Scott Sigler - Ancestor

His body shook uncontrollably. The lone creature sprinted toward the helicopter with the crazy gait of a top-heavy pit bull. A hundred meters away and closing fast.

He turned back to the controls. The N1 gauge read 54 percent and climbing. He hit the button to start the second engine.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking up again. The ancestor had closed half the distance, enough that he could see its beady black eyes and massive muscles rippling under black-spotted white fur. But that wasn’t what froze Claus’s heart in his chest. Behind the monster, the woods seemed to erupt, spewing forth a horrific wave of black and white. They barreled down the narrow road like some barbaric army bearing down on a hated enemy.

He pushed the throttle on engine one to the fly position, felt the rotor blades spin up faster. Just a few more seconds and he’d lift off.

Something hit him from the right, driving him into the controls that separated the two front seats. Too much weight to bear, crushing him, then the sensation of something sliding away. He opened his eyes to see a sheet of plexiglass, flopping free and smeared with thick wetness—the window of the pilot door. He started to sit up and push it off when the weight hit him again, driving the back of his head against hard plastic knobs. Plexiglass smashed against his face, flattened his nose until he absently registered his eyelashes brushing against it with each rapid blink. Through the plexiglass, inches from his face, the ancestor’s gaping mouth opened wide. It shot forward and snapped shut, but the inwardly curved teeth scraped against the plexiglass. It opened again, snapped again, and again the deadly points couldn’t catch. The helicopter lurched with each lunging bite. Claus heard and felt claws scratching at the plexiglass, scrambling like a sliding dog trying to find purchase on a linoleum floor. The abomination slid back out a second time.

The plexiglass slid out with it.

Claus pushed himself up, his glasses gone, his vision a blur. The ancestor had fallen on its ass. Feet kicked against the snow-covered pavement as the big creature awkwardly started to rise.

Oh god oh god oh god…

Claus reached into his jacket and pulled out the gun Colding had given him. He held it with both hands, his elbows pressed tight to his ribs.

The ancestor coiled to leap into the Sikorski.

Claus heard the first two gunshots before he realized he was firing. His finger danced on the trigger again and again, faster than he knew a gun could fire. The scientific, observant part of his brain noted with fascination that all eleven shots hit the creature in the face.

The slide locked on empty.

The monster fell, blood gushing nearly neon red against the snow.

And beyond the dying animal he had created, Claus saw the pounding black-and-white blur of the ancestor horde, now only thirty meters away.

He dropped the gun. Eyes flicked about the cabin even as his hands reached up, moved the engine two throttle to the fly position. He saw his glasses on the floor and snatched them up. One arm was broken off. The other arm he jammed into his head bandage. The lenses were a little cockeyed, but he could see clearly again.

The horde closed to ten meters.

The spinning rotor blades finally lifted the Sikorski. Claus felt his breath rush out as the leading ancestors reached up for the hull… reached up, and missed.

He urged the damaged helicopter forward and headed for the ghost town.

The horde of hungry ancestors followed.

COLDING AND CLAYTON stopped in the trees at the edge of town, a good twenty yards from the nearest building. The tattered, one-eyed moose head of Sven’s hunter shop stared at them. Colding needed just a minute to think, but didn’t know if he had that much time.

He shut off the Arctic Cat’s engine and listened. The wind had died away. The woods seemed deathly silent save for the distant sound of the Sikorski’s rotors slicing through the air. At least Doc had made it off the helicopter pad.

“Anything behind us?” he asked Clayton.

“Haven’t seen them since we got on da road. If they’re coming, then we’re way ahead of them.” Clayton cocked his head to the side and looked up. “You hear that?”

The helicopter sounds grew louder. They were out of time.

“I hear it,” Colding said. “If Sara is in the church, where will she be?”

“If I was her, I’d be in that bell tower. Stairs at da back right side of da altar go up to da choir loft, then a ladder up to da tower.”

Colding looked up at the tower, hoping to see her face. He saw no movement. Someone could be up there looking right down at him, and if they stayed still he wouldn’t see them at all.

He chewed on his lower lip. They didn’t even know if Sara and Tim were here. Maybe Gary had made it, taken them off the island. Maybe Magnus had already killed them. No way of knowing. Colding could, however, make sure they weren’t still waiting. And all he had to do was risk his life to find out.

“Clayton, we’re going as soon as Doc flies over. That might draw Magnus out, give us a chance to kill him.”

Clayton leaned out and looked across the open town circle. “We’ll be exposed for looks like ten or fifteen seconds. Can Magnus get us that quick?”

Colding nodded. “If he’s ready, or if he heard us coming, yeah, he could take us out. Just depends on where he is.”

“And if we get to da church and he’s already inside?”

Colding paused. Anger started to replace his fear. “Then we kill him.”

Clayton nodded fiercely. “That’s da first time I’ve ever heard you say something that made sense. You drive, I’ll shoot.”

Colding started the Arctic Cat and waited for the Sikorski to fly over.

INSIDE THE CHURCH, Tim looked up at the ceiling.

“Sara, do you hear that?”

Sara listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s getting louder. I think it sounds like…”

She heard it, faintly, but she heard it. “Like a helicopter.”

They rushed up the ladder to the turret’s trapdoor.

MAGNUS HEARD THE flutter of rotor blades. Helicopter approaching. He’d seen both Danté and Bobby go down—that left only one person who could fly the Sikorski.

Rhumkorrf. The man who had murdered his brother.

“I’ve got something special for you, Doc. Yes I do.”

He reached into the backseat.

THE SIKORSKI’S ENGINE hum dopplered into a roar as it flew directly over Colding’s position. The helicopter slowed and started to circle back toward the well.

“Clayton, we’re going! If you see Magnus, just start shooting!”

“Ya think? Just drive, asshole.”

Colding gunned the engine.

The Arctic Cat shot out into the open.

SARA HAD NEVER seen a sight so beautiful—a Sikorski S-76C. Bobby Valentine’s ride, coming in low. And she saw something else, down on the ground, something far better—even bundled up in the snowsuit, she knew it was Colding on that snowmobile. Clayton was on the seat behind him, holding an Uzi with one hand. Hope and love exploded in Sara’s chest. They could make it. But Magnus was still out there somewhere. He could kill Colding at any second. Sara looked around the town circle, trying to spot the big man.

There, by the old log lodge… Magnus.

When she saw what he held, that feeling of hope crumbled and died.

MAGNUS TRACKED THROUGH the Stinger’s viewfinder. If Rhumkorrf hadn’t made these abominations in the first place, Danté would still be alive.

Claus Rhumkorrf was a murderer.