"You're staying here, no arguments!" But there was no argument from West Donaghy, who curled up on a dog bed and exhaled into sleep. Ry nodded. What do you take on a rescue mission? The hiking backpack? Should he wear his work boots? Ry decided fuck it, the only thing that would help him would be a gun. He didn't keep one due to a major distrust of Depressed Ry, who ran things for him most Februarys.

He stepped outside into the sun and squinted. "Okay, Jackson. Where are ya, buddy?"

Ry tried to call a few more times as he walked through the front lawn and across the white rock road to Jackson's cattle gate. Straight to voicemail. He was a recluse, but a recluse who usually answered the phone.

Ry took a breath. He kept seeing the shape, that massive figure just down the path he was about to take. He swore he heard a faint whistle. If only Depressed Ry was more trustworthy, he could be properly armed. That was a silly though. Erin hated guns.

He wished she was there. He could be brave if she were with him. She could talk him down from the edge, when he worried himself into an aching stomach over the slow collapse of everything, she could make him think of the present.

"That's then. This is now. You got me, what else could you want?"

Honestly? Nothing. Ry reminded himself of that. You have Erin, and no matter which apocalypse the future handed down, he would face it with her.

He winced at every crunch of rock and dirt under foot. Ry tried to walk slow, steady his pace to stay quiet. He walked down the tunnel of overgrown tree canopies, as the white rock gave way to the rutted dirt. Mosquito buzzed his ear. Others trilled in the grass and trees.

Jackson's place wasn't far. Just around the bend, across a small bridge. A ranch style house lost in overgrown brush and trees. Ry saw it only once from a distance, Jackson wouldn't let him near the building, keeping him and Erin on the road.

"I'm making contact, even bringing you this close could set my work back."

"Do you have any pictures of them?" Erin asked.

"Yeah," Jackson said.

Erin asked to see them, Jackson said one day the world would see them.

"They're not what you think. They're us."

The last time he saw Jackson, Ry was dropping off his rent check and Jackson was returning home, a small pudgy man in jeans and a rough Carhart coat. He waved without turning back.

The path grew thin now, the woods crept in from either side, the tall grass and thick shrubs, the trees that encroached ever closer. He stopped at a dead fall, a pile of tree limbs almost as tall as he was, that blocked the path.

"Shit, Jackson you've been busy." Ruy approached the deadfall. On the ground he could make out a track. Dog? No, this was a cat print. Ry leaned down and held a hand above it, fingers spread out. The track was larger.

"You gotta be shitting me."

Ry forgot about the bigfoot. Here was a track from a flesh and blood predator. A mountain lion? No, this was too big.

Was the lion real?

Ry walked around the deadfall and ducked into the brush. He came out on the other side, the path now bending right toward Jackson's house. He glanced at the deadfall, and could see little bits of white. He leaned in.

Bone. Animal bones, piled and arranged in symbols, like what he saw drawn in the dirt outside their trailer. Small rocks placed around them, balanced on the intersecting tree limbs and sticks. On the ground, he could see more impressions in the dirt. He moved forward, away from the deadfall, and kept his eyes on the earth, on the prints. There were cat prints, but there were others. No boot prints or shoes. Bare feet.

A lot of them. Massive, stepping on one another, covering the path. Ry started backing up to the deadfall. This wasn't a burn pile or storm damage. This was a boundary marker, and he'd crossed it.

Ry coughed, a foul odor hit his nose, decay and piss. A panic rose in his brain. Run. Run now. Was he shaking? He turned around to make his way back and faced a massive grin, two rows of square teeth, two large incisors, most fangs. Above it, two dark eyes. The face was an ape, but there was human expression in it. In the eyes. Intelligence. Cruelty. It had rough skin, dried and cracked like scales. Long hair hung from its head. As Ry backed up, he could take in the creature's full appearance.

He had never seen a person so large. Taller than any man Ry ever saw, covered in matted hair, patches of bare skin visible. It breathed through its mouth, its exhales were a deep growl. The figure didn't move, its shoulders rising and falling with each breath. The eyes followed Ry as he backed away.

The creature opened its mouth and snapped it closed. It screamed, seemingly jutting its teeth outward, like that could snag Ry and pull him in. Ry ran from the trail; he dove into the woods. As he sprinted through the woods, he looked back to see the creature following. It leapt and ran, sometimes dropping onto all fours and returning to two feet.

