Jackie and Mina stared at each other. Jackie saw the same questioning look in Mina’s eyes that she felt.
Jackie started to speak, but Mina put her finger to her lips…there was more yet to come.
The bar fell quiet for a second, before the newscaster came back on.
“We…eh…we seem to be having technical difficulties at the scene. We’ll try to get back to Gail later. Let’s see if our eye-in-the-sky can shed some light on it for us. Al, what can you see from up there?”
“Well, Kate, it’s all a bit confusing. It’s hard to make sense of what we are looking at, for none of us have seen the like of it in a combined total of thirty years in the sky above the island. We’re riding high above a twister, albeit an extremely slow moving one, and it’s made entirely from snow. I can’t tell you how or when it formed, but it is growing fast, is already covering most of the south-side docks. It is spreading out over Manhattan Island. I’d say it’s a night to be wrapping up warm and staying indoors.”
“We’ve had reports of numerous casualties on the ground, Al. Can you confirm or deny that?”
“That’s a negative on that one, Kate. All we can see is snow. And it’s getting closer.” The man’s voice rose in panic. “It’s getting a bit too close. Climb. Climb.”
A scream rose, but was quickly cut off. Metal screeched.
Silence fell in the bar.
From where Jackie sat she could just about see the faces of the men at the bar. Their stunned, wide-eyed look told her all she needed to know. Anything that could make that lot ignore their beer for any length of time just had to be bad news.
“Christ. It’s heading this way,” one of the men at the bar shouted. Everyone who was sitting in the bar area left at a run, their footsteps echoing up the stairs out of the basement bar, like a manic drummer warming up for a gig.
“Go check it out,” Mina said to Jackie. The oriental woman took out her cell phone. “I’ll check in with Mike and see if he knows anything.”
Jackie went slowly up the basement steps, following behind the crowd. A cold breeze blew through the open door that swung shut at the top of the stairs.
Outside the air was full of the noise of honking horns and revving engines. Once she got to the top Jackie pushed the door open farther. She looked out onto a scene of pandemonium.
Light flurries of snow danced in the air above a grid-locked street. Traffic was at a standstill. Tempers flared.
One driver got out of his car and pounded a younger man’s head against the side of a yellow cab. Blood flowed, too red against the white, but no one did anything to stop the man, even when the younger man slumped to the ground, leaving a bloody smear down the bonnet of the taxi.
A mother carrying a small child was knocked from her feet, the child crushed to the snow beneath her. Jackie stepped onto the sidewalk, thinking to help, but by then the woman had already lifted the child and was up and away. The last Jackie saw was the woman’s back, but she heard the bawling of the baby for a long time afterwards. It sounded like death.
Pedestrians scurried, almost running, along the sidewalk from her right-hand side, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. Jackie stepped farther out onto the sidewalk and looked up the street.
A wall of snow bore down on her, a swirling cloud of dancing spiral vortices, so white it hurt the eyes to look at it. Beneath the cloud car roofs crumpled, as if stepped on by a giant foot.
Screams joined the cacophony. Cars trying to escape slammed into the cars in front of them. Car alarms and horns joined in, along with the sound of bending fenders and breaking glass.
The wind rose, from a scream to a howling gale.
Jackie stepped back inside the bar. She pulled closed the thick wooden door behind her.
She almost didn’t make it. The wind wanted to wrestle her for it. For a while it looked like it might win, but a momentary lull meant that Jackie could pull the door tight. There was a satisfying “click” as the lock slid into place.
The sound of screams was duller now, but they still echoed in her head all the way down to the bar.
The place was empty except for the pair of women and the barman.
“It’s that bad?” Mina asked, looking Jackie in the eye.
Jackie could only nod.
“Unless you’ve got a Ski-Doo hiding in those denims, I’d say we’re going to be here for a while. Did you get your detective?”
Mina shook her head.
“He’s still busy. I expect he’s got plenty to keep him occupied.”
“He went down to the docks, didn’t he?”
Mina nodded. If she felt worried she didn’t show any signs of it.
“He’s a big boy. He can look after himself. He’ll phone in if he gets into too much trouble.”
“What’s going on here?” the barman asked. “Why all the panic? It’s just a snowstorm. It’s not as if we don’t get one or two every year.”
“Oh, this is more than just a New York snowstorm,” Jackie said. “Take my word for it…you’ll only get yourself killed if you go outside.”
“I’ve got no intention of leaving this bar,” the big man said. “Judging by what we’ve been seeing, I reckon we’re safest staying right where we are anyway.”
Outside the wind howled. Something heavy thudded into the top door. The lights in the bar trembled slightly.
Bob turned up the television volume. The happy jingle-jangle of a cell phone advert filled the bar.
Calls-R-us. Calls-R-us. If you don’t pay, we can’t play.
“No sense in getting ourselves more worried than we need to,” the barman said. “Can I get you ladies a drink?”
“Well,” Mina said. “If you’re planning to be here for a while, draw a couple more beers and have one for yourself. We could be in for a long stay.”
The barman moved along the bar to get the beers and Jackie joined Mina, sitting on a high stool with a view of the big screen.
