World Wonders

by James Perrone

  I snorted at her impression, “Clearly you’ve practiced.”

  She flashed a rare smile, “Products of a wasted childhood,” she quipped with a slight bow, “Anyways, that’s when things got weird.”

  “Got weird? What’s weirder than an immortal cannibal?” I asked, carefully not eating.

  “He bugged out. Faded from existence.”

  I was grateful for my foresight which had stopped me from choking right now. “Like a werewolf?”

  She and Miles nodded in unison, “Like a werewolf.” The stereo sound was vaguely disturbing, but I had bigger issues. Issues such as, “How the fuck did our Wendigo get werewolf powers? I read Danver’s research, nothing mentions bullshit like this.”

  McCoy chuckled at my outburst while Miles simply shrugged and offered, “No idea. However, Keitner’s info turned up a lead. Apparently when Voigt went looking for the person who made him into a Wendigo, he got directions from the Menominee Indian Reservation. Once you’re able to move, we’re supposed to take you up there to see what we can’t shake loose.”

  “Plus,” Miles added a bit too cheerfully for my liking, “It means that you won’t be in a hospital where it’s likely Voigt might find you and rampage through it again trying to eat you.”

  I stared at him bug-eyed, “How and why are you so chipper about that?”

  McCoy, equally repulsed, looked at me, “He was all gloomy and sad, so I sent him on a walk. Apparently, he found the animal therapy section which just infected him with a good mood.”

  I looked at the bouncing Miles. “Oh,” I managed.

  ✽✽✽

  I slept through most of the three-hour drive to Menomonie, Wisconsin, which my leg and wrist thanked me for. When I came to, Miles was driving, and McCoy had passed out in the passenger’s seat.

  Blearily, I sat up and grunted at Miles. He had apparently calmed down and solemnly passed me a cup of coffee and a pair of folders.

  “Now that we have a name, we were able to pull records on Curtis Malcolm Voigt. Thought you might want to read them over.” He glanced over to the GPS, “We’re about twenty minutes out.”

  I grunted affirmatively, set the folder down, and sipped my coffee. Twenty minutes gave me ten minutes to wake up, five minutes to read, and five minutes to be presentable to the Menominee. The midday sun scorched above us, but I was still grateful for the warmth of my coffee as it touched my insides and helped get me started. After a few sips, I started to peruse the smaller folder.

  His history was relatively boring. Curtis Voigt was 47 years old. Graduated in 1992 from Georgia Institute of Technology with a degree in Electrical Engineering. Married in 1993, kid in 1995. Diagnosed with cancer in 1998, went missing from a hospital in 2004. Resurfaced in 2007 working for the World Wonder’s Circus. Wife and kid have received no contact and are reportedly still living in Georgia.

  The second folder was the far more interesting one. Attached were missing persons in towns and cities where World Wonder’s Circus had visited since Voigt joined. There was a lot of guesswork on Danver’s part, but he seemed to have identified each of the most likely candidates for Voigt to have snatched during that time and missing persons reports. You could almost see his hunger growing. A person here, a person there, until it was a regular stream of a person a month. Then two a month. Then three. The man couldn’t control himself.

  I said as much to Miles, but it was McCoy who responded, sounding as groggy as I felt.

  “Well, hopefully,” she said, “we can find something to control him here”

  Miles shook his head, “Regardless, we’re here.”

  ✽✽✽

  Menominee Indian Reservation pretty much takes up the entire county of Menominee. No sooner had we passed the county limits, did we see the sign and lights for Menominee Casino Resort. Despite the mental amusement I had from the idea of shaking down the Casino owners for information, I had to agree with Miles that starting at the local Library and Job center would probably be better for looking into the community.

  A quick visit had gotten us next to nothing. The Native Americans were always touchy about people coming asking them for help and since we were representatives of the Federal Government, we got shown even less love and support.[92] Thankfully, McCoy was able to talk her way into a deal and got us an address at the ass end of the park that might be a lead, but was just as likely to be a method of getting rid of us. Which is how we found ourselves on an old trail that couldn’t even be generously called a road.

  I poked my head into the front seat and spoke to McCoy, “Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to be? This seems like a wonderful place for an ambush.”

