Ancestor (50 page)

COLDING WATCHED THE infrared monitor. The white glow of several huge creatures broke out of the dark-colored woods on either side of the narrow road.

They chased another white blur … a human-shaped one. Danté Paglione.

Rhumkorrf’s small fist, the one that wasn’t frostbitten, lightly punched the desktop over and over. “What have I done? What have I created?”

The first white blur picked Danté off in midstride. For just a moment, the blurs of predator and prey merged, becoming one on the screen. Danté’s blur, minus a leg, cartwheeled through the air, a trail of heat-white arcing from the new stump. Like a receiver and a defensive back going for a wounded-duck pass, two of the creatures leaped and caught him before he hit the ground. They jerked their heads, tearing the man apart. Three more animals smashed into the glowing white pile and joined the feeding frenzy.

Just like that, Danté was gone. The pack of monsters sprinted to the Sikorski, surrounding it, noses to the ground.

Rhumkorrf kept pounding the desk. “What have I done?”

Colding switched back to normal vision. The Bv206 had stopped. It stayed still for just a couple of seconds, then turned left, slowly driving down the road that led to the rest of the island, to the old town.

The road that led to the church.

“Clayton, tell me you reached Gary.”

“He’s not answering, eh? I don’t think he made it back to da mainland. I gotta find him.”

Colding turned to Rhumkorrf. “Bobby’s helicopter, you can fly that thing, right?”

Rhumkorrf nodded.

On the monitors, more ancestors trotted out of the woods to join Danté and Bobby’s killers. They surrounded the Sikorski. Colding counted at least thirty of them. The stocky animals sniffed around, dorsal fins twitching up and down. Then, as a group, all their heads turned to look down the length of the landing strip.

Colding switched to a wider view. At the edge of the long, curving strip stood a black dog, left leg held up as if it were hurt, its body shaking with the intensity of its repeated barking.

Like a perfectly trained army, the creatures took off as one unit, sprinting toward Sven Ballantine’s dog.

Mookie’s body convulsed with one more round of barks, then she turned and ran into the woods at the strip’s northeast end. The creatures lumbered down the same curving strip that had once handled the C-5’s landing and takeoff. They followed Mookie into the dense trees.

Colding knew they might not get another chance at the helicopter. “Clayton, we’ve got to move, you good?”

“Good enough. Let’s get to da church. Maybe Gary is there with Sara, and if not we go from da church to da harbor.”

Colding shook his head. “No, you’re going on the helicopter with Rhumkorrf. I can’t trust him not to take off on us. Sorry, Doc, but I can’t.”

Clayton reached up and grabbed Colding’s arm. “That motherfucker Magnus
cut off my fuckin’ finger
and he could be going after
my son
. I’m taking one of those guns, and I’m going to kill that big bastard. You got that, Colding?”

Colding looked into the older man’s eyes, saw fury, hatred, stubborn determination.

“I won’t run,” Rhumkorrf said. “I … I swear it. This is my fault, everyone is dead because of me. I swear, P. J., I won’t leave you.”

Colding looked at Rhumkorrf. The scientist had a pleading expression on his face. He seemed desperate for at least some shred of redemption. Could he be trusted? Colding looked back at Clayton and knew that he didn’t have a choice.

“All right, Clayton. But you fall behind and you’re on your own. This isn’t some story you made up about bow hunting with Charles Bronson or whatever, and I won’t die because you can’t keep up.”

“Fair enough. But I don’t know why you’re babbling on about Charles Bronson, never met da guy.”

Colding grabbed the British SA80 assault rifle. He stuffed five full magazines in his snowsuit pockets.

Clayton held up one of the Uzis. “This will do just fine. Me and Charlie Heston used to shoot these back in da seventies.”

Colding took a Beretta 96 from the rack, loaded a magazine and handed the weapon to Rhumkorrf. “You know how to use that, Doc?”

Rhumkorrf looked at the pistol. “I would imagine I point the small end and pull the trigger.”

“Yeah, and if it’s one of your monsters coming after you, you keep on pulling it till the slide lock’s empty, got it?”

Rhumkorrf’s eyes filled with a sick fear, but he nodded.

