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Jericho drew the Bowie knife and stepped into the clearing, heading toward the center tree. If he were a betting man, Jericho would've laid down a nice parlay on that tree being located in the mathematical center of this circle. Someone created this. Maybe in some primitive ritual or something. Jericho drew closer to the tree, and the stench smelled more potent than ever. Even stronger than when he stood face to face with the Wendigo.
The three bodies hung upside down by their ankles, like slabs of meat dangling from hooks in a slaughterhouse. That might be what this was; a slaughter house.
"Contemplate this on the Tree of Woe," Jericho quoted his favorite film.
He approached the body closest to him and grabbed the dead man's head, pulling it in for a closer look. It was Tom Fiddler. Jericho's failure stung. He owed the man for saving his life, taking him in, feeding him, and making sure it wasn't his big ass strung up like that.
Jericho turned his eyes upward into the fir tree. To his surprise, no bindings or ropes were holding them in place. Instead, Fiddler's feet seemed to be cemented to branches with some kind of icy glue. What the hell was that stuff? Wendigo mucus?
Jericho looked at the other two bodies. The smallest, and the one missing the most...meat...looked like a boy. This was probably Fiddler's grandson. The third body was a thick man with dark skin like his. Jericho recognized the face as one of the other FBI agents from Nightmute. Again, large chunks were missing; feasted upon.
The one body that wasn't there—and he expected it to be—was RCMP Officer Matt Hart. Maybe there was a chance he was okay; he could still be alive. Or maybe the creature hadn't had a chance to string him up yet.
"Don't touch them!" Nashida shouted.
Jericho turned to Nashida. The FBI agent shook with fear, not that he blamed him. Jericho thought about shooting him in the chest, but decided against it. Something about Nashida was connected to this place now. What better way to announce his presence. The woods had done something to his mind. After he cut that Windego fucker's heart out, he'd deal with whatever's left of that FBI agent.
BBBBBBRRRRRRRRAAAAAAEEEEEEWWWWWWWW
Jericho turned away from the Tree of Woe back to the outer circle, cutting this unholy ground from the rest of the woods. The tall creature with the spiny arms and long claws stood at the opposite end of the clearing.
SSSNNNNNNRRRRRR
The Wendigo snorted a sound much different than any he had heard before. For the first time, Jericho got a clear view of the monster, as it didn't run or try to kill him. This time it just stood there, almost confused about what to do. Its left hand was wrapped around what looked like a foot. It was hard to see in the darkness, with only the moonlight reflecting off the snow, but hopefully Matt Hart was still attached to it.
"Boots?"
Jericho hadn't noticed before. The Wendigo hadn't been trudging through the woods barefoot. It wore a pair of brown work boots, but how did that thing get them, or why? Fiddler said these things used to be human. Jericho looked back to the shell-shocked FBI Agent with his spaced-out and slack-jawed face. Was this what awaited Nashida if he failed? Was that what could have happened to him if he gave into The Whisper?
Jericho turned back to the beast, who curled its back moving into the open space. The way it stalked forward reminded Jericho of something he saw about a year ago, back home in Chicago.
"Not this time."
Jericho slid the silver dagger back into its sheath and put two hands on the shotgun as he watched the creature circle.
SSSNNNNNNRRRRRR
The Wendigo released another unfamiliar growl. Why were these snarls and growls so different than the ones he heard while it stalked him throughout these woods? Why didn't it attack? If there was a book on Wendigo behavior, he bet Old Tom would know. Jericho looked back at the hanging wise man.
"I wish you could answer a few questions, old man."
SSSNNNNNNRRRRRR GAAAHHHH
The creature barked, baring its sharp, yellowing teeth. Why did it freak out when Jericho looked at Fiddler? He was already dead. Jericho looked back at Fiddler's body swaying in the winter wind. He put the shotgun in his left hand and extended his arm so the barrel barely grazed Fiddler's chest. Then he poked the dead man.
GAAAHHHH GAAAHHHH GAAAHHHH
The creature snapped at him from a distance, still skittish about drawing any closer. Why was it so much more cautious here?
"You're afraid I'm gonna take your food? You gluttonous son of a bitch.” Jericho smiled at the creature.
"I'm sorry, Tom."
Jericho put both hands back on the weapon and opened fire.
BBBOOOOMMMM
Jericho blasted the scattered buckshot into the branches, exploding Fiddler's feet and whatever substance locked them into the tree.
The remaining chunks of old man rained down onto the icy floor.
GAAAHHHH
It worked. The Wendigo went into protection mode and charged. Shit! It was much faster than Jericho remembered. Jericho never had a chance to reload. Instead, the yellow monster pounced on a man it didn't view as prey, but as a rival for food.
Fortunately, Jericho was able to catch the creature's sharp claws with the shotgun, but the force of the monster crashing down on him toppled them both to the ground. The beast ripped the shotgun from Jericho's hands and tossed it away. The gun landed just underneath the sacred tree.
The Wendigo tried to slash the prone assassin's face, but he brought up his right forearm just in time to block the strike. His coat took most of the attack. Quickly, Jericho reached for the scabbard and jerked out the silver dagger, plunging the blade into the creature's stomach.
EEEEEEEEEE
The Wendigo screamed in agony. For a second, Jericho felt like he might actually win. That was before the beast sank its jagged fangs into his other arm. If he had been wearing a t-shirt, the demon would have torn the muscle right out of his arm. The thick parka cushioned most, but not all, of the sting.
Jericho pulled the dagger from the creature's stomach and drove the blade upward, not sure where it would land. This wasn't two skilled warriors fighting with technique and position. These were two monsters battling for survival.
The dagger ripped across the Wendigo's throat. Black blood spilled out, drenching Jericho's face. The assassin choked on hot, thick bile.
Unfortunately, it only made the creature angrier. The monster swung its thick paws and battered Jericho's face. Between the shots to his head and the blood still draining out from its wound, Jericho couldn't see what was happening. All he knew for sure was that he lost his grip on the blade.
Jericho's hands tried to block the demon's blows, but it knocked the sunglasses from his face. For a split second, he saw the handle of the knife protruding from its yellow throat. Jericho drove the heel of his palm upward, pushing the blade higher into the creature's skull.
When the monster reached up to remove the obstruction, Jericho slid out from under it, like a well-skilled jiu-jitsu player passing his opponent's guard. His coach would have been proud.
Keeping close contact, Jericho turned and climbed up the creature's back. When he locked his arms and legs around the creature's gangly frame, he reached for the handle again.
CHIK CHIK
Both Jericho and the Wendigo stopped and looked up to find the wild-eyed Andrew Nashida pointing the shotgun right at them, but who was he aiming at?