Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  Things dimmed at the periphery of my vision and, a moment later, the lights went out, unconsciousness enveloping me.

  TWO:

  Urgent Business

  I woke up in a cave. Thin sunlight streamed in from an opening somewhere out of sight, while a small fire crackled next to me in a circular stone fire pit. I was lying on some sort of pelt covered with long brown fur, soft and shaggy—my guess was a bear hide. Surprisingly, my hands and feet weren’t bound, though I noticed my gun was absent from its holster, and my Vis-imbued K-Bar wasn’t in the sheath on my belt. I moved at snail-speed, rolling over onto my side; even that minimal movement left me weak and woozy. My head felt damned heavy from the blow which had knocked me unconscious.

  I stretched out an arm, tender from sleeping on the stone floor beneath the pelt, and examined the back of my noggin for any serious damage. A decent-sized goose egg, but the skin was unbroken—no scab or dried blood matted my hair. That was something at least. I pushed myself into a sitting position, taking it nice and easy since it didn’t seem like I was in immediate danger.

  There was a red ceramic jug beside me, filled with cold, clear water … well, to me it was about the size of a large jug, but to a Bigfoot it might’ve resembled a mug. I wrestled the jug from the ground and took a few sips. The water was cool against my parched throat, soothing and refreshing. After a couple of deep pulls I set the jug back down—a bit of liquid sloshed over the side, darkening the floor—and scanned the room.

  The chamber was a rough oval with a pair of tunnels stretching off at opposite ends of the cave: one toward the sunlight, and presumably the exit, and another twisting out of sight deeper into the rocky expanse of the mountain. A second pelt—definitely bear, now that I got a solid look—lay sprawled across the floor on the other side of the fire pit, but there didn’t seem to be any other furnishings, save for another earthen mug like the one I’d been drinking from and a wide bowl made from the same dark clay. Not exactly the Ritz, but it was actually a fair bit nicer than some of the places I’ve woken up, especially after being KO’d.

  “He awakes, Father,” came a low, smoky voice, which had to belong to one of the monkey men. No human voice, with the exception of Berry White, ever hit that deep bass register. Whoever the voice belonged too, however, I was sure it wasn’t the Sasquatch I’d chatted with before, which probably meant it was the hairball who’d given me the love tap to the back of the noodle.

  “So he is,” responded a second voice, which I instantly recognized as my conversation buddy from the road—Papa Kong, apparently. Now normally that kind of lame dialogue would’ve produced a monstrous eye roll from me … but this time it just scared the bejesus outta me. Those voices were awfully close—like poke you in the eye close—but I couldn’t pinpoint where they were coming from. I mean, the room was decent-sized but not huge, nor did it feature a host of hiding spots, especially not hiding spots that could accommodate a pair of friggin’ Squatches. Yet I couldn’t find hide nor hair of the speakers.

  “Do not be alarmed, human mage,” said Papa Kong. “We will show ourselves now. Do not attack us, we harbor you no ill will. We only require your help.”

  The wavering shadows, cast along the far wall by the meager fire, shimmered and expanded—a pair of giant ape-men, lounging on their haunches, blinked into view. That was a scary good illusion construct, though it wasn’t really a construct at all, at least not in the way I understood it. A lot of supernatural creatures are like that: they can’t touch the Vis, at least not in the way a mage can, but the Vis is in them. It moves through ’em like blood. They use it as naturally as an arm or leg, not drawing from an external source, but flexing their own internal Vis muscle. Not nearly so versatile as a mage’s abilities, but what they could do, they did extraordinarily well.

  “My daughter wishes to apologize for striking you after a truce was struck,” Papa-Kong said. “She was overzealous and we are not accustomed to dealing with outsiders. The Chiye-tanka are people of peace.”

  I took in the second Squatch. A little smaller than her father, with thick, lustrous hair of rusty-red. Other than that, they looked near enough the same to me.

  “Her I can forgive,” I said, staring Kong right in the eyes, “but you want to talk about overzealous—you ripped the door off my car. That’s strikes one and two right there, buddy.”

