Colony

  Koikov pulled his collar up and paced the ten metres or so across the chamber. What a grim place this would be to die. He heaved open the door to the next chamber and walked through.

  Central Chamber 2 lacked rifle slits. It was gloomy, dank and totally enclosed. In the corner lay the butt-end of a papirosa that he’d ditched last time he’d inspected the place. On that occasion, all he’d given a shit about had been how many barrels he could stack within its reinforced walls before heading back to the Albanov for a shower. This time couldn’t have been more different. He picked up the butt-end and pocketed it; where Koikov came from, you didn’t shit in your own bed.

  He turned his attention to the escape hatch mounted centrally within the roof. A ladder was fixed to the wall of the cylindrical shaft, accessing the cap. He jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder. He half-expected the fittings to pull loose from the wall, but they held, and he heaved himself up, hand over hand.

  The release handle for the cap was stiff with disuse. After a struggle it juddered round and Koikov forced open the mushroom-like slab of iron, which squealed on its hinge before crashing back onto the rooftop. The smell of diesel was replaced by fresh air. The dark by light. Uncertain which he preferred, Koikov pushed his head up through the hatch and looked around.

  A few hundred metres away, Privates Gergiev, Nazarov and Reznikoff were unloading barrels from the roof of the mechanical excavator. They were arranging them at approximate twenty-metre intervals, creating an outer perimeter, just as Koikov had ordered. Lifting his rifle, he peered through the sight and brought the crosshairs to rest over one of the barrels. With vision unhindered it was un-fucking-missable. But in the mist… He lowered the sight from his eye. Half of him hoped that they would never have to find out. The other half wanted nothing more than to fuck some dragons up.

  He reclosed the hatch and continued through into Chamber 3.

  6

  The slope stretched ahead for several hundred metres before rounding into the coastal plain below. It would have been an awe-inspiring sight: the sub-oval basin of low ground ringed by a batter of foothills, the ocean lapping at its western edge. But there was no getting away from it. It looked like a monumental bite mark, as if a gigantic sea monster had risen up and bitten a chunk out of the island’s flank.

  A number of other islands loomed on the far horizon. Callum held a hand above his eyes and squinted through the blinding sunlight. He could just make out the strokes of snow and ice on their peaks, their necks hung with wreaths of mist. He shivered.

  In the centre of the plain below was the same ill-fitting arrangement of grey concrete that he had first spotted from the Kamov. He remembered the feeling of intense dislike, disappointment that the island wasn’t quite the virgin wilderness he’d envisaged. Then he laughed. Virtually overnight, the compound had transformed from eyesore to oasis.

  Since leaving the tunnel, the group had walked in silence. Exhausted and overwhelmed, they had moved as quickly as Callum’s leg would allow them, fuelled by the thought that when they reached the compound they would be safe at last. It was an illusion; there was no such thing as safe here. But it was necessary nonetheless.

  “I can’t believe we’ve made it,” he said.

  “Almost, my friend,” Lungkaju replied cautiously. “We are almost there. Now we must be careful moving downslope. The rock is uneven. Let us go north to where it is more gentle.”

  A short distance along the ridge, the gradient eased and Lungkaju began a painstaking descent. Callum followed on, keeping his body sideways and carefully testing the scree-strewn slope with every step.

  A voice called out suddenly, “Do you wait?”

  They turned around to see that Darya and Ava had stopped at the top of the slope. Ava was slumped on the ground, her head between her legs, Darya’s hands on her shoulders. The two men shared a look of patient resignation, before clambering back to the top.

  “This has got to be a joke,” Ava was repeating between muffled sobs. “This is a setup, right? A great big, steep-sided setup!”

  “Let me guess,” Callum said, remembering back to their tour of the Albanov’s bridge. “Heights?”

  Darya scowled at him, while Ava nodded. She took several loud, exaggerated breaths. “Stairs are bad enough.”

  “The slope is gradual here,” Callum said, trying hard to comfort her.

