03 Dec The Minotaur of Stag Creek

The banshee shriek and strobing lights of the cruiser died down as Officer Hank Lewes switched off the ignition. The journey was far from pleasant: the damn vehicle had almost surrendered to the stubborn, glutinous mud that led up to the road. With a grunt filled with both frustration and relief, Lewes swung the door open and hauled himself out of the car, slamming the door with a hollow thud. Officer Jay Bradshaw climbed from the other side. He was a wiry fellow, a Brit, with a look of apprehension on his face. Lewes didn’t blame him. In truth, he didn’t exactly want to be there either.

Lewes wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. He reached for his radio, which ran on one of those new ARMER systems, and flicked on the receiver. “Dispatch, this is MB32-A, 10-97. We are at the scene.”

“Copy that, MB32. Anything of note?”

As he gazed up at the old wood fence, covered in graffiti and lichen, Lewes shook his head. “Nothing.”

The radio went silent as he stepped forward. A sign affixed to the fence, faded with age, read WELCOME TO STAG CREEK WOODS. Beyond the fence, the woods started, a mass of green and brown and black, a wilderness of trees and shrubbery. He took a deep breath. To his right, Bradshaw stood silently, waiting. Lewes looked at him, and with a nod, turned on his flashlight. He pushed open the old gate, rotten, damp and unpleasant to the touch, and held it open. Once the two of them were through, Lewes let it swing shut behind him.

Lewes felt uncomfortable somehow. A feeling of unease crept through him, part nyctophobia, part claustrophobia. He was used to well-lit streets, not a pitch-black woodland. By all accounts, neither of them should have been there in the first place. Unfortunately for Lewes, the rural division had been short-staffed, and naturally, he and Bradshaw had been lumbered with the job. Now they were paying the price. At least there were other officers in the area: while Lewes and Bradshaw were operating primarily in the west, three other groups were stationed in different corners of the woods. K-9 units were operating elsewhere, but neither of them had the luxury of a dog.

The outer parts of the woodland, like the fence that surrounded it, were littered with missing posters. Lewes shone it over one of them, despite already knowing the details. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was some way of trying to distract himself from his surroundings. The photograph was rather low in quality (there again, the whole thing was). It depicted a relatively young woman, brunette and heavy-set, identified as Gina Montgomery by the bold typeface at the bottom. There was a Winchester rifle slung over her shoulder. A hunter, Lewes observed.

“Come on,” Bradshaw said. “We haven’t got time to stare at the bloody posters. Let’s go.”

They continued on their path, Bradshaw up ahead. As the two of them took their first steps into the woodland, the missing posters grew sparser, until none remained and the trees were bare. Stag Creek Forest was an eerie place at night. Occasionally, a shadowy shape would appear against the beam of the flashlight. Every single time, Lewes realized that it was nothing but a raccoon, or a skunk, or something like that. He had a near-miss with a skunk after about half an hour, and narrowly avoided a snake right after that. There was wildlife everywhere, and that posed quite a problem. If the two of them found a body — and Lewes strongly hoped they wouldn’t find a body — chances were that scavengers would get to it before they did. No use worrying about it, though, not yet. Lewes decided to just keep going and hope for the best.

Lewes shone his beam straight down and spotted something on the ground. There were indentations in the leaf litter, regular, and far too big to have been made by raccoons. “Hey,” he said, “take a look at this.”

Bradshaw turned around and looked at the tracks. He bent down and examined them properly. “Footprints,” he said, stating the obvious.

“How fresh do you think they are?”

“I’d say …” He thought about it. “A couple of days.”

“Time frame adds up. Let’s keep moving.”

He followed Bradshaw as he moved further into the wood. There was a strong sense of déjà vu about it. They hadn’t been here before, obviously — or at least, Lewes himself hadn’t — but there was a dim familiarity to it. Of course, there was. Lewes had grown up around forests. But that didn’t mean being in unfamiliar woodland during the night was any easier. He still felt very vulnerable.

“This place is giving me the creeps already,” muttered Lewes.

Silence. There was no response from Bradshaw. All Lewes heard now were the chirps of crickets.

“Jay?”

Nothing.

