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North Maine Woods, T17, R12
Dwain Dowd broke a trail through the deep snow. The walking would have been easier if he stayed on the woods roads but he wanted to avoid being seen by any people who might be hunting for him. There were snowmobile tracks everywhere and on several occasions a low-flying airplane passed overhead. He sensed his location and was determined to reach it before the men surrounding the mountains killed him.
The night sky was clear of clouds and the temperature plummeted to thirty below zero, but the boy was ambivalent to it. For all that the frozen environment affected him it may as well have been mid-July.
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Rocky Mountain
The Wendigo remained near the top of the mountain, making sure that he stayed beneath the cover of the large evergreen trees that covered the lower slope. A short time ago he had heard something—a sound not of the forest—and had come to this side of the incline to investigate.
His eyesight was superior to that of a human and he was able to see in the darkness better than a man wearing a night-vision device. He found a place that allowed him to observe a game trail while remaining hidden. Men, he knew, were like water; they always took the path of least resistance. If they were coming to the summit, they’d most likely pass his hide.
He’d been squatting motionless for thirty minutes when he saw them coming from below. The lead gunman wore night-vision goggles and moved through the deep snow with an ease that told the Wendigo he was familiar with the woods.
The Wendigo waited for the searchers. He hadn’t seen the Indian warden, but was certain that if he wasn’t with them he was close by. All it took was patience and they would come to him.
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John stayed back and watched the sniper in the point position creep slowly up the incline. The point’s attention was more on keeping on his feet than on observing the area around him. John’s head was turned, checking the positions of the rest of the team when he heard a brief shout. He turned in time to see the point man’s feet disappear into the snow-laden boughs of a large evergreen. A dark cloud surrounded the tree and a sound that resembled a thunder clap brought snow cascading around him. John quickly aimed his rifle up the slope, expecting an attack from the tree.
“What the fuck happened?” called a voice to John’s rear.
John turned to tell the trooper to shut up. Before he could speak there was another rumble of thunder and the Wendigo charged. Behind him, the terrified policeman dropped to the ground. John took his rifle off safe and pointed it at the dark cloud that raced down the slope. He aimed at the center of the cloud and fired. He knew he’d scored a hit when he was knocked off his feet by a primordial shriek that he was sure had punctured his ear drums. He ejected the spent cartridge and loaded a second silver bullet. In the dark it was almost impossible for him to discern anything. He wished he had a pair of night-vision goggles. He’d requested a pair when they’d set out, but was told they had only enough for the SWAT team members. He looked for the SWAT officer and couldn’t find him. John hoped that he was only lost in the dark and not taken by the Wendigo.
John slowly raised himself up into a crouch and began to slide backward, all the while keeping his profile below that of a fallen tree.
A shot rang out and John saw the remaining three SWAT snipers hiding behind trees. One of them pointed to a position directly in front of John. “I got a location on him,” the sniper called. He peered through his scope and stepped away from the tree for a clear shot. He didn’t get it off. As soon as he was in the open, the dark cloud enveloped him and he screamed. As fast as it had descended, the cloud receded up the slope. The SWAT officer was on his feet and staring at John. A large section of his neck had been ripped away, sending a stream of pulsing blood shooting from a severed carotid artery. His eyes were wide in disbelief and he toppled forward into the snow.
“Stay under cover!” John ordered the remaining two snipers.
John began to dig a small tunnel beneath the dead tree, hoping to create enough clearance for him to slide under and possibly get off a shot or two. “Keep me covered,” he called to the men behind him.
“Gotcha,” came the reply.
John burrowed under the tree and when he hit frozen ground, scooped out a fighting hole in the snow until he was under the fallen beech and had an opening on the far side. He took a moment to brush off his rifle and checking that all of its operational parts were free and clear of anything that may cause it to malfunction. He peered upward, ignoring his telescopic sight, which he believed was useless under the circumstances. The telescope attached to his rifle with a mount that allowed him to aim using the rifle’s sights. He waited, watching for any movement up the grade.
Suddenly the wind picked up, sending a gust of air so frigid that the trees on the slope cracked and split. The dark cloud disappeared into the night, driving a wall of drifting snow before it. Thunder rolled again and John raised his head. The Wendigo stood in front of a rock outcrop. John immediately shifted his aim and fired. The sound of his rifle fire was barely discernible against the crash of thunder and then the Wendigo was gone.
Afraid of being trapped in his impromptu hide, John scurried back out of the burrow. He crouched behind the tree and cursed when the air warmed and freezing rain engulfed the mountain, coating everything, man, beast, and flora, in a heavy layer of ice.
After several minutes, during which he became thoroughly soaked, John took a chance and stood up. The remaining members of the search party gathered around him. Everyone had their coats open and their rifles inside against their bodies, protecting them from the elements.
The sergeant in charge of the team blinked against the lashing rain. “What the fuck was that?”
“Our quarry.”
“Jesus, I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”
“Let’s hope that you never see it again.”
“So I guess we carry our dead down to the camp.”
