Search For The Beast

By Derrick Ferguson

This novel is an adaptation of SEARCH FOR THE BEAST (also known as BIGFOOT TERROR) written and directed by Rick Montana and available on Amazon.

Many things live and hide in the Okaloosa wilderness. And one of those things is monstrous, hungry, and unstoppable! The stuff of legends roars into reality when two teenagers are killed and one man is sought out to take on the SEARCH FOR THE BEAST!

Adapted from the B Movie by Rick Montana of the same name seeking to recapture the glory days of 1970s grindhouse and exploitation horror, SEARCH FOR THE BEAST focuses on Dr. David Stone, a former Army Ranger and expert in strange happenings, as he enters the mysterious, dangerous Okaloosa in search of a creature beyond imagining! Noted Genre Fiction author Derrick Ferguson (Dillon, The Adventures of Fortune McCall) breathes pulpy, horrific life into Stone’s expedition, where no one can be trusted, man or monster. It is kill or be killed from all directions in SEARCH FOR THE BEAST by Derrick Ferguson, adapted from a film by Rick Montana. From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: May 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310892080

Derrick Ferguson

Much like removing a band aid I suppose the best way to get through this is to rip it off as quickly as possible, accept the pain and move on. I'm really not all that good at talking about myself and can't imagine why anybody would be interested in the extraordinarily quiet life I live but... My name is Derrick Ferguson and I'm from Brooklyn, New York where I have lived for most of my still young life. Been married for 28 years to the wonderful Patricia Cabbagestalk-Ferguson who lets me get away with far more than is good for me. My interests include radio/audio drama, Classic Pulp from the 30's/40's/50's and New Pulp being written today, Marvel/DC fan fiction, Star Trek in particular and all Science Fiction in general, animation, television, movies, cooking, loooooong road trips and casual gaming on the Xbox 360. Running a close second with writing as an obsession is my love of movies. I'm currently the co-host of the BETTER IN THE DARK podcast where my partner Thomas Deja and I rant and rave about movies on a bi-weekly basis. I'm also a rotating co-host of the PULPED! podcast along with Tommy Hancock, Ron Fortier and Barry Reese where we interview writers of the New Pulp Movement as well as discuss the various themes, topics, ebb and flow of what New Pulp is and why you should be reading it. That’s it for now. Anything else you wanna know, just ask!

Book preview

Search for the Beast

By

Derrick Ferguson

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

SEARCH FOR THE BEAST

A Pro Se Publications

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Written by Derrick Ferguson

Based on ‘Search for the Beast’, a film written and directed by Rick Montana

Edited by J. H. Fleming

Cover Completed by Adam Shaw

eBook Design by Antonino Lo Iacono

www.prose-press.com

SEARCH FOR THE BEAST © 2016 Rick Montana

Chapter One

There’s No One For Miles…Who’s Gonna See Us?

Ritchie St. John was looking to make some stories of his own, but these stories would not be of hunting or fishing. These would be stories of his conquest of the bronze skinned beauty sensually dancing in the warm light of the wood burning fire pit he always kept in the back of his Dodge Ram just for occasions such as these. The fire pit got a lot of workout. All Ritchie had to do was find some dry wood, pile it on in there, splash some lighter fluid over it and bam, he had a roaring fire. The girls thought it was romantic and if it helped Ritchie get what he wanted, then what the hey.

Ritchie reached over to the cooler for another Aspen beer. He’d loaded up the cooler before driving out to what he referred to as Ritchie’s Economy Lodge. The lodge consisted of a dome tent big enough for four as Ritchie liked to have a lot of room to roll around in when he was banging a chick. Much practice enabled Ritchie to set it up in no time at all, blow up the air mattress and then turn his mind toward the seduction of the innocent. This mainly consisted of getting some beer and liquor into said innocent. Who usually wasn’t all that innocent. But as has already been established, what the hey.

The clearing was not only illuminated by the fire pit but by the pure silver moon that looked so clear and sharp on this night. Ritchie couldn’t remember a night where he could see the moon so clear but he chalked that up to the coke he’d snorted earlier. That stuff was so pure his brain had nearly exploded when he did the lines. But it did the job. His every nerve was on fire and all his senses were tuned up to eleven. He was going to enjoy this.

