Bigfoot Beach Read online

  “Why don’t we just make our way over there?” said Mackenzie, referencing toward the left. “Walk down a little ways.”

  “Away from him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Then he remembered their shoes on the shore.

  Forget them. The tide will carry them away.

  They worked against the current, moving to the left. Waves tapped Ethan’s side, sprinkling cool water across his chest. Sand shifted under his feet, making him dip and stumble.

  “Son of a bitch,” gasped Mackenzie.

  Ethan didn’t need to ask what had her upset. He looked toward the shore and saw the large shape was moving with them. He walked slightly leaning forward, shoulders slouching as long arms dangled by his knees.

  My God…his hands…

  The fingers were elongated chubby digits the size of humorous cigars from a gag shop. Balls of knuckles jutted up, gnarling the fingers into deformed slices.

  “He’s following us,” said Mackenzie

  “Uh-huh…” He tugged her arm. “Come on.”

  “I’m trying.”

  A stronger wave knocked into them, shoving Mackenzie against Ethan. Both of them dipped into the water. Salt water deluged his eyes, burning and blinding. “Damn!” He rubbed his eyes with his forearm, only achieving to spread even more water into his eyes.

  His eyes felt sore and strained as he blinked the water away. Finally, he could somewhat see again. As if looking through a blurred camera lens, he scanned the shoreline.

  The figure was gone.

  “Mackenzie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is he gone?”

  He felt Mackenzie turn. “I don’t see him.”

  “Are you sure? I got water in my eyes and can hardly see shit.”

  A moment of silence, then, “No. He’s not there.”

  “Good.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, tugging him forward, towards the shore.

  “Where do you think he went?”

  “I don’t care, so long as he’s gone.”

  The ground under their feet felt like soggy oatmeal as they trampled over it, pulling Ethan down to his ankle. He yanked on his leg to extricate himself.

  Finally, the water level started to drop. Subtly at first, the water sank to his abdomen. It went away to his crotch. Another couple steps and he was exposed to his knees. Then he could only feel the retracting fluxes under his feet as the tide pulled the water back into the ocean.

  Bending at the waist, Ethan put his hands on his knees and breathed. He was more winded than he wanted to be, proving to himself how much he’d neglected exercise this year. Water dribbled down from his body, leaving shallow dots in the sand.

  A breeze drifted across his wet skin, feeling like cold tongues licking.

  He felt Mackenzie’s hand on his back. Her nails poked him.

  “Ouch! You’ve got some sharp nails.”

  Then he noticed Mackenzie standing off to his left, retying the knot of her bikini strap at her hip. She glanced at him. “What were you saying…?” Her words petered out as her lips started to quiver. Eyes rounding, she raised her arm, pointing.

  A horrible odor like a dead fish soaked in skunk spray wafted through the salty air. It brought tears to Ethan’s eyes, gagging him.

  What the hell’s behind me?

  Ethan slowly turned around. His eyes landed on a hairy chest with thick pectoral muscles bulging like two furry boulders.

  Ethan slowly looked up.

  He opened his mouth to scream.

  Giant hands clamped each side of his face, wrenching his head around in one quick spin of splintery cracks. Ethan could see Mackenzie again, stumbling backward. Her feet became entangled and she tripped, landing hard on her rump.

  Ethan knew his head had been twisted around. But other than the first quick burst of popping bone, there was no pain. His legs folded, dropping forward, but to Ethan it felt as if he was falling backward.

  The massive thing stepped around him, heading for Mackenzie. Its feet made heavy punching sounds in the wet sand. As the thing scooped up Mackenzie and tossed her over its shoulder, Ethan dropped onto his side.

  It ran down the shoreline. Mackenzie, screaming for Ethan to help, pounded the undulating hairy back with her fists. Then the shadows swallowed them. Mackenzie’s shrieks slowly faded.

  The last image his brain processed was the giant, humanoid footprint in the sand.

  1

  “There's not going to be any girls there if everybody's gone home already,” Gunner said.

