Howl of a Thousand Winds

by Howl of a Thousand Winds (retail) (epub)

  As he swam toward consciousness, the list-maker in his head began spewing a litany of emotions struggling for supremacy in his psyche.

  Extreme sadness for the loss of this remarkable woman.

  Fear of the creature that had taken her life, and tried to take his.

  Gratitude at the sacrifice made on his behalf in this snow-covered horror-scape.

  Curiosity about the man who had pulled him out of the burning cabin.

  And finally, concern about the creature; where it came from, how it came to be, what it was.

  Also, where it had gone, and whether it would come back.

  Brad opened his eyes to find himself stretched across the leather back seat of Mrs. Enderrin's Lincoln Navigator, both back doors open. The fedora-topped rescuer sat sideways in the front passenger seat, the heels of his boots keeping his feet propped on the inside of the car's rocker panels. In his lap was a broken Canon camera, which he was trying to piece back together like a three-dimensional puzzle.

  Sitting up, the first thing Brad saw was the smoking remains of the Enderrin house. Small pockets of fire still appeared in places, but with no real momentum. Two of the walls remained standing, including the front and the right side. Snowdrifts had served as natural fire extinguishers, melting and putting out the flames whenever one poked through the sheathing on those two sections.

  Looking at the badly burned second floor level, the charred floor itself now settled on the ground floor, the splintered window frame bore testament to the ice creature’s fury. Below that, the cabin’s outward-opening front door frame survived, a testament to a loving wife’s forgiveness of a flawed and stubborn husband.

  To the left of the empty doorway, a double-hung window remained intact.

  Lying on a snowdrift below that lay the lifeless body of Paul Berube, his eyes still open and staring at an unsympathetic sky.

  "You okay?" Micah said, noticing for the first time that the rear seat passenger in the unmoving car was vertical.

  "Yeah," Brad said in a raspy voice, turning his attention to the unsuccessful camera repairman in the front seat. "How long was I out?"

  "About as long as it takes for a house to burn down," Micah said. "Nearly an hour. Anything broken?"

  Brad's list-maker changed channels and began inventorying his extremities. Blisters and welts showed on the back of his hands and wrists, but everything seemed to move in the proper direction. His legs and feet also responded to synaptic commands. He could feel burns on his face, and an all-over sensation of being sunburned. Touching the back of his head, Brad found a melted mat of hair, his own, and a bare and blistered spot about the size of a jelly jar lid on the crown of his skull.

  "Don't think so," Brad said, his inspection complete. "I think I owe you a thanks for saving my life."

  Micah returned his gaze to the broken camera, embarrassed and unsure what to say.

  "I seem to recall the name Michael," Brad said after a pause.

  "Actually, Micah. Micah Roaz," the reporter said, extending his hand over the top of the car seat between the headrest and the roof support.

  "Brad Connerman," he replied, shaking the offered hand, trying to ignore the pain as Micah's thumb accidentally squeezed a water-filled blister on the back of Brad's hand. "So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?"

  Micah allowed a small smile to skitter across his face at the reference, then let it die just as quickly.

  "I'm a reporter. Came out to interview him," Micah said, nodding toward Mr. Berube's body. "Followed his tracks from his house through the woods. Got knocked into a tree, which broke the camera I was carrying in my back pack."

  "Who or what knocked you into the tree?" Brad asked.

  Micah took a moment to think about it, continuing to fiddle with the unfixable camera, his favorite. He then looked levelly into Brad's eyes.

  "Wind from a snowstorm," he finally answered.

  Brad thought about that response.

  "I lost a good friend to that snowstorm," Brad said, turning his attention to the still-smoldering building which had effectively served as Vi Enderrin’s crematorium. Then he remembered Denny and Jimbo. "A couple of them, actually."

  Micah returned his attention to the caretaker's body, taking an extra moment to absorb the look on Mr. Berube's face; the open eyes, the trace of an icicle forming along the corner of his opened mouth frozen in an eternal silent scream above shoulders that pointed in opposing, unnatural directions. "Snow storm get him, too?"

