Windigo fire, p.23
Windigo Fire, page 23
“Where they put the waste from the mill. They dumped it underwater to hold down the radiation. Why the face? You think a nasty old uranium mining company would lie and say that a bit of water can’t protect you?”
He slammed the van into low gear and churned onto the bare dirt.
The rain will turn the dirt into mud, Rachel thought. We’ll get stuck. Nobody’s around to pull us out.
The van tilted and swayed so much, she had to brace her hands against the dash and the inside door even if it was metal.
He braked, pitching them both forward. The seat belt scraped Rachel’s bare arm. Staring past the beating windshield wipers was like trying to see through a waterfall.
He sighed, turned off the headlights and killed the engine. Wind buffeted the thin metal sides of the van.
“How bad is the radiation in the tailings pond?” she asked as they stared into the night.
“Way worse than yellowcake. The waste rock is full of radium, which gives off much more radiation than uranium. And when radium decays, it gives off radon gas. That stuff really makes you glow in the dark.”
“Does Danny know how dangerous the tailings pond is?”
“Hope so. Let’s chow down some food while we wait for sunup. That’s what a soldier does, Flag. He eats when he can.”
She undid her seat belt and jumped into the cargo space where Logan had tossed the plastic bags with their food. She grabbed the bags, but couldn’t help looking out the back window at the abandoned mine building.
“Hear the train?” Logan said from the front seat. “It’s louder than the thunder now.”
Lightning cracked open the sky above the towering outline of the gallows frame. In the square black opening near the top, the white outline of a man.
Rachel cried out. “There’s a ghost. In the window.”
“Oh, thank you, Blessed Virgin.” Corazon slumped over the controls of the Piper Cherokee. “I will light you one hundred candles. Forgive me for doubting your grace. I will go to Mass, every week, I swear.”
“You-you’re amazing.” Edgar clutched his nose, choking through a scarlet stream of blood. “Best pilot ever.”
“Shut up!”
“I-I’m sorry.” He tried to sop up the blood with a corner of his blanket. “Thinking about Santa killing my mum made me crazy.”
“Then do something about it.” She couldn’t stop shaking. How she’d landed on Red Dog Lake in the dark with no gas and a storm coming on, she’d never know. It was a miracle, a damn miracle.
The Piper Cherokee coughed through the waves toward the dock. “Mess with me again, and I’ll take my shotgun and blast you into space,” she said. “I’ll give you a flying lesson you’ll never forget.”
“I-I said I was sorry.” He tried unsuccessfully to clear his nose. “Look, if we hadn’t gone down low, we would never have seen that guy waving at us. Maybe, um, maybe that was Danny.”
Oh, Holy Mother, make that guy be Danny.
Adrenalin coursed through her in great shuddering waves. Edgar had spotted the man on the cliff; she hadn’t seen a damn thing. Too busy pulling the plane out of its deadly spin. Just the same, she’d broken her rule about cops and radioed in the sighting to the OPP. Now all she could do was hope for the best: that the cops would send out a rescue copter in time to save him.
The end of the dock was approaching. She glared at Edgar. “Give me the keys to the Hummer.”
“What? What for?”
“You know what we gotta do. In Red Dog Lake we take care of our own. Are you in with me or not?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m in.” He swiped at the mess of tears, snot and blood on his face. “I loved my mum, I really loved her.”
Must move, must go faster.
Thank God, Ricky’s LED was still working, Danny thought. Branches tore through his clothes, scratched his bare skin bloody. He pounded over the rolling stones of a dry stream bed, tripped and fell heavily.
A strange buzzing sound. The back of his neck tingled. An eerie blue-white glow shot through the trees. St. Elmo’s fire dancing on the silver skin of Santa’s plane.
Lightning strike; he threw his arms over his head.
The explosion hit a heartbeat later. The pressure wave rocketed over him, wrenching the air from his lungs.
Behind him, a furnace roar of flame as the avgas ignited.
35
The moment Logan turned to look for the ghost, a loud boom overrode the thunder. The ground, the van, everything was shaking.
