Every hair on Ty's body, the skin on his neck and arms, everything was clenched in a primeval fear stimulus response. In the thick of the woods not ten yards away stood a creature, manlike, apelike . . . some sort of hairy humanoid, like a gorilla standing upright on long legs. Motionless, it stared at Ty, and Ty froze dead in his tracks.
Jesus Christ, this is Bigfoot.
BIGFOOT IS ANGRY.
When careless campers unleash a raging forest fire, they inadvertently set in motion a blood-drenched spree of revenge. Motivated by the immolation of his family, a nearly eleven-foot-tall, preternaturally strong superprimate begins stalking the mountains northeast of Seattle, hunting the "small two-legs" he blames and leaving an eerie trail of missing people . . . but little else.
As people begin vanishing from nearby forests, former software magnate Ty Greenwood risks everything to find out why. Tormented by his encounter with a Bigfoot three years earlier, Ty's past now collides with what he suspects is happening. But this time he doesn't realize that the stakes are far higher.
In his search for two missing lawyers, Snohomish County Sheriff's Detective Mac Schneider discovers a spectacularly large footprint. Is it another hoax or is there really something to fear in the woods? Despite mounting evidence, Mac fears ridicule and is reluctant to reveal that the myth might in fact be a terrifying reality. Complicating everything for him is Kris Walker, a gorgeous but ruthless television reporter bent on getting the story at any cost.
Joining the quest is an old Native American actor with a troubling secret: Ben Campbell has a mystical connection to the beast. And while Ben's link with this fearsome and intelligent being haunts his dreams and could spell his doom, it may also prove to be the only key to stopping this ferocious, inhuman killing machine. Can they end his deadly rampage before he destroys everything they hold dear?
Just when you thought it was safe to go into the woods . . . The Shadowkiller will give even the most hard-core skeptic a reason to think twice before going camping.
|Publisher:||Simon & Schuster|
|Product dimensions:||5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.10(d)|
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Had you asked him when he rolled out of bed that morning, Joe Wylie wasn't even remotely thinking about being first at anything. Being first had always eluded Joe in birth order, in school, with women, with jobs, with pretty much everything. Something else Joe didn't think about very often was the fact he'd been married for twenty-four years. His wife Lori's unwavering daily consumption of handfuls of Ding Dongs and Double Fudge Yoo-hoos had doubled her weight since the day they were married. On top of that his nineteen-year-old daughter was over in Seattle shacked up with some dope-pushing jerk on a Harley and, maybe worse, his son had recently decided a nose ring would be a shrewd fashion statement.
Yet when Joe saw the nose ring, it didn't bother him, and that's when he realized he didn't have strong feelings about anything anymore. His sixteen-year-old had a ring in his nose and Joe didn't give a crap about that or anything else. Finally, he concluded, at forty-seven, it was nice to be all through with worrying. His rapidly receding hairline didn't even cause him the stress it used to, nor did his accumulating Budweiser gut. And he sure as hell didn't worry about his job, which wasn't particularly rewarding but paid well and was pretty frickin' easy. More or less drive a truck around in the woods, look at the trees, then tell your bosses they're still there. Piece of cake.
Uncharacteristically, Joe Wylie was actually thinking about his job as he steered up Access Road Number 4. Logging roads were rarely given descriptive, enchanting names like Pine Lake or Deer Hollow because they were only used to gain access to the seemingly boundless stores of timber owned by multinational conglomerates and, except for the rare logging crew, only people like Joe and kids looking for places to party made use of them. Road 4 was way the hell off the beaten track, high in the mountains, seven miles and four thousand feet above the last sign of civilization, a Weyerhaeuser equipment facility.
The day before, local kids had reported some busted trees up Road 4 and Joe was asked to investigate. Joe guessed it was probably the work of disgruntled, drunken loggers out of Sultan or Gold Bar. Joe had been timber cruising ten of the twenty-six years he'd been with Weyerhaeuser and little surprised him. He imagined the perpetrators were probably just vengeful independents put out of work either by his company or some damn owl or rare squirrel or something. He sort of sympathized with their frustration, but if they wanted to ruin trees, they could kindly go over to the national forest, or better yet, Buse Timber's property.
