RELICS - A Myth You Don't Believe - A Reality You Won't Survive

By John Vandeventer

Samuel Redstone enjoyed a quiet life as the chief of police of a small town in Southeastern Oklahoma. His peace would soon be shattered by the bizarre death of a group of outlaw motorcycle club members just outside his beloved town of Talihina. The violent deaths could not be easily explained. When other members of the club come to town to exact revenge and make charges of police brutality, Sam is distracted by this, causing him to momentarily miss other bizarre activities in around Talihina. To make matters worse, Sam’s old flame returns to town with her husband, complicating Sam’s life even further. As time passes, it becomes evident that something other than outlaw motorcycle gangs has descended on Talihina. Strange animal behavior and a rash of dead and disappearing dogs are the first warnings to the residence of the small town that a new danger is lurking in the beautiful Kiamichi Mountains surrounding the community. Bizarre helicopter and military activity also become common place in the area—not to mention a US Forest Service Special Agent named Paul Eastman is adding to the stress and confusion plaguing Sam. Sam’s father, Addison, a full-blood Choctaw, is the first to recognize the real danger to the community. Sam is reluctant to listen to the old stories and legends of his ancestors. As a veteran of two tours in Iraq, Sam is confident he can handle what he assumes is a criminal element threatening Talihina. Unknown to Sam, something else—something ancient and lethal—is threatening Talihina. The government agency that is supposed to be neutralizing the threat is only making things worse. The creatures are referred to by many names throughout the world and among the First Nations Tribes. As the truth becomes evident, Sam must rely on his father’s leadership and warrior skills to confront and defeat what he comes to know as . . . RELICS

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640274242

Book preview

cover.jpg

RELICS,

A Myth You Dont Believe,

A Reality You Wont Survive

John Vandeventer

BFP.png

Copyright © 2017 John Vandeventer

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-64138-356-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64027-424-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

The world outside had its own rules, and those rules

were not human.

—Michel Houllebecq

Sunday, 13 July 2014, 7:50

pm

CST, Fourteen Thousand Feet over Southeast Oklahoma

Captain Jacob Nesbit fought back a yawn and shook his head. He had spent the weekend showing his F-16 Fighting Falcon to the public. He and his aircraft were part of the static ground display for the annual Star-Spangled Salute Air Show at Tinker AFB, Oklahoma. Weekend duty of any kind was not exactly top-shelf entertainment for the young captain, but it wasn’t as bad as he had expected either.

He would have much preferred a weekend admiring bikinis on the beaches of South Carolina near his home base of Shaw AFB. Instead, he’d spent the past two days explaining the performance of his aircraft along with the role of his unit, the Fifty-Fifth Fighter Squadron to what, for the most part, was an enthusiastic public in Oklahoma.

With the country enduring a long war, many in the public were forgetting about the young people still fighting. Impressing the taxpayers with a display of his unit’s and aircraft’s capabilities was every bit as important as a bomb right through Hajji’s cave window. Nesbit believed in what he was doing, and he knew that it was easy for many people to forget about all the troops that were still fighting in Afghanistan.

Those guys over there needed him to be at his best here, just as much as they did when he used his F-16 to clear a group of Taliban off their ass in combat. He was pleasantly surprised by the many attractive local girls who had stopped and viewed his aircraft during the display.

He’d made a point of telling them his F-16 was the same aircraft the USAF Thunderbirds were flying while performing their aerial demonstrations over the weekend. Although there were no bikinis on the flight line, the long hot summers of Oklahoma made for some very nice tube top–and–shorts combinations on many of the young women visiting the air show.

On both Saturday and Sunday, shortly after the Thunderbirds finished their performance, a few of the ladies who had visited his aircraft earlier returned, giving him their Facebook information and, in some cases, even phone numbers. There were certainly some very interesting young women there. Oklahoma wasn’t bad. I may have to return one day, he thought, smiling to himself.

Passing 14,500 feet, Captain Nesbit prepared to level out at fifteen thousand feet to stay under the commercial air traffic headed into and out of DFW airport to his south. He would hold this altitude until the Low Sector Controller in Fort Worth, Texas, cleared him to twenty-five thousand feet. Once he was at his planned cruise altitude, he would be handed off to a Memphis High Sector Controller; at that point, he would be well on his way home.

Anxious to get back to Shaw, he looked at the darkening terrain below him. The further he got away from Tinker AFB and Oklahoma City, the sparser the population and the smaller the towns became.

Sheesh, what the hell does a guy do down there for fun on a Saturday night? These were the last leisurely thoughts he would ever have.

Nesbit’s aircraft sounded a bang, followed by an eerie absence of engine noise. Immediately, the automated female-voice pilot called Bitching Betty started her robotic chant of, "

Warning! Warning

!" in his helmet’s speakers. The words also appeared in his heads-up display or (HUD). Nesbit was no longer the bored captive of a cross-country flight; the aircraft now had his full attention. The experience from hundreds of hours of flying in simulators and the endless training flights in F-16s, as well as his real world combat operations in both Iraq and Afghanistan, now kicked in. Captain Nesbit took a deep breath and calmed himself. Yes, he was a little rattled, but he was also an experienced and battle-tested fighter pilot.

He quickly went through the steps to restart his engine. His left hand automatically pulled the throttle back to idle and switched his Emergency Power Unit from

normal

to

on

.

The hours of training were paying off. Nesbit quickly went through the numerous steps required to bring his aircraft’s F-110 GE-100 engine back to life. The powerful turbo fan seemed to be responding. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when his engine went dead again.

Single-engine, single-seat aircraft require one engine to do all the work and one person to do all the thinking. It occurred to Nesbit that in his haste to get a restart on his engine, he had failed to inform air traffic control of his status. He quickly keyed his microphone, transmitting to the Fort Worth Air Traffic Control Center.

Fort Worth, this is Shooter 5-5 declaring an emergency.

It seemed that Fort Worth was busy with Sunday evening departures and arrivals because he didn’t get an immediate response. Deciding not to take any more chances, he broadcast his dilemma on the Emergency VHF frequency.

Fort Worth Control, this is Shooter 5-5 transmitting on guard.

