Naomi poured herself a drink and nursed it in her hand. “Yes, baby?”
Oscar stopped halfway down the stairs, resting his head on the railing. He was the spitting image of his father. The same keen eyes, a dark crop of hair in a scruffy mess, sticking out on one side from where he had been sleeping. “Is everything okay? I heard shouting.” His eyes found Tori, lingering on the dark stains of blood around her nose. “Aunt Tori? Are you okay?”
Naomi was silent, pondering her response. Tori hated to think it, but she had aged considerably in the years since Donavon’s disappearance. Her sister, once lithe and lively, was now a ghost of what she once was. Not that that diminished the inner strength she saw in her tonight.
“Mum?”
“Everything’s okay…” Tori started, until Naomi cut across her, head shaking.
“Everything’s not okay. Don’t even pretend that it is.” Her words were keen, sharpened. They bit the chilly night. “Oscar, you should know that something has happened tonight. Something terrible is taking place in the town, and as much as I believe that we might be safe here, we have to be prepared for what to do if that doesn’t turn out to be the case. Can you do that for me?”
Oscar’s back straightened. He puffed out his chest. A real mini man of the house. “Sure. What is it? What’s going on?”
“Go to your father’s store and select one of his guns,” Naomi instructed. “Pick something that you know you can handle. None of that rifle bullshit, get yourself a handgun. Maybe a .38. You’ve been practicing with that one, haven’t you?”
Oscar nodded and ran down the stairs, disappearing through a door at the back of the room. They heard him rummaging around as Tori opened her mouth in disbelief. “I thought you didn’t want to lie to him?”
“I’m not.”
“You told him things might be okay. You told him that this house might be safe. That’s lying, as far as I’m concerned.”
Naomi gave Tori an intense look that looked alien on her face. Oscar arrived back in the room with a perfectly polished Super .38 in his hands as he played with the chamber and checked the ammunition.
“Got it!” There was a sense of pride in his eyes, though, even at 11-years-old he seemed to understand the severity of the situation. “What are we hunting, ma? Is it the storm? Has it brought more wolves?”
“Yeah,” Tori added, an accusatory look on her face. “What are we hunting?”
Naomi sipped her drink, then placed it on the counter. “I’ll show you.”
She led them upstairs, Tori allowing Oscar to follow directly after his mother. Tori marvelled at the paintings on the walls, the decorative pieces of furniture, all things that hadn’t changed in the wake of Donavon’s passing. Streaks of dust and dirt lined every surface of the upstairs of the house, and there were mud tracks on the carpet that looked as though they had been there for some time.
A widow finds their own way to grieve. Their own way to manage.
They passed Oscar’s bedroom as Naomi led them to the landing window, a wide strip of glass that, on a sunny day, gave them a clear view towards Drumtrie Forest.
Naomi drew the curtain and waved them over.
They stood either side of Naomi—Oscar on the left, Tori on the right. As they stared out at the storm, their breath fogged the glass, clouding the view ahead. Tori cocked her head, wondering if the storm was easing up a little. For the first time in hours she could see beyond the reach of her arm as the snow came down in gentle flakes. The ground outside was virgin white, and she could make out at least fifty meters or so away from the house. Her eyes trailed as far as the snow would allow as her hands slowly rose to her mouth.
Naomi placed a hand on her shoulder. “Some things can’t be explained. I’m yet to determine what this means… I fear the answer.”
Standing on the borderline of their field of view, were over a dozen of the pale white creatures, stretched in a clean line that formed a perimeter between the house and the forest. They stood as silent sentinels, each one unflinching as snowflakes gathered on their shoulders and the crowns of their heads. They wore no masks, their faces gaunt and drawn, giving the haunting appearance of skulls balancing atop their bodies. Already the snow had mounted up to their ankles.
Oscar reached for his mother’s arm. “What are they?”
