Of any place in Canada for a metahuman psycho killer to hide, the Yukon was the perfect choice. The territory was sparsely populated, with a sprawling landscape that ranged from flat permafrost to rolling tundra to craggy mountainside. And then, by mid-October, the snow squalls came into play.

Of course, there were no witnesses to Abattoir's attacks. Or if there were, they'd been snatched as no reports of missing locals had been made surrounding the time of the killings. But this was the Yukon, a relative wasteland where a tourist could vanish in the territory's whiteouts and saw-toothed oblivion and not draw attention.

"I found something," Totem said.

"What is it?" Old Glory asked.

"A hip."

"What the hell -- ?"

Old Glory's brow arched, and he jogged over to where the Blackfoot was crouched in the snow. There it was, a ragged, meaty lower torso with remnants of a left thigh attached to it. The body part sat in a nest of snow, and any blood that may have once muddied the inland with gore was long gone by the drifts. This discovery proved that this particular victim hadn't fallen where he died. His sundry limbs and torn pieces of anatomy were strewn on a sporadic path far and wide. Ten miles between the stray upper body, from which this pelvis had been torn, this victim was testament to Abattoir's sadistic butchery.

Old Glory pointed down by the body part. "Those footprints -- padded feet with claws -- is that him?"

Totem shook his head, his face hard and etched with anger. "No. It's a grizzly bear. Probably was here two hours ago. See how the rear feet land ahead of the front tracks, it ambled here to check out what this was. But it wants nothing to do with this, or the killer." Totem indicated another set of tracks on the other side of the hunk of flesh and bones. "The rear tracks begin to land further and further forward, the bear ran away from here fast."

"Any way to tell where Abattoir went?"

Totem shook his head again. "In this cold, there's no telling just how fresh this attack is. And with the snow drifts, there's no sign of humanoid tracks around here." Totem slammed a knotted fist into an open hand. "Damn this monster!"

Old Glory also cursed, but at the gross idiocy of their drag-net. For two weeks and counting, he and the team slogged through the snow and frozen undergrowth. The wind wailed, sounding much like a high-pitched laugh, and the cold started to penetrate his neoprene bodysuit. This search was becoming more and more futile.

"Mantlo," Old Glory said, raising his voice over the whining wind. "Have someone collect this damn hip. Then have your team head back towards Carcross and work along the southwestern perimeter. This Abattoir is either quick and doesn't have an obvious pattern to his attacks, or we're uncovering these victims in the wrong order. Either way, we've gotta figure which of these attacks was his last hit and spiral outwards from there."

Sergeant Mantlo, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, nodded and raised his arm to signal his team with his flashlight. "Turn up your radio-links, boys," he said, tapping on his headset that ran from ear to mouth. "We're falling back, so stay in pairs."

Old Glory watched the Mounties fall back in their snow mobiles and ATVs, then he turned to Totem. "We're heading back to Whitehorse. This manhunt is getting us nowhere fast."

Totem nodded, his face now impassive and as cold as the bitter air. "I told you we should've radioed in the Canadian Shield."

"You're right, I'm wrong. You wanna a prize or something?"

"And now they're occupied," Totem went on. "Paying their respects to the late Pierre Trudeau. If we would've contacted them before now, maybe Catamount, Blaze, maybe Trickster -- some extra manpower -- could've joined this hunt." Totem huffed.

Just recently Totem and Old Glory traded blows in Cleveland, symbols of their respective nations waging battle on each other. Totem first considered Old Glory a crass, flag-waving super-agent for the elitist American establishment, but he soon put that speculation on hold. It was rumored that Old Glory in fact helped influence Cleveland's mayor in seeing how stereotypical and prejudice America's traditions were.

However, Totem still didn't like Old Glory's arrogant, laid back approach to things. He didn't like Old Glory much at all. For the time being, he decided to put his differences aside. If they were going to go through with their dragnet of Abattoir, they would need to put their heads together. Totem just hoped this wouldn't lead to them butting heads.

"Let's go," Old Glory said. "I'm so hungry, I could eat a wolf."

"Keep ordering me around, old man, and we'll see if that's true," Totem replied coldly. "Don't think I haven't forgotten about our scrap. And don't think I haven't thought about leaving you out here for the tundra wolves either."

"Now why did you have to say that?" Old Glory put on a false smile. "I was actually starting to think you liked me."

Back in Whitehorse, Totem made his way to the town hall. It was a four-square brickwork, two-stories high, that had been converted into a make-shift morgue since the murder investigations. The coroner had claimed that the dead Inuits' wounds looked as if they were left by tooth and claw, and such animalistic savagery matched Abattoir's style. Now, after further examination, Totem checked to see if the doctor's inquest had any more leads.

Old Glory marched down Main Street. The citizens were edgy, and rightly so, with hands tightened on hockey sticks, snow shovels, and hunting rifles. There was no shortage of theories by the civilian population. The mysterious killing of Inuit hunters meant someone, somewhere, would be pointing at the Northern Lights. Even now, groups saw a connection between the massacre and the history of UFO sightings in the Yukon, searching for obscure links between the eight ravaged corpses and some absurd alien convention that was scheduled for the Westmark Hotel in a few days.

As Old Glory neared the police station, he caught the movement of a Mountie, the officer's hand dropping towards his sidearm. He looked at him -- just looked -- and the Mountie blanched and his arm went limp.

"Even the Dudley Do-Rights are edgy," Old Glory muttered to himself.

A secretary looked up from a desk in the center of the small foyer and took a dumb-founded double take. Then she rose, looked past her petite glasses, and said, "Mr. Glory. Dr. Ingersoll's in Sergeant Mantlo's office."

Old Glory nodded. "Well, that was good timing. Has he been waiting long?"

"About an hour," the secretary answered. She crossed the hall and opened the office door. "Dr. Ingersoll, Mr. Glory is here."

There was a chuckle within the office. Old Glory headed for the open door, his government-issued boots making noise on the wooden floor.