He also dialed a code 7700 into the emergency transponder. As he did this, he also attempted a second restart on his engine—no luck.

Sunday, 13 July 2014, 7:55

pm

CST, Fort Worth Air Traffic Control Center, Fort Worth, Texas

Barry Welsh was rattled out of his comfortable groove, guiding aircraft in and out of his assigned operational zone in the low sector. The words transmitting on guard, quickly followed by a transponder alarm, grabbed not only his attention but also the attention of the senior controller.

Welsh quickly replied, Aircraft transmitting on guard, please repeat emergency.

He knew already from the transponder information on his screen that it was a USAF cross-country flight out of Tinker AFB, Oklahoma, passing through his zone on its way to the East Coast. The reply he got back from Shooter 5-5 was not good.

Roger, Fort Worth, this is Shooter 5-5. I am a single ship Fox 16 out of Tinker. I have suffered an engine failure and two failed restarts. I am now passing eleven thousand feet and attempting a third restart.

Copy, Shooter 5-5, maintain current heading for restart, advise after attempt.

The F-16 pilot replied he understood with a simple, Shooter 5-5.

Welsh’s supervisor, Tim Starnes, was quickly looking over his shoulder in an attempt to aid his controller bring the situation to a happy ending. Tapping Welsh on the shoulder, he said, This isn’t good, Barry. At his altitude, if he doesn’t get that engine lit, he doesn’t have a prayer. Talihina is about twenty miles behind him. He’s about to cross over into Arkansas, and he’s at least twenty miles from Mena as well.

An instant later, the radio brought the news nobody wanted to hear.

Fort Worth, Shooter 5-5. Negative on the restart. You guys wouldn’t be hiding a nice runway anywhere in the immediate area, would you?

Welsh was always amazed at the way pilots managed to sound calm and collected in situations where he would already be in panic mode.

He responded with, Shooter 5-5, your best chance at your current heading and altitude is Mena, Arkansas, at your two o’ clock–and–twenty miles course 098.

After releasing the microphone switch, a wave of regret hit Welsh. He was almost certain the distance was too far.

Roger, Fort Worth. Looks like I may be taking a nature walk shortly. The area is heavily wooded and hilly. I’ll get as low as possible before I punch out. It’s getting close to dark. I have lights at my two o’ clock about fifteen miles or so ahead.

Roger that, Shooter, that is Mena, Welsh replied nervously.

Okay, Fort Worth. No way I’m going to make that. Let ’em know I’ll need a ride home, though, Nesbit said with as much humor and bravado as he could muster.

Roger, Shooter, we are advising emergency services in that area of your situation and location. You should see Highway 88 off your left wing. You are coming up on Queen Wilhelmina State Park as well.

As Welsh released his microphone button, he looked over at his boss, who was busy informing a long list of emergency contact organizations, starting with the Mena Police Department and Volunteer Fire Department.

With his next transmission, Nesbit’s voice was starting to display some of the stress he was under. I’m going to get as close as I can to them but clear of any built-up areas to avoid hurting anyone or their property. Thanks for your assistance, Fort Worth… I’m going to be a bit busy now.

That was the last transmission from Shooter 5-5.

Roger, Shooter. Good Luck, replied Welsh as he grimly looked up at his supervisor.

Sunday, 13 July 2014 7:59

pm

CST, Four Thousand Feet over Oklahoma-Arkansas Border

Nesbit started dumping excess fuel; he wanted to get as much out of the aircraft as possible before he ejected. He also decided to delay ejecting, until he was close to impact. This would ensure that his chute would bring him down within reasonable proximity to the crash site.

His thinking was, if he were injured or unconscious, he would be easier to locate near where the jet impacted. Had he been over prairie or desert, he would have already ejected.

The terrain below was hilly and heavily forested, and he was certain that even with a clean ejection, the landing was going to hurt like hell. He let the nose of the aircraft drop a bit, trading the altitude for a little more speed. The whining EPU motor was all that was keeping his aircraft alive, supplying electrical and hydraulic power to the crippled bird.

At a thousand, feet Bitching Betty started her chant again, railing against the low altitude. "

Warning

!

Warning

!

Pull up! Pull up

!" Glancing over his left wing, he could barely see the road Fort Worth Control had informed him of.

Nobody on the highway, if I need help it may be slow in coming, he thought to himself.

A few seconds later, he spotted a large complex and parking area on top of the ridge to his ten o’ clock.

That must be part of the State Park Fort Worth was telling me about. That means people and help if I’m injured.

At a thousand feet, he jettisoned his two external wing tanks carried under the wings. He didn’t want the 2,400 gallons of jet fuel they contained adding to the mix when his aircraft impacted and exploded in flames.

Nesbit aimed his nose for the valley floor between the two ridges. It looked to be carved out by a creek. Passing six hundred feet, he prayed there would be no people below. After deciding he’d done everything he could to keep the carnage of the crash to a minimum, as his plane dipped below the two ridgelines, Nesbit prepared to eject. He removed his hands from the throttle on the left console and the joystick on the right. Tucking his legs and arms in as tight to his body as possible, he reached down and grabbed the yellow ejection handle between his legs and pulled.

The Aces II ejection seat worked to perfection; the bubble canopy was blown clear by explosive squibs. An instant later, the rocket motors in Nesbit’s seat fired him and his seat up and away from the F-16.

Sunday, 13 July 2014, 8:00

pm

CST, Polk County, Arkansas, Twelve Miles West of Mena, Arkansas

The ejection was much more violent than Nesbit expected. Fighting off the effects from the force his body had just endured, he looked down as he hung by his chute. There was a huge fireball boiling on the ground where his jet had impacted. He could feel the heat and smell the burning jet fuel as he floated down. Suddenly, shrill screaming noises assaulted his ears. What the hell?

Looking down, he could make out movement on the edges of the fire. As the smoke blew clear, pushed by the westerly breeze, he saw figures engulfed in flames and flailing in agony. Feeling the bile rise in his throat, he nearly threw up.

Oh, no, please, God, don’t let me kill innocent civilians!

