Stuffing the shirt in the pack, I pour the rest of my shake down the drain and wash away the evidence.
It’s way too hot in here. I keep trying not to think about it—my infection. Hoping it will go away. Stupid, but I don’t know what else to do.
I need air. Cold air. I grab my boots and head out the back door.
Ah! I fill my lungs and clump through the snow over to Nick at the chopping block, clearing my throat so I don’t surprise him. Never sneak up on a guy with an ax.
He turns to look. “Hey, Danny. You look beat.”
“Just back from the gym. Trying to keep up with Ash.”
“You want a workout, give this a try,” he says, weighing the ax in his hand. “Then you’ll feel the burn.”
I can see the steam rising off his head, sweat slicking his face. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are rolled up past his elbows.
“You planning a bonfire?” I ask, surveying the big pile of firewood he’s hacked up.
“Just want to be sure there’s enough for while I’m gone.”
His regiment heads out tomorrow to patrol Canada’s northern reaches on a six-week tour. Gotta keep an eye on those terrorist polar bears, and make sure Santa’s elves aren’t planning a holy war.
“You’re gonna miss Christmas,” I say.
He shrugs that off with a grim smile. “Nothing new. I grew up on the rez, Danny. We missed every Christmas.”
What do I say to that?
I’ve been meaning to ask him about some stuff. But he still scares me sometimes. He’s got this way of looking at you, stony and intense, seeing right through you. Most times, I know he’s just playing with me, the way Ash does. Seeing if I’ve got any fight.
This is my last chance before he leaves. If Howie’s right, and the clock on us is running out as fast as he says, this could be my last chance ever.
“That story you told the other night—about the Windigo. It got stuck in my head.”
Ever since Howie dug up the Indian rock painting, that ancient monster mug shot, I’ve been wondering about Nick’s Windigo.
Not that I’m thinking his bloodthirsty cannibal is what attacked me and Howie. I’m sure that was just a ghost story, mixed with a “kill Whitey” fantasy. But what stuck with me was that stuff about the evil of the white invaders. The shaman creating his Windigo to slaughter the whites—one evil fighting another.
Evil is just beyond anything I can wrap my mind around. I could never imagine it as a living, breathing thing—until that night in the ditch.
“Don’t worry,” Nick says. “A Windigo wouldn’t go for you. You wouldn’t even make an appetizer.”
“Yeah, guess not.” I give him a weak laugh. “But where do you think those stories come from? Are they totally made up, or are they based on something real?”
“Sounds like you want to get deep.”
With a flick of his wrist, Nick throws the ax down, the blade biting into the chopping block with a thump.
“What do you say we get out of this wind?”
He leads the way across the yard toward his sweat lodge. It looks rough with the bark left on the logs. But when you get up close, you see how well built it is, the wood fitted tight to keep the steam inside.
The door opens with a groan.
“The cedar’s stiff with the freeze.” He waves me in. “This cold snap lasts much longer, we’re gonna see some trees splitting. When the sap inside freezes solid, it cracks the trunk right through. They explode. Sounds like a forty-caliber shot.”
I sit by the shallow pit at the end, where some large flat stones are set above a hollow dug out for the fire, breathing in the pine and wood smoke.
Nick leaves the door wedged open so we’re not left completely in the dark. He leans back and stretches his long legs out as far as he can.
“Took a sweat last night. To clear my head before going up north.”
“Did it work?”
Those ink-black eyes fix on me. “No. There’s only so much you can sweat out of you.”
I find myself holding my breath till he breaks his stare.
“What’s on your mind, Danny? Looks like you haven’t slept in a while.”
Is it that obvious?
“What’s said here, stays here. Remember?” he says.
I nod, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. The intense scent of the pine sharpens my brain.
“You really believe in any of those things—Windigos, evil spirits, stuff like that?”
“I grew up on those stories the way you grew up on sitcoms and MTV. Back at Grassy Narrows, my grandmother is a storyteller. She can make you see things that aren’t there. Make you believe.”
Nick’s quiet for a moment, staring into the shadows.
“But growing up, I never saw anything like the creatures in my grandmother’s stories. Never saw a manitou, a thunderbird or a Windigo. No matter how hard I tried.”
He smiles, remembering. After a moment the smile dies off and his features harden.
“When I hit eighteen, I went into the army. To get off the rez, see the world. I was still green on my first tour with CANBAT 2, a Canadian unit of the UN peacekeepers during the Balkan War. On a raw January morning, we walked into this little hill village in Bosnia. Wasn’t much left of the place when we got there. The houses were burned down and still smoking. But no bodies. Not a soul.”
He speaks in a hushed tone, as if this place really is some kind of confessional where secrets are told and kept.
“Guess the Serb troops saw us coming and didn’t have time to clean up. At the edge of town we found a freshly dug trench. It looked like the Serbs were getting ready to fill it in when we ran them off. That’s where we found the villagers. Men, women, kids. The bodies were covered in morning frost. We secured the site and waited for the UN inspectors to come in and document it all. You know, ethnic cleansing, war crimes. It wasn’t the last mass grave I saw over there. But it cut me the deepest. All those bodies, piled like they were nothing. A couple days before, they were breathing, talking, laughing. And now they were dead, for nothing. For hate. So, do I believe in evil spirits?”
