Night of the Wendigo

by William Meikle

  Mama Kaminski didn’t raise any fools.

  Instead he unholstered his gun again and moved forward.

  At the next crossroads, when the trail of footsteps went right, Mike went left, into an avenue with a covering of unbroken snow.

  There was a loud clang from behind him.

  Something heavy had just hit one of the crates. Mike looked around, just in time to see a dark shadow slip into the darkness just out of sight.

  He turned back to his path and ran once more, always trying to keep left.

  Several times he nearly lost his footing. Once he fell heavily, sending a reverberating boom up and down the alley.

  The fall didn’t slow him. Head down, he ran on, hoping at any moment to come out onto the open dock.

  He came up short when he found two sets of tracks ahead of him…his own and, overlaying them, the tread of the heavy work boots he’d seen earlier.

  There was no doubt about it now.

  He was lost in the corridors between the crates.

  And something tracked him.

  * * *

  Cole Barter was in hell.

  Something was far wrong. In the scenario he’d been building up in his mind people got abducted first. They only got turned into lifeless blocks of ice when their return went wrong somehow. The frozen wasteland through which he ran in a blind panic wasn’t supposed to be part of the equation.

  It looked ever more likely that his abduction theory wasn’t going to hold water. But that didn’t mean that something big wasn’t happening…and Cole Barter was right in the thick of it. Despite the cold, and through his fear, there was a spot of warmth inside him; he’d been busy with the digital camera. He had proof of something at least.

  They won’t be able to turn this down.

  As he ran, he reviewed the pictures he’d snapped so far.

  The first, as he ran out of the docks, was also one of the most graphic.

  He had been almost shepherded into one of the tall alleyways between warehouses, tripping and stumbling through frozen garbage and dead rats when he’d come across the thing that made him stop. The picture opportunity was just too good to miss, even with the blizzard close behind him.

  The big freeze had caught a hooker and one of her Johns by surprise and frozen them in the act.

  She was on her knees in front of the man, his dick in her hands. Cole’s picture caught the moment when the sympathetic vibration set up by the fleeing crowd caused the frozen flesh to fracture, the penis cracking open at the root as the hooker fell away sideways.

  The flash of the camera caught the John’s expression, pleasure, just turning to pain as the ice storm hit him.

  At least he didn’t live long enough to see the final outcome…he would probably have died anyway, just from shock.

  The second picture was less spectacular, but more poignant.

  It caught a little girl, no more than six years old, her face screaming out behind the passenger window of an SUV. Cole had started to look for something he could use to break the glass when he realized he was too late.

  She was already dead; hands frozen solidly in place, palms against the glass, eyes starting to go milky, but still showing the fear and terror that were the last thoughts in her young mind.

  Cole took the picture in the hope that, maybe, when this was all over, someone might see it and recognize the girl; might at least know what had happened to her.

  The third wasn’t a planned picture at all.

  Cole had the camera in his hand as he fled. The flash had gone off as he inadvertently pressed the trigger.

  The resulting picture showed a crowd of people fleeing through a snowstorm, lit only by the yellow headlights of the immobilized cars that they crushed past. Most of the people looked back over their shoulders, fear large in their eyes, as if some monster bore down on them from behind.

  Any one of those pictures would be enough to bring him some fame and fortune should he survive, but the fourth…that was the one that almost guaranteed a pay day.

  He’d been running, no goal in sight other than to keep ahead of the wall of snow, when he’d stumbled, been brought to his knees, then knocked all the way to the ground, lost in a forest of feet and legs as the crowd flowed around and over him.

  He cried out as a booted foot caught him on the jaw. He tried to stand and was immediately knocked over again.

  Cold grabbed at him, even through the heavy overcoat. He put his left hand out, palm down, on the ground, and pushed, but it slid away from him on a slimy patch of garbage overturned by the mob. He fell back to the ground, face forward.

  He couldn’t find the strength to get his legs underneath him. Booted feet trampled on his back each time he moved.

  Each effort to rise tired him out further. Somebody stood on his right ankle, the pain like a hot lance in his leg. He thought about lying down, giving up completely. A hand grabbed his arm and lifted him up. He looked up at his savior. It was the tall military man from the dockside.

  “Come if you’re coming,” he said.

  Cole clasped his arm just above the wrist and pulled himself up, using the tall man like a climbing pole. It seemed to take forever; like climbing a particularly tall tree, but finally he got a hand on the man’s shoulder and pulled himself to stand full upright.

  “Thanks,” Cole whispered as he stood. “I know you didn’t have to come back for me.”

  “We never leave our men behind,” the tall man said, smiling. “That’s something else I learned when I was being taught to be a thick, dimwitted fucktard only capable of obeying orders.”

  And that’s when it happened. A grey shape came from their left; knocking into them both and sending Cole back to the ground.

  He raised his hands, trying to defend himself, realized the camera was there, and instinctively took the picture.

  It captured the military gent and the binocular man grappling above him.