Nesbit was convinced his disabled aircraft had fallen in the middle of campers or hikers—forcing a fiery, agonizing death upon them. He lost sight of the figures as the treetops became eye level with him.

The sudden impact of the ground was painful, and again he was momentarily disoriented. Struggling to his feet and hastily unhooking his chute, his only thought was to hurry to the edge of the fire where he’d seen the people burning. He wished for his own death at this point. With his chute released, he pulled off his helmet and gloves, threw them to the ground, and began sprinting toward the crash site.

He only made fifty feet when suddenly, he was knocked flat on his back. Confused and gasping for breath, he looked up into the eyes of a nightmare. His brain could not comprehend what he was seeing.

A large, heavy hand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. There was a sharp snap of pain… then dark nothingness.

For Captain Jacob Nesbit, his final wish had been granted.

The nightmare that took the life of Captain Nesbit wasn’t the only horror stalking the Ouachita National Forest now. The fire caused by the crash of the F-16 was fast becoming a monster in its own right.

Years of lower-than-normal rainfall combined with the strong dry westerly winds were working the flames into a tree-and-vegetation-devouring inferno.

As one tree burst into flames, the winds carried its embers into the next tree. The updrafts from the fire caused a swirling effect, sending the embers to the north and south, engulfing those trees in flame as well. The only safe place was directly west, or behind the fire.

Sunday, 13 July 2014, 8:50

pm

CST, Polk County, Arkansas, Ten Miles West of Mena, Arkansas

With a roster of just twenty volunteers, the Mena Volunteer Fire Department responded with an impressive swiftness. Being a Sunday evening, few firefighters were at church; others were relaxing at home. Still others were on the way back from weekend camping or fishing trips in the local Ouachita Mountains or Broken Bow Lake to the south.

The department was able to muster thirteen firefighters and rescue personnel. All four department vehicles, which included their airport fire truck, hurried northwest along Highway 88. The highway, known to the locals as Skyline Drive, runs roughly atop one of the mountain ridges in the Ouachita. Department Chief Ben Jones had received seven phone calls from some of his absent firefighters claiming they had received notification and were en route in their personal vehicles.

He was also in contact with an Arkansas state trooper and an Arkansas Game and Fish officer who had both been in the vicinity at the time of the crash. Both were also responding to the smoke and flames.

According to the state trooper, the lodge at Queen Wilhelmina State Park was in danger of catching fire. He had already notified his headquarters to alert all surrounding fire departments of the seriousness of the situation.

The chief, as well as his team, knew they were in for a fight. With the fading light of dusk, they had no trouble seeing flames racing through the valley floor and climbing up both the north and south ridges. Some said silent prayers; others just stared in awe as they approached the flames. Every one of them was determined to fight this to the bitter end.

Beside each of them and in all four vehicles were family members or lifelong friends. Behind them and in the path of this fire was every person they loved and cared for, as well as their homes and their jobs. They all understood: lose this battle, and everything that mattered to them was in danger.

Sunday, 13 July 2014, 9:05

pm

CST, Queen Wilhelmina State Park Lodge

Chief Jones quickly got his vehicles and men deployed, trying to save the lodge. Luckily, as the lodge was undergoing renovations, only a skeleton crew staffed the lodge. Additionally, a couple of construction workers were staying in the few available rooms.

One of the construction workers approached Chief Jones, yelling to be heard over the din of roaring flames, water pumps, and men shouting encouragement to each other. He told the chief he had seen the pilot eject and had witnessed the crash.

The chief replied that the pilot would have to fend for himself until more help arrived. Right now he wasn’t sure if he could keep the top of this ridge and the people on it safe.

Help started arriving by nine forty. Firefighting units from DeQueen and Nashville Arkansas were the first reinforcements. They were quickly followed by firefighters from Hope and Hot Springs.

Many of these units were forced into downwind firefighting as they fought their way through the fire, spreading to the east. By 10:00

pm,

the fire had jumped to the north side of Highway 88 and was racing north and west, threatening Highway 59.

As the fire spread, it quickly ceased to be a local or even a state problem. As it burned its way into the Ouachita National Forest, it soon became a federal problem and came under the jurisdiction of the US Forest Service and FEMA.

Right now none of this mattered to the Dragon Slayers of the Mena Volunteer Fire Department.

Fortunately, the high winds blowing from the east served to aid them in their efforts on top of the hill. They had managed to save the lodge and grounds of Queen Wilhelmina State Park. Over the next few days, the area would be used as the Command Center by the numerous agencies called in to assist Arkansas with its largest disaster in years.

The Dragon Slayers were finally able to catch their breath and drink some water. What had seemed just a few minutes had actually taken nearly two hours. Looking around the sprawling grounds, they saw the first few of what would later be hundreds of people needed to defeat this fire completely. Arkansas National Guard vehicles were already parked on the west side of the grounds.

Guardsmen busily began laying markers in treeless areas to mark helicopter landing zones. A UH-72 Lakota helicopter from the Arkansas National Guard was already flying overhead. Others, along with UH-60s Black Hawks, began to land and unload soldiers and equipment. The portable light units set up by the National Guard troops cast an eerie glow over a large part of the surrounding terrain.

Chief Jones was gazing back toward the blackened, burned landscape. Along the opposite slope, a lone figure could be seen walking uphill toward an area the fire had not touched.

Who is that? the chief was thinking to himself.

The figure stopped for a moment and glanced back toward the location of the firemen.

The eyes of the unknown figure caught the reflection of the portable lighting units and gave off a reddish gold glow. The eye shine took the chief by surprise.

What the hell? Human eyes don’t reflect back with eye shine, the chief was thinking, somewhat confused.

Also the size of the figure now became more apparent as well as the fact that it looked to be covered in fur.

No way, no stinking way that is human!

The chief was shaken from his thoughts when one of his firemen said, I hope these guys don’t start crashing and starting more fires for us.

"Okay, guys, let’s get back at it. We’ve cut the tail off this bitch, but the rest of her is still heading toward our home. We’ve got to get this thing under control. Pay attention to your surroundings. No telling who or what you’re liable to encounter out here."

Some of the firemen looked at their leader with confusion over his comments. Looking back at where he’d seen the figure, he was relieved to see it was gone.

