Monstrous - Chapter One

The night is cold and still in the Himalayas, a silent spring night in the shadow of Mount Everest. The full moon casts a ghostly light across the rugged landscape, illuminating a small, secluded campsite nestled on a narrow ledge against a steep cliff face. The seasoned mercenary sits by the fire, scanning the darkness beyond its glow.

Bishop Ross, a man in his early 50s, with the hardened, lean build of someone who has spent years pushing his body to the limit, exuded an air of quiet strength. He stands over six feet, powerful yet slender, wrapped in tactical gear that blends seamlessly into the shadows. His bald head catches the faintest glimmer from the firelight, contrasting the thick, bushy, salt-and-pepper beard, giving him a rugged, almost ancient look. His face weathered, lines etched deep from years of exposure to the harsh elements and harsher realities. And his eyes - cold, icy-blue.

Every movement he makes is calculated, quiet, the mark of a man who’s been trained to stay alert, who knows how to survive in hostile territory.

The two hired guides, Sudip and Prakash, sit close by, exchanging low, tense whispers in Nepalese. Small, scrawny men in their 30s, their faces gaunt and weathered. Though Bishop doesn’t understand their words, he picks up on their fear—the slight tremor in their voices, the way their eyes dart to the shadows beyond the firelight. Sudip, his deep-set eyes and neatly trimmed mustache, sits closest to the flames, his gaze darting nervously beyond their camp. He’s used to this reaction. Locals in remote places always have their superstitions, their legends of spirits and monsters. To Bishop, it’s all background noise, distractions from the job at hand. He’s here for one reason: to capture the creature that most dismiss as myth.

Bishop’s employer, someone with both deep pockets and an obsessive curiosity, has promised him a fortune for the creature’s capture. And for Bishop, who’s faced down men and beasts alike, this is another challenge.

They’ve been on its trail for days, following clues most would overlook—footprints embedded in the terrain, claw marks scraped into rock, and strange tufts of white fur snagged on jagged branches. Prakash, older than his companion, holds on tightly to a religious talisman, his lips moving in a low murmur as he utters a prayer under his breath. Both guides had shown a quiet resilience, but tonight they are on edge, an unease prickles the cold mountain air.

Suddenly, Sudip freezes, his eyes fixed on the darkness, and Bishop feels it too—a subtle shift in the air, prodding against his impulses. Bishop grips his rifle - a bolt action Winchester .308 Sherwood with a tranquilizer round chambered, designed specifically for this mission by his employer. Every sense sharpened, his focus honed. He’s been in countless life-or-death situations, and his body knows when danger is near.

Then, without warning, a shadow moves at the edge of the flickering light, fast and silent. Bishop catches a glimpse of something big, and in an instant, Sudip is yanked backward into the dark, his scream cut short. The air falls silent once more, save for the crackle of the fire.

Bishop doesn’t flinch; he’s conditioned for this. He raises his rifle, calm and composed, his eyes scanning the perimeter for the next movement. His breath steady, his heartbeat controlled—this is the poise of a man who’s lived through combat, a man whose nerves don’t falter in the face of death.

Prakash, however, is far from calm. Clutching his head, he lets out a strangled, terrified sound, his face twisted in agony. A deep, rumbling hum vibrates through the air, barely perceptible, so powerful it seems to echo through Bishop’s bones. It’s not a sound, exactly, its a force—an infrasound that disorients, a complex weapon used by few creatures on Earth.

His moans turn to heinous screams as he clutches at his head, his body jerking violently as though he’s fighting something inside his mind. Bishop’s eyes narrow, recognizing the brutal effects of infrasound. He’s seen men driven to madness by less, and he knows that this sound is tearing Prakash apart from within.

The Sherpa's cries grow more frenzied, his body convulsing as he staggers backward. With a force that seems almost merciful, he throws himself against a rock, smashing his head with a sickening blunt smack, one of his eyes popping from its socket. The life drains from him instantly, his body crumpling to the ground in a twisted, unnatural heap.

Bishop watches, his expression stolid, the poor son of a bitch. His grip tightening on the rifle. Now alone, he knows he’s the only one left standing between this creature and whatever it intends. His mind is steady, his abilities honed. He’s faced down danger before, and he’s more than equipped to handle it now.

The flames flicker weakly, casting long shadows that creep across the ground, the darkness itself is closing in. Bishop slows his breathing, a technique learned from years in hostile environments. He’s prepared, calm in a way that only a man who’s seen countless battles can be.

Then, from the darkness, he sees the creature in the dim glow —a towering 8 foot tall figure covered in matted, dirty-white fur that blends seamlessly with the terrain, it’s muscular yet lean, every inch of its body honed for agility and power. Its piercing yellow eyes lock onto Bishop with a cold intelligence, filled with something that isn’t just instinct—it’s intent.

