Undead

By Tyrel J. Bruyere

Undead is part one of a three part series, called The Z-Files, following the lives of Tyr and Persephone before and during the years that the undead plagued humanity and spread across the earth. Theses two have lead very different lives and gain very different powers throughout the course of the story, and yet they are connected in the most sacred and carnal of ways. Tyr gains powers that transforms his body into something born from the very myths and legends that spawned the creation of the Undead. Persephone develops love for her knew family, for her lover and for herself, all of which were feelings that were foreign and strange to her before meeting them. Power and love seem like wonderful things, but these two heroes soon learn the weight that these offer in such a dark world, yet it is the love between them that remains the truest form of power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796090628

Tyrel J. Bruyere

Tyrel Bruyere is Anishinaabe of the Treaty #3 district of Northwestern Ontario. He pursued writing in his early twenties, while attending College. At an early age, his father and mother drove him towards success, as his tutors and mentors in all things. His father teaches him about flora and fauna, and all things in nature. His mother teaches him about the facts of life and society, and they inspire him to this day. Tyrel Graduated from Red River College in 2012, with his Diploma in the Aboriginal Language Specialist Program. It was during these short years in Winnipeg, that Tyrel became inspired to write about this adventure, though the story took on a life of its own. He continued his education in Thunder Bay, taking his Bachelor of Arts in the Indigenous Learning Program at Lakehead University, and graduating in 2016. Since then, Tyrel has continued to write this series and commits himself to completing it. He also continues to carry on the traditions and culture that was passed down to him by his father, mother and other teachers throughout his life.

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Prologue

Journal entry: 03/20/2012 Onaabani-giizis-Hard Crust on Snow Moon

Shkode—

I have been having a lot of strange dreams lately. My Nookom used to say that they are prophetic dreams and are trying to tell me something. I told her about some of them before. I told her about the three wolf pupsthat came to my door, wounded and starving. The wolf is my clan after all. I was always told to respect my clan and never to kill anyone who belongs to it, and that’s why I never trap wolves. Anyways, back to my dream. The three wolf pups came to me, and I brought them into my home and fed them and dressed their wounds, and they became like my sons. My Nookom told me this dream is too literal for it to be symbolic of anything, and that it represents something that will happen later on in my life, and that I should be ready for it. Am I to think that I am to receive a batch of wild wolf pups one day who sit and talk like men too? That’s a little strange, even for her, to tell me this. She is always telling me strange things like this. Another dream I had, from two nights ago, was of a strange-looking man, with tattoos all over his face and body, who embodied the strength and power of a Manidoo. He wore a buffalo skin around his shoulders and spoke in somber and quiet tone, but his voice carried the weight of generations. He told me that I must look into my dad’s old war chest, where he kept all his personal things He served in World War 2 when he was fourteen years old, lying about his age to the conscripts, and then went to Vietnam when he was a grown man; and I was just an Abinoojiins. My old man died last fall, so it’s still too early to be going through his things. Our elders say that we gotta wait a year after death before we can start going through someone’s things. It has barely been three months, though. My Nookom says that I should do what this Spirit tells me to do because, again, these dreams are not symbolic of anything. They are prophetic, according to Nookom; so I gotta take them for face value. She’s the one who told me to start writing these stupid pages too … such a waste of time. I guess I’ll do what the Spirit says anyways. I always wondered what the hell was in that damn thing. My old man always lugged it around with ’em wherever he went. I always assumed it was his travel trunk, and he was too old-school to buy a modern suitcase like a normal human being. He was like that, though. A strange man, him.

There was a cool mist seeping down from the damp forest floor, whispering secrets to unknown ears that listened to its enchanting song, only this song was a warning interpreted by seasoned listening ears. It was early in the morning; and Shkode sat out on his front porch smoking his regular Sago brand cigarette, seemingly hollow to those who would try to communicate with him right now. This was his time to meditate and relieve himself of all the past day’s troubles. There was one thing that bothered him about the night before, which kept him awake all night tossing and turning and he did not sleep. The Binesiwag, the Thunder Beings danced hard and blew over many trees in his community, and he could hear their limbs breaking at the force of the wind, and he had never seen a storm like it in his forty-seven years. The Binesi were relentless yet majestically orchestrated, and their feathers struck the beach by the boat landing in front of his house. He butted out his cigarette and put his boots on to go and see where the lightning struck. He had never seen such a thing happen before, though he had heard of something similar happening in the States.

The fog was like a blanket over Rainy Lake; he could hardly see the Noodin Causeway from where his house was positioned, which was normally a pretty clear view. He walked down the road to see the Five-Mile Dock where he saw the lightning strike about three feet from the dock, in a small deposit of sand by the rocks. His black Siberian Husky, named Makadenimosh followed like a shadow as he was the only companionship Shkode has had since his mother died two years before. He suddenly began to think about his life, forty-seven years old and feeling unaccomplished. Shkode was never married or has had any children and was an only child who never knew his father. He was a drunk and a gambler, any amount of money he had went to the casino in Laughlan, or Vermillion Bay, and often cheated on his mother. Shkode was almost glad when he died the fall before since it came down to his son to take care of him and make sure he didn’t wander off because of his Alzheimer sickness or shit in the neighbor’s garden again.