  Brad nodded quietly. "That's the way the police report is going to read," he said.

  The two men sat quietly for another minute, allowing the silence to say more than words ever could.

  "Phones are out, which is probably why nobody called the fire department," Micah said. "Cell phones won't work out here either. We need to notify the authorities, but whoever brought the car didn't leave the keys. If they taught hot-wiring at J-school, you'd be waking up somewhere around halfway to the nearest form of civilization right about now." The man paused to take a glance at the still-smoldering house. "Believe me, the further I get from this place, the better I'll feel."

  A few flakes of white ended their kamikaze journey against the SUV's windshield as the wind picked up and chimed in on the conversation. It was beginning to snow again, the final remnants of the second storm.

  Brad reached into his pants pocket, pulling out the key that was still attached to the plastic strip bearing the logo of the Lincoln dealer in Ridley. He handed it to Micah.

  "Should we try to put him in the back seat?" Micah asked, nodding again at Mr. Berube's remains.

  "State law says proper protocol is to leave the body in place until the police can do their thing," Brad said, standing slowly and gingerly while holding onto the leather strap next to the door. "But nobody should have to see their loved one looking like that. Open the back and I'll see if there's something we can use to cover him." With each step, he could feel the burns on his back and neck, along with the flecks of snow that offered isolated dots of relief.

  Micah pushed a button on the key in his hand, releasing the vehicle's rear hatch. He then slipped the key into his jacket pocket and plucked his backpack from the passenger footwell, careful not to spill the camera parts still scattered in his lap. While Brad rooted around in the SUV's cargo area, the reporter started gently putting the pieces of his wrecked camera into the nylon bag.

  After a few moments, Brad emerged from the back of the vehicle carrying a red plaid blanket that had been rolled into a neat bundle held in place by a dark red ribbon of Velcro. He walked over to Mr. Berube's misshapen form and began solemnly unfurling the covering, spreading it over the body. A gust of wind tried to undo the work, exposing the caretaker's unnaturally twisted head and shoulders. The insurance man grabbed the corners of the blanket and pulled it taut again, avoiding the dead man's lifeless, frozen stare. To make sure the blanket remained in place, he started tucking the edges under the body. Wrapping the last bit of red plaid under the rigid feet, Brad heard a noise from the woods near the frozen lake. He wasn't sure, but it sounded like a horse, whinnying in the wind.

  Next to him, a section of the destroyed house's wall exploded outward, showering him with large chunks of wood planking and two by fours. One of the larger wooden projectiles struck him in the head, knocking Brad over.

  Standing in the newly created hole was the white creature Brad had thought was destroyed in the house fire; and it was angrier than ever.

  Pieces of the wood sheathing and framing struck the open car door where Micah was putting away the last broken parts of his camera. The reporter looked in the direction from which the sound and wood pieces had come. His eyes zeroed in on the large white entity pushing its way through the fractured wall of the destroyed building. He didn't need an introduction to know immediately that Old Joe's tale had come to life before his eyes.

  It was Aisoyimstan.

  Micah wasn’t sure what he had expected the mythical creature to look
like, his interpretation from the medicine man’s story vacillating between the image of a misty ghost-like apparition and a raging hairy white monster. The reality was more terrifying than either, mostly because of its appearance as something almost human clad in a white snowsuit, but also a menacing entity from a land where nightmares are spawned, birthed and reared.

  It’s human-like features may have tempted him to join the coming fray with blind, adrenaline-fueled punches and kicks, the only physical defensive tools with which nature had endowed mortals, but Micah instinctively knew that even advanced weaponry would have little effect on this being that was both of nature and beyond it.

  Instead of putting things into the backpack, Micah now turned the container upside down, pouring the contents onto the floor next to the passenger seat. Among the plastic camera pieces scattered on the carpet was a small leather satchel, bound with a deer hide thong. He reached down and snagged the miniature bag, then hurried out of the car to pick up one of the smoke-blackened pieces of wood near his feet.

