ALSO BY JEREMY BISHOP:
JANE HARPER HORROR NOVELS
The Sentinel
The Raven
Torment: A Novel of Dark Horror
WRITING AS JEREMY ROBINSON:
THE JACK SIGLER THRILLERS
Prime
Pulse
Instinct
Threshold
Ragnarok
Omega
THE CHESS TEAM NOVELLAS
Callsign: Queen—Book 1
Callsign: Rook—Book 1
Callsign: Bishop—Book 1
Callsign: Knight—Book 1
Callsign: Deep Blue—Book 1
Callsign: King—Book 1
Callsign: King—Book 2—Underworld
Callsign: King—Book 3—Blackout
THE ANTARKTOS SAGA
The Last Hunter: Descent
The Last Hunter: Pursuit
The Last Hunter: Ascent
The Last Hunter: Lament
The Last Hunter: Onslaught
MILOS VESELY NOVELLAS
I Am Cowboy
STAND-ALONE NOVELS
Kronos
Antarkos Rising
Beneath
Raising the Past
The Didymus Contingency
SecondWorld
Project Nemesis
Island 731
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Jeremy Bishop
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781611099157
ISBN-10: 1611099153
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012951475
DEDICATION
For Hilaree Robinson, my wife, who taught me how to write like a sarcastic woman.
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
The fist headed toward the side of my head is roughly the size of a sledgehammer. I doubt it carries the same weight or density, but the arm propelling it forward resembles José Canseco’s, after he shrunk his manhood with steroids. The point is, if it hits me dead-on, I’m out for the count. Maybe worse. Even a glancing blow is going to hurt.
Lucky for me, I’m quick. And a small target. I lean back on my bar stool, locking my feet under my surly neighbor’s chair to keep myself from spilling ass over teakettle.
The missed swing whirls the drunken fisherman around on his stool. When his body stops spinning, he cants away from me and falls. The man lands on an empty stool, taking the blow to his stomach with an “Oof!” Then he slips off the side of the three-foot-tall stool and lands on his back, driving out whatever air is left in his lungs.
I’ve somehow managed to pummel the man without lifting a finger. I sit up, polish off my third twenty-ounce beer, and guffaw along with the bar’s four other regulars. I know it’s not nice, but the big Greenlander had it coming. Granted, he only asked me to dance, but (A) there’s no music playing, (B) his breath smells like boiled mutton left in the sun too long, and (C)—well, there isn’t a (C).
And sure, I could have just said, “No, thank you.” I didn’t need to mention his mother.
Or sister.
Of course, it wasn’t until I brought the goat into my retelling of his unfortunate birth that he drove his fist into the bar and demanded an apology. At which point I took a mouthful of lager and squeezed it out between my teeth, arcing the amber liquid onto the man’s gray sweater, which I quickly learned had been hand-knit by his recently deceased grandmother. I’d managed to insult three generations of his family inside of thirty seconds, and here in the dock district of Nuuk, Greenland, that’s cause for a fight. Even against a girl.
Family is kind of a big deal here, and familial honor, loyalty, respect, and fealty stretch back generations to the Vikings who first settled this frigid nation and told the world’s most monumental lie by naming it Greenland. So I don’t think he’s wrong for taking a swing. I had it coming. But I’ve got my own set of excuses for instigating the scuffle, even if it’s somewhat of a flaccid affair.
To start, I was raised by a man I call “the Colonel.” My father. A hard-ass if there ever was one. He taught me how to fight. How to survive. And how to run off at the mouth. Some people get freckles, or red hair, or apelike brow lines. I inherited a proclivity for four-letter words and a knack for sarcasm that makes them sting. I’m an army brat. Blame the military. Hell, blame the president. That seems to work for most things.
But that’s not really the reason for this row, or the handful of others I’ve sparked over the past three months. My court-appointed psychologist calls it survivor’s guilt with a dash of psychosis brought on by hypothermia and starvation. I’d like to say that’s what I asked her to say, but she really believes it. After all, who would believe a story like mine without seeing it firsthand? I joined the radical crew of the Sentinel, an antiwhaling vessel, as an undercover investigator for the WSPA (World Society for the Protection of Animals). During a confrontation with the whaling ship Bliksem, the Sentinel’s captain used C4 explosives and sank both ships. The survivors wound up on an island where an ancient clan of Vikings had been buried. Not only were these Vikings the ancestors of the Bliksem’s captain, Jakob Olavson, and his son, Willem, but they were also turning into zombies. Fucking zombies. But these weren’t your run-of-the-mill shambling Romero-style undead. They were Draugar—the ancient inspiration for modern zombie and vampire stories. To make things worse, they were controlled by some kind of parasite that slowed decay, imprisoned their minds, and controlled their bodies.
