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

by James Hunter

On the left sprawled a dilapidated structure, equal parts wood and red brick, which looked to be the mill proper. A big ol’ storage loft, made of rusted corrugated steel siding, clung to the right side of the mill. Next to that, connected by a thin copper pipe, was some kind of silo, three stories easy, with a smokestack protruding from its top like a curved hitchhiker’s thumb. Since I know approximately jack shit about mills, I couldn’t tell you what any of that equipment was for.

  But I can tell you this: the place was creepy with a capital C, and bear in mind I’ve been to places creepy enough to give Wes Craven uneasy dreams.

  The building sat in a depressed clearing, surrounded by towering trees on every side. The sun was out and shining overhead—only a handful of wispy clouds floated in the sky—yet the place dwelt in perpetual shadow. I mean, we’re not talking dark as night, but a blanket of dreary gloom definitely hung over everything, sapping the color and life right from the air, muting sounds, and radiating an aura of get-the-hell-off-my-lawn-you-damn-kids. A cursory glance of the property told me why.

  A cadre of totem poles surrounded the building, though these suckers weren’t your run of the mill totems. True, these bastards were superficially similar in style to their Native American counterparts, but they’d been carved with obscene and mystical creatures of Outworld. Multi-headed Hydras, with shimmering green scales and ruby eyes. Eyeless, tentacle clad horrors, from the inner regions of the Ether. Hideous Wyrms—massive creatures with slicing pincers and a thousand chitinous legs—the dusty gods of the Deep Downs.

  The ancient, mythological beasts depicted were all symbols of the spirit world, each of them physical manifestations of evil, and each was inscribed with ancient sigils of power. Sigils so old and nasty they set my teeth on edge just lookin’ at ’em. Made me want to bathe in a vat of hand sanitizer.

  I heard a sharp intake of breath from Winona, which told me she knew what we were looking at, too.

  “What am I missing?” Ferraro whispered, sensing the general mood and tasting the bad juju brushing up against us like a muggy New Orleans night.

  “See those pillars?” I waved toward the totems. “Someone’s used those things to punch a makeshift hole in reality. They’ve created a semi-permanent weak spot, so that the mill exists partly in our world and partly in some dark, shitty place either inside the Hub, or in a realm adjacent to the Hub.”

  “This is the magic of our People.” Winona rumbled, her muscles flexing, tightening, clenching. “The totems are sacred to the People and a treasure to the little brothers and sisters who still follow the old ways. Only Achak could have done such a thing. This …” She stopped, her breathing heavy. “This is against nature. Against all our ways. It is as perverse as the Kinslayer himself.” Instead of sounding angry or offended, she sounded sorrowful. “Another crime the Kinslayer must answer for,” she whispered.

  “Easy there.” I patted her arm. “We’ll scorch this place good and proper.”

  Ferraro quietly cleared her throat and, being the only real professional among us, politely pointed to the trio of Missoula county police cruisers parked in front of the mill. Four uniformed officers stood at intervals around the building. Undoubtedly there were a few more officers we couldn’t see, likely on the backside of the property.

  “I’m okay with burning this place down,” she said, “but maybe we should come up with some sort of plan first. ‘Let’s set it on fire’ works in some circles, but let’s keep in mind there are innocent people inside, not to mention valuable information. So how do we get in and what should we do about these dirty cops?”

  I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t want to kill these corrupt assfaces. They probably didn’t even know what was going on inside that mill. Sure, they were bad guys, and yes, they absolutely had some serious comeuppance heading their way. But the kinda punishment they deserved was not hot lead—it was a set of cold iron bracelets, some thick steel bars, and a tattooed cellmate named Huge-Hank. Ferraro’s office could handle a few dirty cops; generally, if the regular ol’ justice system can tackle an issue, I say let it.

  But we couldn’t sneak in unobserved, not with the front door locked up tight, and even if we could, I wasn’t too keen on leaving armed enemies at our six. The chances of taking them all out using less than lethal force without also starting a firefight was slim to nil. I glanced at the horror-movie mill and offered Ferraro a wicked smirk as a plan formed in my head.