“How bad is it?” Mina asked when Bob was down the far end.
Jackie told her what she’d seen outside. Mina whistled.
“Shouldn’t we get somewhere safe?” Jackie said.
“Bob’s probably right,” Mina replied. “We’re in a basement, with no windows that can blow in on us. We’ve got plenty of food and drink on hand, and a front row seat for the big television. Hunker down, kid. It could be a long night.”
“I’ve always liked women who drink beer,” the barman said on his return from the far end of the bar.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Mina said. “No doubt they remind you of your mother.”
Bob thought about taking offence, but after he took one look at Mina, he decided discretion was the better part of valor.
Jackie took her drink in her hand, but didn’t raise it to her mouth.
Her head was still full of the sights and sounds of the road outside. She couldn’t get the sound of the wailing baby out of her head, no matter how loud the television noise became.
“Are you okay?” Mina asked.
Jackie nodded. She took a slug of the beer, but didn’t taste it.
“How does anarchy manage to descend so quickly?” she said.
“Human nature,” Mina said. “That, and the fact we’re New Yorkers. Anarchy is closer here than most other places.”
At that the news came back on the big screen. Jackie turned to look.
The newsreader seemed flustered. There was puffiness around her eyes that someone had tried to hide with hastily applied make up, as if she’d been crying recently.
“Hello,” she began shakily. “This is Kate Blacklaw, reporting live for MBC news. Our breaking story tonight…much of Manhattan is already under a thick blanket of snow as a freak blizzard hits from out of nowhere. We have no news as yet on casualties, but reports are coming in from all over the island of ever worsening weather conditions. The snow is falling so fast that it is difficult for us to contact our outside broadcast cameras, but there are some hardy types w
ho have found a spot to shelter from the storm. We go over to Bill Havers, live in Central Park. As most of you know, Bill is our weatherman, and if he wasn’t out there, he’d be up here, giving us chapter and verse right about now. Bill, it looks like you finally got a chance to get out of the studio?”
Bill Havers had a big grin on his face. He wore a tightly buttoned up suit. He looked freshly washed and shaved, determined to make the most of his chance at a live news broadcast.
“Yes Kate, as luck would have it I was down here doing a piece for a station trailer.”
“I bet you wish you were back in the studio,”
“Not at all. I’m glad to be in front of this breaking story.”
His grin looked strangely out of place alongside the worried, drawn faces of the group of youths gathered around him.
They looked like they had come straight from a basketball match. None of them was wearing more than a thin sports vest, shorts and trainers. They already looked colder than they’d ever been in their lives.
“I’m standing here in the shelter of a bandstand alongside a group of maybe ten others who have been caught by surprise by the suddenness of this storm. Tell me,” he said, thrusting a mike towards one youth. “How does it feel?”
“How does it feel? What kind of dumbass question is that? Are you a reporter or a social worker?”
“I’m Bill Havers, MBC News,”
“Never seen you before man. Where’s that chick Kate? She’s a hottie.”
“No, seriously,” Havers said.
“I’m not joking man,” the youth said. ”She can come and polish my machinery anytime.”
He did a lascivious bump and grind with his hands at his groin.
Havers giggled nervously. He moved on to the next youth. The youth had a huge grin on his face as he spoke, straight to camera.
“If you ask me how I feel I’ll shove that mike up your ass…thick end first.”
Havers gulped down air and looked like a goldfish for several seconds before he was able to articulate another question.
“Snow has already started falling around us here. Are you worried?” Havers asked. He wasn’t quite so sure of himself now.
“Of course I’m worried. Do you think I’d be under here with a dip-shit like you if I was feeling happy?”
“Do you think we are safe here?”
“Now what kind of stupid question is that?” the youth said. “Are we safe? It’s Central Park dick-wad. What do you think?”
The youth’s eyes suddenly went wide, looking at something over the reporter’s left shoulder.
The camera panned round, just as the wall of snow fell on them. The screen suddenly became a mad jumble of bodies and snow, tumbling as if in a laundromat drier.
“Bill. Are you there?” the newscaster said, but no response came. “Bill? Come back to us please?”
The camera picture settled. It was looking directly into Bill Havers’ frozen face.
He got the airtime that he’d wanted. His milky eyes peered into millions of households, even as one of the youths, himself frozen solid yet somehow still mobile, reached down, lifted the reporter’s hand, and bit off two fingers.
Havers’ frost-blackened lips slowly raised into a smile before the screen thankfully went black.
“Bob,” Mina said, dragging the horrified barman’s gaze away from the big screen. “Get your heating cranked up as far as it will go. I’ve got a feeling it’s about to get cold as hell down here.”
* * *
Mike Kaminski’s phone went off.
The thing that reached for him out of the snow paused, as if confused by this new sound. It gave Mike the second he needed.
He turned, and threw himself forward, hoping he hadn’t moved too far from the door.
He tumbled, rolling over on his left shoulder, his right hand reaching for his gun even as he came out of the roll.
He’d judged it right; the tumble took him out of the warehouse. He could just make out the dim silhouettes of the doors as he rolled past them.