  She turned my head into an armrest for my insolence and shook her head, “Not an ambush. Not a single thought has floated through my brain in the past twenty minutes. Unless they’re all metahumans, we’re good.” I bit my tongue instead of pointing out how my ‘good luck’ had put me in the hospital twice in the past 48 hours. I pulled back and sat up to keep my eyes out while Miles drove us deeper into the woods.

  A few minutes later the car twitched. I leaded forward again, and found Miles shuddering in the driver’s seat. He had the face of someone who had just bitten into an apple and found half a worm. Instead of stating that, I asked, “What’s the matter?”

  He nodded solemnly, “Whatever’s out here, it’s got an air of malevolence about. No, that’s not quite right,” He quickly contradicted himself before pausing, searching for words, “It’s more like the scene in a horror movie where the hero descends into the monster’s lair and we cut to the monster watching the hero from a vantage point, ready to pounce.” He looked at me plaintively, “You understand?”

  McCoy and I nodded pretty much in unison. Now that he had mentioned it, I got the tickle at the back of my neck like someone was watching me. Carefully, I drew my Beretta and checked the ammo while McCoy did the same for the shotgun. Still, it didn’t help our nerves when we came to a small clearing, barely big enough to turn the truck around in with the road in front of us blocked by an ancient and fallen tree.

  I raised an eyebrow at McCoy in silent question, “Sure this isn’t an ambush?”

  She shushed me and pointed at a small column of smoke rising from beyond the log, previously obscured by the woods.

  I nodded and made to leave the SUV. “Guess we’re hoofing it then.”

  There was a small shuffle as we all stepped out of the car and grabbed weapons, armor, and other supplies. When we had locked, loaded, and otherwise prepared, we set out to follow the trail into the woods. Almost immediately past the log, the unease and feeling of watching intensified. Miles literally staggered and then fell to his knees, clutching his head. McCoy snapped her shotgun to the ready and I helped him back into the clearing. He was nearly catatonic, half words babbling through his mouth. I sat with him while he came back to himself. Eventually, he calmed down and was able to speak in complete words.

  “Hunger. Pain. Malevolence. Death. So much death. The endless wailing. How? How?!” He rambled. I could only shake my head, not fully understanding. Miles had seen so many horrid things in his years, how could this be worse? McCoy, god bless her heart, stepped in. “I’m not sure, but you can stay here while we go investigate.” He numbly nodded and we helped him into the car. There was the faint thunk of the locks engaging, before McCoy and I turned and headed back into the breach.

  The oppressive fear wasn’t quite as bad this time without Miles unconsciously radiating an amplified projection, but it didn’t go away. We stepped carefully along the trail, eyes scanning and guns at the ready. Distantly, I noted that despite the distance from the public areas and roads, the trail was very well maintained and relatively straight. Hints of life. That was promising. Then the signs started to show up. Each was adorned with an increasingly bewildering amount of black feathers hung at askew angles and issuing warnings about the inhabitant.

  “Enter at your own risk.” One sign proclaimed, while another asked
, “What are you willing to pay for knowledge?” The most disturbing one to me, was painted with something so close to the color of dried blood[93] questions of malevolence and predation sprung the forefront of my mind and wouldn’t leave. “The dead tell the truth of my claims. Ask yourself now, is what you seek worth this cost?”

  But still, against my primal instincts kicking and pulling me to run, we continued forward. I tried to ignore the signs and found that made my journey easier. Still, it was slow moving through the horror. Eventually, McCoy and I found a small cabin, built on a weathered concrete bed and immaculately pristine in sharp defiance of the macabre woods and expectation.

  Just in front of the house, sitting in front of an open campfire sat a man steeped in a cloak of the same black feathers that adorned the signs, skin the same color as rust, stirring a pot big enough to fit a person in with a seeming disregard for the heat or weather. He saw us and looked up, smiling wide. McCoy pulled up short and her gun started to rise, as she screamed in my ear.

  I didn’t need her to tell me. His teeth were too perfect and straight. The chair he sat in dented into the ground slightly, as if bearing a great weight. His voice was the same sickened honey that Voigt’s was.