  “The damage is regrettable,” Kong replied evenly. To me, it sounded like he regretted it about as much as a sheisty politician reneging on a campaign promise.

  “It is urgent,” he offered for what felt like the bajillionth time. “The People require your aid.” He paused and looked away, clearly uncomfortable speaking with me. After a moment of quiet, the daughter nudged his arm with one palm, urging him to continue. “We, we need your help,” he mumbled at last.

  “This is the most back-assward way of asking for help I’ve ever heard of,” I said. “You busted up my car, knocked me out, and stole my shit. Give me my pistol and knife back, then maybe I’ll think about hearing you out.”

  “No.” He shook his head, his face a stoic mask. “If I give you your belongings, what is to prevent you from leaving? You hear me first, then I will give you what you ask for.”

  “Boy are you starting to piss me off,” I grumbled under my breath. “Fine. Whatever. Just give me a second to get my head clear, okay?” I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. I didn’t have time for this crap. Usually, my calendar is as wide open as the fields of Kansas. Most days, weeks, and even months, I whittled away with beer, bars, blues, and a bit of gambling to keep the bills paid, but, for the first time in a long time, I was actually doing something important. World saving important.

  A couple of months back, I’d taken on a decrepit old Lich who’d been unleashed upon the world by some shadowy mage hiding amongst the Guild of the Staff’s member roster. I’d managed to put the Lich down like the rabid dog he was, but the asshole who was really responsible for the whole fiasco was still at large, pulling strings and stirring up more trouble. And all in a bid to unbalance the supernatural nations and set himself up as the supreme ruler over the whole shebang.

  Now usually, that’s exactly the kind of shit-storm I try to steer clear of, but unfortunately my new boss, Lady Fate, had told me in no uncertain terms what would happen if I refused to act: one scary-ass future, sans Yancy Lazarus, complete with roving bands of mutated zombies and a couple continents worth of dead bodies. I’d seen that future firsthand, and it wasn’t a pretty sight, let me tell you. Just to give you some perspective, the sight was actually more gruesome than the grisly damage to my Camino.

  So, despite my better judgment, I was running down a lead which the Lich had given up during an intense interrogation: “the White Seal is in play.” No friggin’ clue what it meant, and as leads go it was about as weak as non-alcoholic beer, but it wasn’t like I was swimming with options. I’d asked around for two months, pumping sources along the mystical pipeline, looking for answers in every crevice and crack I could think of. Ultimately, my effort yielded nothing more than a giant pile of wasted time. At least until a few days ago when one of my supernatural informants over in the Hub dropped me a tip that some guy out in the Montana boonies might know something. A doctor who went by the name of Arlen Hogg.

  And now that I finally had a name to go on? A solid lead to run down? A friggin’ Bigfoot with a gorilla-sized problem waylaid me and ripped the door off the Camino. Par for the course, as far as my life goes.

  But despite the fact that I couldn’t waste time hanging around in this cave, playing Dr. Phil for a pair of walking carpets, I figured hearing ’em out was the quickest way to get back on the road. Listen to their sob story, explain why I couldn’t help, and then mosey my grumpy ass along. I’d hit up an auto body shop in Missoula and finish out my day at a dive bar, drowning in a pitcher of beer. Unfortunately, I had a feeling that getting anything useful out of Kong was gonna be like pulling teeth from an ornery lion. He didn’t exactly s
eem like the conversational sort.

  “Okay.” I rubbed at the five o’ clock shadow clinging to my jaw as I considered where to start. “Keep it simple, stupid,” I said, more for myself than for the ape. “Let’s just start with your name, Kong.”

  “I am not Kong. I am Chief Chankoowashtay.”

  “Come again?” I asked, scratching my head in puzzlement. Maybe it was just me, but I felt like my tongue wasn’t designed to say that combination of sounds. “You know what, never mind,” I said with a shrug. “We’re already making progress. Now tell me, Chief Chan-koo-wash-tay,” I pronounced the name slowly, a small child sounding out a particularly difficult word. “What exactly is the nature of your problem?”