Most of us died on that island. Only three of us survived. And we’ve been telling the same story since, despite being labeled insane, at least temporarily, which was our lawyer’s plea. If there weren’t bodies strewn all over the island, the judge might’ve agreed. But the “ongoing investigation” has been ongoing for two and a half months, which means they found something.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a GPS tracker strapped to my left leg and my name on every no-fly and no-sail list. I’d love to leave, but I’m not going anywhere. So, like a little kid coming down from a sugar high, I’ve decided to make myself a nuisance instead. It’s not really going to help my case, but it makes me feel better, and I’ve yet to meet a beefy Greenlander willing to tell the police a five-foot-five-inch woman with apple cheeks
and black pixie-cut hair put him in a world of hurt. His ancestors would turn over in their graves, which I now know is actually possible.
I’d like to say I’m making the Colonel proud by beating up men twice my size, but I’m also wasting my life. “Make the best of every situation,” he’d say. It sounds Zen, but for him that meant something closer to, “If you run out of ammo, stab your enemy in the eye with a ballpoint pen.” Or a chopstick. Your finger. Really, whatever is handy. But however you look at my past three months, I’m not making the best of anything.
I don’t have a job. I’m living off the meager inheritance I discovered I had when they released me from the hospital (the Colonel died just before I set sail on the Sentinel). And I’ve distanced myself from the only two people who don’t think I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Seeing them doesn’t just remind me that I survived a nightmare. It reminds me that I don’t think it’s over. Willem, Jakob, and I weren’t the only survivors. The parasites, which can inhabit any warm-blooded mammal, escaped the island, too, carried to safety inside a herd of walruses and a pod of orcas.
So I’m alone, afraid, and, most of the time, fairly pissed off that no one will listen to me. Worse, I understand why. I do sound nuts. And I won’t be surprised if I get locked up when all is said and done. Hell, if things play out the way I fear, a cell behind the walls of a mental institution might be one of the safest places to be.
The Greenlander groans as he sucks in a fresh breath. His face burns red from lack of air, but probably just as much from embarrassment. “Ilisiippoq!” he hisses.
I’ve acquainted myself with as many colorful Greenlandic phrases as I can retain, but this word sounds unfamiliar. “What did you call me?” I get down off my stool and find myself wobbly on my feet. I hold on to the stool with one hand and try to steady myself.
“Witch!” he says, pushing himself up.
“Stay down,” I warn.
He’s not going to listen, which isn’t surprising, since he’s drunk. Of course, he’s had the same amount to drink as me, and I’m still on my feet. I’m a regular—what’s her name? from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Margo? Maggie? Marion? That’s it—Marion. Man, I’m drunk.
The giant gets to his feet and nearly careens over again. He finds his balance and raises his clenched hands as if he’s about to engage in some old-timey fisticuffs. I brace myself and get ready to kick him in the nuts.
But then the TV distracts me. Something about whales.
I thrust my open palms at the man, but not as the prelude to an attack. “Wait, wait!” I say.
My moment of supplication confuses the man. He lowers his fists for a moment and glances at the TV. He’s heard the whale footage and grows interested, too. “I can wait,” he says.
“Turn it up,” I say to the barman, who’s been watching the altercation with a smile on his face. Most of my scuffles have taken place in and outside this bar. I think he likes to watch. Maybe he’s simply admiring the action, as his Viking ancestors might have. Maybe he’s getting his rocks off. I don’t care. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t call the police.
I turn my attention to the TV. I can’t understand most of what’s being said, but the bartender keeps the closed captions on and set to English at my request. I read the text on the screen, ignoring the stock footage and talking head.
Whales have not been seen in the waters off Greenland in the past two months, and the small whaling industry has ground to a halt. Scientists speculate that environmental factors may be the cause, but local fishermen disagree.
The image changes to a Greenlander in a bright yellow slicker and winter cap. But it’s the image in the background that catches my attention. Two figures wheel supplies down a dock toward a waiting stark black ship. They’re distant, so I can’t really make out details, but I recognize the pair. Willem and Jakob Olavson.
What are you two up to? I wonder. I notice a label at the top of the screen that reads “Recorded Earlier,” so it’s not a live feed. Not that that changes anything. None of us are supposed to get near a plane or a boat.
Orange closed-captioned text covers the pair, translating what the fisherman is saying.
The whales are gone, but the fishing is better than ever. The waters are thick with krill. There is no good reason for the whales to have moved on so early in the season. It makes no sense.
“The hell it doesn’t,” I say to the TV.
When the report ends, I turn to leave and find the way blocked by the big man I’d quickly forgotten. He’s raised his fists again.
“While I’d love to teach you a lesson about the fine art of hand-to-hand combat, I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time,” he says in passable English, which isn’t surprising, since most Greenlanders speak my native tongue. Then he goes and tacks on a “bitch.”
I sigh. “This could have ended differently.”