“Wh-what’s that?” Rachel asked. Through the misty windshield, she watched a scarlet sphere erupt in the forest.
Logan swore and swiped at the moisture on the glass. Rachel scrambled back to the front, leaving the bags of food where she’d dropped them.
Far away in the trees a fire was burning through the rain like a lighthouse.
“The lightning started a forest fire,” she said.
“No, Soldier, that’s artillery,” he replied. “Coupla miles away, I’d say. I’m an old combat vet, remember? Heard a lot of those big guns in ’Nam.”
A direct lightning strike on the plane.
Danny coughed and choked, desperate for oxygen. Slowly the air returned.
I can breathe. I’m still alive.
Metal and glass rained down through the branches. The burning plane bathed the forest in a red-tinged chiaroscuro.
Even though he was shielded by thick brush, the scorching heat of the flames was unbearable.
Must run. The brush will be an inferno.
He tottered to his feet, shaking a heavy litter of shredded bark and dirt off his back. Two arms, two legs, no gushing fountains of blood. A dull ringing in his ears. The thumping of his footsteps on the forest floor and the swish of branches and weeds sounded strangely muffled.
The explosion’s knocked out my hearing.
He groped for the LED, but this time, he couldn’t find it. And Ricky’s knife, too, was gone.
“Why is the fire still burning?” Rachel asked. “Won’t the thunderstorm put it out?”
As if in answer to her question, a rush of rain slapped against the van.
“Something’s fuelling that fire,” Logan said. “Too big to be rained out.” He accepted the peanut butter sandwich she handed him. “I’m thinking we should get the hell out of here.”
“But what about Danny?”
“OK.” Logan took a thoughtful bite of his bread. “We gotta keep a close watch though. When the wind comes up from the west, that fire will blow over here in a heartbeat. We’ll be trapped.”
She felt cold stir in her stomach again. Fear, the wolf that circled round her even with Logan beside her.
She left the passenger seat and crawled over the heap of blankets to look out the back window again. Too dark to make out the gallows tower. If she reminded Logan about the ghost, he might decide to hunt it down. The thought of being left alone in the van in the blowing dark made her legs shake.
He leaned back in the driver’s seat, chewing his food. “Sun-up’s at 6:30. What does your watch say?” he asked.
She checked it. “Four o’clock.”
“OK, I’ll take first watch. A soldier grabs sleep when he can. You should, too, Flag.”
Santa pounded the gas pedal, but the wretched Prius wouldn’t stop hesitating and sputtering. The blinking fuel light on the narrow display above the steering wheel now took on an ominous significance. He ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair. He’d been so focused on keeping the wretched battery alive that he’d ignored the gas bit.
He stuck to the conventional right side of the road now, dimming the headlights as much as the Prius’s safety-Nazi design would allow. In the wee small hours of the morning, he was unlikely to encounter any OPP enemy sharks, but it never hurt to be cautious. He passed the sign for Red Dog Lake.
He glided past Camp Nirvana’s painfully outdated hippy peace symbol. Gate closed and locked, mercifully no coppers. They must have wrapped up their inquiries into dear departed Barry’s most unfortunate fall from grace. Still they’d be looking to interview him, no point pretending otherwise.
A few miles later, he coaxed the Prius past the pink pile of the Galaxy Motel. The stab wound in his thigh pulsed with pain. God how he’d love to exact an exquisitely nasty revenge on that Corazon bitch. No time now, he had business to take care of back at the Fish Camp, but with luck he’d fit something in. Too bad he and Hendrix were on the outs at the moment. Hendrix always had creative ideas.
The Prius – the Priapus more like – was chugging mightily, bucking like a crazed goat. Finally, at long last, there stood his unholy grail: the entrance to Santa’s Fish Camp. About bloody time, too, he thought and charged through the gate.
An almighty clang brought him up short. The Prius emitted a last gasping shudder and stalled for good.
He tumbled out the driver’s side to survey the damage. He’d completely forgotten about the bollocking security chain across the drive. It had never been an issue with the Christmas Hummer: he’d popped through it dozens of times careening back from the bar.
