White snow falling. Heaps. Bunches. Cast against the blanket of pitch black sky. The snow swirled and the wind howled and it made it absolutely impossible to see anything, anything other than something resembling static on an old television, black and white, white and black.
Chip Montana couldn’t believe the situation he found himself in on the mountain. He couldn’t believe the tv executives loved his pitch. He couldn’t believe they were flying him on a helicopter to the mountain to film a pilot. “Conquering Cryptids with Chip Montana,” he called it. The idea was that he would film himself looking for cryptids like Big Foot and Nessy, and of course never find them, but “come close” each week, giving audiences the opportunity to feel like he’s going to catch one eventually.
But he never would. Right? That was the game.
But given the roaring snow, and the more intimidating roar of the monster behind it, it seemed Chip Montana had, in fact, found a cryptid.
He could barely see. Every time he opened his eyes, snow got in them, and so he had to squint tightly, just enough to see a little bit, but not enough to let the snow in. His clothes were tattered and torn to shreds, and he was freezing to fucking death.
Why were his clothes torn to shreds?
Well, that shrieking monster? Chip had, it seemed, bumped into him. But because his vision was so obscured by the snow, for all he really knew it was a bear, or even a large man– until it picked him up by the throat.
That’s when, for the briefest moment, Chip got a real look at it. The yeti’s teeth were yellow and sharp, the white fur of its face stained pink with blood.
Chip had no choice. He pulled his flare gun out and shot the son of a bitch right in the eye with it.
The yeti dropped him, and Chip Montana had found himself initially hoping the go pro camera he had mounted to his chest had caught a glimpse of the beast.
But afterwards, while he was tumbling down the mountain, jagged rocks ripping his clothes apart as he fell, he found himself hoping only that he would be able to walk again.
The blinding snow, however, and the pitch black of night had rendered him freezing, on all fours, inching his way through the snow.
He had to keep moving. He had to keep moving because the yeti drew closer. Chip could tell by the roars of the beast that he was drawing closer, that Chip was being chased by an alpha predator, an alpha predator who no doubt lost an eye to Chip’s flare gun.
Chip could hear the yeti’s footsteps. They plodded through the crunchy snow at first, but then, it sounded like he was sprinting.
Sprinting right towards Chip Montana.
And the rescue helicopter would not fly in a storm such as this.