Ry could tell the creature's pace was languid, it was having fun. It wasn't trying to kill, not yet. While Ry made a storm of snapping twigs and crunching leaves, the creature moved without sound. Until it started to laugh. Like before, not a natural sound, like an old tap recording someone else's laugh.

"No, please!"

Jackson's voice. Ry called out to him, trying to see if he could find him.

"No, please! Np, please!"

The same inflection, the same panicked tone. It was the creature. The creature stopped pursuing. Ry slowed, his sides twisting themselves inside out. The creature wavered on its feet, opened its mouth and spoke.

"No, please!"

Were these Jackson's last words? The thing bared its teeth, and fled in the other direction. Ry fled too.

That wasn't a man. The same thought ran circles in Ry's brain. Not a man. Too tall. Too big. Not a man. The leaf litter crunched and as he kicked through it, the slick layers underneath made him slip. He struggled to keep his footing, putting his arms out to catch himself on trees and limbs, keeping him upright and moving.

Why was he alive? How hadn't the creature tackled him yet?

He saw a massive fallen tree and crawled over it, plopping to the ground with a grunt.

"Did they see you?"

Ry cursed and sat up. A small boy, maybe ten, was curled up against the trunk. He hugged his knees to his chest. Dirt covered his face, and a muddied trail ran from his eyes and down his cheeks. His clothes were torn and dirty

"Who the fuck are you?" Ry hissed.

"Did you see them?"

"Yes!" Ry scooted closer to the boy, he glanced over the top of the trunk and seeing nothing, hunched back down. "What are you doing out there?"

"It was a dare. Bring back a piece of the Meriwether house. I got close, then I saw them. I ran."

"Did you see where they went?"

"They keep laughing. They get close, then run away."

"They're messing with you. Fuck, that's mean."

"What are they?"

"Bigfoot, apparently," Ry said. "Look, we gotta move."

They heard a loud crunch as something fell in the distance. Then another, and another. Like trees coming down in a storm. Laughter. Then whistling. A chorus. The clack of wood hitting the trees.

Philip covered his ears and started to cry out. The sounds stopped. Ry pulled one of the boy's hand from his head.

"It's over," Ry whispered.

"What was that?"

"I'm Ry. You're?"

"Phillip."

"Phillip, buddy, we're gonna run for it. We're gonna get to my place and call someone. Anyone. Head to the path at the top of the hill, and go left. Don't stop until you hit the gate, climb over and you're home free."

"What about you?"

"Shit, I'm right behind you, kid."

They stood slowly, looking over the top of the trunk and around the woods. No monsters, no cats. Ry nodded at the boy, who bolted. Ry stayed close behind. They moved up the hill onto the path. Ry led Phillip around the deadfall and onto the road home.

They could see the source of the sound. Several trees had been pushed down, crisscrossing the road. Ry followed Philip as the boy crawled under or moved over the fallen trees. Most were thin enough they barely slowed their escape. But Ry thought of how it moved. Quick. Quiet. Slowing them by seconds would be enough.

The closer they came to the cattle gate, the more uneasy Ry felt. He was watched, his flesh prickled. He expected them to leap out any minute, carrying them away to whatever fate awaited Jackson. Was Jackson even alive?

"What is that?" Philip huffed.

Ry saw something, several somethings, hanging from the gate. He slowed his run.

"Wait, stop!"

Philip did. Paper littered the ground. Ry picked up a large pile, the remnants of a notebook. He could see writing and dates. Talk about cohabitation. This was Jackson.

Philip cried out. He backed into Ry.

Ry looked ahead. The metal gate was coated in gore. He could see severed limbs shoved into the empty spaces in the gate. They were pale, with dark patches where the blood settled. Draped intestines hung on the gate like garland on a Christmas tree. At the bottom, the severed head of Jackson, eyes glazed and cataracted, facing up at them.

Ry whipped around to see if the creatures were approaching, but the path was empty.

"That wasn't there!" Philip cried, pointing to the ground behind them.

Ry looked down. Why this scared him more than the dismembered corpse of his landlord, he couldn't say.

In the dirt, amid the footprints, was scrawled a single word.

RUN

Behind them, a single sound.

A whistle.