He’d been up here when he was a kid. He had been reprimanded by his mother for being hyperactive, running among and between the sightseers, pretending alternatively to be either Kong, or one of the planes trying to shoot him down.
The planes would never have found the ape if the weather had been like this.
He took a look out over the city, but there was nothing to be seen but the swirling wrath of the storm.
He’d got as much help from the wind as he would get. He turned his shoulder into it. He pushed through the driving snow, heading for the west side of the building, hoping to find a way down, or at the very least, some respite from the wind.
He found the way down first, but not before passing three more frozen elevator shafts.
If anything, the wind was stronger here. He felt grateful for the scarves and goggles that protected his face.
He began to tire. He knew from experience that if he didn’t stop, he’d soon be past the point of safe return.
And if I’m out much longer, Eric will be dead by the time I get back.
The night gave him a break just as he was ready to turn round.
There was a swing door ahead of him, partially held open by a wedge of fresh snow.
He pulled it open just far enough to slip inside.
He realized he had entered one of the buildings emergency stairwells. Dim red lights led down, a steep chasm into a far, dark distance.
Ewan took the scarf away from his mouth.
“Hello!” he shouted.
His voice echoed back at him. There was no other noise except for the whistling of the wind beyond the door.
“We need help up here.”
Ewan listened.
Everything was suddenly very quiet, almost eerily so. Something was missing. It took him several seconds to realize what it was. There was no whistling of the wind outside. When he pushed back out through the swing door he saw why.
The Empire State Building stood four-square in the eye of the storm.
Less than a hundred feet on either side stood towering walls of dense swirling snow, but at the spot where Ewan now stood all was calm…almost serene.
He looked up. High overhead, like looking the wrong way down a telescope, stars twinkled inside the tube formed by the wall of snow.
Ewan suddenly felt very small; the sheer enormity and scale of the universe pressing down on him. Then his reporter’s instincts kicked in.
Eric’s got the camera. We may not be able to broadcast…but we can film.
Less than a minute later he was back at the elevators where he’d left the crew.
The lift doors were shut. When he put his hand against the door he felt a slight thrum.
The lift’s moving!
He tried to push the button to call the cab back, but the external controls were frozen solid and wouldn’t respond.
He stood there for a long minute, pummeling the button.
The lift never came.
It got colder.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
I’m being watched.
“Eric? Doug? Are you still here?”
He turned. He’d been right, he wasn’t alone. But it wasn’t one of his crew that he now faced.
“Who are you meant to be? Geronimo? Why don’t you…”
The words stuck in his throat as realization hit him.
The man facing him wore only a thin pair of black cotton drawstring trousers. His stick-thin upper torso was bared, ivory flesh with blue veins standing proud. He wore a high, eagle-feather headdress that sat like a crown and sent a long tail down his back.
That wasn’t what drew Ewan’s attention. The man’s face was drawn and haggard, a translucent blue-white like fine bone china, with a lipless mouth pulled back from cracked, jagged teeth. Frozen milk-white eyes seemed to look straight into Ewan’s heart.
The man made a circular motion with his arms. He slapped his chest with both hands. He repeated the movement until Ewan got it.
All of this is mine.
Ewan nodded.
The bloodless lips pulled up into a grim smile. The near-naked man pointed at Ewan, then out over the city.
Leave.
Ewan hit the railing of the viewing platform at a run.
The iron broke like brittle straws.
Like Kong before him, Ewan discovered that it was a long way down.
* * *
Cole Barter dreamed.
He was in his bedroom, not at his current home, but in the one he’d stayed in as a child. He was in the safe place, huddled under the bedcovers with a torch and a copy of Treasure Island, lost with Jim Hawkins among cut-throat pirates.
He liked this time; when the night closed in. There was only him and his stories.
Blind Pew stumped down the hill to the Admiral Benbow. Young Cole smiled. He knew what came next; the black spot, the sign of death.
He turned the page, and stopped. A noise came from downstairs, crackling, like damp logs on the fire.
He closed the book and stuck his head out from under the covers.
Nothing moved in the room. The shadows were still, the way shadows should be in a child’s room at night.
Young Cole shone his flashlight into the darker corners.
Light reflected off the gold-leaf paintwork on his model of the lunar landing module, but all was as it should be.
Then the noise came again, louder this time.
Cole stepped out of bed, wincing as his bare feet touched the cold floorboards.
He padded softly to the door and opened it, only a little.
He looked out. The hallway beyond lay in darkness.
“Mum?” Cole whispered.
The crackling came again from downstairs, accompanied by a soft moan.
Cole stepped out into the corridor. There were strict house rules about not leaving his room at night.
But the rules don’t say anything about any crackling and moaning.
His flashlight laid an oval of light on the floor ahead of him, flattening to a circle on the wall as he reached the staircase down to the living area.
“Mum?” he whispered again.
