by Ancestor
Gunther sat up quickly, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he saw Clayton, he smiled, a smile that quickly turned into a yawn.
“Shit, Clayton, you scared me. I thought you were Magnus.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s up in da lounge getting hammered with Andy. Hey, I finished Hot Midnight. Best of all da three books.” Gunther smiled. “You finished it already?”
“Yah. I liked it. Your main character chick reminded me of Liz Taylor. Liz was a hot one, let me tell you. Liked da backdoor action.”
Gunther laughed and shook his head. “Whatever, Clayton. But thanks for reading my book.”
“No problem. You’ll have da common decency, of course, to not mention to anyone I’m reading a vampire romance novel?”
“Of course.”
“You got talent,” Clayton said. “More than those fuck-stains you call your friends.” He lifted his head to the ceiling, indicating the lounge.
Gunther rubbed his eyes. “Those aren’t my friends, Clayton. I served with them, but this is just a job. Man, I’m beat. Been doing sixteen hours a day.”
“What, down here?”
“Magnus has me and Colding taking ten-hour shifts up on the fire watchtower, eyeballing for anyone flying in. Andy only has to do four hours at a time, the damn brownnoser.”
“Is that right. So, Colding’s up in da tower right now?”
Gunther nodded. “Yeah, probably freezing his ass off. Nothing quite like being thirty feet off the ground in a tin shack in the dead of winter.”
“Why is Magnus making you guys do that?”
Gunther shrugged. “He thinks Danté might arrive at any second, wants to make sure we talk him in.” Another huge yawn opened Gunther’s mouth.
“Jeez, author-man. Go grab some coffee from da kitchen. Magnus will never know you’re gone. I’ll keep an eye on da screens for you, eh?”
“Yeah, coffee would be great. You sure you know how to work this stuff?”
“Who da hell do you think used it before you all got here?”
Gunther smiled, stretched, then stood and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Clayton sat at the desk and moved the mouse. On the screen, the spinning Genada logo disappeared, replaced by the desktop’s blue background and a log-in window. Clayton typed in his user name and password.
The computer let out a sudden beep. The words INVALID PASSWORD flashed on the screen. He closed the window and accessed the administration program. Clayton loved Black Manitou, but never for a moment forgot that if something went wrong his son was his only reliable connection to the outside world. Because of that, Clayton made sure he fully understood the secure terminal and the jammer controls—everything that had anything to do with communications on the island.
“I’m not as old and dumb as I look, you big bald fuck.”
Clayton had long ago used the admin program to make himself a superuser, able to override any password protection. He logged in with the password 0-0-0-1, his fancy password, and the system came to life. He kept an eye on the security screens: Gunther was walking to the kitchen, Andy and Magnus were still hard at whisky-fueled chess.
Now or never. He clicked the icon marked Houghton and waited.
“Come on,” Clayton whispered. “Be home, son, please be home.”
After an agonizing ten seconds that seemed a silent eternity, the screen flashed once, then showed Gary’s face.
“Dad? What’s up?”
“I need you here right away.”
“The weather’s bad, Pops. I don’t dare take the boat out now.”
“Magnus blew up da plane. He’s killing people.”
Gary blinked a few times. “This better not be another one of your tall tales, Dad.”
Clayton shook his head. “Most of da crew is dead. Sara and Tim made it out. He finds them, they’re dead, too.”
Gary’s eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles twitched.
“Tell me what to do, Dad.”
Clayton felt a sudden swell of pride. Gary didn’t look like a little boy anymore, or like a stoner—Clayton’s son suddenly looked like a man.
“I hid them in da church,” Clayton said. “Come in quiet with no lights, get them, take them back to da mainland.”
“Will you be with them? I gotta get you out of there.”
“Never mind about me, eh? I’ve got to watch out for some other people. Get Sara and Tim off da island, and I’m not going to listen to another word about it, you understand?”
Gary nodded. “Should I call the cops?”
