Shadow Dragon (42 page)
Authors: Lance Horton
Kyle roared up in front of the cabin and leapt off the snowmobile before it came to a full stop. He jerked off the helmet, grabbed the shotgun, raced up the steps and burst into the cabin.
It was like stepping into a charnel house.
He gaped at the slaughter before him. The maps on the walls were splattered with blood. Twisted and broken forms, severed limbs, and entrails were strewn about the room. Blood seeped into the cracks and crevices of the wood floor. The faint pall of smoke still hung in the air. And death. The stench was horrific.
Kyle gagged, nearly vomiting. He turned to run back out into the cold night air, but his knees buckled. He collapsed.
Overcome by it all, he no longer had the strength to pick himself up. He dragged himself across the floor, crawling on all fours like a baby. He struggled to reach the doorway.
He managed to pull himself out to the porch. He lay there, too numb to move. He had failed them all—the Joneses, Lewis, Sheriff Greyhawk, and now Carrie. They were all gone.
All because of him.
For so long he had tried to make a difference, to help people see that life was worth living no matter what might have happened to them. But now he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if it was even worth living at all.
Then, from somewhere far away, he heard something. It sounded like someone screaming.
He lifted his head and strained to hear it again. It was barely audible over the howling wind, but it was there. He rose unsteadily and started in the direction of the sound and then stopped. He picked up the shotgun and pumped it once to make sure it was loaded. Another scream rang out and was quickly carried away by the wind but not before he heard it.
It
was
a scream. And it had come from the lookout tower.
*
Arctic wind blasted Carrie in the face as soon as she stuck her head through the hatch. Her eyes watered, and she had to blink away the tears to see clearly. The roof sloped downward in all directions in order to limit the accumulation of snow. A rectangular metal box that looked to be the heating and air-conditioning unit sat to one side, while the rest of the roof was forested with satellite dishes, radio antennas, wind and rain gauges, and other odd-looking monitoring equipment. A lightning protection cable ran around the edge, connected to metal rods located at each of the eight corners.
Braving the blinding snow and wind, Carrie pulled herself onto the roof and slammed the hatch shut. The latch was on the inside, so she lay across the door, hoping the dragon wouldn’t be able to figure out where she had gone. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she tried to shelter herself from the biting wind. Exposed as she was, she knew she wouldn’t be able to survive long, but she didn’t know what else to do. She had finally come to the end of her rope.
There had been a time not long ago when she had felt as though she didn’t want to live anymore, when she would have jumped to her death with only the slightest provocation. But now it wasn’t even an option. She was determined to fight until the bitter end.
She carefully scooted across the roof a few feet and grabbed onto one of the long metal antennas. Gritting her teeth, she pushed against it until it slowly bent. Then she pulled it back. She worked it back and forth until the metal finally gave and it snapped off. As she held her makeshift weapon, Carrie clung to the frigid metal roof, shivering and praying that the beast would give up and move on or succumb to its wounds—although, from what she had seen, it didn’t appear to be slowing down.
Below, Carrie heard the first
bang
as the creature crashed against the door. She listened helplessly as the dragon broke into the room below her. It was silent for a moment and then, because it apparently sensed she had escaped, it screeched furiously. A barrage of pounding and smashing erupted below as the beast ransacked the room.
Kyle, where are you
? she whispered between chattering teeth.
Below her, the room fell silent. She listened for a moment, trying to figure out what it was doing.
She screamed as the hatch bounced upward and nearly threw her off. She braced herself for the next attack, but she knew she couldn’t last much longer.
When the attack came, she screamed again as she was dislodged from her position. She began slipping toward the edge. She tried to flatten her body against the roof, grasping for anything to stop her inexorable slide. Finally, the toes of her boot caught on the metal flashing and the lightning protection cable running around the edge.
She scooted to the side to keep from falling off. The hatch bounced up again, but this time, without her weight bearing down on top of it, it didn’t fall shut. Slowly, the creature’s head rose through the gap. It opened its mouth and hissed at her.
Carrie rammed the broken antenna into the dragon’s face, spearing it right in the mouth. The thing thrashed about furiously and screeched as it fell back through the hole. The hatch slammed shut.
Overcome by a sudden surge of emotion, she yelled, “Yeah, come on!” at the top of her lungs. It was the kind of thing her grandmother would have done, and Carrie was proud of herself for doing it. She might not have much longer left to live, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
Carefully, she began inching her way toward another antenna.
The hatch banged up again.
