Return to Dyatlov Pass

Sample of The Beasts of Stoneclad Mountain

James Payne lounged in his lawn chair under the overhang of the cave, reading one of his Louis L’Amour westerns. The paperback was missing the front cover, and the pages were about to fall out of the spine, but that didn’t deter him from continuing the saga of the marshal single-handedly trying to protect the townsfolk from the ruthless outlaw gang.

He flipped the page, bumping his elbow against the barrel of his 30-shot magazine Bushmaster automatic rifle leaning against the armrest.

It could hardly be called a sporting hunting gun—more of an essential weapon for protecting one’s property.

He took a break from his book, dog-eared the page, and tossed the reading material onto the backpack just inside the cave. The cavern went back twenty feet, was ten feet wide, and was high enough to walk upright to the rear of the hollowed rock.

Marijuana stalks hung from clotheslines stretched across the width of the cave, the ends anchored to carabiners wedged in the crevices in the walls. A large blue tarpaulin was on the ground where James would bring in his lawn chair and trim the buds off the stalks. A couple canvas picking sacks with neck straps were on the ground next to some tilling spades, shovels, rakes, and hoes leaning against the cavern wall.

He had a modest setup for cooking: a frying pan and a pot for boiling water and a double-burner portable Coleman camp stove. For lighting at night, he had one flashlight and a kerosene lantern. His sleeping accommodations consisted of a dirty mummy goose-down bag on top of an inflatable air mattress that demanded to be frequently filled up with air with a foot pump as it had a slow leak.

Besides preparing the next shipment for transport down the mountain, eating, sleeping, and suffering mind-numbing cabin fever, even though he was in the great outdoors and it was a cave, there wasn’t much more for James to do during his solitary five-day durations sharing the duties of the family business, other than to read.

James raised his arms and stretched. He got up from his chair, leaving the slumped webbing in the shape of his butt.

He glanced out at the lush field of ten-foot-tall marijuana plants—last count there were somewhere over two hundred—clustered tightly together, surrounded by the dense forest of broad-leaf bur oaks and white pines.

It was the perfect spot for cultivating weed. The soil was rich, and it was secluded, an arduous four-hour hike up the steep and treacherous mountain, miles away from the nearest farm. James thought it was overkill having to climb so far up the mountain, but that was how his eldest brother, Landon, wanted it, so what choice did he have?

And there was no worry of hikers or campers stumbling onto their operation, as there were no proper trails in the rough terrain. Nothing on the mountain, but abandoned moonshine stills, more natural caves and forgotten mineshafts, and maybe the occasional reclusive hermit that didn’t want to be bothered by civilization and could care less about the Payne brothers’ moneymaking venture.

While James spent most of his lonely hours on the mountain, reading, his other three brothers could care less about books, especially the twins, Jacob and Mason, who would rather drink moonshine and play mumblety-peg barefoot—even though Mason had self-amputated two of his own toes with bad knife throws from being too drunk to care, and his lack of depth perception because of his one eye.

But James knew better than to talk down to Jacob and Mason as each of his brothers weighed over two hundred fifty pounds and looked like true mountain men with their rough appearances and wooly beards. Their jobs were, when the time arose, hauling the packs of hemp down the mountain.

James’ older brother, Landon, was head of the family business and was in charge of distribution. Only on rare occasions did he come up to the field.

James was glad that this would be his last night on the mountain until his next time around. All he could think of when he was up here alone, were his brothers carousing at home, getting drunk on two hundred proof pure grain alcohol and having a good time.

Sometimes they got out of hand, but Landon quickly interceded, as he swore he’d be damned if he’d let them drink themselves blind.

Though it was another hour before sunset, daylight seemed to wane under the dense forest canopy. He figured he better prepare for nightfall and light the lantern inside the cave. For dinner, he planned on eating some pulled pork and heating a pot of corn kernels on the camp stove.

That’s when he heard something moving about out in the field.

The tall plants swayed, as whatever it was, cut a path behind the rows.

James reached down and picked up his Bushmaster. He tucked the butt stock into his shoulder and aimed the weapon, aligning the front sight on any intended target that might show itself.

By the heavy, scuffling footfalls, it sounded big. There were a few black bears in the area, but they always seemed to keep their distance. Normally, he would be alarmed, but he felt confident holding his assault rifle. Besides, he knew not to back down from a bear and that they could be easily intimidated if he acted aggressive.

“Come on, Mr. Bear. Show yourself,” he taunted.

The plants continued to move.

He clicked off the safety, slipped his forefinger inside the trigger guard.

“I’m warning you!”

He heard a rustle and then everything went still.

James approached the field, slowly, one cautious step followed by another, ready to fire at the smallest provocation. He squeezed down a row. The ripe-for-harvest milky-white buds on the plants gave off a skunk-like odor.

He used the muzzle of his assault rifle to prod back the leaves and then stopped to listen.

A distracting breeze picked up, rustling the leaves in the surrounding trees.

“This is your last chance! You better get!”

A dark figure lurched out from behind the plants on his left. James swung the barrel of his gun around and pulled back the trigger as the thing dove back into the marijuana bushes for cover.

The bullets strafed the tops off the plants.

James heard a loud grunt followed by an ear-piercing primordial scream that was so loud it echoed through the forest. He tried to rationalize what he had just seen. It had all happened so fast. It had been enormous, covered with thick, grayish fur.

That was no bear. A bear would have kept charging, plunged him into the ground, and mauled the life out of him with its sharp claws. This creature seemed to sense danger the moment he pointed his gun.

Whatever it was, James knew he had hit it, as there was blood splatter on the leaves of one of the plants.

And then he heard a tormented yowl.

Ice water jetted through his veins. Even though he was brandishing a high-caliber weapon, James felt somewhat unprotected, like somehow the situation had reversed, and he had suddenly become the prey.

An arm swung out from behind the tall foliage and cuffed him upside the temple with such a tremendous blow that it almost took off his head. He fell back and landed on the hard ground, dropping his rifle during the fall.

Flat on his back, James gazed up, struggling to catch a breath as the impact had knocked the air out of his lungs. Blood seeped into his eyes, blurring his vision.

The leathery sole of a giant foot hovered over James’ face then stomped down.

James screamed as his forearm snapped on his right arm. It was like someone had dropped an anvil on him from a considerable height. He glanced over and saw the contrasting white of a spear tip of bone sticking out of his brown coat sleeve.

A black-furred beast came down on top of him, smothering him with its thick, pungent coat. James gagged and reached up, grabbing a handful of coarse, matted hair.

With his face buried in the noxious hair, and still not knowing what was attacking him, James felt his left ankle seized by a powerful hand and his leg lifted off the ground.His leg began to twist in a circular motion, and kept on turning, forcing tendons and muscle to tear as his kneecap ground out of the socket and the toe of his boot pointed in a ridiculous direction.

James had never felt such pain, not even while his abusive, psychopath father beat him within an inch of his life when he was ten years old.

“Please… oh God… please stop…” he cried.

And then, if it was even possible, the pain further increased when his leg was wrenched out of his pelvis, and a wet gush poured over his groin.

His attacker grunted, and then James heard something cast into the air and land somewhere off in the field.

Even buried under the tremendous weight of his thickly furred assailant, James’ body went cold as he rapidly bled out, the bright red seepage draining into the rich, furrowed soil.

He thought of his brothers, wishing he were home, reading a western, as he gazed up for the last time into the humongous gaping mouth, filled with broad tombstone teeth, bearing down on his face.