Clayton scratched his beard. “Not yet. Do it when you get them two back. If da local cops show up, even if da fuckin’ army shows up, Magnus could do anything.”
Gary took a deep breath, then let it out slow. “Okay, here’s the deal. I can’t come tonight; that’s just plain suicide. Storms are tearing the lake up. We’re talking ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ weather out there. It’s supposed to die down a little tomorrow, not much, but I’ll risk it. I’ll time it to arrive just after dark. Can you wait that long?”
Gary knew boating, knew the weather. There was a limit to how much risk Clayton expected out of his son. “Yeah, that’ll have to do. Be careful. Magnus has da jammer on full-time, so you won’t be able to radio in, and I won’t be able to warn you if someone is waiting for you. It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? You really think so?”
“I think you’re a smart-ass.”
“Your face is a smart-ass.”
The kid was making jokes, jokes for Clayton’s sake. Gary was the one acting like a parent, trying to ease a child’s fear.
“It’s okay, Gary. I’ve been through worse. When you get to da church, give two flashes with a flashlight. I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Clayton broke the connection and logged out. Seconds later he was mopping away. He had the floor half done by the time Gunther walked back into the room, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.
DECEMBER 3, 6:05 A.M.
A SHADOWY FIGURE slipped out of the shed behind Sven Ballantine’s barn. The shed’s heat had saved his life, but he couldn’t stay there forever. He walked toward the house, limping, every step painful from the burns, the bruises and the frostbite.
He hadn’t eaten in days. His wounds needed proper care. They’d be infected soon, if they weren’t already.
And those … things. He’d seen them bring down a cow, tear it to pieces.
Besides, surely Magnus didn’t want him dead. That made no sense, so it simply could not be true. He had to get back to the mansion, where they had all those guns.
He passed the front of the barn. It gaped open. He saw no movement. Carefully, quietly, he looked inside. Filled with snowdrifts, but other than that, nothing.
Well, almost nothing. No cows, no people, nothing but scattered hay, broken stalls … and piles of feces everywhere he looked. He picked up one of the frozen piles and examined the stool.
What he saw almost made him cry.
He left the barn and limped toward the house, looking everywhere for any sign of movement.
DECEMBER 3, 6:34 A.M.
“REMEMBER, GARY WILL give two flashes,” Clayton told Sara. “You answer with two. Anything else, and you lay low. It will be cold, but you need to stay in da bell tower and watch for him.”
She nodded. So much sadness in that girl’s eyes. Clayton wondered what it felt like to lose all your friends in one shot. He’d lost most of his, and two wives, and a daughter, but gradually over many years. Sven was his only friend left alive.
Sara put her hand on his shoulder. “We can’t thank you enough.”
Clayton started to say don’t worry about it, but she grabbed his face and gave him a fast kiss, then threw her arms around him and squeezed. Clayton stood dumb for a moment, then returned her hug. She let go and wiped away a tear.
He locked the church door behind himself. No one would miss th
e heater, kerosene or supplies he’d stolen for Sara. Still, this was all crazy risky. He’d left footprints in the snow, but that couldn’t be avoided. He could only hope that anyone shooting by on a snowmobile wouldn’t stop to look around.
Clayton breathed a sigh of relief when he finally climbed into Ted Nugent’s heated cab. He put the motor in gear and moved down the trail. He’d finish grooming the road and trails, just to keep up appearances. He passed James and Stephanie’s place. Had they been up and on their porch, Clayton could have waved. But he saw no motion at the Harveys’ house. Apparently, early morning on this freezing island was a time only for old fools.
The Bv’s heavy sled dragged across the six inches of fresh snow, compacting it into a perfectly groomed surface. Clayton turned on the CD player. Some old Bob Seger would be just the thing.
He turned northeast, which would take him within sight of Rapleje Bay. Just southwest of Rapleje Bay, the Harveys’ phone line connected to the main line. Clayton checked the latest repair map and drove to the break.
A fallen tree leaned against one of the phone poles. Both ends of the line were still connected, which meant a crack in the line—an easy, quick fix.
