The Second Birth of Frankenstein (The Department 19 Files #5) (3 page)

Among the whispered stories and legends of the north, there was one that froze the blood more completely than any other. The Algonquian tribes believed that everything – every living animal and plant, every inert object like a rock or a body of water – contained a spirit. These spirits were known as Manitou, and the most terrible of them all was the wendigo. Tied on an elemental level to the north, to winter cold and starvation, the wendigo was a spiritual being of enormous power, a malevolent creature that ate the flesh of men, but could never be sated. It haunted the darkest places, the deep forest, an emaciated being of frightful, rotting appearance, murdering and eating and possessing those men who had resorted to cannibalism, a taboo that was not as unthinkable in the wilderness as it would have been comfortable to believe.

Wallace knew at least three men who claimed to have seen such a creature with their own eyes, to have faced it across darkened clearings or come upon it as it fed on some unfortunate soul. He had not scoffed, as there was much that seemed plausible in the north that would have seemed ludicrous if discussed in the drawing rooms of London or Paris, but he did not believe that the men had seen what they thought they had; he believed that there would be rational explanations for the encounters, given time to investigate them more thoroughly.

Now, he was no longer so sure.

He and Scott had been sent out to gather wood for the fire while McTavish and the others secured the furs and cleared snow from the clearing that would serve as their campsite. They were on the final leg of their journey home from a trading mission to the Selkirk Settlement, where they had acquired four heavily laden carts of pemmican, the mixture of dried meat and fat that was essential for survival in the northern wilderness.

At the edges of the settlement, they had come across a tribe of Métis that Wallace had traded with on a number of occasions, but who had been forbidden by law from taking pemmican out of the wide swathe of land that comprised the Selkirk Settlement to sell. The judgement had been unpopular, particularly with the North West Company, who had previously traded large quantities of it with the Métis, and it had been impossible not to notice the unpleasant atmosphere that had descended as they drove their full carts past the tribesmen. No harsh words had been exchanged, but the tension had been tangible. There were whispers in the forest that the Métis were preparing for war with Selkirk, at the urging of the North West Company, rumours that Wallace hoped were untrue, but found entirely plausible.

As a result, his first thought when Scott screamed was that a rogue Métis warrior had followed them along the Red River Trails, waited until the two of them were separated from their colleagues, and attacked from the shadows. Wallace dropped the armfuls of branches he had gathered and turned in the direction of the scream, his hand going to the long knife that hung from his belt.

Scott was staggering through the trees, screaming and clawing at something on his back. Wallace ran forward, sending up clouds of white as he churned the snow with his huge feet, then skidded to a halt as the thing on his colleague’s back turned to look at him. It appeared to be a man, but if so, how it had the strength to even move was beyond Wallace’s understanding. The thing looked starved, the sharp points of its bones visible beneath a thin covering of grey skin and tatters of wool and cloth. Long white hair hung down its back and its face was ashen, the colour of winter, grey and empty. A matted beard hung almost to its waist below an open mouth, a black maw from which animal grunts were emerging, and its eyes glowed red, the flickering colour of Hell. It hissed at him, then buried its face in the back of Scott’s neck. Blood flowed, and Scott screamed again, breaking Wallace’s paralysis.

He ran forward again and barrelled into the clawing, thrashing figures, sending them crashing to the ground. They separated as they fell, and he leapt at the grey thing, hacking at it with his knife, a bellow of fury erupting from him. Skin split, spraying blood across his arms and face, and the creature screamed in pain as it bucked and twisted beneath him. Wallace didn’t relent; he brought the sharp edge of the blade down again and again, hacking thick, wedge-shaped wounds in the grey flesh, until the creature managed to free an arm and drive it into his face.

Wallace rocked back, stunned by the power in the blow. The arm propelling the fist was as thin as a newborn’s, but he doubted he had ever been hit harder. Blood ran down his throat from his nose, and he tipped back on to the snow. He was moving again instantly, but the creature was gone; he heard movement in the trees, saw the ghost of something flicker in the distance, but then Scott started to scream again, and he crawled over to the man. His limbs were thrashing wildly, and he took a tight hold of them, trying to calm him, to hold him steady. Wallace looked round, and saw Paterson in the distance, staring at him with his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with horror. In his arms, Scott screamed and screamed, and he was about to bellow for Paterson to get help when something thundered into the back of his head, and everything went black.

