“Get the rifle!” he shouted to Ava.
Still hysterical with fear, she was screaming out and clinging so hard to his arm that he could feel her cutting off the blood supply.
“Ava!” he shouted again, snatching his arm away. “This thing is going to kill us if you don’t get the rifle and shoot it, now!”
Kicking against the creature’s jaw felt like kicking against marble. It must have been doing some good, though, as blood was now pouring from its nose and gums. Undeterred, it was still forcing itself ferociously towards them, and with every charge it bent the tensile struts further inwards.
“For Christ’s sake, Ava!”
Responding at last, Ava extended her leg and caught her heel over the edge of the rifle. Her eyes were fixed on the creature’s face as she dragged the rifle within reach of her hand. Then she stretched down and took hold of it.
“Shoot it!” Callum yelled.
She fumbled the heavy weapon until it was aimed loosely in the direction of the doorway. Then she snatched at the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“I-i-it’s n-not working,” she stammered.
“You need to switch the safety off!” Callum yelled. “It’s the catch beside the trigger guard!”
One of the creature’s hind legs shot suddenly in through the doorway. It passed between Callum and Darya, shaving the side of Callum’s neck, and tearing a gash in the back of the tent.
For a split second they were left staring at each other in disbelief, before coming round. “Ava!” they chorused.
“I’m trying!” Hands shaking, tears streaming from her eyes, she ran her fingers over the rifle’s stock until she found the safety catch. It depressed with a clunk.
By now, gusts of mist were spilling into the interior, giving it the same opacity as the world outside.
Ava raised the rifle once again. This time the creature shrieked and made a determined charge towards her. Finally breaking through one of the tent ribs, it seemed to get caught up on the fabric and slumped to its knees.
“Come on!” Callum shouted, taking the opportunity to turn and drag Darya through the tear at the back of the tent.
“Ava!” she screamed. “What about Ava!”
Callum left her outside and pushed his way back in through the half-collapsed structure. After several lungfuls of fresh air, the creature’s impounded stink turned his stomach. He could no longer see it, but he could feel its bulge pressing into him through the fabric as virtually its entire weight pulled at the roof’s apex. Strong as they were, the remaining poles creaked loudly. Any second and the whole thing was coming down.
Callum could just make out Ava’s legs from the shadow. His hands fell upon her ankles, and he dragged her clear, heaving her from the ailing tent just as it folded in on itself.
She fell to the ground next to Darya, the rifle still clamped in her hands. Callum wrenched it from her, shouldered it and aimed it at the fabric now entangling the creature. As he brought his finger to the trigger, the creature’s head burst up out of the tear and it lunged for him, letting out a frustrated screech.
He fired two well-aimed shots into the top of its crown, watching as the back of its skull exploded into pulp, and its face dropped down onto the cold rock. He stared at it. His memory of the creature supposedly dead in the Centaur’s pincers was fresh in his mind. He was convinced that if he looked away, this one would also reanimate, fresh and ready to pounce. But it was still.
All the same, he edged forward and prodded its snout with the muzzle. Only when he saw the rest of its brains slop from the back of its cranium did he allow his shoulders to relax. Then he walked back over to the others. They were huddled together, and he knelt down and held them both.
Darya placed her hand on the back of his head and squeezed his face into hers.
“I’m sorry I had to kill it,” he said.
She pulled her face away and looked deep into his eyes. “So am I,” she replied. “But I am not sorry that you did.”
“Me either,” Ava added, her voice breathless.
“We should not wait around here,” Darya said. “We should go somewhere.”
“Go where?” Ava asked. “What about Lungkaju?”
“I do not know,” Darya answered. “But I think that we should find somewhere quickly.” Her voice took on a new undertone. “I cannot be sure, but I think that these animals might be hunting in pairs.”