Old Glory moved into the office to meet the doctor. The Defense Department had briefed Old Glory on Dr. Ingersoll and, as a result, the doctor was what he expected. Average height, pear-shaped, with a worldly-wise manner to him. Ingersoll was a psychiatrist for Purgatory Prime. And according to his dossier, his specialty was working with the minds of metahuman sociopaths.

"Dr. Ingersoll," Old Glory greeted casually.

The doctor rose from his chair, replying, "Old Glory."

The super-soldier closed the office door and sat himself behind the desk. He then slouched back, placing his boots on the desktop. "Thanks for coming," he said. "Me and the RCMP appreciate it."

"The recent escape of Abattoir has everyone at Purgatory Prime a little anxious. We're only glad that the Board has arranged for you to head this manhunt."

Old Glory said nothing. He then noticed two mugs of coffee at the corner of the desk.

"Oh, pardon me," the doctor expressed. "I took the liberty of using Sergeant Mantlo's coffee machine. I'm not sure what it'll taste like, but you like yours black, correct?"

So. The psychiatrist had been briefed on Old Glory as well. Old Glory took a sip of his coffee. It tasted stale, a little muddy. It was just the way he liked it.

Ingersoll sat relaxed in his chair, his arms drooping in front of him, his hands keeping hold of the briefcase that rested by his feet. "I'm not entirely sure what you know about me and my relationship with Abattoir -- uhm, I mean, Ulysses Kirkpatrick -- but it's probably obsolete."

"You were Abattoir's shrink before he was placed in suspended animation," Old Glory said.

Ingersoll sighed. "The Warders at Purgatory Prime chemically induced him into a trance-like state then submerged him in a tank of liquid oxygen. Bound him with manacles, stuffed his mouth with tubes, they really -- pardon my French -- pissed this bastard off."

Old Glory stifled a laugh. He wasn't exactly sure why he found this information particularly funny, and so he put on his poker face. It was a little too late though. "Pissed him off?"

"After Ulysses underwent his metamorphosis into Abattoir, he no longer required sleep. Sedatives were useless against him. So he was induced into catalepsy, meaning he was unmoving but nevertheless conscious. Being trapped in a pint-sized container, injected with only a liquid diet, he showed his frustration to these unwanted stimuli through momentary seizures..."

The doctor sounded disgusted. Old Glory didn't really care. In fact, he wanted to get the ball rolling.

"Sorry, Dr. Ingersoll. I'd love to hear more about Abattoir's mistreatment, but now's really not the time. I need to know what we're dealing with out there."

"During my time with Ulysses, I acquired records of two cases. Stuart and Grove. Stuart watched his father get murdered by Ulysses some fifteen years ago, and Grove was a patient at Sunny Day Asylum at the time of Ulysses' tenure there. They don't know each other, and as far as I know, they've never met. But they've both witnessed Ulysses' antisocial personality disorder first-hand. They're both telling similar stories."

Old Glory looked at the doctor and said, "Heh, 'antisocial personality,' eh? Just a polite way to say he's a crazed killer."

The doctor ignored Old Glory and reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a manila folder, opened it and read from a sheet of paper. "'A monster attacked my daddy. It had ugly teeth a big claws...'"

He closed the folder, laid it on the desk, and opened another one. "'He was a hideous fiend with four arms that ended in claws. He burst down the hall and killed three nurses.'"

"I don't understand," Old Glory said. "I thought Ulysses was a psychotic and a psychopath. He became a monster later."

Dr. Ingersoll nodded his head. "Yes, there have been a few theories on his mental state. One was that he suffered from a form of auditory hallucination, claiming that he believed a mythic creature, named Grendel, forced him to kill people. Another theory was that he simply suffered from acute psychotic and sociopathic behavior."

The doctor paused. Old Glory simply stared at him.

Ingersoll opened another manila folder and pulled out a Polaroid. "Here's a photograph of Ulysses three months prior to his seeming experiments at Project Morituri, the organization that helped make him Abattoir."

The doctor handed Old Glory the Polaroid. It was a bit faded, showing a picture of a pale man with sunken cheeks and blood-shot eyes. However, it wasn't Kirkpatrick's appearance that caught Old Glory's attention. There was some sort of impression on the photo. At first it looked like an ink spill, but closer scrutiny showed it to be otherwise. It was a dark shape imposed over the processed image. The shape was man-like, and it had four arms.

"What the hell's this?" Old Glory asked. "And who took this picture?"

"Someone from Project Morituri. He's of course dead now, but an operative from the Board finally managed to uncover it. Years ago, parapsychologists would call something like this 'thoughtography' or 'psychic photography.' Essentially, it's a mental picture being transferred onto film. It in a way shows that Ulysses actually hallucinated this apparent monster. Specialists might conclude that his belief in the monster's presence mustered that image, that his mind-energy somehow influenced that dark shape on the Polaroid."

Old Glory took the discoveries in, then let a heavy sigh. He said, "Tell me what Ulysses Kirkpatrick is, Doc. Obviously this Project Morituri knew what they were getting into before they experimented on him. Tell me what you know or believe -- and I want the Cliff Notes version."

The doctor wiped a hand over his face. "I'm a scientist, Old Glory, first and foremost. But as we approach a new millennium, we realize that we face many phenomenal discoveries that have yet to be answered for. And so, science is growing ever more interested in those fields that study the paranormal. That is the reason I work at Purgatory Prime, to study the inexplicable certainties."

Old Glory said nothing.

"I believe that Ulysses Kirkpatrick had a psychic link to an entity. I also believe that the entity had an effect over him, that it somehow took over his body and metamorphosed him into the monstrosity that both Stuart and Grove described, turning him to kill people. My guess is that Project Morituri believed this as well, as the entity I'm referring to made its presence known in that particular photograph. Project Morituri's experiment was then to harness this entity within Ulysses, thereby making him a constant monster -- making him Abattoir."

Old Glory scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I don't know what to say, Doc. This doesn't help me much on how I can catch this guy. I guess I'm sorry I wasted your time -- and mine."

The doctor looked a bit wounded, but he reached into his briefcase nonetheless. "But I have more. Reports, taped sessions with Abattoir, dossiers on the people involved with Project Morituri..."

