Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  She beat at his arm and chest, clawed at his face. He seemed utterly unconcerned. A smile spread over his twisted features as his fingers squeezed ever tighter. Winona’s eyes bulged while she gasped for air and, a few beats later, her arms ceased their manic thrashing, suddenly slack and unmoving.

  For whatever reason, this freak show had given me a free pass, but it didn’t appear Winona would be afforded the same chance. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a speedloader—a circular metal plate with six rounds preloaded in position. I flipped out my revolver’s cylinder, slammed down on the ejector rod—letting the spent brass rain down—slid home the fresh rounds, then pushed the cylinder shut, locking it in place with my thumb.

  I leveled my pistol, which was a damn bit harder than it should’ve been, and aimed for the Wendigo’s upraised arm. I calmed my breathing—Winona didn’t have long, but a shitty shot could just as easily kill her, so a few extra seconds of concentration was worth the cost. I lined up the pistol barrel, sighting in along the top, then pulled the trigger once. There was a nearly inaudible click, followed by a flare of light and a pop like a firecracker exploding. Winona plunged to the ground, suddenly free from the death grip.

  The round had taken the Wendigo just below the bicep, and now the son of a bitch’s arm swung lazily back and forth, dangling in place by a thin tether of gritty sinew.

  I swiveled my pistol inward by a couple of inches, preparing to pump a few more rounds into his chest and guts—maybe I could even manage a head shot. The dickbasket probably wouldn’t be able to heal that. I was lining up the second shot when Kong appeared in my peripheries, a few feet out from the Wendigo, crowding into my field of fire.

  Except Kong didn’t really look a whole helluva lot like Kong, not anymore. The basic features were kinda, sorta the same, but this new, upgraded version of Kong was easily three feet bigger—had to be nearly twelve feet tall—and he’d put on a couple hundred pounds, easy. Not to mention his hair had turned the color of a nosebleed, his eyes were glowing cigarette-cherry-red, and he’d sprouted thick spikes of gleaming black bone all along the outside of his hands, arms, and shoulders. Guy looked like he’d just come off the set of Mad Max … just imagine the role of Immortan Joe as played by Bigfoot.

  Super-Kong the Terrible lashed out with a massive kung fu chop, but the Wendigo moved like a greased-up pig on a skateboard, throwing his one good arm up into a defensive block. Fast as the Wendigo was, however, Kong was faster and a helluva lot stronger. Kong’s blow crashed into the Wendigo’s arm, breaking that puppy down shotgun style with contemptuous ease. There was a flurry of strikes as Kong laid a savage beat down on the pale usurper—

  I caught a glimpse of Winona’s face as she wheezed and massaged at her throat. Her eyes were wide with terror, and the terror wasn’t caused by the pale-faced Wendigo taking the ass-whooping of all ass-whoopings. It was caused by the red, beastly thing her father had become. Her eyes glinted with a spark of fearful recognition.

  After a solid thirty seconds of pure savagery, the Wendigo broke contact, stealing back a few paces, one bent and broken arm clutched to his chest, the other twisting at his side. Green-black blood marred nearly every inch of his flesh and hide; looked like he’d just gone fifteen rounds with a friggin’ wood chipper.

  Super-Kong threw his head back and roared, the sound shaking leaves from the trees, as he beat on his chest in the most apely display of badassery I’d ever seen. The Wendigo obviously agreed with me, since he didn’t hesitate for more than a short eyeblink—he became a ghostly blur, turning and loping away at full speed.

  The Wendigo sprinted toward the trailer, paused just long enough to drag his claws across the throat of the dumpy driver I’d knocked out cold, then disappeared into the night, invisible the moment he passed into the tree line.

  Super Kong regarded Winona and I for a long, uneasy beat, his glowing-red gaze shifting back and forth between us, as if he was trying to remember us but couldn’t. Not quite. Finally he lifted his face to the sky, issued another tree-shaking bellow, then pivoted and bound off into the dark, following the same path the Wendigo had taken.

