Read Online Dawn of the Yeti by Winchester Malone - Free Book Online

me,
something I wouldn’t have done, would never have thought of doing. I loved my
family. Not my pack, I wouldn’t die for them.
    Through more
debris and long-lost homes, I travel, keeping to the darkest of corners,
staying as silent as I can. Soon they run out though, and I’m caught with
nowhere to go. All around me are leveled buildings, broken stone heaps that
serve as insults to what we once had and were. My breath comes sharp, in fast pants.
I consider turning back and finding a place to hide, but how can I hide amongst
monsters? Too many open places. Not enough shelter. No home.
    Then my eyes find
an echo. The building, still intact, waiting for me.
    I have to cross
the street to make it inside. I don’t stop to think about it; I just run,
mindless of my surroundings, whoever, whatever sees me. I run. I hear more
gunshots, shrieks. Smears of blood cut the ground, limbs, rocks, chunks of ice.
It all blurs underfoot as I run, focusing on the door. My door.
    I fly up the
steps, praying it’s open. It isn’t. I have to force it, the sound of my
shoulder hitting the door resounding throughout the city, sounding so loud that
I’m afraid everyone will be after me. After another few hits, it cracks open and
I slide inside, slamming the door behind me. I lock both bolts, knowing they
mean nothing, and I wait. Listen. Wait. Distant cries. Wait. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe.
    Nothing.
    My hands close. My
arms fall. My muscles relax. My heart slows by a few beats. For the moment, I’m
safe, maybe even long enough for the sun to rise. It shouldn’t be long now. The
Jo-Bran will be forced to hide in the darkness, and the Banjankri will be too
occupied with collecting whatever scraps of themselves that remain to notice me.
I turn around, and my breath is knocked from me.
    The place is just
as I imagined it, a carbon copy of my own home. It’s as if I’ve stepped back in
time and into the future at the same time. Like I’m looking at what our house
would’ve been, what it probably has become, if I’d remained. The design is the
same, the stairs, the foyer, the living room.
    I tip-toe through
the place, wary of disturbing the smallest spec of dust. There is something
holy about visiting your past and your future. I don’t want to wake the dead;
they’ve haunted me enough. So I creep through the place, imagining everything
as it was, the couch, the television, my wife in the kitchen, waiting for me to
start supper, helping me cut the carrots, my daughter at the table, finishing
up her homework. The visions won’t clear, even when I shake my head, try and
focus on the splinters of a table, the scattered pantry full of frozen mice and
a few cans of food.
    But I’ve been too
loud.
    I’ve woken them.
    They whisper to
me.
    My wife’s voice
fills my ears, telling me to go upstairs, to come to bed, sleep. My daughter
says she needs help with an algebra problem, and I mumble something about it
never being something I understood. I follow their voices. They lead me
upstairs into the rooms in the same places, the same set up, where I don’t want
to go or be. Their voices pull me into the master bedroom and I expect to find
them there, beautiful and whole.
    “You.”
    This voice cuts
through my vision like a Jo-Bran’s claw. My wife and daughter dissipate into the
air, broken into thousands of pieces and scatter across the room. It takes me a
moment to clear my skull of them completely, put them to rest and allow myself
to see who’s speaking. My vision comes to, and I see the figure standing in the
middle of the master bedroom
    It’s Goatee.
    His shotgun is
aimed at my chest, his finger on the trigger. Red stains spot his furs like
some terrible rash or disease. I can even pick out chunks of flesh and bone
within them.
    “It’s all your
fault,” he says. “This never would’ve happened if it weren’t for you and that
bitch.” He spits out the last word, his voice drifting into a harsh hiss.
    I shrug. What am