The slab continued to break apart.
Sara and Colding heard the animals’ roars even over the wind and the Otto II’s full-out engine. One by one, the ancestors fell into the water and disappeared.
One last ancestor remained afloat. It was missing its left ear and had an all-white head save for a black patch on the left eye. It looked at the boat, seemed to look right at Sara and Colding. It opened its mouth and let out a huge, primitive roar of unbridled fury.
Colding saw something moving in the water, something with a wet, black head. Could some of them swim after all? Then the image crystallized in his brain.
“Mookie,” Colding said quietly. He shouted up to the flying bridge, “Gary, stop the boat!”
The black Australian shepherd cut through the frigid waters, heading straight for the patch of ice that held the last ancestor.
“Mookie!” Colding shouted. “Get the hell away from there! Come here, girl!”
But the dog ignored him. She reached the ice patch and struggled to climb on top.
BABY MCBUTTER TURNED and saw the small creature. She had seen this prey before. It had been there when she’d torn her way free from the big animal, when she’d taken her first bite of the trapped prey with the wounded leg. This creature had attacked her, hurt her.
Baby McButter roared in wide-mouthed fury, challenging this new threat. The prey managed to clumsily scramble aboard the ice patch—it roared back, the roroororoo sound pitiful and small in comparison, but no less hateful, no less primitive.
Baby McButter took a step toward the prey, but stopped—the ice shifted with every movement. She’d seen all of her brethren enter the water and not come out. She had to stay still.
The little prey ran toward her, barking, stopping just out of claw-swipe range. Its black lip curled back to show small white teeth. It made threatening lunges.
It wouldn’t stop making that annoying noise.
COLDING LOOKED AWAY from the ice-top battle to see Tim helping Clayton move to the back of the boat.
“Dad!” Gary shouted down from the flying bridge. “Are you okay?”
“Good enough,” Clayton said. He looked up and smiled. “I’m proud of you, son. Now get me da hell out of here.”
Colding pointed out to the ice floe. “Clayton, you know that dumb-ass dog, call her in here! What the hell is she doing?”
Clayton leaned heavily on the rail and looked out. “We haven’t seen Sven, eh? I think he’s dead, and I think Mookie knows it. She’s getting some payback.”
Mookie barked so hard her body shook, pure fury encapsulated in wet black fur. The last ancestor took a tentative snap. Mookie easily danced away, kept barking, kept snarling.
The one-eared ancestor reared back its head, then lunged at the dog. The ice floe tilted instantly, sending dog and ancestor into the frigid harbor. The ice righted itself, splashing back into the water. A huge white head with a black eye spot surfaced. The ancestor’s long claws splashed feebly, hitting the edge of the ice. Chunks broke off with each swipe, giving the creature no purchase. It opened its mouth for one last roar, then slid below the surface.
Colding looked hard, hoping, wishing. Finally, he saw a small patch of black cutting through the ice-filled water.
“Come on, girl!”
The dog looked exhausted. She paddled straight for the boat. Waves lifted her, buffeted her. She panted, spitting out water in big, cheek-puffing gasps. Colding reached out as far as he could. Sara weakly held his legs, letting him stretch even farther. Mookie dipped under, then popped back up. She slowed. Colding reached farther… and his fingers grabbed the dog’s collar. He dragged her to the rail. Sara reached over and helped him pull the exhausted, tuck-tailed dog onboard. Mookie collapsed between Colding and Gary Detweiler, shivering madly, chest heaving: one more exhausted, wounded survivor of the disaster.
Her tail slapped wetly against the deck.
Finally, it was over.
The six survivors of Black Manitou Island headed out into the churning waters of Lake Superior.
EPILOGUE
HE STOOD ON the dune ridge, left paw up and against his chest, watching the prey float away on yet another noisy thing. The wind blew into his face, carrying their scent. He wanted the skinny prey, wanted to tear them to pieces, but now for a new reason.
That reason? Baby Moos-A-Lot wanted to kill them. He wanted revenge. They had killed his brethren and his leader. But he didn’t want to eat them because for the first time in his short four-day life he wasn’t hungry anymore.
One of the skinny things had stung his mouth with the stick. He pushed his thick tongue against the spot, feeling where a tooth was not. It had also stung him in the paw, so bad it was hard to walk. Baby Moos-A-Lot hadn’t been able to keep up with the others. He’d arrived just in time to see the leader fall into the water. Fall in, and not come back up.
Hatred. Hatred for the skinny prey, and it felt much, much stronger than even his worst hunger pangs.
A noise behind him. He wheeled, bared his gap-toothed maw, ready for a three-legged charge.
But it wasn’t a skinny thing. It was one of his kind. Scorched black skin covered the right side of its head. The right eye was a hollow socket rimmed with wetness. There were more burns on its right shoulder, down the side.
He was upwind and hadn’t smelled his own until now. This close, however, the rich stench of scorched fur and burnt flesh filled his wounded nose. He also recognized a signature scent: no other of his kind would smell quite like that. If there were any others of his kind left.
And he smelled one more thing, a smell that affected him in an exciting new way.
It was the smell of… a female.
THE RED SQUIRREL stopped and stared at the treasure trove.
A pile of pinecones.
She smelled the seeds inside. So yummy. And she was so hungry.
There were other smells, too. The smell of a dead animal. The smell of another squirrel—faint and strange, but still there.
She looked up, eyes scanning for the silhouettes programmed into her instincts: small head close to wings, long wide tail, the silhouettes of hawks and owls. Nothing. She scurried a few feet closer, then stopped again.
Now she smelled a new smell, a strange smell. Some kind of animal, but one she’d never known before. Anything new made her want to run. But such a pile of pinecones! So much food!
She moved closer. The pile of cones sat near a hole in the ground next to a small white tree. A hole like the rabbits made. And next to the hole was a shiny thing just a little bigger than the squirrel herself. Like a piece of tree branch, but thicker, smoother. The round sides were a dark red, with spots of white like the snow. The sun glinted off its top. That sight made her more hungry, because usually when she saw that shiny shape, nearby there were crinkly things with salty food inside.
Movement.
She scrambled away, then stopped and looked back. Movement behind the pinecones. The fluff of a squirrel tail. One of her own, already eating the pinecones! But those were her pinecones!
She sprinted in, came around the pile to drive the competitor away.
A glimpse of horror—nothing but a tail! Danger! She turned to flee, but felt a stabbing pain in her back. She squealed and tried to run, but something lifted her into the air. Her feet kicked on emptiness. She twisted her head to attack the pain in her back, bit down on something hard.