Scott Sigler - Ancestor

A sick, coppery feeling ran through his stomach—he wouldn’t be able to make it to the Otto II before the ancestors did. He looked in his canvas bag. Still had eight plastique balls.

Plastique balls that were ticking away.

Fifty seconds and counting.

Colding pointed the Ski-Doo at the shore and gunned the engine.

They were only twenty-five feet from the Otto II . She checked the side mirror: three ancestors at the back bumper.

She heard a deep, splintery cracking, then the Bv dropped through the ice and plunged into the water. The passengers’ heads snapped forward as if they’d driven straight into a wall.

Icy water welled up over the windshield, over the roof, and poured through the open upper hatch.

A scream came unbidden, but the cold wetness locked it tight in her throat.

Colding saw the Bv drop through the ice into the water. It almost went under, then popped up like a slow-motion cork. The ice broke up under the lead ancestors. Two dropped into the frigid water. The last one leaped into the Bv’s rear flatbed and clung to the zebra-striped lift bucket.

Colding couldn’t help Sara now. He didn’t have a gun, didn’t even have a knife, for fuck’s sake. She would have to find a way to deal with it.

He banked left, between the shore and the ancestor horde, dropping plastique balls along the way.

Forty seconds and counting.

Sara regained her composure. Despite ice-cold water up to her ankles, she punched the gas pedal to the floor. The Nuge moved forward, slowly churning through the harbor.

“Tim, get over here. Keep your foot on the gas!” Tim slid sideways. Sara hopped over him to the passenger side as he took the wheel.

Sara crawled out of the passenger-side hatch, water dripping from her legs. She gathered her feet under herself and crouched, trying to keep her balance on the swaying Bv’s slick metal roof. They had to tie off to the Otto II to get everyone onboard.

Then she heard the roar.

So close it hurt her ears, so close she felt hot breath on the back of her neck. She knew, finally, that her time had come.

Sara turned to face her fate. An ancestor perched on the Bv roof, long claws scraping into the metal as it struggled to keep from sliding off. Not even two feet away. So big. So big .

A snarl twisted Sara’s lips. Her hair strung wetly across her face, her eyes hateful slits, she looked as much like an animal as the beast preparing to end her life.

Come on, fucker. Get it over with .

The ancestor opened wide and leaned forward.

Sara closed her eyes.

Five shots rang out.

The ancestor reared backward, blood pouring from an eye, from its mouth, from its nose. Big clawed feet slipped on the wet roof and it tumbled overboard, splashing into the icy water like a boulder dropped from ten stories high.

Sara turned, unable to grasp the fact that she was still alive.

Standing in the bow and wrapped in a thick blanket, Gary Detweiler held a smoking Beretta in his outstretched hand.

“About fuckin’ time.” Clayton’s voice, from inside the Nuge. “Where da hell you been, boy?”

Colding tossed the last plastique ball and turned toward the Otto II , chancing a quick glance at his watch.

Twelve seconds.

He had only one chance. He opened the throttle and leaned forward, holding on tight as the Ski-Doo slammed toward the boat.

They didn’t have time to tie off. The Bv’s port side ground against the Otto II , breaking away ice that clung stubbornly to the starboard hull. Sara and Tim scrambled aboard as Gary pulled his dad out of the hatch. Clayton screamed in pain, but with his son’s help made it onto the boat.

Sara looked around for Colding but didn’t see him. “Gary! Where’s Colding?”

Gary ran to the short ladder leading to the boat’s flying bridge. As he climbed, he pointed out the port side.

Sara looked. There was Peej, driving toward them, Ski-Doo bouncing off the broken ice like a Jeep driving through a rutted gully.

She checked her watch. Two, one…

Twenty-four balls of Demex plastic explosive detonated simultaneously. Ice chunks and shards flew like frozen shrapnel, some to land a good mile away.

A six-pointed ring erupted around the Otto II . The concussive force ripped inward, powerful enough to hit the ancestors closest to the boat and knock them into the frigid waters. Sara and Tim dove to the deck, ice flying all around them.

Colding was halfway between the ring and boat when the plastique detonated. The shock wave hit him from behind, so powerful it tumbled the Ski-Doo like a toy thrown by a petulant child. He flew through the air, the snowmobile spinning out from under him and smashing into a dozen pieces against the ice.

He landed fifteen feet from the boat’s port side, his limp body cartwheeling off the ice. He flew another ten feet to plunge into the newly open water just five feet from the boat.

Sara watched, horrified, as P. J.’s body vanished beneath the surface.

“Rope!” She stripped off her jacket. “Get me some fucking rope!”

The Otto II ’s engines roared to life. Gary looked down from the flying bridge and pointed to a footlocker.

She opened it and pulled out a long coil of red-and-white nylon rope. Then Gary was at her side, clumsy bandages across his chest showing huge splotches of red, some of them wet and fresh.

She handed him a loose end of the rope. “Tie it around my waist!” She peeled off her sweater and kicked off her boots as Gary tied the rough rope around her hips.

She turned on Gary. “You do not pull me up until I tug on the rope, understand?”

Gary shook his head. “You’ve only got a few seconds in that water, Sara, you can’t—”

She reached out and held the sides of his face.

“Pull me up before I tug, and I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

Gary nodded.

Sara turned, put her foot on the side rail, then dove into the water.

The cold splash from the Bv’s brief submersion had been bad, but nothing like this. She tried to stay under as her body rebelled, instinctively pushed for the surface.

Get out get out get out .

Her head popped out of the water, barely in time for her to let loose a scream of primitive, instinctive fear.

She looked up at the boat. Gary stood there, the white-and-red rope in his hands, a look on his face that said Should I pull you in?

Sara didn’t answer the unasked question. She drew a huge, rattling breath, then forced herself under once again. The cold scraped her skin like a grater, driving at her with needles of pain. She kicked and kicked. Hard to see anything in the murky water.

So cold…

Her lungs screamed from lack of oxygen, but she dove farther. She wouldn’t leave him down there. She kept on kicking with all of her quickly fading energy.

Where is he? I can’t lose him…

She couldn’t see. Blood roared inside her head. Her heart banged like a kick drum, faster, faster.

Her hand smashed into a slimy rock at the bottom of the harbor. She couldn’t take any more, had to go up. She put her hands out to push away from the bottom, and her fingers hit something soft.

Soft like fabric.

She grabbed for it. It was a body—Colding’s body.

He’s not moving…

Sara wrapped her legs around his back and yanked on the rope. She immediately threw her arms under his shoulders, clutching him chest to chest in a desperate, loving embrace. The rope snapped taut around her waist, pulling them toward the surface.