Scott Sigler - Ancestor

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Ancestor: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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On a remote island in Lake Superior, scientists struggle to solve the problem of xenotransplantation — using animal tissue to replace failing human organs. Funded by the biotech firm Genada, Dr. Claus Rhumkorrf seeks to recreate the ancestor of all mammals.
By getting back to the root of our creation, Rhumkorrf hopes to create an animal with human internal organs. Rhumkorrf discovers the ancestor, but it is not the small, harmless creature he envisions. His genius gives birth to a fast-growing evil that nature eradicated 250 million years ago — an evil now on the loose, and very, very hungry.

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The lift bucket reached the top. He had no choice—he had to keep Sven in the dark until Tim and Sara were off the island. Clayton connected his orange handset and punched in Sven’s number.

THE PHONE RANG. Mookie barked at it. Mookie barked at everything.

“Shut up, girl,” Sven said as he walked to the phone. “Yah, Sven here.”

“Sven, it’s Clayton.” Clayton’s voice sounded scratchy and far-off.

“Clayton, those cows are awfully sick, eh? And they’re getting worse fast. Who’s coming out to help me?”

“Listen, Sven, there’s a problem. Genada is up to no good. Can you just stay out of da barn for a day or so, until this storm passes us over?”

What the hell was that old coot rambling on about? Was this another one of Clayton’s tall tales?

“No, Clayton, I can’t stay out of da barn . I have to take care of my herd, eh?”

There was a pause, no noise but the scratchy connection and maybe some wind on Clayton’s end.

“Sven, listen to me, eh? Just trust me on this one.”

Clayton clearly didn’t understand the state of the strays, or what it meant to be responsible for the safety and welfare of those animals. “Know what, Clayton? How about you just fix da phones.”

“Genada is up to no good, I tell ya.”

“Well, Genada signs my paycheck every other week. You don’t. Now fix da phones or I’m driving up to da mansion myself.”

Sven heard muttered cursing, and what sounded like someone kicking the inside of a big plastic bucket.

“Sven, you remember when your wife died?”

The question stunned him. What the hell did that have to do with anything? “Of course I remember, Clayton. What’s your goddamn point?”

“Remember how I took care of things for you? When you were… grieving?”

Sven’s big, calloused hand tightened on the plastic handset. Grieving . That was one way to describe it. Lying in bed and crying, not eating for a week, unable to lift a finger to help himself… that was more accurate. Clayton had taken care of everything.

“Clayton Detweiler, are you trying to tell me that I owe you?”

“Yah, and I’m cashing in. Just sit tight. Stay away from da barn, Sven.”

What a tit-for-tat son of a bitch. Whatever this was, it was a very big deal to Clayton. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I want to, Sven, but I can’t.”

Wasn’t that just perfect? Clayton didn’t pull shit like this, ever. Had to be something major. “I’ll wait until da storm blows over, but that’s it. Tomorrow morning, one way or another, someone is coming out here.”

A pause. “Well, that’ll have to do. I’ll talk to you before then.”

Sven hung up and looked out the window, troubled thoughts whirling through his mind like the nasty winds taking shape outside. He’d known Clayton for, oh, thirty years now. Sven nodded—he could wait, wait until the storm had passed. After that, however, he had to fulfill his obligations.

Sven rolled his neck. He heard and felt his old bones crack. The job was tiring enough even without any of this added stress. He felt exhausted. He looked down at Mookie, who looked back, fluffy tail suddenly swishing across the floor.

“You ready for a nap with da old man, girl?”

Mookie barked, then ran for the bedroom. Sven followed. Mookie spun in circles at the foot of the bed. Sven didn’t bother undressing, just climbed on top of the blankets and lay down on his side. Mookie jumped onto the bed and curled into her favorite spot, nestled in the crook of Sven’s legs.

Both of them fell asleep in seconds.

CLAYTON REALIZED HE hadn’t actually done a head count on the cows from the plane. Maybe all of them didn’t make it to Sven’s. The Harveys’ place was fairly close to the crash site; perhaps some cows had wandered there. If James found a stray and simply snowmobiled to the mansion to find out what was going on…

Clayton punched in the Harveys’ number. Stephanie answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Stephanie, Clayton here.”

“Oh, Clayton! Are you going to stop by today? I could whip up those brownies you like so much I’ll put on some coffee and we can all sit down and—”

“Just let me talk to James. It’s important.”

“Okay, hold on.”

Clayton waited, wondering about the choices he was making. His actions would put Sven, Stephanie and James in potential danger in order to save Tim and Sara from certain danger. A shit call, either way.

“Hello, Clayton,” James said. “Glad to see you got da phone lines fixed this early.”

“Not fixed yet,” Clayton said. “I’m on a handset at one of da breaks. Say, James, you seen anything weird?”

“Weird like what?”

“Like anything… unusual? With your cows?”

“Just came from da barn,” James said. “Everything is fine, why do you ask?”

Clayton breathed a sigh of relief. “No reason. Sven said his cows were feeling a little sick.”

“Mine are in da pink of health. But don’t take forever to fix those phones. If there’s some bug going around, I want to make sure I can reach Mister Feely, eh?”

“More storms coming tonight, so no point in fixing da same shit twice. All will be shipshape by tomorrow afternoon. Good day, James.”

“Good day.”

Clayton broke the connection, happy there was one less thing to worry about.

DECEMBER 2, 2:02 A.M.

OUTSIDE SVEN’S BEDROOM window, the storm picked up intensity, swelling, swirling, growing. Loud enough to rattle the windows in their wooden frames, but that wasn’t what woke him. No, it was a pair of sounds—Mookie’s low, gurgling growl of warning, and the cows.

The screaming cows.

Stay away from da barn, Sven .

He sat straight up in bed. He’d heard sounds like that once when he was a boy in Ontonagon. He’d left the barn door open just enough for a pack of starving coyotes to slink inside in the middle of the night and attack a helpless milk cow. Even as Sven hopped out of bed and quickly pulled on his snow pants and boots, he wondered at the high-pitched sounds of bovine terror, sounds so loud he could hear them over a twenty-mile-per-hour wind from inside a barn some fifty yards away.

Why had Clayton told him to stay out of the barn?

Sickness didn’t make cows sound like that. Predators did.

He strode to his gun rack and grabbed his Mossberg 500 shotgun. He threw on his coat as he walked to the front door, switching the gun from hand to hand as he shrugged on one sleeve and then the next. The Mossberg was loaded, of course. He always kept it loaded.

Mookie couldn’t take it anymore. Her little body shook with violent barks. Rorororooooro-ro-ro

Sven opened the door just a bit and leaned through.

Ro-roro-RORoro-ro

Mookie’s slim body tried to squeeze between the door frame and his right leg. Sven turned his knee to block her. Each bark was an ear-piercing blast of animal rage.

“Mookie, calm down!”

Mookie did not calm down.

The cows screamed louder. Sven heard noises like thunder, but it took him a second to realize what those noises actually were… fifteen-hundred-pound bodies slamming against stall walls, against the inside of the barn.

He felt Mookie’s head suddenly slide between his calves. Sven slammed his legs together, but Mookie’s head and shoulders were already through. He squeezed his legs tighter and reached down with his right hand, fingertips sliding inside the dog’s collar.

“Mookie, goddamit, stay!”

Mookie lurched, yanking Sven forward. The shotgun stock caught on the door frame and the gun fell forward. Sven instinctively reached his right hand to catch it, and just like that, Mookie shot off the porch and tore ass for the barn.

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