“Nice guard duty.” BT smacked Mike’s leg. He was propped up against the snow wall, snoring softly.
“What! I’m awake!”
“It’s light out, and we’re not dead. We made it through the night.” BT sat up.
Mike rubbed his face then smacked the sagging mylar to clear it of snow before peeling back the lip. “If we’re just characters in a cheap horror flick, this is where my head gets knocked off and dropped into your lap.”
“Won’t happen,” BT told him before Mike looked out.
“Why not?”
“Because the brother always gets it first.”
“You’re right. You want to take a look?”
“Fuck no,” BT told him.
Mike stood. “Wow. Sun is shining bright, which is great, but there’s all sorts of fresh snow. No way to tell which way Tim went.”
BT pulled the blanket away and turned to do a three-sixty survey. “I’m not going to be able to wait here and just hope he shows up.”
“Oh hell no. Let’s just fold these up and get going. Got a general idea of which way he was going.”
“My legs are already stiff,” BT said after nearly a mile of the grueling trek.
“Yeah, just think about us poor normal-sized slobs that have to pick up our legs nearly half our height.”
“I think I see a trailer park up ahead.” BT shielded his eyes from the snow glare.
“Can’t imagine a trailer being warmer than we were last night.”
“Should I call out?” BT asked as they came to the first one.
“No.” Mike looked around pensively. “We’re close.”
“How do you know that?”
“I caught a whiff.”
“Shit.” BT looked around and tried to pick up the same scent Mike had.
“It was when the wind shifted from that way.” Mike pointed.
“As much as I'd like to check on everyone, we should look inside these trailers for something we can use as weapons.”
“Good call.” Mike hated the thought of the delay, but it was a very necessary one. The first one yielded nothing except a set of tennis racquets. Mike took one, BT forewent. The second was slightly better, with the addition of hockey sticks. Mike traded up, and BT took one. In the third, Mike thought they’d hit the jackpot only to find out that all of the weapons hanging on the wall were of the airsoft variety.
He was holding an MP4. “They look so damn real.”
“Tell me about it. I almost shot a kid last year that pointed one at me.”
“If a combatant came at me with one of these, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”
“War halfway across the world has different rules than the city streets of America.” BT put back the AK variant he was holding.
“Maybe it shouldn’t be. Nobody would want to wage war if every time someone was killed, you had to fill out a mountain of paperwork and then do desk duty while an investigation was launched. Maybe even pass a psych eval.”
“You might be on to something. Come on, we’ll hit one more, and whether they have anything or not, we need to move on.”
Mike followed BT out and to the next trailer. BT knocked like he normally did before shouldering in the door.
“Fuck me," he said as he stepped into the kitchen where there were dozens of empty Mountain Dew bottles and discarded Doritos bags. “Let’s go, this place isn’t going to have anything.”
“Oh, I think you’re wrong, my friend. This place looks perfect. This has all the traits of an older neck-bearder living in the basement of his parent’s home for far longer than he should be."
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Mid-twenties guys that have these strange hair growth shaving methods to create a neckbeard. They are usually gamers, wannabe hackers, and sometime internet trolls who don’t have the slightest idea how to interact with most of humanity and, more specifically, women. Typically have the hygiene regiment of a hyena.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Dude, they have this fascination with blades, generally swords, for some reason.”
“Where are you getting this from?”
“Mostly South Park.”
“The cartoon?”
“Oh, it’s more than a cartoon. It’s a brilliant parodic reflection of our society, albeit a harsh one.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
“Come here.” Mike walked down the short hallway and to a doorway with a sign that read KEEP OUT. He turned the knob and stepped back without even looking in and said. “Voila!”
“You have got to be shitting me.” BT stepped into the room, kicking aside more empty soda cans and snack bags. A disheveled twin bed was covered in anime pillows and magazines; off to the side was a custom-built pc with three large monitors attached. Posters of women and cars adorned three of the walls. The fourth was completely covered by blades of varying size and shape.
“Be careful of the bed.”
“The bed?” BT asked.
“There’s probably enough genetic material on it to coalesce and come alive. Most of those swords are going to be pieces of shit, but he should have sprung some money for a couple of decent ones.”
“Do you know how to tell?” BT asked as he pulled one down. As much as he wanted to swish the blade around, his surroundings were entirely too cramped.
“Not really. I’ve only ever watched sword fail vids on YouTube.”
“That’s a thing?”
“What isn’t a thing anymore? But yeah. Guys slicing around, blades go flying off into neighbors' yards while the neck bearder is still holding on to the handle. Saw one bounce off an old biker's head; the guy drops his beer and gets up and the sword man takes off running. Or blades shattering upon impact with a watermelon, that type of thing.”
