More creatures, dozens of them, coming out of the woods from all sides like some childhood nightmare, rushing forward with their strange waddling gait. Big as goddamn tigers. They gathered at the tower’s bottom, long claws digging into the wood as they tried to climb up, teeth flashing from mouths as wide and long as a grown man’s chest.
His hands squeezed down on the wooden rail. He took in a deep breath, then let it out. Control. Just another kind of combat, that’s all it was. Had to stay calm, make logical decisions, just like Magnus had taught him.
Whatever the fuck these things were, they couldn’t get to him up here. They couldn’t jump ten meters. He ran inside the cabin, grabbed the phone and hit the page-all button.
The phone rang.
No one answered.
The tower started vibrating under his feet.
Small tremors at first, but after a few seconds he had to put his hand on the wall to keep his balance.
Someone answer, goddamit, answer!
No one answered.
The shaking grew worse.
He set the receiver down, ran back onto the catwalk and looked.
The creatures were attacking the four thick wooden posts that supported the cabin. Biting and clawing, they tore out big, splintery chunks and tossed them aside before coming back for another try. Rough wooden daggers dug into their noses, their lips, their tongues, coating their black-and-white mouths with fresh spurts of red. Still they bit, they tore, climbing over one another to get at the wood.
Logical decisions didn’t cover this. Nothing covered this. Fear settled into a waiting pattern in his stomach and balls. He was fucked and he knew it. Gunther drew his Beretta and held it, knowing it would do nothing to help him.
The tower lurched to the left, then stopped. Gunther grabbed at the rail in a desperate grip for survival. His bladder let go, the urine a final, brief sensation of warmth amid the bitter cold.
A second post gave way with a resounding snap. The ten-meter tower tilted to the south, slowly at first, but it quickly picked up speed, dropping like a falling tree. Gunther’s scream locked in his throat as the tower slammed into the snowy ground. The cabin shattered, as did Gunther, dozens of bones breaking on impact.
Unfortunately, the fall didn’t kill him.
Groggy but still conscious, Gunther rolled to one shoulder and looked back toward the base of the tower. The crash had broken all the tower’s lights save for one—that last light projected back toward the tower’s base, illuminating oncoming death in a morbid spotlight. They came like a tidal wave, a black-and-white tidal wave with a frothing crest of wide-open mouths and long teeth.
Oh, he wished he could have written that one down… that was the shit right there.
Gunther was too weak to scream as they tore him to pieces.
6:34 A.M.
WITH DAWN BREAKING across the angry waters of Lake Superior and wind whipping across their backs, the Arctic Cat screamed like nature herself. Colding couldn’t believe how fast the machine moved on the open ice—at eighty miles an hour he felt like a cruise missile streaking across the surface.
This open ice hadn’t been there just a few days earlier. Black Manitou continued to grow, reaching out like a spreading stain of white ink.
They had taken advantage of the new ice to circle around North Pointe, searching the snow-covered wreckage dotting the frozen-over Rapleje Bay. No sign of Sara. Now they headed southwest, the coastline passing by quickly on their left. Colding prayed they wouldn’t hit a patch of weak ice; any accident at this speed meant certain death. He wondered if the creatures were somewhere up on the coast, just inside the tree line, watching them.
When he reached the snowcapped Horse Head Rock, Colding slowed and stopped, taking stock of their tactical situation. Boyd Bay was frozen over all the way out to Emma Island. What had been treacherous, rocky water two months ago was now solid ice. The mansion perched high up on the bluff, looking like some gothic bulwark straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe story.
He saw the approaching aircraft. A helicopter. He squinted his eyes against the rising sun… yes, it was Bobby’s Sikorski. Danté could be on it. If Magnus was alive he would surely go out to meet his brother, giving Colding a small window of opportunity to enter the mansion and get heavier weapons—for protection both against the ancestors, and against Magnus. If Andy was alive and staying home, then this would end quickly one way or another.
But what about warning Danté and Bobby about the rampaging ancestors? Danté might have known about the bomb plot. Known, and done nothing to stop it. Hell, Danté himself could have authorized it. But Magnus might have acted alone. If Colding didn’t do something, would two innocent men die? If he did try to warn them, would they kill him? Would Magnus? There were no right answers, and every course of action or inaction led to death.
Rhumkorrf tugged at his shoulder. “Are we going to meet them at the landing strip? They can fly us out of here.”
Colding shook his head. “We’ve got to get some weapons. Those monsters could be anywhere.”
“Which means we have to go up the stairs, on foot, and into the mansion, where Magnus could be waiting for us?”
“Exactly,” Colding said. “So, you ready?”
“I could not possibly be less ready for this insanity. Let’s go.”
Colding waited for Rhumkorrf to squeeze tight, then gunned the engine and shot across the ice toward the shore.
6:41 A.M.
COLDING CRAWLED UP the last few steps. He pointed his Beretta just over the stone patio deck, sweeping left to right, looking for any motion. Would he even see Magnus? The man was so well trained, so dangerous. What about Andy? Had he made it back? And where was Gunther? Whose side would Gun be on?
Colding licked dry lips. No choice. He had to get better weapons, and get Claus armed as well. Colding half stood and walked forward. He heard Rhumkorrf following close behind.
They walked across the porch and into the lounge, Colding leading, Beretta up and at the ready. Moving quickly but carefully, quietly, they worked their way downstairs to the closed security room.
He turned to Rhumkorrf and whispered, “You stay behind me. Keep a couple of feet back. If you see me turn, you run like hell. If you see me fall, you run even harder, got it?”
Rhumkorrf nodded quickly. His taped-on glasses bobbled against his bloody head bandage.
Colding punched in 0-0-0-0, then opened the door to a dark room. He heard a grunt.
Fighting back the fear of an ancestor or Magnus waiting inside for him, he reached his hand in and flipped on the light switch…
… and saw Clayton Detweiler, taped to a metal folding chair that sat in a pool of blood. Colding reached back and grabbed Rhumkorrf, pulled him inside and shut the door. The two men stepped into the puddle of blood to untie Clayton.
“Get him ready to go, fast,” Colding said. He ran to the ammo rack, grabbed a first-aid kit and tossed it to Rhumkorrf.
“This is duct tape,” Rhumkorrf said. “I need a knife.”
Colding tossed him one of the white Ka-Bar boxes. Rhumkorrf started cutting while Colding slid behind the desk and flipped through the security channels. If he could spot Magnus and the others somewhere on the grounds, that would help dictate next steps.
“Wake up,” Rhumkorrf said to Clayton. “Come on, wake up.”
“Wha…?” The old man’s eyes opened, and he blinked a few times.
Colding kept his eyes on the monitors as he spoke. “Clayton, why did Magnus do that to you?”