His mother was a well-known Medicine Woman from Lac La Croix First Nation, known by the name Mawendaabinesiikwe, and had died two summers ago from cancer. Makadenimosh has been his companion for ten years and was still very playful for being the age that he is. He kept fit as a hunting dog and the nightly walks that Shkode took him on. He was uneasy now, and Makadenimosh suddenly started running toward the large black spot burned into the ground by Manidoowag’s terrifying beauty. The Thunder Beings were singing loudly last night. He thought, kneeling by the hot surface, he could still feel the heat rising from when the lightning struck. He kicked at it with his boot and dug around the surface. Digging with his hands, he finally started to notice something under the black crust; and after twenty minutes of digging and fussing with Makadenimosh to stop trying to help him, he had dug the ominous structure out of the ground. The lightning melted the sand and fused to make a glass statue that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

Not by human hands, he whispered to his faithful shadow. He wondered why he felt that he had to even whisper at all. What was the meaning of this thing he dug out of the ground? It was fused glass made from lightning striking the beach, melting it with heat as hot as the surface of the sun. Somehow Binesiwag was trying to send a message to Shkode, and he knew it. The small glass-and-earth structure stood at thirteen 35 centimeters in height after he measured it with his tape measure. It was round and wide at the bottom and came to a point at the top. It wasn’t the extreme detail or the wondrous influence of nature that astonished him most, but it was what the structure formed that was ominous. It looked like demons ripping apart a man from toe to shoulder; and he reached up to the sky, pointing. The detail in the face was almost as if it had been shaped by a master Glass Blower, having all the features: eyebrows curved wide, as if in agony; eyes open and tearing; mouth open, as if crying out in pain; and very anatomically correct. Shkode wrapped the statue in a towel and bound it with a length of red cord he found in his front room.

I’ll bring this to her, he thought, and he and Makadenimosh jumped in his little Chevy truck. It wasn’t a long drive to the Longhouse, only ten minutes or so. He was heading east from the Five-Mile, crossing over the Noodin Causeway Bridge. The item stored in the large and heavy steel toolbox in the bed of his truck radiated some sort of demonic energy, pure malevolence in the shape of a small statue made out of glass and earth. He did not want to keep it and hoped the Old Woman would know how to get rid of it or at least take it off his hands. Even Makadenimosh was uneasy about the secrets that the structure might hold. They drove in the thick fog—as thick as pea soup, his mother might have said—and he thought about her until he reached the turn off. The only things that were visible to him were the nightflowers that now began to bloom. Their ominous blue light burned through the fog like a beacon of impending doom.

When he arrived at the lodge, he was stricken with horror when he saw corpses strewn along the roadside. He stopped and got out of the truck and checked the bodies, noticing that some of them were people that he knew, bellies torn open and their guts scattered all along the roadside. He could not believe the horrors that lay before him as he looked at the bodies everywhere. He jumped back into the truck and drove up to the lodge entrance in the east by the water.

What the fuck! was all he could manage to say. He stopped the truck and stepped out to investigate the scene on foot. As he got out of the vehicle, he noticed a body lying facedown in the ditch beside the rear wheel of the truck and grabbed a long stick from the roadside to turn the body over so he could identify it. It was a young man wearing bloody clothing and soiled from the water and dirt. He used the stick to turn the body over and saw that it was someone he knew from the C. C. Complex, the local convenient store. His name was Josh, not that anyone would be able to identify him now. His face looked like the wolves got him before he arrived; his body was ripped open, and his entrails have been strewn about the ground like the other men and women on the road.

He suddenly heard cries for help coming from the forest, and Makadenimosh immediately perked his ears up and ran toward the sound, and Shkode followed reluctantly but only after grabbing the 12-gage shotgun that he hung on his back window. He always kept it loaded and ready, just in case he managed to see a partridge on the side of the highway, which were abundant in this area. He had five shells loaded and the safety off, so he was as ready as he could be. He ran toward the cries, following behind his shadow, only to come across something so horrifying that it made the small structure that he found that morning seem to come to life. He saw the woman he was looking for standing on top of a burial stand with a pointed stick, probably a pole used for a teepee; and she was jabbing furiously at the men below. They were not men he recognized; but they too were covered in blood, clawing viciously at her, and snapped with ferocious intent. They were grabbing and biting at her, trying to pull her down. He noticed other men and women closer to the bushes, kneeling on their hands and knees eating people like he’s seen wolves tearing apart their prey, only they were throwing entrails everywhere and had flesh hanging from the sides of their mouths.

Windigo, he whispered to Makadenimosh, who was just as shocked and afraid as Shkode was, pacing restlessly around Shkode’s legs. Makadenimosh wanted to leave, but Shkode had to save the Old Woman. She had knowledge of what was happening in the world without the need of a radio or television. He retreated quietly back to his truck, and Makadenimosh followed; he soundlessly opened the door to put Makadenimosh back inside where it was safe. He reached under the passenger seat and grabbed his trapping ax, with a broad and wide head. He was thinking back to what his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. He was a powerful Medicine Man, who had the ability to kill the Windigo; but the only way was to cut off their heads and burn their bodies. I must cut off their heads.

He had no time to waste and started running toward burial stands. A Windigo noticed him and let out a bloodcurdling scream, alerting the others, and all started moving toward him. A couple were running, and a few were walking slowly. He saw that these creatures were more horrific and terrifying than his grandfather had described to him. They had missing limbs that looked like they were gnawed off, some even had their entrails spilling out their bellies, and he was feeling the only real terror he had ever felt in his life. He lied and told himself that he was not afraid; but he knew that he had no choice, that it would only get worse. Gichi-Manidoo, give me strength! he cried and swung at the creature that suddenly lunged at him from his left, struck off its head with his ax, and swung again and again at all those who approached him.