  Winona wasted even less time than the Wendigo had. She pushed herself to her feet and hustled toward me, her lanky legs covering the distance in no time at all. She regarded me solemnly, her shoulders knotted with tension, her face screwed up in a grimace of pain and fear. “Can you walk?” she asked without preamble.

  I nodded and held out a hand so she could help me to my feet. She hauled me upright and carefully held me by the arm as I tested my balance. A little shaky on my legs, but I could move.

  “We need to leave. Now,” she said, completely glossing over the whole my-father-transformed-into-a-raging-doom-beast thing.

  “Hold the phone. How’s about you tell me what in the nine-hells that red-doom-beast was? Or maybe you’d care to tell me where you learned to fight like that? I thought you Bigfoot folk were people of peace and all that jazz.”

  “The Chiye-tanka are people of peace. We hold no ill will toward any and seek the harm of none. This does not mean we do not stand ready for war. But we have no time for this—we must go.”

  “When we get outta here,” I said, offering her a level stare, “you’re gonna start talking, you understand?”

  She shifted back and forth on her bulky legs, shoulders swaying as she moved. “Very well. But later. The guards …” She swept a hand toward the trailer and the dispatched Chiye-tanka littering the forest floor.

  “Yeah. I know we gotta split before these assholes wake back up, but we need a few things first.” I pointed toward the bumper I’d sheared off the panel van. “You pry off that license plate—I’m gonna check the corpse and the motorhome.”

  She regarded me as if I were a madman spouting gibberish. “But the guards,” she said again, as though that should obviously convince me of the need to leave.

  “Stop wasting time,” I snapped, stepping toward the corpse. I halted and looked back over my shoulder. “You asked for my help—I need leads. That license plate is a lead, and so is that corpse. Now do what I say.”

  I stomped over to the corpse, not bothering to see if Winona complied.

  The Wendigo had done a number on the driver, even in passing. A quartet of thick slashes zagged across his neck, deep enough to nearly decapitate him. The wounds were red and angry and ugly. Maybe this guy deserved the death sentence—I didn’t know for sure—but even I wouldn’t have wished that on him. But, there never really is a good way to die, I guess, and at least this had been quick.

  I faltered for a second, averting my gaze. This has to be done, I reminded myself. I took a deep breath and held it tight so I wouldn’t have to smell the coppery blood or the scent of voided bowels, then bent over and rummaged through his pockets. The guy had a well-worn wallet with some cash and an ID, one of those magnetic keycards for a hotel, and a cheap black throwaway cell phone. The prepaid kind you can snag at any Walmart. I hastily pocketed the items and moved away from the corpse, letting out my pent-up breath, taking a sweet drag of fresh mountain air.

  I headed over to the motorhome, yanked open the shitty screen door, and pushed my way inside. I immediately regretted not holding my breath for this leg of the search, too. The interior was neat enough, but man did it reek: the sour-sweet stink of unwashed bodies, the potent scent of septic waste, and the musky, wet-dog smell you sometimes catch at the zoo. Only here the odor was confined, condensed, and magnified by the tight space. It was enough to make me gag, though I kept the contents of my stomach on the inside where they belonged.

  All the way in the back was a sprawling pallet composed of a few blankets, a bearskin pelt—just like I’d seen back in the cave with Kong and Winona—and a handful of piney boughs laid out across the top. Probably where the Bigfoot guards slept. There was a small, relatively clean kitchenette and a miniscule faux-wood desk with an office chair. The carpeting had been torn out, and a variety of steel rings, attached to thick cha
ins with hand and foot restraints, had been set into the floor. Seeing those chains told me that the three human captives I’d seen tonight weren’t the first—this set up was for an ongoing and fairly sophisticated operation.

  First, I went up front to the driver’s seat and scoured the glove box, searching for a vehicle registration or insurance. There was a pistol—a loaded Saturday-night special with an open box of bullets—but no paperwork. I slammed the glove box shut and moved back to the desk, pulling open the drawers.

  A few pencils and pens, another disposable cell phone—an identical make and model to the one I’d pulled off the corpse—a couple of blank yellow legal pads, and a file folder with a few spreadsheet printouts. I flipped through the papers, just a quick, cursory scan. The pages were chock-full of numbers and dates, but there were no explanatory notes anywhere to be seen. Still, it looked promising. I’d scrutinize it more thoroughly when I had more time on my hands.