The super-soldier shook his head. "Gotta go, Doc. Enjoy your stay in Whitehorse."

"But..."

"Down the street is the movie theater, probably the only exciting place here. That's unless you like curling."

Old Glory left the police station, his teeth clenched in frustration. He was really hoping that the arrival of Dr. Ingersoll would've been more productive. With all the man-hours spent on the investigation thus far, and civilians barring their doors and windows and popping caffeine pills to help with their vigils, Old Glory kind of cherished the idea of Abattoir's psychiatrist presenting more than anecdotal accounts and reports. Knowing just how Abattoir thinks, where he likes to hide, such detailed psych profiles and studies were things that the super-soldier could've used to find the killer. But Old Glory had no such leads.

Entering Lone Wolf's, Old Glory had Michelle make him a club sandwich and pour him a draft beer. He sat at his usual booth and skimmed over the latest issue of People magazine. An hour later, Totem walked in.

"Nothing new has been discovered by the coroner," the Indian said.

Old Glory lowered his magazine, a thick stream of cigarette smoke spewing from his mouth. "Well, it's not like I was expecting him to find a map of Abattoir's whereabouts lodged in one of the victim's lower intestines."

Michelle polished a beer mug and placed it on the bar. She looked at the Blackfoot. "Shall I pour you a draft?" she asked.

Totem turned his attention to Michelle, then looked at Old Glory, who was already flipping through the pages of People again. "I'm starting to wonder about this Omega kid," Old Glory quipped, holding up a photo of the young hero with the powerful über-model, Knock-out. The picture was obviously designed for satire, showing Omega cowering before a band of bodybuilders and groping the heroine's muscular leg. "I mean, look at him. A little light in his Nikes, if you ask me."

Totem shook his head. "You better not, Michelle," he said.

"You look like crap, Thomas," Old Glory said, his cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Sit down. Take a load off."

Old Glory watched his younger associate approach the booth, who tried to appear relaxed. Just below Totem's temples, little muscles on either side of his face were pulsing. There were more lines about Totem's mouth and eyes than Old Glory had noticed before. What was originally perceived as stoicism now looked to be haggardness.

"Why," Totem said in a soft murmur, sitting himself across from the old patriot. "Why are you here in the Yukon?" he asked, tense lines shifting about his mouth and eyes. "If you're trying to win points with the public by helping me -- don't."

Old Glory said nothing right away, just took another drag of his cigarette, staring at Totem the whole time. "I'm here to catch a fugitive," he finally replied. "It just so happens that I have federal police powers and I've been granted marshalship by the Board." Old Glory rested his smoke along the edge of the ashtray. He started to smile wryly. "I've been working with you for many days now. I was wondering how long it would take for me to see the Totem I saw in Cleveland."

"What?" Totem piped up. "You think that my frustration with how my people have been treated is some kind of joke? Volumes have been written on events that define the so-called relationship between Indians and whites. The westward expansion of whites in the late 19th century, broken treaties, and policies aimed at assimilation and acculturation that severed Indians from their language, customs, and beliefs. It's no different today either. But I guess you think I should just suck it up and put on a happy face, much like the one Chief Wahoo has, right?"

Old Glory sighed, then laughed. "Jesus Christ," he said. "I understand your frustrations, Thomas, but you've really gotta lay off the melodrama. I mean, for a guy with god-like powers, you're one heck of a cry baby."

Totem glowered at Old Glory. "And I almost thought you saw the sincerity in my cause, especially since I heard you helped influence the dismantling of the Cleveland Indian's mascot. But now it seems like I was wrong."

"Boo bloody hoo," Old Glory retorted.

"Which brings me back to my original question," Totem continued, ignoring the super-soldier's jibe. "Why are you here? And if I'm such an extremist, why did you summon me? I find it unconvincing that you're here to just hunt down Abattoir. With an election just around the corner, I think you're here for political reasons. Are you here to help win the hearts of socialist sympathizers?"

"You know what you've gotta do, Thomas?" Old Glory insisted.

Totem folded his arms before his chest. "Yeah, I have to endure the insults of those who can't see through their hate."

Old Glory shook his head. "No, you've gotta pull your head out of your ass. The world's not as cut and dried as you think. Just because me and others don't agree with your actions doesn't mean we condone racism."

Totem let out a deep audible breath. "Spoken like my father and other complacent elders. Sitting back and doing nothing does just that -- it does nothing. I believe that only a revolution by the exploited can create freedom, and I recognize that the exploited can only be united on the basis of opposing all forms of oppression. I'm a freedom fighter, Old Glory. If I don't tackle racism head on, I'm nothing short of a disgraceful fraud."

Old Glory picked up his cigarette and placed it back between his lips. He inhaled the smoke, exhaling a long stream of grayness. "Maybe you should focus your efforts on helping those you protect rather than punishing the ones who've caused them harm," Old Glory suggested. "You're a role model, Thomas. Instead of attacking multinational logging companies and sports teams with Indian names, try vigorous self-reliance. Why help make the gulf that separates Indians and whites when you can emphasize your people's positive achievements. Look at Permafrost--"

"And what about Permafrost?" Totem interrupted with his rhetorical question. "Here's a so-called hero that's empowered by the spirits of the Innu. Just go to northern Quebec and Labrador, and you'll see that the Innu have been reduced to a community of addicted gas-sniffers. What good are Permafrost's achievements to these people?"

"Problems aren't solved overnight, Thomas. But you know that. I'm sure if you opened your mind you'd see that your hate only breeds hate, which in turn perpetuates the racism you're so adamantly against. I'm sure Permafrost is aware of the plight in Indian communities too, but playing the race card only offers a convenient excuse to this plight. I mean, why should Indian kids believe in this country, or try to do well in school, if all they hear is that racism explains everything?"

Old Glory let the statement hang there for a bit, unchallenged.

"And you're right," Old Glory went on. "There's a hidden agenda to having me in the Yukon. Like you, I'm a symbol to the nation I represent. And in a time and age where symbols still mean something, it's important to both our nations that we don't fight. That's why I contacted you. The Defense Department decided it would be in the best interest of the country -- shit, the best interest of the whole continent -- if we pooled our efforts together. It's not only smart politics; it's a smart strategy in finding Abattoir."