Darla Reese came closer to him, her wonderfully curved hips doing a cute wriggle that made Ritchie grin. Darla’s thumbs worked her Daisy Dukes, along with her silk pink panties, down past her hips to the ground. She stepped out of them, continuing her dance.

And she did dance well, Ritchie had to admit. He’d seen her dancing on the bar down at Big Ray’s last Friday night. He immediately fell into lust with her thick thighs, long shiny black hair and full breasts. Her skin had wonderfully tanned from several months spent down in the Bahamas. She explained to Ritchie over drinks that since her return to the States four months ago she was working her way across the country, to California. That was the first time they talked. By the third time they talked, a week later, she was talked into the passenger seat of Ritchie’s truck, drinking Wild Turkey straight from the bottle and heading for his Economy Lodge

You see, Darla had done her homework and she knew Ritchie St. John was the son of Milton St. John. And whenever anybody in the town of Arledge (pop. 104,796) mentioned the name of Milton St. John you could practically see their pupils turn into dollar signs like in those old Warner Brothers cartoons Darla and her three sisters had watched when they were kids. It didn’t take long for Darla to understand that the St. Johns had more money than they knew what to do with, and from what she had gleaned from other girls who hung out at Big Ray’s, she reckoned that if she threw the junior St. John some of what was good for him she could persuade him to part with some of it. Enough for airfare to L.A. and three months’ rent on an apartment, anyway.

Darla gyrated her hips in a fluid rolling fashion that kept Ritchie’s eyes firmly on the prize. Darla leaned over and kissed Ritchie on the lips, gently biting the lower one as she did so just enough so that the pain was pleasurable. Then she stood up straight, arching her back at just the right angle to make her full breasts stand up to the best advantage. Ritchie looked up at her, amazed at how perfectly the moon haloed her head, her long black hair shining like polished metal in the silver light. His hands slid up under her T-shirt and he filled his hands with those large breasts, marveling at how they seemed to radiate so much heat. He buried his face in them and his reward was Darla’s tinkling laugh, like wind chimes of glass.

The night air echoed with her laugh, Ritchie’s heavy breathing and the healthy crackling of the fire. Richie stood up, roughly pulling Darla’s T-shirt up and over her head, flinging it away. Darla smiled up at him as one hand reached up and inside his shirt and the other hand went south.

Let’s go inside the tent, lover, Darla cooed. Feels like you’re ready. And we don’t want any perverts lookin’ at us, now do we?

Ritchie’s hands left her breasts to cup her buttocks and press her closer to him. There’s no one for miles…who’s gonna see us?

But a pair of eyes was seeing. Eyes belonging to a watcher in the woods. Large eyes with jet black pupils and golden irises. Massive nostrils flared as they detected a familiar scent that tantalized and teased.

Lemme just step over here in the bushes for a bit an’ take care’a nature’s call, ‘kay? Ritchie mumbled in a voice made thick with lust. He reluctantly let go of his double handful and watched as Darla walked with an exaggerated strut to the tent. She knelt and crawled inside, turning around to look at Ritchie as he zipped down his pants.

Don’t go there! Go further in! Darla ordered, wrinkling her nose. Ritchie grinned amiably and did as he was told. At that point Darla could have told him to do just about anything and he’d have done it with a whoop and a holler.

Darla lay on her back in the tent, relishing the warmth from the small space heater over to the far left of the tent’s interior. Her hands moved over her own body, caressing her breasts. Darla liked her body, knew what it was capable of and what it could do to men and she knew what she could do for herself. One hand remained on her right breast, softly kneading while the other hand strayed downward as if on a mission of its own desire, gently fondling. Darla gasped in sudden delight and thought, No harm in getting it ready for Ritchie, now is there? This way we can get right down to it…

Ritchie finished his business and zipped up his pants. Not that they would stay zipped for long. He grinned to himself. Then the thought occurred to him that another couple of lines of Columbian marching powder would be just the thing before he hit that. Matter of fact, with a good healthy snort of yayo he’d be able to hit that multiple times. Ritchie ambled over to his truck where he kept the blow in the glove box.

