Season Four—Episode 24 (Midnight Rider) 

How long had he been lying there. Lying there because someone or something had stopped him, dead in his tracks. In his mind his legs had been churning and his lungs burned for oxygen. But it was too dark to see. Too dark but he was running—running—running.

Rusty was a Midnight Rider chasing the pack. They had been playing under the bleachers at the football stadium. Climbing steel beams. Swinging from the underside of wooden seat planks.

Cousins Skip and Scoop were out front, and the trio was past due to getting back to the summer ball diamonds.  One of them turned to holler, “C’mon hurry up, let’s go, our parents will be waiting!”

His shorter legs were not as fast. Not like he wanted them to be. He was always behind. Always dragging.

They were supposed to watch the final night game at the baseball field, but they had ventured off, like kids do. Goofing around. Always goofing around.

But now he was back. Back in the bleachers seated in the middle between Skip and Scoop. And his head hurt. Yes, wait, there was a bump on the back of his head.

How did he get from the football stadium, back to the baseball diamond at the city park. There was a blank space of time. A void of darkness.

But now Rusty was awake. The ground steamed where it had been doused and there was a body lying next to him in the mash of weeds and undergrowth.

Two shots from the north. Two shots that rang out from the direction he had chosen to escape the fire, the straining effort to separate himself from the Wendigo.

Two shots… Both now accounted for. One in the chest cavity, most likely the first. And the second, right where Cy Pikeannoli parted his hair.

The fresh blood had turned his white hair into a darker, more brownish crimson. It was not bright red as Rusty had anticipated—and it made him look neither younger nor older. Just dead.

Always dragging behind… Always bringing up the rear. “Get up! Get moving!” Rusty told himself.

The forest fire on Moose Island was gaining momentum. There was a stiff south wind encouraging its growth. Sally’s cruising speed was 207mph with the water-bomber. She only needed to dial it down to the mid-80’s when collecting water.

She could make out Tawny in the Lund Alaskan as she cut down to the deck on her approach for round-two. Hard to miss Tawny. She was the one captaining the boat, arm stretched toward the sky, flipping Sally the (nice to see you finally join the party) bird with her extended middle finger.

“It’s fun to keep it light,” Sally thought as she tipped her wing to acknowledge Tawny’s greeting. “Now where’d Flathers disappear to.”

“Climb a tree—keep pushing north—bury myself under treefall,” the reappearance of the Wendigo made up Rusty’s mind soon enough. “RUN! RUN! RUN!” was the message.

Looking over his shoulder as he bounded between rocks and trees it became ultra-clear he would not be able to outrun his pursuer. The fire had regained strength as did the speed of the ever-hungry beast. Fight or flight—Rusty was on a flight that appeared to be losing air speed.

“Where the hell is he?” questioned Sally with her eyes straining as she flew two-hundred-seven miles an hour just above the treetops. Then without visual recognition her right arm went to the release handle and opened the belly gates on the bottom of the water tank. She was opting to use a trail on this second run. Spread out the water stream, versus her first bombing that went all at once in one big blast.

With his shoulders rotating left to right, right to left, Rusty dodged and bolted and sprang between each oncoming obstacle. But as the distance between himself and the Wendigo closed, so did his ability to maintain both speed and agility.

The next obstacle, a sharp ridge about three feet high, with a multitude of fallen trees lying at its base would be impassable. Attempted. But impassable. He was no triple-jumper, and this was evident when his second lunge came up short and the toe of his right boot caught the underbrush. The result was a forward momentum barrel roll with a half-reverse twist.

Mid-air the world slowed down. His arms were reaching out to catch Sally, but Tawny stepped in between. He twisted to avoid her deliberate left jab. Was Sally trying to punch him in the face, or was Tawny just being her playful loving self?

Look-out! Time for a landing!

Upon splashdown Rusty found himself sitting chest deep in a makeshift dugout. One that was holding water. And a family of beavers. Their dislike for his entrance was quite apparent. All were chomping and showing their Colgate Optic White incisors. Of which, upon further inspection, seemed odd, as he previously believed beavers to be inherently poor in their attempts at dental hygiene.

Particularly perturbed was the bull beaver, because Rusty had full-on ass-planted the grand poohbah at the bottom of this pothole. And that left jab that Rusty dodged earlier in his half-twist daydream… Not so much when this hell-bent colony patriarch became reality with a Bruce Lee tail kick that beat him ten days into the future. Ouch!

Gallons and gallons of water. He wanted to believe he could congratulate himself on choosing this direction to escape and finding this pond.  But he knew the water had been placed there minutes earlier by a Canadair CL-415 Super Scooper. It was Sally’s doing.

“Beavers in a pond, just once I’d like to be able to save my own pelt,” he stewed.

He could also see from his long sit position a devil that stopped short. A serpent that was unable to control its insatiable appetite for raw flesh. But to what extent. That of its own being. The choice to gnaw meat to the bone or escape a forest fire. Or was there no clear choice for a Wendigo. Did this curse, one being stricken with the constant need for consumption of human flesh, outweigh basic survival instincts? That was Rusty’s question.

And this is how Rusty Flathers saw it go down. One second you are enjoying a juicy mouthful of Cy Pikeannoli… The next your own carcass begins to hiss.

But you don’t stop consuming. It was like watching the August blueberry pie eating contest on Oak Island. Being forever secluded in this deeded township left locals starving for both pie and entertainment. Rusty could vividly remember watching as a kid. His father Doobie purposely bringing him to these north woods lake country locations, specifically to spectate and garner what the human soul was capable of.

The Wendigo continued to feast. Its body shrank as it became engulfed in flames. A once burning spirit now shrieked as ice melted out of its skeleton. Was that Cy’s burning flesh that smelled sweetly rotten or was it the unnatural hair of the beast ignited by a flame? Either way Rusty prayed for the wind to switch directions.

Staggering and clawing, shreds of blood-stained clothing hanging from its icicle teeth, the beast would not go down easily. Rusty could see into its long terrible stare as it collapsed from the inside. The ice that built this monster’s heart was finally melting.

Then there was a wail… Followed by total—dead—silence. Only the crackling of fire now stood in that dark greasy spot. And just as the Wendigo had purposely stalked Rusty… Now too did the ground level forest fire that continued dragging its flames nearer to his feet.

There was nowhere left to run… No one to reach out a hand… This was IT, as they say.

Rusty went supine and lay face up in the pool of muddy water. Then he took one gihugic chest filling breath, watched a plane go overhead, and submerged himself to go and play under the bleachers with Skip and Scoop.

–To Be Continued—