Totem scowled. Old Glory couldn't tell if he was annoyed or tired, or if he was actually both. "I'm not in the mood for this verbal sparring," the Blackfoot said. "All I know is you talk like a politician and not a soldier. And I always considered soldiers men of action, not thought."

Old Glory sucked in a deep drag of his cigarette, burning it down to its filter. He then stabbed the filter in the ashtray. "You're right," he said with smoke streaming from his nostrils. "This conversation is going nowhere. I'm gonna call it a night. I'll see you in the morning."

Totem watched the super-soldier leave Lone Wolf's. Normally, he wouldn't have brooked a debate such as the one he had with Old Glory. But Old Glory proved to be an exception. Totem continued to stare at the door that the aged hero just exited, and he shook his head. The Indian sat silently in thought.

The next day, Old Glory rapped on Totem's motel room door, but there was no immediate answer. It was nine in the morning, and he heard the Indian was an early bird, so the hour shouldn't have upset him. Old Glory rapped on the door again. Still no response.

The super-soldier turned the doorknob. It clicked, telling him that the door was open.

"Totem, I'm coming in," Old Glory warned.

Old Glory eased his way inside the motel room. There was a light on, and he could see a backpack, empty on the rug. Totem sat in an odd position in the middle of the bed at the far side of the room. He was still, sweating bullets, and moaning softly. He seemed to be holding some sort of pouch in his hands.

"Thomas?" Old Glory whispered.

Totem remained oblivious to Old Glory's presence as he motioned over the threshold to gain a better view. Now the patriot could make out that he was rocking gently and muttering some low chant, one hand waving a piece of braided hair, the other cupping something that looked like a medicine bag.

"What's going on, Thomas?"

Whatever spell was over the Indian was now broken. The young Blackfoot cocked his head in Old Glory's direction, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm here to find Abattoir, first and foremost," Totem said lightly. "If you're serious about doing this then I'll continue working with you. I don't care about the politics; I want the murdering of the Inuit men to stop."

"And I do too, goddammit," Old Glory replied. He noticed the hard lines about the Blackfoot's face, the swelling under his eyes, which were bloodshot. "But what the hell are you doing? And shit, you look worse than last night. Did you even go to bed?"

"If you haven't noticed by now, I've been abstaining myself from eating, drinking and sleeping," Totem said, matter-of-factly.

"Look, if this is some sort of Aboriginal thing -- you know, a way to mourn the death of these Inuit hunters -- cut it out. Depriving yourself of food and sleep won't get you anywhere."

Totem shook his head. "It's not an Aboriginal thing -- it's a shamanistic thing. I must fast in order to talk to nature's spirits, to see what the land has seen."

"Talk to nature's spirits? Like in Ouija boards and séances?" Old Glory stifled a laugh. "C'mon, we don't have time for this--"

"And what? We have time to trek the entire Yukon, turn over every boulder and scale every mountain?" Totem bared his teeth and grunted. He dropped his two artifacts into his lap and placed his hands on his knees. "I just so happened to meet a Dr. Ingersoll after you left Lone Wolf's last night. He had some important revelations on Abattoir. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I sincerely doubt Ingersoll had any revelations," Old Glory replied. "None that would help us track down Abattoir any faster at least."

"Well, based on your conventional methods of tracing fugitives, I can see why his findings were unimportant to you," Totem said. "Do you even know who Grendel is?"

"Yeah, she was the little sister of a boy named Hansel. They got lost in the woods and a wicked witch tried to cook them in her stove." Old Glory smiled. "Of course I know who Grendel is. Some monster from an old poem, right? A warrior from Denmark killed him. Beowulf was the guy's name. What's that gotta do with anything?"

Totem studied Old Glory until it deprived him of resolve, his sheer presence and behavior reminding the old patriot that there were stranger things than maniacs on killing sprees. A Native American Indian able to delve into the worlds of earth, wind, water and fire -- Old Glory knew what to expect from the man who stood in front of him. So why was he suddenly surprised that Totem had the inside track in tracking down Abattoir?

"Some of us," Totem admitted, "not all, but some... believe that our hearts belonged to the remote past. That myths and legends aren't necessarily works of fiction, but rather historical facts no matter how simple or exaggerated."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that this land, it wasn't always ours." Totem shook his head. "It never was, actually. There's plenty who'd tell you otherwise, but that just goes to show you how naive we really are."

"So whose land would that make it?" Old Glory thought he knew what Totem was driving at, but he wanted to hear him say it.

"Why, the ancients, of course. We, as primates, evolved every bit as much as the reptiles and avians and so on. We woke up to that. But the ancients, they have always been here, transcending through the times, living through our memories, our believes, our actions."

"So let me get this straight," Old Glory said. "This Grendel character, you believe he's one of these ancients? And he's currently living through Abattoir?"

"Something like that, yes." Totem's eyebrows arched. "Just think for a moment. If Dr. Ingersoll is right, and Abattoir is some sort of entity incarnate, then perhaps Ulysses Kirkpatrick wasn't wrong either. Perhaps this entity is in fact Grendel."

"Wake up, Thomas. Grendel's just some creature from a legend. And if he was ever out there, he isn't anymore. All of us might believe there was a Leonardo da Vinci, but that doesn't mean he's returning to paint another picture of Christ at his last supper."

Totem nodded. "No, but faith and enlightenment are age-old. They dry up, pass over, and reform. A desert once had rivers. All the ancients need is a fresh torrent to bring them to life, and they'll run as true as ever."

"Evaporated spirits? Just add two cups of water and stir? Sounds like it could sell."

Totem looked insulted. "What do you have to lose? Another day in your useless manhunt?"

Old Glory grunted. "Alright, humor me. What do you exactly plan to do?"

Totem lowered his gaze, stared down at the items in his lap. "I want to try and talk to the land itself. I want to see if it senses the presence of Abattoir. If he is in fact touched by an ancient, then a long, powerful lineage runs through him and the Yukon would be aware of him."

