Except for Celine, who was supposed to be back at FSFO manning radio communications, everyone participating in the Wendigo Windstorm mission was supposed to be accounted for at the shore lunch rendezvous. Tawny, with Cosmoid riding shotgun, had parked her boat on the west side of Moose Island. Rod Gills and Stash were assigned to the north shore. And Marlin Salty along with Minister Nev were directed to guard the east bank.
The only escape route was the south beach. The one currently being held by Rusty Flathers. And now, within one hundred yards of the Wendigo, he had the monster in his sights. Come Hell or High Water this was going to be the end of the destruction for his guests and his employees at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. Rusty himself was…
Just as Tawny and Sam disappeared below the poplar ridge on the west side of the island there was a high caliber shot that rang out from the north. “Quick, let’s get down to my boat,” she called behind her, half running half sliding on her behind down the steep wall of the island.
Sam was not two steps behind following her lead. “That shot had nothing to do with the Wendigo!” he claimed. “It came from the north. The same direction in which Cy disappeared!”
“Wait… Where’s my boat… Where’s Cos… What the…” was Tawny’s response as she was the first to the bottom of the hill and quickly raced to the nearest clearing on the shoreline.
Sam caught up, then bent at the waist out of breath, “I’m telling you—this is MORE than a Wendigo.”
“Then tell me!” gasped Tawny, searching to catch her own breath. “What else other than the Wendigo are we up against?”
“Biggy ‘The Boat’ Pescatore,” Sam finished, still catching his breath.
It was a standoff. Rusty at fifty yards. Wendigo at fifty. The creature sensed the flame and cried out in piercing agony. Rusty dropped the spatula to cover one eardrum but held tight to the burning log. Or so he thought.
Reminder, it is still early springtime. And in lake country even with frequent rains, it can still be extremely dry. Dry as in fire warnings. Warnings as in the smallest of uncontrolled sparks can turn a flame into a forest fire.
“Fire will kill a Wendigo. Melt its frozen heart,” were Doobie Flathers’ words reverberating through his son’s head. And now Rusty didn’t know if he had instinctively started the yellow and crispy dried weeds near the shoreline on fire by purpose. Or was it a huge mistake. Either way the island was now ON FIRE and the flames between him and the Wendigo were rising higher by the second.
With no boat in sight Tawny continued pushing down the shoreline to the furthest southwestern point of the island, to make the corner as quickly as possible and get to Rusty on the south beach. If the terrain would allow, she and Sam could be there within fifteen minutes.
She held silent as she led the way through treefall and briar bushes. Listening to Sam elaborate on the man he referred to as Biggy ‘The Boat’ Pescatore. A fourth gen mobster from Chicago. A heavy hand that normally did his work on Lake Michigan.
But somehow the Pescatore family had found out. They had played the angles long enough… Done the math… The wrong people knew too many incriminating facts. Chasing Grover and Oscar and now the Pikeannolis was their only option. And Uncle Clarence was most likely just collateral damage.
Two more gunshots, and this time Rusty heard them above the screams of the Wendigo. The inferno he created not only separated him from the skeletal giant, but it had also now spread to the point where he was cut off from the shoreline. Unable to backtrack to his boat.
With no choice Rusty turned and ran toward the north. The same direction of the high caliber discharges. It was either that or be engulfed in flame. Which was currently NOT high on his list of things I want to do today.
“Alvin, Alvin! Get in the boat,” Tawny cried out just as she and Sam made it to the south beach. They were too late to get eyes on Rusty, but sixty-tics before it was too late for any of them to become nothing more than a human bratwurst scorched in sand.
She threw the Yamaha tiller motor into reverse, backing up wildly with water washing over the back of the transom. The intense heat of the forest fire made the gunnels of the boat hot to touch. The Wendigo and Rusty and Cy and everything they had seen earlier from their perch on the hillside was now gone.
And then came the roar. No—not the roar of the Wendigo. A roar with which Tawny was quite familiar. One that could be heard often during times of extreme fire danger on Lac des Bois. It was a Canadair CL-415 Super Scooper. Bright red with a yellow paint scheme. This amphibious plane lands on water to scoop up 1620 gallons of firefighting liquid in 12 seconds.
At fifty feet above the deck, Tawny knew the water would engulf them in 2 seconds. This was the exact amount of time it took her to identify Sally Squatsnfishes, leather flight helmet cinched, and banking hard right from within that cockpit, attempting to cover the length of the beach with her first drop. Also, identifiable and flying co-pilot was Link, with radio headset strapped on and ears pinned back from diving G-forces hitting his face. Everything was about to get steamy.
“Brace yourselves!” Tawny screamed at her passengers as the wall of water came crashing down like a lake sturgeon that had just perfected an up-top barrel roll on the surface. Alvin was already braced, lying spread eagle in the bow grasping three floating seat cushions. Sam—not so much—was now crosswise in Tawny’s lap, eyes locking with hers, hands flailing for anything secure.
“Those aren’t buoys,” she informed Sam, after the water bomber had deafened them and left two and a half feet of water inside their boat. “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me!” And then she plunked him in the temple with her non-steering elbow.
Sam rolled to the deck of the skiff, choking and spewing water. “I was reaching for the gunnel,” he hacked.
“Sure you were,” Tawny growled, again reversing the boat at full throttle. “And you can also go right ahead and piss up a rope!”
The steam from the wall of water and the inferno of flame created an immediate white-out. Rusty no longer ran, but crawled. The smoke—intense fog—blanket of airplane prop exhaust noise—was then interrupted by what one only could have identified as some sort of makeshift loudspeaker. Through an external PA system, with a trajectory pointed toward the ground, he could have sworn he heard a dog barking. His dog… His dog sending a message: “Two barks,” means I miss you. “Three barks and a yip,” means Sally’s pissed and is bringing Hell with this Water.
Rusty then confirmed to himself… “YEP… There were most certainly THREE barks and a yip. She’s back!”
This was encouragement to regain his composure and Rusty jumped to his feet. With the chaos created by the fire bomber there was no sure direction to run, so he chose to run and run fast, away from the original wall of heat. Away from the danger—from the Wendigo.
But his strides were few. Thirteen to be exact. Thirteen before he tripped over what he all too quickly identified as a dead body.
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 