  The binocular man was no longer human. The pair of binoculars was frozen tight against his coat, which itself seemed to have been welded against his chest. His skin, where it could be seen, was grey-blue. Yellow car-lights reflected off the icy white of his eyes as he bent the military man’s neck backwards, mouth open just before teeth closed on the man’s throat.

  What the camera couldn’t show was what Cole would remember for the rest of his life; the ice visibly creeping through the military man’s veins; the anguish in the moan that escaped him as his throat was torn out, and the white emptiness that came into his gaze as his eyeballs froze and the last bit of humanity in him was frozen out.

  Cole had little recollection of how he’d got from there to where he was now—running through the streets of Manhattan with the last remnants of a fleeing mob.

  He vaguely remembered scrambling to his hands and knees, then to his feet, but there had been no rational thought in it, just blind panic and animal instinct. That, and his foresight in wearing the heavy clothing, was all that had kept him alive so far.

  But maybe not for much longer.

  He ran along a sidewalk flanked by tall brownstone townhouses. The wall of snow kept steady pace behind him.

  Cole knew that he’d be unable to run much farther…he felt tired, leg weary.

  He’d never been much of an athlete. A diet of beer and pizza over many years wasn’t the best preparation for speedy escapes.

  I have to find shelter. And fast.

  The trouble was, nowhere was safe, not from this bitter cold.

  Except somewhere really hot.

  He realized he had been seeing the answer for minutes now, but not taking in its significance. He’d run over several grates where the snow had melted on impact; grates that steamed, that were heated from below by old furnaces in basements.

  Cole stopped at the next one he came to, wasting vital seconds as he tried to lift the grate open. It refused to budge, held tight by a lock on the underside. He tried to kick it open before he realized he did more damage to his feet than he di
d to the grate.

  Snow flurried around him like angry bees as he staggered on to the next grate, then the one after that, the wall of snow getting ever closer behind him.

  All of the grates he tried were securely locked, resisting all of his efforts to open them, even when he stood directly on top of one and jumped up and down on the spot.

  Open. Open, you bastard!

  The metal of the grate either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care.

  He was alone now, the rest of the crowd had moved on far ahead. He’d burned his bridges…if the next grate didn’t open for him; the cold would take him.

  He stumbled along the sidewalk, the storm close on his heels.

  Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, he thought, over and over.

  Steam rose ahead of him. It was another grate.

  He took one last picture behind him using the camera…just for luck…and put it away deep in his coat pocket. He bent to the grate. He pulled at the handle. It gave, but only for an inch or so, metal squealing against metal.

  The snow fell heavier, so fast that he had to clean an area around the handle before he could have a second try.

  Move, fucker. Come on! Move!

  Slowly, inch by tortuous inch, the grate opened. The cold metal of the handle ate at his left hand, but Cole gripped tighter.

  Nearly there.

  Out of the corner of his eye Cole saw something come for him through the fog, a frozen thing, white as a sheet except for the spatters of ketchup and chocolate, mixed now with blood, smeared down the front of its jacket.

  “Come on, you fucker!” Cole shouted.

  With one last pull the grate came open.

  Cole threw himself down into blackness.

  The grate clattered shut behind him.

  He hit the cellar floor, hard.

  Unconscious now, he fell into an even deeper dark.

  * * *

  Mike Kaminski held his gun out in front of him as he walked, but the snow was falling thicker. He had little chance of seeing something, never mind hitting it.

  The footprints in the snow ahead of him were mostly covered by the fresh fall, so that he could no longer tell whether one or two people had walked there.

  He had long since lost count of the number of left turns he had made. The cold seemed to have numbed his brain. He could think of little more than putting one foot in front of the other, trudging towards a place he didn’t know, heading from a place he couldn’t remember.

  Something shifted in the snow ahead of him. His gun hand came up instinctively and he let off a shot. There was no sound of bullet on metal, so he was confident he’d hit something.

  He was proved right second later when he came across a pinker patch of snow. There was no blood, just small fragments of reddish pink ice scattered over an area of several square feet.

  Mike examined the snow closely.

  There was a fresh trail of footprints leading away, but no blood spatter to indicate how badly wounded his quarry might be.

  Mike followed the prints.

  He had no idea how to get out of his current predicament, but he was determined not to go without a fight.

  The footprints ahead of him were fresher now, less snow piled on top.

  I’m gaining on him.

  Mile smiled grimly. Ice crackled at the corners of his lips.

  He turned yet another left-hand corner…and found himself face to face with Brian Johnson.

  His old friend did not look to be in the best of health.

  The big man stood, head down staring at his feet. He had a gaping wound at his neck and another in his left forearm. The one at his neck might have been a gunshot wound, but the one in his arm looked suspiciously like a bite. Neither wound was bleeding.

  “Hello, BJ,” Mike said. “I’ve seen you looking better.”

  The big man’s head came up. A pair of solid white eyes stared back at Kaminski from a pale blue face. If there was any sense of recognition there Mike didn’t see it.

  “Stay where you are, Brian,” Mike called out. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

  The thing that Johnson had become shuffled forward.

  Mike saw with horror that it too had the black lips he’d seen on the cop who’d lunged at him, the same blind, cold stare.