Jay Bradshaw had spotted something on a tree. As he passed by, he’d thought little of it. Only when he’d passed it did he stop and think. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he’d gone back to check it out. Looking at the tree, a big Sitka spruce, Bradshaw scrutinized its bark. There were deep gashes in the wood, deep enough to tear through the cambium layer. Chunky sap oozed from it like blood from a wound. At the tree’s base lay branches that looked to have been snapped off by some powerful force. The first thought Bradshaw had was that it was a bear. He could only make out three claw marks, and each seemed to be oriented in the wrong direction. That was no bear.

He turned and opened his mouth to say something to Lewes. But there was no sign of him. Furrowing his brow, Bradshaw yelled, “Lewes!”

There was no answer. He tried again, but again got no reply, and heard only crickets. Fumbling around in his belt, Bradshaw withdrew his radio. He tried Lewes’ channel but received only static. Switching channels, he spoke. “Dispatch, this is MB32-B,” he said. “I got separated from MB32-A. I’m near a big Sitka spruce. Rough location is Stag Creek Forest, over.”

There was silence from the other end. Over the din of the radio, Lewes could make out the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches. A moment later the voice of the dispatcher broke the silence. “MB32-B, have you attempted to contact MB32-A?”

“Twice so far. No response, over.”

“Copy that. Keep us updated, and keep trying to re-establish contact.”

“Understood.”

Bradshaw slotted the radio back into his holster. Damn it, Hank. Where are you? He turned away from the mangled tree trunk and continued. About five minutes after leaving the Sitka spruce, something appeared in Bradshaw’s periphery. He spun around.

“Lewes?”

There was no reply. Whatever it was carried on, unperturbed. Some sort of animal, maybe? He raised his flashlight and shone it on the vegetation nearby. It moved. Bradshaw furrowed his brow and walked a little closer, but not too far. A sharp screech came from a bush barely three feet from his ears. He swung the flashlight and chuckled. It was a raccoon. Son of a bitch. He watched the bewildered animal as it disappeared into the night.

Lewes had decided to press on, following the tracks. Bradshaw would catch up, eventually. He was sure of it. After a while, he’d decided to sit down on an old, mossy log, and there he waited. But there was no sign. Eventually, he got up. If he couldn’t find Bradshaw, and if Bradshaw wasn’t going to come to him, he’d try to track down one of the other officers —

A burst of static interrupted his thoughts, and he could barely make out what was being said. “Radio check. MB32-A, do you copy?”

He fumbled in his belt and pulled out his radio. “Reading you loud and clear, Dispatch. Over.”

“Any contact with MB32-B? He’s looking for you.”

“Haven’t heard a bloody thing. Over.”

A pause. “Do you know your location? Is there anyone else in the vicinity?”

“I, ahh …” Lewes got to his feet and shone his flashlight around. “I haven’t the faintest clue. As far as I know, I’m the only officer in this sector. Over.”

“Copy that.”

The radio clicked. Lewes glanced behind him, shining his flashlight into the darkness, and again saw nothing. He set off, continuing to follow the footprints. He wanted to back out, but alone or otherwise, he still had a job to do. For a while, Hank Lewes walked on, until the sound of rushing water reached his ears. Shining his flashlight up ahead, he saw the ground abruptly drop off. That must be Stag Creek, Lewes thought as he walked closer. His approach confirmed his suspicions.

Stag Creek was relatively wide, a tributary of the Eel River. Its banks were surrounded by rocks, and the water level was low; most of the riverbed was filled with sludge and silt. Beneath the surface were countless boulders and submerged logs. And it stank to high heaven. Rotten eggs. That was the closest approximation Lewes could find. The smell was that of rotten eggs. He narrowed his eyes. What the hell? What could be causing that in the middle of the woods? Sewage? But as Lewes stood there, the scent seemed to fade.

The rattle of gunfire rang out from somewhere else in the woods.

Lewes’ head turned. He saw bright flashes through the distant trees. As he took a step towards the source of the noise, they were replaced by something else. The wind now carried with it the sound of screaming. The yelping of dogs. His gun held in a white-knuckle grip, Lewes walked slowly backwards, towards the creek. He was only dimly aware of his foot slipping in the soft mud. All thoughts dissipated, and he felt the tug of gravity winning over. He felt a sharp pain in his left calf as he fell.