He kicked the Prius with frenzied passion until blinding pain in his wounded thigh prevailed.
His leg throbbing like a bastard, he scrambled over the remains of the chain and plunged into the dark deserted grounds of Santa’s Fish Camp. The fibreglass statues along the forest trail glowed moodily under the feeble light of the early dawn as he passed them by. Not a sound, not even the hum of an insect.
Behind Little Jack Horner and his plum pie stood a utility shed. He hobbled round to it and caved in the flimsy sheet metal doors with a kick from his undamaged leg. He pulled out a heavy metal spade and a black plastic garbage bag and headed back down the trail, making for Fish Camp Central, with its pond full of carp, Santa’s Throne and Gift Shop.
As he limped down the trail, his pain and suffering were horribly augmented by some basic arithmetic. He’d only netted two thousand and ten dollars from Corazon, a laughable sum for effective decamping. Millions were locked up in the crystal meth, but the practicalities of seizing it from the trailer sent him into a panic. Hendrix and Tear Drop would snuff him out before he knew he was dead. Surprise, brute force and a reliably lethal weapon would be his minimum essential requirements, none of which, unfortunately, he had to hand.
Good thing he’d hidden away a tidy little insurance fund: the cash from the bear hunt.
Courage, Old Son, he told himself, catching sight of the dark waters of the fish pond. He hefted up the spade and limped over to the flimsy wooden dock. Here snotty little ankle-biters could pose with Santa for a twenty-five dollar photo. A fake fish on a string cost five dollars extra.
The carp had risen from the bottom of the pond in a writhing, wriggling mass, breaking through the murky surface of the water. Awful smell, like sewage and mud, with an undertone of ashes.
Well, he’d be well clear of the place in a minute. He hobbled the short distance over to Santa’s Gift Shop. Lovely bit of irony to rest one’s bum on the faux red velvet cushions of Santa’s Throne, knowing that they held the salvation of said bum.
He aimed his spade to break through the glass door, when he noticed it was already standing open. What the hell?
He pushed his way inside.
Couldn’t hear bugger all, but best not turn on any lights. No point in alerting that nasty sod Tear Drop who had an uncanny way of appearing round corners.
Visitors had to pass by Santa seated in all his glory before they reached the gift store proper. He fumbled over to the raised chipboard dais and grabbed the cushion on his gilded plastic throne.
He felt nothing but a heap of soft foam stuffing. Heart pounding, he plunged his hands through the ripped fabric, foraging desperately. His precious hundred thousand dollars had vanished.
Have to make sure, must make sure. He staggered over to the light switch and flicked it on. Santa’s Throne was shredded as though that damn bear, Pasha, had used it to sharpen her claws.
He stumbled outside, dragging the spade behind him. The smell of smoke was undeniable now. A strange phosphorescence flickered over the fish pond.
Fire! A red light glowed through the trees, coming from the direction of Hendrix’s trailer.
He started as a bulky dark shape separated from the shadows.
Danny was running blind through a funhouse of pitfalls and slapping blows from tree branches. He stumbled, legs numb, no longer conscious of walking. He only knew he’d fallen when he felt a stone pressing into his cheek and tasted blood in his mouth.
The rain from the thundershower would steam off the foliage like water off a stove. A freight train of fire would chase him down.
He tried to lever his body off the ground. Couldn’t do it. He screamed at his muscles, swore at them, coaxed them.
Nothing, worn out.
Breathe in the smoke. Breathe deep, hold it in.
If I pass out, I won’t feel the fire eating me…
Logan banged open the driver’s door, letting in a rush of cold air. Rachel sat up and tossed off the old grey blanket. A watery light suffused the inside of the van.
She followed him outside, rubbing her eyes. No sun visible under the heavy overcast. The early dawn felt less like sun-up than a draining away of the night.
Logan was standing a short distance in front of the van. She ran up to him and together they looked down a long slope of dirt and gravel that ended at the tailings pond. To Rachel, the pond looked like a meteorite crater in the dark-green trees, a huge rust-rimmed pit filled with muddy water.
