Giants

Chapter 1 - River Babies

The crowd watched, outside the Johnson farm by the Cajun River, in the town of Campwood. The attorneys and police were dragging the river for evidence. It was an old case, which had come back to life. Who killed Betty Hay? For years the rumors were murmured around town that the deaf iceman had been framed, so the Sheriff’s son could go free.

Now the Sheriff was dead, and the power he once wielded was no more. His son’s ex-girlfriend, came forward with the secrets she had kept buried in her tortured mind for fifteen years.

The big machinery was scooping large swathes of soot from the riverbed in hopes of finding the gun and the metal box hidden there for so long - the proof that Ken Justice (the former Sheriff’s son) had done the killing, and that Tom Potter (the deaf iceman) had been framed.

The detectives and attorneys were sifting through the debris with smaller hand-tillers, when a strange load came up. It was the same grayish mix of wet soggy rags, pieces of wood, metal, rubber hoses, something which appeared to be a just born baby, clumps of vegetation, part of a screen door, another smaller thing which also appeared to be a just born baby, and some tangles of old rope and wire.

They continued to sift and turn over the pile they had been examining, when one of the attorneys had a second-thought experience, and said out loud, ...was that a baby?

One of the spectators, Josh Johnson, had had the same thought when the pile first came up, but his mind automatically dismissed it as impossible, it had to be a life-like doll, and he let it go by, same as everyone else.

My God, he exclaimed as he pulled the just born infant out of the muck.

It’s alive!

The baby seemed to be breathing fine, without a choke, or a gasp for air - he was smiling. Dressed in a little white tunic, tied at the waste with a violet cord, all covered with mud and soot.

Josh Johnson, in his late thirties, was a trained paramedic. He owned the small farmhouse a few hundred yards from the riverbank. He had two pre-teen children living a town away. Josh’s wife could not take the strain of his being away on seminars, or out on emergency calls, most of which amounted to nothing …in the strange town of Campwood.

Josh was trying to find a new way earn a living, in hopes of reuniting with his family. His plan was to sell the property and move, to someplace where military pensions, fishing, and gathering honey and arrowhead rocks were not the main industries.

Josh grieved for the loss of his family, and most of all, that he was not on hand to help protect and guide his own children. It gave him, a profound sense of utter failure as a father and a man – so when he realized that an infant was in mortal danger, all of his instincts and inner torture turned into rapid, decisive action.

Josh rushed the little infant back to his house. It was unbelievable. The little guy was breathing and moving, and actually looked a little older than he had at first appeared. Josh rinsed him off in the bathtub. The soot and dirt washed off the baby’s tunic as if it had been through the finest cleaners, but when Josh tried to remove the little tunic, he could find no way to get it off of the baby’s body. There was nowhere to detach it.

Josh just covered him with a blanket, and ran to find some kind of food for him. He rushed through the house trying to find a baby bottle, but as he passed the tyke on his way back through the living room, he realized that something very strange, something otherworldly was happening.

The infant was now the size of a two-year old. He already had a full head of stark-white hair, and was crawling and trying to stand. Whatever was going on, Josh still wanted the child to live. He grabbed a can of his mother’s concentrated health-restoring drink, poured it into a small cup, hoping the toddler would be able to drink it.

He rushed back into the living room where the now small-child was sitting up. Josh put the edge of the cup to the boy’s mouth and tilted it upwards. The boy immediately drank all of the liquid right down... and grew several years older, and a few feet taller.

Josh was astounded, but his astonishment increased, when he realized that the clothes, no longer a baby’s tunic – now that of a small boy, had grown in perfect proportion, along with the amazingly rapid growth of the boy’s body. The tunic still fit him perfectly, as did the thin, hard layer of leather-like sandal on his feet.

Josh was sure he would soon wake up, with a good strange-dream-story to tell, but he did not awaken, because he was not dreaming.

The mushrooming youngster seemed, to be a gentle boy with an angelic look of gratitude and understanding in his marvelous hazy blue eyes. Josh was moved more than ever to protect him and keep him alive, but he had to wonder, just how fast and how large would this boy grow?

Suddenly, Josh had a second - second thought. Could it be? Wasn’t there a second baby out there? He wrestled with what his mind had tried to logically deny, but what he knew he had seen, but had dismissed as impossible.

There was - there was a second baby out there!