Clayton got out of the Bv and pulled a chain saw out of the back section. Poulan, the only kind he’d buy and use. He expertly cut the tree so it fell off the phone line. He climbed into the aerial lift bucket and raised himself to the break. The vantage gave him a clear view of Rapleje Bay. At first he didn’t notice anything. Then his eyes caught a few strange, snow-covered bumps out on the ice, some marked with high, curling drifts. Wreckage. Had he just been sightseeing, however, he might have missed the bumps entirely, or at least dismissed them as chunks of ice. Even if Magnus did drive by he probably wouldn’t notice. Just a few more hours, hopefully, and Gary would get Sara and Tim off the island.
Clayton turned his attention to fixing the landline, unaware of the hungry eyes that followed his every move.
THREE ANCESTORS REACHED the edge of the trail. Their bellies were full. They felt sleepy. But the food was almost gone—they had to find more.
A noisy thing had drawn them, pulling them through the woods with the promise of new prey. They stared at it, a new shape that made a steady sound much like a low, angry growl. It smelled like the stick that killed. But it also smelled like food.
Two of them started to move forward, but Baby McButter flicked her sail fin up and down fast, telling them to stop. This thing smelled too much like the stick. Her two brothers backed up and lowered themselves into the snow so that only their eyes peeked out above the white surface.
Movement, up high, on top of a skinny tree. That was prey, that was food. The skinny tree bent in on itself, lowering the prey back down to the noisy thing. Then the prey climbed inside the noisy thing. The noisy thing started running away.
Baby McButter flipped her dorsal fin high and held it there, signaling them all to move in.
Thick arms plowed through deep snow as they closed the distance. The noisy thing started out slow, but then picked up speed. Baby McButter roared in anger and ran faster, but the noisy thing had heard them and was escaping.
She slowed to a trot, then stopped. Her belly was too full. She couldn’t run fast enough. As she watched the noisy thing fade away, she understood why it could move so quickly. No trees here, just a long, wide-open space that led deeper into the woods. The noisy thing liked the wide-open space.
To Baby McButter’s right, one of her brothers let out a low, mournful moan. No food. Soon they would be hungry, and hunger was the worst sensation any of them had ever experienced.
They sat down and waited. Prey had come this way. Prey would come again.
DECEMBER 3, 8:15 A.M.
SARA CARRIED A blanket. She stayed behind Tim, letting him take his time going up the narrow stairs. The crutch helped him walk, but his knee was still pretty messed up.
“This is stupid,” he said. “I should just stay in the preparatory room.”
Did this guy ever stop bitching? “Just climb. You have to take shifts up on the bell tower, Tim. Sooner or later I have to sleep.”
Tim sighed and continued up the stairs that led from the back of the altar up to the choir loft. The walls were barely wider than his narrow shoulders. Sara wondered how small people were back when the church had been built … what … two centuries ago?
Tim made it to the choir loft. “Now what?”
Sara pointed down the loft to a ladder near the church’s front wall. “Right there. Figure out how to climb it, I’m not going to carry you.”
“Just because you kept me alive doesn’t mean you’re not a surly bitch. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Just get up there.”
Tim crutch-walked to the ladder. The choir loft was made from the same black stone as the church’s walls, but with an ornate wooden railing. She looked over that rail down on the dilapidated church proper below. The place must have been beautiful once.
Tim managed the climb up the twenty-foot wrought-iron ladder. He made way more noise than necessary, taking great pains to show Sara just how difficult it was for him.
She slung the blanket over her shoulder and followed him up, going out the trapdoor. The turret was about ten feet in diameter, ringed by four stone pillars rising up from a waist-high stone wall to support the witch’s-hat roof. Sara shivered as wind cut through the open turret—this was probably the coldest place on the island.
Tactically, though, they couldn’t possibly do any better. She could see the entire town and even down the trail that led to the harbor. Thick stone walls would stop small-arms fire. Fate had put her in the most defensible spot on Black Manitou.