Wallace opened his eyes. Somehow, despite the numbing cold and the pain in his bound wrists and ankles, he had fallen asleep, or at least passed out with exhaustion. The fire burned low in front of him, barely more than embers, giving off no heat that he could feel, the darkness around it deeper than ever. Surrounding it, packed tightly together, were his colleagues. The men were all asleep, the watch cancelled, or simply abandoned.

He twisted his limbs to the extent of their range, and was relieved when feeling began to return to them. He was not susceptible to frostbite, but nor was he certain that he was immune to it, and the conditions he found himself in were a recipe for disaster if his flesh turned out to be as fragile as that of normal men. He was about to shout for the rest of the men to wake up, for no other reason than spite, when he heard something moving in the darkness.

It was a scratching sound, low and barely audible. Something moving through snow that was mostly ice. Wallace tipped his head back and inhaled deeply, searching the air for the strong animal scent of a bear or a wolf, and found neither. The scratching paused, then began again, more urgently. Fear, which was an entirely unusual sensation for John Wallace, trickled through him. The light cast by the fire extended barely a foot beyond the smouldering wood, far enough to illuminate the outlines of his colleagues, but little else. Around him, the landscape was black, and empty.

The sound came again, fainter this time, more distant, as though whatever was making it was moving away. And suddenly Wallace understood.

“McTavish!” he bellowed. “Grant! Paterson! Awake now, for God’s sake!”

The men around the fire popped up as though they had been stung by hornets, their eyes wild with fear in the pale orange glow of the fire. McTavish was first to his feet, his knife in his hand.

“I’ll cut yer bloody throat,” he shouted. “Keep makin’ that racket and see if ah dinnae, ye foul thing.”

“Build up the fire,” shouted Wallace. “We need light.”

“Why, for God’s sake?” asked Grant.

“It’s Scott,” he said. “Check him, and see for yourselves.”

McTavish narrowed his eyes, then turned to the rest of the men. “Build ’er up, lads,” he said. “Then we’ll see, aye.” As the men piled wood on to the embers, he pulled an oil lamp from his pack, and lit it with a burning stick from the fire. Yellow light spilled from its glass, along with the familiar smell of whale oil, and McTavish stomped round the fire to where Scott had been lying.

He stopped dead, staring down at the ground. The watery lamplight illuminated the patch of snow where Scott had been, confirming instantly to Wallace that he had been right.

Scott was gone.

“Whit devilment is this?” asked McTavish, then turned towards him. “You! What ha’ ye done wi’ him?”

“Do you not see my bindings?” asked Wallace, his voice low. “This is not my doing, and you know it.”

“He’s gone?” asked Paterson, his voice trembling. “Why would he have gone? His injuries were terrible.”

“Whit ye askin’ me for?” spat McTavish, rounding on the young man. “I dinnae huv aw the answers fur ye. Think fer yersel, ya wee shite.”

“There’s a trail,” said Grant, peering down at the snow. “It looks like he crawled.” He took three careful steps away from the fire, and pointed at the ground. “The tracks stop here.”

“Stop?” asked Paterson. “How can they stop? Are there no footprints?”

“Not one,” said Grant, softly.

“Perhaps he flew,” said McTavish, and laughed, a loud bark with no humour in it. “Danced awa’ intae the sky wi’ the fairies.” He spat thickly into the fire. “Spread oot an’ find him. He cannae be far.”

Wallace shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “There’s something hungry out there.”

McTavish stormed across the campsite and pressed the blade of his knife against Wallace’s cheek. “There isnae anythin’ oot there!” he bellowed, flecks of spit landing on Wallace’s face. “There’s nothin’ but bears an’ wolves. Only devil in these woods is tied up a front o’ me. Dae ye ken?”

Wallace didn’t respond. There was clearly no point in attempting to convince McTavish of what he had seen, especially given Paterson’s refusal to admit the truth. He had tried, and that was all he could do.

McTavish withdrew the knife, then turned on the rest of the men, who were standing as still as statues, watching him.

“Get movin’!” he shouted. “Dinnae make me tell ye again!”

The three men jumped, then turned and made their way tentatively towards the trees. McTavish eyed them, then stomped away in the opposite direction, slamming through branches and kicking up snow until he disappeared into the darkness.

