everything they had.
• • •
Tommy was the first to fall. He tripped over a rusted metal pipe and went sprawling along the gravel path, arms stretched out like Superman. The flapping behind him had become deafening. Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp!
But he didn’t dare look back, especially when he saw the expression on Buck’s face up ahead as he glanced over his shoulder. The old man’s face had gone the color of sour milk. Tommy scrambled to his feet and it was about then that he felt the
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