Ice Hunt (49 page)

She followed Tom’s blank stare down the hall. She recalled her earlier discussion with Dr. Ogden.

The biologist had developed a theory about the grendels’ social structure. He imagined that the species spent a good chunk of their life span in frozen hibernation. A good way to conserve energy in an environment so scant on resources. But to protect the frozen pod, one or two sentinels remained awake, guarding their territory. These few hunted the surrounding waters through sea caves connected to the Crawl Space or scoured the surface through natural or man-made egress points. While exploring down here, Ogden had found spots in the Crawl Space that looked like claws had dug a grendel free from its icy slumber. He had his theory: “The guardians must change shift every few years, slipping into slumber themselves to rest and allowing a new member to take over. It’s probably why they’ve remained hidden for so long. Only one or two remain active, while the rest slumber through the centuries. There’s no telling how long these things have been around, occasionally brushing into contact with mankind, leading to myths of dragons and snow monsters.”

“Or Beowulf’s Grendel,” Amanda had added. “But why have they stayed here on this island for so long?”

Ogden had this answer, too. “The island is their nest. I examined some of the smaller caves in the cliff face and found frozen offspring, only a few, but considering the creatures’ longevity, I wager few progeny are necessary to maintain their breeding pool. And as with most species with small litters, the social group as a whole will defend their nest tooth and nail.”

But where are they now?
Amanda wondered. Fire would not hold the grendels at bay forever, not if they were defending their nest.

Tom swung around, clearly attracted by some noise.

She turned and looked. The group by the ventilation shaft stirred. She immediately saw why. A length of red rope snaked from the opening, dangling to the floor. Jenny had made it to the top.

The group gathered closer.

Craig faced them with a hand up. His lips were illuminated by his lantern. “To minimize the load on the rope, we should go up in groups of three. I’ll go with the two women.” He pointed to Amanda and Magdalene. “Then Dr. Ogden and his two students. Then the Navy pair with the dog.”

He stared around, waiting to see if there were any objections.

Amanda glanced around herself. No one seemed to be disagreeing. And she surely wasn’t going to. She was with the first group. Without any protests, Craig helped Magdalene up, then offered a hand to her.

She waved for him to go ahead. “I’ve been climbing all my life.”

He nodded and mounted the rope, pulling himself up.

Amanda then followed. The climb was strenuous, but fear drove their party quickly upward, away from the terror below. Amanda had never been happier to see daylight. She scrambled up after the other two, then rolled into open air.

The winds buffeted her as she stood.

Jenny helped steady her. “The blizzard is breaking up,” she said, her eyes on the skies.

Amanda frowned at the blowing snow, blind to the surroundings beyond a few yards. The cold already bit into her exposed cheeks. If this storm was breaking up, how bad had it been before?

Craig bent to the hole, clearly calling to those below, then straightened and faced them. “We’ll have to hurry. If the storm is letting up, we’ll have less cover.”

They waited for the next party—the biology group. It didn’t take too long. Soon three more figures rolled out of the ventilation shaft. Craig bent again to the shaft.

Amanda felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck quiver. Deaf to the storm and the chatter around her, she sensed it first. She swung around in a full circle.

Sonar…

“Stop!” she yelled. “Grendels…!”

Everyone tensed, facing outward.

Craig was still at the hole. He scrambled in his parka for one of the Molotovs. She saw his lips moving. “…screaming down the shaft. The creatures are attacking below, too.”

Henry Ogden struggled to light his own Molotov, but the wind kept snuffing his lighter. “…a coordinated attack. They’re using sonar to communicate with one another.”

Amanda stared into the whiteout. It was an ambush.

From out of the deep snow, shadowy figures crept toward them, slipping like hulking phantoms from the heart of the storm.

Henry finally got his oily rag burning and tossed his bottle outside, toward the group. It sailed through the snow, landed in a snowbank, and sizzled out. The beasts continued toward them.

Amanda caught movement from around another ice peak to the far right. Another grendel…and another.

They were closing in from all sides.

Craig stepped forward, a flaming Molotov in his raised hand.

“Avoid the snow,” Amanda warned. “It’s fresh, wet.”

Craig nodded and threw the fiery charge. It arced through the blowing snow and struck the knifed edge of a pressure ridge. Flame exploded across the path of the largest group.