  “I know, but I can’t help it. It’s because I can see so far into the distance. When I even look at it, I feel light-headed. What if I black out and fall? What if I slip over? I… I just can’t do it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I feel so weak.” She burst back into tears.

  Lungkaju knelt down beside her and spoke softly. “Doctor Lee, please do not be sorry. You have done nothing wrong. And you are not weak.”

  Ava wiped at her eyes.

  “But you know that we must go to the compound,” he continued. “It is not possible for us to stay here.”

  She nodded. “I know. I just… I just need time… to get my head straight.”

  Lungkaju smiled and took her hand. “Then I will stay with you and wait.” He turned to Callum. “My friend, you and Doctor Lebedev should go ahead.”

  “And leave you two here?” Darya protested. “No, we cannot.”

  “You are not leaving us,” Lungkaju answered, maintaining his air of calm command. “You must get to the compound as soon as possible and let them know that we are still alive. They probably think…” He trailed off, then added, “We will follow you down, yes, Doctor Lee?”

  She nodded.

  “But—”

  “He’s right,” Ava said, cutting her off. “You two go on ahead. I’m just being silly. Making a big deal out of nothing.” She punched herself in the thigh. “I’ve been up the CN Tower before, for God’s sake. Twice! I just need a few moments, that’s all, and then we’ll follow you down.”

  Darya was still protesting as Callum took her hand. Exchanging a nod with Lungkaju, he set off down the slope.

  * * *

  In the middle of the floor in Chamber 3, Ivanov and Koshkin knelt either side of Private Tsaritsyn. They had made him a makeshift mattress out of jackets and other spare bits of clothing and were attempting to tend his wounds with the meagre contents of the field first aid kit.

  Tsaritsyn’s narrow, youthful face looked even paler than before. His eyes were closed. Blood was soaking through his chest dressing and his trembling was continuous.

  Ivanov looked up. “He won’t stop shaking, Starshyna.”

  For a moment Koikov was silent. He knew a dying man when he saw one. “How much morphine do we have?”

  Koshkin eyed him suspiciously, then he rooted through the first aid kit and produced a vial of liquid. Reading off the label he said, “Six hundred milligrams, Starshyna.”

  Koikov took a deep breath. “One hour.”

  “One hour, what?”

  “One hour, and if we’ve had nothing from Nagurskoye, then dose him up.”

  “Starshyna, are you suggesting—”

  “This man is beyond our help, Koshkin. He’s not beyond our compassion. One hour. And move him into Chamber 2. From now on that’s your theatre.”

  He went to exit the bunker, but as he approached the stairs he drew to a sudden halt. His gaze was fixed above the doorway. “Son of a…”

  “What is it, Starshyna?” Ivanov asked.

  Attached to the ceiling, directly above the doorway, was a detonator. It was strapped to a sizeable block of C4.

  “My charges!” Koikov’s mind raced back to when Dolgonosov’s screams had signalled the start of the living nightmare. The charges he’d been setting in order to collapse the bunker system had been left in place. The wiring was unfinished, but it was nothing half an hour’s attention wouldn’t solve.

  Ignoring the continued questioning of Ivanov and Koshkin, he paced back t
hrough to Chamber 1. Above the external doorway, the second of the two charges also remained. A smile had just enough time to break across his lips before his radio crackled.

  “Starshyna, this is Corporal Voronkov. Come in.”

  “What is it, Corporal?”

  Voronkov seemed to hesitate. “Mist, Starshyna. Coming in from the east.”

  Koikov’s heart sank. He strode over to the rifle slit and stared out. Another thick bank of grey-white was already obscuring the high ground; Hjalmar Ridge was completely shrouded. He watched, mesmerised, as the heart of the island disappeared, the front of the vapour cloud splitting into five thick fingers, feeling their way down into the basin. “What is it with this fucking place!” he shouted. “Okay, Voronkov, I need you to be my eyes up there, you understand? Keep me up on what’s happening around this bunker? I know it’s not ideal, but there’s no other option.”

