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Jericho walked back into the brush with the shotgun in one hand and the silver Bowie knife in the other. There was a time when he would've killed Agent Nashida and left him in the woods to become carrion, but he wasn't that guy anymore. Maybe he should've been, if just for tonight, but morals are what we do when people aren't watching.
Says the guy who makes a living killing things.
Jericho had lost all track of time. It couldn't be much past 7:00 or 8:00 at night, but it might as well have been midnight out here. The bleak, pitch black landscape did nothing to help. The sooner he cut this monster's heart out, the sooner he could go back to Tom Fiddler's truck, head out to High Level, and get the hell out of this shithole.
An anonymous tip to the tribal police in Amber River would help them find Fiddler's body; he deserved that. By the time people started asking real questions, he'd be back in the good ol' U.S. of A.
Losing Fiddler was tough. They didn't have much time to develop much of a rapport, but Jericho thought himself a good judge of character and trusted Tom Fiddler. The guy saved his life, and he'd never have the chance to repay him. Plus, Jericho wouldn't ever understand what that whisper in the wind comment meant.
Jericho let his mind wander so he didn't have to focus on the task at hand. The last time he found himself in a similar situation, he got bounced around Jack Shane's kitchen like a basketball. The wolf batted him around and played with him, like a dog plays with a squeak toy. But it didn't want him. It wanted Chris Shane.
This was different. When Wendigo shows up again, it won't have as much fun or be distracted by some teenager. This thing had one concern and one concern only. Food. Jericho had zero interest in becoming the main course on its menu.
Suddenly, the Wendigo’s scent hit Jericho in the nose. It was close.
BBBBBBRRRRRRRRAAAAAAEEEEEEWWWWWWWW
Jericho stopped and scanned the darkened forest.
"Come get some, you stank-ass motherfucker!"
The trees rustled. Clumps of snow fell from evergreens, an icy reminder that Jericho was way out of his element.
CHIK CHIK
He was unsure of how many rounds were left, but didn't want to take the chance of being ambushed while reloading, not that there was much choice. Buckshot did little to stop the Wendigo, but it did slow the thing down for a few seconds. Enough time for Jericho to think quickly if he needed to.
Jericho wished he had a torch. Fiddler said he could keep Wendigos at bay with an open flame, at least momentarily. It definitely would've helped him see where he was going. Playing the creature's game and by its rules, however, would draw it out quicker.
CRINK CRINKLE CRINK
"Let's get a move on. I'm sick of this shit."
Jericho never feared death. If his end involved being slowly digested in the gut of some malodorous, fucked-up version of the abominable snowman, so be it. The samurai dies in combat, the way he's supposed to go; Glorious battle and all that shit.
Jericho drew the Bowie knife and cracked his neck. He barely felt the cold while he bounced in place, preparing for war.
CRINK CRINKLE CRINK
"C'mon!"
From behind the firs, an angular, furry, and slightly familiar head emerged.
"You?" he said to the wolf, stepping out from behind the trees. Shifty, that little bastard, was back. "I got bad news. I don't got any food left."
The wolf paused and tilted its head, confused. Jericho followed suit, tilting his own head to the side.
"What the hell are you looking at? You don't speak English?" he asked. He knew better than to take his eyes off a hungry creature, especially one that had already shown it wouldn't hesitate to attack him.
CCCRRRRAAKKKKK