I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol thinning his blood or if he’s just slow, but the man looks shocked when I quickly reach into my pocket and step up close to him. A moment later, his wide eyes scrunch tight as a sharp crack fills the air. His body convulses for just a moment before he falls to the floor as though freed from a noose, crumpling in on himself.
When he falls, the bar’s open door is revealed. Two people stand in the doorway, looking at me with disapproving eyes: Jakob Olavson and, half hidden behind him, son Willem.
Jakob, whose gray beard and hair frame his aging, weatherworn face, motions to me. “Raven. Come with me.”
I hesitate.
“Now,” he says. Even on land he’s still a ship’s captain.
Willem steps into the room. His golden locks and neatly trimmed beard, not to mention his wide shoulders and tall stature, make him look like the honest-to-goodness living embodiment of the Norse god Thor. As much as I’d like to channel my inner Destiny’s Child and break into a musical rendition of “Independent Women,” I still care what Willem thinks of me. Under his gaze, I see my current disheveled state for what it is and feel a little ashamed.
Jakob waves his hand toward my toppled adversary. “Pick up Malik.”
“You know this guy?” I ask as I step around him.
Willem offers me a consoling but halfhearted grin. “He’s our cook.”
“And soon to be yours,” Jakob says. “The ocean beckons us once more.” He fixes his eyes on me. “All of us.”
2
Despite being dubious about Willem and Jakob’s presence and the demand that I join them, I can’t deny I’m happy to see them. Knowing that these two men, without a doubt, don’t think I’m insane is a relief. And when Willem opens the rear driver’s-side door to an aged Chevy Tahoe, smiles, and says, “It’s good to see you, Jane,” I return the smile, wink, and say, “Right back at you, big guy.”
The sentiment is true—I am glad to see him—but the message is filtered through sixty ounces of beer. My slurred, silly words shrink the smile on his face.
He nods to the open door. “We have something to show you.”
I climb into the vehicle, which smells of oil and fish, a concoction so vile it almost brings some of those sixty ounces back to the surface. I keep the fluid down, but my face must reflect my discomfort.
Willem keeps the door open and asks, “Can I close this? Or do you need to puke?”
I groan and lean my head back, breathing through my mouth rather than my nose. It’s not quite a “no,” but he closes the door. As my stomach churns, I roll down the window. When Willem casts a nervous glance in my direction, I say, “Just in case.” When he doesn’t budge, I add, “What? It’s not like I could make this dead fish on wheels smell any worse.”
His smile returns before he climbs into the driver’s seat. I turn my head to the right and find Malik’s unconscious face lolling toward me. I shout in surprise, pushing the big man away. If Jakob hadn’t quickly closed the door, Malik would have been flung outside. Instead, his head thunks hard against the window.
Willem looks back
at me. “He’s a nice guy. A rough sort, but kind.”
“And loyal,” Jakob says when he slides into the front passenger’s seat. “He’s a lot like you, Raven.”
“You think I’ve been loyal?” I ask, knowing I’ve been anything but. I’ve basically abandoned them. I let out a drunken “Pfft.”
Jakob turns around in his seat as Willem steers the car onto the road. “You could have changed your story at any time. You could have fled to the American embassy. You have friends in the antiwhaling community.”
“Not anymore,” I say with a wave of my hand.
“Had you changed your story, I’m sure one of your colleagues would have ferried you back to the United States.”
I say nothing. He’s right. I could have left if I really wanted to. I’ve got money. And with the right cover story, a number of people, including military types who owe my father, would have helped me back to the States. Even if that weren’t true, I’m resourceful. Leaving Greenland would have been fairly easy. But I can’t say that. Can’t admit it. It would mean revealing that I care.
And that scares me. If the world goes to hell, or, more likely, we go to jail for the massacre on that hellish island, it will be easier to endure if I’m not also close to Willem and Jakob. Not because I’ll feel responsible for their fates, but because the overprotective Norsemen will feel responsible for mine. And I don’t want that to happen. Of course, the fact that they’re here now, after months of me dodging them, means it’s a futile effort. So I resign myself to whatever it is they’ve got planned and turn my attention to the view.
Nuuk’s streets are lined with simple but colorful homes painted red, green, blue, and yellow, as if God ate too many Skittles and puked them up on the city. There are some industrial-looking apartment buildings, and the downtown area has some taller modern structures, but nothing over twelve stories. All of it is absolutely dwarfed by the tall, stony mountains farther inland. It’s the largest city in Greenland, but in a country with a total population of fifty-eight thousand, Nuuk is closer to an average-size seaside New England town than a booming metropolis. It’s quaint. And the people are kind. But it’s cold. It’s October, and the days are getting short. And dark. In two months we’ll have just four hours of daylight per day.
The Raven (A Jane Harper Horror Novel) Page 1