Another soft moan answered him.
He looked back along the corridor. The door to his room lay open, the night light gleaming like a beacon, showing him the way back to the known; the safe place.
What would Jim Hawkins do?
Young Cole knew the answer to that one.
He went down the stairs slowly, to avoid the creak he knew waited there.
As he turned the corner onto the small landing before the last flight down, he was bathed in a silver-blue flickering light. But this wasn’t enticing. Not in the slightest; this spoke of cold and solitude, of the endless spaces between the stars.
The crackling noise came again, louder than ever.
“Who’s there?” Cole said, his voice small and frightened.
“Come down, son,” a rasping voice replied. “I’ve got something for you. A present. You like presents, don’t you Cole?”
“Dad?” Cole said.
It hadn’t sounded like his father, but Dad liked playing games. Especially when he got back from his business trips…especially when he brought presents.
Cole almost skipped down the last flight of stairs, as excited as a puppy.
“I didn’t hear you come in. When did you get back? Where’s my present?”
Mum was in the room as well…but it wasn’t Cole’s father that held her in a cold embrace.
The man holding his mother, clasped tight, chest to chest, wore only a thin pair of black cotton drawstring trousers. His stick-thin upper torso was bared, ivory flesh with blue veins standing proud. He wore a high, eagle-feather headdress that sat like a crown and sent a long tail down his back.
That wasn’t what drew Cole’s attention. The man’s face looked drawn and haggard, a translucent blue-white like fine bone china, with a lipless mouth pulled back from cracked, jagged teeth. Frozen milk-white e
yes seemed to look straight into his heart.
Beyond, outside the large picture window, the normally sunny view over the farmland beyond seemed to be a frozen desert of twinkling white. A filigree of frost drew itself over the window, slowly obscuring the view.
Only then did Cole notice his mother. The white man held her close, his right hand round her waist. With his left he stroked the woman’s neck, softly, the way Dad did when he got back from a long trip. The crackling Cole had heard was his mother’s flesh, freezing under the icy embrace.
Cole jumped down the last of the stairs and leapt across the room.
“You leave my mum alone,” he screamed. “You’re not my dad.”
He raised his free hand to strike the white man.
Quick as thought, the man grasped Cole’s hand, left palm to left palm. Cold shot through Cole like electricity.
“Soon,” the white man whispered. “Very soon, you will be mine.”
Down in the basement under the furnace, an older Cole Barter woke, screaming. It felt like someone had driven a nail into his flesh.
There, on the palm of his left hand, bloomed an inch wide, black, frost-bitten boil that burned worse than any sunburn.
* * *
Mina and Jackie stood in the flaming ruin of the bar. The whole wall above the three burnt bodies was now well ablaze. They were forced to stand back as the ceiling caught.
“Freeze or burn? What’s it to be?” Mina asked.
“I’ll take my chances outside,” Jackie replied.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mina said, stuffing shotgun cartridges into her pockets. “I don’t want to be anywhere near any naked flames, not with you being soaked in gasoline.”
Jackie gingerly removed a broken bottle from her pocket.
“Do you have any cocktails left?” Mina asked.
Jackie patted her opposite pocket.
“This one is still intact.”
Mina nodded grimly.
“And I’ve got two. Along with the shotgun, we should have at least a fighting chance. Are you okay to walk?”
Jackie leaned on her injured leg.
She winced, but the leg held her weight.
“I think so,” she said. “As long as I don’t have to walk too far. Where are we going?”
“Out of here, quickly,” Mina replied, dragging Jackie towards the stairs.
Behind them the flames reached the bar. Liquor bottles popped in small explosions before adding to the conflagration.
Mina reached the stairs first. Only the bottom two were visible in the flickering light from the fire behind them. The way up the narrow stairwell lay in deep blackness.
“I’ll go first,” she said. “Watch our backs. If you see anything, scream.”
“I’m getting good at that,” Jackie said with a rueful grin.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Mina replied, smiling back. “Let me know if you need more practice and I’ll see what I can do.”
Mina put a foot on the bottom stair.
Something moved in the dark above them.
The outside door swung shut with a clatter. Mina fired a blast from the shotgun up the stairwell. It boomed and echoed around them.
All went quiet.
“For Christ’s sake, Mina,” Mike shouted down, “Is that any way to treat your rescuer?”
* * *
Mike stood to one side, flamethrower at the ready, as the two women came up the stairs.
When she reached him Mina gave him a quick peck on the cheek. She nodded at the weapon in his hand.
“You won’t need that just yet,” she said. “We’ve got the hot fire part covered.”
Down the stairwell there was an orange glow and the pop of bottles exploding.
“Have you been getting into fights again, sweet-heart?” Mike said.
“Only a small one,” Mina replied. “The place is still standing…mostly.”
“The Lieutenant’s going to be pissed. This was his favorite bar.”
