Dawn of the Yeti Read Online Free PDF Page B

way. He’s propped up against the cave’s entrance. I think of
Angelo, am reminded of his broken form, the limbless heap of cloth.
    The mobile
Banjankri push us into the back of the cave, forcing us to sit. They scream at
us for another moment or two, but the spear-wielders soon stop and stoop to
start a fire. They talk in low tones. The shotgun is still in our faces,
shifting from one to the other. Goatee’s good eye fixed on the two of us. He’s
looking at us like this is all our fault, his eyes easy to read, a children’s
picture book about his feelings. Goatee is mad, they say. Goatee hates you.
Goatee wants you to die.
    I don’t move,
hardly breathe, not wanting to set him off, make that trigger click. We finally
gain a bit of relief when the youngest moans in the corner. After a few glances
from the younger Banjankri to us and back, Goatee heads off to tend to the
wounded. Though he doesn’t leave until I get a few kicks in the ribs and the
still-warm barrel shoved into my cheek.
    A fire starts in the
middle of the cave, and the light is blinding after the cloud-covered night and
the cave’s shadow. Even from here I can feel its warmth, my body finally
shutting down after the day’s stresses. I lean back against the cold wall, shut
my eyes, say, “We’re probably going to die tomorrow.”
    I don’t even know
if Meredith hears me. As usual, she doesn’t respond, and I don’t look to see if
she acknowledges the comment. She probably doesn’t. Even if she heard me, how
does one respond to the cold hard truth? Some might cry, I suppose. Others will
boil over with anger. But I know she’s different. It’s just a grain of salt to
the woman found, birthed from the Jo-Bran’s middle.
    I keep them closed
for another minute or two, basking in the respite of darkness. It allows me to
think of other things, dream of other places, other faces, and be with the both
of them. Soft hissing opens my eyes.
    Goatee huddles by
the younger Banjankri, stroking his unhooded face. He’s hardly older than a
child, fifteen, sixteen, tops. His face is full of fear, discomfort, even with
Goatee stroking his cheek. But I can see why. Know why. The kettle is already
over the fire and a glint of light shoots at me from Goatee’s hand.
    For one small
second, I think, no, don’t do it. But then I remember our situation, remember
that even as a child, this boy is a monster. He doesn’t deserve to live.
    With a few more
words, Goatee eases the younger’s head back and slices across his throat in one
fluid movement. The gash opens and pours, a broken vase, flowing down the
younger’s front like a miniature waterfall.
    Goatee stays with
him until the body stills, after the convulsions and gurgling stop. I can’t
tell for certain, but I think I see tears in the corners of Goatee’s eyes. I
want to see them there. I want to know that he is hurting, that something in
him is broken and it’s all his fault. The instigator to his own pain—as
we all are. The fire crackles in the middle of the cave, popping from the few
bits of wood, lumps of charcoal feeding the flames. He sits beside the warmth
while the other two go to work, removing the furs, hacking, cutting, peeling.
Soon, there is nothing more than a blood stain at the cave’s entrance, a new
smell of meat wafting through the cave.
    My mouth waters.
    And I don’t mind.

Chapter Eleven

 
    In the
daylight, the scene outside is even worse. The wolves, body parts, and blood
stretch across a few dozen yards, spatters of blood frozen in the snow. The
eyes are solid, glazed and milky white.
    We had a
quick breakfast of the younger Banjankri. I forced my stomach to keep it down,
told myself I was just eating a monster, doing the world a favor, and choked it
down.
    Goatee is
in the lead, his shotgun draped over his shoulder, ready for anything, be it an
attack or an escape. The other two Banjankri—a pug-nosed man with a rope
tied around myself and then he, and a unibrow, tied to