Old Glory cleared his throat. "And you have done something like this before? I mean, you have tried to pinpoint someone or something by having the land talk to you?"

"No," Totem answered. "But I'm aware of the procedure. I've practiced milder rituals."

"Yeah, I know, you're a shaman," Old Glory said, his brow furrowing. "The Defense Department has a file on you. The prose was a little too J.R.R. Tolkien meets Louis L'Amour, but it clearly stated you're a prominent mystic." Old Glory shrugged. "I know a few card tricks -- but I'm not much on the whole hocus-pocus shtick."

"That's because you're narrow-minded," Totem answered. "Na'pi, the Great Spirit, governs and regulates everything. In the natural world His powers reside in the land, the skies, water, weather, animals, even in a shadow. Na'pi is the Creator as well as the Destroyer, and thus He is all that matters. To understand the Great Spirit's sacred powers, one must live in a sacred manner, and through following the directions and prohibitions laid down by the sacred powers themselves."

Old Glory sighed. "Look, I've been around, bud. Yeah, I've got allegiances with the U. S. of A., but the way I figure it, I'm kinda a citizen of the world. And I suppose that's a healthy attitude to have when it comes to accepting what the world has to offer. I never said I didn't believe in magic -- I just don't understand it."

Totem's haggard face melted into a lazy smile. "To understand magic isn't important. What's important is that magic exists. You just said that you accept what the world has to offer. A shaman has had to make with the change of time, but is still charged with the duty to fulfill his obligations to the world. Though shaken by history, the world's a circle that remains unbroken: apple blossoms still bloom, the sun rises and sets, streams bring renewal every spring, and although the bison no longer freely roam, one can still look across the land and see the positive influences of the world's mysterious forces. Movement -- in all its significance -- continues in a sacred circular direction that's in harmony with the motion of the world."

Old Glory reserved his skepticism and fell into a brooding silence, watching Totem sit cross-legged in the middle of his bed. Canada was turning into a strange place, as though the country had been granted license of the paranormal. The super-soldier considered its soil alone, a veritable nexus of Indigenous legends drowned in the psyches, wave after wave, of pioneers and frontiersmen. If he looked closer, under the homes of great political leaders and famous inventors, then he just might find parcels of land stamped with the footprints of the Sasquatch or Wendigo.

"All right," Old Glory said. "Channel the Great Spirit, this Napkin character, or whatever you need to do find out where Abattoir is."

Totem uncrossed his legs and rose from his bed. "I never asked for your permission," Totem said acidly.

"Fine," Old Glory barked back. "I'll be at the police station checking in on the Mounties. How long should I expect you to be?"

Totem walked over to his backpack on the floor, placing the braided hair and medicine bag back inside. He then sat down before his backpack and drew out an unpatterned, clay bowl. He started to lay out scraps from his pack; a lichen-mottled stone; a hollowed out piece of wood that looked to be a flute of sorts; a smear of sulfur; and a melting icicle.

"...I'll be at least a few hours...," Totem finally said, not even turning to face Old Glory.

Old Glory started to make his way back to the door. Smiling wryly, he decided to turn around and take one last look at what exactly Totem was planning to do with the simple components. The Blackfoot placed the stone in the bowl and started to pour the sulfur over it. He then reached for a match from his backpack, struck it and dropped it in the bowl, then the rock combusted into flame. He proceeded by holding the icicle over the fiery rock, the droplets of water hissing as they fell into the bowl, rousing smoke.

Old Glory shook his head and stepped out of the room. As he walked down the motel corridor, the patriot could hear the faint sound of a hollow whistling coming from Totem's room. A stone, a wooden flute, flaming sulfur, and dripping ice. Cute, Old Glory thought. Earth, wind, fire, water -- right down Totem's alley.

At the police station, the Mounties were running about like bees at a hive. All of them seemed tired and looked to be deprived of at least three days sleep. Even Old Glory was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. But he couldn't sleep; nobody could, not with a metahuman serial killer out on the loose.

Old Glory saw Sergeant Mantlo walk by the front desk, paperwork in his hands. "Here's a dumb question, Mantlo," Old Glory said. "Any luck in Carcross or the neighboring cities?"

Mantlo shook his head. "No. We've got some police from Vancouver and Alberta coming up to help."

Old Glory nodded. "Good. We've got just too much ground to cover, so we can definitely use the additional manpower. We've a got a few worried citizens to put at ease too, so this might help."

Mantlo frowned. "I tell you, it's getting harder and harder to keep the press uninformed. Sooner or later they're gonna find out more then what they already know. And when that happens, we're looking at a powder keg of Canadians exploding all over us."

"I know, I know."

"Well, I've gotta file this report," the sergeant said. "It seems the coroner has pieced that missing hip to the right body. Still missing a left foot though."

"Shit," Old Glory exhaled.

As the Mountie walked away, Old Glory stopped him again. "Say, Mantlo," he said. "Let's for a moment pretend that Abattoir was from Scandinavia. Would this help rationalize why he'd be killing Inuit hunters?"

"Is he from Scandinavia?" the policeman asked. "I thought Ulysses Kirkpatrick was Greco-Irish. His name sounds Greco-Irish."

Old Glory waved his finger violently. "He very well might be Greco-Irish -- I don't know. But, like I said, let's pretend he was Scandinavian. What's the significance of the Inuits then?"

Mantlo shrugged. "Beats me," he answered. Then his eyes widened. "Wait a second. There are Inuits in Greenland, and there are other indigenous tribes in Sweden and Norway? You think maybe Abattoir might head towards Scandinavia and start killing there?"

"Maybe," Old Glory answered. "But it's hard to say. I'm just talking through my ass right now. Sorry to bug you, Mantlo."

"No problem," the Mountie replied. "As soon as I'm finished with this report we can throw around some hypotheses on Abattoir's modus operandi."

Hours passed and morning quickly turned into afternoon, and soon into night. Old Glory was at a desk sifting through old maps and reviewing the reports from each and every crime scene related to the string of murders. It was grueling work, and the redundancy of it made him incredibly tired.

Sergeant Mantlo had long since called it a night, as did many of the other Mounties. In fact, Old Glory was going to retire too. He placed the papers on the desk and rested his head in his hands, too tired to get up.

