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The two stayed quiet for the next half mile. Jericho's idea to keep heading south instead of following the tracks was right. Here was civilization, just like he thought. The two men came upon a small shack in the woods. Though calling this shack a cabin would have been generous. It looked more like a big outhouse.
"Home sweet home," Fiddler said, opening the door.
The inside looked pretty much the way one expects a shack in the middle of the woods to look. Not as bad as the place in Evil Dead, but not much better either. For the first time in days, the scent of something that wasn't rotting corpses filled his nose.
"My man, what is that smell?"
"Campbell's tomato soup."
Jericho patted the old man on the shoulder. "Would you mind?"
"Of course. Have a seat."
Jericho took off the FBI-issued parka and suddenly understood why this man was willing to let him into his home. He saw the yellow letters scribbled out on the back of his coat and assumed Jericho was one of the good guys.
Jericho took a seat at the old wooden table. He reached up to his face and wiped some blood off of his thick winter beard.
"Here you go, stranger." The old man handed Jericho a bowl of lukewarm, watery tomato paste. In all his travels across the far corners of the world, it was the greatest thing Jericho had ever eaten.
"Name's Tom Fiddler. You got one, stranger?"
Jericho lifted the bowl to his face. He was done with the civil pleasantries of a spoon and drank straight from the bowl. He took three gulps and put the tin bowl back on the table.
"Josiah Crane," he answered.
"Welcome to my home, Mr. Crane. Eat as much as you'd like tonight. Tomorrow, I'd like you to do me that little favor."
"What's that, Mr. Fiddler?"
"I need some help killing a Wendigo."
Jericho turned to his host and shot him a puzzled look. "Is that what we just saw out there?” Fiddler nodded. "What is it?"
Tom Fiddler looked around the shack, trying to put his thoughts together. The same way Jericho looked when he tried to explain the Nightcrawler to Dana O'Brien the last time they spoke. Fiddler shook his head, as if to say there's no way you're gonna believe this.
"Try me," Jericho said.
"My people have a story. When a man is desperate out in the bitter cold and his food is gone, he's visited by an evil spirit. It haunts your mind and twists your thoughts. A normal man can't see it coming, but you know when it's there because—"
"It stinks. Like a pile of shit on a summer afternoon."
Fiddler seemed surprised by how fast this Mr. Crane accepted his story.
"It smells horrible, but for some reason, it makes you hungry, right?" Jericho added.
"That's right, Mr. Crane. But no matter how much you feed, the beast never gets full. Instead, it pushes you further, forces you to keep consuming, even when your stomach can't hold another bite. It speaks to you—"
"Like a whisper."
Fiddler nodded again. He knew the strange traveler not only believed him, but had been tempted by the spirit. "That's right. It speaks until you give it what it wants."
"What does it want?"
"Teeth."
“Teeth?" Jericho asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It needs teeth to rip away at a man's flesh."
Jericho remembered the monster's gaunt face. Its lips were pulled so tight across its face that only jagged yellow teeth remained.
"It eats people?"
"It hates man for what we’ve done to this world. All the pain and destruction our kind has caused created it. And this is how it enacts vengeance upon us. It forces you to consume your own. Flesh becomes such a taste that once experienced can never be quenched."
"The fucker tried to bite me. Am I gonna turn into one of those things?”
Fiddler laughed. He stood and took Jericho's bowl off the table, filling it with another scoop full of Campbell's finest.
"Nah, it's not like a werewolf or zombie," he chuckled again.
Jericho didn't find that funny.
"You heard it out there didn’t you. You heard The Whisper calling, but you're still here. You must have a strong will, Mr. Crane."
Jericho shrugged. When you're right, you're right.
Fiddler placed the tin bowl back in front of Jericho, who ravenously consumed the soup. Maybe Jericho and this creature weren’t so different.
"The cold does things to men who aren't prepared," Fiddler said.
“And you live alone out here? It's the middle of nowhere. Why?"
“I am prepared. A long time ago, my great-great-grandfather, Zhauwuno-geezhigo-gaubow, He Who Stands in the Southern Sky, was the shaman and chief of the Sucker clan. Well, the white man begged him to convert our people. They wanted us to abandon our ways and follow theirs. Old Grandpa Jack didn't listen. He was a threat. Not only to the white man, but to the dark spirits as well. When the Wendigo came, my ancestor killed the beast. The white man used my ancestors' skills until they became a problem. They arrested Jack Fiddler for murder, but he escaped and took his own life rather than letting them force their ways upon him."
The story hit Jericho close to home. The idea of having to play by another man's rules had zero appeal to him, too. Apparently, the penance for that was fighting nightmares until they either consume you, or regular folks find out what you are and decide you're too crazy to exist in their society. Even if they knew what you did, they couldn't possibly comprehend. What better way than seppuku?
"Still doesn't explain why you live out here," Jericho said.
"I have zero interest in living by their ways too, Mr. Crane."
"Amen to that."
"I'm an old man who came to grips with my life and path many years ago. But my grandson ran away from home. He wanted to be like ol’ Grandpa, living out here in the wild. I haven't seen him in four days."
"Think he's lost?"
"I do not think he's lost."
Jericho got what he meant. Damn. Poor kid.
"I'm sorry," Jericho said, looking down at the table.
"The boy wouldn't listen to reason. No boys do, unfortunately. But out here, mistakes and impulsive actions have great costs."
Jericho finished off his second bowl of soup. "Where was your boy from?"
"Amber River 211. An Indian Reserve ten miles south of here."
Reserve, as in reservation. That meant real civilization wasn't too far from this shack in the woods. Reservations, especially out here, typically were not too far from cities.
"How far is the Reserve from a real city?"
"High Level is not far. About a hundred forty kilometers."
Jericho crunched the numbers. Less than 90 miles. He could walk there in three, maybe two days. With a good night's sleep, a full belly and a pair of sunglasses, maybe he could even make it in a day and a half.
"I can see the little mouse rumbling in your thoughts, Mr. Crane.” What did that mean? "I'll give you a ride to High Level. I'll take you right to the airport."
"There's an airport in High Level, Canada?"
"High Level, Alberta.”
Jericho smiled. That was easier than he thought.
"But first, you need to help me."
Jericho leaned back in the hard wooden chair. It felt so good against his backside.
"So you rescue me from a dangerous creature, feed me and offer me a ride back to civilization in exchange for helping you kill a monster in the woods."
"Does that sound fair?"
"Hey, this is literally what I do."
Jericho extended his hand to the hermit, and they shook. Fiddler kept a hold of Jericho's hand and looked him deep in the assassin's gray eyes.
"Thank you, Mr. J."
"What did you say?"
"I said, thank you, Mr. Crane."
Jericho raised another eyebrow as the old man smiled. Jericho wanted to press further, but he'd already been down this rabbit hole. Tom Fiddler shot him a wink and finally let go of his hand.
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow we're going hunting."