Whatever the hell that was, I don’t want to see it again, the chief thought to himself nervously.

Sunday, 13 July 2014, 11:15

pm

CST, Queen Wilhelmina State Park Lodge

Soldiers of the Seventy-Seventh Aviation Brigade Arkansas National Guard were working their way down the ridge from the park’s lodge, searching for the pilot of the crashed F-16. There were twenty of them, along with a couple of state troopers and an Arkansas Game and Fish officer. There was no mistaking where the aircraft had impacted the ground at the bottom of the ridge. Now that the fire had burnt itself out in the immediate area, they were easily able to work their way down the ridge in a line-abreast formation. Using flashlights and calling out to the pilot, the searchers soon reached the bottom of a small valley floor.

SPC Walter Blevins was one of the first to reach the bottom and also first to come across a sign of the pilot. He was about sixty meters west of the wreckage when he came upon a parachute, half of which was hanging in a tree. He called to a nearby NCO, who approached, along with the two state policemen and the game warden.

What have you got? Sergeant First Class Nathan Parks asked as he and the trio of law enforcement officers approached.

There’s his chute and harness, Blevins said, pointing to the tree. Then pointing just beside it, he added, And there’s his helmet.

One of the state troopers picked up the helmet, inspecting it. His pilot’s gloves are wadded up in it, he said with some confusion.

That means he survived the ejection and landing, Parks said as he scanned the immediate area with a puzzled look. If he was able to unhook from his harness and remove his helmet and gloves, he’s alive and around here someplace.

Why the hell didn’t he just climb up the hill to where the cops and firemen are? asked Blevins. Then he added, That’s the Air Force for you. Probably afraid he’d get dirty.

Or he may be in shock and wandering around in the dark, Parks added, frowning at Blevins.

There was a lot of commotion coming from the area just to their east.

Suddenly, over Parks’s radio headset came the voice of Lieutenant Ackman, Sergeant Parks, I need you over by the wreckage ASAP. We have bodies.

Roger, sir, Parks said as he looked at Blevins with some confusion. Let’s go and see what the lieutenant is talking about.

Parks knew that the F-16 is a single-seat aircraft. He was surprised at the lieutenant’s use of the word bodies.

His group trotted the short fifty yards to the area where a crowd was gathering near the wreckage.

Parks and his group pushed their way through the crowd to Lieutenant Ackman.

Sergeant, here is your aircrew, looks like they didn’t get out, the lieutenant said, pointing to the charred remains at his feet.

Looking at the remains in the beams of flashlights and the glow of nearby flames, Parks’s confusion grew. The lieutenant was new to the Guard, and this was his first time to be in close contact with death. Parks, on the other hand, had seen plenty in his fourteen years of service, which included the three deployments he had under his belt.

These were not the remains of an aircrew or anything else he could think of.

These aren’t people, he said to Ackman. Plus, we’re looking for a single pilot, not an aircrew.

They have to be people, exclaimed the lieutenant.

They’re too big to be people, said Parks.

Maybe they’re swollen from the fire, Sarge, said Blevins.

Parks looked at Blevins for a moment, thinking… Then he asked, How tall are you?

Now it was Blevins turn to look confused. I’m six feet on the button, Sarge.

The bodies were sprawled on the ground, all within ten feet of each other. Looking at the largest set of remains, Parks said to Blevins, Lie down next to this one.

What the hell do you mean, Sarge?

Lie down next to this one, Parks repeated.

Come on, Sarge, they smell like ass.

The crowd of soldiers erupted in laughter.

Quiet! Parks said with the menacing voice that only an NCO can do justice to. Now get your ass in the grass.

Blevins lay down about three feet from the largest corpse, muttering protest under his breath. Frustrated with his squeamishness, Parks grabbed his ankles and pulled his feet next to and even with the corpse. He then grabbed Blevins’s shirt, lifting him and then roughly dropping him next to and almost touching the corpse.

Luckily for Blevins, this momentarily knocked the wind out of him.

Ash and dust rose from around Blevins along with the smell of burnt flesh and hair. As the cloud settled, Parks stared down at the body lying next to Blevins. It was over two feet taller and at least three times as large across the chest. Parks had heard and read about things like this. Until now he thought they were just the products of hoaxers or active imaginations.

Looking at the lieutenant, he said, Aircrew, my ass, those aren’t even people.

It has to be black bears, said the game warden.

With that, Blevins jumped up from the ground. Sergeant Parks could punish him all he wanted, but the stench was terrible. Not to mention, the thought of lying next to a bear, even a dead one, was more than he could handle.

Parks looked at the game warden incredulously and said, Bears? You know they’re not bears! Where are their snouts? Look at them. They have hands and feet, not paws. I see thumbs on all of them. How many bears have thumbs? I think you know exactly what they are and just don’t want to admit it.

Some of the soldiers started looking among themselves in confusion. Most had no idea what Parks was talking about. A few, however, caught on to what Parks was thinking and started taking more interest in the corpses.

The game warden, looking first to the two state troopers and then to Parks, announced that the site was officially under jurisdiction of the State of Arkansas. Declaring himself and the two troopers the only state law enforcement officers on-site, they now had control over the three corpses. Then he declared the area a crime scene.

The two state troopers looked at the game warden and then at each other in confusion.

Crime scene? said Parks. What kind of crap are you trying to feed us?

This was as far as the game warden was going to allow the conversation to go. Moving his right hand so that it rested on the holster of his Berretta 9-millimeter and looking menacingly at Parks, he turned to Ackman.

Lieutenant, it’s time you took control of your sergeant before I place him under arrest. He continued, You and your people are here to find a missing pilot, not trample and destroy whatever evidence remains from what is obviously a poaching site. I suggest you and your men get back to your search mission. I’ll be needing bags or blankets to cover these bears, there will be an investigation… I suggest you people keep your mouths shut. As soon as I’m back up that hill, I’ll be putting in a call to my boss, who will be calling the governor, who will also be in contact with the chief of the Arkansas National Guard. I’d hate to have to tell my boss that this pilot hasn’t been found yet because you guys were playing with dead bear carcasses.

