by Scott Sigler
Rhumkorrf. The man who had murdered his brother.
“I’ve got something special for you, Doc. Yes I do.”
He reached into the backseat.
7:05 A.M.
THE SIKORSKI’S ENGINE hum dopplered into a roar as it flew directly over Colding’s position. The helicopter slowed and started to circle back toward the well.
“Clayton, we’re going! If you see Magnus, just start shooting!”
“Ya think? Just drive, asshole.”
Colding gunned the engine.
The Arctic Cat shot out into the open.
SARA HAD NEVER seen a sight so beautiful—a Sikorski S-76C. Bobby Valentine’s ride, coming in low. And she saw something else, down on the ground, something far better—even bundled up in the snowsuit, she knew it was Colding on that snowmobile. Clayton was on the seat behind him, holding an Uzi with one hand. Hope and love exploded in Sara’s chest. They could make it. But Magnus was still out there somewhere. He could kill Colding at any second. Sara looked around the town circle, trying to spot the big man.
There, by the old log lodge … Magnus.
When she saw what he held, that feeling of hope crumbled and died.
MAGNUS TRACKED THROUGH the Stinger’s viewfinder. If Rhumkorrf hadn’t made these abominations in the first place, Danté would still be alive.
Claus Rhumkorrf was a murderer.
“Breathe your last, motherfucker.”
Magnus pushed the firing button.
7:06 A.M.
SARA, TIM, COLDING, Clayton and Magnus watched the Stinger missile’s flashing white trail. Oddly, the intended target was busy trying to readjust his bobbling, broken glasses: Claus Rhumkorrf never saw it coming.
The five-foot missile homed in on the Sikorski’s hot exhaust. Rhumkorrf had swung the chopper around to face the town center, just in time for the missile to slice into the cockpit window. The warhead exploded on contact, blossoming into a brilliant orange fireball.
Sikorski pieces and streams of burning fuel rained down on the old town.
THE HELICOPTER EXPLODED above the snowmobile’s forward path. Colding yanked the steering handles hard right, away from the church. The sudden movement caught Clayton unaware and threw him from the seat. He slammed into the snowy ground, rolled once, then skidded to a halt.
He didn’t move.
Colding managed to stay seated as he fought for control. Burning wreckage rained down around him. He squeezed the brakes and pulled hard left as the tail shaft—rotor still spinning—crashed into the ground in front of him. He’d turned too sharply this time; the snowmobile pitched on its right side. Colding dove free before the machine rolled three full, horizontal, rattling times. It landed on its skids, the fiberglass body shattered beyond repair.
Colding hit hard. He smelled burning feathers before he felt the heat, before he realized his jacket sleeve was on fire. He rolled on the ground, pushing his burning arm into the snow. The flames hissed out before he suffered any serious damage.
He stood, smoke and steam rising from his ruined sleeve, a murderous gaze fixed on his face. He unslung the SA80 rifle and looked for his target.
A voice from behind.
“Drop it, Bubbah.”
Fury. Fear. Colding shook. He fought the urge to whirl around and open up with the SA80. He wouldn’t even make a quarter turn before Magnus gunned him down. There was nothing he could do.
Colding dropped the rifle.
“And the Beretta,” Magnus said. “Slow.”
Colding slowly pulled the Beretta from inside his snowsuit and tossed it away. It fell into the snow and vanished.
“Now put your hands in the air and turn around. You and I have a date with a hot little lady.”
7:08 A.M.
A large gush of burning fuel had set the log lodge ablaze. Sara watched long flames rise up into the morning sky, whipped to and fro by the returning wind. She figured the old wooden structure would be completely engulfed by flames within fifteen minutes. Several of the town’s buildings smoldered or burned. The Sikorski/Stinger combo would finish the work begun by a mine accident some fifty years ago.
Far worse, the church itself was about to go up in flames. A chunk of engine had spun wildly into the air, arcing a good thirty yards before slamming into the church roof. Small flames glowed, seeking purchase through the slate shingles to the old wood beneath.
