Night of the Wendigo

by William Meikle

  Ewan looked more like an Arctic explorer than a news reporter. He wore a fur-lined, hooded jacket, the hood pulled forward so that his face was partially obscured. His eyes were hidden behind an enormous pair of goggles. He only took a scarf away from his mouth long enough to speak a sentence at a time.

  “Well, Kate, temperatures up here are at a new record low for Manhattan. With the wind-chill factor, this is quite possibly the coldest place on the planet tonight. This snowstorm holds the city in a frozen iron fist.”

  The camera panned out, showing the view from the viewing balcony. The snow swarmed in vortices, dancing as if alive. A layer of ice, inches thick, covered everything in sight.

  “We are filming this with the crew inside the elevators,” Ewan said. “I am standing no more than a foot beyond the elevator doors, but even here I have to fight to stand up in the wind.

  “I’m one of the lucky ones who had enough warning to get prepared for the conditions, but on our way into the lobby here we passed many, many people taking shelter, people off the streets who were simply unprepared for the ferocity of the storm. Even in this building, once an icon for all that was great about our nation, people are struggling to cope with what is already being billed as ‘The Storm of the Millennium.’

  A gust of wind hit the man side on. He struggled hard to keep upright, and needed two attempts to get enough breath to continue.

  “Up here it is bad, but down below us, it must seem like hell on earth. It is difficult to get any report from street level,” he said. “Most New Yorkers have locked themselves in at home and have turned up the heaters. The power utilities are drawing power from the national grid, but demand has soared to such an extent that there are now fears of overload. The power companies may be forced to introduce temporary blackouts, which would bring yet more misery to an already beleaguered city.”

  It cut back to the studio. Kate the newsreader looked just about as cold as anybody Jackie had ever seen. Her skin was alabaster-white, her eyes sunk deep like two black pebbles. She had difficulty lifting her notes to read from them, due to the fact that she wore an enormous pair of fleece mittens.

  Jackie was vaguely aware that Mina had moved off to do something at the far end of the bar, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen for long enough to check.

  “We go over now to the Wall Street subway station,” the newsreader said. Her breath steamed as she spoke. “Where hundreds of commuters have been forced to seek shelter. Our reporter is Alice Brown.”

  Alice Brown looked even colder than the reporter in the studio. Her skin had a bluish tinge, and her lips were grey. She wore a thin cotton jacket, and a short skirt, beneath which her legs looked like two white sticks veined in blue marble.

  Behind her was a crowd of huddled people, most of them also only wearing normal working clothes, all of them showing the same blue tinge to their flesh. Steam rose from them; from their mouths as they breathed, and from their bodies where they were pressed tightly together.

  Jackie had seen people with that same lost look on their faces before; people dispossessed from their homes by earthquakes in Third World countries with winter approaching. It was not a look she’d ever expected to see so close to home.

  “Kate, the situation here is getting desperate,” the reporter said. “The cold is almost unbearable. The subway has stopped running, and there have been no passenger service announcements for nearly twenty minutes now. We are unable to venture above ground due to the ferocity of the storm raging above us. We have no heating beyond what we can get from the press of our bodies.

  “If the authorities can hear us, we beg of you, please get us some help. There are three hundred men, women and children here. We are dying. Please get some help.”

  The reporter cried.

  Jackie felt tears spring in sympathy at the corner of her own eyes.

  Mina interrupted Jackie’s viewing. She handed Jackie some clothing that felt rough to the touch.

  “What are these?”

  “Inuit winter clothing. I spotted them on display earlier.”

  “We can’t wear these…can we?”

  “If it’s good enough for the Arctic Circle, it’s good enough for here.”

  Jackie stroked the clothes suspiciously. It felt like old leather.

  “What’s it made of?”

  “Sealskin and polar bear fur I should imagine.”

  “But I’m a vegetarian.”

  Mina laughed loudly.

  “The beasts that were used to make these outfits died a long time ago. I wouldn’t let it worry you.”

  Mina pulled on a pair of sealskin leggings.

  “Hey, those are antiques. They cost me two hundred bucks apiece,” the barman said.

  “So sue the city,” Mina replied. “And get yourself something warm to wear. Judging by what we’ve seen on the screen so far, it’s going to get a mite colder yet.”

  Jackie watched the screen even as she dressed herself.

  The old sealskin jacket crackled and complained as she pulled it on but she felt immediately warmer…and suddenly guilty, watching the plight of the people still trapped in the Wall Street station.

  Alice Brown’s voice sounded dull, dead, devoid of emotion.

  “The first child has just died. Her name was Jane Jacklands, she was nine years old, and she was a Jersey girl, here on a school trip. Sixteen of her classmates are now in critical condition. We have decided to venture down into the tunnels, both in the hope of some residual heat, and also to see if conditions are any better farther up the line…”

  She was interrupted by a voice behind her.

  “A rescue. A rescue. There’s someone coming up the tunnel.”

  The camera swung round to show the tunnel entrance.