Except, of course, if Magnus decided to use the Stinger.
“Okay,” Tim said. “Mission accomplished. Now can I go back down? I’m freezing.”
She tossed him the blanket. “Nope. As of right now, you’re on the clock. Gary won’t come until tonight, but we have to keep an eye out for anyone approaching our position. Get comfy and keep watch. I’ll relieve you in four hours.”
“Come on, Sara. I’ll freeze up here, and I need a drink.”
A vision of Tim trying to get the syringe needle into the vial flashed in her head. Had he given the cow the right dosage? Had a drunken mistake cost the lives of Cappy, Alonzo and Miller?
“You’ve had enough to drink,” Sara said. “You pull your own weight, Feely, or else.”
He started to complain, but she ignored him and went back down.
DECEMBER 3, 9:30 P.M.
“MOTHER DUCK-FUCKIN’ MOTHERFUCKER,” Andy said, then gently set the phone back in the cradle. This was turning into a crusty-turded shitstorm, and fast. How the hell was it even possible?
He sprinted out of the security room, up the stairs and into the lounge. Magnus sat there, fresh bottle of Yukon Jack in hand, staring blankly out the picture window at the blustery winter night.
“Magnus, we’ve got a big problem. Rhumkorrf just called in.”
Magnus turned sharply in his chair. Andy took an unconscious step back.
“If you’re bullshitting me, Crosthwaite, I’ll give you a million dollars right now.”
Andy shook his head. “No bullshit. He called from Sven’s place.”
Magnus stared for a second, then turned to once again face the window. He took a long swig of whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Andy shuffled from foot to foot, waiting for orders.
Magnus finally stood. He capped the bottle and set it on a table. “Have you seen Clayton?”
Andy shook his head. “Not lately.”
“Who’s in the watchtower?”
“Gunther,” Andy said. “Colding is probably sleeping in his room.”
“Go get Colding. Tell him Rhumkorrf called in. You don’t know what’s going on, because Rhumkorrf is supposed to be on the plane. Both of you go to Sven’s house. Before you get there, kill Colding.”
Fuck yes. Fuck yes. “No pro
blem,” Andy said. “And then what?”
“You take Colding’s Beretta. You kill Rhumkorrf. You kill Sven. When you come back down the trail, you kill James and Stephanie Harvey.”
The woman. Hell yeah. He could save her for last, take his time.
Andy felt an iron hand on his neck before he even saw Magnus move. Fuck, but that guy was fast. Andy stayed calm and stood very, very still as his boss leaned in so close Andy could smell Yukon Jack breath.
“We’re in a bit of a pickle here, Andy. All the evidence has to point toward Colding. So if you go dipping your wick in Stephanie Harvey, that will leave evidence that is not from Colding. I’ll make this so clear even a twisted pervert like you gets it. You shoot her, you don’t touch her. Do you understand? Blink once for no, twice for yes.”
Andy blinked twice.
“If Rhumkorrf lived, we assume the others did, too. They have to be hiding somewhere. So do the only thing you’re good at—kill everyone you see. This is a good strategy, Andy. If you agree, blink twice. If you disagree, blink once, but if you blink once, I’m going to crush your windpipe, then sit here and sip whisky while you lie on the floor and slowly suffocate.”
Andy blinked twice.
Magnus let him go. Andy felt oxygen flood into his lungs. He blinked twice more, just to be sure he’d got the message across.
“Now move,” Magnus said.
Andy ran for the door, headed for Colding’s room.
DECEMBER 3, 9:41 P.M.
TEN MINUTES AFTER Rhumkorrf’s call, P. J. Colding held his snowmobile throttle wide open. Andy was on a sled right behind him, the two of them shooting down Clayton’s groomed trails. Headlights played off trees that whipped by as blurs of green and brown and white.
Colding’s mind raced even faster than the snowmobile. How could Rhumkorrf be back? Colding had watched the plane take off. Nothing had landed since then. Had the C-5 crashed?