“I’ve been exorcising them for twenty years. I’ve seen enough bizarre occurrences to know there is a spirit world beyond anything we can imagine. And they have the power to influence our behaviors. They can bring out our fears.” Father Xavier held Tom’s gaze for a long moment and then said, “A few weeks ago, I visited the asylum where Gustave was being kept prisoner. The warden complained of mysterious happenings around the asylum. I performed an exorcism on Gustave, but his demon was the most powerful I have ever faced. It called itself Legion.”
Tom said, “Gustave never spoke of that name.”
“That is because demons like to remain hidden inside their hosts. It takes an exorcism to bring forth their identities. In Gustave’s case, his demon had fully taken over. As I performed an exorcism, it got inside my head. It tried to use my fears against me, but I wouldn’t succumb. So it rammed Gustave’s body into the cell’s door until he collapsed. I was tricked into believing he was dead, but later that evening Gustave murdered the warden and several guards and escaped.”
“He’s loose?” Tom’s throat clenched. “Did the police find him?”
Father Xavier nodded. “They found his corpse at the cannery warehouse along with the skeleton of a missing prostitute. Both had been eaten by rats.”
Tom released a breath.
“But I fear his spirit lives on,” Father Xavier said. “Our final night in Montréal, we attended a masquerade party with Master Pendleton. I was being stalked by a man in a tribal mask. He spoke suggestive words inside my head that only Gustave’s demon could know.”
“How could that be possible?”
“The beast is a shape-shifter with many faces. It seduces people through their weaknesses. It can fill our heads with illusions. It can control animals. The entire journey to Fort Pendleton, I felt as if that demon spirit were following us through a flock of ravens.”
Tom remembered seeing the swarm of black birds the day the priest had arrived. Today the cannibal at Hospital House had been covered in a squirming coat of ravens and rats. “Earlier, when I shot Jean Chaurette, I swore the killer was Gustave. I saw his face. I heard his laughter. Tell me those were just illusions.”
“The cannibal you killed was undeniably one of the voyageurs, but the demon possessing him…” The priest squeezed his rosary. “I fear Gustave’s demon and its legion are among us, hiding inside the bodies of the infected.”
160
Black clouds drifted across the silvery full moon. At four in the morning, the last of the cabins finally went dark. The wind stopped, and a dead calm fell upon the sleeping village. The only sound was the shuff-shuff-shuff of fur boots running across the fresh powder. The disciple hurried with eagerness in his chest.
Tonight was the night.
The disciple entered an elongated shack that smelled of fur and slaughtered animals. The Skinning Hut. In the pitch darkness, he felt his way past a butchering table and stacked cages. He came to a door and knocked three times. It opened to a back room that was lit by candles. The bearded man who answered the door stepped aside. Several others turned to face the disciple. The group parted as their leader made his way to the front of the room. In the corner, two hogs paced inside a cage.
The disciple went to an altar. A bowl contained fingernail clippings and locks of human hair. He added his own clippings to the offering bowl. Then the disciple traced his finger around a red spiral on the wall. “We are ready for you, Master.”
161
He dreamed of cadavers in a morgue. A naked woman on a slab, her dead eyes staring. Watching the knife carving into her thigh…please forgive me. Stealing a chunk of her flesh…I have to understand…cooking meat in a skillet. So hungry. Downing gulps of whiskey. So thirsty…craving more, more, more. Cannibal in the headlines…cannibal in the mirror…stormy night…tortured screams…chains…carcass…candles…cannibals…
So alone now. So cold. Racing through a blizzard. Howling wind. A boy screaming. Calling for his father. Tom yelling back, “Chris!”
Running faster now. Into the forest. Branches clawing. A whirling, white twister of fury. Shape-shifting into a hideous beast with antlers. Shifting. Face of a demon. Shifting. Face of a wolf. Shifting. Tom’s face. Shifting. Gustave grinning.