  Paul Thompson looked at his son in the rearview mirror. The kid was a duplication of himself at seventeen, save their hairstyles. The teenaged Paul had worn his hair shaggy around the ears and front, slightly long in the back—not quite a mullet, but close. Though Gunner's hair was a tad lengthy, he kept it mostly neat, which Paul was thankful for.

  “There's going to be local girls,” said Paul. “Those are much better.”

  “What makes them better, Daddy?” asked Natalie from her booster seat. She was on the right of the 4Runner’s backseat, and had been gazing at the undulant waves of the ocean beyond the sandy fields for the last several miles.

  Giving his eight-year-old daughter a glance in the mirror, Paul felt that familiar lump in his throat. She was such a pretty little girl, who'd grow up to become beautiful. Boys already threw themselves at her feet, volunteering to do whatever she wanted. Sometimes she used her natural gift to her benefit if someone had a snack she wanted, or if a Mom had sent chocolate milk with lunch or pudding for dessert. Her hair was the longest it ever had been, hanging well past her shoulders in golden waves. If Alisha was here, she’d find the next stylist on the way and make them stop.

  Alisha.

  Paul released a ragged sigh. He couldn't let his mind drift to Alisha, and his worries of how she's holding up, already.

  “Daddyyy?” The impatient tone in her voice was followed by the smack of a tiny hand on her knee.

  “Well…Gunner will tell you.”

  Natalie looked at Gunner, her eyes widening as the eager smile curled her mouth.

  Shaking his head, Gunner said, “I can't if I don't even know the answer.”

  Paul laughed. “Fine. Local girls are here to stay. So they're not pretending to be someone else for a few days during their fantasy getaway. You know what kind of girl you're getting without all the games.”

  Gunner was quiet as Natalie snickered. Paul waited for Gunner's response, but after a couple minutes, he understood he wasn't getting one. Gunner had finally said something after two hours of silence only to shut up again after two comments.

  Better than nothing.

  Paul turned on the radio. He pushed the seek button and waited for the receiver to pick up something. A song by the Beach Boys came on. “Awesome!” Snapping his fingers, Paul glanced into the backseat. “Sing along!”

  Grimacing, Gunner shook his head. Natalie laughed, clapping with the beat. Though she was off-rhythm, Paul was glad to have her in the band.

  Paul butchered the words to “Surfin' U.S.A.”, but Natalie didn't notice. If Gunner did, he gave no mention of it, for that would call for him to stop staring out the window. Paul detected the sadness and regret forcing the frown on his son's face, because he felt the same way.

  Up ahead on the right, Paul spotted the town sign. A giant seashell welcomed them in, the town's name displayed between wooden palm trees.

  “We're here!” he called.

  “Yay!” said Natalie, clapping.

  The announcement pulled Gunner from the window. Lowering his head to see through the windshield, his frown seemed to dip lower.

  “What's wrong?” asked Paul.

  “I thought you were joking when you said the name of the town we’re moving to was Seashell Cove.”

  “Nope. I'm not that funny.”

  “Wow.” Sighing, Gunner collapsed against the seat. “Wonderful.”

  “Come on, Gunner.
What's wrong with the name?”

  “What isn't? Sounds gay—goofy.” He glanced at his sister, slightly worried.

  “No, it doesn't. And watch your mouth.”

  “Bigfoot Beach,” said Natalie. “Daddy, what's that mean?”

  “Bigfoot what?” he asked.

  “Bigfoot Beach. That's what it said on that big sign back there.”

  Gunner laughed.

  Confused, Paul looked in the rearview mirror, as if he might be able to see the sign himself. Of course, he couldn't now that he’d left it behind. “What sign, baby?”

  “It was a big yellow sign back there.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.”

  He wondered what it actually had said for his daughter to have misinterpreted it so badly.

  “Red light,” said Gunner.

  “Huh?”

  “Red light.”

  Paul faced the front and saw the stoplight. The top circle blazed red. “Shit!” He stomped the brake. The tires screeched as they bounced to a halt. Thankfully there were no cars in front of him, or he'd have rear-ended them for sure. The tangy stink of burning rubber wafted inside the cab.

  “Not even residents for a full minute and you almost perform a traffic violation?” asked Gunner. “Terrible first impression for the soon-to-be deputy.”