  “I know just what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna scare these sons of bitches so bad they’re gonna be checking under their prison bunks until they die of old age. Make ’em leave without ever firing a shot. Here’s the plan …”

  THIRTEEN:

  Fright Fest

  You might not know this about me, but I’m a horror movie fanatic. If there’s a flick with a monster, a serial killer, a small platoon of brain-dead college kids “looking for a good time” in a haunted house, or anything with a “B” label on it, I’ve probably seen it. Doesn’t really make sense, me liking horror movies. With the asstacular, crazy-pants life I lead, it seems like watching a horror flick would be too much like taking my work home with me.

  But I love horror movies because they give me a chance to see my nightmares splashed up on a big screen, safely contained for my viewing entertainment. Nightmares on display for me to jump at in fear or laugh at in their sheer absurdity. There’s just some small comfort in being scared out of your britches while also being somewhere safe and secure. That shit’s cathartic, like going to a session with a shrink, except with more blood and screaming. Though maybe not that much more blood and screaming.

  So, I know my way around a good scare, and I knew the setup for a scary-ass creature feature when I saw one: Secluded woods deep in the middle of BFE, check. Old, creepy lumber mill, check. Illegal and nefarious goings-on perpetrated by a mad scientist, double check. Human-eating forest monster, you’d better believe it. Hell, this place had so many monster movie check marks, it’d hurt my hand to write ’em all out. And I was positive those Rube cops down there—stupid schmucks with more dollar signs in their eyes than common sense in their heads—felt that creep-factor too.

  “This is the most absurd plan in the history of plans,” Ferraro called over her shoulder as she monitored my six. “You’re absolutely certain you’re a professional fix-it man?” she whispered, half-seriously. “I honestly can’t believe you managed to evade me for almost four years. You drive an El Camino with a camper shell and your best plan of attack is to put on a high school haunted house.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist,” I replied softly, glancing back at her. “We’ll get to the shoot-’em-up part of the plan quick enough, Ricky-Recon. For now, just hold your hard-chargin’ horses, sit back, watch my tail, and see how a master works.” I cracked my knuckles for effect, because it seemed like the kinda thing to do.

  That earned me an eye-roll—one so colossal I feared the g-force might cause her eyes to fly from their sockets—and a disbelieving shake of her head. But then she went back to scanning the rear, occasionally stealing glances toward the mill.

  I opened myself to the Vis, letting its power flood into me and fill me up as I shoved my emotions and hurts away, letting them burn like kindling in the fires of Creation itself. My senses sharpened:

  The musky stench of the mill and the almost tangible evil reeking off the place was a pungent scent in my nose. Ferraro’s rock-steady heartbeat filled my ears like a backup drum beating out the time, followed by a murder of crows cawing in the distance, before taking wing and fluttering through the woods. The crows’ call tugged at my memory, but I pushed it away as unimportant. I focused on the mill, my eyes picking out the crumbling brickwork, rotten boards, and rusted metal, despite the distance and the poor lighting.

  I peeled back my mental defenses, opening my mind a fraction of an inch, and established a link with Winona. You ready to rock this shit, sister? I asked.

  I am ready, she sent. She was all sharp
focus and coiled tension, a rifle trigger squeezed to the point of release.

  Alright, I sent, first let’s set the mood.

  I held up my hands, arms swaying back and forth, my fingers moving and twitching as though I were throwing down some funky ol’ beat on the black and whites. Fine flows of air, slithered through the trees, leaves rustling in their wake. A soft moan settled over the clearing, the ominous sound of an approaching storm, or perhaps an approaching horror. I watched in satisfaction as the four officers, visible from our vantage point, shifted on weary feet, glancing around in nervous anticipation. This wind wasn’t natural, and they could sense it.

  That, my friends, is what they call atmosphere in the horror-show biz.

  With another small effort of will, I cut the flows of air—the wind died as suddenly as it’d started, ushering in an unnatural silence. In preparation for this little demonstration, I’d had Ferraro stack a small pile of baseball-sized rocks not far from me. I conjured a new flow, a braid of air, earth, and magnetic force, which scooped a handful of the stones up into a sling of Vis-wrought power. I swept my right arm out, and the stones responded in violent motion, streaking up and outward, scattering into the forest in every direction.