“Dead or alive, I will find youuuuuu…”
Tom sat up in his bed, shivering. His bedroom took form. Gray and gloomy. Faint light seeping through the curtains. Another nightmare. Another morning headache. Did he drink last night? His head was foggy. He rubbed his face. His stomach rumbled. How long since he last ate? Yesterday. Breakfast. He had been so consumed by the case, he’d skipped meals.
I have to take better care of myself.
Hunger pains. Sharp, twisting his guts.
Tom dressed, went into his kitchen, and rummaged through his food stores. He gnawed on some salted pork. The shivers wouldn’t quit. Neither would the hunger.
No…
A wave of nausea coursed through him, cold and slimy, like eels swimming in his stomach. He retched.
Please, no…
He tore open his shirt. Blue veins were visible through his skin. He looked thinner.
No, no, no…
He paced his cabin.
This isn’t happening.
Tom looked into his oval mirror. His face was pale as a cadaver. His irises speckled with white flecks.
“No, god damn it!” He knocked over a chair in a fit of rage.
From within the mirror, a voice cackled, as a frosty shadow peered from behind the looking glass. Screaming like a lunatic, Tom grabbed his crowbar and smashed the mirror until his floor was covered in a thousand tiny fragments.
Part Sixteen
Red Spirals
162
At dawn, a gray mist drifted between the pines. The overcast sky rumbled as storm clouds approached from the distance.
“Christ, another damned blizzard.” Private Wickliff sat up in the watchtower freezing his bollocks off. He sealed up his coat, pulling the hood snug around his head. The only warmth came from a small kerosene heater that barely heated his knees. He heard a whinny and looked out the tower window.
Just outside the fort, a black horse was tethered to a post. It ran in a circle, pulling at the rope. Wickliff hated that Hysmith had chosen Gussie to bait the windigos. But the old horse was too weak for riding and would probably die soon anyway.
There was a stretch of open land between the timberline and the fort, and Wickliff was ready to kill any predators before they reached the horse. With daylight creeping over the horizon, he was hoping to finally see the creatures that had clawed at the gates two nights ago.
The horse whinnied again and stood up on its hind legs. Wickliff aimed his rifle. Scanned the woods. Something ran in a fast blur between the pines, snapping branches. A rack of broad antlers. The animal disappeared into the mist.
Wickliff exhaled. “Just an elk.”
163
Tom bundled up in the heavy fur parka and mittens that Anika had given him. No matter how many layers he wore, he couldn’t rid himself of the chill inside his chest and stomach. He felt as if a large parasite were living inside him—a slick-skinned thing coursing through his guts. And it was hungry. Tom had devoured a week’s supply of salted pork. He finished off leftover biscuits and jam, but nothing seemed to quell his appetite. And as he stuffed his mouth like a starving vagabond, he couldn’t help imagining the ghoulish face of Doc Riley, the long-boned body of Zoé Lamothe, and the split-cheeked grimace of the native woman in the chapel, her mouth serrated with razor-sharp fangs.
How long before the infection begins to alter me?
Tom checked his own teeth in the mirror. They had not changed, but his gums seemed to be turning gray. If only there were some kind of remedy he could take. Dr. Coombs had failed to find any physical cause of the disease. No virus. No visible parasites. Only strange symptoms and cannibalistic rampages that brought on theories of werewolves and windigos and a plague the Jesuits believed came straight from the
Devil.
Someone knocked at the front door.
Tom peeked out the window. Lt. Hysmith and a soldier were standing at his door.
Shit. Tom hid behind the wall, heart beating against his sternum.
Hysmith knocked again. “Inspector, you in there?”
Tom remained hidden, wondering what to do. If the soldiers saw he was infected…
“He must already be out and about,” Hysmith said to his soldier. Their footsteps clumped down the steps, trailing off.
Tom peered back out the window and waited until the soldiers headed into the barracks. He released his breath. He pulled the hood over his head and covered the lower half of his face with a scarf. He shielded his eyes with a pair of caribou-bone goggles and stepped out onto the porch. The wind was strong today, with snow blowing across the village like swarms of insects, harrowing exposed skin with frostbite, causing temporary snow blindness. Everyone wore goggles on days like this. As he closed his front door, he saw something that caused him to gasp and stumble back.