  Paul's heart pounded. Hands gripping the steering wheel so fiercely, his knuckles were white. “Not now, Gunner.”

  “Just pointing out…”

  “I don't think you need to point it out. We all saw what happened.”

  “Your nearly running a red light?”

  Because Paul was happy to have his son finally talking, he ignored his snarky tone. “Well, I don't claim to be the most attentive driver, but—”

  A giant furry head crashed onto the hood of the car, eclipsing most of the windshield.

  The abrupt landing cut off Paul's words, making him jump in his seat and throw both arms out as if to shield his children behind him. The lifeless gray eyes inside the massive head seemed to stare through him. Its face was almost human-like, with an ape's nose, and dingy black hair stirring in the breeze. The crooked mouth was full of dull teeth, and a bloated tongue canted to the side.

  Natalie screamed first, Gunner followed. Then Paul joined them. With the Thompsons screaming in three different timbres, Paul barely heard the car honking from behind to alert him the light had changed.

  A hand knocking on the passenger window caught Paul's attention. His scream ebbed to a soft whine in the back of his throat. An old man leaned down, gazing into the car through the glass. He wore a wide-brimmed khaki hat, the kind a gardener might have on to keep the sun off his neck. His eyes were squinted blue streaks on a heavily tanned face rutted with wrinkles. Teeth so perfect they had to be dentures showed behind a pleasant smile.

  “Hello there,” he said, waving.

  Paul cautiously raised his hand, offering a single stroke back.

  “Gave you quite a start, huh?” His voice was muffled through the glass.

  So was the blaring horn behind them.

  “Um…” Paul looked in the rearview mirror, seeing the front of a car at his backside. Though there was a glare on the windshield, it wasn't so bright to block out the middle finger being thrust in his direction.

  The old man gestured the car, signaling for them to go around. “Pull off to the side here, so I can take care of the mishap for you, if you don't mind. These damn tourists get a little impatient, especially when they want to pack up and leave.”

  A BMW pulled up beside him. The horn blared one last time, then the car sped off.

  “Why's he so mean, Daddy?” asked Natalie.

  “Probably needs to change his meds,” Paul said.

  Natalie wrinkled her nose. Clearly she didn’t understand Paul’s bland humor.

  “Must not be enjoying his stay very much,” said Gunner. “Can't say I blame him.”

  “Not now, Gunner.”

  Stepping away from the car, the old man motioned Paul over. He pointed at an empty parking spot in front of a row of buildings. Written in colorful paint on the window of the nearest one was an advertisement for discounted hermit crabs.

  Paul cranked the wheel as far to the right it would go. He eased his foot down on the gas and slowly rolled into the parking space. He straightened out. When the tires bumped the curb, he put the gear in park. He started to shut off the engine, but decided to leave it on so the kids would have the A/C. “Stay in the car, guys.”

  “Come on, Dad,” said Gunner, annoyed.

  Paul sighed, nodding. “Fine. Hop on out. Natalie, sit tight, I'll come back there and—”

  Natalie unfastened her seatbelt without any difficulty. It bothered Paul how easily she could do it on her own. Hopefully, she wouldn't do something dumb and unbuckle while he was driving.

  “Gunner, help her out of the car.”

  “I am, Dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  Paul killed the engine, snatching the keys from the ignition. He climbed out, dropping the keys in a pocket of his cargo shorts. Gunner hopped out, reached back into the car, and assisted Natalie. They joined him on his side and, together, walked around to the front.

  The old man was waiting for them on the sidewalk. He held his hand out to Paul. “I'm Quint Lingle.”

  “Paul Thompson.”

  The man nodded. “Thought you was. You look just like your brother.”

  “He's got a reputation as being good-looking, too?”

  Quint laughed. “Never heard any complaints from the women.”

  Paul glanced at Gunner, expecting to see a beam of pride on his son's face. Instead, he got a grimace of slight nausea.

  “Sorry about that,” said Quint, pointing at the hood of the car. “Mind if I check the hood for damage?”

  “No, not at all. If there’s any damage, I’ll trust you to handle it. We don’t need to get any insurance companies involved.”