Josh ran all the way back to the riverbank, where he found a small crowd of about twenty-five people, staring, dumb-founded by what they were seeing.

The other boy was already ten feet tall, with the same glowing white hair, gentle manner, and also wearing a tunic and violet cord, continuing to fit him perfectly.

The sheriff had his hand on his gun, detectives and reporters were taking pictures and making calls on their cell phones...as the second boy, continuing to grow, stood peacefully eating clumps of river-vegetation; roots, earth and all.

The first boy, now about five feet tall, and walking, had followed Josh back to the river, and within another hour, each of the boys had grown to twelve-feet nine inches tall, which everyone hoped, would be their full size...

Quite muscular, with cat-like poise, each of the young giants now had a full mane of strange, but beautifully glowing white hair, streaming below their shoulders.

They were giants, they had come up from the bottom of the river, and no one had any idea of how they came, how they survived, or what their coming meant.

Word spread quickly, the crowd grew to hundreds of people, eager to get a glimpse of the latest hoax, or – maybe for once, just once – something truly amazing had really happened in their boring little town.

The two giant boys seemed completely unaffected by the attention and flashing cameras. People and reporters were yelling and pleading questions at them, while others taunted and insulted them. ... but the boy-giants sat on the ground, atop a small bluff, looking at the sky, or the crowd, and made no sound, nor did anything, which would give a clue that they were in any way affected.

The river gently wallowed by, its tiny waves lapping at the muddy shore. The songbirds, the woodpeckers, the geese and the ducks showed no signs of alarm. Even John Tucker’s Irish Setter, a skittish, jumpy dog, sat beside the two strangers, calmly enjoying the breeze off the river, streaming through his long, rust-colored hair.

…But among the locals, things were on the verge of getting out of hand. The police began to close off the roads and asked the crowd to please go home, but those already there would not move. They remained transfixed on the two young giants, eating clumps of riverweed, now fourteen-feet tall.

The police decided they should take the two giants into custody, for their own safety, but when they tried to escort them to the police wagons, or to the ambulances which were now assembled, the giants just nodded in a friendly way, and went on existing as they chose.

The police, the mayor and the detectives had a little meeting on the far side of a rugged old oak tree. They decided they would have to use force to move the giants to a safer location.

Bert Stevens, the new Sheriff, had somehow gotten elected when Ted Hart, the unquestionably more professional and highly qualified candidate died; when Bob one-eye, the town drunk, accidentally let the garbage truck he was cleaning run Ted over.

It was all ruled an accident, and life in Campwood went on, with the loss of a great Sheriff, and the election of, Bert Stevens, totally unqualified and intellectually challenged… but the last man standing.

Campwood was a typical mountain community. It had a small downtown, two churches, one movie theatre with three different sections, showing one or two new releases and one or two oldies; as well as a drive in for the summer. There was a chain-store pharmacy, a Laundromat, the City Hall, the Courthouse, the Fire station, etc. The biggest store was the hardware-lumberyard-combo, a third generation family-owned and run business.

The houses of Campwood ranged from rural shacks to sprawling ranches and estates. The residential areas, closer to the town, were made up of working folks and their families, mostly living in average, but well-kept houses, with nice lawns, hedges, painted porches, barbecue-ready backyards, and good-hearted, clean-living people, raising their kids the American way.

Every other driveway hosted a camper, and/or a boat, and every garage was neatly stocked with fishing and hunting gear, cartons of emergency canned foods, vacuum-packed survival packets of fish and meat, gallons of bottled water, and an unknown quantity and assortment of weapons, ammunition and military gear.

The wealthier business-owners, and the few professional people had nicer houses, and bigger well-kept lawns and back yards, but no one was thought of as better or less – except a few, like Bob one-eye.

The town of Campwood had an unspoken tradition of leaving each other alone, not starting up trouble, and accepting that, some had more money, or more power, and some had less.

Everyone had their place and their purpose, even Bob one-eye, for example. He not only did whatever random jobs he could manage, but he, and the few others like him, served as examples to upcoming generations, of what a life of alcohol consumption and sloth looked like – and what were their rewards.

Sheriff Stevens, and a few of his best officers, approached the giants with handcuffs, chains, clubs, and guns ready to draw. The giant boys smiled, eating their grass clumps, just watching, with interested and adventuresome eyes.

