Frank Schatzing - The Swarm

'Sorry,' said one. 'You've just missed him. He left a few minutes ago.'

'Did he come on foot?' she asked. Maybe she could catch up with him.

'In the van. He bought a few bottles. Too many to carry.'

'Was he going back to the restaurant?'

'That's where he said he was heading.'

'Thanks.'

'Hey, hang on a minute. You can't visit a distillery and leave before you've had a drink.'

'It's very kind of you, but-'

'He's right, you know,' his brother said eagerly.

'I-'

'Come on, you'll catch your death out there. Let's get a drop of something warm inside you first.'

'OK' she said. Just one.

The brothers grinned triumphantly. The war of attrition had been won.

SHETLAND ISLANDS, Great Britain

The helicopter was preparing to land. Johanson looked out of the window. They'd just flown over the cliffs, following the coastline in the direction of the little landing-field where Karen Weaver would he waiting. Towards the east of the island the cliffs sloped downwards to end in a sweeping bay. From there the landscape was flat. An endless succession of sand and pebble beaches separated the water from barren moorland and long rolling hills with roads etched between them like scars.

The helipad, which was rather a grand term for the rough circle of gravel surrounded by grey-green moorland, belonged to a marine research station whose crooked, windswept huts housed half a dozen scientists. A narrow road led down from the hills and stopped at a jetty. Johanson couldn't see any boats. Two jeeps and a rusty VW bus were parked next to the buildings. Weaver was working on an article on seals, which was why she'd chosen the spot. She lived in one of the huts, accompanied the scientists on their expeditions and joined in on their research dives.

A final gust shook the Bell 430, then the skids touched down. The helicopter landed with a jolt.

'Well, that wasn't too bad, was it?' said the pilot.

Johanson saw a small figure standing at the edge of the landing field, her hair blowing in the wind. Karen Weaver, he guessed. A few metres away from her, a motorbike was propped up on its stand. He stretched, then slid Whitman's poetry back into his bag and picked up his coat. 'It would have been fun to do a few more laps,' he said, 'but I'd have to keep the lady waiting.

Can you come back for me tomorrow around lunchtime? Twelve o'clock, let's say.'

'No problem.'

He waited for the door to slide open, then clambered down the ladder. He was pleased to be back on firm ground. The pilot had to head off again, but turbulent conditions were clearly part of the job. He'd take a short break, then carry on to Lerwick for fuel. Johanson swung his bag over his shoulder. His coat billowed in the wind and flapped around his legs, but at least it wasn't raining. Karen Weaver came to meet him. It was strange, but with every step her size diminished. By the time she was standing in front of him, he guessed she was barely five foot five. She was nicely compact. Her jeans were stretched over muscular legs, and her strong shoulders stood out beneath her leather jacket. As far as Johanson could tell, she wasn't wearing makeup. Her skin glowed with a natural tan and freckles were scattered over her forehead and wide cheekbones. The wind tugged at a cascade of auburn curls. She eyed him inquisitively. 'Sigur Johanson,' she announced. 'How was your flight?'

'Wretched. Thankfully I had Walt Whitman to reassure me.' He glanced back at the helicopter.

She smiled. 'Shall we go for some food?'

'Sure. Where?'

She nodded in the direction of the motorbike.

'We could drive into town. If you managed the flying, you won't mind the Harley. It'd be quicker to eat at the station, though – if corned beef and pea soup don't put you off.

Johanson noticed that her eyes were an unusually brilliant blue. 'Why not?' he said. 'Where are all your scientists? Out sailing?'

'No, it's too rough. They headed into town for supplies. They don't mind me doing what I like here, including helping myself to their tins. That's about the extent of my cooking.'

Johanson followed her over the gravel towards the station. The buildings didn't look quite as flimsy from this angle as they had from above. 'Where are the boats?' he asked.

'We don't like leaving them out.' She pointed to the building closest to the water. 'The bay isn't very sheltered, so once we've finished we lug them back to that hut by the sea.'

The sea…

Where was it?

Johanson did a double-take and stopped. A few seconds earlier breakers had been crashing up the beach, but now there was nothing but mud and rocks. Within the last minute the tide had receded, leaving the seabed exposed.

It was impossible for the tide to turn so quickly. The water had retreated by hundreds of metres.

Weaver turned. 'What's wrong?'

He shook his head. He could hear noise. At first he thought it was an aeroplane swooping towards the shore. But it didn't sound like an aeroplane, more like a roll of thunder, only thunder rose and fell, and this noise just kept…

Suddenly he knew what it was.

Weaver had followed his gaze. 'What the hell-'

Johanson saw the horizon darken. 'To the helicopter,' he yelled.

Weaver seemed rooted to the spot. Then she darted forwards. Together they ran towards the helicopter. Through the bubble of the cockpit Johanson saw the pilot checking the instruments. It was a moment before he noticed the figures dashing towards him. He stopped what he was doing. Johanson signalled for him to let down the ladder. He knew the pilot couldn't see what was approaching from the water, since the helicopter was facing inland.

The man frowned, then nodded. With a hiss the door slid open and the ladder was lowered.

The thundering drew closer. Now it sounded as though the whole world was in motion, rushing towards the beach.

Which was exactly what was happening, thought Johanson.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Torn between terror and fascination, he paused at the foot of the ladder and watched as the sea returned, flooding over the muddy plain.

Johanson!'

He pulled himself together and hurried up the steps, Weaver at his heels. He saw the confusion in the pilot's eyes and shouted, 'Start her up. Hurry.'

'What's that noise? What's going on?'

Just get this thing in the air.'

I'm not a magician, you know! What the hell's going on? Where am I supposed to go?'

'Anywhere. So long as it's up.'

The rotors rattled into action. The Bell wobbled and took off, climbing one metre, two. Then the pilot's curiosity conquered his fear, and he swung the helicopter through 180 degrees so that they were looking at the sea. 'Holy shit,' he gasped.

'Look!' Weaver was pointing towards the huts. 'Over there.'

Someone had come out of the main building and was running towards them. A man in jeans and a T-shirt. Weaver stared at him in horror. 'We've got to go down. Oh, God! I swear I didn't know Steven was here – I thought they'd all-'

Johanson shook his head. 'He won't make it.'

'We can't leave him here.'

'Look outside, for Christ's sake, he's not going to make it. If we go down none of us will.'

Weaver headed for the door as the pilot steered sideways over the strip of sand towards the man. The helicopter twisted, buffeted by strong blasts and for a moment they lost sight of the man, then they were almost above him.

'We've got to go down!' shouted Weaver.

'No,' said Johanson.

She didn't hear him. Even the sound of the rotors was lost in the thunder of the wave. Johanson knew it was too late to save the man now, but precious moments had been wasted, and he wasn't sure that they could get away themselves. He forced himself to look away from the running scientist and focus ahead.