The bewildered young lieutenant had no idea what just occurred between Parks and the game warden. He damn sure didn’t want to be the topic of a negative conversation between the governor and the chief of the Arkansas National Guard. What nobody noticed in the exchange between the sergeant, lieutenant, and game warden was another Seventy-Seventh sergeant taking photos of the bodies with his smartphone. Ackman didn’t want to deal with any more of this confusing situation or the foul-smelling corpses. He started herding his troops out of the area.

Okay, enough of this crap, Sergeant. Get a line formed, we’ll search back to the west then uphill. Surely this guy isn’t so confused he wouldn’t walk to the road.

The National Guard troops reformed their search line facing west. As they moved away from the area, Sergeant Parks and the game warden exchanged looks one last time.

Just doing my job, the game warden said.

Parks nodded, and he understood the man had to do his duty. He just couldn’t figure out why his duty included hiding what was lying on the ground back there.

People should be told. Hell, people should be warned, he thought to himself.

After they had moved out of sight of the game warden, Blevins quietly asked Parks, That was some weird and intense shit. What the hell were those things, Sarge?

Parks thought for a moment and then said with some anger, Bears, they were just dead bears. Now let’s find our missing pilot so we can get the hell out of these woods.

Blevins nodded in confusion, and this wouldn’t be the last confusing incident in the hunt for Captain Jacob Nesbit. It would be four more long days before the fire was brought under control. It would be another five days after that before all the hot spots had been neutralized.

In what was referred to as the Miracle of Mena, the menace projected on the community by fire propagation models proved false when a strong low pressure system settled in Missouri, turning the strong westerly winds into strong southerly winds. This spared Mena, but it didn’t spare the Ouachita National Forest. It was estimated that 7,550 acres of the National Forest was lost to the fire—an area of roughly twelve square miles east from Queen Wilhelmina State Park and northeast of Mena Arkansas, stopping just short of the small town of Boles Arkansas in the east and Waldron Arkansas to the north. The Ouachita National Forest was cut in two from Highway 8 in the south to Highway 28 in the north. Wildlife fled the flames as best they could. In a panic, they moved to the path of least resistance—many of the animals moving into Southeastern Oklahoma, the far west boundary of the Ouachita Mountains. The whereabouts of Captain Jacob Nesbit proved more perplexing than fighting the fire.

Searchers came across his boots sitting on the shoulder of Highway 8, a mile and a half west of the crash area, the morning after the crash. Three days later, less than a mile from the Oklahoma border, an Arkansas state trooper noticed something hanging on a tree on the median between Highway 59 and the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the highway a mere sixty feet to the north. Hanging ten feet up in the tree was the flight suit of Captain Nesbit. On the left shoulder was a blue-and-white patch showing two dice with the 5s face up and the words, Fifty-Fifth Fighter Squadron. Attached to the left breast with Velcro was a name tag displaying silver USAF pilot’s wings. Under the wings, the words, Jacob M. Nesbit, Capt. USAF, were printed.

There was no doubt that the flight suit belonged to Captain Nesbit. Tracking dogs were brought in to help locate Nesbit. To the surprise of their handlers, they lay down, refusing to follow a scent. Why the captain crossed two highways where he could have flagged down help or stopped at any of a number of farms he would have passed in his travels was a mystery. A bigger mystery was, how did his flight suit manage to get ten feet up a tree, and why was the owner obviously removing his much-needed footwear and clothing while seemingly evading rescue?

Monday, 28 July 2014, 10:25

am

CST, Queen Wilhelmina State Park Grounds

The search was called off after two weeks. The twenty members of the Arkansas National Guard’s Seventy-Seventh Aviation Brigade who participated in the initial search were called into formation just before heading home. After they were put at ease by Lieutenant Ackman, a very serious-looking middle-aged man dressed in slacks and a polo shirt stepped up in front of the formation and introduced himself as Special Agent Paul Eastman of the National Park Service Police. If any of the soldiers were expecting a thank-you for their efforts in searching for missing USAF pilot, they were disappointed. Instead, they were threatened to keep their mouths shut about what they witnessed at the crash site the first night. Angered at first, most of the soldiers couldn’t even remember the first night. Those who could remember could care less about dead bears, or whatever the hell the charred remains were. They just wanted to go home.

One soldier didn’t give a damn what this strutting big shot had to say. He knew what he saw and wasn’t going to be intimidated by a park ranger.

You can kiss my ass, Ranger Bob. Bears aren’t the only things that shit in the woods, Sergeant First Class Nathan Parks told himself.

Chapter One

Massacre at Choctaw Vista

A wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind.

—Unknown

Friday, 24 October 2014, 04:05

am

CST, Highway 271, Eight Miles Northeast of Talihina, Oklahoma

Bret Guano Marshall was starting to suffer a case of monkey butt—a biker term for riding hours on end and your rear end becomes uncomfortable and sore. He repositioned himself on his 1975 Harley Soft-Tail, stretching his back as much as he could. He and the four bikers traveling with him were members of the Vipers Motorcycle Club. They were coming back from Joplin Missouri and about at the halfway point of their journey back to their clubhouse near Lake Tawakoni in Northeast Texas.

Marshall, whose road name was Guano, was the sergeant at arms of the Vipers MC. He was the angry god enforcing all rules of Viper and executioner of all offenders, and he relished both jobs. Their run had started nearly twenty-four hours ago, when they set out for Joplin to settle a score with a former member. The guy had made off with Viper money and Viper crank. The offender who went by Skeeter had been patched into the club a couple of years ago. After being given the task of delivering a large amount of the club’s product, Skeeter decided to go into business for himself, selling half and taking off with the other half along with the money from the first sale. Skeeter was far from a master criminal.

After selling half of the meth to a club contact, he started smoking it. That is when he got the bright idea to steal it along with the money. This was Skeeter’s first mistake. Skeeter loved to talk, and when Skeeter was speeding on meth, he really loved to talk. Skeeter’s second mistake was trying to convince a stripper he had the hots for into going with him, telling her of a high-class club a friend of his owned in Joplin and how he could get her a job there. Skeeter’s third and last mistake was going to Joplin with Viper property. Guano had an idea Skeeter might talk to the stripper in an attempt to impress her… He also knew he could easily intimidate her into telling him Skeeter’s plans.