*
Kyle raced from the cabin to the base of the tower and looked for signs of someone inside as he ran. He desperately wanted to call out to Carrie and tell her he was coming, but he didn’t know who—or what—was after her, and he was afraid to give away his presence.
He climbed the ladder as fast as he dared while clutching the shotgun. It wouldn’t matter how fast he reached the top if he dropped the gun in the process.
When he reached the bottom of the platform, Kyle stopped. As he raised his head, he peered over the edge of the catwalk.
The tower’s observation room looked as if it had been rocked by a bomb blast. The shattered door hung limply from the twisted remains of the top hinge. Tattered plastic and other construction debris fluttered about the room, swirling in the icy wind.
The most unbelievable sight of all was the dragon. It stood in front of the windows to the right of the console. It was perched on a series of metal rungs leading to a hatch in the ceiling. It jumped up and down, pounding its head against the bottom of the hatch in an apparent attempt to open it. As Kyle watched, it drove itself upward and knocked the hatch open with its head.
Carrie’s scream rang out from above.
Kyle bounded up the last few steps and burst into the room. The dragon’s head swiveled toward him. The amber eyes narrowed.
The shotgun roared, fire and powder flaring from the muzzle.
The blast caught the dragon in the side, spinning it around and knocking it from the ladder. Behind it, the window glazed, cracked by the stray pellets. The dragon landed on the console and roared in fury. It sprang to its feet, preparing to pounce.
Kyle was quicker.
As soon as he fired the first shot, he was already pumping the next shell into the breach. He fired again and struck the beast square in the chest, blowing it backward into the window. Glass exploded outward in a spray of glimmering crystals.
The dragon fell. It bounced off the railing around the catwalk and then tumbled over the edge.
Its whiplike tail shot out and wrapped around the rail, but Kyle had seen this trick before.
As he leapt onto the console, he pumped another round into the breech and fired at the tail. The blast severed it and sent the beast plummeting downward. Halfway down, it struck the steel beams with a wet, smacking sound before it bounced off and tumbled to the snowy ground below, where it lay motionless.
Kyle watched for several seconds to make sure it was dead. He then turned and began climbing the ladder, calling out Carrie’s name as he went.
He pushed the hatch open and was nearly overcome with relief when Carrie’s dirty, scratched face came into view. He helped her down the ladder into the observation room, where he pulled her into his arms.
“Is it dead?” she asked, shivering.
“Yeah, I think so,” Kyle said, watching the doorway. He still held on to the shotgun.
Clinging to him, she said, “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”
“I know,” Kyle said.
“When you told me to leave, I—”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again,” Kyle interrupted.
“Never?” Carrie asked, looking up at him.
“Never,” he replied, pulling her tighter against him.
In spite of Carrie’s protests, Kyle pulled off his snowsuit and had her put it on. It was too big for her, but she pulled her hands through and bunched up the sleeves while she let the legs cover her feet like the footies on a little kid’s pajamas. Under other circumstances, it would have been cute.
Together, they carefully made their way back down, each watching the sky while the other climbed. Carrie went first while Kyle covered her with the shotgun, and once she was down safely, he descended.
Not knowing where else to go to seek cover, they scurried back to the visitor center. Although it was a pointless gesture with the window gone, Kyle pushed the door shut behind them. He then killed the lights in the front room both to avoid revealing their presence and to keep from seeing the carnage as they passed through. In back, they found an office with the busted radio equipment on the floor. The room had a window, so they moved on, turning out the lights as they went. Across the hall, they found a small storage room. In the corner against one wall was a cot. There were no windows.
“What do you think?” Kyle asked.
“I think it’s as good as we’re going to get,” Carrie said.
“Yeah, me too,” he agreed. “Stay here.” He slipped down the hall to the back room.
What the hell?
The front end of the Hummer was sticking through the back wall. He couldn’t imagine what Carrie must have gone through, but he was impressed by her toughness. He grabbed one of the chairs from the table and took it with him, killing the lights on the way out. The remaining headlight from the Hummer was still on, casting an eerie glow down the hall.
When he slipped back into the storage room, Carrie had already collapsed onto the cot. He pushed the door shut and wedged the chair up against the knob. He leaned against the door as the last of his strength seemed to slip away from him. Tiny tremors shook his entire body. He was cold and exhausted. At the moment, he would have given almost anything for a steaming cup of coffee.
“Do you think there are any more?” Carrie asked.
“No,” he lied.
There was silence for a moment as the magnitude of what they had been through seemed to slowly sink in.
“You can sit down,” Carrie said, scooting over on the cot.