The beasts flinched, stopping.

Run away,
she willed at them.

As answer, Amanda felt the sonar intensify, a grendel roar of frustration. Out in the open, they were less intimidated by the fiery display.

Craig turned to her, to the others. He pointed an arm. “Back down the ventilation shaft!”

Amanda swung around in time to see Bane leap out of the same shaft, snarling and barking, as wild as a full wolf. But Jenny caught her dog, trying to keep him from running at the grendels.

Around them, there was much shouting. Amanda heard none of it. People were too panicked for her to catch what was being said. Why was no one diving into the shaft?

Then she had her answer.

Kowalski scrambled out of the hole, shouting, red-faced. “Get back!” She was able to read his lips as he yelled. “They’re right on our tail!”

Tom appeared next, the left arm of his parka singed and smoldering. He rolled out, shoving his arm into the snow. Smoke billowed from the shaft. “The shaft caved in with that last Molotov. It’s blocked.”

Kowalski stared toward the flames out in the storm, his face sinking. “Shit…”

Amanda turned. The fires from Craig’s Molotov were foundering in the snowmelt. The beasts, obeying some sonar signal, began to march toward the group again, splashing and stamping through the remaining flames.

As Amanda backed, the party pulled tighter together.

There was no escape.

5:03 P.M.

Standing only a yard away with his AK-47, the Russian fired at Matt’s head. Muzzle flash flared from the rifle barrel. Still deafened from the grenade blast, Matt didn’t hear the shot—
or the one that took out the shooter
.

Matt fell back, his left ear aflame. He watched, confused, as the right side of the guard’s head exploded out in a shower of bone and brain. It was all done in dead silence. Matt struck the ground, landing on his shoulder. Blood trailed down his neck. The shot had nicked his ear. He saw Bratt, Greer, and Washburn running at him. Bratt’s rifle still smoked.

In the hallway, the second guard tried to react, swinging his weapon, but Greer and Washburn both fired. A bullet struck the Russian’s shoulder, spinning him like a top. Another blasted through the man’s neck, spraying blood over the wall.

Sound began to return to Matt. Mostly the louder noises. Yells, more shots. The double doors to the galley suddenly exploded outward, tearing from hinges and blowing across the room; fire and smoke followed. Another booby trap.

Amid the chaos, Matt struggled to stand as the group reached him. Bratt grabbed him by the hood and hauled him up, yelling in his good ear. “Next time I duct-tape that damn grenade to you!”

As a group, they sprinted toward the Sno-Cat.

“More soldiers…!” Matt gasped, waving ahead, trying to warn.

Shots fired at them—from beyond the Sno-Cat. They dove down, using the wreckage as a shield. Rifle shots rattled the trashed vehicle.

Matt crouched, his back to the Sno-Cat. He stared back into the main room, cloudy with smoke. They were still exposed. They had to move.

Smoke swirled, and movement near the room’s center caught Matt’s eye. A man seemed to be floating up the shaft from below, lit by a couple flashlights. He was tall, white-haired, wearing an open greatcoat. In his arms, he carried a boy wrapped in a blanket. The boy was crying, covering his ears.

It made no sense.

“Get down!” Bratt yelled to Matt, pushing his head lower.

Greer tossed a grenade over the top of the vehicle toward the hidden snipers. Washburn rolled another back toward the main room.

“No!” Matt cried.

The twin explosions snuffed out Matt’s hearing again. The Sno-Cat jolted a foot toward them from the blast. Chunks of ice rained down; steamy smoke filled the hall.

Bratt motioned, pointing an arm. They had no choice but to make a run for it. They leaped as a group, having to trust that the grenade took out all the hostiles ahead of them.

The commander took the lead, followed by Washburn and Matt. Greer ran behind them, firing blindly back toward the main room. The shots sounded far away, more like a toy cap gun.

Then Greer shouldered into Matt, trying to get him to hurry, but succeeded in almost knocking him down. He glanced back angrily as he caught his balance.

Greer was down on one knee. He hadn’t pushed Matt. He had fallen.

Matt stopped, skidding around on the ice-strewn floor, meaning to go to his aid. The man’s face was a mask of fury and pain. He waved Matt onward, shouting soundlessly.