Guano earned his road name for the fierceness he displayed when fighting. Years ago, as a prospect, while outside a bar near Quinlin Texas, he was guarding the Viper’s bikes. Three members from a rival club attempted to screw with the prospect by demanding his cut. Little did they know, far from being intimidated, they just made his night. As far as Bret Marshall was concerned, the club patch they were demanding was just the excuse he needed to hurt somebody. Marshal beat and bounced the three of them all over the parking lot. He also nearly took out a deputy sheriff who tried to break up the disturbance. Alerted by the commotion, other members of the Vipers spilled into the parking lot to aid their prospect.

Luckily, the deputy was uninjured, being knocked down by one of Guano’s other victims as he flew through the air. Once the deputy was back on his feet, he told the Vipers that he was arresting all four of the combatants.

The three guys on their ass in the parking lot, plus the big bastard that went ‘bat shit,’ he said as he described Marshall’s actions.

There was no trial, as there was nobody dumb enough to press charges. All four of the bikers were given a slap on the wrist for disturbing the peace. Thumper, the Viper’s president, was highly amused by the term bat shit and decided it would make a good road name for his hulking prospect. After thinking about it a few minutes, he decided Guano had a better ring, and so Bret Marshall the prospect became Guano the Viper.

The way Guano fought had no resemblance at all to somebody going bat shit. He fought with a calm, cruel disposition, inflicting the maximum amount of pain and damage to his victims as possible. At six feet five inches and 270 pounds, he was usually much bigger and stronger than his opponents and relished the ease at which he could break their spirits and their bodies. He wasn’t against using weapons either. Pipes, knives, chains, pool sticks, bricks, or guns were all tools of the trade for Guano. A run to settle a score with Skeeter was just what the doctor ordered for Guano. He’d always been suspicious of Skeeter, thinking he was a weak link in the club. Hurting people was fun for Guano; hurting people he didn’t like was even better. Earlier that evening, Guano and the other Vipers had made their way to a stripper club called The South Pole in Joplin.

With their bikes parked behind an abandoned shop a few buildings over, they quietly hung out in the shadows, waiting for their target to show himself. They would stay in Joplin as long as it took to find Skeeter. They didn’t have to wait long. Skeeter was on a meth bender and with more meth than he could use and more money than he could spend in a year.

All he wanted was partying and sex. Occasionally, a little voice inside him reminded him he was walking on a razor’s edge. A little after 10:00

pm

, a dirty-white Chevy van with Texas plates pulled into the parking lot. A slender, nervous-looking man checked to make sure all the doors were locked, and then he entered the club. Knowing Skeeter had paid little to no attention to their prospect who was, in fact, close to patching in, Guano sent the new guy in to flush Skeeter out into the parking lot.

Skeeter had grabbed a chair near the stage. With little food, no sleep, and a steady diet of booze and strippers the last few days, Skeeter was wired to the point of an overload.

One more night, he thought to himself. I sell some of this and offer some to a couple of the dancers to get them back to my room, and then after one more party, I’ll sleep a couple of days and go somewhere else.

I’m still too damn close to Texas, he reminded himself. He was trying to make eye contact with the young woman onstage performing, thinking, I haven’t partied with you yet, and tonight we’re going to fix that.

Suddenly, a hand slapped him on the shoulder. Skeeter jumped out of his chair and looked into a smiling and somewhat familiar face.

You’re Skeeter, right? the familiar-looking man asked, looking Skeeter in the eyes.

Ya, yes, yeah, stammered Skeeter nervously.

It’s me, Mike. I’m the prospect man. I see you at least a couple of times a week, don’t you remember me?

Prospect? Skeeter’s mind was racing. What are you doing here, Prospect? said Skeeter, trying to regain his composure and take on the role of a senior club member instead of somebody about to piss their pants in fear.

I grew up north of here in Webb City, said the prospect. My mother passed away a week ago. Thumper threw some money at me and told me to come up and pay my respects. I’m heading back to Texas in a few hours. I’m waiting on a call from Thumper. There was something up here he wanted me to check on before I left. He hasn’t called or told me shit yet. I can’t believe I ran into you here. Buy you a beer? he asked Skeeter.

No, man, I’m about to leave, said Skeeter.

A look of disappointment came over the prospect’s face. Okay, man, see you back in Texas, the prospect said, heading toward the john. Then he turned quickly and said, I’ll tell Thumper I saw you when he calls.

As soon as the prospect disappeared into the john, Skeeter hustled to the back exit. He looked back once to make sure nobody else was watching him then quickly hit the handle and exited out into the dark.

As the door closed behind him, a deep, familiar voice said, Hello, Shit for Brains.

Skeeter looked up into the hulking form of Guano.

For a brief moment, he considered running; however, his eyes had started adjusting to the dark. Other familiar faces looked at him menacingly. The exit door he’d used suddenly opened. He hoped it was an employee of the club and a chance to get out of this mess. That hope soon faded as the prospect stepped out of the building into the parking lot.

Good work, said Guano to the prospect as the first punch of many landed on Skeeter’s head.

The van was pulled into the shadows behind the club. It took just a few moments to find the remaining money and crank that was stuffed into a bag under the driver’s seat. Skeeter hoped he would only get beat to a pulp and allowed to live. After the initial beating behind the building, he was gagged, wrapped in duct tape, and thrown in the van. Guano ordered the other members to take the crank and money and start stashing it in their bikes. This would take at least another twenty to thirty minutes. The surgeon’s gloves Guano was wearing were a bad sign for Skeeter. He was beat savagely with a tire iron and hammer Guano found in the van—his knees, ankles, and elbows receiving most of the blows. The gag kept Skeeter quiet as Guano slowly and methodically administered Viper justice to the offender.

The prospect was ordered to remain in the van with Guano during Skeeter’s ordeal. Guano wanted to gauge the prospect’s sand now that he was close to patching in with the Vipers. After a while, Guano ordered the prospect to don a pair of surgeon’s gloves. Handing him the hammer, he looked into the prospect’s eyes and said, "

Do him, Prospect

."