She didn’t have to ask twice. Kyle collapsed onto the cot beside her.
Without speaking, their arms slowly enfolded one another, and they huddled together, awaiting the dawn.
The old trailer house creaked and groaned as if it might blow apart while the blizzard raged outside. The dream catcher hanging in the window jangled at the end of its string, tapping out a mysterious cadence as the trailer swayed and rocked. A low rumbling like the peal of thunder echoed in the distance, but it went unheard by the old lady on the bed. Eyes wide, she stared off into nothingness, her wispy white hair fanning out around her head.
Her breaths came quick and ragged, more panting than breathing. They grew more rapid and labored until there came a final, deep gasp followed by a long, slow exhalation.
A gossamer mist seemed to rise from her mouth as she expelled her final breath.
The dream catcher rattled against the glass and then fell still.
Kyle woke with a start. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep or know how long he had been out, but something had awakened him.
And then he heard it—something scraping around up front.
He got up, grabbed the shotgun, and crept over to the door. As he pressed his ear against it, he listened for sounds on the other side. Nothing.
He slid the chair from under the knob and cringed as it scraped along the floor. He cracked the door and peered into the hallway. It was dark. The light from the Hummer had died sometime during the night, but a faint, lambent glow seemed to spill into the corridor from up front.
Kyle raised the shotgun and used the barrel to open the door wider. Leaning against the frame, he stuck his head out to get a better look.
He could see up the hall into the front room, where blowing snow swirled in through the open door. Something had made its way inside. His heart knocked against his chest in warning as he peered into the darkness, searching for signs of movement.
A dark, hulking form suddenly rose before him in the hall.
Kyle jumped, his finger tightening on the trigger, but something caused him to stop.
The form tilted awkwardly to one side and slumped against the far wall. It slid forward and then stumbled and fell.
As it fell, Kyle glimpsed the faint shimmer of long, black hair.
“George,” Kyle gasped, rushing forward to help him. The big Indian lay slumped against the far wall. His breathing was shallow and rapid as if he were still in shock. In spite of the long exposure to the cold, his skin was dry and hot as if fevered. His right arm hung limply from a badly mangled shoulder.
Kyle whispered urgently for Carrie, who then joined him in the hallway. As gently as possible, they helped to lever the sheriff up off the floor. He never once groaned or cried out in pain as they helped him shuffle into the storage room, where they laid him on the cot.
When he turned on the lights, Kyle found two cases of bottled water wrapped in heavy plastic on the floor below the shelves. Carrie found a pack of paper hand towels for the bathroom, ripped them open, and pulled out a handful. Kyle dampened the stack of towels, which Carrie placed on the sheriff’s brow.
Kyle trickled a little of the water into the sheriff’s mouth, careful to make sure he didn’t choke. The sheriff, still seemingly dazed, was slow to swallow at first, and a good portion of it just dribbled from his mouth and onto his chest. But then he seemed to come around a little. His eyes opened halfway. They seemed glazed and distant as he tried to speak.
“Grandmother … came to me,” his deep voice croaked. “Her spirit … guided me,” he managed before he fell silent again.
Carrie looked at Kyle, worry creasing her brow. “I think he’s delirious. What do we do?”
“It’s getting close to dawn,” Kyle said. “As soon as it lightens a little, I’ll try to find the keys to the Suburban out back, and we’ll get him out of here as fast as we can.”
A short while later, when the dark line beneath the door had begun to fade, Kyle picked up the shotgun. He wasn’t looking forward to fishing through the pockets of the dead men up front, but it had to be done. They had to get the sheriff out of there.
He slipped into the corridor, still cautious in spite of the fact that dawn had arrived. The stench of death hung heavy in the cabin, and Kyle found himself wishing he had something—even if it was a menthol cigarette—to help mask the smell.
As he made his way up front, he heard the high-pitched whine of a hard-working engine approaching. He crept to the front door, which was still ajar, and watched as a black Expedition crusted with dirty snow and ice came lurching down the roadway.
The truck slid to a stop in the middle of the road, parallel to the cabin.
On the far side, the driver’s door opened, and Mike Marasco got out. He stood there for a moment, watching the building as if looking for signs of movement. In the past, Kyle would have blithely marched out to greet him, but not anymore. Things had changed. Instead, he hung back in the shadows inside the doorway and waited.
Why has Marasco come alone?
he wondered.
Where are the other agents?
Marasco began cautiously making his way across the snow toward the cabin. When he had made it about halfway across the open expanse, he reached behind his back and pulled a gun from under his thick coat.