Tori’s face hardened. She remembered Alex’s words, his visit to the Iñupiat, the name he had given them as they sought shelter in the heart of St. David’s church. The same name that had fallen from Naomi’s lips. She wondered where Alex was now, if he had finally found a way back to his nephew. Was Damien okay, too? Were they even alive right now, or had the creatures gotten to them?
A silent tear rolled down her cheek as she took a long breath. “Wendigos, Oscar. They’re wendigos.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “What are they doing?”
“Watching,” his mother said simply. “And waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
The two sisters stared out at the wendigos, the answer to Oscar’s question on both their lips. Neither one of them brave enough to admit the truth.
We don’t know, Oscar. We just don’t know.
From somewhere deep in the heart of the Drumtrie, the forest rumbled.
8
Alex Goins
Every shadow was an enemy. Every suggestion of sound an invader.
With Damien in tow, Alex led the way, approaching each and every classroom, office, bathroom, and closet as though a thousand wendigos might be waiting to pour out and attack them. There was no sign of intrusion in the building they entered through, and the maps and signs that Alex tried to follow confused him. The room number system was shoddy and outdated, and in many cases the signs were faded and barely legible. How kids managed to make their way to class each and every day was beyond him.
The only sounds that followed were their own footsteps as their boots clapped against the linoleum flooring, and the ever-present hush of the raging storm. Damien was silent, for the most part, finding his voice only in the moments in which they’d stop and Alex would scratch his head trying to figure if he was heading in the right direction to the gymnasium. In the beginning, he had sought the outdoor courts, until a raging howl of wind reminded him of the storm outside. No kids would be able to play basketball in these conditions, which meant only one possible place remained.
It was all hypothetical, of course. Alex questioned how kids would be able to break into the school to access its facilities. Those locks were monstrous, and he was fairly certain that Cody wouldn’t befriend kids who carried rifles and shot through the glass windows of their school just so they could steal some recreational time.
But what did he truly know anymore? Hadn’t this night proven to him that he had grossly underestimated the limits of Cody’s rebellion, let alone the types of activities that kids in this area of the world engaged in? He was in a foreign land, far from home, caught in one of the direst situations of his life. Didn’t he have to be open to any and all possibilities?
When they reached a set of fire doors, they had to re-enter the storm to cross over to another building.
“You ready?” Alex asked, eliciting a firm nod from Damien. They ran to the next building, shrivelling in the snow and gritting their teeth. Alex shot the window, cleared the glass, helped the kid up, then climbed in after him.
He shook the snow free from his hair. Blood and dexterity had returned to his extremities, but there was a warm throb in his earlobes which concerned him. His nose was sore and raw to touch, and if he strained to look down at its tip it seemed darker in colour.
I just hope it’s not too late.
They were in a teacher’s lounge, by the looks of things. Sofas formed a square around a central coffee table. Papers lined the walls, now fluttering gently against a cork board as the wind explored the room. A coffee machine sat against a countertop and a faucet dripped idly over the sink.
Damien wandered over to the wall, heavy bags hanging beneath his e
yes. He reached out and held a piece of paper steady, a smile on his face.
“What have you found?”
Damien traced his finger along the paper’s surface. “It’s Courtney, Ewan, and Trey. They’re on the teacher’s bad behaviour list.”
Alex stood behind him, examining the faces of the three young kids. While it wasn’t exactly a list of kids to watch out for, there were notes scribbled on the page. Red lettering in a scrawl that was barely legible, but the overall tone was clear. The teachers were working together to figure out what to do with these kids. Alex wondered how that would fit into teaching practices in the wider world. If kids should be singled out and viewed as bandits once were to a Western town. ‘Reward $500.’ Not that it mattered at all here. In this tiny town, who would even take the mantel of regulating teaching practices? What rules applied here?
“Come on.” Alex placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder and nudged him away. The paper slipped from the kid’s fingers, but he remained still. “What is it?”
“I’m hungry.”
Alex laughed, the sound taking him by surprise. It seemed so ordinary, yet out of the ordinary, too. Hunger. A simple thing, forgotten under all of the stress and trauma.
