They passed into the staging area, where Gonzalez paused to line them up three abreast. Then the outer doors were opened and they marched into the storm. The ragged procession huddled close together, tramping through drifts that curled around their ankles. Gonzalez led the way, M16 at the ready, while Corporal Marcelin brought up the rear, lugging an improvised sled stowed with cases of water and emergency supplies.
Barbour heard the eighteen-wheeler before she saw it: the snarl of an idling diesel, filtering back through the gloom. She kept staggering forward through the storm, head bowed, until she bumped heavily into the person in front of her. Looking up, she realized the procession had stopped. There was the truck, covered with tiny yellow lights like some immense holiday offering, its headlights lancing the coruscating snow. Carradine had attached Davis’s trailer and was framed in its wide doorway. He was busily throwing objects out of the trailer and into the snow: hatboxes, racks of expensive designer dresses, a vanity table. As Barbour watched, a small leather suitcase went cartwheeling out the trailer door. Hitting the ground, it sprang open, sending forth an explosion of cosmetics. The wind caught a flimsy negligee and scooped it up into the air, flapping and rippling like a silken kite. It got caught briefly on the trailer’s antenna before floating away and disappearing in the dark sky.
Carradine brushed one hand against the other in satisfaction. “That’s better,” he said over the rumble of the diesel. “Okay. Bring ’em on.”
Gonzalez did one last head count. “Get inside,” he told the first row of people. “Find a comfortable spot to stow yourselves.”
“Don’t all bunch up together,” Carradine added. “Distribute the weight as evenly as possible.” He jumped down into the snow. “I’ve placed a spare battery-powered CB radio inside to communicate with the cab. Somebody will need to take charge of it.”
A tentative hand went up. “I will.” It was Fortnum.
Barbour watched as the two casualties were helped into the trailer: Toussaint, slumping, clearly under heavy sedation, babbling quietly to himself, and Brianna, her head bandaged, silent and looking terrified. As the line slowly shuffled closer, Barbour could feel the heat radiating out the open door. No doubt Carradine had it cranked all the way up, warming the trailer while he still could. “I’ll need somebody up front,” he said. “To feed me directional updates if things get hairy.”
“I’ll do it,” Barbour said.
Carradine looked at her. “Can you program a GPS unit?”
“I’m a computer scientist.”
“Good enough for me. Let me check the belly tarp and the alcohol evaporator, and we’ll be on our way.”
She stepped out of the line and into the relative shelter beneath the cab. As the last of the group climbed into the trailer, Marcelin handed up the cases of water and the emergency supplies. Carradine made a final inspection of the rig. Then he climbed onto the trailer and, after briefly surveying the interior and showing Fortnum the CB, he closed the door. Walking around to the rear, he disconnected the power conduit. Instantly, the trailer went dark save for the running lights at the rear.
“Ready?” Gonzalez asked.
The trucker gave him a thumbs-up.
“Then good luck and Godspeed.”
Carradine helped Barbour up into the cab, then trotted around the front and clambered into the driver’s seat. He did a quick equipment and instrument check against a clipboard list that hung on the wall behind him, buckled his seat belt, then plucked the CB hand-set from the dash. “You with me back there?” he spoke into it.
“We’re here,” came the reply.
“Ten four.” He replaced the radio, glanced over at Barbour. “Ready?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s go.” He released the air brake, shifted into gear, eased off the clutch. The truck shuddered, then began rolling slowly forward.
Barbour looked out the window, into the scudding snow. As they headed into the wastes and the dark, her last view of Fear Base was of the three soldiers—Gonzalez, Marcelin, and Phillips—standing by the empty sled, weapons ready, watching them depart.
38
For the last hour, the officers’ mess had been a scene of frantic activity. One by one, groups had been assembled, their readiness checked, and the soldiers had escorted them to the staging area. At one point Gonzalez had radioed, making a final appeal for Conti to see reason, to leave with the rest. Conti, watching rough takes on the digital video camera Fortnum left behind, barely listened. At last, Gonzalez muttered something about Conti not being worth the time it would take to force him into the truck and warned him to stay put. “You want to film something? Film the mess once we’ve killed it.” Marcelin and Phillips returned to escort the final group of six to the staging area.
