The Spirit

Jason breathed deeply in anticipation. He was in control now. After tonight he would relax completely. Nothing could possibly go wrong now. The bullets were notched and would mushroom on impact. That female was dead.

His search was over.

He loosened the flashlight lens to throw as wide a beam as possible. He tiptoed over the rubble to the furnace door. He could feel the gigantic presence inside as palpably as his nose smelled the fuel oil.

He kneeled before the doorway, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. From the furnace room came the wet clink of something hitting a pipe. He clicked on the light.

And cried out in shock. She was six feet in front of him, a rock clutched in a raised arm, eyes flashing green from the light.

Jason rolled aside from the doorway. The rock did not fly out. Rather, she moved into the deeper recesses of the furnace room, her feet making sticky sounds in the black layer of fuel oil that coated the entire floor.

She had a horned face, just like the male, with that fixed thin smile. Jason thought he glimpsed a bloody hole on her shoulder, with tangled fur.

Inside a rock clanged against a pipe.

What was she doing?

Jason jumped in the doorway, squatting, light flashing around. The room was full of humps of machinery and heavy pipes. One of the humps scuttled behind another one, and again he heard a rock click against metal.

A huge, long-­fingered hand poked out from behind the furnace and snatched a rock. She rapped it against a pipe, causing a spark. Flint against metal. She struck it against another rock. Flint against stone. She was making fire. She was going to reduce the wreck of the lodge to ashes. Scatter the ashes on the wind and clean the wind with incantations.

Jason cocked the pistol. He moved sideways, trying to slip behind her. His feet made wet sounds on the fuel oil. He cut off the light and got behind a pipe as she struck at another rock. This time she got a sizable spark, which pinpointed her position for Jason.

He fired. The bullet struck the concrete floor, rico­cheting to the ceiling, striking a spark of its own that ignited the fuel oil. Fire fluffed gently up, covering her escape as she crashed out the door leading outside. It scurried like a hungry ripple into every hiding place, every corner formed by floor, wall, and machinery.

Dammit! Jason felt the fire’s heat on his legs as he scrambled to the door and fired at the huge figure running into the trees. Snow spouted from the bullet at the edge of the woods. Stunned and shattered by missing her again, Jason stood just outside the lodge as the flames poured gritty smoke around him.

“Come on, Mr. Jason.” Wood­ard and Martha each grabbed an elbow and sleepwalked Jason to a safer part of ground. The storm had lessened, as though its energy had been mysteriously used up by the avalanche. The fire ate away at the timbers of the gallery like a parasite, determined to chew at its host despite the wind.

The ski chairs had been carried down the slope by the rockslide. They moved to the parking apron as sparks rode the wind down the road. From there they could see well into the woods, which were illuminated by the flames.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. “She got away,” mumbled Jason.

“Yeah, that was a real neat stunt, Jason,” said Wood­ard. “You with a gun in the same room with her and she gets away. You just ain’t cut out to be a hunter, Jason.”

“She was wounded,” he said dully. “She can’t get much further.”

“Raymond, put the gun away. The Rangers are coming.”

The snow had cleared sufficiently for them to see a line of snowmobile lights far down in the valley. Someone had crossed the bridge already and was on the way up.

Drake, probably, coming up for an explanation. Have we been shooting at Bigfoots again, Mr. Jason? I see. And how many people are dead in the van? I see. And Mr. Helder, too?

“It’s not my fault,” Jason said clearly. The floor of the lodge caved into the fire, sending up a cataract of sparks. The heat warmed the surface of Jason’s coveralls. “They’re half people. That’s why they’re killers.”

“Raymond, put the gun away,” said Martha Lucas again through clenched teeth. “Who gives a damn what they are?”

“The male is dead. She’s the last one.” Jason made a move for the woods. Martha grabbed his sleeve.

“You don’t know that! She could be waiting in there to ambush you. Maybe the male’s alive, maybe the avalanche didn’t have anything to do with Moon—”