5
The hairs rose on the back of Callum’s neck. He brought the rifle back into his shoulder and scanned around. The mist definitely seemed to be thinning. Rather than a blanket, it had fractured into discrete banks, still frequent enough to impair vision beyond a three- or four-metre radius. It was camouflage enough. Beneath his jacket, Callum could feel his arms break out into sudden gooseflesh. “I think you could be right—”
A shadow leapt from the haze, knocking him down and sending the rifle clattering to the floor. He landed on his back and immediately a second creature was on top of him.
His hands fastened around its throat as it lunged for him. Even with his arms locked, its jaw snapped shut just millimetres from his cheek. Beads of saliva rained onto him, and he could feel its foreclaws digging through his jacket into the flesh of his upper arms.
The frantic screams of Darya and Ava tore into his ears. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that they were pelting the creature with rocks. As one connected with its eye, it turned its head to snarl at them, its body tensing as if to leap in their direction.
With no time to lose, Callum grasped for one of the scree missiles that had fallen beside him, picked it up and swung it with all his force into the side of creature’s head.
“Run!” he shouted to the others, as the chunk of rock split against its target. “Go now! Find Lungkaju!”
With a high-pitched scream, the creature turned its attention back to Callum. The ferocity of its attack seemed to double with its rage. Callum’s arms, which he had locked, his hands clamped around its neck, began to buckle under the weight of its lunges.
One of its hind claws shredded at his boot, before shooting up and pinning itself into his thigh muscle. He screamed out in pain, bracing himself for a strike to the body as the claw uncoupled itself and reared back.
Instead, from beside him, there was a sudden growling, followed by a deep roar. The creature was knocked sideways away from him, and he felt himself dragged clear. He scrambled to his feet.
Fenris was on top of the creature, his mouth clamped just below its jaw, tearing at the exposed neck muscle. The creature was on its back, fighting furiously to right itself but unable to rotate its knees and claw at the dog’s underbelly. Its hind legs could only flail uselessly, yet its foreclaws were still free to burrow at his flanks. Tufts of fur drifted to the moss below and a criss-cross of red striations were beginning to blossom up though Fenris’s coat.
Callum looked around to see Darya sprinting in the direction of the tent. She grabbed the rifle. “We must help him! It is too strong! It will kill him!”
He took the rifle from her. There were no rounds left in the chamber, so he pulled a handful from his pocket, spilling most of them on the floor in haste, but managing to reload. He cocked the weapon and pointed it towards the creature.
“Do not hit Fenris!” she pleaded with him.
Before he could do another thing, shots from a different rifle rang out beside him. The creature’s stomach burst open and it fell limp in Fenris’s jaws.
Next thing, Lungkaju came sprinting past Callum towards it, calling the dog away as he went. Fenris obediently dropped the creature’s neck and backed off, chewing the loose feathers from his mouth. Lungkaju placed the barrel square against the side of the creature’s head as if to dispatch it once and for all. But there was no final shot. Instead he waited. Watched.
“It is gone,” he sa
id, eventually turning from the dead creature. He noticed the wound on Callum’s leg and his face dropped. He began walking over. “My friend, you are injured.”
“Never mind me,” Callum shouted to him. “Are you sure it’s dead? Those things play possum.”
“Fenris!” Darya screamed.
Their eyes moved to where the dog stood panting beside the creature’s body.
The eye had reopened.
In an instant, the dying creature lurched forward and plunged its toe claw deep into the side of the unsuspecting dog’s chest. Fenris jumped with the impact and yelped in pain. Then he stumbled forward, whining, and collapsed onto his front.
The creature’s leg retracted slowly, mechanically, and a lid slid shut across its eye.
A scream of anguish ripped through the air as Lungkaju raised his rifle and fired shot after shot into the creature’s body. It twitched with the impact of each round. Then it lapsed back into stillness, the clicking of the trigger signalling that all rounds were spent.