He had a bad moment when his left shoe slipped. His leg almost gave way beneath him, but he managed to get to his feet and turned, quick as he could, gun pointing back towards the door. His finger tightened on the trigger but he didn’t fire…there was still a chance that Brian Johnson might come through after him.
Nothing came through the doorway. All he could see was the thick, churning white cloud.
“Brian!” he called out.
The snow swallowed the sound.
In his heart he knew it was too late. He’d seen the explosion of pink…he’d seen the thing that the police officer had become. Brian Johnson hadn’t stood a chance.
Any guilt Mike might feel about abandoning the big man was more than assuaged by the fact that if he didn’t get moving, he’d be joining him soon. Mike turned away and headed out over the dock.
The snow was less thick out here, where he was partially sheltered by the bulk of the warehouse, but visibility was still less than ten yards.
There was no sign of any of Johnson’s men.
His phone had stopped ringing, but Mike would have had no time to answer anyway. He used the wall of the warehouse to line up where he thought he should be and set off at as fast a run as he could manage in the ever-deepening snow.
The cold tugged at him, like a living thing trying to pull him down to the ground.
I could die here.
The thought gave him impetus. He ran full pelt.
The snow was still thickening. Shadows moved in the swirling whiteness, tall, dark shadows shaped like men, but every time Mike lifted his gun they melted away back into the blizzard, until he felt unsure whether he’d actually seen anything at all.
Mike pulled his thin jacket tight around his body, but it gave little protection. The only warmth he got came from his own gasping breath.
Suddenly a shape loomed up ahead of him. He almost fired his pistol before he realized it was the steel wall of a cargo container.
“Honest, Lieutenant, it came at me first,” he said, but couldn’t even raise a laugh at his own expense.
Somewhere in the blizzard he’d veered left instead of heading straight on. He’d walked off the dock, into the cargo storage area at the end.
There was a small city of containers at this end of the dock. Ships came, dumped containers, and took others away. Lorries also brought containers, and they too took others away. But somehow the number that was left sitting on the dockside always seemed to grow.
Mike had heard rumors of thirty smuggled refugees being found, ten years later, their mummified bodies packed tight together in a crate that had been buried under twenty others. On a night like this, all the old stories seemed somehow more believable.
The large, rectangular boxes loomed over and around him, but at least they provided some degree of protection, particularly where they were stacked four high. The snow between the crates was little more than an inch deep. Only a light flurry made it down the vertical metal alleys.
He needed to stop. His breath came in heavy gasps, cold air threatening to chill his lungs on every inward breath. His pistol felt like it was frozen solid against his palm.
He weaved in and out of the alleys between the crates until he got to a point where the wind had dropped to no more than a slight breeze. The snow was a mere dusting on the ground. Only then did he feel safe to slow down. He came to a stop, slumped against one of the crates.
Mike leaned against the cold metal and tried to catch his breath. The cold was nowhere near so intense here.
Feeling came back, at feet and fingers, bringing a dull ache ten times worse than toothache. He holstered his pistol and rubbed his chest, as hard as he could. It helped, but not a great deal. He knew that if he was to survive he had to keep moving.
Besides, there was more than just the weather to worry him…there was something with a cop’s uniform and a devil’s face out there that Mike was trying very hard not to think about.
/> When he got moving his jacket rubbed against the metal of the cargo container; a high rasping sound that made him acutely aware of the quiet. There was no other noise but the crunch of snow underfoot, and the soft wheeze of his breathing.
Now what, Mikey?
His policeman’s training had prepared him for most of what he’d encounter out on the streets, but he wasn’t ready for this. “Zombie Icemen Take Manhattan” might be a great idea for a popcorn movie, but Mike didn’t fancy it much as a lifestyle choice. He wasn’t about to allow himself to be cast in the role of “Anonymous Victim number one.” He had little option but to head for the fastest way out of the docks.
At least that way I might have some chance of survival. If I stay here I’ll be dead in twenty minutes.
The containers loomed over him. They were still piled three and four high in this corner of the dock, hundreds of them, all empty, waiting for the good times to come back; the days when boats jostled for position on every dock. Those days were so long ago that many of the containers were little more than rusted hulks, leaving red runnels of paint flecks and rust on Mike’s hands when he had to lean against them to maintain his balance on the increasingly slippery ground.
He kept left as he went, trying to find a way through the maze, but with little success. When he found a pair of footprints on the ground ahead of him his heart sank.
I’m going in circles.
Then another thought struck him.
He bent to look at the prints. He wore trainers. These prints were from heavy workmen’s boots, the deep tread clearly visible, freshly made in the otherwise virgin snow. They were also a couple of sizes bigger, the prints both wider and longer than any he would make.
There was somebody else out here with him.
Another survivor?
It could be one of Johnson’s men, taking refuge in the same way that Mike had. He was pretty sure a good half-dozen of them had made it out of the warehouse. None of them had been dressed for blizzard conditions. They’d be in pretty much the same straits as Mike himself.
At first he considered calling out, but at the last moment held his tongue.
Night of the Wendigo Page 10