He landed face-down at the bottom of the embankment. Screwing his eyes shut, he pushed himself clear of the sludge. He coughed hard and fumbled for his pistol, reassured by the sensation of the grip in his hands. Lewes climbed to his feet slowly, shakily. Opening his eyes at last, he looked down at himself. There was a big tear in his calf. A gash. Blood. Lewes gritted his teeth. “Fucking hell,” he said to nobody in particular. It wasn’t too bad — a flesh wound at best — but the risk of infection was there. Suddenly he felt vulnerable: the scent of blood would carry. Reaching into his duty belt, he withdrew a tourniquet and started to apply it. It was a slapdash job, but it would do the trick. Once that was done, he reached for his radio. A sinking feeling crept over Lewes when he felt it; it was very clearly broken. Ah, crap.

Feeling his leg wound gingerly, Lewes grimaced. A thought crossed his mind: the squad car. There were probably still some band-aids in there. If he could just get back to it, he’d be in the clear. Lewes began walking but paused after only a moment. His gaze landed on something on the other side of the creek. Furrowing his brow, he walked closer. The footprints started up again on the opposite bank, but this time they were irregular. The trackmaker had fallen, and Lewes noted they hadn’t been as lucky. Probably twisted an ankle or something. But as he started following the tracks, Lewes’ eyes landed on something else. More tracks, a totally different shape. Hoofprints. They looked like moose footprints, but they couldn’t have been. There were no moose in California, let alone Humboldt County.

Without breaking stride, Lewes began to follow the tracks.

The thought of calling for help passed through Bradshaw’s head, but he decided against it. It wasn’t out of pride or anything, more so the opposite, a refusal to admit to anyone that he was lost. Sighing, Bradshaw continued to walk. And that was when the sounds hit him. His first thought was that it sounded like gunfire. His second was that it was gunfire. Turning his head in that direction, Bradshaw looked through the trees, and he saw flashing lights in the distance.

Something moved through the vegetation, directly behind him. Bradshaw spun around to face its source. At first, he was hopeful. Was it Lewes?

“Hello?” he said loudly. “Hank?”

No reply. He shone his flashlight in that direction, but he saw nothing. No movement, no Lewes. The sound was coming from beyond the reach of Bradshaw’s flashlight. Then the smell struck him: a horrid odor like rotten eggs. A bead of sweat trickled down Bradshaw’s forehead, and he tightened his grip on the object in his hand. God, he told himself, get a grip. There were probably hundreds of rational explanations for that smell. It wasn’t like he could think of any, but there must have been. Taking in a deep breath, Bradshaw walked towards the source of the smell. It was awful, and now he could discern an undertone of rot. What the fuck. As the sulfur smell faded, the rotting smell seemed to grow stronger as a low drone filled the air. He covered his face with his sleeve and shone his flashlight on the ground.

The scene before him most closely resembled a kill site. Scraps of tattered fabric were strewn like confetti around the leaf litter. The buzz of flies drowned out every single sound. Bradshaw’s eyes widened as they landed on the mass sprawled in the middle. “Christ alive.”

Bradshaw’s mind went blank for a second. He felt bile rise in his throat, and after forcing it back down, he fumbled for his radio.

“Dispatch, this is MB32-B. I have a 10-100. I repeat, a 10-100. The exact location is unclear, though surrounded by oak trees.”

Bradshaw’s radio crackled. “Copy that, MB32-B,” came the voice of the dispatch operator.

As it faded into silence yet again, leaving only the buzzing of flies, Bradshaw felt sick. God. He regretted being here. But he didn’t have time to calm down. A sound came from behind him. Whirling around, he reached for the holster on his waist and pulled out his pistol. Another noise punctuated the monotone droning. Footfalls. Right behind him.

He didn’t have time to fire.

