Scott Sigler - Ancestor

Sven’s pain wasn’t forgotten, but now it seemed far away, an echo of its former intensity.

Another crack .

Molly’s ribs… moved .

A bloody paw ripped out of Molly, six-inch gore-covered claws tearing a huge hole in her belly. Blood and fluid poured forth in gallons, splashing against the barn door, spraying into Sven’s horror-stricken face.

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

Molly’s knees wobbled. Her eyes rolled back, leaving only half-lidded whites exposed. She fell hard to her side, driving the door even farther onto Sven’s nearly severed leg. Pain rolled through his head. A swarm of black bees filled his vision, threatening to take him into darkness.

A bark at his side brought back his focus. Mookie stood next to him, chest out, hackles raised impossibly high, teeth bared, the sound coming out of her mouth more a roar than a bark.

Molly’s belly, once swollen and distended, now sagged against her rib cage. The claw came forth again, tearing her from sternum to vagina. A bloody, slime-covered thing slid out.

Sven’s vision blurred from tears and from pain. Unconsciousness threatened to pull him under. He snarled and dug his fingers under the door—he had to lift, lift or die. Sven threw all his strength into it, until the wood dug into his flesh, until his finger bones started to crack from the strain. The door didn’t budge. His muscles weakened, only slightly, and in that moment he knew there was no escape.

Through a haze of semiconsciousness, in the snow-streaked glare of his barn’s light, Sven saw the creature lift its blood-smeared head. A big, triangular head, too big for the body. Beneath the red-blood slime, it had fur like a cow… a white head, with a black patch surrounding the left eye.

Eyelids opened, blinked, and the thing looked right at Sven. He fell back into the snow, the black bees in his vision now big as sparrows, flying about his head, blocking out everything. With his last ounce of energy, he lifted himself up on one shoulder. He looked for the shotgun—but it was somewhere under the door. The sparrow spots grew to the size of fat crows.

Movement from the barn. Through a waving haze, he saw three creatures step out, one after another. These were also covered with blood, mostly dry except for their mouths and claws, which were lacquered in wet red. Black and white and red. They moved clumsily, each step a new discovery.

One of them opened its big mouth and bit down on Molly’s rear leg. The thing shook its head like Mookie shaking a chew toy. Bones cracked, blood splattered, and with a snap the lower half of the leg came free. A lift of the head, a few more crunches, and the leg was gone. The other two started tearing into Molly, ripping free huge chunks.

Molly’s mucus-covered eyes were still blinking.

The one that had come out of her belly, though, didn’t tear into the still-living cow. It stood on wobbly legs and staggered toward Sven.

Then Mookie attacked it, snarling with lip-curled fury as her white teeth locked down on the creature’s big head. The dog jerked and twisted, ripped her mouth away, taking the creature’s right ear along with it.

A flash of claws. Mookie’s guttural growl instantly changed to a yelp, a real yelp, not the fake show she put on when Sven had tried to discipline her. Mookie was knocked away somewhere to the right. Sven didn’t see where she landed, because through his spotty vision he saw the creature coming toward him.

Black eyes, locked on his.

Mouth, opening… teeth, blazing.

Hot breath in his face, breath like a puppy’s. Sven’s brain filled with a wonderful memory, of a tiny ball of warm black fur that fit in one hand, a tiny pink tongue kissing his cheek.

Then something stung his neck, a dozen poking knives.

The crows turned into giant buzzards that blocked out all light.

Then nothing.

TED NUGENT ROLLED to a stop in front of the big stone church. The dying storm drove snow off the black stone walls in every direction—down, sideways, even up. Sara, Tim and Clayton hopped out and walked to the door. Sara watched Clayton pull off his mittens and search his oversized key ring.

The church’s black walls looked fortress-solid. If there was any place on the island she could hold out and wait for help, this was it.

Clayton found the key. The twelve-foot-high door opened with a gothic screech. Sara and Tim followed Clayton inside, then shut the door, blocking out the wind. Snow that had blown into the church gently dropped to the floor.

Sara stared up at the wooden beams of the thirty-foot cathedral ceiling. The wood was a warm brown in some places where bits of varnish remained, but blackish gray most everywhere else. Early-morning light filtered through stained-glass windows depicting scenes of the Twelve Apostles. Most of the pews remained, although all were rotting to some degree. Two or three had broken bases, resting with one end on the ground.

A choir balcony hovered above the tall front door. The loft ran along both the church walls and underneath the stained-glass Apostles. At the back of the church, a granite, three-step altar stuck out from the wall like a stage. At the back of that stage stood a twenty-foot-high cross. At the front, a rotted, ornate wooden podium. The whole building smelled of a cold, musty, wet-stone dampness.

Sara pointed to the choir loft. “How do we get up there?”

“Stairs are behind da altar, off to da right,” Clayton said. “Narrow, but solid. And before you ask, you get to da bell tower from da loft.”

“Magnus come here?” Tim said. “This his spot to tear the wings off baby birds? Maybe skin squirrels alive?”

“I’m da only one with a key to this place. As long as Sven keeps his mouth shut, no one will come looking. Only action here was about forty years ago, when me and Elvis came in after hours and knocked back a pitcher of screwdrivers with Ann-Margret, but now’s not da time for stories.”

Sara looked up at the stained-glass St. Andrew. The left side of his face had fallen out at some point. Bits of snow blew in through his open cheek. “So what now?”

Clayton scratched his gray stubble. “Well, I’ve got to use da secure terminal to call my son, see when he can get da boat out here.”

“Clayton,” Sara said, “won’t Magnus be watching that secure terminal?”

He thought for a moment, staring at a dusty, stained-glass image of St. Paul, then nodded. “Yeah, maybe he will. But we don’t have a choice.”

Clayton was risking his life for them. If Magnus had murdered irreplaceable scientific talent, it certainly wouldn’t bother him to kill a janitor with digestive issues.

Clayton slipped out the front door and quickly returned, arms loaded with blankets, a flashlight, a plastic case and a kerosene heater.

“There’s a preparatory room to da altar’s left. It’s small, so that’s where I’d put da heater. Knock a hole in da ceiling so da fumes can vent. No windows there, so no one will see da light. There’s some food in this case. Keep warm— it’s going to get cold tonight.”

Sara took the heater and the blankets. “When are you making the call?”

Clayton thought and scratched at his ear. “I have to make sure no one sees me. I also can’t just stop doing my work, or Magnus might get suspicious, eh? I’ll fix da phone line breaks on da south side of the island, keep checking in and see when I can be alone in da security room.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “But how long , man?”

“Put a sock in it, boy,” Clayton said. “I will get you off da island. Once I make da call, it’s three hours for Gary to get here. You two just stay out of sight.”