That left the three of them alone.
Kari Ekberg glanced at the other two occupants of the mess. Conti, having finished watching the rough takes, was now feverishly scrawling notes on the clipboard he never seemed to be without. Wolff had secured two heavy-caliber sidearms from the military store and was toying with them. The way he jammed rounds into the extra clips with his thumb, as if filling an oversize Pez dispenser, made it seem as though he could be relied on to handle them properly.
This hardly made Ekberg feel better. She had been growing less and less confident of her decision to remain. Loyalty to a project was one thing; ambition was one thing; but being marooned here with some killing machine seemed increasingly like a questionable career move.
She tried to shake her reservations away. After all, hadn’t two of the scientists elected to remain behind with their data and their samples? Logan had chosen to stay with them. And Marshall—Marshall was out in the storm somewhere. He’d be returning, too. Be sides, there was the military contingent to think about—combat-trained and sporting a very impressive arsenal of weaponry, ready to hunt the creature down once the truck had departed. She told herself that her chances were better here, warm and dry, than in an eighteen-wheeler out on the ice.
Conti put down his pen, scanned the notes he’d just taken, then glanced up at the clock. “The truck will have left by now,” he said. “It’s time.”
Wolff put down the guns. “Time for what?”
“To film the hunt, of course. It’ll start any moment. I can’t take the risk of losing them.”
Wolff frowned. “Emilio, you can’t be serious.”
Conti picked up the video camera, examined its settings. “I would have liked to shoot the truck leaving, but I couldn’t take the chance—Gonzalez might have forced me to board it. But we can always stage that later.” He put down the camera. “The hunt, however, can’t be staged. It’s the moment we’ve been waiting for, what everything has been leading up to.”
“But that’s crazy.” The words were out almost before Ekberg had spoken them.
The director turned toward her. “What do you mean? I’ll stay well back from the soldiers. I’ll shadow them, follow them by ear—they’ll never know I’m there until the action starts and it’s too late to do anything about it.”
“But you won’t be safe—” Ekberg began.
“Do you think I’m safer here? Personally, I’d rather be close to the machine guns.”
“But Kari’s right,” said Wolff. “The soldiers are intentionally walking into danger. That means you’ll be exposed, as well.”
“Then come along.” Conti nodded toward the guns. “Bring those. We’re better off sticking together.”
Wolff didn’t reply.
“Listen to me,” Conti said. “We came up here to film that beast. Don’t you see the opportunity we’ve been given? This is a new story, and a far greater one than we ever expected. Do you really believe I’ll stay in this room, sitting on my hands, while the shot of a lifetime—maybe the shot of all time—is taking place a stone’s throw away?”
When nobody replied, he stood up and began to pace the room. “Of course there’s a degree of danger. That’s just what will make this th
e most exciting documentary ever. We’re living the actual events as they unfold; the raw materials are all around us. We three—the director, the field producer, the channel rep—we are the documentary. It’s experiential in the way no film has ever been before. Don’t you understand? We’re witnessing the dawn of an entirely new genre of film.”
As he spoke, Conti’s face flushed and his eyes glittered. His voice trembled with an almost messianic conviction. Despite her fear, Ekberg began to feel stirrings of excitement. Wolff listened in silence, his eyes following the director as he paced back and forth.
“And there’s something else,” Conti said. “Ashleigh is dead. She gave her life for this project. We should do it for her. I will be the narrator now.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Wolff spoke. “Do you really think you could pull it off?”
“I trained as a cinematographer, didn’t I? I’ll get shots that will make Fortnum retire his camera in shame.” Conti turned to Ekberg. “I’ll do the filming, but it will be a smoother sequence if you handle the sound equipment.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ll get the field mixer wired up.”
