There was still no sign of any wolf activity outside and the only sound was the crack of timbers as they smouldered in the ruin of the main building. Thin smoke was dispersed by a breeze and the air had turned decidedly chilly under a clearing blue sky. The sheriff and I smoked two cigarettes each in the doorway before the cold drove us back inside.
Jennings still stood in his corner, Watkins sat in the opposite corner, head down and back against the wall, and the cap was with the privates, doing something with a laptop at the keypad. I went over to see if they were making any progress.
“We’re getting there, Sarge,” Davies said. “Twenty more minutes and we should have it cracked.”
Computers and me don’t mix; to me they’re wee magic number boxes whose secrets will always elude me. That was a young man’s game these days, and I was starting to feel my age. I left the lads to it and went over to Jennings. When I looked in his eyes he looked away, lowered his gaze as if in shame. It wasn’t much but I took it as an improvement on the faraway stare; maybe there was a chance yet that he’d come back to us. I clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hang in there, lad. We’ll get you hame.”
An answer came in the form of a fresh, blood-curdling howl from outside, not too close, but not too far either. The wolves had regrouped, and I didn’t think they were in the mood for reconciliation.
- 11 -
The lads got the vault door code cracked fifteen minutes later. The cap spun the big wheel and the door came open with a faint hiss of escaping air. The smell hit me immediately, a musky, heavy odor of animal with a faint underlay of piss and shite. And with it came the memory of another cave and a charnel-house in Siberia. My legs didn’t want me to go any farther and I had to force myself to step in after the cap once the door was fully open.
Fluorescent tubes lit a set of metal steps going down at a sharp angle in a rock tunnel with hastily whitewashed walls. The stench came up in a warm draft from below, making me breathe carefully through my mouth as we descended. The cap went first, with the sheriff behind me and Davies bringing up the rear; we left Wilko at the vault door covering our backs in case the wolves were feeling extra sneaky.
We descended in silence, a couple of dozen steps until we reached bottom and stood in a roughly hewn cave, more fluorescent lights buzzing above us. It was a prison, of sorts, three cells again roughly cut into the rock on either side, each with a very hefty iron grille across the front stout enough to contain the strongest of men. But what was inside were no men.
I’d seen them before so was ready for the sight but the sheriff let out an involuntary yelp and had taken three steps back towards the stairs before she gathered herself. Young Davies looked like he’d join her in flight given half a chance and I can’t say I blamed him. On our left-hand side two sullen male Alma stood at the grilles of their respective cages, inspecting us as we were inspecting them. These were paler than the ones in Siberia, almost white to match the snow outside. They stood more than seven feet tall on slightly bowed legs with barrel chests and noticeable pot-bellies, the matted fur hanging like a kilt around their waist, their slightly conical heads almost scraping the roof of their cells. Their hands were the size of shovels, with slate-gray fingernails long and pointed; I knew from experience they could rend flesh like knives through butter. Above shaggy beards that hung on their chests their mouths were full of teeth and their dark brown, almost black, eyes full of anger. And somehow their silence only made them appear all that much more intimidating.
“Fuck me,” Davies said.
“Don’t go giving them any ideas, lad,” I answered. “They’ve been locked up for a while and might take you at your word.”
The sheriff had turned away, but now she let out another yelp of surprise.
“There’s another one over here.”
On the other side of the cave, in the middle of the three cells, we found a third Alma. This one wasn’t standing to watch us but was instead lying on a bed of straw near the rear. I had to wash my gun light over in that direction to get a look but it was immediately clear that this was the pregnant female that Watkins had mentioned. Her belly was heavily distended. She lay on her side, almost as large as the males opposite, and moaned most piteously, as if in pain.
I saw that the cap was building up a steam of rage.
“I don’t care what they are. Even in zoos we don’t treat animals like this. And I’m not even sure these are animals. Get Watkins down here,” he said to me. “Drag him down if need be.”
I was halfway up the steps when Wilko shouted down from above.
“The Englishman’s done a runner. Want me to go after him?”
I went up the stairs two at a time and arrived in the room at the top to find Wilko at the door looking out. Jennings was still in his corner but there was no sign of the Englishman.
“I think he’s heading for the trucks,” Wilko said.
“Then he’s not going far,” I replied as I pushed past him. “The cap and I have got the keys. Watch my back. I’ll go fetch.”
I headed out into the snow, following a fresh set of prints that, as Wilko had said, headed down the slope towards the parked trucks. I looked up and saw the man climbing up into the cab of the nearest truck.
He got out again while I was still only halfway down towards him, obviously having discovered what I already knew; the keys weren’t in the ignition.
“Come back, man,” I shouted, aware that my voice was carrying loud and clear in the air. “Don’t be a wanker about this. We’re safer together.”
He obviously didn’t agree. He turned, saw me coming, and immediately headed off at a run towards the main gate. I didn’t know what his plan was, I’m not even sure that he had one beyond panic and flight, but whatever it was it made him a determined wee sod. He was getting farther away from me. As I passed the trucks he was already outside the compound and heading down the hill. I briefly considered getting in the truck and chasing him down but the sound of the engines might attract the pack, and besides, I’d lose time on him just getting into the truck and getting it going. I put on a burst of speed.
I got lucky. He wasn’t watching his footing, took a tumble arse over tit and plowed head first into the snow, busting his nose and leaving a bloody red smear on the ground. I was on him as he was pushing himself to his feet.
“Come here, ya daft bugger,” I said as I grabbed his shoulder.
He didn’t reply, but something in the trees to the left of the road did, a low growl that told me we were in serious trouble. Watkins had heard it too and grabbed at my arm.
“If we stay on the road they’ll only run us down. This way. It’s our only chance.”
He pulled away from me, went right and ducked under the canopy, almost immediately lost to sight beneath the foliage.
“Bugger,” I muttered, and headed after him, aware that at any minute something might take a bloody bite out of my arse.
Within a few paces I was on some kind of animal trail; big deer at a guess given the size and frequency of the droppings, and Watkins was barrelling along through the branches ahead of me, unheeding of the noise he was making, intent only on speed. I yielded to his local knowledge and followed right behind him. Somewhere at our backs a wolf barked and was answered by a louder bark to my left, not too close, but not too far either.
“I hope you ken where you’re going,” I shouted.
“Not far now,” he shouted back.
The trail brought us out at the rim of a clearing, a bowl in the snow in the bottom of which sat a squat domed metal building with garage doors.