[ TT ] [ WP ] Urban Fantasy : The Hunt Is On

“ ID? ” the clerk asks the kid at the counter. 
 
 “ Oh, yeah, I left it at home. ” 
 
 “ I can not sell you without ID ” the clerk says, reaching out to put the cigarettes back on the shelf. “ I get into trouble. I have to pay big money, my friend. ” 
 
 The teenager is playing on his phone. He looks completely disinterested. There was a time I could ’ ve lifted a phone right out of a stranger ’ s pocket and been halfway down the block before they noticed, but kids these days, eh? Always on the phone. Twenty-four/seven connection. Verizon Wireless is the new Doctor Feelgood. Still, I need a damn phone. The kid scoffs and walks away from the counter. 
 
 “ Can I help you? ” 
 
 “ Phone. ” 
 
 The clerk forks over the burner phone. I slide a credit card through the machine. 
 
 “ You need minutes? ” he asks, grabbing for a prepaid card. 
 
 “ Naw, just the phone. Thanks. ” 
 
 Purchasing minutes is a waste of resources. I open the phone and input a sequence of numbers. Now the phone had two hundred minutes. Plus unlimited texting and data. It ’ s what I do. I ’ m a technomancer. Any piece of technology, no matter how ancient, it ’ s my bitch. Proximity is the key though. I can make a TV snowy from states away, but standing next to a power station, I could shut down Hoover Dam. 
 
 I flip open the phone and follow links to Danielle Lewis ’ s Instagram. She has posted over 200 photos today. Everyone today is plugged in. There ’ s no need to enforce Big Brother, we ’ ve willingly sacrificed ourselves to him. Sold off round-the-clock surveillance of our souls so that a thousand people can see the cranberry-pecan salad we ordered off the secret menu. The picture shows a twenty-something girl in oversized sunglasses behind the wheel of some cutesy mini-SUV. Of course she ’ s sticking her tongue out. It ’ s always that or some kind of half-kiss duck face. Nothing all that insidious on the surface, unless you count the fact that she ’ s Instagramming while driving. The text says, 
 
 Rooftop party tonite!!!!! 
 
 Followed by about a thousand small, unintelligible icons. I input another series of numbers to arrive at a find my phone prompt. This option shouldn ’ t even be on a burner phone. I don ’ t need any fancy magic to find her number. It ’ s mentioned directly on her FaceBook profile. I thumb the digits into the prompt and it starts tracking her. She ’ s at the cross-section of West Washington Heights and Almeda. It ’ s only ten blocks away. The silver Honda Accord sitting next to the curb unlock with a hand wave. The ignition starts with another gesture as I climb behind the wheel. Silver and midsize is good and inconspicuous. I put the car in drive and start over to the Fifth Autumn hotel. I dial Bail on the way. 
 
 “ Sup ” Bail answers. 
 
 “ You sure about this? ” 
 
 “ Yeah. ” 
 
 “ Where ’ s the signal coming from? ” 
 
 “ Three stations give confirmation ” the Oracle says. “ Right now its O ’ Reilly Factor, the Padres game, and The Simpsons. ” 
 
 “ It ’ s always the Simpsons, Bail. ” 
 
 “ Hey man, twenty-eight seasons taps a lot of precog info. ” 
 
 “ Hmmm, they really have done everything. ” 
 
 “ Yup. ” 
 
 “ So give me the confirmation. ” 
 
 “ Danielle Lewis. Twenty-three years old. She ’ s got over two thousand followers since she opened her account last week. ” I could hear her whistle over the phone, obviously impressed. “ Oh yeah, and she ’ s definitely Wendigo. Full transformation tonight. ” 
 
 “ Confirmation on the location? ” 
 
 “ Downtown Fifth Autumn. ” 
 
 “ I knew that. ” 
 
 
 “ No you guessed that. I KNEW it. ” 
 
 I chuckle at her. “ So Bail, have you got confirmation on our date? ” 
 
 “ Sorry bud, I have it on good authority there ’ s a Sanford and Son marathon on that night. ” 
 
 “ I ’ ll bring the pizza. ” 
 
 “ Oh, I ’ m washing my hair that night too. ” 
 
 “ I shoulda never gotten you that waterproof TV. ” 
 
 “ And I ’ m forever grateful. Mwah! Bye ” she teases. 
 