From her spot in the bell tower, Sara couldn’t get near the flames. Even if she could, she had nothing with which to put them out. The tower’s stone turret wouldn’t save them—when the fire caught full force, she and Tim would be cooked from below if the smoke didn’t kill them first.
“Tim, we have to move.”
“Fuck that,” Tim said. “The helicopter, the explosion—the noise will bring the monsters.”
“We run or we roast. Let’s go.”
Tim paused, but only for a second, then crutch-walked for the trapdoor. Sara opened it for him. Tim started his awkward climb down, then they heard death speak out loud.
“Saaaaaaraaaaa.” Magnus’s voice. From inside the church. “Sara, I’ve got someone here to see you.”
Blazing rage pulled Sara’s lip back into a snarl, even while an urge to run and hide made her stomach clench. Fear or no fear, there was only one way out, and that was over Magnus Paglione’s dead body.
“Stay up here,” she said to Tim. “I’ve got to take care of this.”
She descended the ladder.
7:09 A.M.
A gun at his back, Colding stood in the church’s center aisle amid the broken and moldy pews. The place already smelled of smoke. Small fires burned the rafters on his left, filling the church with a flickering light. Up above, a few sunbeams filtered through the stained glass of the Twelve Apostles. On his right, up in the choir loft, he caught a glimpse of someone deep in the shadows.
Sara.
Behind him, Magnus saw her, too.
“’Tis the east,” Magnus called up to the loft. “And fair Sara is the sun. I brought your boyfriend for a little visit.”
Magnus had a tight hold on the hood of Colding’s parka, keeping him at arm’s length. Magnus was too smart to jam a gun into Colding’s back, where a sudden move might point the barrel at empty space. Colding knew the MP5 would be low, on Magnus’s hip. If Colding spun and made a move, the MP5 would blow his ribs and stomach to pieces.
More movement from the loft, just a hint, and from a different place. “You think I give a fuck about that piece of shit?” The voice came from the shadows. “That bastard sent me to die.”
“Oh, come on,” Magnus said. “You know that was me.”
“Bullshit. I’ll shoot both of you right now. And this time, Magnus, I’ll finish the job.”
Colding looked toward the sound of her voice, but he couldn’t see her in the loft’s dark depths. Damn, but she was smart. Colding’s right hand made a fist, his index finger pointing out, his thumb up—the shape of a gun. He slowly moved his left hand and pointed at his chest. He had no idea if she’d understand, or even do it.
And if her aim was off at all …
CLAYTON RAISED HIS head.
“Oh … I need a vacation.”
The old town burned all around him, he had a broken left leg, the creatures were coming and some Canadian shit-eater had cut off his pinkie. He stayed low and still, trying to take it all in before he did anything.
Movement on his left, about twenty yards away, at the edge of town where the trail led into the woods. A flash of fleshy yellow.
Burning wreckage surrounded him, blurring the air with shimmering waves of heat. If he stayed still, it might hide him from the creatures for a few minutes. But if he didn’t move, sooner or later they’d get him.
Clayton slowly turned his head to the right. The lodge was on fire, the dry old wood glowing red from flames that shot thirty feet into the air. No shelter there.
But behind the lodge, just past the hazy flames, he glimpsed a small bit of a fa
miliar black-and-white pattern. Clayton grimaced, readied himself for the pain, then started crawling.
7:10 A.M.
The fire in the rafters spread slowly but steadily, filling the church with a spastic, flickering light. Shadows jumped, making the pews and the big crucifix vibrate with evil life.
Do it, Colding thought, as if she might somehow read his mind. Do it, shoot me.
Magnus stayed behind Colding, but kept calling up to the loft. “Sara, why don’t you send Feely down? I’ll trade you for Colding. I don’t need you. I just need Feely. You don’t know enough to be a danger to me.”
“Then why did you try to kill me?” Her voice came from yet another spot.
“I didn’t try to kill you. I tried to kill Feely and Rhumkorrf. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“So was my crew.”
“That’s why we gave you hazard pay,” Magnus said. “Use your head. Jian is dead. Rhumkorrf is dead. Now all I need is Tim and this is over. You and Colding can go on your way. If you make it off the island, more power to you. At least then you’d have a chance. What do you say to that?”