The trees around Lewes grew sparser as he trudged further from the woodland’s dark depths. The air seemed to grow heavy, and it was almost unnervingly silent. A few times Lewes thought he’d heard something moving through the vegetation nearby. Hell, he probably had. But then, everything sounded louder in the woods. Worse still, it had started to rain, and now he was utterly drenched. But despite the downpour, that sulfur stench had returned in force, and it was as if Lewes was heading straight towards its point of origin. It hadn’t been there when he and Bradshaw passed through earlier that night, he was sure of it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hideous scream, followed by two loud gunshots.

Instinctively Lewes whipped out his handgun and spun in the direction of its source, his heart pounding hard in his chest. The scream was unmistakably human. “Bradshaw?” he half-yelled.

He was met with silence. The screaming stopped abruptly. Re-holstering his pistol, Lewes raised his flashlight in that direction. Nothing. He staggered in the direction of the scream. Something must have happened. Had Bradshaw fallen? Lewes pushed through the dense underbrush, his footsteps muffled by the leaf litter. Cursing his lack of a functioning radio, he pressed forward. A faint rustling sound reached his ears, and he knew that it couldn’t have been Bradshaw. It was too close. He directed his flashlight in the direction of the noise. A flash of movement, so quick that for a moment he questioned whether he’d even seen it. Was that an animal? A person?

“Who’s there?” he barked, with renewed, if deceptive bravado.

There was no answer.

“Don’t try anything stupid. I’m armed.”

Again, no answer.

The stench of rotten eggs reached his nostrils again. It was almost unbearable now, as if some hellish smoke was billowing into his lungs. Lewes coughed hard and staggered back. From just beyond the reach of his light, he could faintly discern a noise. It was the sound of loud inhalations and exhalations. Lewes pulled out his sidearm and aimed it shakily into the inky blackness. Unsteadily, he stepped closer, staring into the void; he was dimly aware that the void was staring back. Come on, you little shit, he mouthed. Come out here where I can see you. But he heard nothing, saw no more. The smell faded away. It was gone.

Lewes lowered his gun and squinted into the night. From his left came a noise. He held his breath and listened. It was breathing; Bradshaw’s breathing. Stuffing the gun back in its holster, Lewes staggered in the direction of the noise. “Bradshaw?” he yelled again. This time there was a response.

A weak scoff. “About time.”

Lewes quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. With each step, the ground beneath his feet grew increasingly uneven, making his progress even more difficult. He stumbled over protruding roots and fallen branches, his injured calf searing with pain. His flashlight finally landed on Jay Bradshaw’s form on the ground. The first thing Lewes saw was blood. God, there was so much blood. Bradshaw had managed to apply a tourniquet to his leg.

“Jesus,” Lewes muttered. “Stay still, Jay. What happened here?”

Bradshaw shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He seemed lucid, which was a good sign. “One moment everything was fine, and then … I don’t even know.”

“Was it a bear?”

A scoff. Bradshaw gestured to Lewes’ left. “Would a bear do that?”

Lewes turned around.

There was the body of a woman there, slumped against the base of a tree. Her glazed, hazel eyes stared vacantly into the sky. Torn skin showed early signs of decay. The abdominal cavity was torn wide open, almost hollowed out. Tattered pieces of clothing seemed oddly jagged. Like they’d been bitten into. Nearby a Winchester rifle lay, snapped clean in two. Her throat had been crushed. Oh, shit. That’s Montgomery.

“Jesus,” Lewes breathed.

“I had a good look at it,” Bradshaw said. “I saw it feeding, and let me tell you, that thing wasn’t like any bear I’ve ever seen.”

“Do you still have your radio?”

Bradshaw gestured to his right. Lewes snatched up the radio and flicked on the receiver. “Dispatch, this is MB32-A,” Lewes said. “We have a 10-999 and a 10-54. I repeat, we have a 10-999 and a 10-54. Requesting immediate backup, over.”

A blast of static came from the speakers. “Copy that, MB32-A,” said the dispatch officer. “Establishing connection with the radio as we speak. How are you holding up?”

“Pretty banged up. MB32-B is the priority for the moment, over.”

“Copy that. Can he walk?”

“Not sure yet.”

“If he can, try and get back to the squad car and wait. If he can’t, try and stay where you are. We’ll pick you up.”