Yawning, Old Glory's mind wandered back to Totem. It was a little tough to swallow, but he hoped the young shaman could do what no one else involved with the manhunt could do thus far -- and that was find out where Abattoir was hiding. He didn't even pretend to know how the Blackfoot could see into the world of terrestrial ghosts and phantoms. He accepted the fact that he was no mystic, no seer, no spinner of mojo. But he did wonder what exactly Totem was seeing in his malnourished haze, aided by simple earthly charms.

Old Glory stifled another yawn. He considered what Totem had said earlier, that the world moved in a sacred circle. Perhaps its mysteries were locked away within these concentric patterns, its answers to evolution were within its own involution. Or perhaps sleep deprivation was kicking in and the old patriot's mind was just clouded with nonsense. Nevertheless, Old Glory pictured worldly patterns, the shifting of cloud formations, the changing of seasons. He envisioned the intertwining helices spinning within him like the whirling limbs of starfish out in the ocean. The blueprints of the world echoed in the spirals drawn by falling leaves and the twirling dances of rainmakers. This was the sacred circle Totem must've been referring to, and somehow Abattoir was part of it.

A few hours later, the front door to the police station swung open and Old Glory nearly jump in the air with a waking start. Totem stood at the door, his features drawn, his skin blanched, his body exhausted.

"Abattoir..." he began, leaning heavily on the knob of the open door. "I believe I know where he is."

Old Glory hovered over the edge of the cliff, the intrinsic gravity field generated by his power-suit maintaining the spell that ceased him from tumbling into the yawning precipice. All around, in the heart of the Yukon's trademark landscapes, craggy mounts and razor-sharp pinnacles jutted from sheer rock faces. But only one mountain was of real interest to the super-soldier.

Located near the Ogilvie Mountain range in the central Yukon Territory, Tombstone Mountain was the location of an abandoned gold mine, dating back to the late 1800's. When the vein dried out by the turn of the twentieth century, the mine was abandoned and boarded up. And if Totem's so-called Great Spirit knew what he was talking about, it was where Abattoir was hiding. Or perhaps waiting.

Behind him, Totem emerged out of a wind pocket, and came to a rest behind Old Glory. He took a moment to catch his breath and recover from the effort. He looked over the entrance of the mine with disgust. No matter where they went, the white man always left open scars on the face of nature.

"Are you going to be alright?" Old Glory asked. Totem still looked rather haggard from his sleepless nights.

Totem straightened and banished his fatigue and hungers by force of will. "I will do what has to be done."

Old Glory looked somewhat dubious, but let it pass. He returned his attention to the boarded up entrance to the old gold mine. With a slight gesture, a focused wave of gravity slammed into the barracade, ripping the planks of wood from the threshold. Inside, the main shaft sloped down into the earth as the cavern turned pitch black. Old Glory lit a flashlight as Totem ignited a small ball of fire from his hand. In the main opening chamber, the war veteran found a dusty map. It was brittle, like parchment, but it clearly detailed the floor plan.

"He's been through here," Totem noted, placing his hand on the ground. "There is a faint trail leading into the mineshaft."

"Any trails leading out?"

"No."

Old Glory checked the map again. "There's only one way in or out of this mine and this cavern is it. But these trails branch off from here, and spread all through the mountain." He pointed towards an old rusty elevator shaft. "That drops down a good fifty to sixty stories, and leads to the bottom layer of tunnels."

Totem placed his hand on one of the wooden support beams, then grimaced. "These foundations and supports have seen better days; they're either brittle with age or rotted from moisture. This mine probably isn't stable."

Old Glory grumbled an inaudible reply. He looked at the elevator shaft leading down to the hollowed out abyss, trying to access the situation. It seemed clear this was the only way in or out, which  proved to be both good and bad. Good in that there would be no more innocent people in a place like this. Bad in that an environment like this definitely favored his opponent.

"Looks like we've also got ourselves in a bottleneck," Old Glory finally said. "Any suggestions?"

"I guess we split up. I'll take the top, you take the bottom. If you see anything, call it in."

"Split up?" Old Glory asked. "Have you watched many slasher films, Thomas? The psycho always picks off the victims one by one when they split up."

Totem nodded. "I'm not particularly fond of separating, but we can't take a chance that he'll get past us. Besides, we're a lot tougher to take down than some horny teenage girl."

"My guess is you've never arm-wrestled Knock-out before," Old Glory quipped, but  immediately sensed that Totem was not impressed. "Fine, fine.  I'll take the lower level while you scour around up here."

Totem sighed. Despite the danger and his own physical weakness, he dearly wanted to be the one to find Abattoir. Despite his association with Old Glory the past few days, he wasn't quite sure the super-soldier possessed the steel to do what had to be done.

The upper mines were a bewildering labrynth all together, a group of winding routes and caverns that once held an unspoiled beauty for the Klondikers, but now were nothing more than a dank, moldy network of catacombs. The stench of decay was constantly brushed aside by the strong winds that wafted through from the cold outside, but Totem had a feeling the odor wasn't just the stale air.

Totem kept a fire flickering from his hand as he crept along, still relying in spite of himself on the light source of his inborn powers. An hour of cautious exploring brought him to where he started, yet revealed nothing. He began again, preparing himself for a more indepth search, then he paused just on the other side of a derailed mining cart.

Totem sniffed the ground and frowned. The scents here were old and dry. Either Abattoir was a spirit, or he didn't spend much time here. Ahead were some tunnels that were dug by men long ago dead. He touched one of the support beams and grimaced with distaste. The mountain's wounds were grievous and ugly, but he didn't have time to worry about old wounds right now. The mountain's spirits had called to him earlier that day and told him that a newer wound was being inflicted by the one who had killed so many of his people.

The presence of Abattoir sullied this sacred place.

Meanwhile, Old Glory had long since floated down through the shaft as his power-suit substituted for the dismantled elevator. The lower tunnels looked even more ominous and dark than he imagined. The floor was an uneven layer of rock, dirt and God knew what else. He felt and heard a crumbling as he took the odd step, the criss-crossing rafters in turn moaned and coughed out dust. Totem was right, this place was just waiting to collapse.

