Scott Sigler - Ancestor

Then he looked back to the boat, and he saw it.

They all saw it.

Sara stepped out of the driver’s door. She stood and stared.

“No,” Tim said from inside the cabin, his voice thick with frustration. “No, I can’t take any more, I just can’t.”

Colding looked down at Sara, who shrugged as if the weight of the world hung from her shoulders. He looked back out at the harbor, his mind reeling from this latest blow.

The harbor was frozen solid. Up to and even outside the breakwall entrance, an irregular sheet of snow-covered ice shone like a sprawling, massive field of broken white concrete. The Otto II sat in the middle of it, resting at a slight list to port where the ice had frozen unevenly and tilted the boat.

The frigid wind dug deeper into Colding. He really wanted to just lie down. Lie down and sleep.

“Peej,” Sara said, “what are we going to do?”

He couldn’t quit now. There had to be a way. “The Bv is amphibious, right?”

Sara shook her head. “It is, but there’s no way this tin can will make it to the mainland. Look at those waves out there.”

Colding looked. Far past the breakwall ice, fifteen-foot waves moved like sea monsters hunting for a victim. “Maybe we can’t make it back, but we could drive it out on the ice, into the water, maybe wait for help?”

Sara shrugged. “Maybe. But when we run out of gas, the waves will push us back to the island. You know what will happen then.”

Colding’s body grew weaker, both from the cold and a growing avalanche of despair. The ancestors would arrive at any second. “We need an icebreaker to get that thing out. Something.”

Sara looked at him. “Hopefully that’s an icebreaker in your pocket, but maybe you’re just glad to see me.” No humor in the words, no joy. She had given up.

Colding started to shake his head, then remembered the canvas bag slung around his shoulder. The canvas bag full of plastique and detonators. He looked at Gary’s snowmobile. “Clayton! Come here!”

Clayton turned and looked back, sadness visible on his face. He cupped his hands to his face and shouted. “I gotta find my son!”

Colding waved his arm, beckoning Clayton to return. “If we don’t break the ice, no one will make it out and the ancestors will climb right into that boat. Get back here and start Gary’s snowmobile—do it now!”

Clayton looked at the boat one more time, then started crutch-walking toward his son’s snowmobile.

Colding crawled out of the hatch and dumped the bag’s contents onto the scattered snow. “Sara, Tim, help me. Either of you know how to make a time bomb?”

They shook their heads, then each of them grabbed a timer and started playing with the controls. Necessity was the mother of invention, and this mother was one mean bitch.

Baby McButter cautiously crested the dune and looked down. The prey sat at the water’s edge. She sniffed—despite the strong wind, she still caught a faint wisp of the stick. The stick had stung her once already. She did not want to be stung again.

Her stomach churned and growled, but it felt different, not as bad as before. She sensed that change had nothing to do with the chunk of leg she’d eaten back by the fire.

Baby McButter flicked her sail fin into high in a short, definitive pattern. Behind her, the remaining ancestors fanned out along the dune’s crest. There was nowhere left for the prey to run.

Gary’s Ski-Doo idled next to them as Colding, Tim and Sara worked quickly to make more and more fist-sized bombs. The timers proved to be very simple. They’d synced them all to P. J.’s watch, but had yet to set the detonation time. He didn’t know how many it would take, and he couldn’t risk leaving the job half-finished. Almost done now, just a few more.

Clayton sat in the Ted Nugent’s backseat, leaning against the passenger-side window. Maybe he’d passed out, maybe not.

Tim looked up from his pile of plastique balls and detonators. “They’re here.”

No, it was too soon. Colding and Sara snapped a quick look at the snow-covered dune. They saw small bits of movement from just behind the crest, like sticks blowing in the wind. That, and a few small glimpses of yellow.

The ancestors weren’t attacking.

He remembered their intelligence… they knew about the guns. He stood and pointed the Uzi at the dune, then snapped a quick glance at his watch.

“Set all the timers for 7:30, do it now! Shove ’em in the bag!”

Sara and Tim didn’t argue, they grabbed bombs and started setting timers. Would that be enough time?

Sara thrust the bag at him. “Don’t fuck it up,” she said. Some women might have said good luck or at least I hope you know what you’re doing , but that just wasn’t Sara’s way. He handed her the Uzi, threw the bag full of bombs over his shoulder, then hopped on Gary’s snowmobile. He gunned the engine, driving the sled out onto the bumpy ice toward the Otto II . The rough surface jarred him with punishing ups and downs.

He reached the boat and started a wide circle around it, dropping plastique balls as he went.

Sara saw two ancestors bound over the crest and barrel down the snowy dune.

Why only two?

“Tim, get in!”

Sara fired as she backed toward the Bv. She got lucky on the first burst, the bullets smashing into the ancestor’s front left leg. It toppled forward, instantly crippled, rolling head over heels in a cloud of snow and sand.

She fired a burst at the second one, now only fifteen feet away, so close she could see its tongue inside the open mouth. The bullets drove into that open mouth.

It kept coming.

Fear pulled her finger tight against the trigger. Bullets sprayed into the ancestor’s face. It stopped only five feet from her, shaking its head violently, trying to turn away, but it was too late. It fell heavily to its side, twitching and kicking its powerful limbs.

Sara pointed the Uzi at its head and fired.

Two bullets came out, then the little submachine gun made a click sound. Sara blinked a few times, tried pulling the trigger again, her adrenaline-soaked brain not quite comprehending the fact that she was out of ammo.

Again, just a single click.

Dozens of ancestor heads popped up into plain sight. Every yellow sail fin rose high into the air.

“Fuck me running,” Tim said. “They know the goddamn gun is empty.”

The ancestors rose and charged down the snow-covered dune, their wide-open mouths roaring in long-delayed triumph.

Sara tossed the Uzi aside and jumped into the driver’s seat. She gunned the engine, driving straight out onto the ice. It would crack eventually, but the Nuge was supposed to be seaworthy. If she could get them close to the Otto II , it might be enough.

It would have to be.

Colding pushed the Ski-Doo to its limits, smashing it over the uneven ice. Any second now the jagged crust could crack under him, drop him into a freezing, watery grave.

But the ice held.

He drove to the breakwall entrance, stopping maybe thirty feet from the open water. That was as close as he dared go to the ice’s edge. He tossed a Demex bomb. The fist-sized ball bounced once, then came to rest only five feet from the splashing water. Colding looked back toward the Otto II . He’d left a line of ten bombs between the boat and the harbor entrance, another six in a circle around the boat itself. He checked his watch: fifty-five seconds and counting.

The sound of a diesel engine and smashing metal drew his attention. The zebra-striped Bv206 pounded across the ice. Tank treads ground over the uneven surface, slowing the vehicle to maybe ten miles an hour. The ancestor pack was only thirty feet behind and closing fast.