THE SENTINEL (A Jane Harper Horror Novel)

by Robinson, Jeremy; Bishop, Jeremy

  I take a protein bar from my pack, split it into three pieces and give one to Alvin, one to Willem and one to Jakob. They quickly devour the quasi-chocolate flavored food.

  “There’s more,” I say, “but we need to ration it.”

  Jakob gives a nod and motions me forward. The group is ready to go and it seems I’m taking the lead again.

  As I step forward, Jakob says to Willem, “You see? The raven leads our family once again. There is still hope.”

  The cold breeze penetrating the back of my cloak disagrees with him.

  16

  I can’t tell if the weather is rooting for us or messing with us. We make it over the hills, struggling every step of the way, but as soon as we reach the island’s core, the clouds drop trou and shit an endless stream of white.

  I lead the group in a single file line, heading for the center of the open area where I saw—where I hope I saw—some kind of shelter. If it wasn’t, I’m not only going to look like a total dufus, but we’ll probably die. The wind, even buffered by the tall stone hills, is brutal enough, but the storm will likely drop the temperature, too.

  At first there was a good amount of complaining, mostly from Jenny, but Peach made no effort to hide her discontent, sighing loudly whenever she had to exert herself. Jakob made a noble effort to hide his discomfort, but some of the journey took them over rugged terrain and he’d let out a grunt when Willem stumbled and Jakob suddenly had to support his full weight. But when the snow began and the wind dropped the temperature, no one made a sound. The suddenness of the shift in mood reminded me of how prey animals, once caught, lie back quietly, resigned to their fate. Is that what I’m seeing? Are we resigned to a frigid death?

  Fuck that, I think. If the Colonel made it to the pearly gates and found out I died sitting on my ass, he’d block my entrance and kick me into the fiery pit himself. As nice as a fiery pit sounds right now, I’m not about to disappoint my father, at least not any more than I have already.

  So I push through the storm. It’s possible we’ve already passed the structure. Visibility is maybe ten feet, when I’m not looking down. The rocky valley floor is covered in boulders and loose sheets of shale. When I can no longer see the ground, I turn my eyes up and see nothing but white.

  We’re lost. Out in the open. I’ve killed us.

  Hoping Willem will have an idea, I stop and wait for him to catch up with Jakob. Father and son look miserable, but when they see me standing still and meet my eyes, their determination is intense. Jakob stares in my eyes, reading the defeat there, but then cranes his head to the side and looks past me.

  “What distresses you, Raven?” he asks, and before I can explain, he adds, “You have provided shelter as promised.”

  What? Do people see mirages in snow? I’ve never heard of such a thing, but he could be suffering from hypothermia. Maybe he’s hallucinating?

  Willem and Jakob take a few steps beyond me and stop. Jakob reaches out a hand and wipes it back and forth. It’s like he’s some kind of magician because a trail of dark gray follows his hand. Then I can see it, stretching out fifteen feet in either direction. A five foot tall wall covered in snow. I wouldn’t have known it was there until I face-planted against it.

  Gripped by relief, I turn around to the others and shout, “We made it! It’s here!” I run around the perimeter and find the entrance on the other side. The floor is even and free of snow near the back wall. I huddle up in the corner and the wind disappears. The relief is instant. This might just work.

  Ten minutes later, we’re all piled inside the life raft, positioned in the structure’s corner. It’s cramped, and a little ripe, but with six people inside, it’s damn near warm. We’re going to make it, I think. And then we’re going to slowly starve, says the little red devil on my shoulder. Maybe we’ll go cannibal like that rugby team that crashed in the Andes, and then the last survivor will starve alone, or be eaten by the bear. Or maybe the bear will just tear through the tent tonight and eat us. Or—

  A staccato sound rips through the tent, sending a panicked pain through my body. I sit up and look for some sign of the bear outside the tent. I’ve got the gun in my hand, ready to fire. Just when I notice no one else has reacted to the noise, it repeats. I jump again, but this time I’m able to identify its source. Jenny is sleeping. And snoring. Peach is sleeping, too, as are Alvin and Jakob. Willem, on the other hand, is leaning on his elbow and looking at me—with my gun at the ready—with a smirk.

