7:28:12 A.M.
Gary’s Ski-Doo idled next to them as Colding, Tim and Sara worked quickly to make more and more fist-sized bombs. The timers proved to be very simple. They’d synced them all to P. J.’s watch, but had yet to set the detonation time. He didn’t know how many it would take, and he couldn’t risk leaving the job half-finished. Almost done now, just a few more.
Clayton sat in the Ted Nugent’s backseat, leaning against the passenger-side window. Maybe he’d passed out, maybe not.
Tim looked up from his pile of plastique balls and detonators. “They’re here.”
No, it was too soon. Colding and Sara snapped a quick look at the snow-covered dune. They saw small bits of movement from just behind the crest, like sticks blowing in the wind. That, and a few small glimpses of yellow.
The ancestors weren’t attacking.
He remembered their intelligence… they knew about the guns. He stood and pointed the Uzi at the dune, then snapped a quick glance at his watch.
“Set all the timers for 7:30, do it now! Shove ’em in the bag!”
Sara and Tim didn’t argue, they grabbed bombs and started setting timers. Would that be enough time?
Sara thrust the bag at him. “Don’t fuck it up,” she said. Some women might have said good luck or at least I hope you know what you’re doing, but that just wasn’t Sara’s way. He handed her the Uzi, threw the bag full of bombs over his shoulder, then hopped on Gary’s snowmobile. He gunned the engine, driving the sled out onto the bumpy ice toward the Otto II. The rough surface jarred him with punishing ups and downs.
He reached the boat and started a wide circle around it, dropping plastique balls as he went.
7:28:33 A.M.
Sara saw two ancestors bound over the crest and barrel down the snowy dune.
Why only two?
“Tim, get in!”
Sara fired as she backed toward the Bv. She got lucky on the first burst, the bullets smashing into the ancestor’s front left leg. It toppled forward, instantly crippled, rolling head over heels in a cloud of snow and sand.
She fired a burst at the second one, now only fifteen feet away, so close she could see its tongue inside the open mouth. The bullets drove into that open mouth.
It kept coming.
Fear pulled her finger tight against the trigger. Bullets sprayed into the ancestor’s face. It stopped only five feet from her, shaking its head violently, trying to turn away, but it was too late. It fell heavily to its side, twitching and kicking its powerful limbs.
Sara pointed the Uzi at its head and fired.
Two bullets came out, then the little submachine gun made a click sound. Sara blinked a few times, tried pulling the trigger again, her adrenaline-soaked brain not quite comprehending the fact that she was out of ammo.
Again, just a single click.
Dozens of ancestor heads popped up into plain sight. Every yellow sail fin rose high into the air.
“Fuck me running,” Tim said. “They know the goddamn gun is empty.”
The ancestors rose and charged down the snow-covered dune, their wide-open mouths roaring in long-delayed triumph.
Sara tossed the Uzi aside and jumped into the driver’s seat. She gunned the engine, driving straight out onto the ice. It would crack eventually, but the Nuge was supposed to be seaworthy. If she could get them close to the Otto II, it might be enough.
It would have to be.
7:28:54 A.M.
Colding pushed the Ski-Doo to its limits, smashing it over the uneven ice. Any second now the jagged crust could crack under him, drop him into a freezing, watery grave.
But the ice held.
He drove to the breakwall entrance, stopping maybe thirty feet from the open water. That was as close as he dared go to the ice’s edge. He tossed a Demex bomb. The fist-sized ball bounced once, then came to rest only five feet from the splashing water. Colding looked back toward the Otto II. He’d left a line of ten bombs between the boat and the harbor entrance, another six in a circle around the boat itself. He checked his watch: fifty-five seconds and counting.
The sound of a diesel engine and smashing metal drew his attention. The zebra-striped Bv206 pounded across the ice. Tank treads ground over the uneven surface, slowing the vehicle to maybe ten miles an hour. The ancestor pack was only thirty feet behind and closing fast.
A sick, coppery feeling ran through his stomach—he wouldn’t be able to make it to the Otto II before the ancestors did. He looked in his canvas bag. Still had eight plastique balls.
Plastique balls that were ticking away.
Fifty seconds and counting.
Colding pointed the Ski-Doo at the shore and gunned the engine.
7:29:11 A.M.
They were only twenty-five feet from the Otto II. She checked the side mirror: three ancestors at the back bumper.
She heard a deep, splintery cracking, then the Bv dropped through the ice and plunged into the water. The passengers’ heads snapped forward as if they’d driven straight into a wall.
Icy water welled up over the windshield, over the roof, and poured through the open upper hatch.
A scream came unbidden, but the cold wetness locked it tight in her throat.
7:29:16 A.M.
Colding saw the Bv drop through the ice into the water. It almost went under, then popped up like a slow-motion cork. The ice broke up under the lead ancestors. Two dropped into the frigid water. The last one leaped into the Bv’s rear flatbed and clung to the zebra-striped lift bucket.
Colding couldn’t help Sara now. He didn’t have a gun, didn’t even have a knife, for fuck’s sake. She would have to find a way to deal with it.
He banked left, between the shore and the ancestor horde, dropping plastique balls along the way.
Forty seconds and counting.
7:29:21 A.M.
Sara regained her composure. Despite ice-cold water up to her ankles, she punched the gas pedal to the floor. The Nuge moved forward, slowly churning through the harbor.
“Tim, get over here. Keep your foot on the gas!” Tim slid sideways. Sara hopped over him to the passenger side as he took the wheel.
Sara crawled out of the passenger-side hatch, water dripping from her legs. She gathered her feet under herself and crouched, trying to keep her balance on the swaying Bv’s slick metal roof. They had to tie off to the Otto II to get everyone onboard.
Then she heard the roar.
So close it hurt her ears, so close she felt hot breath on the back of her neck. She knew, finally, that her time had come.
Sara turned to face her fate. An ancestor perched on the Bv roof, long claws scraping into the metal as it struggled to keep from sliding off. Not even two feet away. So big. So big.
A snarl twisted Sara’s lips. Her hair strung wetly across her face, her eyes hateful slits, she looked as much like an animal as the beast preparing to end her life.
Come on, fucker. Get it over with.
The ancestor opened wide and leaned forward.
Sara closed her eyes.
Five shots rang out.
The ancestor reared backward, blood pouring from an eye, from its mouth, from its nose. Big clawed feet slipped on the wet roof and it tumbled overboard, splashing into the icy water like a boulder dropped from ten stories high.
Sara turned, unable to grasp the fact that she was still alive.