  They were packed tightly in, a crowd of what looked like over a hundred people, coming forward slowly. At first all that could be seen were silhouettes, dark shadows against the tunnel lights. But when they emerged into the light and climbed up onto the platform, it became all too clear what they were.

  They had once been commuters; men, women and children like the ones crowded around the television crew. Now they were something far different.

  White, soulless eyes reflected silver under the television lights and frozen mouths raised into smiles as they spotted prey.

  Then the screaming began.

  The point-of-view camera fell, forgotten, to the ground. All that could be seen was a forest of legs, all trying to flee in different directions.

  A foot caught the camera, sending it spinning across the platform, the screen a sudden dizzying kaleidoscope of feet and limbs. It came to rest looking down the subway tunnel.

  The reanimated bodies of the frozen ones were still streaming out onto the platform. Yet more crowded behind, jostling to get up to the prey. All that could be made out of those farther back in the tunnel were the silvery-white eyes…a small forest of them, all unblinking.

  “I think we’re in trouble,” Mina said.

  “If those things get out of the subway, then we will be,” Jackie replied.

  “No, I think we’re in trouble right now,” Mina said.

  She turned Jackie round and pointed to the basement stairs that that led up out of the bar.

  It was only then that Jackie paid attention to what was going on around her. A dull thudding came from the door at the top of the stairs.

  “I don’t think that’s thirsty customers. Do you, Bob?” Mina said.

  The barman didn’t speak. He looked from the scene on the television, then back to the empty stairs, then back to the television.

  He swallowed and wiped his lips, as if his mouth was suddenly dry.

  “Is there a back way out of here?” Mina asked.

  “There’s a fire escape out back that opens onto an alley,” Bob said. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll let somebody waltz in and take my bar without a fight.”

  He reached behind the bar and came up with a pump action shotgun.
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  “I like to keep this handy for close encounters,” he said in an affected accent.

  Jackie didn’t get the reference, but Mina laughed loudly.

  “Terrific. All we need now is a pack of cards,” she replied, taking out her own pistol, having to struggle against the stiff folds of her sealskin jacket.

  “You’d better get yourself one of these suits Bob. We may have to leave in a hurry.”

  “The only way I’m leaving here is out the front door once it’s been cleared of vermin.”

  “That may be some time away,” Jackie said. She pointed at the big screen.

  Kate the newscaster still sat at her chair…but she wasn’t alone. A crowd of the frozen ones milled around the studio, knocking over lighting rigs and bumping into cameras.

  The camera that had been fixed on Kate swung away, but not before the newsreader stood. Her eyes, so recently shocking blue, filled up with white.

  Her black lips rose in a smile as she went to join her new friends.

  * * *

  Cole Barter came to his senses slowly. He felt heat on his face.

  When he opened his eyes he looked up at the base of a cast iron furnace. It felt as hot as if he sat too close to a fire…somehow, even while unconscious, his body had crawled to the one place it might be safe.

  He wasn’t going to be that way for long.

  The basement into which he’d fallen was lit only by the red glow of the furnace itself, but that was more than enough to show Cole he was in deep trouble.

  Tendrils of ice crept in the corners of the room, a latticework web getting closer as he watched.

  Stoke the fires, lads. Stoke the fires.

  He had to force himself to crawl out from beneath the furnace.

  As soon as he left the safety of the crawlspace he felt the blast of cold spreading through the room.

  A first glance around almost had him in a panic.

  There’s nothing to burn!

  Then he saw it…a coal chute with a pile of coal beneath.

  Something knocked against his side as he moved across the room.

  It was his satchel. By some miracle he hadn’t lost it while scrambling around in the snow. He gave it a reassuring pat, as if it was a frightened pet, before he headed for the coal.

  It was even colder on this side of the basement, and much darker. He made as much noise as he could, even going as far as screaming, but nothing moved. There was a single dead rat lying near the coal pile, its eyes milky white.

  That’s all I need. Fuggin’ zombie ice rats!

  Cole tramped down on it, hard.

  He pumped a fist in triumph as it broke into an icy mush beneath his foot.

  He wasted no time in filling a bucket with fuel and making for the furnace. He had to hide his hand inside his sleeve and use the material to knock the door open, having to stand back at the sudden wave of heat that tightened the flesh of his face.

  When he threw the coal into the furnace the fire died back slightly at first, then began to roar with renewed vigor.

  Cole grinned.

  Try to freeze me now, you bastards. Go on, just try it!

  He spent ten minutes working up a sweat, moving most of the coal pile over next to the furnace, only stopping when all that was left on the far side of the room was a small pile of black pebbles and soot alongside the squashed remains of the rat.

  Judging by the new pile he’d made, he had enough coal to last for many hours, maybe even days.

  But even here, close to the furnace door, he could still feel a cold breeze on his neck.

  Above his head, cold water dripped through the grate, but only the occasional snowflake made it through. As the coal took, and the fire in the furnace got hotter, even that disappeared.

  Cole felt warm for the first time since he’d left the cordon on the dock.

  He crawled back underneath the furnace, relieved to notice that the tendrils of ice had, for now, retreated into the shadows.

