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31.12.2014
Dave Hackett had always felt safe in Equinox - a town so tiny it didn't even show up as a pinprick on most Michigan maps.
Dave loved wandering the woods when the snow began to melt and Mother Nature was ready to take off Her winter coat.
Dave Hackett had hunted and fished the wildest places in the Upper Peninsula for thirty years, but he could not shake the feeling that the woods and marshes around his home no longer considered him a friend. Dave stood there, fingers numb against the worn stock of his Winchester two-forty-three autoloader - a rifle he had once used to drop an eight-point buck at a hundred yards. Skunk-Jake Skinner slammed his bottle down on the table, sloshing beer all over a hunting jacket that looked and smelled like three-day roadkill. A gust of North wind made Dave shiver, filled his nostrils with the smell of frozen rot just begun to thaw. The thought of fishing made Dave's blood run as icy as Spring snow-melt, but he had promised Kevin.
Joe pulled a pouch of some moth-eaten animal skin from the medicine bag belted around his waist, unstrung it, spilled a heap of white powder into his hand. Dave shoved Kevin into the driver's side of the pickup, jumped in after him, slammed the door so hard the whole truck shook.
When they reached the cabin, Ellen seemed more shaken by their sorry state than Dave had ever seen her.
Joe burst through the cabin door, the lines of his face writing a message Dave did not want to read. Ellen herded Kevin and Carrie down the stairs, gave Dave one last look before she clattered after them. He found Joe in the kitchen, staring out the window above the sink, and forced himself to look as well.
Lightning crackled everywhere, shattering the trees, starting countless fires in the surrounding woods. Dave could hear it now, between claps of thunder - a growling, snarling fury just outside the walls, the frantic scratch of claws on wood. Glass shattered explosively somewhere above their heads, followed by a thump, the creak of something lumbering across the cabin floor. Joe pulled another pouch from his medicine bag, reached inside it, withdrew fingers smeared with something black and greasy. Joe moved from face to face, painting dark pictographs on pale flesh while an unseen monstrosity battered the cellar door. Dave raised his Winchester, saw ropes of muscle tense beneath the bear's shaggy hide, saw the wolves crouch as if to leap. Gichi-mukwa moved faster than any creature that size could possibly move, slamming Joe backwards and pinning him to the ground. He tried to howl his rage and grief and misery, but a furry missile struck him in the chest, knocking him against the wall.
Dave Hackett fell, fell into a starless void filled with a thousand voices chanting words he could not grasp.
Dave awoke on the dirt floor of the cellar, stiff and cold as morning sunlight spilled through the splintered doorway.
He wandered outside, sniffing the fragrance of pine and spruce and cedar, sharper than he had ever noticed. The thought of fishing made Dave's blood run as icy as Spring snow-melt, but he had promised Kevin.  Unlike his own father, Dave meant to keep his promises. First thaw unlocked the forest smells: faint spice of pine needles mingled with the dank, relentless odor of moldering leaves. But this… this was an army of critters too small and quick and numerous for any one man to stop.
Dead light bulbs and a swirling cloud of tobacco smoke made it hard to see, but he could see enough. When he finished, the silence stretched into a tension as thick as the tobacco smoke, and easier to choke on.
Joe did not move - he just held on to that knife-edge grin, but no trace of humor touched his eyes.
Joe's boots crunched across the gravel as he angled toward the woods in the direction of his cozy shack out along Bear Slough.
He saw something perched near the top - gray-white and indistinct against the swollen clouds - felt immense relief that one creature, at least, had not been infected with whatever black contagion plagued these woods.
The thing in his net had the telltale spots of a brown trout on its back and sides… but the thing in his net was not brown. He grabbed the handle of the net with his good hand, held the fly rod gingerly in his other, and splashed toward shore.
Half a dozen grubs wriggled from its steaming entrails like groping fingers, filling the air with the stench of putrefaction. He sprinted into the woods, following his son's wail until he spotted Kevin rolling on the ground. The apparition wore deerskin leggings and moccasins with the puckered seam that had always been a trademark of the Ojibwa. Joe swung in on the other side, banging the door shut just as a pair of squirrels thudded against the window. Tending Kevin's wounds calmed her a bit: applying antiseptic and bandages gave her something to occupy her mind.
Blobs of darkness tore free of the tree line and sliced into the clearing: wolves, foxes, coyotes, bobcats, all painted with the same demonic brush.
Dave scanned the house in desperation, spotted something in the yard - a rusty cylinder lying between the cabin and the nightmare horde. The pale blue powder smelled of spruce and wintergreen and other things Dave could not name.