Colding looked at the rack, then slipped out of his snowsuit. He grabbed
a bulletproof vest and threw it to Clayton, then put the second one on himself. He pulled the snowsuit back on, feeling bulky from the thick vest. He had weapons, some protection, a vehicle—what he didn’t have was
time
.

“All three of us will ride the snowmobile to the helicopter. Doc, you take the helicopter up. Maybe the noise will draw the ancestors, give Clayton and me a chance to reach the church before Magnus does. Look for me to wave you down after we kill Magnus. You land by the well. Remember, we won’t have much time before the monsters come, so be ready to take us up right away. We lift off and head for the mainland.”

“That plan is fucked,” Clayton said.

“You got a better one?”

Clayton shook his head.

“Then let’s move.”

All three men ran out of the security room.

MAGNUS PARKED THE Bv206 behind the abandoned log lodge, putting the building between himself and the church. He shut off the engine and hopped out, the MP5 slung over his shoulder.

He was alone.

All alone.

And Sara Purinam was to blame.

If she’d flown the plane like she’d been ordered, blown up over the water, then the ancestors would have died … and Danté would still be alive.

He’d never really known loss before. Dad had died, but Dad had been old, with a bad heart. Magnus had years to mentally prepare for that. This … his
brother
, his only family. Magnus could have never prepared for this pain, for the anguish that tore through his very being. He
hurt
, and in a way physical pain had never affected him.

Sara. All her fault.

He hadn’t seen any ancestors following him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming. He’d driven slowly at first, hoping the engine would be quiet enough to avoid drawing their attention. But after a quarter kilometer, he’d opened it up, pushing the Bv to top speed. Had they heard it? He didn’t know. If they had, it would take the creatures at least ten minutes to run from the hangar to here, if they sprinted all the way.

He had enough time to do what needed to be done.

He took a long, 360-degree sweep of the area. No movement. The church was only about 50 meters from the lodge.

Time to get yours, cunt
.

“OH NO.” SARA crouched lower in the tower, just her eyes peeking over the stone wall. “Tim, keep still, I think that’s Magnus.”

Tim slowly moved to the edge of the bell tower and looked. “Oh
fuck
. He’s coming for us. He’s coming this way!
Shoot him!”

Sara felt Tim’s fear, empathized with it because she felt the same thing. The killer strode across the town circle, calm as all get out. His hands held a submachine gun. The morning sun blazed off his bald head. Dirt and bloodstains coated his clothes.

Blood from who?

If Magnus didn’t see her up here, she’d get at least one clean shot before he could react. One shot, with a pistol, from almost four stories up, while her hand shook from the subzero cold.

She felt Tim’s fear, true, but she also felt a burning rage. That bald bastard had murdered Alonzo, Miller, Cappy. And for that, he had to pay.

Magnus kept coming, moving with his smooth athletic grace. She had to control her fear, be a soldier, take that killer down. She could do it.
Had
to do it. Sara aimed, squeezing her hand against the Beretta’s knurled handle, feeling the cold metal press into her flesh. She’d take Magnus halfway between the wooden lodge and the well, where he had no cover at all.

Just a few more steps …

MAGNUS STOPPED. SOMETHING was wrong. He could sense it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and it wasn’t from the bitter cold. Grief had blurred his decisions. Grief and a need to lash out, to avenge … these things had put him in a terrible tactical position. Open space, no real cover. His instincts told him to turn around, find another approach.

But the ancestors were coming. There wasn’t enough time.

And that
bitch
had to pay.

SARA SQUEEZED THE trigger slowly, like her daddy had taught her when they hunted deer in Cheboygan. She squeezed … and twitched a little when the gun’s roar rang out.

HE HEARD THE pistol’s report only a millisecond before the bullet ripped into his meaty left thigh. Pain splashed through his leg, but it wasn’t the first time Magnus had been shot. Automatic impulses drove him to his right.

Another shot rang out, a miss.

He landed on his right shoulder, thumbing the MP5 to full auto as he rolled.

A third shot. That cunt was staying calm, aiming, trying to shoot straight, but still she missed. He heard the bullet whiz by his right ear as he came upon his feet.

Magnus fired on full automatic, ripping off ten rounds in less than a second.