  A moment later, the unnerving silence hanging in the air shattered, torn apart by the thud, crash, and snap of tree branches breaking as my stone barrage touched down.

  The officers responded predictably enough. Pistols flew free of holsters, shotguns were raised to the ready. The officers spun almost as one, eyes frantically searching the woods for any sign of movement or some clue about what in the hell was going on. I could almost see the goosebumps standing up on their arms and the hair rising at the nape of their necks like a platoon of Marines at attention. I wanted to cackle in madman glee. Dance, puppets, dance on your strings … Bwahahaha!

  The squat white guy we’d followed up here—either officer Wisner or Stutzman, I wasn’t sure which—hefted his pistol. “If there’s anyone out there,” he yelled, a tremor in his voice, “you’d better get gone! This is an active police matter. So if you don’t stop dickin’ around, I swear I’ll run you in—and that’s if you’re lucky enough not to get a bellyful of lead.”

  Okay, Winona, I thought after my temporary evil-villain hysteria passed, give the big mouth a glimpse, just a second, got me?

  Understood, she replied.

  I watched the tree line near the big-talkin’ deputy, grinning like a friggin’ fool and feeling like some shithead kid up to no good on Halloween night.

  Officer Loudmouth’s eyes swept back and forth across the perimeter, never ceasing their frantic search. Winona, using her ridiculous Sasquatch speed, appeared like a wraith just at the edge of the tree line, but it wasn’t Winona as I knew her. She was little more than a hulking black shadow with glowing eyes the color of spilled blood. It was a simple—well, simple for her, anyway—illusion, and holy shit was it scary. I’d been expecting something along these lines, and seeing her still sent a wave of chills scampering along my spine.

  The guard’s anxious gaze passed back over the previously vacant spot—he jumped as he caught a glimpse of the Winona-shaped thing staring at him like he might be next on the menu. The officer froze, jaw dropped. After a long, slow delay, he finally glanced down, fumbling at the radio attached to his shoulder. When he looked back up, Winona was gone, vanished as though she’d never been.

  The terrified cop was hyperventilating now, shuffling toward his cruiser. He thumbed the button on his shoulder radio. “This is Stutzman, over. There’s something out here—I. Shit, it’s big. Fast as hell, over.”

  It was high time to crank their paranoia up another couple of notches. I let fly the last few stones I had while also blasting off a powerful wave of raw, unshaped force and will, letting the invisible and malformed working sweep out across the clearing. It wasn’t a proper construct, but with all that extra energy and interference in the air, their radios would work about as well Dish TV in a blizzard.

  “This is Rankle, over,” someone radioed. “I think I mighta …” I heard the crackle as the signal failed. My last round of stones crashed into the forest, sending out a cacophony of noise.

  Stutzman’s eyes grew to approximately the size of teacups, and none of his fellow officers seemed to be holding their composure much better. “Say again, over,” Stutzman hollered into his radio. “Rankle, repeat your last! I did not copy, over.”

  There was another crackle of static, followed by a brief snippet of speech: “I said … something … woods …” then the radio transmission fizzled completely.

  Ready for the coup de grace? I sent to Winona.

  Which one should I take? she asked, stern, serious.

  One of the guys from the back—make sure no one sees you.

  Oh, no one will see me, she said. I could hear glee and adrenaline through the link—I think she might’ve been secretly enjoying this.

  And Winona, make sure he squeals, but don’t hurt him too bad. Just put the fear into him, then put him out cold. You know how to do that, right?

  Yes, she paused, and in my mind, I could almost see a smile forming on her face. I’ve had practice. She sent a brief image: me standing with my back to her, my hands upraised as I talked to Kong, followed by a pair of hairy hands flashing out, colliding into the back of my skull.

  Har-har, guess everyone’s a friggin’ comedian these days.