  He doesn’t have to say anything. I can almost hear the string of one-liners he’s got on the tip of his tongue. “Shut-up,” I say.

  Most people would still take a jab or two, but he just says, “Thanks.”

  “I’ve only prolonged the inevitable.”

  “It’s a start,” he says.

  I don’t want to think about our situation, and I don’t want to be thanked, so I say, “So Professor, what is this place?”

  “It’s Viking,” he says. “The construction is similar to ruins found in the southern settlements, but the reason for it being here is a mystery.” He shrugs. “I have no idea.”

  I sigh. “Good to know history is as interesting as I remember it from school.”

  He grins. “You just didn’t have the right teacher.” He’s suddenly got that look in his eyes. You know the look—one part overconfidence, one part lost in the imaginary act of screwing. It’s the same look every guy gets when it occurs to them that you’re their type. It’s not a universally unwanted look unless it comes from someone like Chase, who was giving me a similar stare just the other night. And if the circumstances were different, Willem’s attention would be welcome. But out here, surrounded by death and cold and four sleeping, stinky companions? Hell no. I’m not some Viking wench you can seduce with a bed of hay and tankard of ale. Well, okay, that might actually work. But not now.

  I’m so lost in my revolt that I don’t notice him lie back and close his eyes. How long did I look at him with one Spock-like eyebrow raised? Did I offend him? Do I care?

  I force these obnoxious thoughts out of my mind, lie down and put my mind somewhere else. The problem is, I end up somewhere else I don’t want to be.

  My father’s shouting like a drill-sergeant. It doesn’t faze me. It’s really just a slight reaction for him. The neighbors can’t hear him, yet. He hasn’t threatened to get a gun. He hasn’t punched anything. But he’s pissed. Like I knew he would be. Making my father angry has become something of an art form over the years. After years of pushing me to be something resembling the son he never had, I’ve learned to push back. And today, I pushed hard. I’m moving out, heading for Washington D.C. and joining Greenpeace.

  His reaction is predictable. He rants about earthy-crunchy pansies, flower wearing hippies and tree hugging homos. A veritable conveyor belt of foul-mouthed stereotypes, that man.

  I fire back, thinking my spunk and passion will impress him. It has worked in the past. Hearing a bit of himself in me always seems to make him proud, even if we’re arguing about school, or boys or pot. He likes that I stand up for myself, and I think many of our arguments are his way of training me for life challenges.

  But this time, he wilts. He sits on the old plaid ottoman and leans his forehead down on his hands. I see his bald head turning red. I brace myself for the verbal assault. But it never comes. “Go,” he says, nearly a whisper.

  The whisper catches me off guard. I thought I had him cornered and out of ammunition and he’s somehow pulled a knife and stabbed it into my chest. Just by whispering! My reaction to his whisper makes me angry and I shout, “Fine!” before storming out of the house with my few possessions.

  I don’t see my father for a year, and then only for holidays after that. He’s always distant, not quite the man who raised me. The last time I saw him was in the hospital…

  Sleep spares me from the memory, but my dreams are horrible images and screaming.

  I wake with a start, reaching for my gun. Willem is awake, too,
and this time he shares my concern.

  I assess the situation.

  The tent no longer shakes. The storm subsided overnight.

  The yellow fabric glows with light. The sun blazes over the hills. While the sun never sets, it does change positions in the sky, sometimes dipping and creating long shadows, but it always comes back up. Not that I’m complaining. Perpetual daylight is far better than the opposite.

  I do a quick headcount. Everyone is here. Alive.

  All good.

  But Willem is freaked. He heard whatever woke me up and sent me scrambling for my weapon. The shrill scream from my dream repeats. The voice is high-pitched, but the scratchy vibrato mixed in sounds masculine. It’s a man. And he’s coming this way. Or, more likely, is being pursued by a big-ass polar bear.

  Willem must have come to a similar conclusion, because he looks from my eyes, to the gun in my hands, to the exit, and gives a nod. He braces himself, ready to spring to action.

  The Colonel would’ve like Willem.

