Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

Stone felt like the overbearing drunk who had just been streeted from the speakeasy. For a split second, his fingers itched for his sidearm. It was instinctive, a response to danger that had been drilled into him. The impulse made him sad. He no longer wanted to be that man. But he didn’t know how to be anything else.

“How did you know I was about to touch you?” Stone asked.

“I use more than my eyes.”

“Did you learn that at the monastery?” Stone hoped to catch the man off guard with the question, get him to betray something. Gideon’s response surprised him.

“That and many other things.” The little man’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You asked if I came from the monastery. At the moment, I am returning there.”

“Is everyone there so literal?” Stone asked, climbing to his feet and brushing himself off.

“When it suits our purposes.” Gideon folded his arms and looked Stone up and down. “Why do you seek the Five Treasures?”

Stone searched for words adequate to describe the changes wrought in him over the past four years. The shattering of his illusions, the breaking of his very foundations.

“I need something to believe in again,” he said.

The two men stared at one another in silence. Deep down, Stone felt as if his entire future hinged upon this moment.

Finally, Gideon gave a small shake of his head. “I will not show you the way, Brock Stone.” Stone’s heart sank. “But I will not stop you from trying to follow me.”

With that, the little man turned and began climbing up the steep cliff.

Stone blinked twice, then followed. He had only climbed about ten feet when the full meaning of Gideon’s words hit him.

“I never told him my name.”

7- Stalked

This was all Brock Stone’s fault. He was the one who had set Trinity on John Kane’s trail. If it weren’t for him, she would never have come to this wilderness in the first place. She was tired, dirty, and hungry, but she could live with those things. What she could not abide was failure.

“If that old man lied to me, I will give him a piece of my mind, and the toe of my boot in his…” A shiver ran through her, cutting her off in midsentence. Between the deep shadows and the altitude, she never felt warm in this forest. Goosebumps rose on her flesh and she rubbed her hands together for a little warmth.

“How much longer should I search before I give up?” she wondered aloud. Anger made her cheeks burn. She had swallowed the old prospector’s story hook, line, and sinker. He had seemed so earnest. “He must have a background in theatre,” she mumbled. Then again, she had only given the small slot canyon a cursory search before moving on to the larger box canyon, which she had mostly inspected from the cliffs above. There remained a great deal of ground to cover if she intended to make a thorough search.

She shrugged off her backpack and took out a map. She sat down on a log, unfolded it, and searched for her location. She laughed when she found it. A dot labeled Rockmire amidst a sea of green.

“You bought a map without even looking at it to see if it would be of use.” Cursing, she crumpled it into a ball and stuck it into her backpack. It would make good tinder should she need to start a fire.

She glanced up at the sky, scarcely visible among the treetops that lined the narrow canyon. Faint streaks of orange told her it was getting late. The sight turned her mood dark. She might not be able to make it out before dark. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. She wasn’t afraid, exactly, but she didn’t love the idea of camping out here, just in case the stories were true.

The path leading up to the slot canyon was hard to find and even harder to ascend. By the time she reached the top, she was soaked with sweat and her muscles felt like water. What a sight she must be. Not that there was anyone around to see her.

No sooner had the thought occurred to her than she had the sensation of being watched. She sprang to her feet and looked around. Noting but green. And then she heard a sharp crack, like a tree limb snapping. In the quiet it sounded like a gunshot. Someone was out here.

She stood there, tension tying her stomach into knots, waiting. Her heart thrummed, her breathing was loud and heavy. Except that wasn’t the sound of her breath. It was someone else… or something else. The sound was a deep, wet, animal snuffling. And it was coming closer.

She considered her options. Should she try to run? Where could she go? Did the thing even know she was here? Perhaps the dense thicket of fir trees covered her scent. Maybe if she could just be quiet, it would go away.

She held her breath, sat motionless, and waited. The noise continued, circling the spot where she sat. And then a pungent odor, feral, almost sulfurous, washed over her, borne on the night air. She retched, her empty stomach flip-flopping.

My word, what is that?