Wallace watched them go, his heart racing in his chest. Silent stillness fell over the campsite; he could hear nothing of his colleagues, nor see any sign of them. It was as though the forest had swallowed them.

Then an ungodly shriek tore through the freezing air, a terrible screech that rose and fell and seemed to go on forever. Instantly, it was answered by wolves, a chorus of soft, almost mournful howls that floated over the trees, dozens, perhaps hundreds of them, some barely audible. Wallace’s blood froze in his veins as the cacophony echoed around him, his breath held tight in his chest as the noise gradually faded away to nothing.

He felt fear coursing through him, and resolved to use it to his advantage. He flexed the muscles of his back and heaved with all his strength against the post he was tied to. He felt it loosen instantly, took a deep breath, and heaved again. The post moved, sliding upwards a few inches as the icy ground’s hold on it gave way. Wallace gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder blades and down his bound arms, and heaved himself forward with all the strength he had. The post slid upwards again, more easily.

One more push,
he hold himself.
One more will free it.

Something landed in the clearing with a heavy thud, and rolled towards the fire. It came to rest near the edge of the now roaring flames, and was still. Wallace looked at it for a long moment, then threw back his head and screamed up into the night sky, a vast, unearthly noise that shook the trees and the ground. And even as he screamed, he heard laughter float among the trees, a high cackle of glee.

Grant pounded back into the campsite, closely followed by Munro and Paterson. The three men were breathing hard, and looking frantically around, their knives raised.

“Where is he?” shouted Munro. “What happened?”

Wallace managed to drag a huge, freezing breath into a body that had been fixed in place as he screamed, and slowly lowered his head. His mouth was full of saliva, and he spat it on to the snow before nodding towards the thing that had been thrown into the clearing.

“There,” he said. “It’s there.”

Munro frowned, then stepped round the fire next to Wallace.

“Mary Mother of Jesus,” he said, his voice low and cracking as Paterson and Grant followed his gaze.

Staring back at them, with wide eyes and an expression of profound confusion, was McTavish’s head. His hat was still in place, and his skin was pale and seemingly unmarked. But where his body should have been there was only a ragged stump, torn flesh surrounding a bright white nub of bone.

“Dear God,” said Paterson.

“
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
,” whispered Grant, “
I will fear no evil.
” He crossed himself, his eyes wide.

“We have to find his body,” said Munro.

“Why?” asked Wallace. “What good will that do you or him?”

“We have to,” repeated Munro. “It’s only decent.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Wallace. “Decency left this place long ago. Untie me and let us set watch.
Our
survival is all that matters now.”

Munro shook his head. “You stay where you are,” he said. “
We
will find McTavish, and then
we
will decide what is to be done.” He walked unsteadily in the direction that McTavish had gone, and disappeared into the trees. Grant and Paterson looked despairingly at each other for a long moment, then shuffled after their colleague.

“Don’t,” said Wallace. “There is only death out there.”

The two men passed without so much as a glance in his direction. Paterson looked close to tears, and Grant was holding tightly to the silver cross that hung around his neck. A second or so later, Wallace was again alone in the clearing. He instantly pushed all concern for his colleagues from his mind, and refocused on the task of freeing himself. He rocked forwards and backwards several times, loosening the post once more, then, with a grunt of effort, pushed himself forward with all his strength. The post rose up, caught agonisingly on the lip of the hole that had been dug for it, then burst out of the ground in a shower of snow.

Wallace tumbled to the ground, still tied, and shuffled backwards across the campsite, dragging the heavy post with him. He rolled himself so that the post, and the rope knots, were in the flames, ignoring the pain that began to radiate from his hands. He could smell burning fibres, and felt the slack around his wrists increase. He twisted and pulled, forcing the loops wider and wider, until, in a moment of heavenly relief, his hands came free. He wasted no time applying snow to the burns that covered them; he drew his knife, raised his legs, and began to slice furiously at the knots that locked his ankles and knees in place. The rope was strong, and the knots were well tied, but his knife was sharp, and it was the work of thirty seconds to cut the last of his bonds. He climbed to his feet, his legs screaming in pain at such sudden movement, in time to see his three colleagues emerge from the forest, their faces ashen.