  The connection fell silent, as did the clearing. All the officers down there seemed to instinctively know something was coming down the pipe. Each held their breath in anticipation, shoulders knotted, hands fidgeting on pistol grips.

  The quiet didn’t last long.

  It was abruptly punctuated by a long shriek of terror so pure it made me want to scream like a three-year-old girl. Then the sound cut off as though sliced by a knife blade, the quiet carrying a terrible sense of finality. If you didn’t know better, there was only one conclusion you could arrive at: someone had just met a very unfortunate end.

  “Screw this!” Stutzman hollered into his radio. “A new boat ain’t worth dying over.” He scurried toward his cruiser, the extra weight around his middle jiggling as he ran. There was a bustle of motion as all the remaining officers decided Stutzman had nailed it right on the head—that the extra money, or that new, shiny four-wheeler, wasn’t worth biting the big one for. Cruiser doors damn near sailed off their hinges as the officers scrambled to get inside their vehicles. Engines fired up with a dull roar, followed shortly by an exodus of dirty cops, the boys in blue gunning it for the exit and safety.

  There was a part of me that felt hugely satisfied at scaring the bad out of those asswads, but another part of me felt sick. Sick at the idea that those jokers could put on a uniform, swear to serve and protect innocent people, then give up and run away at the first sign of trouble. Look, I’m normally the person who commends pragmatic and anti-heroic acts of self-preservation—I’m forever a realist at heart, and heroics are exactly the kind of stupid bullshit that’ll get you killed. But if you put on a uniform and pledge yourself to the service of others … well, that shit means something.

  It was a crusty, soon-to-retire cop named Harvey who’d taught me that lesson not so long ago, and it’d been a lesson written out in blood. My mind flashed back to the last time I’d been stuck in police custody. Trapped in a small-town police station, without my powers, while a psychopathic, shapeshifting fear-monster hunted me down, murdering anyone unlucky enough to get in its way. I thought about those officers—led by Ferraro—who’d boldly stood in the way, giving that mean ol’ son of a bitch the finger while pumping it full of lead. I thought back to officer Harvey, who’d figuratively taken a bullet for me, because that’s what a cop was supposed to do.

  Well, good cops anyways, I thought as the last cruiser pulled onto the road and out of view. Those crap-sticks would get what was coming to ’em. Once everything settled, Ferraro would serve these jokers some well-deserved justice.


  “Fine,” Ferraro finally said, drawing up next to me. “I guess your ‘scare-them-silly tactic’”—she air quoted with one hand—“was less moronic than I thought.”

  I was a little flabbergasted. I never get compliments. Like ever. From anyone. I turned the words over in my mind for a moment, looking for some barb or attack. But after a moment of examination, I found they were genuine. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “Thank you,” I said slowly, carefully, waiting for the punchline to land. But it didn’t. How ’bout that shit?

  Winona’s bulky frame appeared just off to one side a second later, the sudden presence forcing a jump out of me, which I tried to brush off as readjusting my jacket. “Good work out there, Furry-Pants,” I said, then cleared my throat. “What’d you do with the cop?”

  She shrugged meaty shoulders. “Knocked him unconscious, handcuffed him, and discarded his weapon in a stream several miles away. He should be well in a few hours’ time.”

  “That’s top-shelf work right there,” I said, and meant it.

  Ferraro nodded her approval. “Now, if we’re done congratulating ourselves,” she said, “how about we get down to business, bust down that door, and find some answers?”

  “You’re the federal agent,” I replied. “So please, lead the way, Warrior Princess.”

  FOURTEEN:

  Little Brothers

  We stacked up against the outside of the mill door, Ferraro nearest the entryway, with me behind, pressing into her back. Winona—giant and hulking as ever—crouched on the opposite side of the entrance, attempting to be inconspicuous. Not working so well, but she was being a good sport about this military-style tactics business. I mean, I had combat training with the Marines and an extensive history with the Fist of the Staff—the special-operations, wet-works department of the Guild—not to mention a shit-ton of field experience. And Ferraro not only had her combat experience as a Marine officer, she was also, hands down, one of the most capable law enforcement agents I’d ever run across.