Conti nodded. “I’ll prep the rest. Kari, you hold the radio. We’ll leave in five minutes.”
39
Marshall maneuvered the Sno-Cat as quickly as he dared through the spume of snow and ice. The snow had slackened somewhat but the wind was worse than ever, screaming around the doors and windows of the big vehicle. The half dawn could not be far away, but time seemed strangely irrelevant in this no-man’s-land of monochromatic gray. At times it felt like being underwater, as if earth and air had been merged by the violence of the storm into some strange new element, some chemical suspension through which the Cat was forcing its way.
He glanced into the rearview mirror. Usuguk sat cross-legged in the back of the cab, medicine bundle on his lap. He had left his battered carbine behind and was unarmed. Hood pushed back and weathered face exposed, the man seemed dwarfed by the parka that surrounded him. Although Marshall had tried to draw him into conversation several times, the Tunit had said little during the trip south, instead swaying gently—with a motion that had nothing to do with the bouncing of the Sno-Cat—and now and then chanting softly to himself.
He tried once more. “Back at your village, you told me your hunting days were over. You used to be a hunter?”
Usuguk roused himself. “I was. I was a great hunter. But that was years ago, when I was still a little man.”
Little man? “There’s something I don’t understand. Why do you live so far inland, away from the sea? You can’t grow anything in this climate. There’s no food to harvest except the occasional polar bear. You said it yourself: life would be so much easier if you lived near the coast.”
Again, it took Usuguk a moment to answer. “I have no interest in an easier life.”
“Do you mean to say that, if the others don’t return, you’ll just live out here in the wilderness by yourself?”
A long silence. “It is my roktalyik.”
Marshall glanced again in the rearview mirror. The man knew something—that seemed clear—but would it be of use? Would it turn out to be a tapestry of myth and ritual, interesting but completely useless? He could only hope not.
They continued southward in silence, Marshall keeping one eye on the GPS and the other on the swirling snow. Mount Fear was close now, and he reduced speed, straining to spot any lava tubes or magma fractures that might yawn treacherously before them under a concealing mantle of snow. Within ten minutes a tiny pinpoint of light winked out of the darkness to the left; then two; then half a dozen. Marshall corrected course and moments later the perimeter fence appeared, skeletal in the headlights. Instead of parking at the motor pool, he maneuvered his way past the gate and between the outbuildings, nosing the Cat toward the central entrance. To his vast surprise he noticed that both Carradine’s rig and Davis’s trailer were gone. A large vacant spot just inside the fence marked where they had sat, footprints and tread marks scoured clean by the wind.
He parked as near the double doors as he could, then killed the engine and nodded to Usuguk. The Tunit came forward and together they exited the vehicle, ducking through the icy squall. Marshall opened the doors and stepped inside. After a pause, Usuguk followed.
The weather chamber looked like a war zone: a dozen lockers hanging open, cold-weather gear and ration boxes strewn across the floor. A large cache of weapons and ammunition stood in one corner. Marshall walked over and—feeling a huge reluctance—picked up an M16 and a couple of thirty-round magazines. He stuffed the magazines into his parka pockets and slung the semiautomatic over his shoulder.
The entrance plaza beyond was dark and empty. Marshall paused a moment, listening. The base seemed almost preternaturally silent; there was no hollow echo of footsteps, no distant chatter of conversation. He led the way to the central staircase, heading toward the living quarters on B Level. Usuguk followed him at some distance, looking neither left nor right. The Tunit seemed disinterested in his surroundings. In fact, he seemed to be trying to notice as little as possible. There was a remote, almost pained look on his face, as if he was in the midst of some internal struggle.
B Level seemed just as deserted. As they passed by rooms that in previous days had been abuzz with activity—the Operations Center, offices, and the living quarters—Marshall grew increasingly puzzled. What had happened? Where was everybody? Had they all retreated to someplace deep within the base, a safe haven—or last redoubt?