This is the target, the dossier his employer had provided called it by one name -The Yeti.

Its lips pull back, revealing long, jagged teeth, and its hands tauten, extending razor-sharp claws that glint. It’s an apex predator, built for hunting and killing, and in its eyes, Bishop recognizes a calculated awareness, as though it’s assessing him, deciding how to strike.

He knows he has one shot, one chance to bring this creature down without being torn apart himself. The Yeti advances slowly, its movements graceful, silent, a predator savoring the moment. Bishop’s hand steadies on the rifle, his breathing slow and controlled, every sense tuned to the creature’s approach.

Two killers.

In one steady breath, Bishop pulls the trigger. The tranquilizer dart flies true, striking the creature square center mass. The Yeti lets out a roar that shakes the mountainside, a sound of fury and raw, ancient power. Bishop expects it to stagger, to falter under the sedative’s strength— the creature barely flinches.

Instead, its eyes burn even brighter, enraged by the sting of the dart. With terrifying speed, it leaps forward, covering the distance between them in a single bound, passing directly through the flames. The fire crackles and scatters embers around them as the Yeti emerges on the other side, unscathed and relentless, a ghostly blur of muscle.

Bishop barely has time to react. He throws himself to the ground, feeling the rush of air as the creature slashes above him, missing him by inches. He lands hard, the rifle free of his hands, his movements are quick, instinctive. Rolling to his side, he pulls a combat knife from his belt, his hand steady on the handle as he scrambles to his feet.

The Yeti snarls, a deep, grim sound, and the two of them face each other, a man with a knife against a beast who could rip him to shreds with its hands. Bishop’s hold tightens, his cold blue eyes locked on the creature, calculating, watching its every move. His years of combat have trained him to stay calm, even in the face of something that shouldn’t exist. He has no time to process what exactly he is facing.

The Yeti lunges again, cutting through the air. Bishop sidesteps, dodging by a breath, and counters with a swift swipe of his knife. The blade grazes the Yeti’s thick fur but barely scratches its hide. The creature rasps, circling him with deadly intent, tracking his every move.

Bishop slashes again, narrowly missing the Yeti as it twists to evade. The creature retaliates, swinging a muscular arm toward him. He blocks the blow with his knife, the impact nearly knocks the blade from his grip. His muscles strain, he manages to hold steady, dodging another swipe aimed directly at his head.

They move in a deadly dance, each anticipating the other’s moves, each narrowly escaping the other’s attacks. The fire crackles between them, casting eerie shadows that make the Yeti seem even larger, more horrific.

Then, in a split second, the Yeti finds its mark. A powerful, clawed hand strikes Bishop’s chest, sending him flying backward. He crashes hard to the ground, the impact jarring him, his tactical vest shredded, his breath forced from his lungs. Pain flares through his ribs, he forces himself to his feet, his knife still clutched in his hand, every nerve screaming at him to stay focused.

The Yeti advances, a snarl curling its lips, its claws ready for the final strike. Bishop steadies himself, crouched, knife at the ready. He knows he’s outmatched in brute strength, he’s only ever known survival. As the Yeti closes in, its eyes blazing with fury, Bishop braces himself for the onslaught.

Then, the creature’s roar suddenly falters, slowing to a choked whimper as its movements begin to stagger. Its legs tremble, and it stumbles, the effects of the tranquilizer finally taking hold. The fury in its eyes fades, replaced by confusion, then sluggishness, as the sedative overpowers its resistance.

With one last, weakened cry, the Yeti collapses, sinking to the ground. Bishop watches, his breath heavy, knife still in hand, as the creature’s body goes still, its eyes fluttering shut. The silence returns, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire.

Bishop lowers his knife, a mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion flooding his veins. As he stands over the fallen creature, a faint gleam of satisfaction flickers in his cold blue eyes. He’s captured the impossible, and yet the weight of what he’s done settles heavily on him.

Taking a steady breath, he reaches for his radio secured to what is left of his vest. His voice is calm and level, as if he hasn’t just faced down a creature of legend.

“Target down,” he says, pausing as he glances down at the unconscious form. “Awaiting extraction.”

His gaze lingering on the Yeti. Its heavy breaths fog the cold air, the fierce eyes now closed, almost peaceful. Bishop doesn’t know what his employer plans to do with a creature like this, what intentions lie behind their endless resources and obsessive curiosity. And, for a brief moment, he feels a shadow of doubt, a quiet unease settling over him.

He hopes they know what they’re doing. Because if they don’t, he thinks, casting a last glance at the creature, perhaps there’s a reason creatures like this have remained hidden for centuries, a reason nature keeps its greatest secrets locked away.