  “It is ur—”

  “I swear”—I held up a hand as though to physically hold the words at bay—“if you tell me it’s urgent one more time, I’m gonna jump off a bridge. I understand it’s urgent, very important, vital. No need to break out the thesaurus. I’m reading you loud and clear. What I want to know is what exactly the problem is and why you think I can help. Specifics here, Hairball.”

  He harrumphed in frustration, snorting like a bull as he crossed his arms and turned away. “It is complicated.” He refused to look at me. “Confidential. Not for outsiders. The People are in trouble and require assistance. Is this not enough, mage? Are you not a fixer of problems?”

  I pushed myself to my feet and held out my left hand, conjuring a small globe of flame, which danced and bobbed above my palm. I may have been weaponless, but I was far from defenseless. “I’m done with this shit, Chief. I don’t have the time or patience to play stupid, bullshit games. So either tell me what the hell I can do for you or give me my weapons back and point me in the direction of my car—which, by the way, better not have anything else wrong with it.”

  Chief Giant-McGrumpy-Pants scowled at me over one shoulder, a rumble building deep in his throat as he uncrossed his monkey arms and flexed his giant hands. Guy looked like he was interested in crushing something small and fragile, like, say, my skull. But before impending violence could creep any closer, She-Kong stepped forward, positioning herself in front of her father, cautiously placing a restraining hand against his barrel chest.

  “I am Winona,” she said, looking at me. “Please, forgive my father. My people … we rarely speak this way. The People communicate here”—she placed one hotdog-sized digit against her temple—“thought to thought, mind to mind. You understand this?” She tilted her head and regarded me the way a curious scientist might examine some strange, and especially unintelligent, life-form.

  Sounded like some kind of heavy-duty telepathy. I’d run across creatures that could tap into your mind or view portions of your thoughts and memories. A whole species that communicated in a purely telepathic way was new to me, but not so unusual. Not in my circles. I nodded my understanding, and, against my better judgement, dismissed the weaves for my fireball, letting it flicker briefly and die.

  She’d clocked me, true, but I got the sense she wasn’t interested in hurting me further. And, truth be told, I wasn’t too keen on blasting a woman into orbit, even if that woman happened to be eight feet tall, built like an MMA fighter, and desperately in need of a hair-waxing parlor.

  “Fine. Whatever,” I finally said. “Listen, if you want my help you’re gonna have to get over whatever hang-ups you folks have. I can’t fix something unless I know what’s broke. You understand that, right?”

  She nodded her blocky head in agreement and primly folded her hands in front of her. “Yes, I do understand the problem. As my father said, these are delicate issues, not to be spoken about with outsiders. We are a private people with no great love for magi—”

  “Well, I got a simple solution for you then: fix your own friggin’ problem, lady. It’s not like I’m beatin’ down your door trying to get involved in your super-secret-Bigfoot business. You’re the one ‘asking’ for a favor—and by ‘asking’ I mean kidnapping and unlawful restraint—not the other way around.”

  “This is the problem,” she said, offering me what I could only assume was supposed to be a reassuring smile. It was not reassuring in the least; the smile actually made her look more terrifying—though at least she had blunt teeth, instead of pointy ones, which meant she probably wasn’t going to try and nibble on me anytime soon. “I want to tell you,” she continued, “but I do not know how. I do not know what is wrong. It is the People, they are not as they should be,” she said, voice pleading, eyes wide and filled with unshed tears.

  She paused for a long beat, shoulders slumped as she searched for just the right word. “One of our people …” Her lips drooped into a frown as a forlorn look darted across her face, quickly replaced by a mask of neutrality. “He, he has done a terrible thing—he has done that which ought not be done.” She turned, just a fraction of an inch, looking toward her gigantic father for guidance. After a second the chief flicked one hand, a little wave as though to say, It must be done, tell him. She grunted in acknowledgment and turned back toward me.

  “He has slain his kin,” she said softly, barely a whisper. “Eaten the flesh of his butchered blood. Whatever he once was”—she faltered, wiping a hand across her broad cheek—“he is no more. He is lost. He has become Wendigo-tanka.” The last word was a fearful gasp, like just saying the name was an agony she could hardly stand. “Not only this. He has somehow captured the minds of the People, turning them against our ways. It is a thing of magic, beyond our ability to undo. And he is working with a man. An outsider. A human. This is a thing not done by the People.”