 Wendigo is often commonly mistaken simply as cannibal. This is pretty far from the truth. Sure, it always ends in cannibalism, but it begins as an insatiable hunger. Hunger for food, money, power, or in this case, attention. It ’ s a lot easier to hide in this modern era of instant access and thumbs up gratification. I pull up to the valet station at Fifth Autumn and hand the kid a fiver. Before entering the lobby, I check Miss Lewis ’ Instagram again. Her new photo shows the lush gold carpet of the posh hotel as she stands in front of the elevators. She ’ s palming several pills with that stupid fucking open mouth, tongue out pose again. 
 
 Rollin wit my fam 
 
 So much for subtlety. I hit the button to call the elevator. Once inside, I punch the top floor. The rooftop has a pool and two full bars, from which alcohol is flowing freely. A couple of the female attendants are already topless. One does a spread eagle dive into the deep end, making a splash that ’ s not quite as impressive as her birthday suit. 
 
 “ It ’ s not a free show ” the bouncer says, glaring me down. 
 
 I ’ m not sure what he has on him, so I just fire on all cylinders, hoping he ’ s not stupid enough to carry a gun. His phone rings a split second before his taser goes off in his pocket. He ’ s down for the count. I spy a spreading stain of darkness on the front of his khakis as I stroll past. He ’ ll have to clean up before he comes searching for me. Nobody else even notices. I ’ m lost in the crowd. 
 
 I spot the target at the far end of a poolside bar. There ’ s a guy with two drinks on a nearby table. Whoever he ’ s drinking with is probably in the bathroom. He takes the opportunity to drop something into the neighboring cocktail. Not all monsters are mythical. This asshole ’ s mistake is that he ’ s wearing a Bluetooth earpiece. Without breaking visual contact on the target, I rub my fingers together in my pocket as I pass by Mr. Roofie. His headset pops explosively and blood trickles down as he screams, throwing his hands to the ruined side of his face. People notice this one, but nobody moves to help. Everyone here is out for themselves. 
 I take a seat at the opposite end of the bar from Danielle and proceed to stalk her Instagram. She ’ s got a couple of guys hovering around her, and she whips out her phone to take a selfie. Duck face this time. When she goes to look at her picture, her nose crinkles up in confusion and disgust. She ’ s seeing what I want her to see. The gruesome creature underneath in seven megapixel glory. Where a beautiful young lady should have appeared in between a hunk sandwich, is the drawn cheeks of a starvation victim. She deletes it quickly and goes to take another one. When Danielle checks this time, she can also see the hollow eyes of the thing she will soon become. The face of the wendigo is becoming clearer. She takes a few steps out from under the bar into the sunlight and snaps a high angle photo. I see we ’ re still intent on duck face. 
 
 This one shows her full transformation, the aspects that should be tan and vibrant are pale, sunken… and hungry. Something else is noticeable in the background. A mysterious man that has become more focused with each picture. He ’ s getting closer and closer in every subsequent photo. That would be me. Clearly distraught, Danielle scans the rooftop. I hide my face behind the burner phone as her eyes sweep my way. When I sense she ’ s given up, I watch her walk over to a vacated lounge chair by the pool. Following discretely, I choose a spot at the edge of the poolside crowd, just outside her peripheral vision. If she turns her head about thirty degrees left, she ’ ll find me. A bikini-clad beer girl sashays by and I grab a brew from her tray. 
 
 Danielle has stretched out on the chair and is now taking the old legs-and-feet-by-the-poolside shot. Of course on review, the legs are old and gnarled, the toenails claws. And between that beautiful piece of scenery, a man in the pool doing a breast stroke worthy of a Sports Illustrated cover. Yep, me again. She swivels her head directly towards me and it registers. I ’ m not even wet. I salute her with a tip of my bottled beverage as the shock and recognition wash over her. Danielle takes off for the hotel elevator. 
 
 She ’ s damn near sprinting and I ’ m trailing at a purposeful stride. This feels like every slasher movie. I give a sly wink to diving board birthday suit as I pass by the edge of the pool. She arches her back as she answers with a little finger wave. Danielle is already in the elevator when I arrive at the landing. She ’ s pressing the “ close door ” button furiously. The important part is that she ’ s alone. I ’ m still ten paces away when they begin to shut, but my steps don ’ t quicken. Danielle shoots a bitchy, victorious smile and says, “ Sorry. ” 
 
 “ That ’ s okay, I ’ ll catch the next one. ” 
 
 I press the call button and linger for a moment to hear the pulleys snap and the emergency breaks fail before I step into the stairwell. 