  Wendigo.

  The man’s smile widened, “Oh good, I thought I smelled company.”

  Chapter 16

  Crow Killer Joe

  McCoy was screaming her head off, shotgun trained on the man, “U.S. Marshals. Put your hands up where we can see them! Do it!”

  He simply smiled a tooth grin, slowly raising his hands, ladle still clutched in his right hand. On another day, I’d call that amusing. Today, it took all my restraint to not pull my weapon and join McCoy from the panic welling up deep in my heart. Wendigo, it had apparently decided, were scarier than any other thing on the planet. Still, this man hadn’t broken any laws we could prove and strictly speaking, we didn’t actually have jurisdiction here.[94]

  As logic started to reassert itself, other things faded into my consciousness. There had been chairs pulled out for guests, making room for three additional people to sit around the fire. A tall pitcher of what looked like tea was nearby, as were glasses. And most tellingly, the man was complying with McCoy’s slightly unreasonable request.

  “Stand down, McCoy,” I stated. When she didn’t respond, I cranked up the volume, “Deputy McCoy! Stand. Down.”

  Her voice came out terse and seething, “Man’s a killer.”

  “That’s probably true. But we’ve got no proof and can’t arrest based on his metahuman state. That would be discrimination.”

  She hazarded a frustrated glance at me. In soothing tones, I continued. “Besides, we’ve got no jurisdiction nor court to try him in. Weapon down.”

  Slowly, McCoy’s shotgun lowered. It never fully dropped, but I took the compromise as good as I was going to get and turned to the man, whose hands were still in the air. His smile seemed more genial than toothy now. I shook the fear a bit more and put on my diplomatic face.

  “Sorry about that sir, clearly we’re a bit high strung. Deputies McCoy and Tennant from the U.S. Marshals.”

  The man, hands still in the air, spoke. Much like Voigt, his voice was honied, but unlike Voigt, it lacked the extreme sachrineness that made Voigt’s so sickening. “Oh, that’s quite alright. I stopped getting flustered when people pointed weapons at me long ago. Side effect of what I am. Most of the good ones come to their senses before they shoot me.” He tilted his hand towards the pitcher, “Would you like some tea?”

  McCoy shook her head next to me, but I nodded. “Might I put my hands down in order to serve you?” the man politely asked.

  I nodded and pointed to a chair, “Might I have a seat?”

  He smiled and chuckled, “Of course, I got them out for you. Thought I smelled three of you though.”

  I shook my head, “No, just the two of us. Thank you, Mister?”

  “Just call me ‘Joe’” the man said, handing me a glass of tea. He had a bemused look on his face as he extended his arm. Clearly, he caught the lie but wasn’t pushing it. Interesting implications there. Based on my interactions with vampires, the implication there is that he was willing to be polite and was suggesting we should be honest with him, though I wasn’t sure how that tracked with Native American creatures of myth.

  Joe[95] smiled amicably at McCoy and I turned to see her still standing, shotgun as close to being pointed at Joe as it could be while still down, standing to the side so that if she snapped up, I wouldn’t be anywhere near her line of fire. “Want some?” he offered. McCoy bit her lip and shook her head. Her fingers twitched and I saw the struggle to not bring the shotgun to bear.

  Whatever was going on with this man’s mind, I could tell it was troubling McCoy. I spoke for her to save her the miniscule amount of self-control it would take to respond verbally. “No, she’d rather not.”

  Carefully, I thought at her, “You can go back to the car if you need to,” which caused her to face me and glare. So much for trying to be courteous. I turned back to Joe, and took the proffered glass of tea, sipping slowly. If it was poison, it was well brewed.

  Joe smiled as I sipped and started talking, “What can I help you two fine folks out with?”

  I took a sip, buying time to consider the best method probing Joe for the information we needed. Given the bemusement, I decided to try and appeal to any sense of responsibility he might have.[96]

  “A few days ago, a man was found murdered in a Chicago back alley.” I left my comment hanging there. No need to mention the hearts yet.

  Joe nodded solemnly, “And based on Deputy McCoy’s reaction, you think it was a Wendigo.”