Lungkaju dropped the weapon and knelt beside Fenris. The others watched in silence as he examined the wound. Fenris had rolled over onto his side. Having licked at the gash in confusion, he was now quiet and barely moving. He stared ahead, only the faint twitching of his muzzle betraying that he was still alive.
Lungkaju pushed a glove over the wound to try and stem the bleeding. But it was no use. The puddle had already swollen out around his knees, staining the moss and draining in-between the rocks. “I cannot save him,” he said, his rage turned to disbelief. “I cannot save him.”
Slowly, he pulled the glove away from the wound. The gush of blood was now a trickle. He wrapped his arms tightly around Fenris’s body. Burying his face into the side of his friend’s neck, he spoke softly to him in Nganasan until the flow stopped altogether.
Callum hugged onto Darya as she wept against his shoulder. Ava slumped to the floor beside them and dropped her face into her hands.
The minutes ticked by before Lungkaju’s head rose up and he took a deep breath. By now the sun’s rays were beating their way through the mist, carving the remaining vapour into pockets around him.
He turned from Fenris to face the others. His eyes were red, his bronze skin streaked with blood. He reached a shaking hand inside his parka, withdrew his flask and took a deep draught.
“I told him it was just bad dreams.”
Chapter 12
Lazarus Taxon
1
Peterson burst up out of the swell. Before he could take stock, the current had thrust him against the side of the natural harbour. He scrabbled for a hold. His fingers dug in and he clung on as a second swell tried to grate his body like a lump of mozzarella up against the rock. As it receded, he took his chance and hauled himself up the side.
His sense of déjà vu was immediate; he half-expected Volkov to be stood smoking in the shadows once again, to step, laughing, from the gloom and finish him off with a voice-distorted cackle and a bullet to the head. But this time there was no cigarette end. He was alone and the white sub was nowhere to be seen.
After blacking out and falling into the water, the freezing temperature had shocked him back to consciousness. His instinct had been to resurface immediately for air. But he had fought it. The last thing he’d wanted was to be fished, defenceless, out of the swell by that monster Volkov and tortured into complicity. He’d rather have drowned. Fuelled by a mixture of panic and rage, his mind had worked quickly. He had propelled himself under the Centaur, feeling his way towards the anchor point. Then he had slid between the nose of the craft and the natural harbour.
He didn’t have long. That much was obvious. He was bleeding, freezing and drowning all at the same time. Without a chance in hell of seeing anything through the dark water, he began a desperate clawing around the Centaur’s hull. He knew exactly what he was looking for, but unless he found it soon, it would all be over.
His lungs clamoured for air as his hands scrabbled across the metal panelling. His fingers searched and searched, finally catching against a shallow indent. He tugged at it, and it pulled down to form a handle. His heart leapt. He searched out the second handle. It too pulled down and he grabbed both, twisted them and forced the hatch open. He felt the rush of the water as it flooded into the cavity, urging him with it, and he squeezed himself in through the gap.
As long as the Centaur was upright, the chamber had been designed to only partially submerge in the event of a breach. In true scientific fashion, it was less an issue of buoyancy for the sake of the crew, and more one of preserving the delicate internal systems; research first, people second. As his head burst up into the pocket of air, Peterson couldn’t have cared less why it was there. He just gulped it down, lungful after heavenly lungful. All the while he clung to the upper of three wide storage ledges, the same one, he noted darkly, on which he had stored the explosive all those weeks ago.
He mustered what strength he could and dragged himself clear of the water. The image of Doctor Lebedev’s shivering, hypothermic body still fresh in his mind, he began removing his wet clothes. The proximity of the engine meant that the air inside the chamber was warm against his skin. He was lucky. Ordinarily, the temperature would have been artificially lowered in order to preserve whatever samples had been taken.
No longer drowning or freezing, he turned his attention to the bullet wound. It was pitch dark inside the compartment, but he could feel that the bullet had passed through the strait of flesh between the bottom of his ribcage and the top of his pelvis. His grasp of human anatomy was pretty damn weak. He knew that one of his kidneys was probably somewhere in that area. The side of his guts too. But to what extent either had been damaged, he had no idea. He started by using his undershirt as a compress. God only knew how much blood he’d lost already.