  There was a long pause, then, “Understood. Out.”

  Koikov peered over at the small cache of weapons that had made it this far. Stacked like a shrine against the wall of Chamber 1 were five or six ammo crates, two RPGs and a flame unit. He took small comfort in them, but comfort nonetheless.

  He turned his attention back to the mist. By now it was cascading down over the Hjalmar foothills, devouring the island from the top down. He could smell its sour tang already. He wanted to spit, but his mouth was already as dry as sun-bleached bone.

  “Shit!” He brought a hand to his radio collar and made an open transmission: “All personnel, this is Starshyna Koikov. Brace yourselves.”

  Chapter 14

  Grudge

  1

  The narwhals were agitated. The larger males had taken up wide positions, flexing their tusks and chaperoning their families’ flanks. In the centre, the dark blue calves stuck close to their mothers. They swam huddled, barging forward, careless with angst.

  Out of curiosity, Peterson switched on the sub’s hydrophone. The cabin came alive with clicks, frequency-modulated whistles and pulse-like bursts of sonar as the thirty or so animals broke around the Centaur and left it rocking in their wake.

  Maybe it was the presence of the sub? Peterson doubted it. They were skittish by nature, but there was something else. He switched off the hydrophone. Had the circumstances been different, he would have taken a much keener interest, perhaps even followed the pod as they made for deeper water. Instead, with the cabin plunged back into silence, he refocussed his attention on the grey-blue waters off Valerian Cove.

  Several hours had passed since Peterson had relocated the beach where he’d left Ava, McJones and Lebedev stranded. They had long gone. He’d suspected as much. But that had been little consolation as he’d searched his way to the top of the scree-slope surrounding the beach and scanned in vain over Harmsworth’s interior. For someone who had barely set foot on the island before, it was a new kind of desolation that had confronted him. Vast and unforgiving. Ridges and valleys. Rock and more rock. It looked about as welcoming as a mound of fire ants.

  The idea that the three of them had made for the old military base was by no means a certainty. Peterson knew its location well enough – he’d earmarked it as a possible contingency shelter – and it was all the way on the other side of the island. Getting there on foot would be no mean feat, and he was willing to bet that there would be plenty of rock shelters nearby, where they could’ve camped down to await rescue. Hadn’t Lebedev rambled on about animal hides at dinner one time?

  But heading for the base would also make a whole lot of sense. From what he recalled, there were a handful of standing structures around the runway, which would make decent enough shelter, plus there would probably be enough leftover crap to make fire with. There might even be other useful equipment, perhaps a radio. More than anything, it would be the obvious place for a rescue party to look. Ava was sharp. Ditto McJones. That’s where he’d find them alright.

  He’d left the little cove and headed south. Navigation hadn’t been an issue. Visibility had been good, perhaps as much as thirty feet in places. Hugging the coast had allowed him to keep tabs on the shoreline, so for the most part the island’s underskirt had dictated his movements. He’d made sure to breach the Centaur every so often, raise the hatch and check his location to make sure that he was on course. It was slow and it was painfully old-school for a man with the pinnacle of modern submersible technology teasing his fingertips. But it was working.

  As he negotiated the rock formations off the island’s south-western tip, the clarity of the water diminished rapidly. Soon visibility was halved on what it had been, no more than ten, fifteen feet. He slowed and crept the Centaur to the surface. Flipping open the hatch, he climbed up and peered across at western Harmsworth.

  At first he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He lifted his spectacles – he’d lost the first pair back when he fell into the water, so they were ill-fitting spares that he hated wearing – and rubbed at his tired eyes. Vast swathes of the island seemed to have disappeared. It was as if an enormous eraser had been to work; all that remained were a ghostly outline, a few scattered strokes of rock and a smear or two of sky. The rest was white, thick, oily white that seemed to shimmer and pulsate.