Silence.
“What good is Colding to me if he’s dead?”
“He’s not dead,” Magnus said. “He’s standing right—”
A gunshot roared out. Colding felt a sledgehammer slam into his chest. He instinctively jerked backward. His feet caught on a pew and he toppled into Magnus. Colding landed on his right side, then flopped facedown and didn’t move.
MAGNUS SLID HIS body half under a pew, hoping the .40-caliber bullets couldn’t punch through it. Another shot rang out—the bullet smacked into the frozen, rotted wood.
“What do you think of that, Magnus?” the loft shadows called out. “Now you ain’t got jack shit to trade, you sick fuck!”
He popped up from behind the pew and opened fire on the choir loft. The wood railing came apart in a shower of splinters. Sara popped up in yet another new spot—Magnus ducked back down just as she fired again.
SARA STAYED ON her belly, shooting between the spokes of the choir loft’s rail. The madly flickering firelight made it hard to target Magnus, who kept crawling around under the pews and popping up to spray the loft with bullets. Sara could barely breathe from the smoke. She had two shots left, maybe three—dammit, she’d lost count.
I shot him. He WANTED me to shoot him.
Colding had to be wearing a bulletproof vest; that was the only reason he would want her to do it. Shooting him had robbed Magnus of the human shield, and in a twisted way taken Colding out of danger. She silently prayed that she hadn’t somehow misunderstood his signals—that she hadn’t just killed the man she loved.
Sara pushed herself back from the loft’s edge so that she was out of Magnus’s line of sight. She rolled several times to her left. Had to keep moving. A burning feeling shot up her leg. She kicked, knocking away a smoldering piece of rafter. Flames crawled across the ceiling above her. Sara rolled a few more times, carrying her away from the hot spot. She lay flat and eased herself back to the loft’s edge.
7:11 A.M.
Colding coughed. A thin stream of spit and blood landed on his chin. It felt like someone had driven a baseball bat through his chest. He slid a hand under his bulletproof vest. It hurt, hurt like a bitch, but his fingers came away without blood. The blood in his mouth, it seemed, came from the lip he’d bitten through.
He looked under the pews, the only vantage he had from his prone position. He couldn’t see Magnus. Pieces of burning rafters dropped every few seconds, little meteors plunging down. Some of the pews danced with fire, some were just smoldering. Flames wiggled across the warped wooden floor. Acrid smoke expanded through the church, choking out oxygen and stinging his eyes.
Colding rose to his knees and peeked over the pew. With this much cover, Magnus could be hiding only a few feet away. Colding knew he had to make a run for the altar and the loft stairs, had to reach Sara, but Magnus could cut him down with ease.
Behind him, the tall, heavy, double doors swung open and smashed against the inside wall, flooding the burning church with morning light. A dozen yellow sail fins rose above the pews, spreading out, moving forward.
The pain in his chest forgotten, Colding stood, rounded the pew’s corner, and sprinted for the altar.
WHEN HE HEARD the big doors slam open, Magnus peeked out from behind the altar’s thick crucifix. Through the shimmering heat haze and the growing smoke cloud, he saw a dozen nightmares trot into the church—muscles thick like lions on steroids, massive heads with jaws wider and longer than a crocodile’s, strange yellow dorsal sail fins flipping up and down in twitching anticipation.
Movement on his left. Human movement. Colding, up and sprinting for the right edge of the altar. Drop him, remove a variable, move on to the rest. Magnus brought up the MP5.
I’VE GOT YOU now, fucker.
Sara had seen Magnus hide behind the thick crucifix, then watched and waited for her shot. In a brief moment of total awareness, the world slowed and she saw everything: the monsters spreading out through the church, Colding sprinting for the stairs, Magnus coming around the cross and raising the MP5.