His stomach rumbled, responding to the call. “Me, too.”
“Got any food?” Damien held no hint of irony to his face. His eyes were wide and bright.
“No. I haven’t. I didn’t think to pack a lunch before I came out.”
“Mum always had food on her,” Damien said, resting against the back of the sofa. “Better to be safe than sorry, she’d always say. Always had packets in her pockets. Snacks for every occasion.” His face darkened. “I miss her.”
Alex gave an understanding nod. He couldn’t imagine what Damien must be going through. He crouched in front of the kid. “When this is all over, we’ll make you the biggest meal you can think of. Anything you want. Me and you. We’ll load our plates and eat until we throw up. How’s that?”
Damien laughed, the sound refreshing and uplifting.
“What’s your favourite?”
Damien screwed his face in thought. “I like beef jerky.”
“We can get you beef jerky.”
“And reindeer dogs?” Damien’s eyes lit up.
Alex cocked his head. “Reindeer dogs?”
“Yeah, like dogs in a bun.”
“Hot dogs?”
“Sure, I like them hot.”
Alex chuckled. “Anything else?”
“Ice-cream?” Damien’s excitement grew. “All the flavours of ice cream. Chocolate, and strawberry, and mint, and the blue one.”
“Bubblegum?”
“Mum puts them all in a bowl and I mix it.”
“You do?”
“It’s like a rainbow in a bowl.” Damien hopped to his feet and simulated stirring a spoon in a bowl. “It goes around and around and around, until it’s all wet and melted.”
“Sounds magical.”
“It is. Until it goes an icky grey colour.”
Alex pushed himself to his feet. “We can get you ice-cream, hot dogs, jerky, all that stuff. Anything you like once this is all over. Think you’ve got a little bit more in you to keep going? I reckon we’re close.”
Damien walked past Alex and stopped at the door. He looked back over his shoulder, confusion on his face.
“What you thinking?”
Damien’s gaze met Alex’s. “You didn’t say Cody. When you said we were going to eat lots of food together. You said me and you. You didn’t say Cody.” The mirth dissolved from his face, eyes lowering to the floor. “My mum is dead, isn’t she?”
Alex’s face hardened, the reality of their situation returning in spades. “I don’t know.”
“And my dad, too.”
Alex closed the distance between them. “I wish I could tell you. I just don’t know.”
Damien chewed his lip, eyes brimming with tears. “When will we know?”
“When this is over.”
“Which will be when?”
Before Alex had the chance to answer, they both flinched at a sudden crash coming from somewhere down the hallway.
“What was that?” Damien breathed.
Alex placed a finger to his lip. He leaned against the door and pressed his ear to the wood. There was definitely something moving out there. Uneven footsteps and the scratching of something solid and sharp.
He reached for the lock and twisted it open. Damien pressed against him. “Under that table,” Alex whispered, pointing to the coffee table. It wouldn’t provide a lot of cover, but it would do.
Damien obeyed, disappearing into a ball beneath. The disturbance grew louder, accompanied by a sound that forced Alex to imagine an asthmatic trying to scream.
He teased the door open a crack, eyes widening at the creature flailing around the halls. It was a wendigo, no question. Its gaunt, malnourished body spasmed in all directions, its hands pinned to its head. Its feet scratched across the linoleum, and every now and then an arm would reach to the wall for support. It searched and scrabbled in a frenzied state as though it had been blinded. Scorch marks stained the remaining bone, some of the leathery flesh burned and singed around the edges of its empty wounds. Whatever had happened to this creature, it didn’t look good.
Alex edged the door open and sidled through. He approached slowly, rifle trained in front of him, waiting to get a proper look at the damage. There was a smell of burned meat in the air. The wendigo flailed, bashed into a set of lockers, fell to the ground, pushed itself back to its feet. So preoccupied in its own struggle it hardly noticed Alex standing there.