John looked around and shook his head. “You can look if you want.” John pointed upslope at the tree from which the Wendigo attacked. “but you won’t find him.” John stared into the black sky, the freezing rain hitting his face like frozen bee-bees. This is gonna make things tough. There’s gonna be a crust over everything and we’ll never get close to him.
51
Warden’s Cabin
John Bear led the survivors of the search for the Wendigo into the open area around the warden cabin and saw Michaud standing on the steps. He walked to the foot of the stairs and without saying a word, nodded at his superior officer. Michaud turned and walked inside and John followed.
Once inside, Michaud inquired, “What happened?”
“Don’t know what to tell you other than we got ambushed.”
“Ambushed?”
“Somehow or another it knew we were coming.”
“It’s darker than the inside of a reefer out there—you think he’s got night vision equipment?”
John walked to the counter, picked up a coffee mug, and looked inside to see how clean it was. “Don’t have a clue, Lieutenant. I doubt it’d need it though—”
Michaud interrupted, “John, don’t give me that supernatural power crap, okay? We need to understand what we’re up against.”
“What we’re up against, sir, is something that most likely possesses that supernatural crap and is very proficient in using it.”
Michaud stood and watched John as he walked to the stove, picked up the coffee pot, and filled his mug. “Okay, don’t get touchy. I’m going to have to explain the deaths of three officers to Augusta. That’s the only reason they’ll approve the manpower and money this is costing and if I tell them about some Algonquin shaman—”
“Manitou,” John corrected him.
“Manitou…. They’re gonna think we’ve all been out in the cold so long that we’re delusional.”
John sat at the table and, for several seconds, hung his head ove
r the mug of coffee, inhaling the aroma of the hot beverage. As his body warmed he felt a debilitating exhaustion. When Michaud sat across from him, he raised his head and looked at his superior officer.
“John, you been burning the candle at both ends since you got this case; I want you to take some downtime. Spend today at base camp. We’ve got the mountain surrounded and I’ll send out a couple of patrols at day break.”
“Lieutenant, all sending men out there will do is get more of them killed. In fact, it’ll just look at it as a replacement of supplies—remember, it’s a cannibal. Regardless of how tough the terrain, we can’t leave a wounded or dead man intending to come back for them, it’ll—well, you get my drift.”
“So, what do we do?”
“You keep the cordon around the base of the mountain. I’m gonna get a couple of hours sleep and then I’m going after him.”
“I’ll tell the state police to have a team ready to go with you.”
“No, I’ll go alone—it’ll be easier for me to follow him and hopefully get close enough to apprehend or kill him.”
“What about the Dowds? You could take them with you.”
“The same thing I said about police holds true for them. Keep them on guard duty.”
Michaud sat silently, as if he were processing John’s plan. After several moments he locked eyes with John and said, “Don’t worry about apprehension—kill the sonuvabitch.”
They sat quietly, listening to the sound of heavy freezing raindrops hitting the cabin’s metal roof. John finished his coffee and stood up. “I’m gonna get a few hours.”
Michaud looked toward the ceiling. “It’s goin’ to be a miserable night.”
“It’s already been a miserable night,” John answered.
“I promise you one thing, John.”
“What’s that?”
“We aren’t leaving here until that goddamned thing is dead….”
“Thanks, Aurel.”
Michaud ignored John’s informality and smiled at him, “Go on, get some sleep.”
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Rocky Mountain
Dwain Dowd reached the foot of the mountain prior to sunup. He circled the base, looking for a trail that he could follow to the summit. He was fatigued after his all-night trek from Dowd Settlement, but wanted to meet up with him. Dwain felt linked to the Wendigo in some metaphysical way and was certain that he was preparing to leave the area.
Dwain’s state of lethargic exhaustion allowed his attention to drift and when he rounded a turn in the unplowed, snow-laden road he stopped abruptly. There were three men sitting around a small fire and one of them was staring at him.
“Who’re you?” the man asked.
Dwain stopped walking and stared at the men. Two of the men sat with their backs to him, one turned, and then stood up. “Boy,” Louis Dowd said, “what the fuck you doin’ here?”
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The sun was visible through the barren trees when John left the warden cabin and entered the woods. The freak rain storm of the previous night had created a crust of thin ice and frozen snow. Everything, tree limbs, bushes, rocks, and deadfall was coated with ice. Brushing against anything caused it to explode in a shower of icy spray and particles.
Each step he took resulted in his feet breaking through the hard surface with a loud crunch and John knew there was no way in hell he was going to take the Wendigo by surprise. The sound of his passage through the woods would be audible to a deaf man. Walking was treacherous and every step carried the risk of spraining or breaking an ankle. Each time he placed a foot down the crust broke and his foot drove into the softer snow beneath the hard surface layer. When he raised a foot to take the next step, the sharp edges of the top layer barked his shins. In short time his legs pained him and he was certain his lower legs were scraped raw and bleeding. Still he pushed forward.