  What the hell is this shit?

  He didn’t have time to think. He crouched in the textbook firing stance, trying to ignore the cold, trying to keep the barrel of the pistol pointing straight at his target.

  “Final warning, big man. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you keep coming.”

  It kept moving forward.

  Even then Mike almost left it too late…he had to force himself to pull the trigger.

  He fired, hitting the big man full in the chest.

  Shards of ice flew, sharp as glass, a large one catching Mike over the left eye.

  He felt blood pour, and was momentarily blinded.

  The big man didn’t even slow.

  Mike only had time for one more quick shot.

  He blew an icy chunk off the side of the thing’s head, then had no time to think as he was pulled into a cold bear hug, hands pinned to his sides.

  Teeth headed for his neck.

  Mike had to whip his head away fast.

  He tried a head-butt, then immediately regretted it.

  It felt like he’d knocked his head against a brick wall.

  Blood ran into his eyes from the earlier cut. Everything took on a red haze, a haze that grew dimmer with every second he was held in the tight grip.

  Now I really am going to die.

  He decided he wasn’t ready just yet.

  He kicked out with his feet, using both at once, like a swimmer’s butterfly stroke.

  Ice gave way, frozen flesh crumbling under his onslaught.

  But not enough.

  The cold crept insidiously into his ribs, trying to reach his heart. He was only just managing to keep his neck away from the thing’s mouth.

  Mike stared into the dead, white eyes of his attacker.

  “Brian,” he whispered, struggling to get the words out. “It’s Mikey. If you don’t put me down I’m going to kick your ass. And you can go home alone this time and explain to your mother.”

  But the big man was no longer home.

  The white marbles of the creature’s eyes stared back at Mike as the bear hug tightened.

  Mike’s kicking grew frantic, chunks of dead flesh and frozen clothing sloughing from around the creature’s knees.

  Grey crept in around the edges of his sight.

  “I’ll never forgive you for this, big man,” he whispered.

  “Look away, son,” a voice said to Mike’s right.

  The stubby muzzle of a sawn-off shotgun pressed against the temples of his attacker.

  Mike turned away, just as the boom rang in his ears.

  Brian Johnson’s head blew apart, red ice scattering and peppering Mike’s right cheek. Then he fell away sideways, frozen arms still locked around his waist.

  The impact of the ground soon sorted that out. The icy body broke and shattered, leaving Mike lying in a pile of pink slush.

  Through a film of blood Mike saw a figure loom over him, a stocky man wearing a huge overcoat, his face covered with wrappings of scarves.

  Mike tried to scuttle away, but the figure put out a hand.

  “Christ, son,” his rescuer said, his voice muffled by the scarves. “You look like shit. Come with me. We need to get you warmed up.”

  Mike managed to lift himself off the ground and, leaning heavily on the other man, allowed himself to be led away.

  He had one last look at what remained of his friend.

  A single cold, white eye looked back at him from out of the red ruin of the blasted skull.

  * * *

  The Woodsman got colder by the second.

  Jackie wished she’d worn some warmer clothing. She held a beer in her hand, but she’d stopped drinking it. What she really wante
d was coffee…about a gallon of it might be just about enough to warm the chill that had settled in the pit of her stomach.

  “Can’t you crank that heater up any higher Bob?” Mina asked.

  “Are you paying?”

  “Hey, I’m a customer,” Mina said. “I’m always right.”

  “That thing drinks oil like water,” the barman replied. “It’ll cost me a small fortune.”

  “You may not be around long enough to worry about it if you don’t get some heat in here,” Mina replied. “Am I right, Jackie?”

  Jackie didn’t answer. She stared at the big television screen trying to make sense of what she saw.

  A television crew was set up next to the Statue of Liberty, showing a view out over Manhattan. Or, what would be Manhattan if she could see it.

  A white blanket covered the city, a rolling, seething ball of snow, in an almost perfect dome, sitting under an otherwise clear sky.

  “That’s impossible,” she whispered.

  “And yet, it’s there,” Mina replied.

  “It looks like one of those snow scenes that kids love,” Jackie said. “You know the ones I mean? The little house inside the glass, the one that snows when you shake it?”

  “Well, somebody just gave the island one hell of a shaking,” Mina said.

  Jackie couldn’t look away from the television.

  “It’s not natural.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Bob said. “When was the last time the only customers I had were a pair of broads?”

  “Pinch yourself, Bob,” Mina said. “It might just be a dream.”

  “No,” Bob replied, “In my dreams, the women are always naked…say you couldn’t…?”

  One look from Mina was enough to silence him.

  Jackie was still staring at the television.

  The picture cut back to the newsreader in the studio. She now wore a quilted ski-jacket several sizes too big for her and a knitted cap with the word “Jets” badly stitched into it.

  “We don’t know how much longer we can stay on the air,” she said. “It is getting increasingly cold here, but we’ll keep broadcasting as long as we are able as this bewildering disaster unfolds. We have finally managed to make contact with several crews out in the city, and we go live now to the Empire State Building and Ewan Toms. Ewan, what’s the situation there?”