There was a sudden thud above him and he froze. As he listened in silence, the sound was followed by a series of lighter thuds that could only have been one thing. Footsteps.
Peterson could feel his already pounding heart beat faster at the thought of that psychopath Volkov boarding his sub and dicking with his controls. He needed to calm down or he would quickly bleed out. He took a deep breath and fought to clear his mind. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo…
There was a burst of hammering, no doubt as Volkov began ransacking the place. It was clear what he was looking for: the data stick from which the virus had been uploaded. He’d want it so that he could get his people to design him an anti-virus. If the pain in Peterson’s side hadn’t been busy reaching climax, he’d have laughed. The thought of him leaving something like that just lying around in the sub was plain ridiculous. It may have looked like a shitty little hunk of plastic, but it was anything but. What its circuitry contained was just about priceless.
The noises got louder and louder as the futility of the search seemed to dawn on Volkov. The clanging culminated in a series of loud bangs as he kicked out at various parts of the interior and launched into a tirade. Despite it being in Russian, Peterson got the gist of it loud and clear: I’m the richest most powerful asshole in the world and I AM PISSED!
Two gunshots rang out. No doubt the crazy sonofabitch was trying to disable the sub’s operating systems. With a final enraged growl, he pounded his way up the ladder and slammed the exit hatch behind him. The impact vibrated throughout the craft’s framework and Peterson found himself shuddering, not with the sensation, but with anger.
There was another sound, this time a low rumble. It was an engine and it wasn’t the Centaur’s. Volkov must have been leaving in his own sub. Peterson listened to the noise increase and then peter out, as the craft submerged and passed towards the cavern’s exit. Then silence.
He remained where he was. Having somehow kept alive this long, he didn’t want to blow it all by risking a move too soon. He was smart, but so far Volkov had proven himself a hell of a lot
smarter. What if the sound of him leaving was all just a ploy designed to flush him out? What if he left the safety of the specimen chamber now and resurfaced in the inlet only to see the white sub anchored up next to the exit tunnel and the end of Volkov’s pistol pointed at his face once again?
And what if his injury was worse than he realised? For all he knew, he might not even have the energy to pull himself up out of the damn water. Say he did. What then? From the sounds of it the Centaur was going nowhere fast, and without it neither was he.
He looked at his watch. The pale glow of the twelve increments and two hands was the only source of illumination in the whole chamber. One hour. An hour from then, and whether or not he’d managed to formulate a plan, if there was still breath in his body then he would make his move. Sure, it was a gamble. He’d have more chance of treating his wound with the first aid equipment in the cabin. But he was still conscious, wasn’t he? And the bleeding had seemed to be under control. It was a gamble he’d been willing to take.
The inside of the Centaur was as he’d expected. Her storage compartments had been turned out and several of the doors had been ripped from their hinges, their contents spread around the cabin floor. He could also make out the two bullet holes, one in the heart of the instrument panel, the other in the centre of the navigation screen.
He set about dressing his wound properly. It was the first time he’d been able to see it and it was clear just what a lucky sonofabitch he’d been. Having dressed it as best he could, he bolted a double dose of painkillers and turned his attention to patching up the Centaur.
“Your turn, old girl,” he whispered, unscrewing the top of the console. “Here’s hoping you’re in a better way than yours truly.”
The sight that greeted him was bittersweet. Volkov had obviously known what he was doing. The bullet had scored a direct hit on the primary control system. But Peterson could also see that the damage was far from irreparable. He checked for the emergency repair kit in the narrow compartment beneath the console, and found it unmolested. Having been drilled in the finer points of emergency sub surgery, he was confident that the console would be no problem. A few replacement parts here, a touch of solder there, and he’d have her up and running again in no time.
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