  I unzip the hatch and suck in a deep breath. I count to three in my head and then lunge out of the tent and raise my gun. I can’t see a thing. The bright sun shining off the endless sheet of white snow blinds me and I don’t see him until he’s nearly inside the Viking shelter. But when I do, I freeze.

  It’s Chase.

  He looks wild. Insane.

  He’s covered in a dark red splash similar to the paint I smashed against the Bliksem’s hull. But the liquid covering his face and torso is a few shades darker. This is the real stuff. Chase is covered in blood. And given the amount, I think it’s likely someone else is dead.

  And that’s when I see the bloody knife in his hand.

  17

  Chase’s eyes flash wide when he sees me. But I’m not really sure he recognizes me because he screams again and tries to stop. His feet slip on the fresh snow and it sends him hard to his ass. His glasses are cracked on one side, and the other side is covered in flecks of blood, so it’s possible he can’t see me clearly, but the horror on his face says he’s somewhere else. Not thinking. Like someone who has just witnessed a murder.

  Or committed a murder.

  “Chase,” I say in a firm, yet calm voice, “It’s Jane.”

  I lower the gun so he can see my face behind it, but I don’t divert my aim too far. It makes little difference. He scrambles away from me, breathing so heavy that spit is flying from his mouth. Or is it rabid froth? Has he gone mad?

  “Chase,” I shout at him, lowering the weapon completely.

  “Oh my god,” Jenny says, as she steps out of the tent. “Is he okay?”

  I ignore her. Chase is almost back to his feet and it’s clear he’s going to run. And as much as I don’t like him—never mind that he’s covered in someone else’s blood—I can’t let him die.

  Blood. The sight of it all over him, not knowing where it came from, keeps me from tackling him. I look to Willem and motion toward Chase with my head. He understands the request and shakes his head, no. What a couple of heroes we are; afraid to save someone covered in blood. Of course we’re covered in open scrapes and getting another person’s blood in a wound could be a fatal mistake. Although, we’ll all likely die out here anyway, so what the hell does it matter?

  I take a step forward, resolved to subdue Chase, but before I get very far, a flash of red zips past me. It’s Peach. Just as Chase gets his feet under him, she tackles him by the knees and brings him down like some kind of greased pig at a rodeo. Only it’s not grease making him slick. It’s blood.

  Jenny rushes to help Peach, catches the struggling Chase by the shoulders and pins him down with ease. He’s only half her size, so there’s no chance he can get up. But he continues to struggle, manic and wild. And the look in his eyes is all fear. He’s not looking for a fight.

  The knife says differently. Then again, he hasn’t stabbed anyone yet.

  Yet.

  And I’m pretty sure neither Jenny, nor Peach, has seen the shiny silver version of the black knife I took from Chase’s survival pack. I step on his wrist, pinning his hand, and the knife, to the ground.

  “Hey!” Peach protests. “What the fuck!”

  I apply a little pressure and Chase’s hand opens. I bend down and pluck the knife from his fingers, and then hold it up for Peach to see. She hadn’t seen it. I can see the shock in her eyes. But she tries to hide it. She’s holding a grudge, despite the fact that I saved her life. I’m considering calling her Sour Grape from now on, but that will probably just make things worse.

  The knife folds down easily. I’m about to slip it in my pants pocket with the other, think better of it, and hand it to Willem, who’s standing beside me now. I crouch down and snap my fingers in Chase’s face. “Chase,” I say. “Snap out of it.”

  I’m not being gentle, I know. But anything short of shooting him is probably a mercy compared to the welcome I’d get if our roles were reversed.

  His breathing slows.

  Jakob and Alvin join the party, looking ready to beat Chase like a baby seal.

  But he’s coming around, looking at the faces around him. Then he finally looks me in the eyes.

  “You’re safe, now,” I say. I don’t really know that he wasn’t safe before, but the blood seems to be a good indicator that he wasn’t. That and the all-consuming fear radiating from him like heat off a parking lot in summer.

  His body goes slack. Peach lets go of his legs and kneels next to him. Jenny loosens her grip, but never lets go of him.