  “Spot on Joe,” I motioned at him, “It would seem that not all Wendigo are so driven by their hunger that they attack people in back alleys. Any idea what’s going on here?”

  Joe smiled slightly, “Oh, you flatterer. Sounds like you’ve got a Revivalist on your hands.” I cocked an eyebrow inquisitively and he continued on. “There’s a process to becoming a Wendigo, one I’m not going to go into if you don’t mind. Trade secret and all that.” There was the barest of pauses after the sentence before he continued on, effectively bullying me into his terms.

  “Normally, the person who’s becoming a Wendigo is aware and ready for the process and is able to meet the new hunger head on. The driving force isn’t the Hunger, but the man who made the choice to inflict this condition upon themselves. Because it was intentional and directed, the Hunger is manageable. Well, at least more manageable.

  “But, when it’s done on someone who’s close to death, like it sounds like yours was, there’s a chance the transition goes poorly. So poorly that the body dies, or near enough to cause issues. Call it system shock or what have you, but whatever intention or will was there is strained, broken even. And once whatever made the choice is shattered, the Hunger takes over. And once the Hunger has a body, it’s got no intent of going unfed. The hunger drives the body forward and gets it back up. And the person who made that choice? Well, they’re barely along for the ride.”

  I let out a low whistle and felt sorry for Voigt. Faced with bad circumstances and inevitable death, he took a risk, and it blew up in his face. Still, didn’t excuse him from being a murderer now.

  Joe nodded sadly, standing up to stir the pot a bit more. “That’s not the worst of it though. Once the Hunger is fed, it starts waking up the person. Accessing their memories and such. Demanding more control and agency lest the Hunger go for someone important. Making demands such as ‘Tell me how to blend in or I’ll eat your child,’ or some such. Most dumb bastards just give in, which is the issue. More power and information you give to the Hunger, the less in control you are, until eventually the Hunger has eaten all of your memories and you’re just gone.”

  I gulped reflexively, disturbed by the and implications. Still, nothing exactly useful here. “And why might one of these start eating hearts?” I hazarded.

  Joe shook his head sa
dly, “Well that’s a morbid story right there, but I can’t talk about it. Trade secrets and all that.”

  “Even when that Wendigo came here for directions?”

  Apparently, that was the question of the hour. Joe stopped stirring so abruptly that the stew sloshed. The gentle breeze disappeared, and the air grew still. Despite the summer heat, I shivered. I tried to ask Joe a question, but the noise died in my throat, causing me to cough. I reached for the tea but knocked it over. That apparently broke Joe out of his silence. He started stirring the pot again and in hushed tones, murmured, “Curt. Poor boy. I knew he was going to be a problem.”

  McCoy found her voice first, “Define problem.”

  I wanted to shoot her a glare for her tone, but Joe was murmuring, in a reverent manner. I turned my attention back to him and listened carefully, “....I swear by those who gave me life and life again, I will not go down that road, but one of my line has. My name is Crow Killer Joe and I am to share information with outsiders to correct the mistake of a Craven One in our ranks.”

  As he finished, an endless number of crows burst from the silent trees and scattered to the four winds. The murders they formed into seemingly beating out Joe’s fervent prayer with their wings. Leaves were rapidly shed from the trees, leaving them barren and hollow. Slowly, the crows started to swarm above us. I pried my eyes from the sky and spared a glance at McCoy, who seemed oddly calm despite all this and I took a small solace in that. I turned to Joe, who had quietly resumed stirring the pot. Immediately, Joe’s voice spilled out. His voice had lost its honied tones and instead seemed to be full of the frantic infliction and pater of a man who is attempting to hurry through an exorcism[97].

  “What you’re dealing with is one consumed, corrupted, by the Hunger. Curt was willing to die rather than consume flesh again and his Hunger took offense. Now, it is in control. The Hunger has eaten every memory or thought Curt once had and digested them. Without any meaningful soul to maintain it, the flesh of man alone is no longer enough to sustain it, it needs the heart’s blood to satiate its cravings, since the Heart is the seat of all power and the soul. It contains all the power and vitality of life, a spark that will satiate the hunger for a while and make the growth they experience increase.”