Do you understand our words? the Sheriff asked. The giant boys nodded in unison, and though they could be recognized one from the other, their smiles, their faces and their hair, seemed identical.

Put your hands out in front of you, the Sheriff requested.

Both of the giants put their hands out in front of them, but when the officers stepped forward to place handcuffs on their wrists...they could not. The deputies just stood there, unable to proceed.

Cuff ‘em! ordered the sheriff, but the men could not, they didn’t know why, but they could not.

The sheriff and two hardened detectives brushed the officers aside and flipped open their own handcuffs.

Bring me those shackles! the sheriff ordered.

Two deputies rushed over with the shackles. The sheriff and the two detectives proceeded to attempt to handcuff the two young giants, who stood there, hands out stretched with a complete air of surrender and cooperation...and an, Isn’t this fun gleam in their eyes.

The sheriff stared at his cuffs, as did the two detectives. He then reached for the shackles and spread them out in front of him, ready to chain up one of the giants, but he just stood there confused.

What the...? he muttered. What in the heck...?, he could not. No reason, no opposition, no force that held him off - no resistance from the giants. He stood there like a fool – holding his shackles and mumbling obscenities and questions to himself, as if, maybe to some invisible buddy.

What the heck?

They all went back to the other side of the big oak tree and no one could figure out...what in the heck was going on.

They don’t seem to mean anyone any harm Vergil Sherman, the head deputy said.

Yes, I know, said the sheriff, But we can’t control em, and that cannot be allowed.

They can’t just do as they please, why, they don’t even belong from here!

Maybe they’ll just come along peacefully if we ask em to, Vergil surmised.

Maybe said the sheriff. This could go federal.

Sheriff Miller’s best dream – that something news worthy, something really big and exciting might actually happen in Campwood, and that he, Sheriff Bert Stevens, would be the man in charge.

Police cars flashing, sirens in the distance, and his face, filling the TV screens all over the country, explaining that; Everyone should remain calm – and that they were doing, everything in their power…, etc, etc.

As the small group of police and detectives approached, the two young giants still stood waiting in the same spot, and with the same look of adventure and fun in their eyes.

We want to know you better. Said the sheriff.

There’s so much to see around here, and we have these nice vehicles for you to ride in – uh, on.

Both giants blinked, smiled and nodded at the same exact time.

You can ride on the fire truck, or even the police wagon if you want to – want to come along for a ride and see more of our town?

Both of the giants nodded and smiled again, pointing to the fire truck, as if they were way ahead of him. In a few minutes the giants were riding on top of the big red fire truck and, unbeknownst (maybe) to them, on their way to the county jail.

Meanwhile, the reporters and some of the private citizens, who had taken many photos of the giants, had hurried back to their darkrooms or to the drug store where there was one-hour developing. One after another, they all learned that not one single picture of the strange young giants had turned out. All were nothing, more or less than what appeared to be a blaze of light covering the entire photo.

The giants waved happily at the crowds of curious folks lining the route to the county jail. It was just about a parade. Kids were running alongside the big red fire truck, waving and jumping, while the same folks whose photos did not turn out were trying to take new ones.

Gloria Wessley, the town drama queen, was trying to get a sincere note to the two giants, about her feeling like, she’s always known them, and the police were kept busy continually shooing them all away.

The fire truck finally rolled up to the county jail, a large gray cinderblock structure, built just four years earlier, with a football-sized expanse of perfect green lawn. It was used to house criminals from over one hundred miles around. Convoys of private cars were headed off from reaching the jail by the deputies, so as to avoid a mob scene.

The giants hopped lightly down from the top of the fire truck and looked around in bemusement. The sheriff, continuing with his condescending tone and his devious plan, invited the giants in to see the new county jail, but the giants just ignored him and kept gazing in every direction. The sheriff finally lost his composure and drew his gun. He had not gotten these prisoners all this way to lose them now.

OK boys, he sing-songed, gun drawn and pointed right at them.

Fun’s over – get a move on!

... Let’s go, don’t make me do something we’ll all regret – lets go! Move it!

The giants stared at his gun, and at the drawn guns of those with him. The giants seemed so amused. They were actually, somehow, having a heck of a good time, and to have not the slightest concern for their own safety, showing no signs of anger or fear.

The two young giants were now fifteen feet tall, and their white tunics, purple sashes, and leather sandals on the bottom of their feet still fit them perfectly.

