Scott Sigler - Ancestor

“Breathe your last, motherfucker.”

Magnus pushed the firing button.

SARA, TIM, COLDING, Clayton and Magnus watched the Stinger missile’s flashing white trail. Oddly, the intended target was busy trying to readjust his bobbling, broken glasses: Claus Rhumkorrf never saw it coming.

The five-foot missile homed in on the Sikorski’s hot exhaust. Rhumkorrf had swung the chopper around to face the town center, just in time for the missile to slice into the cockpit window. The warhead exploded on contact, blossoming into a brilliant orange fireball.

Sikorski pieces and streams of burning fuel rained down on the old town.

THE HELICOPTER EXPLODED above the snowmobile’s forward path. Colding yanked the steering handles hard right, away from the church. The sudden movement caught Clayton unaware and threw him from the seat. He slammed into the snowy ground, rolled once, then skidded to a halt.

He didn’t move.

Colding managed to stay seated as he fought for control. Burning wreckage rained down around him. He squeezed the brakes and pulled hard left as the tail shaft—rotor still spinning—crashed into the ground in front of him. He’d turned too sharply this time; the snowmobile pitched on its right side. Colding dove free before the machine rolled three full, horizontal, rattling times. It landed on its skids, the fiberglass body shattered beyond repair.

Colding hit hard. He smelled burning feathers before he felt the heat, before he realized his jacket sleeve was on fire. He rolled on the ground, pushing his burning arm into the snow. The flames hissed out before he suffered any serious damage.

He stood, smoke and steam rising from his ruined sleeve, a murderous gaze fixed on his face. He unslung the SA80 rifle and looked for his target.

A voice from behind.

“Drop it, Bubbah.”

Fury. Fear. Colding shook. He fought the urge to whirl around and open up with the SA80. He wouldn’t even make a quarter turn before Magnus gunned him down. There was nothing he could do.

Colding dropped the rifle.

“And the Beretta,” Magnus said. “Slow.”

Colding slowly pulled the Beretta from inside his snowsuit and tossed it away. It fell into the snow and vanished.

“Now put your hands in the air and turn around. You and I have a date with a hot little lady.”

A large gush of burning fuel had set the log lodge ablaze. Sara watched long flames rise up into the morning sky, whipped to and fro by the returning wind. She figured the old wooden structure would be completely engulfed by flames within fifteen minutes. Several of the town’s buildings smoldered or burned. The Sikorski/Stinger combo would finish the work begun by a mine accident some fifty years ago.

Far worse, the church itself was about to go up in flames. A chunk of engine had spun wildly into the air, arcing a good thirty yards before slamming into the church roof. Small flames glowed, seeking purchase through the slate shingles to the old wood beneath.

From her spot in the bell tower, Sara couldn’t get near the flames. Even if she could, she had nothing with which to put them out. The tower’s stone turret wouldn’t save them—when the fire caught full force, she and Tim would be cooked from below if the smoke didn’t kill them first.

“Tim, we have to move.”

“Fuck that,” Tim said. “The helicopter, the explosion—the noise will bring the monsters.”

“We run or we roast. Let’s go.”

Tim paused, but only for a second, then crutch-walked for the trapdoor. Sara opened it for him. Tim started his awkward climb down, then they heard death speak out loud.

“Saaaaaaraaaaa.” Magnus’s voice. From inside the church. “Sara, I’ve got someone here to see you.”

Blazing rage pulled Sara’s lip back into a snarl, even while an urge to run and hide made her stomach clench. Fear or no fear, there was only one way out, and that was over Magnus Paglione’s dead body.

“Stay up here,” she said to Tim. “I’ve got to take care of this.”

She descended the ladder.

A gun at his back, Colding stood in the church’s center aisle amid the broken and moldy pews. The place already smelled of smoke. Small fires burned the rafters on his left, filling the church with a flickering light. Up above, a few sunbeams filtered through the stained glass of the Twelve Apostles. On his right, up in the choir loft, he caught a glimpse of someone deep in the shadows.

Sara.

Behind him, Magnus saw her, too.

“’Tis the east,” Magnus called up to the loft. “And fair Sara is the sun. I brought your boyfriend for a little visit.”

Magnus had a tight hold on the hood of Colding’s parka, keeping him at arm’s length. Magnus was too smart to jam a gun into Colding’s back, where a sudden move might point the barrel at empty space. Colding knew the MP5 would be low, on Magnus’s hip. If Colding spun and made a move, the MP5 would blow his ribs and stomach to pieces.

More movement from the loft, just a hint, and from a different place. “You think I give a fuck about that piece of shit?” The voice came from the shadows. “That bastard sent me to die.”

“Oh, come on,” Magnus said. “You know that was me.”

“Bullshit. I’ll shoot both of you right now. And this time, Magnus, I’ll finish the job.”

Colding looked toward the sound of her voice, but he couldn’t see her in the loft’s dark depths. Damn, but she was smart. Colding’s right hand made a fist, his index finger pointing out, his thumb up—the shape of a gun. He slowly moved his left hand and pointed at his chest. He had no idea if she’d understand, or even do it.

And if her aim was off at all…

CLAYTON RAISED HIS head.

“Oh… I need a vacation.”

The old town burned all around him, he had a broken left leg, the creatures were coming and some Canadian shit-eater had cut off his pinkie. He stayed low and still, trying to take it all in before he did anything.

Movement on his left, about twenty yards away, at the edge of town where the trail led into the woods. A flash of fleshy yellow.

Burning wreckage surrounded him, blurring the air with shimmering waves of heat. If he stayed still, it might hide him from the creatures for a few minutes. But if he didn’t move, sooner or later they’d get him.

Clayton slowly turned his head to the right. The lodge was on fire, the dry old wood glowing red from flames that shot thirty feet into the air. No shelter there.

But behind the lodge, just past the hazy flames, he glimpsed a small bit of a familiar black-and-white pattern. Clayton grimaced, readied himself for the pain, then started crawling.

The fire in the rafters spread slowly but steadily, filling the church with a spastic, flickering light. Shadows jumped, making the pews and the big crucifix vibrate with evil life.

Do it , Colding thought, as if she might somehow read his mind. Do it, shoot me .

Magnus stayed behind Colding, but kept calling up to the loft. “Sara, why don’t you send Feely down? I’ll trade you for Colding. I don’t need you. I just need Feely. You don’t know enough to be a danger to me.”

“Then why did you try to kill me?” Her voice came from yet another spot.

“I didn’t try to kill you . I tried to kill Feely and Rhumkorrf. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So was my crew.”

“That’s why we gave you hazard pay,” Magnus said. “Use your head. Jian is dead. Rhumkorrf is dead. Now all I need is Tim and this is over. You and Colding can go on your way. If you make it off the island, more power to you. At least then you’d have a chance. What do you say to that?”