  Micah poured the contents of the bag into the cupped palm of his hand. The powder was deep red, almost the color of old rust or long-dried blood, with glittering translucent crystals the color of amethyst sprinkled in. He then rubbed the powder the length of the still-hot stick, the grains grinding deep into the soft charred areas. The heat had melted the snow where it had landed, making parts of the wood damp. When the powder mixed with the water, it almost made a thin paste that clung to the uneven surface. Even through the aroma of burned wood, Micah could smell the strong scent of old copper.

  Closer to the house, Brad scrambled clumsily to his feet, still slow from the beating he had taken inside the house barely an hour before. His eyes were locked onto the enraged beast.

  Courage is never a summoned commodity, and is rarely a conscious choice. It is often the product of desperation, fear, and an acute lack of options. And sometimes, it’s simply all that remains at the bottom when the bank of human emotions has run dry. Brad Connerman was tired. Tired from the earlier battle, tired from the previous night with little sleep, tired from the seemingly endless river of adrenalin that had rocketed repeatedly through his veins over the last 24 hours. But mostly, he was tired of being afraid.

  The machine in his head unexpectedly began rattling out a column of options, objectives, and strategies. Had he been given a moment to pause and contemplate, he might have been surprised to see that "run" wasn't on the list.

  Following the instructions from that mental lineup, Brad slid to his right and grabbed a scorched piece of the shattered wall, a ruptured remnant of planking that resembled an unfinished cricket bat.

  Weapon. Check.

  He spared a glance toward the nearby Lincoln, where he was thankful to see Micah arming himself with a similar piece of wood.

  Two against one. Check.

  Without waiting for reinforcements or spending any more time on planning, Brad skipped to the last line of his list.

  Attack.

  Shouldering the plank like an over-muscled ballplayer standing at the plate awaiting the money pitch in the last inning of the World Series, Brad set his sights on the mound above the thing's shoulders. Grabbing with both hands, he stepped forward and swung for the fences. The wood connected with a satisfying thud, the jagged edge carving a neat trough through the creature's gelatinous cheek.

  Unfortunately, the hit was also a miss, as it didn't stop or even slow the angry snow god. Instead one of the thick upper appendages lashed out and grabbed the wood, easily yanking it from Brad's hands. Slivers of wood buried themselves just below the skin as the wrested plank left a trail of splinters in each of the man's palms.

  Devoid of a weapon but filled to the brim with purpose, the former college football player took two steps back, lowered his head and shoulders, and charged forward like a demented linebacker looking to spear a ball-carrying opponent. His head crashed into the beast’s midriff with a satisfying thud, like diving head first from the low branch of a barren tree into a tall pile of shoveled snow. Yet even with Brad’s size and weight brought to bear, the creature was immovable. Displaying the same ease with which it had earlier disposed of the wood weapon, the creature reached down with one iced mitt and grabbed its attacker by the back of the throat, turning and lifting the flailing man into the air. It then began drawing the overmatched human’s face toward its own head, a black and jagged mouth erupting from the large mound of white atop its shoulders. Looking into the emotionless depths of the blue ice pools that served as the thing’s eyes, Brad could find no mercy, no reasoning, no receptor for life-sparing pleas. Instead, he saw only a reflection of death itself.

  Just before the creature could bring its victim to its mouth, Brad saw a blur of brown slice down between his face and that of his attacker. He then felt himself falling.

  Micah’s downward chop with the piece of wood cleaved the beast’s arm just below where its elbow would have been, severing the part of the appendage that was clinging to Brad’s throat. Brad and the dismembered white arm fell to the ground. But unlike the man’s body, which dented and compressed a hollow into the layer of white cushioning where it fell, the arm disintegrated into thousands of snowflakes, scattering and landing gently on the snow pack like refugees reuniting with their frozen brethren.

  Before Micah could muster a second, more lethal swing, the white monster’s remaining arm shot out and grasped the reporter’s wood-bearing hand. Micah heard the nauseating snap of the bones in his own arm before the pain reached his brain as the creature effortlessly twisted the wrist into ruin. The weapon fell harmlessly to the ground, where it buried itself in the snow.