He saw the ground littered with limbs and corpses of people he knew in life; all of them were healers and small-town folk, good people. That filled him with a rage that he never felt before, and suddenly he shut off the human instinct that was telling him to run; then he blacked out, and what happened after was just a blur to him. A Windigo came closer to him, snapping at him like a rabid dog, with a mouth full of blood and flesh hanging from his teeth. Shkode made easy work of him as he swung his ax down on its neck, biting through the flesh and bone like butter, hacking the soft flesh to the bone, hearing the crunching sound of the neck breaking. He swung at another one with his ax in his left hand, cleaving it into the creature’s head and splitting it in half to into the chest cavity, like a piece of wood. Three more came at him then; and in a fury that was as quick as lightning, he spun around in a whirlwind of cold steel, splitting through their necks and spines as they stepped within his circle. Another came to his left; and he swung upward, splitting the creature’s head open from chin to crown, and another to his right who he swung at with such strength with his ax that he almost cut her clean in half.

There were many more that came in waves to the sound of his steel biting into the flesh of their dead predecessors; they were just as doomed as those who came before. As he stood over the last of the creatures that had fallen under his blade, he called to the Old Woman, who stood on top of the burial mound, watching the events that just took place in front of her. He came to again, snapping out of the bloody rage that he felt, remembering nothing at this point, only frightened at the dozens of corpses lying around him, hacked to pieces. He looked up at the Old Woman, and she looked back at him.

They can’t climb! she shouted at him. You should come up here, Shkode. He climbed up a wooden ladder on the side of the burial stand, which rose about twelve feet above the ground, on four thick cedar trees. All he could smell was death and blood as he rose to meet the Old woman, and she was pale with sickness and fever. He saw that they had torn her dress and that she too was covered in blood. There was a bite on her right ankle that she had loosely wrapped in a piece of material from her dress.

Let me see, he said as looked upon her with despairing tears streaming down his cheeks as she unwrapped the tattered piece of dress. He looked down at the festering wound on her ankle, seeing that it had already turned black and green with infection. It was bleeding profusely, and she was beginning to go into shock. You were bitten! he said with contempt pure in his voice.

I’ll be okay, dear, she said with softness and gentleness that could only come from a grandmother’s voice. I have some herbs in my cabin that I could break the fever and stop further infection, but first I must tell you about what has happened here. She told him how a Windigo came out of the forest early in the morning to come for healing; he was very sick. I was out here giving my prayers to the grandfathers and grandmothers as we rose to bless us with another day until I heard a scream coming from one of the wigwam in camp. One of our people took him in to help him, and he attacked her. She stopped suddenly at the sound of rustling in the bushes but a moment later went on with her story. There was only the one at first, but the bad medicine spread so quickly it turned Miigish into one in only moments after it bit her. I was lucky enough to be away from the camp. I hid in my husband’s burial stand so nobody would see me. I knew they were Windigo from the first time I heard one of them scream. I remember it from when I was a little girl and saw your grandfather kill one before my own eyes. Those sounds have haunted me ever since, and I fear that it will be the last thing that I will ever hear again, that and your grandfather’s voice when he told me that there was no cure when possessed by a Windigo and that the only way to kill a Windigo is to cut off their heads and burn the body. They killed everyone, tore them to pieces like they were a pack of rabid wolves, only wolves are not that indiscriminate. They killed all the men, women, children, and the rest of us elders. She started to weep at her dismay or at the festering wound on her ankle, which was only getting worse.

She regained some of her composure and began again, I had a dream last night before being woken by the Binesiwag. You were in it, and you were standing over three dead men, crying for them. You laid your sword, spear and shield, and your bow before each of them and stood back to let three black wolves feast on their flesh. You then began to sing with your hand drum. You sang the ‘wolf song,’ to them and they padded away when they had their fill. You cried when they left you too. She took a deep breath and seemed to remember her ankle. She cried in pain as she tried to reposition herself. The wound was bleeding through the wrapping on it.

Let me go get the herbs for you, he said, but she only refused with a wave of her hand.

It’s too late for me already, she said as calm as anyone could ever be, saying such a thing. My time is come. I must go to the Spirit World now. I have fulfilled my purpose now in telling you what I know and teaching you all these years. You can’t let me turn into a Windigo, or my body will wander this world soulless, and it might hurt other people like those who came this morning. You must kill me before I turn. She almost had a tired tone in her voice, and the poison from the Windigo bite was spreading quickly.

He looked at her with cold empty eyes, sitting somber in his deep-set brow. There was no emotion in him anymore, only anticipation and wondering who else he would have to kill. He knew he must kill her, fully aware of how Windigo work and how they thrive through the dead bodies of those they bite or scratch or mutilate. There is no cure, he thought.

Thank you, she finally said after a long pause. She did not need to hear him say he would to know his answer. He was never very good at talking to people when he was upset, and she knew him from when he was a young boy. He raised his ax with both hands above his head and let the weight of the steel do the work as he let it fall. The birds in the nearby trees flew away in mourning for their human friends who had died that day, whom they had known and loved for a long time. Shkode climbed down from the burial mound and went to his truck to get a can the kerosene from under his seat, dragging his feet as a great sadness came over him. He opened the door to his truck and pet Makadenimosh, who he could tell was very worried about him. He licked his face and even tried to go with him. Shkode refused and closed him in the truck once again, and he walked toward the burial stand where his long-time spiritual adviser and very good family friend lay.

