The forest was watching them as they entered it. In many ways, as the soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, rifles at the ready for any sign of movement, this represented the worst of the rebellious Canadians. Sure, just a few short years ago everyone knew that you could just laugh at them, that they were peaceful and compliant sheep that were model citizens. And then, elements of far right extremists erupted from the wild and unregulated countryside and everyone loyal to the World Economic Forum that did not manage to escape to safety...
Before the Republican backed uprising that started with their clear tampering of the 2022 midterms, well, most of the boots on the ground were willing to talk that the Canadians had been planning a bloodless coup. Sure, life imprisonment and seizure of assets as they revolted against the rich, as they dismantled the large corporations inside of their borders and moved to go for isolationist policies (which really, was bad enough), but the fact that they backed Trump and the other republicans that clearly stole the elections (despite the inconvenient truth that Trump was backed by the majority of the population), and it was no surprise that things got... messy.
And yet, as the world fell into violence and strife, as control slipped from the fingers of the mighty into mostly local affairs, what was there to do, but to restore order, to try and impose a sense of rationality in this world gone mad? It had not helped that... there was, in the distance, the thunder of gunfire echoing in the trees, screams torn from someone's throat and all around them a cold fog rolling in. At least one of the recruits whimpered, as the soldiers huddled together, eyes quickly rendered useless as those tendrils of mist came closer, ghostly claws or fangs that swallowed them.
All around them was the scent of pine needles, of freshly turned earth damp with rain, ozone crackling and dancing. Hands reached to radios, turning them off, even as the voices, the whispers began to come from them again. Some of those voices, the men of the squad knew. Some of those voices, some whispered, belonged to the dead. This was of course, discouraged thinking and not a theory that was allowed to be talked about. That the Canadians managed to have potent communication jammers and fog makers for demoralizing them, that was something that could be taken seriously in the light of day.
It was not, as the men claimed in the shadows, in the all encompassing gloom and chill, that those who rebelled against rightful authority had supernatural powers, could not summon forth the very dead in cold banks of fog, nor... there was another scream, spats of gunfire that were closer this time, as the soldiers tensed. Some whispered prayers to a god they did not believe in until the dark closed in around them, others to the orthodoxy and the correct modes of action and thought.
Yet, even as they kept their eyes peeled, one of the men gulped, his tone betraying terror. "Corporal, the watch, the watch..." Terror stole his breath, as hands moved to the precious digital instrument. Because if they could not coordinate with the other squads, they had permission to retreat. And yet, instead of reading out the time, instead of the numbers of a sane and rational universe, there were words. Words that betrayed a level of electronic penetration that should not be possible for these northern peaceniks that rarely if ever made their NATO spending commitments!
But... "Why would they bother with What Time Is It Mister Wolf?" The Corporals tone was annoyed with the childishness of the message. Yet, no sooner then he had spoken was there a howling around him, colder than the fog, rustling in the branches around them, as the message, on a watch that was isolated and had no ability to receive or send signals, changed. Its Dinner Time, now dripping across the screen like blood, as all around the soldiers arms burst from the ground, skeletal limbs that gripped and tore at ankles and legs, even as striding from the most came massive figures whose proportions were just wrong.
It was if someone had taken wicker statues and imbued them with something approaching life, with skulls that were somehow a cross between wolves and stags for heads, sharp and ivory claws that reached out, picking up the men desperately trying to retreat, the bullets having little visible effect as men were torn in two, heads ripped off... and as werewolves from the movie screen leaped from the trees, jaws closing around heads and throats, feet breaking shoulders and arms.
Yet, soon, the clearing went silent. As the fog parted, the scattered survivors, a handful across the entire front really, bore witness to men, not monsters moving through the trees. They wore garb that was more at home in older times, taken from the movies of pagan warriors and fantasy more than a civilized place like what Canada was supposed to be. No survivor would make it back to WEF controlled territory, as they were taken deeper into the forests of the true north.
They would not die quickly, painlessly or easily those few survivors, as rites of a bloodier and more brutal time were enacted, as men and nature howled as one and the land itself laughed, cold fingers touching its children. For this was no longer a sane world, and the Canadians had realized, long before anyone else, that the only sane option in a world gone mad, was to embrace insanity on their own terms.
If it happened to more primal, violent and darker than the mindless conformity and blind acceptance of authority than what the Central Globalists would prefer, well, that was hardly their fault and they would not apologize for it. Besides, have you ever tried maple syrup spiked with the hearts blood of your enemies? Just the thing to make hockey night even better!