When the door exploded off its hinges and thudded down the stairs, they were ready… as ready as they could be.
He held out his medicine bag with hands that did not shake and spoke softly in a language Dave did not understand. Before Dave could leap to his defense, the wolves sprang in unison, each one targeting a different human prey. The sun bled weakly through the clouds, but it did not burn strong enough to dull the icy bite of Kiwetin, the North Wind. As his rumpled clothes melted into jet black fur, as his hands and feet sprouted claws, he remembered something Joe had said - vaguely, as if he had heard it in a dream. They picked a spot along the Manistique, an open stretch of riverbank without too many weeds. The spicy aroma of woodsmoke wafted from the chimney; little Carrie squealed as Kevin pushed her on the creaking rope swing in the back. He pointed the old Ram pickup straight for Wild Bill's Bar & Grill, where they served the tastiest venison steak and the cheapest beer in town - not exactly high praise, since Wild Bill ran the only bar and restaurant in Equinox. He scanned the room, desperate for a sympathetic face, and spotted Joe Mishomis sprawled in a corner booth.
Davy Hackett, King of the Wild Frontier, chased out of the woods by a pack o' killer rodents!" Everybody laughed - nervous laughter, maybe, but a healthy sound. Dave caught him before he ghosted into the trees, grabbed his shoulder with a roughness born of pure adrenaline.
He threw his rod onto the bank just as the trout-thing twisted its body and carved a long slit in his two-hundred dollar neoprene waders. She had always reminded Dave of a wildflower: beautiful and hardy, able to flourish in the toughest conditions. Both tires on the near side - steel-belted radials, no less - had been chewed to ribbons by something with unimaginable power in its jaws. Some of the creatures whirled and staggered back into the trees, their furry bodies burning.
Joe's voice rose, swelled like thunder - became real thunder rumbling in the clouds above them. The Ojibwa's wrinkled skin was slick and scalding to the touch, as if he burned with some terrible fever. A low growl emanated from the other side, rising in pitch and power like the engine of a Mack truck starting on a cold day.
Four shadows bounded through the opening, pausing at the foot of the stairs - timberwolves, fur stained the color of coal, yellow eyes blazing. His voice was humble – reverent - but his dark eyes never wavered, locked proudly with the flaming eyes of the manitou. The front door swung creakily in the wind, its deadbolt ripped loose and tossed in a sawdust-littered heap beside the welcome mat. As he glided through the trees following the scent of prey, he felt the heart of Gichi-manitou beating beneath his paws. Most years, at least a taste of sunshine spilled through the cracks at the edges of Mom's cosmic door; Equinox had seen nothing this Spring but an unbroken shroud of gray.
The sights and sounds and scents of home embraced him, mundane and comforting, until he felt like the biggest fool in the entire U.P. He stared into the empty hollows of a tiny skull, curved beak the color of jaundice bobbing as the branches swayed.
Before Dave could decide whether to go after him, something splashed off to his left; his spinner began to hum.
He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand as the currents carried the remains of his breakfast away.
He gunned the pickup down the rutted trail, bouncing all of them around like popcorn in a kettle. He watched her stuffing clothes in an old canvas suitcase - withering before his eyes - and cursed his inability to stop it. It had protected his family from fearsome winter storms… but it would never withstand this one. He threw open the kitchen window, aiming the Winchester before he had time to doubt his instincts. Dave helped him stumble toward the cellar as bursts of thunderous light flared and strobed around them.
Dave looked at Ellen, saw the terror swimming in her eyes as she cradled a sobbing Carrie in her lap, clutched Kevin tight against her shoulder.
It should have been a good time to hook some trout: the little black stone flies were hatching, and Dave had a handful of Number Fourteen extra-longs that were dead ringers for the real thing. The name had something to do with Indian legends rooted deeper than the oaks, with a secret spot where the Ojibwa gathered to celebrate the rites of Spring. But these had fur as black as the Devil's soul on a Sunday morning - fuzzy balls of midnight skittering across the bones of winter-ravaged trees. For one horrible moment they did not move; then some primal instinct awakened, and they scattered. Dave gave up on finding a space in the gravel lot beside the cinderblock elegance of Wild Bill's establishment and parked his truck on the shoulder of County Road 448. The two of them had fished together since Dave was big enough to lift a rod: Joe taught him how to light-line nymph a fly leader, how to fish the swampiest parts of the Fox River from a canoe, how to tie a Woolly Bugger that no trout could resist.