Old Glory powered up his suit, hovering inches above the ground, and proceeded forward. He played the beam of his flashlight further ahead and was rewarded by the sight of footprints. The ground looked recently disturbed. So he was the lucky guy.

A movement caught the corner of his eye. Instinctively he shined his light towards it. The beam touched over every surface, then he tensed up as a fresh corpse came into view. It was an Inuit man splayed across the floor, his arms and legs outstretched, stiff with rigor mortis.

Old Glory shook his head after his once-over post-mortem. Another life added to the toll. Behind the body, several other victims were stacked up like cordwood. The super-soldier's jaw tightened with frustration and anger. He was supposed to bring this killer in if possible, but he was prepared to mettle out final punishment if circumstances dictated it.

With a roar, he withdrew a road flare and struck it against a crumbling wall.  A baleful glow lit up the underground cove, giving light to the darkness, while at the same time creating stark, contorted shadows.

"That's it! I'm tired of walking on eggshells," the patriot exclaimed as he tossed his flashlight aside. "I know you're here, so show yourself!"

There came a hissing as if from a barrel of snakes, and then like a leprous spirit, a spidery man-shape rose from behind the stack of dead bodies. Old Glory acknowledged Abattoir, the flare revealing the monster's gray, slightly scaled flesh and the whites of his sunken eyes. Abattoir in turned acknowledged Old Glory, and a pained, gargling smile severed itself across his deformed face.

"Ah, Old Glory," said Abattoir. "It'sss an honor to make your acqaintanssse."

"The feeling's not mutual," Old Glory replied. "You know, I was told you had a head on your shoulders, but I really had no idea you could actually talk. Come to think of it, I don't think Grendel talked either."

"Heh, you're referring to the poem written about Beowulf'sss exploitsss." Abattoir nodded with amusement. "I've more than familiarized myssself with it."

"That so? What's even more interesting is that Beowulf killed you in that poem."

Abattoir let out a sick laugh. "I know. What truly ssseparatesss that particular version of the ssstory from other hissstorical writingsss isss bad journalisssm."

Old Glory huffed, "Oh, really?"

Abattoir nodded. "Poetsss romantisssize the hero. They sssave the witty exaggerationsss of the truth for the hero. And like mossst cowardsss, they fear what they don't underssstand -- they kill what they fear."

It was Old Glory's turn to laugh. "That explains why Beowulf killed you then. Ripped your arm out of it's socket, if I recall. Made you look like a wimp."

Abattoir just smiled, revealing his serried line of needle-like teeth.

Then Old Glory turned serious, a stern, furrowed expression set on his hard features. "Is that why you handled these Inuits? Is that why you dismembered them, disemboweled them, scattered their body parts all over the friggin' Yukon?"

"Back in the day, Inuitsss were nomadsss, just like the Danesss. And like the Danesss, they thrived for a life they never knew. I gave them a brief glimpssse of that life. They wanted to encounter fierssse ssspiritsss and fight monstersss. I brought their wishesss to life. Now, I'm jussst finishing what was ssstarted."

Old Glory knew what Abattoir was driving at. If this monster, the personification of an ancient grim rover, the renewed specter of Grendel, could be standing before him then why couldn't its rival also exist? "Sorry to rain on your parade, but your quest for Beowulf is over," Old Glory said.

One of Abattoir's arms lashed out, snapping like a bullwhip, and Old Glory never expected it to reach so far. The attacking hand grabbed the soldier and pulled him in, closer and closer to gristle-flecked jaws. Quickly, instinctively, Old Glory used the gravity generated by his suit to throw himself downwards, shifting Abattoir's momentum to the ground.

"Shit!" Old Glory grappled with Abattoir and shifted his balance. Once he got his feet under him, he lashed out with a powerful roundhouse kick to Abattoir's jaw, knocking him back into a support beam and shattering it. Above them, pebbles showered down and clouds of dust belched from the cracks that began to form along the ceiling.

"One chance, ugly!" Old Glory declared angrily. "Stand down, and no one else gets hurt!"

Abattoir wiped his mouth, a demonic smile etched across his face. "And when the Danesss
learned of Grendel'sss ssstrength, there wasss great weeping, for they knew not a warrior exisssted could fell the great beassst...!"

"Weep this!" Old Glory lunged forward, catching Abattoir with a left jab, and followed it up with a right elbow across the face. Abattoir rolled with the blow and seized his opponent's exposed right flank, pinning him against the wall by twisting his arm into a lock.

Piss, he knows how to use those four arms! Old Glory realized as he watched Abattoir slash him across the face and chest with his remaining two left arms. Dropping to one knee, the patriotic hero kicked Abattoir back with his free leg, and receovered to his feet.

"Oh, how Grendel tormented Hrothgar; how no warrior, no matter how brave, could kill Grendel." Abattoir scurried like a giant crab and mocked Old Glory. "How Grendel would never ssstop and for twelve long yearsss--"

"You haven't got twelve seconds, you four-armed schmo with a lisp!" Enough of this, Glory told himself. Abattoir or Grendel or whatever he was calling himself could take damage of the superhuman variety. There was no need to be nice and although they were closely matched in strength, there was no way he could win a boxing match with an opponent with extra appendages. Reaching for his belt buckle and detaching it, he ignited his plasma sword, dispelling more of the darkness. As he got into a ready stance, he activated the radio-link built within his half-mask.

"Totem, he's down here!" No answer, only static, he realized. Damned caves are blocking my signal!

Abattoir sneered at the glowing sword. "Poor Old Glory. It'sss clear you're not well-read with Grendel'sss epic fight. No battle sword can harm him -- he had enchantment againssst the edgesss of weaponsss!"

Old Glory lunged forward, slashing Abattoir across the torso. As he did, Abattoir stepped up, smashing the super-soldier across the throat. Old Glory staggered and gagged as he watched the gash on Abattoir's stomach stitch back together in seconds. Damn, he thought, I was really hoping that last one was more poetic boasting.