Everything goes quiet now, holding its breath—the wind, the crows, me.
“Evil takes different shapes, Danny. But it’s as real as rain.”
There’s a moment where I almost let out my nightmare story. The need to make my own confession is so strong. But something in me holds back. It’s like Nick has his nightmare and I have mine. They belong to us. And I can’t just give him mine so he can make it go away.
Then the moment’s gone. Nick groans and rubs his face.
“I’m starving,” he says. “How about you?”
“I could eat.”
Nick shoves the door open, letting in a flood of light. I step outside after him, blinking in the snow glare.
“Should be half a turkey left in the fridge.” He starts toward the house. “But we might have to wrestle Ash for it.”
Turkey sounds good. Wrestling Ash sounds better.
TWENTY-THREE
When I get home from Ash’s place, I promise myself I’ll just rest a minute. I won’t close my eyes. Just need to lie down before I collapse.
My eyes are so dry and scratchy, it feels like there’s sand under the lids.
The window is wide open, letting in a delicious subzero draft.
I’ve got the core temperature of an ice cube and a never-ending headache, and my night vision is getting so good I can practically read in the dark.
What weirdness is going on inside me? I’m turning into some kind of polar vampire.
The ceiling light is bright as a summer sun. Feel like I’m getting a burn just lying here.
I’m squinting under the glare when the light turns blue.
My first thought is—I didn’t know it could do that.
My second is—oh, crap!
Because I’m not in my room anymore. Somewhere between blinks, I fell asleep. And now I’m—where?
This room looks oddly familiar. A counter running along the far wall holds an aquarium and a terrarium. At the back there are glass cabinets with jars of chemical powders and liquids.
It’s the science lab at school.
The fluorescent lights glow blue. I’m lying on the counter that the teacher uses for demonstrations. As I sit up, I see I’m actually laid out here on a large metal tray that takes up most of the countertop.
A giant version of a dissection tray.
I twist around to see behind me, making sure I’m alone in the room. Lined up on the counter beside the tray are surgical tools—scalpels, clamps and a handheld circular saw. Remembering my autopsy dream, I reach up and check my head. My breath shudders out of me when I find it intact.
I drop from the counter to the floor. I’m barefoot, wearing the T-shirt and boxers I fell asleep in. I go over and crack the door open wide enough to peek down the hall.
All clear.
But I feel this shivering dread, the way a mouse must feel when the shadow of a hawk passes over it.
Get out! Quick!
I start toward the back stairs. The blue lighting flickers and sputters, throwing wavy lines along the walls and floor. It’s like the lake has risen up and drowned the town.
I wish Howie was here, like the last dream.
Passing a classroom, I look through the window in the door and see kids sitting at their desks. They stare ahead, frozen and unblinking. All of them have shaved heads. All are missing the tops of their skulls. The bone has been sawed off clean, exposing the wrinkles and folds of their brains.
The acid burn of bile rises in my throat. I’m about to turn and run when one face stops me.
In the front row there’s a girl with big round eyes wearing only an oversized T-shirt that hangs to her knees, like she’s dressed for bed. I know her face from somewhere.
Have you seen Brianna? One of the stories Howie found in the papers. A missing girl from years ago. I remember those big eyes staring out of the picture.
She’s here. And the other kids, what are they? More of the missing?
Brianna’s eyes shift. Her stare locks on to me. I gasp, an electric shiver shooting up my spine.
The terror in those wide eyes goes beyond anything I can grasp. They beg me with mute panic: Help me! Save me!
Then I hear the scrape of a door opening below. I break away from Brianna’s stare. The clatter of something coming up the front stairs echoes off the walls. Claws on concrete!
My bare feet slap on the tile as I speed past the other classrooms, not daring to look in.
Just as I reach the end of the hall, the doors behind me are thrown open. I risk a glance and see the beast at the far end, crouching to fit under the ceiling.
Its mouth stretches wide in a roar that blows the doors to the back stairwell open.
I stumble down the stairs, my bare feet hitting hard on the concrete. I wince as the pain shoots up my shins. I thought you’re not supposed to feel pain in dreams. That’s like a rule.
I hit the back doors, crashing them open, and take a few steps into the dark before I notice something strange. Where’s the parking lot? And the baseball diamond behind the school? I shoot a glance over my shoulder and see … nothing.
The doors are gone. The school is gone.
Where …?
Turning around, I see bare trees, gray smudges in the winter night. Beyond them, the dark skeleton of the old ice factory looms over the shore of the lake.
Miss Mercer brought us out here on the crappiest field trip ever. In Harvest Cove, this passes as a historical monument.
Why here? Not that dreams are supposed to make sense, but why this place? And where do I run? No way I’ve escaped that thing.
I shuffle my feet in the snow, not feeling the freeze. Think fast! It’s a half-hour walk to the marina house from here. Quicker across the cove on the ice. I can just pick out the pinprick lights on the twin docks.
A roar rips through the night, staggering me. A pale figure emerges from the rotting frame of the factory.
It always finds me.