  The beast then released Micah’s wrecked limb only long enough to reattach to his throat, lifting him off the ground, the reporter’s feet dangling two feet above the snow. While still holding the struggling man aloft, the creature bent down and took a knee in the soft white covering. Leaning over, it plunged the stub of its other appendage into the snow.

  Like metal filings racing toward the business end of a bar magnet, clusters of snow began migrating toward the remains of the arm, moving and aligning and arranging themselves in an order that took mammals two million years to determine. The snow melded and joined with the stub to reform a new and complete arm. When the beast stood, it was as undamaged as when it first burst through the side of the house, as pristine as it was when it shepherded the first cold winds across the face of a still-forming and iced-over planet.

  Healed, the creature returned its full attention to the human still struggling in the grip of its left arm. This time it grabbed the man’s neck with both arms and pulled Micah’s face toward its own, the smooth white area below where a nose should have been ripping into a dark and jagged mouth. While Micah’s arms and legs tried to pummel the wicked being’s body, harmlessly hitting compacted slush, it’s powerful paws held the man’s throat and head completely still.

  Micah could feel the frozen jets of air being forced into his throat even before the creature’s mouth began to cover his own. Crystals of razor sharp ice scraped the lining of his esophagus like tiny daggers spiraling down his breathing tube. And the pressure – the power of the miniature windstorm forcing its cold gaseous cargo into his lungs made his chest hurt in ways that the cold couldn’t anaesthetize.

  The punching and kicking slowed then stopped as the frigid air expanded his lungs to their limit, ice crystals attaching to the pleural walls like morning frost on a winter windshield. Around him, the world was white, but Micah only saw black.

  Then he was falling, unsure if he was destined to hit the ground or if this was the plunge into the fabled abyss. Through the darkness, he heard the sound of wood slapping slush.

  Brad was afraid he was too late. It had taken time to find the wooden plank Micah had used to save his life. While he knew nothing of the ancient and potent powder the reporter had rubbed on the length of the wood, Brad sensed that there was indeed something different about the primitive weapon that
had disappeared into the nearby snow.

  He had been on his hands and knees digging through the white ground covering while the monster had clamped its ugly maw over Micah’s lower face. Once he found the plank, Brad leapt to his feet, only to see Micah’s body go slack.

  Without a plan or a list, he grabbed the stick with both hands and sliced through the top of the creature’s head. The wood passed through the gelatinous slush like a Samurai’s katana through a paper lantern, without resistance. The plank came out the bottom of the thing’s head and continued through both of the beast’s arms just as it had when Brad had been the one held aloft. And just as it had before, both arms fell to the ground in twin clouds of individual snowflakes bracketing Micah’s now prostate body. The two descending clouds were joined by a third cloud, a spray of snowflakes that had previously been the creature’s face.

  Instead of brains or innards or other entrails, the remaining part of the thing’s head was simply more frozen and featureless white.

  Seeing the monster without its face and missing both arms, Brad didn’t wait for the regeneration. Again resuming his baseball batter’s stance, the former jock wound and swung for center mass.

  This time, the powdered stick buried itself deep in the creature’s chest. Before Brad could pull it back out, he felt the stick buck and vibrate wildly. The unexpected jolt combined with a slippery patch of ice beneath his feet knocked him down, where he landed next to the motionless body of the reporter who had saved his life twice.

  From his place in the snow, Brad watched the armless monster begin to shiver in place. Unable to move, a humming sound began to emanate from the beast’s center where the wood remained ensconced, part of the stick still poking out from the collection of white gelatin and slush. As the humming grew louder, Brad saw the arranged clumps of white that had been the being’s body begin to dissemble. The compacted snow separated at first into separate globs, then the ice crystals themselves separated from one another like the particles of a smashed atom breaking their bonds and hurtling into infinity. A flicker of purple light appeared where stick and beast were one, a tiny violet flame that grew rapidly from a sparkle to a beacon to a blinding klieglight. Aisoyimstan exploded into a billion harmless individual flakes, backlit by the brilliant purple glow that winked out as the flakes rocketed across the sky.