He poured the kerosene all around the structure and gathered some dry wood to pile along the sides. He was not interrupted by the Windigo anymore that day. He watched as the burial stand burned, trying not to vomit at the smell of burning flesh, not something he was yet accustomed to. It was night time now when the great fire shrank to embers and ashes; he returned to his truck and drove to his home to prepare for the war that was coming. He thought of the dream that the old woman told him she had as he turned to key to his front door and looked out toward the lake before he closed the door behind him. Who are they? he thought.

He went into the basement of his house, which connected to a cellar where he stored wine—hundreds of vintages—one of his more favorable hobbies but not so to others who saw him as an alcoholic, like his dad. Beside the door to the cellar, there was a large wooden chest that belonged to his Old Man, who he never really knew except for the stories he had heard. Inside the heavy oak chest, there were old photos and his military uniform. There were some medals that he had earned, most of which he could not recognize, except for the Purple Heart that the military gave him after he was wounded and discharged. Shkode was surprised that his mother had kept it, thinking that they would have wanted to bury him with it; but he guessed that she could not part with them.

In the bottom, there was a hidden section, with a cover that locked on the side. He had the key with the rest of his keys, never really thinking about it, since he had never seen what was inside. His mother gave him the key when she was in the later stages of her cancer, when she saw her end coming. She just said that it’s for the chest, and Don’t let your Baabaa have it. He’ll pawn that stuff for booze money. He unlocked the bottom section after removing the rest of the contents from the chest and was amazed at the relics that lay beneath.

His eye first caught glimpse of the long curved sword with an intricately woven red cord wrapped around the handle that looked very old. He picked it up and noticed it was very heavy, at least five pounds of steel; yet it was balanced perfectly at the hilt. The handguard was oval-shaped mark of steel that had a snarling wolf wrapping around the base of the blade, with eyes that might have once held precious stones. He admired the scabbard, which was heavy dark wood, with uniquely woven red leather cord, tied in such a way that he could not tell where the knot began and where it ended. The scabbard was also decorated closer to the bottom with the design painted below the cording of a wolf in a crouch position. It was painted white, on a black glossy finish; and the handle of the blade was long enough to fit both of his hands comfortably.

He drew out the blade and heard the sing of the steel as it brushed along the side of the scabbard, revealing a blade that would cut a chunk of granite in half. The overall length of the sword was about 100 centimeters; and from the back of the blade to the edge, it measured from his index finger to his ring finger at the base. There were ripples all along the edge. He merely touched his thumb on the edge of the blade and split it open. He saw that the blade had Japanese kanji-style writing on it, at which point he guessed the origin of the blade. It was likely a trophy that his father had taken from a warrior in Japan during the war, or perhaps he had it made while he was overseas by a swordsmith in Japan. The wolves were the identifier for him, which were his animal clan and his father’s too. He slid the sword back in its scabbard and looked at the other contents that were in the bottom of the chest.

There were several firearms; handguns with magazines, others revolvers with five- or six-shot cylinders. All the guns were complete with boxes of ammunition stored beside them, of which he did not know their names. He had only ever shot rifles and shotguns before and knew a bit about trapping and netting fish. He has never held a handgun before. There was a large bayonet with a red leather cord wrapped around the handle. He found a small warrior’s shield, which was traditionally used in ceremonies; but this one was made of steel and painted red with a big yellow spot in the center. It also had a small slot where a blade was hidden, only it wasn’t a knife. He drew out a large spear head that looked well used and very old but still quite sharp.

The last object he found was a small book, a journal that his father had left behind. He did not look through it just yet but brought all the contents from the hidden part of the trunk to his living room after shutting everything else away. He locked the chest again and grabbed bottle of his favorite vintage out of the cellar. His hands were full when he set everything down and managed to drop everything, making a loud clanking sound but not harming any of the items. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat in his living room with the light of only a small candle beside him and began to read his father’s journal. He felt a sense of foreboding, never forgetting the terrors he had seen earlier that day and what was to come.

There was more screaming coming from outside, so he sat down in his living room and loaded all the guns from the trunk and as many magazines aside as he had. He then grabbed his old friends: a 30-30 rifle; a .270 with a scope; two 12-gauge shotguns, one with a crack barrel; and 4-10, which was also a crack barrel. He got to work and started boarding up his windows and doors, leaving only his balcony open and a small ladder to get up and down from it. He left his rifle with the scope by that door and the shotguns by the front door after sealing it off as best he could. The front window was covered by his dining room table made of solid teak and was close to a hundred years old already, but it was still sturdy.

He held enough boards and scrap wood in his cellar to build a house with, and so it came to use when he covered all main floor windows and shut out all his other rooms with windows, except for his own, and boarded up all the windows in that one. He left only his study, his bedroom, the cellar, and the upstairs bedroom that led to the balcony open. He had only small peepholes to look through around the perimeter of his house. Makadenimosh was good for sniffing out when the Windigo would come to the steps or around the house, yet he was smart enough to keep quiet when there were too many.