The door was smeared with blood in the pattern of a red spiral. Had Hysmith and the soldier painted this? Tom wiped his finger across the marking. The blood had hardened into a crust and was edged with frost. Some vandal had probably done this after Tom had gone to bed last night. Sometime between 3:00 a.m. and dawn. Who among the villagers would mark his door? And was this some sort of curse? If so, why target him?
The village erupted with angry voices. Tom crossed the courtyard. On the snowy ground lay a couple of dead hogs, their throats slashed. There were so many bloody boot prints, he couldn’t discern a pattern of where they started or where they ended. Several people were standing in front of their cabins with frightened looks. On the doorways of every home he passed were more blood spirals.
Shit, we’ve all been targeted.
At the center of the courtyard, a mob was screaming at one another. Tom tried to slip past them.
“Ey, Inspector?” The throng of men and women circled Tom. Bélanger grabbed his coat. “Who marked our doors?”
“I don’t know.” Tom kept walking. The crowd kept with him, all talking to him at once, gripping his wrists, pulling him in a dozen directions.
“Beast’s inside the fort!” someone shouted.
“It’s that witch who done it,” yelled another.
“We don’t know that yet,” Tom yelled back. “Everyone, go back to your homes.”
Tom broke loose, marched away, leaving the frightened colonists to shout at one another. The cold inside his chest spread up into his throat. He coughed out white clouds. His hollow stomach ached. He craved meat, cooked rare and bloody.
The chapel had received the worst of the vandalism. The iron cross on the roof was tilted. The front walls and windows had been splashed with buckets of pig’s blood. Father Xavier and Brother Andre stood outside, examining their door, which was marked with words written in French: ABANDON ALL HOPE EUNUCHS.
Tom approached the Jesuits. “Did you see who did this?”
Andre shook his head. “We were asleep.”
Father Xavier frowned at the shouting mob. “The legion is taking over the village.”
Tom noticed the Jesuits’ faces seemed to be clear of the disease. “There’s something I have to show you both.” As Tom removed his goggles, icy claws of pain raked across his stomach. Groaning, he doubled over and collapsed at Father Xavier’s feet.
164
Tom slowly opened his eyes. A blurry ceiling came into focus. Candlelight danced on the log walls, illuminating a crucifix that hung over the bed. He was lying beneath a heavy fur blanket. It warmed his extremities, but at the center of his chest and stomach the relentless chill made him shiver.
Andre said, “He’s waking up.”
Father Xavier wiped a warm, wet cloth against Tom’s forehead. “You gave us quite a scare.”
“What’s happening?” Tom rasped.
“The demon has gotten inside of you.” At the sound of Father Xavier’s voice, the entity gestating inside Tom’s belly squirmed. “Here, drink this.” The priest pressed a bottle to Tom’s lips. The liquid burned his throat like whiskey.
Tom coughed. “Jesus, what are you giving me?”
“Holy water.” Father Xavier smiled. “It burns because the demon doesn’t like it. Take a sip every hour.”
Tom took another gulp. The icy critter beneath his skin retreated to the center of his chest. His hunger diminished. Feeling stronger and more alert, he sat up. “Amazing.” He examined the bottle. It was plum-shaped with a cross engraved on the surface. “Will this cure the disease?”
“No,” answered Father Xavier. “It will only release the demon’s grip for a short while.”
“I want this damned thing out of me,” Tom said. “Can you perform an exorcism?”
“In due time. You’re not the only one who became infected overnight.”
“Inspector, we’ve got another crises on our hands,” barked Master Pendleton’s voice from the doorway. Tom’s heart seized as the chief factor, Lt. Hysmith, and Walter Thain stepped into the room. The officers’ faces were bone-white with veins branching across their cheeks. Like Tom, their eyes were flecked with white spots. Pendleton removed his hat. “The bloody plague is spreading again.”
Tom slipped on his boots. “How many more are infected?”
“At least a third of the colony,” Pendleton said.
“Everyone whose door was marked last night,” added Hysmith.
“Except Andre and me.” Father Xavier glanced at his apprentice. “So far neither of us has had any symptoms.”