The prospect did as he was told, smacking Skeeter viciously in the forehead with the hammer.

No, numb nuts, said Guano laughing. Don’t knock him out, I want him to feel this shit.

The prospect started on the fingers and toes of Skeeter, who now just wanted to die. A few minutes more passed, and there was a knock on the back door of the van.

We’re set, Guano, said a Viper with the road name Skid Mark.

Pulling the prospect away from Skeeter, Guano now took two pairs of heavy rubber gloves out of the paper bag, which had held the duct tape and surgeon’s gloves.

By that time, Skeeter was barely conscious. Guano removed the gag. He told the prospect to put on a pair of the heavy rubber gloves. Putting on a pair himself, Guano removed the last item from the paper bag. It was a plastic bottle of liquid drain cleaner.

Hold his head up, he told the prospect.

The prospect did as he was told. With his left hand, Guano pulled back Skeeter’s chin, opening his mouth. Then with his right hand, he poured the contents of the bottle down Skeeter’s throat. Almost half the bottle of drain cleaner made it down Skeeter’s throat. The rest was spilled or spit up. Guano roughly stuffed a rag in Skeeter’s mouth and quickly wrapped his entire head in duct tape. Skeeter began to shake and convulse as the two bikers exited the van and closed the door.

Guano took the drain cleaner bottle, the duct tape, and all the gloves along with the hammer and tire iron and put them in the bag that Skeeter had carried the money and crank in.

This shit goes in the first river we cross, he told the prospect.

You okay, Prospect? Skid Mark asked, noticing the prospect’s blank stare.

Prospect, hell, that’s Hammer you’re talking to, said Guano.

The adrenaline rush he had been running on from hunting and killing Skeeter was gone. He was bone-tired and still had a little over three hours to go. He chose this route back to Texas because they were less likely to be hassled by law enforcement. This part of Oklahoma was popular among bikers of all types for the scenic views provided by the Ouachita and Kiamichi mountains. Guano was familiar with this area and figured his group would be taken for just another bunch of pleasure riders.

It was a favorite vacation area of his family when he was a boy. He knew most of these roads almost as well as one of the locals. Passing a mileage sign that read "

Talihina

8

Antlers

69," Guano slowed his Harley as the road made a sharp curve to the left. He knew just ahead there was a pullout area where he and his companions could take a little hit off the crank to get them through the last part of the trip.

As he negotiated the curve, he saw an eighteen-wheeler was already parked there, taking up most of the limited area.

Damn, the trucker might just wake up and call Talihina police if he figured out what we were doing, he thought to himself.

They’d come this far with no interference; why risk any now? He knew there was another spot behind them off Highway 88, less than a mile away, that would work just as well if not better.

Guano eased in front of the big rig and made a U-turn, going back the direction they’d just come from. Somewhat confused, the other bikers followed him through the U-turn and accelerated around the curve and back up the hill they just traveled down. As they came closer to the intersection of 271 and 88, there was a sign that said "

Poteau

with an arrow pointing up and

Mena Ark

" with the arrow pointing right.

As they turned right onto Highway 88, they only needed to go about 1,500 feet to a small turnoff on the right that led to a circular scenic lookout called Choctaw Vista. Guano remembered it from his childhood, asking his father to stop there every time they made the trip up here. As Guano strained to make out the location of the turnoff, at least a dozen wild hogs darted onto the road then turned straight toward him and the rest of the group.

What the hell! Guano exclaimed, narrowly avoiding two of the sows. As the pack passed him, he looked back to see all the Vipers had somehow managed to steer clear of the panic-stricken animals that were now disappearing into the dark…

Finally, the turnoff came into view, and the entire group turned right onto the short drive to a circular parking area and scenic overlook. As the riders parked and turned off their bikes, there were a lot of comments and laughs about the near miss with the hogs.

If the law doesn’t get ya, Porky Pig will, said one of the bikers, to the amusement of his brothers.

One of you guys break out some of that road candy, and let’s get right for the final leg, Guano ordered gruffly.

One of the Vipers dutifully started popping off his seat to get to a small storage case and its contents. Skid Mark walked over to the edge of the concrete near some trees and began relieving himself. The night was moonless and dark. The sky was alive with what seemed like a thousand stars. Skid Mark could see a few lights to the south that belonged to the town of Talihina. Below him down the hill and through the trees, he could make out the parking lights on the eighteen-wheeler of which front they did the U-turn earlier.

He had a peculiar feeling, like something wasn’t right. Out of nowhere, a foul stench assaulted his sense of smell. As he finished urinating, he hurriedly zipped up and turned to rejoin the group. Skid Mark never knew what took him. In an instant, the lights went out for Skid Mark, never to turn on again.

Guano was taking in the brisk October air, glad that the heat of the summer was retreating to the cooler temperatures of autumn.

I need to burn a little crank, where is it?

A Viper readily offered Guano a small glass pipe loaded with crystal meth. As Guano inhaled from the pipe, there was an immediate rush of energy and lack of concern over anything on earth. He was just about to comment on how quiet the night was except for the asshole in the big rig down the hill whose idling engine was the only sound coming out of the night. Then he heard the first footsteps.

Thinking it was Skid Mark, Guano yelled toward the noise, Quit screwing around, or you’re going to miss out, numb nuts.

The steps were heavy and sounded like a large man stomping his way through the woods, but they also sounded like the man had to be much larger and heavier than Skid Mark. Guano brought the pipe back to his mouth for a second hit. The fact that he was now a murderer didn’t concern him; the fact they still had over three hours on the road to do, carrying enough crystal meth to put them all in prison for years, didn’t concern him.

Guano was enjoying every moment. The footsteps stopped, and Guano looked in the direction, expecting to see Skid Mark with a big shit-eating grin on his face. The only thing Guano saw was dark. After a second hit, Guano looked at the rest of the Vipers, saying, Take a bump, boys, it will straighten you up.

