Peter Brockhaus just got to the job site. It was a little after 5:30 AM. He lit a cigarette and thought about the rest of the day. He was going to shovel out the sides of the hole that that big diggers dug overnight. Get those holes ready. He thought about how he had time to eat breakfast, but he raced out of the house. He was the first one there. He was kicking himself now.
Just as he turned to lean on the hood of his car, he heard the back window of his car crack. Then a big rock hit the roof of his car. Brockhaus swore loudly, yelling for whomever was throwing rocks at his car to stop. As the big clumps of earth continued to rain down, Brockhaus pleaded loudly that he only had a few payments left. He was just a working guy. But the only response he got came as an inhuman screech. Then some animalistic hoots.
The barrage only stopped when the pickup truck of the job’s foreman skidded to a dusty stop twenty yards from where Brockhaus squatted. When the foreman reached him, Brockhaus was beside himself. The foreman couldn’t understand why someone would attack like that. Once he got Brockhaus squared away with a blanket and a cup of coffee, the foreman called the sheriff.
The sheriff and the foreman found huge apelike footprints along the ridge above the job site.