  Folder in hand, I strode out of the motorhome to find Winona waiting at the entrance, her eyes scanning the night, constantly making a circuit of the three guards incapacitated on the ground.

  “Do you have your leads?” she asked, voice low, unpleased.

  “Yeah,” I said. Before I could say anything else, she scooped me up in her arms—this time no asking and no warning—and bolted from the scene, back to the direction we’d come from.

  SEVEN:

  Calling in the Cavalry

  I was back in the Bigfoot cave and bored out of my skull as I watched Winona meditate. She sat cross-legged on a bearskin pelt, her face blank and tranquil, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and steady like the ebb and flow of an ocean tide. She wasn’t asleep, even though she sorta looked like it, even sitting up. She was scanning for any sign of her raging monster-machine father, Kong. She’d been at it for close to an hour now, with only a few brief pauses to tell me she’d found nothing. Since she was occupied and, thus, completely unhelpful, I resigned myself to coming up with something that remotely resembled a game plan.

  This whole thing was a friggin’ mess, and figuring out how to clean it up was like trying to figure out how to pick up a turd: no matter which end you grabbed, you still ended up with shit on your hands. And since I was stuck in a friggin’ cave with absolutely zero cell reception, there was only one thing I could think to do.

  I snagged an earthen bowl as big as a large cook pot and took it over to an uneven rock ledge protruding from one of the walls. I placed the bowl at the base of the natural bench and filled that puppy up with ice-cold water from one of the massive jugs which passed as a Bigfoot mug. I wrestled my feet free from my boots and socks—the cool cave air felt damn good on my bare skin, though the stone floor was so cold it almost seemed hot. I quickly hopped onto the low rock shelf and, without giving myself time to think, plunged my toesy-woseies right into the pot of frigid liquid.

  The water was so ice-cold, my breath hitched in my chest, but I ignored the sensation and leaned up against the cave wall, closing my eyes even as I opened myself to a minute flow of Vis—my batteries were running on low, but this, at least, I could handle. Slowly I let go of my fear and anxiety, clearing my mind, feeding all those unhelpful thoughts and emotions into the fires of the Vis as I released a weave of water and will, boring deeper inside myself as I sought to connect with my inner man.

  And by “inner man,” I mean Cassius Aquinas, the shit-talking water-elemental who lived inside my head, permanently bound to my subconscious mind by the Vis.

  A picture took form in the emptiness, though this place was a helluva lot more real than any mere picture. This was the place Cassius called home, and when I was visiting, it was as real as any physical location on Earth. Plush carpet, dark wood wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. A padded leather chaise sat against one wall, while a hulking desk sat against another. An antique globe, which also served as a flip open liquor cabinet, rested between a pair of burnt-leather club chairs. On the wall in front of the paired chairs hung a ginormous wall-mounted flat screen, which I used to review memories when the need arose.

  Cassius was already lounging in one of the club chairs when I arrived, a glass of scotch held in one turquoise-tinged hand. Ignoring the blue skin, he looked just like me: an average guy of maybe forty, with short dark hair and an unremarkable height and build. He was dressed a helluva lot better than me, though. I was sporting a pair of travel-worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and my standard black leather jacket, which helped me stay below the radar by maintaining a subtle glamour, while also doubling as covert, modern-day body armor. By contrast, he was wearing a pair of dark silk pajama bottoms and a plush navy blue bathrobe. Smug douchehole.

  “Don’t you look comfy?” I headed over to the empty chair and plopped down. A second later another glass of scotch appeared in his hand. He held it out as an offering. One which I gladly accepted. Since this place was only imaginary, he always had the absolute best alcohol—never had to skimp, because everything was always on hand and always free.

  “I figure with all the shit you’re dragging us into,” he said, “there probably isn’t much time left for me on this mortal coil.” He pressed the back of one hand to his forehead, a mock display of concern. “So I might as well live it up now while I can.” He smirked, raised his glass in salute, and took a quick pull.