There was one spot he felt certain would be occupied: the life-sciences lab. And as he approached it he found he was correct: faint voices could be heard inside. When he opened the door he found not only Faraday but Sully and Logan as well. All three jumped as he entered. Logan stood up quickly, looking curiously at Usuguk. Sully, who was sitting at an adjoining table, just nodded, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo. One of the high-powered rifles used to guard against polar bear attacks was leaning beside him. Faraday looked from Marshall to Usuguk and back again.
“You did it,” Logan said. “Good man.”
“Where is everybody?” Marshall asked.
“They left,” Logan replied. “In the trailer.”
“The thing got Ashleigh Davis and one of the soldiers,” Sully said. “Slaughtered them both.”
A chill went through Marshall. “My God. That’s three it’s killed now.”
“Gonzalez and his boys are out hunting it,” Sully added.
Logan waved a hand toward Sully and Faraday. “I told them about the journal. Why you made the trip to the village.”
“What about the journal?” Marshall asked.
“I’ve deciphered a few more fragments. Nothing of use.”
Marshall turned toward the shaman. “We know about the science team here fifty years ago. There were eight of them. Seven died under sudden and it seems violent circumstances. I told you what one wrote: ‘The Tunits have the answer.’ To what, we don’t yet know. So, can you help us?”
As he spoke, a change seemed to come over Usuguk. The pained expression slowly left his face, to be replaced by something Marshall thought might be resignation. For several moments, he remained silent. And then, slowly, he nodded.
“You can?” Logan asked eagerly. “Then you know about what happened?”
“Yes.” Usuguk nodded again. “I was the one who got away.”
40
When he first pulled duty at Fear Base, as a green buck private back in 1978, Gonzalez had participated in the occasional infiltration exercise. They—there had been six of them back then—were told to assume a Russian sabotage unit had penetrated the base, and they were tasked with interdiction. Of course, since even at that time the base had been closed almost twenty years, it was nothing more than a war game. Yet it was considered good training, especially for those who transferred out of the engineer corps and into the regular army. And it stayed with you: Gonzalez still vividly recalled the whispered orders
, the readied weapons, the doors knocked open with sudden kicks.
This felt pretty much the same.
After the semi and trailer had departed, the team had readied their weapons and—after a short briefing and a few words of caution from Gonzalez—deployed into the south wing. They moved down the corridors in near-total silence, Gonzalez indicating his wishes with a gesture or single word. They had passed the infirmary and were approaching the spot where Fluke and Davis were attacked. It was the second time in an hour he’d taken this particular walk. The last time, he missed the action by seconds. Fluke was dead, torn literally into pieces, but Davis lingered a little while. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. Now both bodies were occupying the infirmary’s examining room, rolled in plastic sheets, replacing the missing Peters.
“Okay,” he muttered. “We’ll take up position outside the staging room. Phillips, you do a quick recon.”
Phillips, who was on point, gave a thumbs-up. Gonzalez glanced back at Marcelin, who nodded his understanding.
Privately, Gonzalez was relieved at how Marcelin was holding up. He was the only one to catch a glimpse of the creature, and it had almost unmanned him. But either he’d rallied or he was putting up a good front. A rotation like this, stuck in the ass end of nowhere, didn’t generally pull the cream of the crop, but he was pleased with his present team. True, they were “camp slugs,” engineer corpsmen without combat experience under their belts. But they weren’t whiners and they weren’t prima donnas. They understood that every day at Fear Base would be just like every other day.
That is, until now.
Gonzalez looked over Marcelin’s shoulder at Creel. The burly foreman was grinning like an idiot, two handguns jammed in his waistband, brandishing his M4 grenade launcher–equipped carbine like he was goddamned Rambo. Creel was a wild card: Gonzalez was a little skeptical about the Third Cav claims but at least the man knew how to handle a weapon. And though three machine guns seemed like plenty, Sergeant Gonzalez was a conservative man. An extra trigger finger felt like a good precaution.