SARA BARELY HAD time to duck—bullets sparked off the granite walls, filling the air with flying stone splinters that dropped lightly onto her trembling body. She’d hit him, she
knew
she’d hit him, so why was he still firing back?

“Tim, stay down!” Meaningless advice—if Tim got any lower, he would have been part of the stone floor.

Sara fought to control her breathing. If she could get just one more shot …

ONLY FIVE SECONDS since the bullet had ripped into his leg, and the real pain was already starting to set in.

Magnus limped backward, MP5 still pointed at the church tower. He squeezed off another five-round burst. The bullets kicked up little firework flashes when they slammed into the granite tower. He’d been such a dumb-ass. The church was like a fortress against small-arms fire. He needed the plastique. Shit, maybe even the Stinger. That would fix her fucking wagon, and fix it good.

Ignoring his screaming leg, he pulled out the empty magazine and slammed home a fresh one, all while moving backward and never taking his eyes off the black tower.

SARA WANTED ANOTHER shot, wanted to finish him, but she couldn’t make her body get up, couldn’t bring herself to look over the edge, to expose herself to flying bullets. She told her body to move. It refused.

From somewhere behind the lodge, Magnus’s voice echoed out loud and deep.

“You didn’t kill me, Sara. You
can’t
kill me.”

His voice seemed to fill the woods, as if the trees were possessed with a supernatural spirit come to tear her to pieces. She suddenly
wanted
the monsters to come back, come back and bring Magnus down. But they were nowhere to be seen.

“It’s going to be bad for you now,” his voice rang out. “Real bad.”

She shouted back without lifting her head above the rim. “Why don’t you come give it to me? Just come and get it on right now?”

“Reallllll
bad,” Magnus yelled. “I’ll cut your wrists so you can watch yourself bleed to death. I’ll burn you until your bones blacken. I
promise
, you rotten whore, I promise that you’ll
beg
… and when you do, I won’t listen.”

Sara squeezed her eyes tight against the tension building in her brain, in her chest. How much more could she take? Now Magnus knew exactly where she was. She couldn’t run, not with those creatures out there. Magnus wouldn’t be dumb enough to step out in the open again—she had to find another defensible spot.

Magnus would kill her, bleed her out slow,
burn
her …

No, she couldn’t let the terror take her now. She’d
fight
that fucker, fight him till she had nothing left.

“Tim, get your ass up. We have to get downstairs.”

Tim crawled for the trapdoor. He descended gingerly, still troubled by his ruined knee. Sara followed him down, wondering how long it would be before Magnus came after them again.

THE ARCTIC CAT rode heavy under the weight of three men, but it reached the Sikorski. Had the monsters heard the snowmobile’s whine? Were they coming?

Colding brought the sled to a stop. Rhumkorrf scrambled off and climbed into the helicopter, mittened hands shutting the door behind him. Clayton stayed on the back of the snowmobile, his good arm wrapped loosely around Colding’s waist.

Colding revved the engine, making it as loud as possible. He had to draw them in so he’d know where they were, know they were
behind
him. If he drove right to the old town, the creatures could attack at any point along the way. They might even be in the old town already. And if they were, how could he save Sara?

He scanned the tree line but saw no movement.

Colding revved the sled’s engine again. The motor’s whine filled the clearing, bounced off the hangar, so loud it hurt his ears. The smell of exhaust filled his nose.

Colding felt Clayton’s grip around his waist change from a manly
barely-holding-on-to-you
to a clutching, desperate grip of fear.

“Sweet Jesus,” Clayton said.

A quarter mile away, the creatures broke from the trees and poured onto the landing strip. At least thirty of them, huge and strong and savage, a phalanx of muscle and teeth.

“Clayton, hold tight.” Colding gunned the throttle.

The Arctic Cat still felt a bit sluggish, but free of Rhumkorrf’s extra 150 pounds the machine raced back up the one-lane road toward the mansion. Colding turned right at the main road, following the same path Magnus had taken. He’d outdistance the creatures and have maybe ten minutes to gather up Sara and Tim, if they were still alive. Then, if they could either kill or avoid Magnus, they could wait for Rhumkorrf to come with the helicopter and they’d be off this godforsaken island.