There was a subtle thump. Had he hit something? He looked back up.
One of the creatures had its face pressed up against the screen.
Peterson cried out as fear clenched like a giant fist inside his chest. The creature didn’t move, didn’t react. It stared in at him, eyes wide, each covered over with a fine milky membrane. Its claws were steadying its face against the glass. A chain of bubbles leaked from its nostrils, and its blue-black feathers rustled in the undertow. It seemed to hang, motionless, in the water, just studying him. Then it broke away and disappeared beneath the sub.
Peterson sat frozen in his chair as silence gave way to a faint tapping noise, then to the unmistakable sound of claws raking across the hull and a series of much louder, more concerted bangs.
Peterson accelerated suddenly, forcefully, skidding over the top of the narwhal carcass. In his panic he almost lost control of the Centaur as it veered and plunged towards the seabed. At the last moment he managed to regain control and bring it back level. Maintaining his bearing north, he scoured ahead. In all probability the creatures would choose to stay and finish off the carcass. Wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like the Centaur was edible. They were just curious. Surely they didn’t see him as prey?
There was a crash as something collided with the sub’s flank. Glancing through the porthole, Peterson could make out one of the creatures clinging to the right pelvic fin. Its hind claws were tearing at the slit into which the fin retracted, and already he could see thin slivers of the Kevlar-reinforced epoxy resin being shredded away. Bad news. Just like a fish, the sub’s manoeuvrability relied on the integrity of its fins. Without them, it would flounder.
He secured his seat restraint and reached for the throttle. “Okay, old gal, time to move out.”
The engine roared, and the Centaur careered upwards. The force of the acceleration crushed Peterson back into his chair. As the sub’s nose broke the surface, he turned hard right, trying to fling the creature off. Loose items shot from one side of the cabin to the other as the sub arced sharply around on its side, before righting once more.
Peterson glanced through the porthole. It had worked. No more parasite. But as he scanned ahead, he could make out two more of the creatures in front of the craft, one either side, like spectral wingmen in the murk. And there were more. At least another half dozen stalked just beyond either flank. He supposed that there would be a similar number to his rear, leaving the Centaur surrounded.
Realisation dawned, and dawned hard.
Hell yeah these things saw him as prey.
He was being hunted.
3
On top of the moraine, drenched in mist, Voronkov wiped the sweat from his brow. The rifle scope creaked into his LVV as he peered towards the compound.
Private Zyryonov, Voronkov’s junior by ten years, was lying prone next to him. “Anything?” His high-pitched voice was croaky with exhaustion.
“Nothing,” Voronkov replied, his own tone as deep and as smooth as ever, despite his fear. “Only Gergiev.”
“Gergiev? What the hell’s he doing out there?”
“Still dropping barrels along the perimeter.”
From the vantage of high ground, Voronkov had watched the mist roll down from the ridge, flooding the coastal basin. Koikov and the others had quickly retreated into the bunker, their outlines vanishing from sight. For a time the top of the moraine had pierced through the mist, like an island in a vast white swell. But soon it too had fallen under the cloak.
“This is fucked up!” Zyryonov whined.
The man’s continual bitching had quickly neutralised Voronkov’s sympathy for him. “Which bit?”
“The bit where everybody else gets to hide out in the shelter and we get to sit up here just waiting to get killed.”
“Shelter? Have you even seen it in there?”
“Yes, and it beats the shit out of being up here.”
“I’m not so sure it’s gonna make any difference,” Voronkov answered coolly. He adjusted his sight. “Personally I’d rather be up here than trapped inside that concrete coffin.”
“It’s okay for you, you’ve got the LVV. I can’t see shit!”
“Shut up!” Voronkov ordered. “I think I might have something.”
Zyryonov’s rifle clanked as he pulled it tight into his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Shh!”
Something was flitting down the slope from the foot of Hjalmar. It was heading in Gergiev’s direction.
“What is it?” Zyryonov demanded.
Voronkov ignored him and engaged his tactical radio. “This is Corporal Voronkov. Starshyna, come in.”
Static, then, “What is it, Voronkov?”
“I’ve got movement. Half a kilometre from your position, up on the ridge. Heading for Gergiev’s machine.”
“Can you make it out?”
“Negative. Definition is limited at this range. Whatever it is it looks like a red blur. It’s fast, though. Moves in bursts. Outcrop to outcrop.”
“It’s one of them,” Koikov said, without hesitation. “Maintain visual. If it gets to the perimeter, light it up. I’ll contact Gergiev. Out.”
By now the red blur had made its way to within fifty metres or so of Gergiev’s machine. As it ducked behind another outcrop, a second flicker caught Voronkov’s eye. With a sinking sense, he saw that several more had now emerged on the side of the slope. All looked the same. All moved the same. All were heading in the same direction.
He knocked the safety off his rifle and brought his finger to the trigger.
“What the hell’s going on?” Zyryonov demanded.
Voronkov turned to him. “They’re coming.”
“Coming? What’s coming? The dragons?”