  “Harper?” he finally says.

  “In the flesh,” I say, and then inwardly cringe. Not the best choice of words to use with a guy who has no doubt imagined me in the flesh more than once. I’ve also heard some Bible-belt conservatives use the term to describe themselves when their ire is raised, like the flesh itself is evil and corrupting instead of the brain, or soul, controlling it. But I don’t think Chase is a Bible-thumper, so I don’t think that’s really an issue.

  “Where am I?” he asks, looking at Willem, and then Jakob.

  “We’re at the center of the island,” I say. “You’re safe here.”

  “Did you just say island?” Peach asks, her voice suddenly frantic.

  “Not now, Peach,” I growl.

  To her credit, Jenny takes in the information silently, looks at the sky and then lowers her head with a sigh. Doom absorbed, accepted and filed. Peach, on the other hand, is about to explode. She opens her mouth and I shout at her, “Not fucking now, Peach!”

  Her mouth clamps shut.

  I compose myself by taking a slow breath and twisting my neck to the side, popping a few vertebrae. Feeling a little better, I motion to the three men Chase doesn’t know. “This is Jakob Olavson, captain of the Bliksem, his son Willem, and this is Alvin. He likes knives. You two will get along.”

  Chase’s fear vanishes and is replaced by anger. “What are you doing with them? They destroyed the Sentinel. Killed most of the crew.”

  Jakob shakes his head sadly in a way that says, “Poor stupid boy.”

  “Chase,” I say, realizing that he might actually be unaware of Captain McAfee’s involvement in the sinking of both vessels. “These three are the only surviving members of the Bliksem’s crew.” This news stuns him a little, but he’s still tense. “They had nothing to do with the explosion.”

  “Then who do you thi—”

  “It was McAfee,” Jenny says.

  Chase looks up at her, crossing his eyes as he tries to focus on her upside down. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” I say.

  He looks to Peach, clearly trusting her over Jenny and me, who’d no doubt be walking the plank right about now if the Sentinel hadn’t sunk.

  Peach sighs and looks at the snow covered ground. “We have it on video. He knew about the explosion.”

  “Remember Mr. Jackson’s countdown?” Jenny adds. “Thirty seconds. It wasn’t an impact he was counting down. It was the explosion.”

  “But…h
e wouldn’t. He—” His eyes lower and flick back and forth like he’s scanning some invisible document. A moment later his forehead pinches tight and he comes to some sort of conclusion. “I was afraid of this,” he admits. “Not something this drastic, mind you, but he hasn’t listened to my advice as much as he used to. Not since Mr. Jackson came aboard.”

  “Look, Chase,” I say, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here and assume you knew nothing about the explosion. If you behave, you can join our little band of castaways and make us a true Gilligan seven.” I get serious and lean in closer, “But if I think for a second that you had anything to do with the murders of more than thirty people, I’m going to leave you behind buck ass naked. Understood?”

  His face pales beneath the blood stains.

  “Good,” I say. “Now tell me what happened.”

  “Huh?” He’s lost in thought, probably wondering how long he’d last in the Arctic with no clothes on.

  “You’re covered in blood, Chase. What happened?”

  He looks down at himself and it’s like he’s seeing the blood for the first time. He frantically wipes it off his hands and asks, “Is it on my face? Is it on my face?”

  In fact, it is on his face, but wiping it with his blood-covered gloves is just making it worse, so I lie. “No. You’re face is clean.” I take his glasses off his face, rub snow over them and put them back on. “Good as new, if you ignore the cracks.” I stand and cross my arms. “Now. Talk.”

  He looks up at me, some of the fear coming back, but he manages to speak with just a hint of a warble. “After abandoning ship—”

  I nearly add an, “And us,” but hold my tongue in a way the Colonel never could manage.

  “—we made for the peninsula. But we misjudged the distance and ended up wrecking on the rocks north of here. The Zodiacs are wrecked. There were five of us when we left, Captain McAfee, me, Nick Eagon and Markus Jenkins in one boat. Mr. Jackson rendezvoused with us shortly after.” Chase’s face screws up with anger. “I should have realized then, damnit!”