He would sit and watch on the roof of his house with his rifle in hand and enough ammunition to take down a small army. He watched the world change before his very eyes. People sometimes spotted him and attempted to break into his home, but he sent them off running most of the time. Some of the more stubborn ones would get shot in the ass, and others would even be killed. He wanted to take people in sometimes; but the few times that he had tried, the people would try to rob him of his home or eat his dog, and so he sent them out again. Most of the time, he would find them farther down the road, torn to pieces by the Windigo who passed by in larger hordes now. He knew that it was safest to sit and wait, and a day would come when the world will change, and the people would be healed. He just hoped that he could have a part in it when the time came.

Chapter One

Journal entry: 03/24/2012 Onaabini-giizis-Moon of the Hard Crust on the Snow

Tyr Borr—

I guess it has been a while since I wrote anything in these pages. I can’t say I have really had time to do so since I have been busting my ass trying to catch up on work for school. Why the fuck did I take the early childhood education program again? I guess I was just looking for an easy job for when I go back home. I liked working in the daycare, though. The little ones really brought a light to my day. These days, it’s just work, work, work. I lost too much time raving and partying to even think about school. I have gone to a party or rave every weekend now for the past three months. I’ve taken enough acid, ecstasy, cocaine, and heroine over the past three months to contend with some of the greatest rockers of all time. I guess I shouldn’t say that. I could very well end up in the dregs of this city if I don’t get my shit together or die from an over-dose from taking some skag that’s laced with some evil shit, like fentanyl, or yak piss. One of the buddies I raved with just died two weeks ago from that shit. I guess I kinda wanna die too. I would not mind leaving behind all this pain and suffering I see and feel every day. Maybe the party tonight will cheer me up, though I can’t honestly say that a good remedy to depression is to take depressants. Whatever, I got my gun at home. Maybe I’ll just get really fucked up tonight and then go home and blow my brains out. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

It was a sunny day in the spring of 2012 in the Manitoba city of Winnipeg. It was flourishing from all the splendor of the winter that had passed, awakening from its long sleep. Tyr and Liam were preparing for the party that evening, the first of the season and several birthdays of friends within their group circle. They were coming back from Portage Place mall, obtaining party favors; streams of thin colored paper, glow sticks, markers of a variety of colors, and plastic cups for the eventual cleanup in the morning. The weather seemed hotter than usual, but it was not ill received by those who have adapted to Manitoba winters. Tyr reflected that in Winnipeg, it was always much warmer in the springtime than in Fort Frances, his hometown.

The winter had been a treacherous one. It must have reached a low of negative sixty degrees on its coldest day; he always thanked the Creator that it had finally passed and that spring was finally upon them. As the two of them walked down Spence Street, they decided to stop at the corner store to pick up some cigars to make blunts later on in the night. The old woman who worked the front desk was very difficult to understand when she spoke, and it always took a little while to explain to her what kind of cigars they wanted. You want pom-pom? she would always say, to which they would always reply, No! Just Swisher Sweets. Tyr paid for them and turned to leave when he noticed Liam looking at the television screen above the register. There was news about some car pileup on Highway 11, between Kenora and Whitefish Bay. There were a dozen known deaths and many injured, and it looked like it was a warzone. Tyr shook Liam by the shoulder and walked out the door; he followed, still glancing back at the television.

Tyr lit a cigarette and handed one to Liam, who gave a slight wave of his hand and took a deep drink of his Gatorade. Tyr felt a tension in his stomach. He was hungry, not having eaten since the morning of the previous day; but he was good at forgetting about it until it hurt. He would eat later when the company arrived and no sooner, though he was in known poverty and had been for months. He took a deep drag from his cigarette and blew it out, looking up to Ellis Avenue and seeing a following of police cars and ambulances, which was nothing out of the ordinary in Winnipeg. He never put much stalk in such sights anymore and just glad that it was not him that they were rushing after—not yet anyways.

Liam became restless, watching the woman, who was likely a prostitute on the street corner, passed out on a wooden bench, surrounded by nightflowers, the god-awful weeds that seem to grow everywhere. She looked as if she was feverish and very sick with vomit all over her shirt. This was new to Tyr, never seeing such a sight, and wondered about the convoy of emergency response vehicles that had just passed them. He felt sympathy for her but did nothing and continued on down the street to Liam’s house.

Liam’s house was several blocks down from the convenient store, a large three-story brick house, painted a sky blue, with cracking lead-based paint all down the sides of the outer wall, with vines creeping their way up from the ground. They added the extra feature that made the place less conventional than the other houses in the area. They even crept up the front porch, twisting around the fence and railings, eating away at the once-white paint and leaving a black earthen-colored crust behind. The front yard was covered in cigarette butts from the winter and left behind an unpleasant muck that was laced with putrid stench of rotting tobacco and a brown sludge that mixed in with the soil of the grass that was once there.

No one seemed to mind, though, because, after all, this house was the main gathering spot for many of the people who live inside; and they would only add to the pile of cigarette butts tonight during the party. The house could hold a rather large group of people, many of which would be invited guests and friends of others also. Liam had arranged that the party be tonight with his landlord named Bob, an evangelist Pastor at a local church. He was a shrewd man, and not well liked in their circle of friends for his elitist attitude and provocative methods of oppression. This was student housing; and with the University of Winnipeg down the street, it was a decent place to live but only if you were a student. Liam was not a student anymore, though he had attended classes in the previous fall and was not sure if he wanted to continue his studies. He lived in this house because it was cheap to rent, and he had only just begun his new job and just received his first payment—a handsome $2,567 that was spent in less than a day; this day, to be precise. Drugs, alcohol, food, and entertainment were purchased in mass quantities on this day since they were expecting many people to show up, guessing that at least a hundred people were invited and confirmed. Liam even hired a few exotic dancers to come to the party and was MC while some local DJ played his set . Tyr got a kick out of the raver lifestyle, with their massive intake of drugs, promoting what it was they sought each night, at these parties. It was peace, love, unity and respect, or PLUR, as they say, that they gave to each other, and became the very world-view of their unique culture.