“It looks more like a lake than a pond,” she said.
“Had to be big for what Archangel was doing,” he replied.
A dark grey mist was curling through the trees.
“Is that the forest fire?” she asked.
“Yep, we’re at risk, Solider.” He shouldered his rifle. “Five minutes, down and up, that’s all the time we’ve got.”
“Danny!” Rachel shouted. She took off down the hill. Her runners sank in the cold damp earth. She struggled down the slope, trying to make her legs go faster.
The bottom of the hill ended at the edge of the tailings pond. She hesitated, not wanting to go near it. Under the water, the muddy bottom looked scaly and rusty.
She yelled Danny’s name again, scanning the dark woods, searching for a human form, a campfire, a shelter, anything … Nothing but silent dark trees.
She cupped her hands and screamed Danny’s name. Logan stumbled down the slope to join her.
A flock of Canada geese flew over them and landed near the centre of the pond. Logan raised the rifle and fired into the air.
Danny was staring at white snow, lying in the forest clearing he’d seen in his dream.
I’m dying, he thought. Where is Odile?
Mahikan, you must get up. He heard her voice, clear and strong. Get up. Save yourself and your little sister.
He blinked. The white plain was a muddy lake. Around him, tree trunks took form. He saw pine needles, tall weeds and stones lodged in red-brown earth.
Someone was shouting. It sounded like a kid.
“Rachel?” he whispered. His mouth was parched, his voice a croak.
“DANNEEEEEE.” She sounded desperate.
He swayed onto his hands and knees, started crawling …
His fists were sinking into mucky reddish earth. Before him stretched an expanse of shallow water. A flock of Canada geese swam leisurely at the centre.
A tiny figure stood on the opposite bank, shouting his name. At the top of a long dirt slope leading up from the water, he spotted an orange and white Volkswagen van, as tiny as a child’s toy.
“Logan?” he muttered.
Rachel turned away, heading back up the hill.
“Ra – Rachel,” he gasped.
The crack of a gunshot. The birds took off from the water in a thunderous flapping of wings. Rachel turned to watch them.
He lifted his arm, as heavy as lead. He reached up, tried to wave to her again.
“DANNEEEE!”
His arms gave way. He crumpled face first into the dirt.
In his dream he saw Rachel running toward him, skirting the edge of the water, and Logan’s lanky form loping behind her, a rifle in his outstretched hand.
36
The shadow took shape.
“Edgar?” Santa couldn’t conceal his surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Edgar’s overalls were darkly stained, his green elf hat sooty and torn. He was clutching a large red metal container with a long metal spout.
Santa smelled the sharp tang of gasoline. “Answer me, you sod.”
Edgar tilted the can and poured a glittering stream of gas onto the pond’s dock. He shuffled back, trailing fluid over the dirt to Santa’s Gift Shop.
“For God’s sake!” Santa said. “Bloody stop that, you mongrel. Did Hendrix put you up to this? Is that what this is about?”
Edgar’s doleful cow’s eyes swivelled his way. “No,” he said, solemn as a bell.
The light through the trees was growing brighter. Now Santa could hear pops and bangs and shattering glass. “You set the meth lab on fire! You bloody fool, do you know what you’ve done? You’ve sent millions of dollars up in smoke.”
“No, uh-uh.” Edgar paused. “Mr. Hendrix and Tear Drop cleaned out the trailer this afternoon. They took your plane. Bye-bye Twin Beech.”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. But they didn’t get far.”
His heart made one slow thud. “You did something to my plane.”
“Naw, Corazon took care of that.”
“Are you saying …” Santa blinked, throat dry. “Are you saying that Filo bitch buggered my plane? Did … did Hendrix and Tear Drop go down?”
“Yep, big time.” Edgar sloshed gasoline over the doors and windows of the Gift Shop.
All those millions and my plane, my soaring silver angel. Santa squeezed the spade handle as though he’d break it in two.
