Monster Control Inc. 26
A Professional Dilemma
The ridge Carl had selected was perfect for a defensive position—a rocky outcrop that rose about thirty feet above the surrounding forest, with clear sight lines in all directions and only two practical approaches. We quickly set up our perimeter, using the natural terrain to maximum advantage.
"Claymores go here and here," Carl said, indicating two narrow passages between rock formations that formed natural chokepoints. "Anything coming up this ridge has to funnel through one of these gaps."
I watched as he expertly positioned the anti-personnel mines, their curved faces oriented to spray deadly steel balls across the kill zones. Each mine was connected to a remote detonator that Carl clipped to his tactical vest.
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," I said, studying his work. "Those things will turn anything within fifteen yards into hamburger."
"That's the idea. Wendigos are tough, but they're not immune to high explosives and steel fragments." Carl finished arming the second mine and handed me one of the detonators. "This controls the northern approach. Whatever you do, don't hit that button unless you're absolutely certain there are no friendlies in the blast zone. Which is to say, me."
"Got it." I clipped the detonator next to my own gear, trying not to think about the destructive power now literally at my fingertips.
We established our main position behind a natural rock wall that provided excellent cover while still allowing us to observe the approaches. Carl set up his flamethrower with practiced efficiency, testing the ignition system and checking fuel levels. I had my flamethrower at my feet, taking up a position with my .50 caliber rifle, using a bipod to steady the weapon for long-range shots and sweeping the area below the ridge with my scope.
"Remember," Carl said as we settled in to wait, "wendigos are smart. It won't just charge up here like some mindless animal. It knows we’re armed. It knows we can hurt it. It'll try to out-think us, maybe even try to lure us out of position. If you hear someone calling for help, someone who sounds like they're in trouble, you have to assume it's the wendigo trying to bait us until proven otherwise."
The sun was just reaching its apex, casting short shadows across the snow-covered forest below us. The temperature was dropping steadily, and even with all our cold weather gear, I could feel the winter working its way into my bones.
"How much longer do you think?" I asked after we'd been in position for about thirty minutes.
"That chopper should be here in another fifteen minutes or so." Carl scanned the forest through his binoculars. "If the wendigo doesn’t move soon, we should be good."
As if summoned by his words, a sound echoed up from the forest below—a wordless cry that might have been wind through the trees, or perhaps something else entirely.
"Wendigo?" I whispered.
Carl listened intently. "Maybe. I don’t think it’s just the wind."
We waited in tense silence, every sense straining for signs of movement in the trees below. Then we heard it again—definitely not wind this time. It was a cry of distress, unmistakably human, coming from somewhere below our position.
"Help!" The voice was distant but clear. "Please, help me!"
Carl and I exchanged glances. The voice sounded genuine—desperate, frightened, exactly what you'd expect from someone lost and terrified in the wilderness.
"It’s the wendigo," Carl said quietly but firmly. "Has to be."
But something about the voice nagged at me. There was a quality to it that seemed familiar to me. I strained to listen as the cries continued.
"Please! I'm hurt! I can't... I can't make it much farther!"
And then I recognized it. "Carl, that's Eric. That's his voice."
Carl looked skeptical. "It could be mimicking him. Maybe it heard him scream when it killed Khang."
"No, listen." The voice came again, closer now, and I was certain. "That's him. It’s really him! I know his voice. He's alive!"
"Help me! Please, I know you're up there! I... I followed you!"
Carl remained unconvinced. "That's exactly the sort of thing a wendigo would say to lure us out of position."
But I was carefully scanning the forest below through my rifle scope, and there—I saw movement among the trees, maybe two hundred yards out. A human figure stumbling through the snow, moving with the desperate urgency of a man fleeing for his life.
"I got him!" I said, pointing. "Two o'clock, moving through those birches. That's no wendigo, Carl. That's Swanson!"
Carl swung his binoculars toward the indicated area and focused. For a long moment, he was silent, studying the figure below.
"Shit," he said finally. "I think you're right. But he’s hurt. Look how he's moving."
I focused my scope on the figure and saw what Carl meant. The man below was running in a panicked, irregular pattern, constantly looking over his shoulder, stumbling and falling and getting back up with desperate energy.
"Oh, God, it’s chasing him!"
As if to confirm my observation, another sound echoed from the forest—a howl that was definitely not human, definitely not the wind, and definitely getting closer.
"Jesus Christ," Carl breathed as he put the binoculars down. "He’s not going to make it."
The figure below—Eric Swanson, I was now certain—was making his way up the slope toward our position, but his movements were becoming more erratic, more desperate. And behind him, still hidden in the shadows of the forest, something was following.
"We have to help him," I said, starting to get up.
"No." Carl grabbed my arm. "The moment we leave this position, we lose our tactical advantage."
"We can't just let it kill him!"
"We can't save him by getting ourselves killed either." But Carl's voice was tight with conflict. I could see he was struggling with the same moral dilemma I was facing.
Eric's voice echoed up from below, closer now but also more desperate: "I can see you! Please, it's right behind me!"
I saw Carl come to a decision. He grabbed the second detonator from his vest and thrust it into my hands. "Here, take this. Wait until he's past the claymore before you detonate."
"Carl, what are you—"
"I'm going to buy him some time." Carl checked his flamethrower one more time and started moving toward the edge of our defensive position. "You stay here, cover our retreat, and for God's sake, don't blow me up."
"Carl, you can’t—"
But he was already moving, rushing down the rocky slope with his flamethrower at the ready, hurrying as quickly as he could toward the panicked figure stumbling toward us through the snow.
Plot twist: what if there are two wendigos?
I'm definitely buying this book when it's in print.