The radio flicked off. Lewes looked down at his colleague. “Do you think you can make it?”

Bradshaw shrugged. “Haven’t tried yet. I was more focused on keeping that bastard away.”

Lewes assessed Bradshaw’s injuries properly. God, it was worse than he thought. There were cuts. Deep cuts. Most were on Bradshaw’s arms, though some, thankfully the least severe of the lot, were on his torso. Through tattered clothing, Lewes saw that the culprit had even managed to slash through a knife-proof vest. Christ.

Finally, he stood upright and spoke. “I think our best bet would be to get going,” he said. “If that thing comes back …”

“It will.”

Lewes just nodded. It took some effort to get Bradshaw back to his feet. The leg with the tourniquet was bad, and the matter was complicated by Lewes’ wound. But it worked out in the end. And thank fuck for that. With Bradshaw’s arm slung around Lewes’ shoulder for support, the two of them awkwardly made their way through the dense, dark woods. Each step was a struggle in and of itself. With his flashlight clutched tightly in his free hand, Lewes scanned the tree line. He was fairly certain they were heading in the right direction. At least, he hoped they were. That stench had faded away. Now there were only the smells of the woods and blood.

From the trees behind them, there came a roar. No, ‘roar’ was the wrong word. A scream. It was one of those sounds, like a mountain lion in heat, or a dying rabbit, that sounded almost human. The sound had a nasal quality to it. Like a bull.

“The hell was that?” Lewes muttered.

Bradshaw reached for his sidearm. “Hopefully it isn’t what I think it is.”

As the other officer raised his gun, Lewes kept his eyes forward. He didn’t want to look back, to see the thing that was doubtless pursuing them now. A sound came from behind — footsteps, loud footsteps — and the smell came back. He stumbled, and his ears rang as Bradshaw fired the first shot. But the sound kept advancing. Lewes spun around, aiming at a threat he couldn’t even see. Something slammed hard into the two of them. Lewes crashed to the ground. A scream filled his ears. He staggered to his feet and spun around. He was dimly aware of something huge grabbing Jay Bradshaw by the throat and hauling him into the air.

And Lewes fucking ran. He didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare slow down. He couldn’t even afford to trip, or else that would be it. His mind was a whirl of fear, regret, and confusion. The flashlight beam bobbed erratically in front of him, barely illuminating the trees up ahead. But Lewes saw far enough. Up ahead was a partly collapsed tree. It was his best bet. Reaching the fallen tree, Lewes squeezed himself into the narrow crevice between the trunk and a jumble of branches. He huddled there, breathless and trembling, praying that it wouldn’t find him.

It passed him by.

Minutes ticked by agonizingly slow as Lewes strained his ears, listening for any sign of the thing. The woods seemed eerily silent, devoid of any sound except for the rustling leaves and his heartbeat. It didn’t come back. Taking in a deep breath, Lewes slowly emerged from his cover. Hank Lewes buried his head in his hands and slumped against the log. Oh, God. He’d been stupid. He should have kept shooting. Should have risked it, and gone after it when it took Bradshaw. But he didn’t. And now that thing had claimed its second victim; Lewes knew he might be next. He had to get out. He’d get to the squad car and inform Dispatch. Taking in a deep breath, he stood upright and started to walk the way he’d come.

After what felt like hours of walking, it occurred to Lewes that he was lost, and badly at that. Everything had looked the same in that bloody woodland, and he was fairly certain that he’d already completely overshot the point where he was supposed to turn. But at least the homogeny was starting to fade away; now Lewes could make out gaps in the trees again. Moonlight dimly filtered through the canopy once more. He’d reached a break in the woods. Taking in a deep breath, letting out an unjustified sigh of relief, he pushed on. Advancing toward the opening as fast as his aching lungs would allow, he staggered to the edge.

Below lay Stag Creek. Its waters swollen by the rain, it had become a frenzied torrent. The sight wiped the exhaustion from Lewes’ mind, replacing it with a sinking feeling of despair. There was no way he could cross it on foot, especially in his weakened state. Lewes scanned the area, searching for an alternative route. His eyes landed on a fallen pine tree wedged in the side of the embankment. It was the only way he could get across, precarious as it was. If nothing else, he’d be on a different side of the river to that thing. Cautiously, he made his way around the rocks that fringed the creek and approached the fallen pine tree. It was long and sturdy, with its branches stripped away by time and weather. Lewes could see that it leaned slightly towards the other side of the creek, offering a precarious bridge over the raging waters.