The house was a lot bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, stacking high to a full three stories and eleven bedrooms. The staircase was in front of the front door, leading to the second and third floor, with five rooms on the second and third floors, and another room beside the front door on the base floor. That one had a window that peered out to the front porch; it was large about four or five feet with weak glass that had been there since the house was built. At the front door, there is a short hall leading from the front door to the kitchen area and the living room area with its glass doors. They were no better at keeping out a draft or keeping in the warmth than the front room’s windows did, and they were probably just as old; either way, these rooms were always excessively hot or cold.

Tyr set down the groceries on the dining room table, which was more of an island really; and he walked over to the fridge and got his rum from the freezer. He took two of the plastic cups that Liam had bought and mixed a drink for each of them. It would not be long before the rest of their friends would begin to arrive, and they did not intend to be sober for when they did show up. They drank their first drinks quickly, tossing them back in one drink, as was their custom. After which they poured another to savor and take their time with.

What do you think happened on the highway? asked Liam before he finished his second drink. I’ve never heard of anything like that before. I mean, I know the highway can be dangerous, but all the ice is gone now. There shouldn’t be any reason for a pileup like that. He seemed concerned. Besides, wasn’t that close to your hometown? Do you think your parents would know anything, maybe one of your friends that are still living near there?

They are always doing construction on that highway, said Tyr. I’ll bet that there was a huge lineup from the construction and someone in the front hit a deer because that’s all it would take. The rain from the last few days probably didn’t help either since it is still very cold at night, below zero, so it may not be so uncommon for there to be ice in the early morning. Or maybe—Tyr smiled a sinister smile—it was zombies, and they are going to attack tonight. Both of them laughed, reflecting back to the YouTube clip they saw a couple of weeks ago. Francois, one of their close friends, had showed it to them. It was a video of a couple of guys who looked like they were eating another woman, and some of the cops were shooting them in the head. Of course, the video was marked as a hoax by the government, though it had a wicked nine hundred million views.

This was always the regularity between the two them; Tyr was always the logical thinker, and Liam was always asking questions, thought it always left room for their eventual theological discussions. He tried to call his parents’ house to appease Liam, but there was no service for some reason. His phone would not work at all, and neither would Liam’s, but they agreed that it was some sort of service problem with the cell company or their towers. They thought nothing of it and continued to drink their drinks, finishing another two rounds before people began to arrive and they were well into their buzz.

Another drink went down easy for them and another after that, and finally there was a knock at the door, the first of the guest to arrive. It was A-Man, a Rastafarian man from Ethiopia. He had a huge afro, a large dome of thick curly hair befitting his personality; and he always had a smile on his face. He liked bright colors and listening to Bob Marley and absolutely loved smoking weed. These were the first things he presented to people about himself. He was an easily likable person and became close friends with Liam and Tyr. He was with his girlfriend, Winnie, who was very much the same as A-Man, having a large afro and white pearly smile. She too was from Ethiopia. She was very fair, ebony skinned, and tall—and even taller with her dome-shaped afro. She was a beautiful woman to behold, and she complemented A-Man in a way that no other person could. They arrived with big smiles and an ounce of master kush. Tyr sweetly kissed them both on the cheek and offered them drinks, which they took graciously. A-Man began to roll a blunt with one of the pom-poms they grudgingly bought earlier and shared it with the rest of the group.

There was gentle talk among the four of them for a short while as they smoked the master kush and became quite stoned. A-Man was blowing smoke rings with expertise none could achieve. Such was A-Man’s skill at almost everything he was passionate about, having the IQ of a genius. The world seemed to slow down for a short while as they sat together and enjoyed one another’s company; indeed, the world outside was forgotten in this house for the duration of the evening. Time was irrelevant.

Within an unperceived hour, the whole tribe had arrived, all of whom were standing almost shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen and living room. There were people in the basement and in some of the rooms upstairs also, but nobody had claimed the front bedroom since the door was locked. All persistence failed when some of the other guys tried to jimmy the lock with a butter knife and credit card, but there was a dead bolt in the way so it was left alone for the rest of the evening. Tyr wandered the entire house, hovering from conversation to conversation with different circles of people. He began to grow tired of the loud bass from Liam’s one thousand watts of DJ madness and needed to take a break from the rest of the party. Liam had given him permission to use his room and bong if he wanted and had just that in mind.

Tyr waited for Eric to show up with the Molly and had already given him $50 for it. He did not really like Eric, but he knew where to get drugs, so he was sent with an escort. Stevens went with him with money of his own to get a few eight-balls of coke that he was going to share with Tyr, Liam, and Mathias. Tyr wandered halfway up the first staircase when he remembered to get the key to Liam’s room from Liam. His friend, the birthday boy, was spinning on his turntables in the kitchen; there were K-pop girls dancing in front of him; and Mathias was standing next to him, throwing his fists into the air. His eyes were glued to Ming’s ass, and the rhythm came natural to him. The K-pop girls from the McFeetors Hall student residence seemed to have a liking to Liam, and he was not afraid to exploit it. They were entertaining the party until Liam’s dancers showed up. It was not uncommon to see some of the young Koreans limping out of his room in the night, and Tyr had witnessed this walk of shame on many accounts.

