Chicago, The Windigo City by Mark Everett Stone

Author:Mark Everett Stone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: chicago, illinois, cannibal, wendigo, windigo, secret government agency
Publisher: Camel Press
Published: 2013-12-18T00:00:00+00:00

“Here comes the first one.”

Commander Ian Lancaster Fleming of His Majesty’s Supernatural Services shaded his eyes with one slim hand, noting the lone figure stumbling toward the camp, partially obscured by heat shimmer. He smiled wolfishly, his long, homely face reddening under the Egyptian sun.

“Is it her, sir?” MacTeague asked, shading his eyes as well. Standing under the large umbrella with Fleming, the little sergeant stared at the dim figure, body almost thrumming with anticipation.

Fleming shook his blond head. “I can’t tell.”

“I don’t suppose you could do us a cooling Spell, sir?”

“You know I hate to toss magic about, Sergeant. In a place like Egypt, so steeped in enchantment and legend, you never know who or what might notice.”

MacTeague rubbed his eyes. Sweat drip, drip, dripped from his pointed chin. “Those quartz Spell crystals you gave me weeks ago are all used up, sir, and I swear I’ve lost three stone already. I hate sweating, I do.”

Fleming sighed and dug into a pocket, handing the sergeant a small, grayish stone. “It will last only an hour. Don’t waste it.”

“Word, sir?”

Fleming handed him a slip of paper. “Here is your activation word, sergeant. I swear, the men must think you’re the devil himself for surviving such brutal heat without breaking a sweat.” He chuckled—a thin, mean sound.

MacTeague looked at the paper, which read JERRYBUGGER, and laughed.

The two stood at the edge of the camp, a large umbrella, the exact hue of the sand that surrounded them, provided limited protection from the sun and almost none from the heat. Behind them lay a pair of folding camp chairs and a small table on which rested a sweating glass pitcher of lemonade and several glasses, a treat for the recruits who would arrive on that third and final day of testing.

Fleming raised his voice. “Khalid.” A young boy of ten, wearing only a pair of worn khaki shorts on his rail thin brown body, ran forward.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

“Please bring a glass to yon recruit. I am sure he or she bears a terrible thirst.”

The boy, face browned to walnut by the sun, smiled, revealing very white teeth. “Yes, Mr. Fleming, sir! Right away!” He poured a glass and ran off into the shimmer.

“It better be her, sir,” The Scotsman said darkly. “When you told me to train her, I was sure you’d gone mental.” He shook his head. “I ain’t never seen her like, sir. She’s got steel in her that runs for miles. That’s a fact.”

“A sight more steel than Eddington and McMann,” said Fleming. Egyptian auxiliaries, in case of failure, had shadowed all the recruits. Eddington and McMann had both given up the second day, surrendering their will to succeed. The auxiliaries had rescued the two recruits in the nick of time and at that moment they were in the Medic’s tent resting and rehydrating. “Where the devil is that woman?”

Slowly, almost painfully, the distant, blurry form resolved itself into Fletcher Bowles, Khalid at his side. The tall, robust Englishman

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