This story is the first chapter of a fictional series by SRI’s very own Mark Banta. We are also honored that SRI associate Pat Barker has contributed her talents to illustrate the series. We ask that you respect both the author’s and the illustrator’s copyrights and do not download or post these works on other sites.

We hope that you enjoy reading this story as much as we have. We will be posting additional installments every so often, so please be sure you visit frequently to catch up on the story.

Chapter I

John checks tracks.
Copyright 2005 Pat Barker.

John Lynn McBride knelt on the bank of Swine Creek, staring in dismay. Old Ned, his faithful horse, was loosely tied at the wood line behind him. The bay gelding nickered impatiently, eager to get back to work checking cattle. A cool breeze whispered crisply through the bare oak branches overhead. The sun reflected dully off the calico water, which ran swiftly from the rain shower the night before.

John continued to stare straight down between the soles of his muddy boots, ignoring Old Ned’s imploring sounds. His eyes focused and refocused, unable to fully comprehend what they were seeing. His hand was steady as it lifted from his knee and began to trace the track impression in the mud. The feel of the wet mud on his fingertips finally brought on the reality he dared not accept.

John rose swiftly from the mud and swiveled on his heels. He shook the thoughts from his mind and took several measured steps towards his horse. Something caused him to stop. Old Ned stomped his front foot several times and jerked his head eagerly. John ignored him.

There was a battle raging in John’s mind. John had waged his share of battles, but this one was different. Before, he had always had a clear enemy and clear tactics for engaging that enemy.

“This isn’t Vietnam, you old coot!” John chastised Old Ned, whom he often spoke to as if speaking to himself.

John was fighting his owns thoughts and sense of reality. Perhaps I’m finally losing my mind, he thought to himself.

“I should be so lucky,” he laughed hoarsely.

Old Ned was now stomping both his front feet, clearly set off by John’s voice and wanting to get out of the bottoms and away from the smell permeating his senses.

“I know it stinks, you ole saddlebag,” John said impatiently, reading the horse’s thoughts. “The question is what it is.”

John had a good idea that Old Ned didn’t really care what it was. But why do I care, he wondered silently.

If anyone would have seen John at that moment, they would have seen a man battling for internal control. It was clearly reflected in John’s steel-gray eyes. He turned back and stared down the creek bank he’d just climbed. His eyes traced the tracks he’d left coming up the steep bank. The end of his trackway intersected with another. He saw the deep impression he’d traced with his finger just moments before. Just beyond that was another. John’s eyes moved across the swirling waters of Swine Creek to the opposite bank. The deep impressions rose up the steep slope and disappeared into the timber.

John again descended the slippery bank and gazed upon the object of his interest. The track was sunk into the mud a good six inches deep. Turning back and looking at his nearest track, he saw it only left an impression a couple inches deep.

Over the next hour, John carefully examined the unknown tracks left on Swine Creek. John was the type that had to be absolutely sure of what he was seeing before he believed it. Slowly, a new reality began to settle over him. The tracks had five toes. They were at least 16 inches long and 6 inches wide. Whatever had left them had a step twice the length of his. He also concluded that the owner of these tracks had to outweigh him by several hundred pounds.

John was finally convinced, though he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d lived on this two thousand acre ranch in southern Oklahoma all his life. Until now, he thought he knew the track of every critter on the place. Now, he was faced with something completely unknown, at least to him.

John struggled up the muddy bank for the last time. Old Ned pranced about, excited that his master had finally returned. The old leather saddle creaked as John positioned his boots in the stirrups and gave Old Ned the spurs.

To see Old Ned cut across the timber bottoms and sprint across the blue stem pastures, one would never guess the old gelding was 19 years old. To witness the grace by which the rider matched the horse’s movement, one would never guess John to be 58 years old.

John was a natural in the saddle. While he rode, he replayed the moment over and over in his mind. Just over an hour ago, he and Old Ned had been checking the timber for a cow that John figured to be calving.