“We can’t go into combat with weapons that are going to fail.”
“Some of these will be good.”
“What do you want to do, Mike? Take them all and switch out as needed?”
Mike grabbed a blade and slapped it broadside against the desk. The handle broke off in his hand. “Gonna say this one is bad.” He tossed it to the side.
Five minutes, fourteen blades destroyed, and one desk chopped to shit later, they had what they hoped was proper armament to contend with the enemy.
“Sure do wish we had shields to go with these.” Mike had his sword out in front of him as they left the trailer.
They heard a scream, looked over at each other for a brief moment, and ran towards the sound.
“Wait, man, wait.” Mike had to shoulder BT before he ran straight at the yetis; three of the beasts had their back to the duo and were pounding at the outside wall with their fists.
“Should I use the gun?” Mike had three shots left, but it was highly unlikely he’d be able to get three kill shots with a .380, and once he fired, whatever was in the house would come out, and if it was possible to be more fucked, that was exactly where they would find themselves.
“Not yet. We have to get in first. You heard the scream, it was a woman's.”
“I know, I know, but if we’re going to save her, we need to plan this right; we'll only get one shot.” They were behind a large pine, some twenty feet away. The snow between them and the yetis was mostly undisturbed, meaning there was little chance they could cover the distance quickly and noiselessly. It was better having the swords than not, but the yetis were capable of throwing projectiles, and from up close, their arm reach was about the same as the sword wielders'.
Another scream and BT stopped listening to reason. He was on the move as quickly as the frozen impediment would allow.
“Shit,” Mike uttered as he followed.
BT made it farther undetected than Mike would have thought; most of that could be attributed to all the noise the yetis were making and the fact that they were so focused on the person who had screamed, but that didn’t mean they were completely oblivious to their surroundings. It was the yeti the farthest to BT’s right that turned first. Initially, it had moved back upon seeing the charging man. Before it could issue a warning, BT buried the blade hilt deep into the middle yeti. The blade tore through the bottom of its lung, and the point broke through its body and stuck to the house, briefly melding them all together. The animal was in too much shock to do more than let out a winded cry.
Mike had reared back with his blade swinging down as the yeti to BT’s right had turned to grab him. Three enormous fingers, the size of German bratwurst, fell to the ground, still curling as they sought purchase. The yeti brought its injured hand to its face for closer inspection. Mike swung again, embedding nearly three-quarters of the blade into its stomach. When he pulled the blade free, a ribbon of intestines spilled out onto the ground. A reflexive swing of the beast’s arm caught him in the chest and launched him into the air. He wasn’t even aware that he’d somehow held onto the sword or that his gun had gone farther than he had, knocked loose by the hit. He lay atop the snow, gasping for air, convinced that his chest plate had been caved in and was now merely a bunch of free-floating bone fragments. Spots swirled in his vision as he tried to retain consciousness.
The yeti that had initially retreated now advanced clumsily, swinging at BT, who ducked down and pulled his sword free. The yeti he’d held impaled sagged down, having great difficulty breathing. The one Mike had struck was trying to push its bowels back into itself with no success; more kept tumbling out to the point that when it tried to take a step, it became tangled up in them and fell over. BT dodged another blow but stumbled and tripped over the head of the downed yeti as he backed up, pushing the yeti’s face deeper into the snow. It thrashed about as it struggled to get air, but with the massive loss of blood, it was growing weaker by the second. BT had caught sight of Mike as he was falling but could not tell if the other man was still alive. If he was, he was in no shape to lend aid before it was too late. BT backed up as the yeti advanced. It was getting ready to kick him, and BT had no doubt that if it connected, he would be broken, just like Humpty.
A high-pitched sound caught his and the yeti’s attention. The animal swung its massive head to look over and up at the newest addition to this dance of death. BT followed suit.
“Drone?” BT asked. Though he was staring at it, the object seemed so out of place in this new reality he was having a hard time adding it in. The yeti reached up and swatted at the incessant interloper. BT used the distraction to stand, and the yeti swiveled its attention back to him and drew breath to scream. It appeared to be ready to attack, until a two-foot long flame emerged from the drone. It got close enough to singe the back of the yeti before climbing higher, avoiding the swinging of its arms. BT went over to check on Mike as the yeti tried to outrun the flames swelling on its back.
“Mike?” BT bent over.
“Am I dead?”
“Don’t think so,” BT told him. “Do you want help up?”
“I’m not sure if I can stand,” Mike told him truthfully.