She squeezed the trigger. Just before it clicked home, a burning chunk of rafter fell onto her leg, pulling her aim slightly to the right …
… THE .40-CALIBER BULLET tore a huge chunk out of the old crucifix, spraying splinters into Magnus’s cheek. He ducked back, his face consumed with pain. He popped around the other side and fired a wild burst, hoping to hit Colding, but the man disappeared up the stairwell. Magnus looked to his right, back out into the church. Maybe twenty of them. Some sprinted up the main aisle, some crawled over the moldy, smoldering pews—all wanted to get him. Magnus moved out from behind the cross and shuffle-stepped toward the stairs, opening up with the MP5. The one closest to him fell hard, blood spurting from a half-dozen fresh bullet holes, but there were so many of them …
SARA FINISHED SMACKING the flames on her pant leg, then looked over the edge of the choir loft for another shot. Her eyes stung from the smoke. She fought back a cough. Magnus was shuffling to his left, toward the stairs, his attention occupied by the wave of sail-finned land sharks sprinting for him. No cover for him this time. She raised the gun, a part of her brain telling her it felt funny even as she did.
The slide had locked back.
Empty.
She holstered the weapon and ran for the bell-tower ladder.
BREATH RAGGED FROM stress and exertion, Colding cleared the final stair step. The thicker smoke up on the choir loft made him cough violently. Through the black clouds, he saw Sara at the other end of the loft, her feet on the bottom rung of a metal ladder.
“Peej, come on! Up here!”
Colding ran to the ladder and started up, hoping against all hope that Sara knew what she was doing.
MAGNUS FLEW UP the stairs, firing blindly behind himself until the MP5 clicked on empty. As he ascended he tried to pop in a fresh magazine, but the narrow staircase made it hard to bring the gun around while taking the steps two at a time. The wooden stairs shook from something even larger than he was.
He had almost cleared the last step when that something hit him from behind. His face cracked into the choir loft’s stone floor. The MP5 skidded free. The fresh magazine flew out of his hand, rebounded off the wall and skittered over the loft’s edge to fall among the burning pews below.
A slashing pain seared up the back of his left leg.
Magnus rolled to his back, cocked his right leg and kicked with all his power. He felt his foot smash against solid muscle, against skin and bone. The creature roared with anger and pain. In a single motion, Magnus sat up and slid his feet beneath him, leaving him with knees bent, fingers on the floor, weight on his toes. The big animal recovered from the kick, reared back and charged up the final five stairs. Magnus shot forward, ducking under the jaws and driving his shoulder into the monster’s throat. The impact shuddered through him, far worse t
han any hit he’d suffered in the CFL, but enough to keep the creature’s body trapped in the narrow stairwell. Sliding off the impact, Magnus moved to the right and locked his thick arms around the ancestor’s barrel-like neck, left arm underneath, right arm over the top. Its big body thrashed against the stairwell walls, blocking the way for the others.
Magnus let loose his own savage, primitive roar and squeezed with all his power. The muscular monster thrashed its head back and forth, trying to bring its jaws around for the killing bite, but the stairwell kept it from turning. Magnus timed a thrash left, a pause, a thrash right, a pause, then slid his left hand farther up and jabbed his thumb into the monster’s right eye. He pushed the thumb in deep and hooked it, using the inside of the orbital bone like a handle. The giant head pulled away, jaws snapping clack-clack-clack, trying to back up, but its pack mates blocked the stairs behind it.
In the split second it took the creature to realize it couldn’t retreat, Magnus’s right hand drew his knife. Left thumb still deep in the animal’s eye socket, Magnus drove the Ka-Bar blade into its throat.
“You killed Danté!” Spit flying from his mouth, his face a warped mask of psychotic fury, Magnus twisted the knife, pulled it out, struck again.
Blood gushed across the floor, across his legs, so thick he heard it splatter against stone even over the crackling flames and the roars of this bastard’s brethren.
“You all killed Danté! You hear that, Colding? I’ll kill this thing and then I’m coming for you! You murdered my brother!”
The ancestor weakened, and then it shot backward down the stairs. But the things couldn’t move that way. Magnus had a moment of confusion before he realized the others had yanked it away. Some of them started biting it, tearing off great chunks as blood and bits of flesh splashed the stairs, the walls and the ceiling. Only some of them, though, because another scrambled past both the eaters and the eaten.