It is safe to say, the two of them could have easily turned over the fire truck, torn a fire-hydrant out of the pavement, or even pushed right through the cinderblock wall of the jail.

They continued to ignore the Sheriff and his deputies. One of the giants reached down and tore up a huge handful of grass from the jailhouse lawn, roots and all, and began to chew on it.

That’s it! said the sheriff. He then leaned sideways and confided to the deputies.

I’m gonna have to shoot one or both of them in the leg - to show I’m not foolin’ - we’ve got to get this situation under control.

The sheriff aimed his gun at one of the giant’s legs and prepared to fire – but he could not order his finger to squeeze the trigger on his gun ...he just could not.

One of the giants motioned to the other toward Ghost Mountain far off in the distance. The two shot off like a car flying by at 250 miles per hour, Pfwwiit.

Within fifteen or twenty seconds they were over the horizon and out of sight.

This is goin’ federal, said the sheriff with a somber tone of firm determination.

I mean troops, tanks, planes, you name it – this thing could go federal."

We have no idea of what we’re dealin’ with here.

This has got to go federal - Get me the FBI or somebody!

We called them four times Bert, but you know, we’ve had so many hoaxes, they’re just laughin’ at us.

The giants remained illusive for some time, being spotted rarely, and then, racing by at speeds, which seemed like hundreds of miles per hour. No photos of the giants ever developed.

The federal government still had not taken the stories and rumors about giants seriously – they kept asking for photos, referring to the entire issue, and all of the incidents, as more Big Foot sightings, from the strange town of Campwood.

Chapter 2 - Lost

It was just about a parade and a military send-off a few days before, when the Campwood chapter of the Boy Scouts of America gathered and rolled out for what seemed liked the timeless Campwood tradition, of driving, then hiking to the higher elevations, to once again challenge and do battle with the mysterious, awesome power of the forces of nature, which legend tells, are controlled by the spirit of Ghost Mountain.

Tables covered with home baked three layer cakes with thick pink, green, and yellow icing. Plates of potato salad, egg salad, bowls of chips and pretzels. Barbecue units turning out hot dogs, burgers and singed corn on the cob.

All under immense banners spanning the wide street, proclaiming the start of the annual Boy Scout excursion:

TAKE THE MOUNTAIN

The American Legion band, consisting of some of the oldest men alive, phumph – phumphed an off to war favorite, set to a ragged, but still soul-stirring marching drum cadence as the convoy carrying approximately one-hundred and fifty Scouts, full of valor, and eager for glory, rolled off toward Ghost Mountain.

Now, just days later, Boy Scout troop # 332 was reporting a group of boys lost. It was a normal occurrence. Almost every year some of the Scouts of Campwood would get lost somewhere on the mountain.

They would have to survive for a few days on only their backpacks full of cookies, sandwiches, soda, juice, vitamins, beef-jerky, and any other, easy to carry edible imaginable - prepared days ahead by devoted Moms, Grand-moms, aunts, sisters, and scout-struck girls.

This time however, a group of eight Scouts were royally lost, deep and high in the wilderness of the mountains, after wandering away from the rest of the troop.

Winter was coming on early, cold and icy on the peaks, with ominous new weather reports increasingly making the point that a dangerous situation was developing.

The boys in the lost group were a mixture of older, and experienced Scouts, and a few younger, with much less experience. The older boys were still showing manly courage, and a somewhat arrogant attitude toward the outdoors, and what they would soon realize, was the awesome power of the mountain, and the elements of nature at her command.

Two of the boys had gotten permission to carry along hunting rifles, and so they felt safe, especially Duffy, as he was called. The undisputed tough boy of the town, and a bit of a bully as well. Duffy shot a few squirrels, just because they were alive, and carried his hunting rifle as if he were invincible.

As the boys realized that they were more lost than they had first imagined - some of the smaller ones began to become afraid. Duffy seized on the opportunity.

They say those giants are lurking up here somewhere. They eat kids you know – while they’re still alive and screaming.

One of the younger boys, a skinny, shaky 4’5" boy name Peter was visibly trembling. He knew he was lost, and this was his first overnight camping trip. He was a perfect icon of a green behind the ears camper-boy. His backpack and gear were all brand-new, hooked up crooked and half-wrong.

The final touch for Peter was the ancient Brownie snapshot camera hanging from his neck. He had lost his new digital one, and had to give in to taking the Brownie