The first thing John had noticed was the smell. His first thought was that a dead carcass was nearby, but the smell didn’t match up just right. There was a hint of sulfur mixed in with it. Something wasn’t right about it. Before he could give it another thought, Old Ned nearly threw him from the saddle, which was completely out of character for the gentle old gelding. John managed to hang on and get the horse under control. Then the large crash sounded from the thick brush to his right. Ned flinched, but acted almost like he expected it. When John turned to locate the source of the sound, he saw something he did not expect.

Bigfoot was the first thought that popped into John’s mind, but he dismissed it almost immediately. The myth of sasquatch is just an old story to keep city slickers out of the woods, John’s dad had always told him.

John saw no more than a glimpse of the creature and it was about 100 yards away. What he did see appeared to be an upright hairy animal making a mad dash towards the creek bottom. A moment later, the creature had disappeared and John heard a large splash from the creek.

A few minutes after that, John found himself kneeled down in the mud of the creek bank trying to rationalize the huge, humanoid footprints that were obviously made by the creature he’d just seen.

Now that John had accepted this new reality, it took him far less time to decide what to do about it. He nearly leapt from his saddle when he reached the front gate of his quaint ranch house. He busted through the screen door and went straight to the phone. A moment later, Grady picked up on the other end.

“Hello.”

“You up for a little hunting?” John asked cryptically.

Grady laughed. “Don’t you think March is a little late to be hunting deer?”

“Not deer.” John’s tone was calm and measured. “We’ll be hunting something a little bigger than that.”

“Just what the hell are you wantin’ to hunt, John?” Grady asked impatiently.

“Just saddle that old nag of yours, grab your gun, and get over here.”

For the first time since he’d picked up the phone, Grady recognized the excitement in John’s voice. He’d never known John to get too excited about anything and it worried him a little. However, before he had time to get any more information, John hung up the phone.

John went straight to work getting things ready. By the time Grady drove up an hour later, pulling a horse trailer, John had gathered enough gear and supplies to camp for a few nights. He had most of it hung from the saddle of Old Ned, who was looking quite excited himself.

Grady stepped out of his diesel truck with an irritated look on his face. He’d known John since they were teenagers, tromping through the jungles of Vietnam. The two men had shared enough life and death experiences together that to start keeping anything from one another now would seem absurd.

Grady was a short and stocky man with a belly that hung about halfway over his plate-sized belt buckle. He had his black Stetson hat pulled down to his eyebrows, shading his hazel eyes. As he approached his old friend, he turned his head slightly and spit a fist-sized puddle of tobacco juice on one of John’s lawn ornaments.

“You damn well better have a good reason for being such a jackass,” he snarled past his big chew of Beechnut.

This drew a smile from John, who always admired Grady’s no nonsense style. He looked down at Grady’s hip, which sported a .357 Ruger revolver. “What rifle did you bring?” John asked.

“I brung the Marlin 45-70,” Grady smiled. “What we huntin’?”

John was grinning now. He reached down, picking up a pair of saddlebags and slung them to Grady. “You’ll see soon enough, you fat slob.”

Within minutes the two men were galloping across the pasture towards Swine Creek. Grady rode a big chestnut mare with white stocking feet. The two men looked as though they were off to war again, their horses packed with bedrolls and rifle butts sticking out from scabbards.

John slowed Old Ned down to a trot as he led Grady through the bottoms and down to the site of his encounter. He rode with his right hand resting on the butt of his Springfield 30-06. When he reached the muddy bank of the creek, he hopped out of the saddle and threw the reins over a nearby branch.

Grady was a little slower getting dismounted but was soon on the ground and easing his way down the muddy bank to where John waited with a mischievous smile on his face.

Grady stopped next to John and followed his eyes down to the ground. “What in the hell…”

He looked back up a John with a puzzled smile as if to question John’s seriousness.

Then he listened quietly and intently as John relayed the experience he’d had just hours ago.

Continue to Chapter 2 of A New Reality