John felt the sun’s warmth on his back. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost eight in the morning and he decided to take a few minutes to catch his breath. He found an old stump and cleaned the ice from its top and sat. He inhaled deeply and pulled up his left pant leg and saw bloodstains on the long underwear. He felt the insulated undergarment pull away from something to which it was stuck, raised it and saw the bloody scrape. He dreaded starting out again. It was then that he noticed the faint impression that indicated a trail. He stood up and made his way to the barely visible path. While still snow and crust coated, the covering on the trail was below the tops of his boots. At least it ain’t barkin’ my shins, John thought.
The path, however, presented him with a different problem. The surface was packed hard and the resulting layer of ice made walking treacherous. Several times he slid backward, and he cartwheeled his arms to stay on his feet. Because he needed his hands free to grab bushes and tree limbs, his rifle was a hindrance, so he suspended it from his shoulder with the leather sling and continued climbing the treacherous path.
John propelled himself upward for the better part of an hour and his heart pounded and his arms ached from pulling his way up the icy trail. He came to a short span where the trail appeared level and stopped. His breath was labored and he bent over, resting his hands on his thighs. He studied his surroundings and realized that he had in all probability only traveled a half mile. At this rate, he thought, I’ll be all day getting to the top—if I make it that far.
After a brief break to allow his heart rate to drop and his breathing to return to normal, John once again started up the treacherous trail. As he slowly ascended the slope he wondered where the path led. It was obviously a game trail and ended at some water source below, but where on the mountain did it end? Curiosity spurred him on and he struggled upward.
By noon, John was starting to think that he was at best on a fool’s errand and began entertaining thoughts of heading back to the cabin. The trail suddenly changed direction and rather than ascend the mountain, turned to the right cutting across the side of the ridge. He decided to continue on for another half hour and if he hadn’t found any sign of the Wendigo by then, he’d head back. Less than a hundred yards from the turn, the trail abruptly ended at what looked like the entrance to a small cave. John stopped immediately and studied the opening. It looked to be an ideal den for a hibernating bear and, knowing that it was the time of winter when hibernating sows gave birth, he did not want to enter a den to come face to face with a half-awake, surly she-bear. A sow protecting her young was problem enough, let alone being confronted by her in a confined place. John slowly approached the opening.
He stopped beside the portal and ventured a look inside. He realized that, rather than a small enclosure, the opening led into a large cavern. He removed his rifle from his shoulder, operated the bolt, and loaded a round into the empty chamber. He dropped down and slid inside.
Once he was clear of the low overhang above the entrance, John found himself in a cave big enough for him to stand upright. He slowly stood, studying the dark interior. His gaze moved from the black depths to the ground around his feet. The temperature inside the grotto was low enough for him to see his breath spiraling in front of his face, but within ten feet it was warm enough that the ground remained unfrozen—then he saw the footprints. They were the Wendigo’s.
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Warden’s Cabin
The heat from the cabin’s woodstove was oppressive and Dwain tried to stay as far away from it as possible. The old game warden sat at the table in the center of the main room, listening to what Dwain thought was indecipherable chatter from the radio that sat on a small table by the window against the front wall.
The warden looked up and stared at him. “You sure you don’t want something to eat, boy?”
Dwain shook his head and remained sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room.
“I got to say,” the warden said, “you’re the quietest goddamned kid I ever met.”
Three heavy thumps sounded as someone stomped their feet to remove snow from the
m. Dwain turned his attention to the door as his uncle entered.
“I heard you got my grandson in here,” Earl Dowd said.
Michaud pointed to the corner. “He’s been like that since your brother brought him in a couple of hours ago. He ain’t said a word, just sits there staring. He acts as if it’s too hot in here for him.”
Earl unzipped his parka and said, “Probably is. Since he was abducted by the Wendigo he hates the heat. Over home he’s been staying out in one of the barns.”
Earl walked around the table and stood before his grandson. He said nothing and just stared at Dwain.
After a couple of seconds, Dwain crossed his arms and enclosed his knees in them. He dropped his head, hiding his face from his uncle.
“You want I should leave you two alone?” Michaud asked.
“If you don’t mind,” Earl answered.
“No problem.” Michaud stood up, grabbed his parka from the back of the chair he’d been sitting in, and put it on as he opened the door and stepped outside.
Earl remained silent until the sound of the warden’s steps faded. Then he turned to Dwain. “What the fuck you think you’re doing?”
When several moments passed with no response from the boy he said, “Answer me! What are you doing here?” He took a step forward and then stopped. “At least give me a reason not to beat the shit out of you.”
Dwain raised his head and stared at Earl. “You touch me,” he said, “and I’ll kill you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If you touch me, I’ll kill you.” Dwain stood up and confronted Earl.
Earl realized that the boy he’d towered over two weeks ago was looking at him eye to eye. He felt a brief instance of fear. Dwain had grown a full foot or more since he had been taken by the Wendigo. His anger got the best of him and he reached for Dwain.
The boy grabbed his uncle’s arm and tightened his grip.
It took all of Earl’s willpower to keep from crying out at the boy’s vice-like grip.
“Grandpa, you got no idea who I am. I don’t think you ever did. Don’t make me hurt you.” Dwain released Earl, pushed him back, and started walking toward the door.
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