Shit.
Marasco must be the mole.
“That’s far enough, Marasco,” Kyle called out.
When he heard the voice, Marasco dived for cover behind one of the snowmobiles. Kyle tracked him with the shotgun, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot. At least not yet. He just hoped his hesitation didn’t cost them all their lives.
“That you, Andrews?” Marasco called back.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I thought so. Man, are you all right?” He tried to sound relieved when he spoke, but Kyle didn’t believe him. Something wasn’t right.
“What are you doing here?” Kyle asked. His mind was racing as he tried to figure out what was going on. Could Marasco be the mole? When he had first met him, Kyle had pegged Marasco as someone who was loyal to the calling of law enforcement; someone with honesty and integrity in spite of his abrasive nature. But then Kyle remembered Marasco had been undercover in the mob. Even though he had been working for the government, it still showed he was adept at being deceitful. He could be doing the same thing now.
“I came looking for you,” Marasco shouted. “You caused a real shit storm when you three disappeared yesterday. No one knew what had happened. Then I remembered hearing the sheriff talking with someone about a helicopter in the valley, so I figured you must have come here. I was going to come after you yesterday. But then Deputy Johnson turned up dead, and all hell broke loose.”
Clayton is dead too?
Kyle felt a pang of grief over yet another death. The deputy had seemed like a kind, good-natured person.
“He was shot with the same caliber bullet that killed Lewis,” Marasco continued. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” Kyle asked, suddenly confused.
Why would he think that?
And then it came to him. Kyle remembered the confrontation with Marasco at the hospital, and it all made sense. Marasco wasn’t the mole. He had come after them because he thought Kyle was the killer. Marasco intended to take matters into his own hands. It was the Jersey way. That was why he had left the other agents behind. In an odd sort of way, it was almost flattering that Marasco thought him capable of such actions.
As Kyle continued to sort things out, he realized that Clayton had been the mole. He had been killed in an effort to cover it up just like they had tried with Carrie. The fact that he had been killed with the same gun as Lewis proved it as far as Kyle was concerned. And Kyle knew Marasco wasn’t the killer. The man who had attacked him at Carrie’s motel had been much taller than Marasco. Thinking back, Kyle remembered that the deputy had seemed hesitant when the sheriff had asked him to get the phone records. And later, when Clayton had told them the phone company had turned him down, no one had checked to make sure he was telling the truth. It all fit.
“So I put two and two together,” Marasco continued to talk. “You were there when Lewis was shot. Then you disappeared, and Clayton turned up dead. So I said to myself, ‘What better way to get rid of the girl and the sheriff than to pretend to go along with them, then bring them out here and kill them?’ I’ve got to admit … you had me fooled all along with your sympathetic act. But you made one major mistake. You should have gotten rid of me first.”
Kyle almost laughed at him. He sounded like someone from a bad cop movie.
“I didn’t kill anyone, you idiot!” Kyle called out. “Carrie and the sheriff are inside. The sheriff’s hurt—bad. He needs medical attention as fast as we can get him back.”
Kyle leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped out into the open, his hands held high for Marasco to see. He knew he was taking a big chance, but time was of the essence. And he
knew
he was right.
“Just come inside, and you’ll see,” Kyle said. “Carrie’s with the sheriff in the storage room in back.”
Marasco rose from behind the snowmobile, but he kept his gun leveled at Kyle. His eyes remained narrow, a look of hatred burning in them as he stepped closer. A sick feeling swept over Kyle as he looked down the barrel of the gun. Could he have been wrong?
But then Marasco looked past him, and a broad smile slowly spread across his face. He stood up and shoved the gun into the back of his pants. Relieved, Kyle turned around to find Carrie, the sheriff leaning against her in the doorway.
*
“Aay, no hard feelings, right?” Marasco asked as they helped the sheriff to the truck.
“No hard feelings,” Kyle assured him.
“And you’re not, uh … going to mention this in your report?” Marasco continued.
“I promise. You don’t have anything to worry about,” Kyle said. He suspected the only reports being written would be one by SAC Geddes detailing the numerous reasons for his dismissal.
Carrie got in the backseat with the sheriff, who leaned against her to avoid putting any weight on his right side. Kyle couldn’t help but think about the similar situation with Lewis. It had been only thirty-six hours since they had raced him to the hospital. It had all been so surreal, like a bad nightmare.
As they pulled away, Kyle glanced out the window toward the lookout tower. The overnight accumulation of snow had obscured much of it, but the dark form at the base of the tower was still there.