“I have to go and check the house.”
“I know.”
“I’d rather not leave you here.”
“Might be difficult to fight with me draped over your shoulder.”
“Might be.”
“Good luck.” Mike smiled grimly.
“Thanks,” BT mumbled as he moved to the side of the house and to a window.
The drone zipped within inches of Mike’s head; he could feel the breeze of the props upon his face.
“You all right?”
“Trip?” Mike asked.
“How do you know my name? Forget it, Stephanie wants to know if you’re okay.”
“I might be dead.” Mike was happy that they’d survived, even if his own life was very much in doubt.
“Can you sit up?” Stephanie’s voice sounded tinny over the tiny onboard speaker.
“I can’t feel much below my neck.” That wasn’t entirely true; he felt pain, an abundance of it, in fact, and also a piercing cotter pin and knitting needle sensation over most of his chest.
“We’re not far,” Trip said.
“Okay," was the last thing Mike remembered saying before passing out.
BT peered through the window. Two yetis were by the front door, and one was on the staircase; it would have been impossible to miss the blood. If he added up all the splattered and spilled blood he'd seen during the substantial number of murder cases he had been involved with over the years, it would not have equaled what he was looking at right now, inside this home. If Linda had been there, he didn’t see any way that she could have survived. His heart sank. Without her, he didn’t want to go on, but first he would make sure that the yetis knew that they’d screwed with the wrong cop’s wife.
“I am going to fuck up some giant monkeys.” BT moved to the front of the house, not caring what saw or heard him. A young female was eating the remains of a human; judging by the shredded black clothes around the carcass, he identified it as Mrs. Bennilli. He brought the blade down hard enough on the exposed neck of the animal he nearly decapitated it. He wondered for a moment if the scream had been Stacy; there was a chance his wife was still alive, not even here...he hoped. He got stuck in indecision, wondering if he should withdraw and regroup. Get Mike to safety before he attempted a rescue. It was too late; he’d been noticed. The decision to fight forced upon him. A red muzzled, extremely large male barreled out of the house and straight for him.
BT had just enough time to say, “Oh fuck,” hold the sword high, and step to the side. The male had his arms outstretched; the blade slid effortlessly between its index and middle finger. The animal’s momentum was enough to slice across the palm, neatly cutting half the hand off at a diagonal to the wrist. It screamed in rage, waving the injured arm around, spraying blood into the air. Droplets fell to the ground in a misty red rain. The drone had circled back around; a short burst of flame from the nozzle sent the injured yeti running back to the woods as the rancid smell of burning fur dominated the area.
“Ooops," the drone said.
“Trip?” BT looked up.
“How does everyone know my name? New drone who dis?” Trip asked.
“Do you know who’s in the house?” BT asked.
"We don’t know.”
“Stephanie?” BT was having a difficult time reconciling what was happening. In his mind, he’d been in revenge mode, ready and willing to meet his maker, and now he was having an impossible conversation with a flame-throwing drone.
“We have no idea who is in the house. We’d been searching all day for any signs of you out there; finally we picked up your trail right before you entered into the trailer. Where are Linda and Tracy?”
BT’s head sagged. “Don’t know. Tim came back, of all things, took them somewhere, most likely here. But…but the blood. It has to be from multiple people.”
“There’s an open window on the other side of the house. Trip thinks he can fit this in there. We’ll check. Maybe get Mike; he was passed out last we saw.”
“Hurry,” BT said, but he wasn’t so sure he was ready for any answers.
Mike was groggily sitting up. “I’m still alive?” he asked as BT got to him. “How’d that happen? You’re still alive too?”
BT propped the other man up. “Mrs. Bennilli is dead and...others.” He hesitated. “Lots of bones, blood everywhere.”
“Do you know who?” Mike's throat instantly tightened, his voice shook.
“Don’t know.” BT’s lips were pinched tight. “Trip and his flaming drone are going in through a window upstairs to look around.”
“Shit. I’d go up there myself if my chest didn’t feel like it had been compressed all the way to my spine.” With every second Mike sat there, he could feel his last ounce of hope drain out of him like his body was a leaky cup that had once, long ago, been filled with it.
After a few minutes, Mike was beginning to feel like more of himself, and his impetuous nature was taking hold. BT was already there, had been.
“You ready?” BT asked.
“Let’s do it.”
A snowball exploded across BT’s back. He spun to see Trip and Stephanie hiding behind a small group of pines. Stephanie waved them over. Her expression was grim.
“There are four sets of remains inside that house," she said quickly, like she was taking a bandage off a partially scabbed over wound.