  Quint gave Paul a weird look on his way to the 4Runner. “I’m talking about the head,” he said. “Took me a long time to put it together. Hopefully your gas-guzzler didn’t damage it.”

  “Right,” said Paul. “When it fell on my truck…”

  Ignoring Paul, he approached the vehicle with a slight crouch. He started examining the fuzzy head.

  “What is that thing?” asked Gunner.

  “Oh, it's something I whipped up on the fly before the summer. It lasted longer than I thought it would. Noticed the head was starting to slouch a bit, and when I was up there trying to fix it, the damn thing just fell off.”

  Just as she usually did when someone cussed, Natalie gasped.

  “Trying to fix what?” asked Gunner, a hint of eagerness in his voice.

  Quint looked up and laughed. “Where's my head at?” Then he glanced at the monstrous head that was probably denting the hood, and laughed harder. “This head,” patting the top of his hat, “not this one.” Then he slapped the top of the other head.

  Paul made himself laugh to be polite.

  “I own the pawn shop right there,” he said, pointing to the small shop to the left of the discounted hermit crabs window. “I put this up to attract tourists. It's supposed to be the head to that.” He pointed over Paul's shoulder.

  Tracing the path of Quint's finger, he saw the light post. Attached to the top of it was a large headless torso that resembled an ape. Its burly arms were extended out, hands gripping the post as if holding on. Its legs curled around the thick pole lower down.

  “Is that the Bigfoot?” asked Natalie.

  Quint laughed. “You've heard of it, too, huh?”

  Natalie gave him a single nod. “I saw the sign back there.”

  “Ah, the sign. The Mayor's idea. You must be a very smart little girl if you can read such big words like that.”

  Natalie snorted. “I am eight, you know.”

  “Whoa, eight? You're almost in college!”

  Giggling, Natalie's cheeks turned red.

  P
aul was about to ask, but Gunner beat him to it. “What do you mean by 'you've heard of it, too'?”

  “Heard of our Bigfoot, our local celebrity. It's brought the tourists in like flies on shi—dookie.” He made a strained face that was part wince and part panic.

  Natalie cupped her hand over her mouth and made quacking sounds of laughter behind her palm.

  “Big—what?” Paul shook his head. Surely he'd misunderstood what Quint said.

  “Big—foot.”

  Paul had heard him just fine. “Right.”

  Turning, Quint pointed at the building behind him, to a poster taped to the window. Reward was printed above a sketch of a humanoid character, smooth cheekbones and brow, hair covering the rest that hung down to its shoulders and neck. Quint looked back at Paul, his smile threatening to envelop his whole head. “See?”

  “You've got to be kidding me.”

  “No, sir,” said Quint, humorously. “Surprised your brother never told you about it. Aren't you our new deputy?”

  “I am,” said Paul.

  “Maybe he thought it would have scared you off?”

  Paul was about to say something else when the double chirp of a siren fired behind him. Looking to the road, he saw a sheriff's Suburban parking next to the 4Runner. He knew who it was even before the tall, lean man slipped out of the car and put his dark brown campaign hat on.

  “Quint,” called the sheriff, “you're not trying to sell my brother something from your shop are you?”

  Laughing, Quint put both hands on his belly. “No, sir, Sheriff. Though, now that you mention it, I might have some video games this little princess here would be interested in.”

  “Uncle Howie!” squealed Natalie. Running over to the sheriff, she jumped into his arms and was scooped up. “I missed you!”

  Uncle Howie, or as the residents of Seashell Cove knew him, Sheriff Thompson spun in a circle. Natalie's legs flew out behind her like a cape. “My goodness, girl, you've grown a foot since Christmas!”

  “Nuh-uh!”

  Paul tried not to feel the teeth of jealousy nipping at his insides, but it was hard to avoid them whenever it came to Howie. He was five years older than Paul, their parents' obvious favorite. He'd done better in school, had plenty of luck with women, but picked the right one in college and had been married to her ever since. They had three kids with only two years separating each. The youngest had just left for college, and the other two were living on their own. Plus, he was better looking, though Paul would never openly admit it. And his hair showed no hint of grey, while Paul's was growing more and more every day. When stubble appeared on his face, some of it was nearly white.