  He wondered what was going on in the outside world, but after another quick glance at the pictures on his camera, he realized he didn’t actually want to know.

  Heat and safety. That’s all I need right about now.

  He curled up, clutching his knees. He stared into the shadows, watching for the return of the icy fingers. He tried not to think of the fate of the crew of the Havenhome, stuck in a tavern a few miles from his position, separated only by time.

  * * *

  Mike Kaminski let the swaddled figure lead him through the maze of containers. Where Mike had taken mostly left turns, his rescuer led him in twists and turns, but mostly headed right. By Mike’s reckoning this would lead them back to the waterfront, down to one of the old docks, but he was too spent to argue.

  Neither of them spoke until they entered a cul-de-sac, three containers in a U-shape.

  “This night, you’re not a cop. Okay?” Mike’s rescuer said.

  “If you get me a hot coffee, I’ll be anything you want,” Mike replied.

  “Kenyan or Jamaican?” the other man said, and chuckled.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he almost recognized the owner of the laugh, but Mike was too tired to think, too tired to do anything but allow himself to be led.

  “This is important,” the swaddled man said. “I need to know that you’re not a cop tonight. Do I have your word?”

  “You have my word, for what it’s worth.”

  “That’s always been good enough before,” the other man said.

  He opened a door in the left-hand container and led Mike inside.

  The door slammed with a satisfying clang behind them. Mike had to close his eyes against the sudden brightness of neon strip lighting.

  When his eyes adjusted he couldn’t quite believe what he saw.

  It was an Aladdin’s cave, of fine rugs, antique pictures, ornate gilded mirrors and heavy mahogany furniture, all piled high on both sides of the container, with only a narrow alleyway down the centre.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “My nest egg. Remember. Tonight, you’re not a cop,” the other man said.

  By now Mike was almost sure he knew who was under the layers of clothes and scarves.

  They walked past a tall cabinet that looked like it would take most of Mike’s annual salary to buy. Behind its patterned glass doors was the largest collection of hardcore porn on DVD that Mike had ever seen.

  The other man saw him looking.

  “A man has to have some hobbies,” he said. There was a muffled sound from behind the scarves. Mike was now definitely sure he knew who had saved him.

  When they turned the corner into the second of the three portions, there was a series of full length wardrobes down the right-hand side. The opposite wall was covered with a tall display case, filled with weaponry: knives, handguns, assault rifles and shotguns, with drawers underneath, some of which lay partially open to reveal cases of ammunition.

  “Are you setting up a private army down here?” Mike asked.

  “Home defense,” the swaddled figure said, chuckling again. “You never know when some ordnance will come in handy.”

  He waved the sawn-off shotgun in the air. “I bet you’re glad I had this with me.”

  Mike was forced to agree.

  “Yep. But I don’t think Brian Johnson would see it the same way though.”

  “I didn’t see anybody of that name,” the other man said. “No man anyways.”

  They turned into the third leg of the “U.” This was piled high with dried and tinned food and plastic water containers. There was a top of the line microwave oven and a professional Italian espresso machine on the left-hand side. The walls were lined with thick insulating material. A four-bar electric fire glowed in front of a long sofa. The far wall was dominated by a fifty-inch plasma television set.

  Mike sat down heavily in the sofa.

  “Quite a place you’ve got here.”

  “It’s not much, but it’s home,” the other man said.


  He removed the scarves from around his face. Mike wasn’t surprised to see Old Tom’s wrinkled features smiling back at him.

  “I always wondered where you lived after you moved out of the project,” Mike said.

  “Weren’t any sense in paying rent when I’ve got everything I need here,” the old man said.

  Mike was already starting to warm up.

  Blood rushed back into his fingers bringing a dull pain. He moved to brush some hair out of his eye and winced…the cut above his left eyebrow reopened. He felt the hot flow of fresh blood on his cheek.

  The old man bent over Mike and, using a handkerchief, wiped the blood gently away. After he was satisfied he did the same for Mike’s right cheek where the jagged ice had stung after the shotgun blast.

  “Tell me straight, Doc,” Mike said. “Do I still have my boyish good looks?”

  “You lost them that night you let Mick the Paddy break your nose in the alley behind The Woodsman,” the old man said. “You survived that fine enough. The cuts on your cheek are only scratches.”

  He tipped Mike’s head back.

  “Hold the cloth to your eyebrow for a minute. The bleeding’s nearly stopped now. I don’t think it needs stitching.”

  Mike screwed up his eyes against the glare of the neon.

  “How do you get your electricity?”

  The old man tapped at the side of his nose. “I know people who know people, if you catch my drift. Lighting and plumbing are provided for services rendered.”

  “Plumbing?”

  “Yeah,” the old man said, feigning shock horror. “A man’s gotta have somewhere to do his business. What do you expect me to do…have a dump over the side of the dock?”

  “It never stopped my Dad,” Mike said.

  “I remember,” Old Tom replied. “But some of us have higher standards,” he cackled again. It was so infectious that Mike found himself laughing along.

  “I never knew this was here,” he said. “You do know you’re breaking a whole book full of different laws?