Joe fiddled with the radio, hoping to receive a Seattle station, but got only static. He remembered he was on the eastern edge of Snohomish County and that he almost never got good radio here. The dash clock's spindly hands indicated six forty. He wondered why the truck's manufacturer had bothered with such a shitty timepiece since it had never worked right. By the angle of the sun he reckoned it was about eight fifteen a.m.
From inside the paper sack on the floor he fished out another longneck Bud. He preferred the longnecks because they were easier to hold while he drove. For Joe they had the pleasant effect of rendering what could be completely stultifying work into the soothing vocational equivalent of easy-listening music.
Seven miles above the equipment station he slowed the truck as his eyes widened in wonder. A typically uneventful shift had suddenly become the jackpot of interesting mornings: ahead was something he had never seen in all his years in the woods. He stopped the truck and stepped down onto the damp hardpan. Clutching his coat tighter, Budweiser vapor swirling around his head, he stood and stared. Some broken trees, my ass. For fifty yards every tree on both sides of the road was snapped, maybe ten feet above the ground. Expecting two or three or even a half dozen, he quickly estimated a good hundred trees. This is crazy. This is big.
Joe walked down the lane of shattered fir and hemlock and tried to imagine who on earth had done this. And why? He'd seen the work of spiteful, drunken loggers but this was not that. Some of the trees were big, eight-inch-diameter second growth, yet all were splintered, some hanging by fibers, some clean off. Though he was an experienced woodsman, his mind whirled for answers but came up lemons. Brushing aside his dismay, he forced himself to tick off possibilities.
There had been no wind, so he ruled that out. Besides, he knew it would have taken a goddamn tornado to do this and that would have broken other trees, not just the ones facing the road. So his first conclusion was that this was planned. The notion irritated him because it was a waste of good timber, and if loggers had done this, then it wasn't just excusable rowdiness, it was vandalism, maybe even downright sabotage. Rolling the word sabotage around in his mind, he made a mental note to use it in his report.
As Joe's eyes swept the scene from the cold shadows to the sunlit treetops, he squinted, concentrating hard as to how this maliciousness had been carried out. It was then, despite the intake of several Buds and the fact it was not even eight thirty, that he unscrambled the puzzle. Somehow these really determined timber pirates as he now labeled them had gotten a big diesel scissors loader up here and somehow snapped the trees off. He'd never seen a scissors loader do that, and sure, there were a few extra somehows in there, but that must have been how it happened. The fact that the pirates hadn't seemed to have actually pirated any timber was another small detail Joe let slide in his solution.
Joe smiled contentedly as he pondered the fate of such vicious despoilers of his arboreal kingdom. But then his smile faded as he realized that all of the faint animal sounds had just disappeared. Though he heard the truck purring nearby, suddenly the birds and insects and whatever else that sang and chattered in the woods had fallen silent, as if someone had hit the pause button on the forest sounds tape.
A moment later something even more disturbing happened. At first it was as if sunlight warmed his back, only he knew the sun's rays had not yet reached beneath the trees to touch him. Then Joe realized it was really more of a creeping-up-the-spine force, like someone watching you but there's no one there. He'd felt it before in the woods and had chalked it up to once in a while just feeling something eerie you can't explain. Dismissing things was Joe's path of least resistance, but this time the sensation bothered him, even scared him. He nervously scanned the woods but saw nothing. Suddenly he felt very alone, so he headed toward the safe haven of his truck.
A few yards from the refuge of his beat-up Chevy, a noise behind him caused Joe to spin around. The human mind can identify a threat in a tenth of second and it took about that long for Joe to realize he was in grave danger. And either despite or because of the extreme stress, his brain also reached the rather academic conclusion that in all those years he'd never believed it existed. Until now.
That's when the air and his vision and his thoughts became clearer than crystal, and it suddenly didn't matter if his kid had a nose ring or if his wife had porked out, because everything was about to change for him. Joe suddenly gave a crap again, because you always do when you're about to die. And with that supreme clarity of cognition he also understood he was about to check out in a very bad way, much worse than a car crash or house fire or gunshot to the chest, and a life-sucking chill rippled through his temples into his neck, down his spine, and jumped to his scrotum, which tightened up like a sea monkey in reverse. Joe's knees wavered, then buckled, and the two Buds that had gathered in his bladder drained into his pants.