Taking a deep breath, Lewes steadied himself and carefully stepped onto the fallen tree. It wobbled under his weight, making his heart race even faster. He knew that any misstep could send him tumbling into the merciless current below. He kept his focus on the opposite bank, his eyes fixed on a solid patch of ground where he aimed to reach. As he inched forward, the tree groaned and shifted. Each step became a test of balance and nerve. Both dissipated as a scream echoed from the trees. Lewes slipped. No, no, no —

He hit the water hard. His left arm was pinned under his body, and he felt bone snap as he struck the underlying rock. White-hot pain surged up his shoulder. The moment his head cleared the water he took in a deep breath, and it took every fiber of his being not to scream. His flashlight drifted away from him. With his good arm, Lewes strained and barely grabbed it. It still worked, thank fuck. Awkwardly he struggled to the surface, hooking his arm around a rock and holding himself in place. From somewhere behind him, there came a loud crash. Gritting his teeth from raw pain, he spun around.

And there it was, rising from the water.

It was tall. Far taller than a man. The flashlight illuminated a long face atop a thickly muscled neck. Lewes’ first thought was that it resembled a cow’s head, but it was all wrong. Its mouth stretched too far back. The eyes that stared back at Lewes weren’t those of a bull, though: they faced forward, like those of a man. It was, he realized, like a minotaur. And then, lifting a large, hoofed foot from the torrent, it started to advance.

Lewes staggered back, his eyes locked on the minotaur, watering as that horrid rotten eggs stench hit him like a sack of bricks. It was in no rush to attack. It knew he was injured, and it had no reason to charge. Swapping the flashlight for the pistol, Lewes raised it and aimed at the thing. It was the hand he was worst with, but that didn’t matter. His finger coiled around the trigger, but the thing kept coming.

The moment Hank Lewes pulled the trigger, the night briefly turned to day. A bullet struck the minotaur’s thick neck, causing a spray of dark liquid to spurt from the wound. It staggered, clutching at the wound with a cleft hand. A low rasp escaped its jaws as it backed off. Lewes levelled his pistol again and fired. It stumbled back. But then, with a sudden burst of energy, it lunged forward, its heavily muscled body barreling through the water towards him. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit — Lewes’ heart pounded in his chest as he fired off another round. The minotaur roared in agony, but its momentum was unstoppable.

It was too close, and Lewes was too slow.

A three-clawed hand swiped at him, catching him across the chest. He collapsed into the water again, racked by pain. The gun was no longer in his grip. On his feet now, Lewes saw the thing surging towards him again, and on instinct he pulled out his flashlight, shining the beam right into its eyes. It staggered to a halt, its too-long jaws parting in a hideous growl of pain. While it was distracted Lewes fumbled around in the creek for his gun. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of his pistol, and with a surge of relief, he grasped onto it.

Again, he leveled his gun and fired. The minotaur stopped. Its body shuddered. Blood spurted from the middle of its head. Slowly it pitched forward, crashing into the creek and disappearing beneath its tumultuous surface. Lewes watched it for a while, seeing if it would rise, but it never did.

Hank Lewes lowered his gun, eyes wide, watching it as it sank beneath the surface of the creek. He slumped down on a rock and placed a hand on his chest. It stung, and badly. Lewes pulled away his hand and saw blood. Wiping it off with his pant leg, he reached into his belt, pulled out his radio — oh, thank fuck, it still worked — and turned it on, all with his right arm.

“Dispatch—”

“MB32-A, what the hell happened —?”

“Shut up,” Lewes said, gritting his teeth, “and listen. MB32-B is MIA — no, KIA. I’ve tried every radio channel and heard nothing. I need medical assistance, and I need it ASAP. Got it?”

There was a pause from the other end. “Copy that.”

“And Dispatch?”

No response.

“I quit.”