“It was nothing special. No more than okay” Jackie Donnelly said as she passed him. “The atmosphere was cold, the company chilly.”
“It just needed warming up a little,” Mina added.
“Just my luck,” Mike said. “I get stuck in a snowstorm with two women, and I get the mouthy ones.”
“Is there any other kind?” Jackie said.
I might not understand women, Mike thought, but didn’t say. But even I know better than to try and answer that one.
Five minutes later they were all in the front seats of the ambulance. The women were getting acquainted with Tom’s Scotch coffee, and found it greatly to their liking.
“Where are we going tonight, ladies?” Mike asked. “Kaminski chauffeur and escort services are at your disposal.”
“Well,” Mina said, “Seeing as we got dressed up special like, I thought we might try the Ritz tonight.”
“I don’t have a tie,” Mike said.
“That’s okay,” Jackie replied quietly. “I don’t think I’m up to dancing…whether cheek to cheek or otherwise.”
Jackie was as white as a sheet. She looked like she might keel over at any moment.
“Shit. Your leg. I forgot all about it,” Mina said.
She turned to Mike.
“She needs a doctor.”
“The hospital’s way across town. We’ll never make it in this weather.”
Mina nodded.
“Take us to the morgue,” she said. “It’s got its own power and communications system. We could call up the cavalry from there.”
“Okay. Home base it is.”
Jackie had already crawled into the back of the ambulance. Mike cranked the heating all the way up as the woman pulled down the sealskin leggings.
“Eyes front, big boy,” Mina said. She moved to climb into the back, but Mike stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he said softly.
“All better now that you’re here,” she replied. “Just get us to the morgue. I need a cuddle, but I’d rather get out of this costume first.”
“That’s all the incentive I need,” Mike said. He put the ambulance into gear and headed off slowly up the road.
The snow seemed less heavy now. He could see the looming shapes of the buildings around him.
“Hey, it could be slowing down,” he shouted.
Mina didn’t reply, but he heard her swear under her breath.
“Her leg? How bad is it,” he said.
“You don’t want to know. Just give me some quiet for ten minutes. I need to work on it.”
He went back to watching the road. He’d been right; the snow was easing. He could see the shapes of the buildings on both sides of the road, like huge standing stones, and the white molded domes of covered cars, scattered like burial mounds around the ceremonial stones.
Steady boy, he reminded himself. Don’t let the imagination get carried away. This night is weird enough already.
Mina came up front.
“I gave her a shot for the pain. She’ll be out for a while.”
“It’s bad?”
Mina nodded and took a long slug straight out of Old Tom’s flask.
“Worst case of frostbite I’ve ever seen.”
“What happened?” Mike said softly.
“You won’t believe me,” she said.
“I’ve seen the MBC broadcasts,” he replied. “Did you meet one of the Popsicles?”
“More than one,” Mina replied.
She shivered.
While Mike drove through the deathly quiet streets, Mina told him what had gone down in the bar. After that Mike brought her up to date with events on the dockside.
“Shit, Mike, what’s happened here?”
Mike shook his head.
“I don’t know. It’s got something to do with the bodies they brought up from the dig on the dock…maybe we’ll find some clues if you re-examine them?”
Mina struggled inside the sealskin jacket.
“Anything in there I could be helping you with?” Mike asked.
Mina smiled thinly.
Well, it’s a start.
She came up with her lighter and a cheroot.
“Hey. This is a city vehicle. You’ll be infringing on my personal health zone.”
“I’ll do more than just infringe it if you don’t just shut up and drive,” she said. “I’ll stomp all over it.”
This time her smile was broader, not forced. She lit up the cheroot.
Mike pretended to cough.
“I can open the window?” she said.
“I’d rather stay alive.”
“You’d better. I’ve got plans for your ‘personal health zone’ later.”
Despite the cold, there was a place inside Mike that felt warm for the first time that night.
* * *
Cole Barter was in agony. The blister on his hand had risen to the size of a squashed golf ball, grey, slimy, and squishy to the touch.
It felt as if someone had dipped his hand in molten lead.
Christ, that hurts.
He threw another bucket of coal on the fire. He got the journal out of his satchel once more, hoping that reading might make him forget the pain, for a while at least.
The perceived control of the prevailing weather is obviously a well thought out psychological ploy, honed in previous attempts. And yet, there is no mention of it in any of the folk tales and oral traditions that we have researched so far. It may be that we are seeing the manifestation of a weather cult, an ancient mystery tradition to rival the Greek harvest cults or the river worship of the Euphrates delta. I must discover how the shaman viewed the world. It is obvious from the journals that the heart is the key. I am more determined than ever. I will do it tonight.
Cole was brought out of his reading by a lance of pain in his hand. He dropped the journal and shoved the hand under his right armpit, whimpering like a frightened puppy.
Night of the Wendigo Page 16