The beast takes its time. It brought me here, where it’s in control.
My heart pounds adrenaline through my veins, screaming at me to run. My legs are tensed and shaking, begging to make a break for it. But my body has quit taking orders from my brain.
The beast is ten feet from me. The slits of its nostrils open and close, trailing clouds of vapor.
I see myself in the curved mirrors of its eyes, tiny and helpless. Small moans rise from deep in my throat, but my jaws are locked so tight they can’t get out.
That warped snow-pale face leans in close. The wide mouth parts slightly, showing a glint of the blades inside. It seems to sniff, tasting my fear.
Then a low sound rises from the depths of the beast, almost a purr, shivering my eardrums. A purr, but something more. For a moment it seems like the beast is trying to speak to me. But in frequencies I can’t make out. And in a language so alien.
Whispers murmur at the edges of my mind, words just out of reach. I feel the strangest sensation inside. My body stays locked in place. But it’s like something has reached through flesh and bone and taken hold of me.
In those round silver mirrors I see my face clenched. The tendons on my neck stand out, straining.
I feel myself move forward, even with my body frozen stiff.
I’m being pulled. Out.
The purring resolves into something familiar.
Words. Thousands of words, crowded together in a confused jumble. But not just words.
Voices. So many, breaking over me.
Then a fist of ice reaches into me and yanks me inside out. It feels like the night wind is blowing right through me for a moment. Like I’m a ghost, nothing but vapor.
And with a dizzying snap, I’m staring at myself again. But not at the reflection in those mirror eyes. I’m looking at myself from the outside.
Through eyes that aren’t mine.
I feel nothing now, bodyless.
The voices shout at me from all directions, trying to be heard. Desperate.
I look helplessly at the empty figure of Danny Quinn.
I see my eyes, wide and blind with panic. And in them I catch another reflection mirrored not in silver but in my own blue eyes. The beast’s looming face in miniature, mouth stretched open, showing all those razor teeth.
Trapped behind the beast’s eyes, I can’t look away.
It lunges forward and my view twists wildly.
When the beast pulls back, I can see clearly. And a scream I have no real voice to make rips through to join other screams. I’m not alone here in this endless dark. Not the only one made to watch the slaughter.
My scream gets swallowed by my pillow. I have to push up on my elbows to breathe. The sound dies to a whimper in my throat as I recognize my room.
I try not to blink, scared of getting sucked back into the nightmare if my eyelids close even for a millisecond.
Rolling out of bed, I lean against the wall, panting. With shaky hands I feel my face, making sure it’s still there. Then I hold them out and look at them.
No blood. I’m okay. I’m okay.
I keep telling myself that, getting a grip.
I hear the low murmur of the TV down the hall. Dad’s up late as always. I’ll go join him on the couch in a minute, and we’ll get through the night together.
When I was little and I’d cry out in my sleep, Mom would come and wake me gently. She’d listen to my drowsy retelling of the bad dream and tell me it was safe now. She said she’d guard me, sitting next to me on the bed, until I was settled in sweeter dreams. There are nights when I’m surfacing from one dream before diving into another that I imagine I can feel her there. Feel the weight of her pressing down the mattress, feel the warmth coming off her.
Even with all our drifting these past couple years, she seems to be able to find me, in whatever strange new place and strange new bed I’m in. Just thinkin
g of her now calms me down a little. I’d give anything to have her here. Anything and everything. Guarding me.
These nightmares are the beast’s playground. Torture chambers it builds inside my brain for its own amusement.
I’m still catching my breath, leaning on the wall, when my cell phone rings.
I see the name on the cell’s screen.
“Howie?”
“Danny. I was calling to wake you.”
“Why?”
“I was there. I saw what happened.”
“You were where?”
“I saw it chasing you,” he says. “In the school, then out by the lake.”
I slump down on the chair at my desk.
“Where were you?” I ask. “I didn’t catch sight of you.”
Howie’s quiet a second, just breathing.
“I was right there,” he says, finally. “Trapped inside that thing’s head. Seeing out of its eyes. I saw what it did to you. That was the worst thing ever.”
I glance at the window, half expecting to see something staring in at me.
“You know,” I say. “Something weird happened. Well, even more weird, I should say. Right before it … you know, attacked me. It was like I got sucked out of my body. Into its head. And then I was watching through its eyes, what it did to me.”
For the longest time, all I hear is Howie breathing on the other end.
“They’re all in there,” he mumbles.
“What?” I press the phone tight against my ear.
“All those kids. The disappeared. I could feel them all crowded inside its head. There were so many. I heard their voices, all talking at the same time. Didn’t you hear anything?”
“I heard.”
“Ray Dyson was there. I could hear his voice. He thinks he’s lost somewhere. Kept asking where was the way out. But nobody was listening. They were all just talking over each other.”
I slouch in the chair, staring blankly at the picture above my bed of the horses pulling blocks of ice from the lake a hundred years ago. A century is nothing to this beast. It was hunting the Cree Indians a thousand years ago. A thousand years of victims. Of voices.
“What did the Indians say about it?” I ask. “Stealing souls?”
“And eating dreams.”
Bonechiller Page 14