Pendleton said, “Inspector, do you have any idea who painted the doors with hog’s blood?”
Tom shook his head. “Not yet. Did the night watchmen see anything last night?”
“Nothing,” said Hysmith. “Private Wickliff was watching the woods. Private Simmons was supposed to be walking the grounds, but he’s gone missing.”
“That makes him a suspect,” Tom said. “Is Anika still in jail?”
Hysmith nodded. “She’s been there all night.”
Tom stood and grabbed his coat. “By the looks of last night’s rampage, there have to be several vandals, most likely men by the size of the boot prints.” Tom turned to Pendleton. “Sir, I believe someone’s trying to curse this fort, but I think we have the wrong person in jail.”
165
Tom entered the barracks where Anika was still locked behind bars. “Are you all right? Did the guards mistreat you in any way?”
She shook her head. “No, they left me alone. I heard shouting. What’s happening out there?”
“Bloody chaos. There’s been another outbreak. I convinced Pendleton to release you.” He found the keys and opened the cell.
She barreled into his arms, shivering. “I was so afraid I’d never hold you again.”
Tom backed away. “Christ, I shouldn’t be touching you.”
“Why?”
Tom removed his goggles.
“No!” she gasped.
“It happened overnight.” He told her about how Pendleton and the officers were also infected, as well as Willow and several others. And how, in the middle of the night, a group of vandals had slaughtered some hogs and painted blood spirals on the doors. “Anika, I don’t know how much time I’ve got.”
Before he could stop her, she hugged him, locking her arms around his waist. Anika pressed her head against his chest, sniffling. “I won’t let you die.”
Tom stroked her hair. “Right now, my sickness is the least of our worries.”
Outside came the sounds of men yelling, dogs barking, and the crack of gunshots.
166
Tom and Anika ran outside. Four dogsleds packed with families dressed in fur parkas were riding across the courtyard toward the front gate. Lt. Hysmith and three nervous soldiers blocked the exit, aiming their rifles. The men on the sleds also held weapons. Tom’s heart surged as he spotted women and small children amidst the deadly sta
ndoff.
Tom ran toward the gate. “Put down your rifles!”
Standing at the lead dogsled, Bélanger shouted, “Tell them to open the gate! We’re leaving this godforsaken fort.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Tom said. “The woods are dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than staying here,” Bélanger countered.
“He’s right, Inspector,” said Dr. Coombs, who was sitting on the front sled next to two Métis children. “There’s nothing we can do to stop the outbreak. None of us is infected, so we’re leaving before we catch it, too.” The doctor pointed his own shotgun. “Now, if you’ll kindly move out of our way, no one will get hurt.”
Master Pendleton stepped toward the doctor. “Coombs, you bloody coward.”
Dr. Coombs aimed his rifle at the chief factor. “You brought on this curse, Avery, not me. Now open the goddamned gate!”
Pendleton backed off and waved his hand at the guards. “Open the gate.” To the families sitting on the four dogsleds, he said, “Anyone who leaves can never come back.”
Bélanger cracked his whip at the huskies. Over half of the colonists rode out.
“Bugger off!” Pendleton yelled, kicking at the last dogsled as it exited the gate.
The soldiers and officers watched with solemn faces. Anika traded worried glances with Tom. He didn’t know who had the better chance of survival—the people escaping into the wilderness or the infected still trapped within the fort’s walls.
167
As Private Wickliff brought down the bar, sealing the gate’s double doors, his heart wouldn’t stop pounding against his breastbone. During the standoff, he had pissed his breeches. Now the red fabric around his crotch and thigh had frosted over and stiffened. He wanted to go back to the barracks and change uniforms, but Lt. Hysmith shouted, “Wickliff, Bowen, get your arses up the tower and keep watch on the forest.”
“Aye, sir!” Privates Wickliff and Bowen moaned in unison. The two sentries climbed up through the trapdoor and into the central tower. They both looked out the front portal and watched the four dogsleds loaded with men, women, and children vanish into the woods.
Dead of Winter Page 32