  “Don’t be a drama queen,” I said, then took a long sip of my own. The scotch went down smooth and landed in my gut with a soft explosion of warmth which spread all the way up to my throat and out through my limbs. “This isn’t that bad. That shit with the Lich was worse than this. Arrested. Poisoned. Powerless. Way worse.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” His lips compressed into a tight line. “Did you see that sparkly tiara? Thing was packing heat, my friend. I have a bad feeling about this one. Like this is the tip of an iceberg and everything’s all downhill from here.”

  I nodded my agreement, then took another drink. “So where do we start?” I asked.

  He hooked a leg over an armrest and bobbed his foot for a moment. “I’d say we start by finding the Camino, driving our happy ass down to someplace with a warmer climate, and then hitting a few bars. Bars far, far away from Montana, the Hub, or anything that has even a whiff of the supernatural.”

  “This shit’s connected to everything else, Cassius, I’m sure of it. You remember future Seattle, right? If we don’t get ahead of this thing now, that’s what we have to look forward to.”

  He rolled his eyes and sat up, hunching forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “God, you’re such a goody-goody,” he mumbled, then fell quiet. “Alright, alright. Look, if we explore the tiara angle, that’s going to be the more dangerous option. At the least, it’ll mean a trip into the Hub. We’ll probably have to pick a fight, or several fights, with some nasty, mean-spirited dickheads to get any answers.”

  “Yeah,” I interjected, “but I bet it’s the quickest route to the bottom of this pile of crap. And hunting down leads on the tiara could pay big dividends. If we can get a bead on that shiny piece of head candy, we can figure out how to stop the Wendigo—assuming we can stop him—and it might also give us a link to the corrupt asshat in the Guild. I bet if we run a check with James, we’ll find the tiara should be locked up nice and tight in the Guild vault.”

  “Okay,” he said, “fair point. But tackling the human angle is easier. Think about it. What would motivate a monster like that Wendigo to do what basically amounts to bitch work for a bunch of humans? Whatever they’re doing must be big. And it’ll be a whole lot easier to cram a stick into the spokes of the human-experiment machine than it will be to go another round with the Wendigo. Plus, if we bust up the human side of the operation, this whole thing might just implode without us ever having to go Hub side. So we track down Doctor Hogg and see if we can find the other goon from the van. And let’s not forget about these three—”

  The flat screen on the far wall blink
ed to life, displaying an image of the three prisoners from the motorhome. They were dirty, tired, and scared. I could see fear and despair tattooed into every inch of ’em. Faces long and dejected, shoulders slumped in defeat, numb feet shuffling along lethargically. Fear, despair, and resignation. These folks knew they were going to die, knew they were walking to their demise, and knew there was nothing they could do to stop it.

  “If we’re gonna do something asinine and idiotically heroic,” Cassius said, staring at the dirty faces on the screen, “let’s at least do it for a good reason.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, okay. Hogg and the goon first.” The picture on the screen shimmered for a moment, replaced by the meager clues we’d managed to capture from our dust-up with the Wendigo and his boys. First, was the dead driver’s ID.

  I’d already gone through the wallet. There was some cash—a couple of twenties, a few fives, and a handful of crumpled ones—all of which I pocketed for my trouble. The ID was the only solid clue there, and even that was about as worthless as wings on a fish. His driver’s license was issued by the fine state of Washington, so all the ID gave us was a name, Cliff Bradford, and a dead-end Washington address.

  “It’s useless to us,” Cassius said, as though reading my thoughts, “but Ferraro could do something with that info. With her help, we could walk right into the sheriff’s office and run a check on Cliff Bradford and on the license plate we ripped off the panel van. She could trace those cell phones you found, too. They’re burners, but it might turn up something.”

  Nicole Ferraro was an FBI agent who’d helped me out with the Lich case. She was a hard charger who was smart, capable, and well connected. If I brought her in on this, not only would I have an extra gun in my corner, but I’d actually be able to utilize official government offices to get shit done. Way easier than going all secret-squirrel, trying to finagle everything through back-channel means.