* * *
The MPs’ van stopped at a traffic light. Everything seemed so normal, hours later. Not like out there in the snow running toward the helicopter that looked close but wasn’t. It must have been about nine in the morning, Bell thought, when they ran toward the chopper. If running was the word for it. The sun had come out without them noticing. They crawled, helping each other up the steep snow-covered creek bank, standing in four feet of snow now. The lieutenant heard the sergeant’s labored breathing. He could hear it now, again, the sound of Bill Whitney’s breathing and the look of terror in the older man’s eyes.
* * *
They could see their helicopter only seventy yards away, sitting in the open field, the dull Army-green color standing out on the snow. He’d let the chopper down on a rocky boulder-strewn field spotted with fresh snow; it was a high spot that Bell had guessed would support the Apache.
“There’s some of them around the chopper!” the sergeant said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bell said. He didn’t know what else to say. The chopper seemed to be their only chance. They started to trot toward it. The sun came out and the glare on the open field was explosive. He saw a bluish crystal-burn on the icy surface of the fresh snow in front of him, strangely psychedelic. The sergeant was ahead of him. They ran with their hips deep in snow. Sergeant Whitney was charging, bent slightly forward like a halfback trying to break a tackle. The lieutenant could hear Whitney grunting. The deep snow was pocked and crushed by Whitney so that Bell could follow in the bigger man’s trail. But it was slow going; the snow was wet and deep and seemed to hold them in place at times.
It dawned on Bell that the creatures would be able to use their trail, too. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Are they coming, sir?” The sergeant stopped. Bell could hear him breathing very hard. The sergeant, older, in his late forties, was sweating, his red face wet with it.
“Keep going, Bill. You have to keep going!” The lieutenant was afraid to turn around. He forced himself to stop and look behind him. He saw nothing behind him. But he was shocked how close to the creek they still were. They’d only come fifteen yards, at most.
The sergeant was bent over, taking gulps of air. Bell heard him spit. “Tired. Have to rest a moment.”
“All right, I’ll go first,” Bell said. He stepped around the sergeant, having to push through the snow that came up to his crotch. He handed Whitney his Beretta.
Bell looked at the clean snow in front of him. It was belt-high, the top frozen and hard. He looked up at the helicopter. It was still more than fifty yards away, an eternity it seemed. He started forward. Immediately the wet fresh snow gathered around his waist and made going forward difficult and exhausting.
Bell leaned forward, feeling the snow barely separate. His legs started to burn. He tried to hop as a way of clearing his body, but it only made him sink deeper in the snow. He tried to get a rhythm he could maintain, his leg muscles straining with the effort. The snow fell away as he broke a narrow trail, narrower than the sergeant’s.
The sun came out through a fissure in the clouds and blinded him. The glare off the field made him squint to see anything. Bell made himself think of his control panel in the helicopter. He made himself see each dial, each knob, the smooth red knobs of the flight control, the chopper’s clean windshield. He made himself feel the thing lifting off the ground. He was sitting in the pilot’s seat, watching himself and Whitney run toward him, turning on the engine, listening to the whine of the engine and the movement of the heavy dark blades that would save them.
Move, you SOB—move, move, move.
“Run, Lieutenant, they’re behind us! RUN, LIEUTENANT! OH GOD, RUN!”
Bell felt the sergeant’s hand on his back, pushing him. He tried to tell him to stop it, that he was going to fall forward, but he couldn’t speak. Bell was sucking hard for air. He heard a gunshot shot.
“LIEUTENANT, RUN!”
Bell heard a second shot, very close to him. Something pushed him from behind. He fell face forward in the snow and everything went dark.
Horribly confused, the lieutenant struggled to stand up. He heard the howling near him, very loud. He stood and managed to turn around. Whitney had one of the things, a woman, by the hair. He was pulling her head back, bending her backwards violently. Another creature, a man in a blue suit and dark glasses was running down the snowy glistening path, howling. The thing’s not-quite human face contorted, long strings of white thick-looking spit dripping from its reddish lips. The woman Howler, despite being pulled backwards, backhanded the sergeant, knocking him away from her. Bell saw the sergeant fall to his knees, pistol in hand. Panicked, Whitney fired at the woman, the bullets catching her in the chest, then the stomach. The Howler stood up from where she’d fallen, unfazed, and kicked the sergeant in the face, knocking him toward the lieutenant. The struggle was compacting the snow around Whitney into a scooped-out bowl.
Bell looked at the bullet hole in the in the women’s breast. Blood poured out onto the trampled snow staining it red, but she was unaffected.
“You fucking bitch!” the sergeant yelled. This time he took careful aim and fired. Nothing happened.
The Howler looked at him, her mouth open in a strange snarling glare. She walked over to the sergeant and picked him up.
“OH God, Lieutenant, help me! God, Lieutenant!”
The Howler bent him over her knee, trying to snap Whitney in two like a stick.
“OH GOD! OH GOD! AAH!”
The lieutenant heard the sergeant’s spine snap, saw the man’s hands and feet twitch horribly, his back broken. The Howler threw Whitney aside as if he were a broken toy.
The one behind her, in the suit, stopped howling and trotted up the carved narrow trail toward Bell.
The lieutenant stood up. He looked at the Beretta laying in the trampled snow a few yards in front of him and knew it needed to be reloaded. He took the extra clip from his service holster hanging from his arm.
“You fucking—” The lieutenant jumped for the weapon. The woman came at him in a crouch, stepping over the sergeant’s still-twitching body. Bell, grabbing the weapon, managed to drop the clip and ram home the fresh one. He fired at her. He caught her in the neck, then fired again at almost point blank range. Her head exploded and she ran aimlessly, face punched out. Bell fired again, this time at the back of her head, hitting it and seeing the back of the thing’s skull smashed open and fall apart.
The Howler in the suit pushed the head-shot Howler out of its way, knocking her down. The Howler with the sunglasses stood in front of Bell, long strings of spit hanging from its slightly open mouth. The thing turned and looked at the squirming sergeant, his body twitching in agony. Bell saw that the thing wore a name tag on its coat and an American flag on its lapel. It said: Hi, my name is Paul. The lieutenant looked at the tag in horror.
“Why are you doing this? Why?” Bell said. The lieutenant raised his pistol.
The Howler looked at him. The Howler opened his mouth and made a kind of hissing sound.
“Hey, Paul! Fuck you!” The lieutenant fired into the thing’s howling mouth. It fell backwards, stone dead. Bell ran to the sergeant lying face up in the blood-sprayed snow.