Alex took aim, eye held to the sight. He readied his finger on the trigger, exhaled.
Shot.
The rifle kicked back against his shoulder, but the shot was true. The bullet found its way into what remained of the wendigo’s head. Sprays of gore and flesh sprayed the walls as the wendigo was knocked back. It folded, crumpled on the floor, limbs at impossible angles. Alex adjusted the rifle and crept forward. Although the creature was down, he remained on his guard. These were creatures from another realm, he had no guarantee that bullets would truly work.
He stood over the wendigo and took another shot. Bullets were precious, but so was his life. The wendigo bucked, then lay still. There was no animal skull to protect the creature’s head. Nothing there to guard the shrunken, shrivelled mess that may once have held a human face. The nose sunken in, the lips non-existent. What remained of the head appeared as nothing more than a prune left to dry in the sun, the features almost faded entirely.
No longer human.
Creature. Nothing more.
A door creaked. Alex whirled. Damien gave a weak cry and shied back. Alex relaxed, lowered the gun. “It’s okay. It’s gone. Come out.”
Damien ran to Alex and threw his arms around his waist. “I thought you were dead.”
“Now, why would you think that?” Alex offered a friendly smile.
“Because everyone’s dying tonight.”
Alex didn’t reply. Instead, he cupped the boy’s head and pressed him closer, offering some kind of comfort. After a minute, they both studied the creature. Its limbs stretched out, beyond human length. Those arms were primal, the creature so gaunt that Alex was sure there would be no medical explanation as to how this creature had once lived.
“What is it?” Damien asked softly.
“A monster. That’s all you need to know.”
“Where did it come from?”
Alex glanced down the hallway. “That way. Come on, if there was one, there may be more.”
“And that’s where you’ll find Cody?”
Alex sighed. “I hope not.”
9
Cody Trebeck
Cody knelt beside Brandon, holding a cold compress to his forehead. Sophie had salvaged it, finding an old scrap of stained cloth somewhere in the depths of the ancient cupboards. She had fought to open the window, finally wrestling enough of a gap to hold
the cloth out into the storm until it was sodden and cold. It was all they could think to do. Brandon was not in good shape.
Cody’s brow creased with concern. “Talk to me, buddy. What’s going through your head?”
His breath came in sharp hitches. From the moment the fires faded in the tunnel and the screeches ground to a halt, Brandon slumped against the wall, hand clutching his heart. Despite the cold, his forehead was ragged with sweat. Cody and Sophie worked to ease him out of his jacket, finding dark patches on his undershirt in the crook of his armpits, as well as a generous puddle of sweat gathered around the layers of fat that circled his midriff. They both knew it wasn’t a good sign. A fever in a blizzard demanded medical attention.
Brandon gasped for air, each breath a death rattle. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, lips dry. Cody remembered the day his father had taken him fishing, years back, with high promises of hooking a catch large enough to put Jaws to shame. On that baking summer day, as the leaves in the trees were still and the lake’s surface smooth as silk, Cody had caught his prize. A 40lb carp that writhed and wriggled, heavy enough that his father came to his aid and helped him bring the carp to the shore.
Cody posed for a picture, gripping the fish tightly. It couldn’t have been out of the water for longer than three minutes, but that was all it took for the fish to suffer.
“Great job. That’s one for the photo albums,” his father beamed, turning the small window of the digital camera to show Cody the picture. “Wait until your mum sees this.”
But Cody wasn’t listening. The carp looked up at him imploringly, gills opening and closing in slow motion. Mouth hung open as it started to die in his hands. Starved of water. Unable to do anything but lay there at the mercy of the kid holding him tightly in his arms.
His father spotted the exchange and gently took the carp from Cody. “I think that’s time enough, don’t you?” His voice was friendly, soothing. “Fish need water like we need air. Fishing may be fun for us, but only so long as we put them back when we’re done. They don’t deserve our cruelty.”
When Winter Comes | Book 4 | Masks of Bone Page 5
