“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.
6:49 A.M.
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.