Read Online The Mountain King by Rick Hautala - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rick Hautala
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wasn’t made with a hiking boot, either.”
The print did, in fact, look as if it had been made by a bare foot. At the front, there were five rounded indentations that could very well have been made by toes.
“It’s human, no doubt about that,” Doyle said. “But you know, especially this time of season and this high up where the weather changes so drastically, any impression in fresh snow is going to melt and refreeze dozens of times. I think that’s what makes this look so big. It expands every time it does that.”
He measured it against the flat of his hand. Even with his fingers spread wide, he couldn’t span the width of the print.
“Naw,” Doyle said, standing up and shaking his head authoritatively. “This wasn’t made by no Christless bare foot.”
Unconvinced, Mark shook his head as he stared blankly at the impression. He took a deep breath and said, “Well, at least we know what direction to head.”
Keeping several paces apart, all three men started moving in the direction the single footprint indicated, but after spending the rest of the day searching the rough terrain, they still came up empty. Other than the small splotch of blood on the cliff side, and that single footprint, there was no other indication that Phil or anyone else had been up here recently.
As the sun started to set in the western sky, they reluctantly headed back down the slope to their campsite and a supper of beans and brown bread.
“You know what I think?” Sykes said once they were settled around the campfire after supper.
Doyle cocked an eyebrow at his partner as if surprised that he would offer an opinion.
“I think that, come next summer, or maybe in a year or two, a couple of hikers are gonna come across a pile of bleached bones.” He looked squarely at Mark. “And then we’ll know what happened to your buddy!”
For a flashing instant, Mark wanted to slug the man, but he let the rush of anger pass, opting instead for silence. After an uncomfortable hour or so sitting around the campfire, the conversation limited mostly between the two rangers, Mark went to his tent to sleep.
Like last night, he found it difficult to sleep, but eventually he drifted off. He awoke some hours later from a dream.
He had been standing at the top of The Zipper, looking down into a thick cushion of pure white snow. Blinding white. His fear had steadily mounted as he watched the snow begin to churn as though it were alive. First two hands, thin and blackened with frostbite, reached up out of the snow; then a face broke through the surface. Mark stared in horror as the pale, gaunt face of Phil Sawyer looked up at him, his eyes sparkling with fiery anger. Phil furiously dug himself out of the deep pile of snow and then, once he was free, started to scuttle up the steep incline of the cliff. He moved like a huge spider.
“You left me here —”
Phil’s voice rasped through black lips, cracked and bleeding.
“You left me here to die! . . . So I’ve come back for you!”
Mark awoke to find himself sitting straight up, his eyes wide open, his face slick with sweat, and his breath burning like a hot coal in the center of his chest. Both hands were clapped across his mouth, forcing back the scream that was threatening to burst out of him.
Chapter Ten
Promotion
“Hey, I’ve got some good news for you.”
Mark was slumped in a cushioned chair in the employees’ lounge with his feet up and his eyes closed. An untasted cup of coffee had gone stone-cold on the table beside him. He roused himself the instant he heard the voice of Sam Barker, his department supervisor.
“Uh—yeah,” he said, vigorously rubbing his face with the flats of his hands. “Sorry ‘bout that. I was— umm—”
“You were sleeping on the job,” Sam said, his voice sounding flat. Only the faint trace of a smile told Mark that his boss was ribbing him.
“Yeah, well, I have been kinda stressed out lately . . . ‘specially these last few
The print did, in fact, look as if it had been made by a bare foot. At the front, there were five rounded indentations that could very well have been made by toes.
“It’s human, no doubt about that,” Doyle said. “But you know, especially this time of season and this high up where the weather changes so drastically, any impression in fresh snow is going to melt and refreeze dozens of times. I think that’s what makes this look so big. It expands every time it does that.”
He measured it against the flat of his hand. Even with his fingers spread wide, he couldn’t span the width of the print.
“Naw,” Doyle said, standing up and shaking his head authoritatively. “This wasn’t made by no Christless bare foot.”
Unconvinced, Mark shook his head as he stared blankly at the impression. He took a deep breath and said, “Well, at least we know what direction to head.”
Keeping several paces apart, all three men started moving in the direction the single footprint indicated, but after spending the rest of the day searching the rough terrain, they still came up empty. Other than the small splotch of blood on the cliff side, and that single footprint, there was no other indication that Phil or anyone else had been up here recently.
As the sun started to set in the western sky, they reluctantly headed back down the slope to their campsite and a supper of beans and brown bread.
“You know what I think?” Sykes said once they were settled around the campfire after supper.
Doyle cocked an eyebrow at his partner as if surprised that he would offer an opinion.
“I think that, come next summer, or maybe in a year or two, a couple of hikers are gonna come across a pile of bleached bones.” He looked squarely at Mark. “And then we’ll know what happened to your buddy!”
For a flashing instant, Mark wanted to slug the man, but he let the rush of anger pass, opting instead for silence. After an uncomfortable hour or so sitting around the campfire, the conversation limited mostly between the two rangers, Mark went to his tent to sleep.
Like last night, he found it difficult to sleep, but eventually he drifted off. He awoke some hours later from a dream.
He had been standing at the top of The Zipper, looking down into a thick cushion of pure white snow. Blinding white. His fear had steadily mounted as he watched the snow begin to churn as though it were alive. First two hands, thin and blackened with frostbite, reached up out of the snow; then a face broke through the surface. Mark stared in horror as the pale, gaunt face of Phil Sawyer looked up at him, his eyes sparkling with fiery anger. Phil furiously dug himself out of the deep pile of snow and then, once he was free, started to scuttle up the steep incline of the cliff. He moved like a huge spider.
“You left me here —”
Phil’s voice rasped through black lips, cracked and bleeding.
“You left me here to die! . . . So I’ve come back for you!”
Mark awoke to find himself sitting straight up, his eyes wide open, his face slick with sweat, and his breath burning like a hot coal in the center of his chest. Both hands were clapped across his mouth, forcing back the scream that was threatening to burst out of him.
Chapter Ten
Promotion
“Hey, I’ve got some good news for you.”
Mark was slumped in a cushioned chair in the employees’ lounge with his feet up and his eyes closed. An untasted cup of coffee had gone stone-cold on the table beside him. He roused himself the instant he heard the voice of Sam Barker, his department supervisor.
“Uh—yeah,” he said, vigorously rubbing his face with the flats of his hands. “Sorry ‘bout that. I was— umm—”
“You were sleeping on the job,” Sam said, his voice sounding flat. Only the faint trace of a smile told Mark that his boss was ribbing him.
“Yeah, well, I have been kinda stressed out lately . . . ‘specially these last few
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