Ted DeBoer run a pair o' coyotes off his place that was both just as black as the ace o' spades.
I'd sit there, shivering in the darkness, listening to the old Midewiwin chant their prophecies.
Its jaws opened and closed, not with the sluggish motion of a suffocating fish, but with a ravenous snap.


He carried a battered longbow and a quiver of arrows slung across his back; his wizened face had been smeared with markings the color of hot tar. With a whoop, Joe scattered the rest of the pouch's contents to the wind until a chalky cloud engulfed the nearest trees. Joe pried the suitcase from Ellen's trembling fingers and lugged it outside while Dave threw a few things in a battered duffel, trying to remember when he had last gassed up the truck.
Birds of every shape and size blotted out the heavens, exploded through the treetops like ebony missiles to collide with the multitude that flocked above them. A monstrous thunderclap rattled the windows as lightning flashed down from the heavens to blast the jack pines at the edge of the forest into kindling. They found the stairs, bolted the door behind them, descended slowly in the dim lantern glow. You can't beat the warriors of Gichi-manitou; your only hope is to make peace with them, to prove you're not the enemy.
Dave did not see it descend the stairs; it simply appeared, its shaggy body coagulating out of liquid darkness until an immense black bear towered above the wolves. But they could repair and rebuild, if they decided to stay - or they could start again somewhere else.
Dave's own instincts sent him sprinting for home, stealing glances over his shoulder as he stumbled over winter deadfalls. He walked past the jam of vehicles, recognizing the regulars… and several rusty hulks that never made an appearance unless they were roaring past on the highway. This time o' year, snowshoe rabbits oughta still be pert near white, but yesterday I shot me one with fur the color o' Kentucky coal dust. He tried to work the fish away from the weeds, playing it back and forth, waiting for it to wear itself out.
He smashed a boot against the trout-thing's side, crushing it against the rock, nearly losing his balance and falling face-first into the muck. The squirrels in its path burst into flame, raining from the branches like a shower of meteors. Dave tried to comfort his son, but he would not slow down — not until they put some miles between themselves and the dark waters of the Manistique.
As Gichi-manitou's warriors swarmed toward him, they flickered between two forms, dark images superimposed on the same photo negative. The bullet ripped through the metal skin of the propane tank, and the false night descending on the Hackett's cabin erupted into flame. Then the black tide surged forward again, parting before the flaming wreckage of the tank and circling toward both sides of the cabin. Ellen and the kids lay huddled in a nest of sleeping bags and weapons as the ground rolled beneath them.
Then it lowered its head, picked up the bow in massive jaws, and splintered the weapon like winter deadwood.
The wolf placed its front paws on either end of the gun, closed its jaws around the barrel.
The sun could not burn through the gunmetal clouds that had hovered over Equinox for more than a month; steady drizzle soaked through jackets, shirts, and skin. Kevin tried to spin away, was overtaken by another shadow-beast.  For one terrible instant, only his hand protruded from the wolf-thing's side, fingers twitching before they disappeared.
Mother Nature stands there with a foot on either side, trying to decide whether to wear Her heavy winter coat or put on a summer dress.
Then the thing skittered away, bleached bones clicking as it moved, and disappeared into the twilight.
He saw something dark and shiny dart below the surface, recognized the spotted markings of a stream brown. He fumbled for the pliers in his creel, wanting nothing but to get this monstrosity off his hook, to get himself and his son away from here. He scooped Kevin up in his arms, kicking madly at the creatures on the ground, grabbing the furry monsters gnawing on his son and tossing them aside. Joe grabbed Dave's arm, cursed him into motion, steered him past the spinning, screeching fireballs. He could sense them spreading out in all directions, expanding like concentric ripples on a pond after something heavy has been dropped into its depths.
He heard a rustle in the brush beyond the yard just as Joe Mishomis glided out of the jack pines, looking peaceful and refreshed. He glanced at a clump of popple along the edge of the clearing, and his fear melted away like a June snowfall.
The reinforcements converging from both sides slowed for a moment, confused by the carnage.
He wandered toward them, grateful for any sign that the door between the seasons had really opened, and reached out for a stem. He yelped in pain as blood spilled from his hand into the murky water, staining it copper brown.
He heard movement behind him, spun around to see a horde of bushy statues with shiny buckshot eyes.
Dave waded out and grabbed for his net, slipping it under and up as the fish swam within reach. He heard it again in back of him - the scratch of tiny claws on bark - whirled around to face it.



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