Abattoir leaned on a support beam with his two upper arms, and the old wood creaked under the force of his gesture. Scree and pebbles rained down on the monster as he continued to push. "Good bye, Old Glory. And if it'sss any consssolation, your resssolve isss mightier than any warrior that came from the age ruled by sssteel."

With one last moan, the wooden beam finally snapped, giving way to an avalanche of dirt and rock. The mountain collapsed where Old Glory stood, ton upon ton of rocky matter dropping on top of the hero, eliminating him with an instant, unrelenting rush of earth.

But within the avalanche came a sigh of relief. It wasn't everyday Old Glory had a mountian fall on him, and he knew that he would've been lost within its earthen mass if it wasn't for his suit's repulsive gravity field. He waited for a few moments, to let Abattoir think he was finished. After not hearing anything for a full sixty seconds, he tunneled forward and emerged thirty feet from his previous position. As he climbed out, his senses warned him of abrupt movement. He barely got his arms up, blocking the first blow to the face, only to take the next two to the gut.

"Damn!" Old Glory hollared.

"I'm impresssed," Abattoir simpered. "I don't think even Beowulf would've sssurvived sssuch a fate."

"Does that mean I can kill you now?" Old Glory goded, holding his side.

Abattoir merely hissed as he stalked towards the hero. He knew he would have to strike first, and did. His four fists swiped downward, but at empty air, and he fell, landing facefirst on the craggy floor. Old Glory at first didn't feel the powerful hand pull him, but as he turned around, the presence of Totem confirmed that someone had helped him avoid Abattoir's attack.

"I didn't hear from you, so I knew that something was up," Totem said to Old Glory. "And then that avalanche..."

Old Glory dusted himself off, gravity pulsing from him as he became airborne. "Thomas Walker, I'd like you to meet Abattoir. Abattoir, this is Thomas Walker -- or rather Totem."

"No more jokesss," Abattoir ordered.

"Fine by me," Old Glory replied. "Let's take this freakshow out, Totem."

Totem didn't even look at Old Glory, he just glowered at the monster before them. "Through the tunnel," he said, and slapped Old Glory on the back with a pocket of wind, as if to speed him. "Just go -- straight through it! I'll handle him."

"Look, this is no time--" But before Old Glory could finish his sentence, fire surrounded Totem like a searing, blue-yellow column, and the super-patriot didn't fly by the force of his power-suit, but by a great rush of hot air and fire. Then the heat receded, and Old Glory dropped slightly, his suit allowing him to stop. Behind him, Old Glory heard the sound of cracking rafters, and when he glanced back, he saw a giant Totem, now an earthen colossus forcing his bulk through the support beams above, breaking them.

"Totem!"

Old Glory tried to make his way to the fray that was about to commence, but collapsing rock pelted him and rousing clouds of dust devoured his vision. He looked up at the buckling ceiling, the cracking support beams threatening to seal the elevator shaft for all time. He thought about tunneling through to save Totem, but he had no way to determine which tunnel to breach. He looked up and saw the main structure heave and moan; if he didn't get out in the next few seconds, he never would. Hating himself, he flew up the shaft just as the main struts snapped, and the lower levels closed in on themselves. Dodging the last few collapsing boulders, he managed to breach the surface just as the front mine entrance closed, the mountain's gaping maw swallowing everything within.

Turning around, he assessed the entrance. No way was anything short of a nuke going to exhume anyone from that monstrous cairn. Abattoir, he didn't mind -- society was probably better off with him ingested by Mother Nature.

But Totem... Thomas... damn...

Old Glory activated his radio and marveled that it still seemed to work. "RCMP, this is Old Glory..."

The Osprey announced its presence with a roar of its gigantic turboprop engines. Rotating into VTOL mode as it got close, the hybrid aircraft came to a stop as Old Glory watched it touch down. Before the engines whined down, a team of six Draughtsmen secured the area as the squad commander came forward to meet with veteran super-soldier.

"Don't bother unloading the restraining equipment, Captain," the patriot said as he shook his head. "There's no one to haul away."

The captain looked both disappointed and relieved. "Would you like to enlighten us?"

Old Glory gestured towards the mine entrance, coils of debris and dust still breathing out of it. "Abattoir's buried somewhere under about a hundred tons of earth and rock. We don't have to worry about him anymore."

"But I still have orders to take Totem back with us."

Old Glory paused. "Totem's in there too. He collapsed the tunnel behind me, sealing himself and Abattoir in."

"Sealed in, huh?"

Old Glory nodded. He touched a fresh wound by his ribs. He didn't want to think how close the fight might have gone, nor how they would've turned out, had Totem not shown up.

"You're going to need a medic?"

"Probably be a good idea. A chance to get me back in harmony with the motion of the world."

"You wanna run that by me again?" the captain asked skeptically.

"Nothing. Just something Totem was trying to tell me."

Totem emerged from a nearby brook and shook the water out of his hair. He had always suspected that an underground stream ran through the mine; the rot on the beams indicated a source of moisture that could be nothing else. He looked around at the pristine environment of the Yukon, with Tombstone Mountain behind him, now most aptly named, he hoped. Above him, the roar of the Draughtsmen's aircraft split the sky, with Old Glory flying behind it. He frowned slightly as he watched it head southward.

Totem was about to make his way to shore when he suddenly noticed Old Glory slowing down. He froze, not knowing what to expect. He wouldn't put it past that patriotic fool to try and apprehend him; even after all they went through. But instead, Old Glory simply met his eyes and saluted him silently. With a nod, he then turned south again, and caught up to the distant plane. Totem stood there for several minutes and thought about what he had just seen.

A strange man, not at all what he seemed like when they first met in Cleveland. He thought about what Old Glory said to him; he had just accomplished his goal of saving the Inuit by fighting just like a superhero. He shook his head; part of him liked the idea of being a symbol, just as Old Glory described. But that path just had too much baggage to come with it. He remembered all the times Old Glory spoke about working for the Defense Department or other government agencies. No, that just wasn't for him. He would just have to accomplish his goals in the only way he knew how. And if the system didn't respect his cause, then he would have to force them to see his point of view.
 

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