  It was shocking how quickly the mist had descended this time. Even as he looked on, it continued its spread, swollen tendrils abandoning the shore and flowing out to sea. He watched, mesmerised, until the surge was too close for comfort. Then he dropped back into the cabin and took the Centaur down.

  What little ambient sunlight the water had held was now filtered from existence as the shroud settled overhead. Peterson sighed. It was disconcerting, but it was no show-stopper. He would just have to be careful not to lose sight of the submerged shoreline. Besides, the military base was now only a few more kilometres to the north. He just needed to keep his nerve.

  Ahead, something loomed out of the murk and into the Centaur’s lamps. It was a shadow, an elongated shadow, with an angular protrusion at one end. It looked inanimate, bobbing close to the seabed and churning up flurries of sand. If he’d been south of the tundra, he would’ve put money on it being a sunken tree trunk, such was its size and shape. But then the nearest living tree was a thousand miles south of his location.

  Warily, he edged the Centaur forward.

  2

  The carcass belonged to an adult male narwhal, a real old sonofabitch judging by the size and pale colouration. It looked fresh. Its death must have been what had freaked the rest of the pod out earlier. Like dolphins, narwhals were intelligent, highly emotional creatures. The younger animals relied on the older for their knowledge of hunting grounds, migration routes, everything. The death of such an old member would have been traumatic.

  Peterson reversed the Centaur out of range of the animal’s giant tusk. “Remember, there’s always life in a dead critter,” his uncle’s voice reminded him. Face stern, he had brandished his three-fingered hand before his eight-year-old nephew. “I got a coyote to thank for this, and that was after I shot him dead.”

  As Peterson performed the manoeuvre, the current dragged the narwhal around, revealing an enormous laceration across the side of its head. Fingers of brain emerged like a deep-sea anemone from its pulverised cranium, and a cloud of blood and tissue spewed from the gash.

  Peterson had seen similar injuries on seals that had been dragged through ships’ propeller blades in the busy shipping lanes off Greenland. But there sure as shit weren’t any shipping lanes around Harmsworth. Leastways, not yet.

  There was only one other explanation, and it spurred Peterson to take off—

  Something bolted past the Centaur’s nose. It could have been a seal, but it moved too fast for him to be certain. As he peered out into the murk, something darted the other way. Missed it again!

  Then, from nowhere, a slender creature, with the same dark colouration as the surrounding water, torpedoed into the carcass. Definitely not a s
eal, the creature tore a strip of blubber from the narwhal’s flank, the gouge pumping out blood and clouding up the surrounding brine. There was no longer any doubt in Peterson’s mind. It was another one of those weird lizard birds, a Tansey whatey.

  It didn’t seem bothered by the presence of the Sea Centaur. In any case it was obviously no match. Tonnes of cutting-edge machinery versus three hundred pounds or so of chicken lizard. No contest. Yet even just the sight of the creature made him feel strangely vulnerable. “Goddamn things,” he growled. “It’s a goddamn infestation.”

  The sensible move would’ve been to get the hell away while it was busy feeding. But this time Peterson couldn’t shift his science brain. He was safe enough, wasn’t he? And the opportunity to watch this new species engaged in its natural feeding behaviour had him tethered to his seat.

  Just then, a second creature streaked into the carcass and stripped away another ribbon of flesh. Then came two, three, four more, one after another, each performing exactly the same action: strike-tear-away, strike-tear-away.

  Peterson watched them, wide-eyed, silent. Over the next few minutes, both the number of animals and the frequency of the strikes increased dramatically. It was as if the first few mouthfuls had just been testers, clearing the way for an all-out feeding frenzy. Soon virtually the whole of the narwhal’s ribcage lay exposed, arcs of off-white bone clamped around a sausage bag of internal organs. Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the creatures faded back into the gloom. What remained of the carcass lay unmolested, bobbing on the current.

  Peterson had seen enough. He began to back the Centaur away. This close to the seabed, the lack of a guidance system forced him to focus all of his attention on the controls. He needed eyes in the back of his head.