  “Let me stop you there,” I said. “First off, if this Kinslayer guy has enthralled your people, how come you two are okay?”

  “It is complicated,” she replied, “a thing of our kind. My father, as chief, and I, as heir apparent, possess powerful mental wards, ancient safeguards protecting us from such trickery.”

  I nodded my head. “Okay. Now what exactly is a Wendigo-tanka?”

  The Wendigo I’d heard tell of were creatures that’d once been human: typically men and women who had fallen on hard times and wound up doing the unthinkable. Men and women who turned on their loved ones, their friends and family. Murdering. Eating. Surviving. Dark, grisly shit right there. Apparently dark enough that sometimes those sick, evil sons of bitches attracted malignant hunger spirits, which could transform your regular Joe-blow-cannibal into a living, breathing, murder machine. They were pretty rare as living-nightmares go, so, thankfully, I’d never had the misfortune of running across one.

  The Wendigo-tanka, however, was new to me.

  “Enough of this,” Kong grunted. “He is a monster who has turned his back on us, betrayed ancient trusts. Abandoned the old ways of our people. He is a traitor. A usurper. An abomination.” The chief nearly spat the last, then fell silent. “What else must be known?”

  Winona hesitated for a moment, pausing with her mouth closed as tight as a bank vault—obviously she was talking with Kong on some level I wasn’t privy too. Maybe some slight disagreement over the whole traitor, usurper, abomination line?

  “Fine,” Kong replied, answering some unheard question before turning to look at me again. “Perhaps it is better if you see him for yourself.”

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “My daughter believes it is best if you see this Kinslayer, Achak, and his human pet.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked. “Look, I haven’t even agreed to help you yet. Shit, from everything you’ve said so far, I think I’d rather have a colonoscopy with a garden rake than get up and close with your psychotic buddy, Achak.” I fidgeted with my jacket as I thought. “Seriously, this sounds like an awful, ridiculously stupid idea.”

  The chief was in front of me in a heartbeat, crouched down on his hands and feet like a charging silverback, which is pretty much what he was in my book.

  “The abomination is a murderer. He has devoured his own flesh and bone. He is a traitorous creature, who has taken my rightful
place as chief.” He snorted, and a gust of hot air, which smelled vaguely of jungle vegetation, washed up against my face. “He threatens to undo the world—” The chief abruptly stopped talking, face stony and rigid.

  I took a step back. What the hell was it with supernatural assholes always getting up in my grill? Hasn’t anyone ever heard of personal space?

  “Not to be a mondo dickwad here,” I said, “but why should I give two shits? You lost your job. That sucks. Sorry. But I still can’t figure out why that’s my problem.”

  A deep howl filled the small cavern, sounding like a force of nature heralding doom and destruction across the land: Kong. “Mark my words, human,” Kong said after his inarticulate howl died. He looked bigger than he had before, like there was something inside him, bubbling below the surface, eager to burst free and crush me like a fallen sparrow’s egg against the concrete.

  “If you do not help us, it will mean war. War between the People and all of humanity. This is Achak’s intent. The tribe will descend from the forest. They will lay waste to your towns and cities, they will crush the bones of your women and children, they will rip the limbs from your warriors and bathe in their blood. It will mean the death of my people, but not before many thousands of your kind perish.”

  “Whoa there, big fella, just take it down a notch, huh?” I raised my hands, palms out, in a sign of peace. I wasn’t sure just what was going on here, but one thing was for damn sure: I did not want to pick a fight with Kong while he was all riled up. “No need to get all hot under the collar,” I said, trying to sound supportive instead of terrified. Not sure how that one played out.

  Winona moved over to her father and placed her hand in his, a gentle, tender display that seemed to break through whatever dark thing lived within the Sasquatch chieftain.

  “Look,” I said, “I guess I can spare a little time. Doesn’t mean anything—I’m not agreeing to help you, not yet. But I’ll go and take a look with you, alright? Just give me my stuff back and we’ll boogie.”