Matt saw why. Blood pooled under Greer, pouring from his leg. The blood pumped in a bright red flow.
Arterial
. Greer slumped to the floor, rifle across his knees.

Washburn grabbed Matt’s arm, taking in the scene immediately. She yanked him, making him follow her.

Greer met Matt’s gaze, then did the oddest thing. The man simply shrugged, disappointed, like he’d simply lost a bet. He lifted his rifle, pointed it toward the station, and began to fire again.

Pop…pop…pop…

Matt allowed himself to be dragged away. They fled past the Sno-Cat and headed toward the blasted doorway. Bodies lay in crumpled piles; there was no resistance.

Matt spotted a familiar object resting in a severed hand. He snatched it up in midrun and shoved it into his pocket. It could come in handy.

The trio fled to the surface, out into the storm.

Once Matt was free of the station, the wind seemed to dispel his deafness. He heard the blizzard’s howl.

“This way!” Bratt yelled, aiming them toward the parked snow vehicles. They planned to steal a Ski-Doo and head out to the SLOT transmitter, hidden among the peaks.

But first they had to get there.

It was a hundred-yard dash.

Clearing the entrance, they sprinted across the open, heading toward the vehicles half buried in the blowing snow.

It was too much to hope they were unguarded.

Guns fired at them. Ice spat up from the impacts, stinging them.

Bratt and Washburn dropped to their bellies, sheltering behind a shallow ridge of ice. Matt did the same. The snipers were hidden in a valley between two ice peaks. Well protected. Matt spotted orange tents sheltered up there.

“That’s where the corpses from the station are kept,” Washburn hissed. “I know a back way in, and I have one more grenade. Cover me.” She began to crawl away, retreating toward the station’s entrance.

Bratt aimed his gun and fired toward the tents. Matt rolled and hauled his AK-47 around. He aimed, searching for snowy shadows. He fired whenever he saw movement.

Off to the side, Washburn reached a narrow crevasse between two peaks, ready to circle behind the snipers.

Then, as was usual for this day, everything went dreadfully wrong.

5:11 P.M.

By the shaft opening, Jenny readied herself along with the others. She held Bane’s scruff. The storm winds still blew fiercely, but the snowfall had waned to flurries and gusts.

“On my mark!” Kowalski yelled a few steps away. He and Tom stood in front, bearing flaming Molotovs over their heads.

Five grendels massed ahead of them. The beasts’ approach had stopped as explosion after muffled explosion erupted, sounding as if they were coming from just beyond the next peak. The creatures, tuned to vibrations, were disturbed by the concussions.

“It’s the station,” Tom had said. “Someone’s attacking.”

Kowalski had agreed, “Sounds like grenades.”

The momentary confusion of the beasts had bought them time to light a pair of Molotovs and devise a quick plan.

It wasn’t artful. Simply down and dirty.

Kowalski took the lead, stepping toward the nearest grendel and waving his flaming torch at it.

Lips pulled back in response, baring teeth like a dog. The other grendels retreated a step, edgy now, wary. The lead bull kept his spot, not intimidated by the show.

“This one’s well fed,” Ogden whispered at Jenny’s side, crowding her. “It’s surely one of the pod’s sentinels. Its territoriality will be the most fierce.”

That was their hope. Take out the leader and maybe the pack will scatter.

Kowalski took another step. Tom dogged behind him.

In a blur, the grendel suddenly leaped at them, roaring.

“Fuck!” Kowalski screamed, and tossed the Molotov toward the monster’s open jaws. He flew backward, bouncing into Tom. They both fell.

The seaman’s aim, though, proved true. The flaming bottle sailed end over end into the creature’s maw. The result was spectacular.

An explosion of burning oil burst from the creature’s jaws, like some fire-breathing dragon. It howled, spitting and hacking out flaming oil. It spun in agony and blind fury. The others fled from the display, bounding away in all directions.

The smell of burning flesh filled the small ice vale.

“Now!” Kowalski screamed, springing to his feet with Tom.

The young ensign had managed to keep his Molotov out of the snow. He whipped it now with the strength of a major-league ballplayer. It arced past the flailing monster and burst farther down the path, flaming more of the trail ahead, warding away any other grendels.