Because for the first time in his life, Joe was about to be first.
Seven miles below at the equipment station, twenty minutes had elapsed since Chuck Pendleton waved to Joe Wylie as his truck passed. Chuck readied a couple of quarts of fifty-weight to pour into one of the big D8R Cats he maintained in his yard. As he punched the filler spout into an oil can, he thought he heard something. He set the can down and listened. Faint, it sure sounded like a scream. He shrugged, lit another Winston, and picked up the can.
Must have been the gate creaking.
Copyright © 2007 by Matthew Scott Hansen
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I loved this book! Horror/action novels don't tend to scare me in real life, but this book left me with a nervous feeling. I live in the city too! Hansen made it real. If you see the beast there is no hope. I've read this book several times and re-read the scary parts last night. Has he written anything else?
Yes, this may be a little predictable, but it still is good scary fun. It was also interesting to get the perspective from the monster's point of view. I enjoyed this one and think it makes a great summer read. But I would take this to the beach, and not camping.
Does Bigfoot really exist? I hope so, but in Hansen¿s gripping new thriller, I know so. I¿ve weathered a lot of bad/marginal Bigfoot/Yeti/Abominable Snowman movies and books over the years but this is the first that absolutely delivers on every level. Hansen creates a very frightening but almost sympathetic bad guy in the Shadowkiller. This is something that few (outside of children¿s fiction) have done effectively, that is to say, render a non-human character with such complexities. While Cujo was pretty vicious, be warned because this antagonist has a surprisingly high pucker factor. I will think twice before walking in the mountains again. Not to give too much away, this monster is about 11 feet tall, could snap The Rock and Hulk Hogan in half with one hand, and has one really good reason to hate humans. And standing in his way are some well drawn players: Ty Greenwood, the defamed but rich former computer mogul Ben Campbell, the old Indian actor everyone loves and MacDonald ¿Mac¿ Schneider, the sheriffs detective with just enough doubt to derail him. Then there's Kris Walker, the beautiful girl with the gills and dorsal fin who will stop at nothing to succeed. I laughed out loud at some of her behavior but found her a deliciously perverse anti-heroine. Ty's wife, Ronnie, is the good girl heroine who counterbalances Kris. Hansen also wisely provides some comic relief in the form of another sheriffs deputy and a bungling, drug addled murderer. The descriptions of violence also tend to be quite graphic, but not gratuitously so. When people get dismembered it's SUPPOSED to be ugly. I thoroughly enjoyed the build-up to the last hundred or so pages when this story screams to its e-ticket ending. Why is it so many contemporary novelists can tell a great story but often fail to come through on the mind blowing finish? Not so here. Kudos to Hansen (apparently his first novel) as The Shadowkiller (what's with these critics?) is a first class ride and far and away gives the reader what they were looking for. One of the best I¿ve read in the last few years.
In the Pacific Northwest people are vanishing with the only clue left behind being giant odd looking footsteps. Authorities are concerned as these disappearances are too many with the seemingly same modus operendi. Unknown to law enforcement is that a patriarchal Bigfoot came home to find his family dead from an inferno set by the uncaring humans outraged he is on a mission of vengeance.----------- Sheriff Office detective Mac Schneider found the initial evidence that these abductions were not by Homo sapiens, but that of a large intelligent and angry beast. Two other men seek the creature. Ty Greenwood sees the happenings as a chance to prove his claim to have sighted Bigfoot that led to ridicule and his ruin. Native American Chief Ben Eagleclaw has a spiritual link to the Bigfoot. These three humans with differing reasons to ¿hunt¿ the berserker Bigfoot compete more than they team up to capture, kill or free the creature depending on their perspectives.------------------ Fans who appreciate a vividly grisly Bigfoot thriller with little on the social, cultural or science of the species will appreciate this action-packed tale. The story line is fast-paced never pausing for a nanosecond as in graphic detail Bigfoot goes on a rampage that makes the Hulk look like a two year old. Clearly targeting the red meat crowd, readers who demand non-stop adventures will want to join the hunt for Bigfoot those in the audience who want to know more of the Bigfoot culture should pass.--------------- Harriet Klausner