He used to be a linebacker for some college team but had been playing football for his whole childhood, though he had never played with a professional team outside of high school until now. This much was obvious about the man that Tyr knew, with his six feet and four inches, and looked like he had been in the military, with a crewcut short shave on the sides of his head, and a Mohawk down the middle. He was a very heavy man compared to most at 265 pounds but not necessarily intimidating because he was a very gentle soul at heart. He did not show this part of himself very often to others, save for his family and a select few of his friends.

Liam was throwing his fist into the air and pointed at Tyr when the next song started. It was called Barstow, a remix based on Hunter S. Thompson’s movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It was one of Tyr’s favorite electronic songs and indeed a reflection of a lifestyle he was currently living. Tyr was not really interested in the electronic genre of music until he arrived in Winnipeg and started going to raves. Before he came to college, he was always listening to metal and, recently, the blues. This was the conditioning of his hometown, Fort Frances, and being involved in metal bands for most of his high school career. He now understood that different music was everywhere in Winnipeg.

Tyr held up his fingers to his lips with a toking sign, and Liam knew what he meant. He dug into his pocket quickly and pulled out his keys before winding up and throwing them at Tyr quickly. As he held up his hand to try to catch them, they hit him right in the forehead, missing his hand completely. A burst of laughter came from both of them, and Tyr flipped him the middle finger and walked away. He was approaching the stairs again, mulling over the many conversations in the room that he could hear above the music. Someone was talking about Este being caught fucking Alayah in the shower by his girlfriend. Another person was talking about how there was a fight outside, but another conversation stopped him. He heard about the car pileup on the highway earlier that day.

I heard there were only three survivors, and they were beat up really bad, missing limbs and burnt really bad, said Reggie, a tall African man with a thick Zimbabwe accent. He worked for ImpactSecurity for the city. He deals with the local police almost every day; and apparently, they were called out of the city to assist with the crashes. Almost all the emergency response units were called for hundreds of kilometers in each direction, and the victims currently resided at the health science center down the street, and some were flown into the larger cities for treatment. He went on with the details, talking about how most of the survivors had died on the site soon after the response units got there.

That’s fucked up! said Tyr. He turned and continued toward the stairs with dread clear on his mind. He wanted to drown it out with liquor and drugs, and literally had the key to that in his hand. He did not want to think about all those people dying or about having to go to school on Monday or about taking his midterms next week, which he did not study for. He was on the brink of failing in his first year of college, but he did not want to think about that either. This was a night for celebration, one that he would gladly embrace with open arms and open nose. Heh. He smiled.

Cocaine, he thought. Ecstasy, he craved while glancing at the door before he started up the stairs, fumbling with the keys, trying to remember which one it was. When he made it to the second floor, he saw Este coming out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He was a good man and proud, accepting Tyr as his friend from the first time they met. He was a handsome man and knew it himself. Tyr heard that Este was in the shower with someone, but he in the shower with not only one but two other girls who he did not see. He guessed one of them was Alayah. One was poking her head out the door, naked and blushing. Tyr snatched Este’s towel from around his waist and ran up the stairs to the third floor. He looked back when he was running and saw Este standing there with his hands perched on his hips, flaunting his manhood. The girls pulled him back into the bathroom for round two or three—he did not care. All Tyr had on his mind was the snow and E that were surely on its way and the hoots from the King of bongs to come.

He texted Stevens when he sat down at the computer desk in Liam’s room. So did you get it? he typed.

No response.

Tyr was starting to get irritated but then pulled out a half ounce of tundra, some of the best weed anyone could get in Winnipeg that evening. He had the majority of it of all the people in the house aside from A-Man who was more than generous with his bag—but not Tyr. His friends who normally had some could not find earlier in the evening, so they were buying off him, though he did want to make some money back after what he spent on the E that was coming. He busted up some in the grinder when he heard a knock at the door. It was Este, who could smell the weed in the room from the floor below them. He was clothed now, thankfully, and wanted to get away from the party as much as Tyr did.

Do you want to roll me a joint? You know I suck at rolling, Este asked Tyr.

Sure, man, let me just take a bong rip first, said Tyr.

Where does Liam even keep his bong in this tiny room? asked Este.

Tyr reached back and opened the closet behind the door, quite hidden if the entrance door was wide open. He reached up into the top shelf of the closet and struggled to bring a heavy box down. He set it on the desk after shoving all the papers to the side, and inside was a smaller metal box with latches and a lock. It was almost like a suitcase, but it looked very durable. With the tiny key on the key ring that Liam gave Tyr, he unlocked the case, unlatched the latches, and opened it up to reveal a masterpiece of glass-blown splendor: two-and-a-half-foot bong with four cylindrical percolators in the centerpiece, bubbling out three times at the base, growing larger as it reached the base piece, which was a sterling-silver dish. The silver base piece flared up to a rounded lip, circling all around. The shaft was intricate designs of rainbow colors and almost every shade of the rainbow. The mouthpiece was a glass green leaf wrapping around and meeting itself. The bowl was the greatest piece of the whole bong. It was a tree frog with the down stem coming out of its ass and the bowl on its back, as deep as the end of the thumb. It was green too, like the leaf on the mouthpiece. The bong was called Gaia, a name Tyr remembered from some old story.