“No, the strippers I ordered.”
“For fuck’s sake, talk to me, Corporal!”
Voronkov resolved not to talk to him anymore. He was in no mood to hold another man’s hand. If Zyryonov pulled himself together and did what he was told, he’d be okay. Otherwise… He brought his eye back to the rifle sight and blocked out the private’s continued protests.
The first of the blurs was now within thirty metres of Gergiev. It had slowed down and was approaching him cautiously, stalking him from the north. Voronkov took a deep breath. Any second and it would pass by one of the perimeter barrels. He brought the crosshair over it and exhaled.
Light her up, Koikov had said.
“With pleasure,” Voronkov whispered.
Then he squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Gergiev’s immense biceps pumped as he extended the arm of the mechanical excavator and placed the last of the barrels onto the ground. He had been so caught up in his task of reinforcing the outer perimeter that he had completely ignored the closing mist. The world outside the cabin was now a murky swirl, but he had simply stuck his LVV on and continued.
Now that he had full control of the machine, he felt safe. Mist or not, any of those things tried to mess with him and they were going to regret it. All the same, he tried not to think about them; his memory of their last encounter was still fresh in his mind, his helplessness as they’d dragged Orlov screaming from beside him and torn him limb from limb.
He dug the teeth of the bucket under the last barrel and raised it upright. It was incredible how tender you could be with such a powerful machine—
At that moment there was an explosion. Gergiev ducked as a ball of flame erupted up into the air a short distance away. The effect was like a flame tornado, the intense blast seeming to incinerate a funnel of mist at least twenty metres across. Everywhere, grey became orange as ribbons of flame sprayed out and burnt on across the barren rock.
There was little doubt what had happened. Some asshole had sniped one of the perimeter barrels. But why the fuck didn’t they wait for him to get clear?
As if in answer, something came racing out of the blast epicentre. He watched open-mouthed as one of the dragons raced past the front of his machine. Its entire body was on fire. Its feathers had been incinerated, revealing its full musculature, charred black and streaked with flame. It sprinted around wildly, screeching in torment before disappearing into the mist.
“Gergiev, come in.”
Gergiev’s muscles had tensed with shock, clamping his arms painfully against his chest and crushing his hands around the machine controls. He rolled his shoulders, loosened his grip and cracked his knuckles, watching in a daze as the blood flowed back into his fingers.
“Gergiev!”
“Here, Starshyna.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then get back to the bunker now, you hear me? They’re coming.”
They’re coming.
Gergiev panned around. He couldn’t see any other creatures, but there was something. To his amazement, fifty metres east of his location, were two definite outlines. Human outlines. But who did they belong to? Everybody else was supposed to be back at the compound.
The two people stood up out of their crouched positions and looked around. They couldn’t be Department V, but Harmsworth was uninhabited, and as far as Gergiev was aware no civilians had made it off the Albanov.
Was he making it up? He scrunched his eyes closed and then reopened them.
The two outlines remained.
* * *
Darya clung to Callum’s arm. “What was that?”
The shock of the sudden explosion had stopped them in their tracks. “Just keep moving!” he shouted. He had no idea what had caused the explosion, or where exactly they were moving to. All he knew was that they had descended onto the coastal plain and had been making good time towards the compound when the mist had smothered them. Lungkaju and Ava were lost. The world had turned grey again and now all hell was breaking loose.
Another explosion went off nearby. He flung his arms around Darya once again, protecting her as best he could. The rattle of automatic gunfire rang out in the distance. “They must be attacking the compound.”
“Do we still head there?”
“It’ll still be safer than being out here.”
As if to confirm his suspicion, a screech tore through the air behind them, and they spun around.
“Can you see it?”
Rifle shouldered, Callum squinted into the mist. It broke over them in waves. Visibility was only a metre or two at most. “I can’t see anything. Nothing at all.”
“I cannot see it either,” she whispered.
At that moment, a shadow bolted past, and Callum fired off a round.
“Did you hit?”
His legs wanted to buckle beneath him. “I don’t know.”
Another screech sounded off to the right. He turned and fired again.
“They are all around,” Darya screamed.
“Just stay behind me,” he ordered, fumbling to reload the rifle. But before he’d had time, the scene around them seemed to still. A strange clicking noise echoed out, and one of the creatures emerged from the mist.
The creature was only metres away. Callum’s breath froze in his chest. Behind him, Darya was silent, completely still. The creature was also still. Only its head moved slightly as it looked from his face down to the rifle in his quivering hands. It knows, he thought. It knows the rifle is no good like this. It knows that we’re defenceless.
Their eyes locked. Jets of breath tore from the creature’s nostrils. Its eyes bored into his. Then, to Callum’s surprise, it removed its gaze and bowed its head down, as if in supplication.
“What does it do?” Darya asked.
“I’ve no idea, but look!”
Running along the creature’s back was a criss-cross laceration. The surrounding feathers were clotted with dried blood. The wound looked infected. It looked recent.