A second set of heavy footsteps were now heard to the north of the group and across the highway. The four Vipers listened intently at the sound of crunching gravel as if the guy was stepping onto the shoulder of the road. The sound got softer momentarily, as if whoever it was stepped onto the blacktop highway.

The sound of crunching gravel was heard again as the phantom walker reached the shoulder closest to the group of bikers. There was about hundred-foot section of trees between the highway and the parking area they were at. The footsteps continued into the trees, then stopping about fifty feet away still in the tree line.

Guano noticed the other bikers had heard it too and were looking nervously in the direction of the footsteps. Guano was about to blame it all on Skid Mark again, when more footsteps pounded across the highway.

There is no way that fat ass can be two places at once, Guano thought, not yet concerned by the fact they were getting flanked. Of more concern was the sudden heavy stench that was beginning to be noticed by all of the bikers.

Which one of you sissies just crapped his pants? Guano asked as other members began to complain of the stench.

With his buzz reaching its peak, bumps in the night were an entertaining distraction instead of the ominous warning they should have been. Two more sets were heard; these sounded as if they were running. One set sounded as if they stopped up by the entrance of the outlook to their east. The other set crossed the road as well stopping in the tree just to the group’s west. Then there was silence again.

It was dawning on Guano that they were being surrounded and he had a brother Viper missing in the dark. After nearly a minute, the silence was broken when there was a loud

whoop

sounding from the area near the entrance of the outlook.

Damn, how big do the owls get up here? asked one of the bikers.

It was no owl, however. Whatever made this noise had a huge set of lungs. The sound started very low and guttural before ending in a high, lingering howl.

Then something flew out of the night from the direction where Skid Mark had disappeared and slapped loudly against the gas tank of Guano’s bike. Looking down, Guano saw one of Skid Mark’s heavy boots.

What the hell? Guano thought.

Before he could register what he was seeing, there was a loud growl in the trees just to the group’s north. Each of the Vipers was armed as a rule. Nervous hands now reached inside leather jackets, pulling out an array of different handguns. Guano clutched his 1911 .45 caliber pistol, pulling back the slide and releasing it, which chambered a round, making the weapon ready to fire.

It’s just some rednecks, he said as the methamphetamine buzz he had going made the thought of a gunfight desirable.

We must have screwed up their moonlight hunt, and now they want to play games.

Guano wasn’t far off; they did screw up a hunt, but it wasn’t the local boys out for a night of spotlight hunting. A small rock flew out of the dark and landed at the feet of one of the bikers.

Told you it was rednecks, said Guano. Come on out, Jethro, and I’ll put a skylight in the middle of your forehead, he shouted into the night as he looked toward their only exit out of the overlook.

His bravado encouraged the others as they began to laugh and shout obscenities at the dark. Then there was a loud, low-pitched growl from behind them to the west.

One of you guys put a spotlight on that asshole up there by the exit.

A Viper known as Clap for his many sexual encounters that ended in a trip to the clinic jumped on his bike, switching on the headlight and shining it toward the exit. At first they could see nothing; then as the beam moved left toward the trees, there were two gold glowing eyes peering back at them.

What the hell? Clap exclaimed with surprise.

As they watched, they could see the eyes shining eerily in the dark trees. There would be an occasional blink, and the eyes seemed to be swaying from left to right. Guano thought he could make out the guy’s body in the beam of the headlamp. Unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, this guy was big. Now footsteps to their right from the south moved quickly toward them just inside the tree line.

You silly sons bitches better back off right now! Guano screamed, with a little less confidence than before.

He raised his .45 toward the air and fired two rounds in an attempt to scare off whoever was messing with them. A rock the size of a grapefruit flew into the overlook, striking Clap in the head, sending him and his bike sprawling onto the concrete. Clap died instantly.

Guano and the others bolted for their bikes and fired wildly into the dark. The night erupted into a cacophony of gunshots and men yelling in anger, terror, and agony. Animal-like growls whoops and roars accompanied the sounds of the men. Again a rock took out another biker as he was firing his .357 blindly into the dark. Guano saw a massive body bearing down on himself and the other surviving Viper. He raised his .45 in an attempt to protect himself. His finger pulled the trigger several times in a panic, but he never got the barrel pointed at his target. Something huge snatched him off the ground by the neck.

The prospect didn’t get to enjoy in his road name of Hammer for long. As the last Viper standing, he saw a monstrous creature pop Guano’s head off his shoulders as easy as a child might pop the head off a Barbie doll. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then he was lifted off his feet by his legs. He was swung through the air by his feet.

At first it was a pleasant sensation, like a when a parent swings a child by his arms. Then he was slammed into a tree and impaled on a broken branch. Screaming in pain, he found himself being swung around in circles like a cowboy would swing a lasso. Then suddenly he was swung viciously downward, slamming into the concrete.

Hammer never felt a thing after that. For all the pain and agony he had caused others over the years, Guano got off lucky with a quick beheading. His head was found two hundred feet from his body up by the entrance to the scenic overlook. He never had to worry about being arrested for the murder of Skeeter. In fact, Guano’s remains would be on a mortuary slab for a full day before Skeeter’s body was discovered.

Friday, 24 October 2014, 05:30

am

CST, Talihina, Oklahoma

Samuel Redstone’s slumber was interrupted by ring tone of his cell phone. Half asleep, he grabbed the phone off his nightstand and looked at the display. It was the Talihina Police Department dispatcher’s number. With a heavy sigh, he swiped the display and answered the phone, managing to mumble.

Morning, Helen, what’s going on?

Chief, I hate to wake you up, but I think you’d better come in for this one, said Helen Reese, the midshift dispatcher for the Talihina Police Department.

Sam’s focus was on the gap in the curtain of his bedroom window, which faced east. Pitch-black, no sign of dawn.

Yeah, okay, Helen, what have we got? he asked, now looking at the alarm clock on his nightstand which read 5:32.

"A truck driver came in at about four forty-five. He had pulled his rig off the road on the pullout area on 271 right after the 88 intersection. He wasn’t sure if it amounted to anything. He reported that right about 4:00

am,

he was awakened by a group of bikers who rode into the turnout and turned around, going back the way they came."

I’m listening, said Sam.

"He said he could hear the bikers on