BT fell to his knees. Mike felt woozy.
“Four?” BT asked as tears rimmed his eyes. The odds one of their wives were dead was almost a certainty.
“It's possible someone was here when Mrs. Bennilli’s group came,” Stephanie offered.
Mike was doing the gruesome math. If one was indeed Mrs. Bennilli, one also had to be her granddaughter Stacy; they were on the sled together.
“Is there a snowmobile here?” Mike asked.
“Neon green Ski Doo,” Stephanie said.
Mike knew that meant Tim had made it back. The wheel was spun in the shitty game of Death Roulette. Who did the remaining body belong to?
“There’s more.” Stephanie looked over to Trip. “There’s a set of prints that lead away.”
It was difficult to say which man had more tempered hope flood their system.
“And a set of much larger prints following," she added.
“How many of the animals inside?” BT asked.
“Three upstairs, all sleeping.”
“Even after the drone?” Mike asked.
“I placed it on whispersync mode, and they seemed pretty out of it,” Trip said.
“We have to go chase the footprints.” Mike was leaning forward, ready to run.
“We can’t afford to have them at our backs.” BT was the voice of reason, though everything in his being told him they needed to go.
“You still have some propellant in that little machine of yours?” Mike asked.
“Half,” Trip answered.
“No yetis on the main floor?”
“None that I saw, not anymore,” BT answered. “Where are you going with this?”
“I think we should burn the fucking house down. I’m hoping the stove is gas. Trip, I’m going to turn on all the burners in the stove. When the house fills up with it, if you could send your drone in there and light it, that would be great.”
“But my drone….”
“Hon, you own the factory, plus, you have two more back at home and one at the rental; I’m sure you can get another one.”
Mike was on the move, heading to the front of the house. He still felt like shit, but movement seemed to help.
“Rental?” BT asked.
“We’d been out here for six months before Trip insisted on taking the job at the KOA.” Stephanie shrugged. “Said he wasn’t entirely sure when the plates were going to move on this timeline. Like most of the things he says, it didn’t make sense until it did.”
“Damn.” Mike couldn’t help but verbalize when he saw the dead yeti and all the human bones strewn across the stoop and the floor leading in. “It’s not Tracy. I’d know, right? I mean, if my world were to be violently skewed, I’d have to sense it.” He'd half convinced himself of the fact that there was an invisible link between them, and he would have felt the moment the connection was severed. He thought his heart was going to stop when, with the very first step he took inside, the floor squeaked loudly. He paused for a few seconds. Nothing moved, no monsters bounded down the stairs; all he heard was loud, rhythmic breathing. He made it to the kitchen without any other sounds and was as happy as he could be when he saw the enormous white porcelain antique of a stove and not a round electric coil in sight. He flipped all the burners on; gas noisily hissed out. Then he opened the oven door and did the same.
“Wow.” His eyes watered as the rotten egg smell hit him square in the face. “Burn,” the word came out in much the same tone as the gas. Mike didn’t believe he’d ever hated an opponent as much as he hated the yetis. War was one thing; he didn’t necessarily hate those he went to war against. To him, it was all about making sure he survived and that the personnel in his unit survived. If the enemy fell, it increased the odds of that outcome. This was different. Every aspect of it was personal, and now he had to contend with the very real possibility that the light of his life had been extinguished. Yeah, he hoped they burned, and he hoped it was with an exquisitely personal pain. He paused at the bottommost stairs and looked up; they were right there. He was confident he could kill one before the others got to him, but the bill for that brief moment of satisfaction and revenge would come due on BT’s ledger, and he couldn’t do that to his friend. “Lucked out, fuckers," he sneered.
“Stinks.” BT had to turn away as Mike exited. “That thing is really pouring it out.”
“Good. You ready?” Mike was having a difficult time reining in his emotions.
“I can’t say that I am,” BT told him, and Mike knew exactly what he meant. Soon one of them was going to be in mourning while the other one was flooded with relief, provided that they made it in time.
Trip gave them a slight wave as the two men headed off. He waited another twenty minutes, to the point he thought he was catching whiffs of the escaping gas from across the lawn.
“I think now might be good,” Stephanie told him.
“Good god, woman! What have you eaten? I told you I want none of that Nordic nonsense your kind call food anywhere near our home. I thought about divorcing you, you know, when you tried to serve me that fermented Baltic herring.”
“Trip, my love, it’s the leaking propane you’re smelling. Blow the fucking house up.” She caressed his face.
Five minutes later, the small airborne flame blossomed into a building destroying explosion. They hid behind the great oak as shards of the home sliced their way into it and all around.