Callum swallowed hard. Was it possible? You just better hope those things don’t hold a grudge…
The creature raised its head back up to let out a screech.
Darya’s grip tightened. She could see what he could: the chafe marks around the base of its neck, where the Centaur’s pincer had bitten down.
There was no mistaking it.
“It remembers,” Callum hissed.
4
Peterson flinched as another thud rang out above him. Through the periscope, he could see that two of the creatures were now attacking the sub’s dorsal fin. Already one of them had torn a gouge into the base, while the other had near as dammit gnawed the tip off.
He increased speed again and jerked the craft from side to side as sharply as he could without losing control. Whatever he did, the two creatures clung on tight with all four limbs, their combined body weight wrenching the fin back and forth.
One of the wingmen broke formation suddenly, veered in and kicked out at the windscreen. As the crunch of the collision sounded, Peterson threw his arms over his face. When he looked back up, he could see that the blow had chipped away only a tiny fragment, no bigger than half a centimetre from the six centimetre-thick screen. But his sense of relief was fleeting, as the creature then dug the tip of its hind claw into the chink and began to pick it open.
The second wingman now side-winded towards the screen. Peterson’s mind blanked with fear, and it was only at the last second that he thought to deploy the sub’s pincer. The three prongs had barely emerged from their housing before they speared into the front of the creature’s chest, bringing its charge to an abrupt halt. Peterson forced the arm out further and further as the pincer tips clamped down harder. Blood streamed from the creature’s mouth as it scrabbled to escape. The pincer tips bore though the skin and deep into its flesh, gradually sliding in-between its lower ribs and closing firm around its sternum.
“Still reckon on messing with me, you ugly piece of shit!” Peterson bellowed.
With its talon still embedded in the Centaur’s windscreen, the other creature looked across at its mate. Then it plunged over and joined in the attack. Peterson seized the opportunity to deploy the second arm, and by the time the free creature realised what was happening, it was too late. The pincer had dug into its neck, just below the jaw, and begun to constrict.
He roared with success. “Too damn easy!”
Outside, the creature fought against its restraint, jerking the mechanism from side to side. But as the pincer grip tightened, its movements grew softer and softer. Finally, its eyes bulged and its tongue dribbled out of its mouth, flapping like a blood-red eel in the current.
Remembering the two creatures on the roof, Peterson raised the angle of both arms until the pincers were level with the sub’s dorsal fin. Then he released the dead creatures simultaneously. The slipstream overhead pulled their corpses towards the rear of the vessel, flinging them into their live counterparts and dislodging both from the roof.
The initial despair Peterson had felt was transformed to jubilation. He was half-dead, goddammit, but no matter what tricks these goggle-eyed, fuck-faced little critters tried to pull, he was kicking their reptilian ass!
“Any more takers?” he screamed out, drunk with adrenaline. “Centaur, five! Overgrown iguanas, nothing! How does that feel?”
No sooner had he spoken than the sub lurched to the left. Speed was reducing, and keeping her level was like wrestling a bull. Peterson watched in renewed horror as another of the creatures took a final swipe at the pelvic fin. As the remaining thread snapped, it leapt clear with the fin caught between its teeth.
Peterson tugged the throttle back, attempting to bring the Centaur to a stop. But it was no use. No matter what he did, he just couldn’t hold her steady. The next thing he knew, the world was thrown into a spin. He was tossed around, and the only thing stopping him from braining himself o
n the Centaur’s interior was his seat restraint.
Then came the inevitable. With a terrifying groan, the roof of the submarine smashed into the seabed, ricocheted off and came crashing back down. The internal lighting shorted out and the emergency warning sirens burst into life. There were more impacts to both sides of the sub, before the tail caught and the nose flipped upwards. Then the whole craft tumbled forward again and again, eventually grinding to a stop along the jagged bedrock.
Peterson opened his eyes. He was delirious. So much so that it took him several minutes to realise that he was hanging upside down. Sparks leapt from the control panel and narrow jets of gas vented into the cabin around him. It was the last sight any submariner wanted to see.
He unfastened his seat restraint and slumped awkwardly down onto the roof. His side was an ecstasy of pain. The rest of his body ached like hell. As he surveyed the wreckage of his cabin, the system supporting the emergency siren faltered and then stalled, the whine giving way to the sound of leaking gas.
The situation was dire. If he wasn’t imminently burnt alive or poisoned by the build-up of stray gases, then before long the cabin’s damaged atmospheric regulator would give out and he would be left drowning in his own CO2.
To Peterson’s surprise, his first response was: So what? There wasn’t a chance in hell that he was making it out of there alive anyway. For one thing he was trapped. The Centaur was upside down, which meant that the hatch was wedged against the seabed. Even if he could get out, with no idea where he was, he’d get lost and the temperature of the water would finish him off in minutes. That was if he wasn’t immediately ripped to shreds by those things.
He lay his head back down. It was time to accept that it was game over.
“Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo…”
Chapter 15
Chamber 2
Colony Page 27