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.
6:52 A.M.
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.
Overall? Shit odds. But it was all they had.
Running wide open, the Arctic Cat pulled away. The monsters gave chase.
6:55 A.M.
MAGNUS SAT IN the Bv’s front seat, a first-aid kit open next to him. His right hand held his Ka-Bar knife, his left pressed a bloody ball of gauze against his thigh. Had to stop the bleeding. Blood had already soaked his sock, his shoe, and his pants leg from the knee down. He wondered if the ancestors could track a blood trail.
He’d underestimated her. He’d deserved to get shot for being so fucking stupid, walking out in the open like an idiot. First Clayton, now Sara—Magnus had lost his edge.
He’d used the knife to cut open his pant leg. Funny to have his own blood on his knife, but it wasn’t the first time. He pulled the gauze back for a look. The torn flesh instantly filled with thick red.
Fuck. She’d hit an artery. He jammed the gauze back in, pushing until the pain radiated through his entire leg. He’d been to this dance before. Pressure alone probably wouldn’t do the trick, and he didn’t have time to wait.
The wound sat on the outside of his thigh, close to the knee, so he knew it wasn’t the femoral artery. Maybe it was the… what was it called… the lateral circumflex? Didn’t matter, he had to stop the bleeding and go kill that murdering cunt.
He pinched the Ka-Bar between his knees, point up. With his right hand he reached into the back of the Bv, digging around in his canvas bag until he found what he needed—the propane torch.
How ironic.
How many people had he burned with a torch just like this one? How many lives had he taken with it? And now that same device might save his own.
He used his left elbow to keep the gauze jammed into his wound, then opened the valve on the propane tank. He fished the lighter out of his pocket and lit the torch. Magnus pointed the blue flame at the tip of the knife and waited for the blade to heat up.
He’d have to cauterize the wound. Pull off the gauze, stick the knife in and sear the artery. Then a pressure bandage, and he’d be good to go. No telling if the wound would open up on him again, but it would buy him time, let him move.
The blade started to glow red.
“You’re going to pay for this, Sara. I’ll find a way to make you pay over and over again.”