Scott Sigler - Ancestor

“Sometimes my brother needs people like us to help him, even if he never knew he needed that help in the first place.”

Magnus moved his rook to queen’s-bishop-1. Checkmate.

Andy shook his head. “Did I mention I never liked you?”

“You did. Just be grateful that I like you. At least, more than I like Colding.”

Magnus refilled his tumbler with Yukon Jack, and Andy set the pieces up for another game.

CLAYTON COULDN’T PUT it off any longer. He had to take his chances. He’d dragged out fixing the phone line breaks, hoping Magnus and Andy would hit the trails for a snowmobile run. No such luck. They weren’t leaving the mansion, so he had to figure out how to work around them.

He rolled his mop bucket into the lounge. Magnus sat in his leather chair that faced the big picture window. Andy the Asshole was relaxing in a neighboring chair. A chessboard sat on the table between them.

“Hey, Clayton,” Andy said. “Get in here and clean up this pigsty, will ya?”

Clayton looked around the lounge. Dirty plates were everywhere, as were empty beer cans and two empty bottles of Yukon Jack. The jerks hadn’t bothered to pick up one damn thing all day. They’d just tossed their trash around as if this were some flophouse.

“You boys even bother to get up to hit da crapper? Or did you just fling your poo around like da fucking gorillas you are?”

Andy raised his whisky glass. “Maybe that can be arranged.”

“Maybe you can kiss my ass, you little freak.”

“The place is a bit dirty,” Magnus said. “You sick or something, old man?”

Clayton snorted, his fear forgotten in a brief burst of anger. “I’ve been freezing my nuts off all goddam day, and I come back to this. I think I’ll clean up da rest of da place first so you two rump rangers can sit in your own stink for a bit more.”

Magnus slowly turned in his chair to look back at Clayton. “I think you’re getting old,” he said. “Might have to get someone out here to replace you.”

“You wanna fire me, fire me. Until then, I got work to do. I’ll start in da security room.” Clayton rolled the mop bucket out of the lounge and headed straight for the stairs. Maybe they’d keep playing that chess game, keep drinking. He had to take a shot now, when he knew exactly where those two were.

He carried the heavy mop bucket down to the bottom of the back stairs. Once there, he rolled it to the security room and opened the door. Gunther was sitting in the swivel chair, feet up on the counter, eyes closed in a catnap. The eyes fluttered open when Clayton walked in.

Gunther sat up quickly, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he saw Clayton, he smiled, a smile that quickly turned into a yawn.

“Shit, Clayton, you scared me. I thought you were Magnus.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s up in da lounge getting hammered with Andy. Hey, I finished Hot Midnight . Best of all da three books.” Gunther smiled. “You finished it already?”

“Yah. I liked it. Your main character chick reminded me of Liz Taylor. Liz was a hot one, let me tell you. Liked da backdoor action.”

Gunther laughed and shook his head. “Whatever, Clayton. But thanks for reading my book.”

“No problem. You’ll have da common decency, of course, to not mention to anyone I’m reading a vampire romance novel?”

“Of course.”

“You got talent,” Clayton said. “More than those fuck-stains you call your friends.” He lifted his head to the ceiling, indicating the lounge.

Gunther rubbed his eyes. “Those aren’t my friends, Clayton. I served with them, but this is just a job. Man, I’m beat. Been doing sixteen hours a day.”

“What, down here?”

“Magnus has me and Colding taking ten-hour shifts up on the fire watchtower, eyeballing for anyone flying in. Andy only has to do four hours at a time, the damn brownnoser.”

“Is that right. So, Colding’s up in da tower right now?”

Gunther nodded. “Yeah, probably freezing his ass off. Nothing quite like being thirty feet off the ground in a tin shack in the dead of winter.”

“Why is Magnus making you guys do that?”

Gunther shrugged. “He thinks Danté might arrive at any second, wants to make sure we talk him in.” Another huge yawn opened Gunther’s mouth.

“Jeez, author-man. Go grab some coffee from da kitchen. Magnus will never know you’re gone. I’ll keep an eye on da screens for you, eh?”

“Yeah, coffee would be great. You sure you know how to work this stuff?”

“Who da hell do you think used it before you all got here?”

Gunther smiled, stretched, then stood and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Clayton sat at the desk and moved the mouse. On the screen, the spinning Genada logo disappeared, replaced by the desktop’s blue background and a log-in window. Clayton typed in his user name and password.

The computer let out a sudden beep. The words INVALID PASSWORD flashed on the screen. He closed the window and accessed the administration program. Clayton loved Black Manitou, but never for a moment forgot that if something went wrong his son was his only reliable connection to the outside world. Because of that, Clayton made sure he fully understood the secure terminal and the jammer controls—everything that had anything to do with communications on the island.

“I’m not as old and dumb as I look, you big bald fuck.”

Clayton had long ago used the admin program to make himself a superuser, able to override any password protection. He logged in with the password 0-0-0-1, his fancy password, and the system came to life. He kept an eye on the security screens: Gunther was walking to the kitchen, Andy and Magnus were still hard at whisky-fueled chess.

Now or never. He clicked the icon marked Houghton and waited.

“Come on,” Clayton whispered. “Be home, son, please be home.”

After an agonizing ten seconds that seemed a silent eternity, the screen flashed once, then showed Gary’s face.

“Dad? What’s up?”

“I need you here right away.”

“The weather’s bad, Pops. I don’t dare take the boat out now.”

“Magnus blew up da plane. He’s killing people.”

Gary blinked a few times. “This better not be another one of your tall tales, Dad.”

Clayton shook his head. “Most of da crew is dead. Sara and Tim made it out. He finds them, they’re dead, too.”

Gary’s eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles twitched.

“Tell me what to do, Dad.”

Clayton felt a sudden swell of pride. Gary didn’t look like a little boy anymore, or like a stoner—Clayton’s son suddenly looked like a man.

“I hid them in da church,” Clayton said. “Come in quiet with no lights, get them, take them back to da mainland.”

“Will you be with them? I gotta get you out of there.”

“Never mind about me, eh? I’ve got to watch out for some other people. Get Sara and Tim off da island, and I’m not going to listen to another word about it, you understand?”

Gary nodded. “Should I call the cops?”

Clayton scratched his beard. “Not yet. Do it when you get them two back. If da local cops show up, even if da fuckin’ army shows up, Magnus could do anything.”

Gary took a deep breath, then let it out slow. “Okay, here’s the deal. I can’t come tonight; that’s just plain suicide. Storms are tearing the lake up. We’re talking ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald ’ weather out there. It’s supposed to die down a little tomorrow, not much, but I’ll risk it. I’ll time it to arrive just after dark. Can you wait that long?”