Maybe the drug had heightened his senses because he didn’t hear his attacker. He felt something rushing up on him from behind and it made no sound, despite its size. Ritchie turned, throwing his arms up in defense. Huge fists came down on his arms, breaking both of them in multiple places. Ritchie opened his mouth to scream but it never got out. That was because the backhanded blow from his attacker shattered his skull like it was an egg dropped from ten stories up.

Ritchie’s corpse hit the ground with a meaty thud. Blood spurted thickly into the ground where it was greedily soaked up by the uncaring earth. Ritchie’s body jerked in its final release of its fluids as his killer stepped lightly over his body and headed for the tent.

By now Darla had aroused herself to the point where she didn’t care if Ritchie ever came to the tent. She was about thirty seconds away from coming herself, ripples and waves of intense pleasure throbbing through her limbs. Her own guttural panting excited her even more, heightening the intensity of the delicious feelings she was experiencing as her hands did their work.

And now she felt a hand on her ankle. Good. Ritchie had arrived just in time as she was so ready for an orgasm she could scream. She lifted her head, eyes half closed. And when she saw what had hold of her ankle those eyes opened as wide as they could go and a scream did indeed explode from Darla’s mouth. But not one of sexual release. No, this was a scream of total and absolute terror.

Darla was yanked out of the tent with dizzying speed and her screams continued to fill the night as her captor threw her over a shoulder as if she weighed no more than a loaf of bread. The killer lumbered back over to Ritchie’s body, seized hold of it by a leg and dragged it behind, keeping a firm hold on the kicking, screaming Darla, whose efforts to get free had about as much effect on her captor as the silver moonlight that fell on the bestial, thickly furred shoulders.

And soon, the only sound in the clearing was the crackling of the fire pit.

Chapter Two

No Point In Anybody Knowing Anything More Than They Have To…Right?

Sheriff Dan Stevens navigated his police cruiser up the wide curving driveway to the St. John mansion. Inspired by and built in Palladian style, it was the physical representation of the power and wealth wielded by the owner, Milton St. John. He was certainly the richest and most powerful man in these parts. Sheriff Stevens was one of the few in Arledge who knew exactly how far St. John’s power and influence reached. Once in a while Stevens would be asked by somebody why a man as rich and powerful as Milton St. John would continue to live in a town like Arledge when he could live anywhere. Stevens sometimes wondered that himself. He and St. John had been friends for a long time and he had to admit that there was still a lot about his friend he didn’t understand.

Still, St. John wasn’t paying him a hundred thousand a year to get inside his head. Stevens walked up to the door. Big, bearish, with a white Santa Claus beard, Stevens never wore his uniform except on special occasions. He got around most days in a khaki work shirt he’d owned for fifteen years now, well-worn jeans, and motorcycle boots. The only visible sign of his office was the badge pinned to his left shirt pocket and the.45 automatic riding on his hip. It wasn’t regulation but the gun was an old friend from Vietnam.

Stevens rang the doorbell and a minute later Milton St. John opened the door. The two men hugged warmly and affectionately in greeting. Both were big, broad shouldered men who carried their excess weight with ease. Both had thick gray hair and if he himself had a Santa Claus beard, St. John could have conceivably passed for his brother.

C’mon in, Dan.

Stevens entered the spacious foyer, taking off his straw Stetson. How you doin’, Milt? Stevens noticed the red eyes of his friend. He’d been crying again.

I’m okay now. It just hits me once in a while, you know? Usually when I don’t expect it to catch me. C’mon into the office.

They walked through the first floor to a surprisingly small room decorated and filled with books, pictures on the wall, memorabilia of St. John’s various hobbies and interests. A stuffed bald eagle with an astounding eight foot wingspan loomed over the doorway, looking so lifelike that it seemed as if it would take flight. A picture of St. John hugging Aretha Franklin and signed by her, taken at the Grammy Awards back in 1983.