He walked to the bathroom two doors down and filled a beaker with cold water and ice that he got from the freezer in Liam’s mini fridge. When he came out of the bathroom, he looked over the banister and saw Stevens coming up the stairs. It’s about fucking time, he thought.

How did it go? he asked Stevens before he had a chance to notice him, and he looked up from his phone with a start. Stevens said nothing to Tyr, only pulled a bag with a rather large amount of coke in it, more than three eight-balls, and threw him a smaller bag of tablets and pills: green aliens, white ladies, and gel capsules of MDMA. Tyr nodded and gestured toward the door with a great smile on his face. Stevens walked to the door and opened it, holding it open for Tyr, still saying nothing to him. It was then that Tyr realized the irritated aura around him, probably because of Eric and his tiresome attitude. He went into Liam’s room and sat down at the desk again, packed a bowl, and smoked it in one pull, then packed, and passed it to Stevens, who pulled it in one also. Este smoked it in three of four. Soon after Este finished his bowl, Stevens pulled the bags of snow out of his inside pocket. Tyr pulled a small silver container out of his pocket. Inside was a small mirrored surface, and it had a small tube he used as a snooter.

They lined up six lines, or two lines each between the three of them. Tyr was the first one, who took both in one go, and then Stevens, who only took one now, and then another after Este. Stevens hooked up his iPod to the stereo, putting on one of Eric Clapton’s most appropriate songs called Cocaine, which set the mood for the continuous chatter that took place for a fraction of the evening. Different people came and went, and some took a bump of blow and/or a hoot out of the extravagant bong, but a group of eight men remained cramped in the small room for the majority of the party.

Mick joined at some point. He was accompanying the group of students from Africa, who were new to the city. He was born in England, but both of his parents were Irish, and he spoke with a mixed accent. His real name was Mathias, but they thought it was too normal, so they agreed to nickname him Mick, and he liked it so it stuck. Finkie was a dark-skinned man with short cut hair and well groomed, but his Hebrew and Jewish heritage showed in his glamour: the gold chains around his neck and bulbous rings on each finger, with white and red gold, some lined with emeralds or rubies. He was a wealthy man, which all could tell, and was also eminent in the way he spent his money yet counting every penny.

A-Man decided to come up in a time, leaving Winnie with her girlfriends downstairs in the living room to mingle among one another. He brought some tabs of E that he got from Eric and sold two to Jamm, a provocatively humored man, and three to Liam while taking three for himself. Francois was an exchange student from France, who had an affinity for strong wine. He brought a bottle of mead to them from Norway when he visited over his summer break. He had been saving it for this party since it was his birthday also. He poured a glass for Tyr and took the line of snow offered to him on the little mirrored surface.

The mead tasted spicy and sweet at the same time, and suddenly Tyr got a dreadful feeling when he stared at the golden honey wine in his glass. There was a sudden portended vision that this would be the last time he would sit here. He stared for what seemed to be a long time but was only a few seconds when Liam came into the room and exclaimed at the pile of blow set before him. Tyr offered him a line; and Liam gratefully accepted, taking a $100 bill from his wallet and snorting the white sand that would take him to another level of awareness entirely.

It’s the only way to snort coke, said Liam as he bent over and sniffed the line with a swift motion. That hit the spot! He rubbed his belly as he sat in the chair next to Tyr and closest to the pile of coke. Liam pulled out a bag of mushroom to add to the cacophony and gave Tyr several small caps, to which he ate on the spot. He had now ingested mushrooms, ecstasy, cannabis, cocaine, and alcohol. He was about ready to stop there, but he had a long time for this journey to end now that he had eaten mushrooms. He may never come down again and may likely die before the sun rises.

Liam took a haul from his bong and asked Mick for a smoke, which was a custom for Liam, who never had his own cigarettes; they spun conversations that went in every direction possible, and everyone seemed merry. Hours of chatter passed by; cocaine conversations and bong bowls passed by. The mushrooms had long since taken effect, and those who had consumed them were now at their peak, riding the changes in the atmosphere, and geometric figures were being peered at through the third eye. Tyr looked into the faces of his friends and could not shake a foreboding feeling he had, one that he had not felt in years since his encounter with the Windigo when he was fifteen.

He flashed back to that night when he was walking alone down the back streets of Fort Frances and saw a creature standing before him in the middle of the road. It spoke to him in an ominous fashion, but he rejected the creature and strolled past it with his integrity intact, always knowing that he would encounter the dark spirit again in his life, and he felt it now. He was known as a solitary practitioner in shamanic arts and magic and a seer of spirits, communicator with the dead, and a spiritual adviser. His life had taken a turn for the worst in the past few years. He found drugs that numbed his ability to see spirits and that he could sit and sleep in silence even if it was a dreamless, senseless existence. The drugs did not help now, especially now that he needed those old gifts most; he could sense danger and an evil presence.

He stood up to the sound of a scream coming from downstairs. Everyone else appeared to not even notice; and he opened to door to go downstairs to investigate when Alayah came running up to him with tears in her eyes, infected with fear.

COME QUICK! COME QUICK! she yelled. Everyone was on their feet now, but Tyr gestured for them to stay as he went with Alayah.

What is it?