Scott Sigler - Ancestor

He waited.

No more heads appeared to fill his tiny hole.

Magnus contorted his body and dug a fresh magazine out of his pocket. Slapping it home, he waited for the next attack. But none came.

He’d never really been afraid in combat, but this… this was something else. Fear was no reason to back down, though. If they came again, he’d fight.

There were far less glorious ways to die.

He heard a sound like a body being dragged across frozen dirt, then noises that reminded him of wolves tearing into a deer on some Discovery Channel special.

His back against the end of the crawl space, he pointed the flashlight out, playing it against the far wall. He saw nothing. Whatever was going on out there, it was a few meters away from his spot.

He could hear them back down the shaft, hear their breathing, occasionally hear small whines and growls that could have easily come from big, playful dogs.

The ancestors were waiting. Waiting him out.

Soaked in the blood of his new enemy, Magnus tried to readjust himself, tried to get comfortable. That was the essence of combat—he’d had his abrupt moment of sheer terror, and now, apparently, it was time for the long period of boredom.

If he made it out of this mess, he knew exactly how he’d celebrate—with a little help from his old friend Clayton Detweiler.

GUNTHER PULLED HIS blanket tighter and shivered. This was bullshit. Pure and utter bullshit. He looked out the tower-house windows, unappreciative of the sprawling, predawn view afforded him by the ten-meter-high wooden tower, which itself was perched on a high ridge. He could see almost the whole island—north and south shores each just over a click away, the mansion about eight clicks southeast, North Pointe just under eight clicks northeast.

Floodlights mounted under the tower’s small cabin cast a fifty-meter-wide patch of light down on the white snow beneath. Twenty below zero and he was in a wooden shack with only a piece-of-shit kerosene heater to keep him alive. But still, it was better than being around Magnus.

Gunther looked at the spinning green line on the radar system’s circular screen. He saw the same thing he’d seen for the last five hours: absolutely nothing. He tried to pull the blanket tighter. He’d had it. When he got off this island, he was quitting Genada. Freezing to death, suicides, crazy transgenic shit, Andy “The Asshole” Crosthwaite, freezing to death, sabotage, waiting for the CIA to storm the place, and freezing to death—just not worth it.

The radar unit beeped.

A green triangle now sat at the screen’s outermost circle. Gunther watched as the green line slowly spun around its center point until it hit the triangle and produced another beep. The bogey was approaching from 50 kilometers south.

He picked up the landline phone and dialed the security room extension. It rang. No one answered.

“Come on, come on… where the hell are you guys?”

Wherever they were, it wasn’t near a phone. Magnus had given specific instructions. Gunther’s eyes fell on the button for the old air-raid siren that could be heard anywhere on the island.

He hit the button.

AT JAMES HARVEY’S farm, Colding stood straight up when he heard the siren’s far-off echo. He and Rhumkorrf had been going over their crude hand-drawn map of the island, trying to formulate a battle plan for finding Sara while simultaneously avoiding the ancestors.

Rhumkorrf looked out the window. “What is that sound? An alarm?”

Colding had bandaged the man’s head and hands with some gauze he’d found in a first-aid kit. The gauze covered up Rhumkorrf’s ears, so Colding had taped his glasses onto the gauze with medical tape. Even in these darkest of hours, Colding had to admit that Rhumkorrf looked more comical than ever.

Rhumkorrf had returned the favor, cleaning and dressing Colding’s gunshot wound. Not much more than a scratch, apparently. Considering Rhumkorrf was an actual doctor, Colding assumed he got the better of the exchange.

They listened to the siren for a few seconds, staring off like dogs hearing a distant call, then Rhumkorrf spoke.

“Does this mean we’re saved?”

“I don’t know. I’m guessing someone is coming, either an aircraft or a boat. Gunther must not have been able to reach anyone on the phone, so he set off the fire alarm.”

“Wouldn’t he have called the mansion?”

Colding nodded.

“So where’s Magnus? Where’s Clayton?”

“Hopefully Clayton’s not in the same place as Sven and the Harveys.”

The Harveys’ ruined living room and the broken window told the story. There wasn’t much blood, mostly because something had eaten the carpet where the big spots might have been. The few remaining splatters told Colding the Harveys were no more. He’d risked a run out to the barn and seen much the same scene. The Harveys and their cows were now just biomass added to the growing ancestors.

A lone sheet of plywood had been sitting in the living room. Colding and Rhumkorrf had boarded up the broken window, kept all the lights off and stayed as quiet as they could. A brutal night, hiding in the house, wondering if Sara was out there, if she was safe, if she was sheltered from the cold. Searching for her in the dark would have been suicide. The ancestors moved fast, they moved quietly, and their black-and-white fur made for perfect camouflage in the winter night. He’d planned on waiting for full daylight, but the siren changed everything.

“We have to get to the landing strip,” Colding said. “If it’s Bobby coming in, he’ll be in the Sikorski. That’s twelve seats. We can use that to get everyone off the island.”

“The landing strip is two miles away. The ancestors are out there.”

Colding threw on his coat. “So is Sara, Doc. And if we can get that helicopter, we can use it to search for her.”

“Is this the part where you tell me I can stay here if I don’t like it?”

“No. This is the part where I tell you I will beat your ass until you get on that snowmobile.”

Rhumkorrf shook his head and put on his coat.

Colding ran to the door and peeked out—still no sign of the ancestors. Beretta held firm with both hands, he walked off the porch and started the Arctic Cat’s engine.

A NEW NOISE.

Magnus had spent the last seven hours listening to breathing, the rustling of movement and the most disturbing noise of all—the growing rumble of the creatures’ stomachs. So many, blending together, sounded almost like the purr of a huge cat.

The new noise was faint, a far-off sound, something constant that he couldn’t quite make out. The creatures apparently heard it as well, for their hidden rustling sounds increased, faded away, then disappeared.

He waited for five long minutes, but heard nothing other than that far-off drone. He flicked on the flashlight—nothing in the tunnel. Nothing he could see, anyway.

Magnus slowly worked his big body out of the hole, trying to be as quiet as possible. After seven hours mashed into that freezing, confined space, his cramped and sore muscles didn’t want to cooperate. He slid out and almost fell, catching himself clumsily. Crouched low, he aimed the MP5 and the flashlight beam up the tunnel, waiting for the rush of creatures to come tearing around the corner.

No attack came.

Magnus walked quietly to the bend and peeked around it.

Empty.

They had finally given up on him. MP5 still at the ready, he trotted up the shaft. When he reached the entrance, he finally recognized the sound—an air-raid siren.