Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

“The prof?” Galloway shouted, and Banks heard it, like a far-off whisper in the wind.

“Dead,” he said. “The stupid fucker tried to reason with it.”

“I would have done the same,” Galloway replied, and now Banks heard him much more clearly, although the ringing was still there as an accompaniment. He pulled the plugs from his ears, and when he spoke, he only heard a slight echo and fading memory of the bell ringers.

“Then you would be lying on the floor with your insides on the outside too,” he said. “I’m doing a grand job of looking after you lot so far. Do me a favor and don’t fuck up. I’d like to get one of you home in one piece.”

Galloway was about to reply when a shimmer of dry earth fell from the roof above them. Banks heard two things, one straight after the other; a chorus of enraged howls, muffled as if coming through rock, and the rasp and tumble as stone and earth moved above them.

They couldn’t get in the door, so they’re coming down the fucking chimney.

Galloway looked up.

“They can’t reach us that way, surely? It must be six feet thick up there.”

“I’ve seen the movies,” Banks replied. “In situations like this, they always get in. Fetch anything you need to take with you. And make it quick. We’re leaving, and we won’t be hanging about.”

A minute later, the two of them joined the squad in the corridor. Hynd had an eye on the doorway.

“I haven’t seen any movement, Cap,” he said.

Banks laughed bitterly.

“That’s because they’re up on the fucking roof. Are we ready to move?”

Hynd nodded.

“But where, Cap? We thought this was the safest place.”

“Aye, and I was as guilty of that as anyone. Back through into the main buildings, that’s our first port of call. We need to find a place to hide, hole up until daylight, and if that’s a locked larder or fridge, then so be it. We’ll head for the stores under the guestrooms and see what’s what. Cally, Wiggo, you’re on point. Hynd and I will watch Galloway here. And if any big orange fucker turns up, blow its nuts off.”

“What about the prof?” Galloway said. “Can we take him?”

“Nope. We’re running, and we might be too slow even without him. I promise we’ll be back, if we get a chance. That’s all I can do for you right now.”

Galloway didn’t argue. He bent, retrieved the bone flute from the dead Alma’s grasp, and put it away in an inside pocket before turning to Banks.

“Running it is then. Try to keep up with me.”

There was a rumble inside the cavern, and a cloud of dust and dirt came out of the central chamber. The roar of the Alma followed it.

“Leg it,” Banks shouted.

They emerged into the open, expecting at any moment to be subject to a fresh barrage of rocks, but they reached the door to the lab without anything getting in their way, and went through quickly into the lab itself. Banks almost fired blindly when a huge black shadow rose up directly in front of him, but a frightened caw, and a flutter of wings showed that the thunderbird they’d come across was as surprised to see them as they to see it. It rose up and, flapping ungainly, went through a huge hole in the side of the dome, leaving its feast, the bodies of the dead wolves from earlier. They didn’t stop to examine the wolves any closer, but kept moving, and only stopped when they reached the corridor that linked the lab and the aviary.

Galloway was already out of breath, but Banks saw his teeth, white in the dim light, as he smiled when asked if he was okay.

“The ankle’s holding up, and nothing’s eaten me,” the scientist replied.

“The night is young yet,” Wiggins replied.

McCally shone his light around the darkness in the aviary.

“What do you think, Cap?” he said.

“Well, we’re not going back, that’s for sure. So it looks fine to me, son. Lead on.”

It was darker in the aviary than it had been in the lab; the tall redwoods seemed to suck up all available light, their towering blackness dominating the area. The sky outside had darkened too, the aurora faded to merely a faint green glow, not nearly bright enough to light their way. Shadows lurked and capered around the dome, but there was no sound save their own breathing then the pad of their footsteps as McCally and Wiggins led them out. Banks wondered if the birds had perhaps been at Volkov’s body in the same way they had been at the wolves, but he wasn’t about to slow down enough to stop for a look. They ran, full pelt, around the inner walkway of the aviary.

Something moved, swift in the shadows, and Wiggins fired instinctively, three rounds right at it, and would have kept shooting if Hynd hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder.

“Holster it, cowboy.”

“Did I get it?” Wiggins said.

Hynd stepped over and shone his light at a dead thing on the ground.

“Aye. Congratulations, lad. You fucking killed Bugs Bunny.”

The shots had torn the snow hare to bits, blasting its head and chest asunder and leaving only a bloody mess on the floor.

“Well, at least that’s breakfast sorted,” Wiggins said. McCally and Hynd laughed.

The big male wolf chose that moment to launch its attack. It came out of the dark like a sleek gray torpedo, silent running in the shadows, and threw itself straight at Wiggins, who went down under its weight. Its back legs raked at his thighs, front legs at his chest and slavering jaws lunged for his neck. He got his weapon up just in time, and teeth cracked against metal. The wolf growled deep in its throat and launched another frenzied attack, but by now, Hynd had stepped forward. He put his rifle to the beast’s head and fired, twice.

The wolf collapsed on top of Wiggins in a dead weight.

“Fuck me,” Wiggins said.

It took two of them to lift the wolf away. Wiggins rolled aside and stood, unsteadily.

“You okay, Wiggo?”

The private was patting himself down.

“My balls are still there, I think I’ve pished myself, and I’m going to need a new pair of troosers. But apart from that, I’m fine.”

Banks checked the man out under the beam of his sight light. The material of Wiggins’ trousers was torn, rent in huge tears, but his legs had been saved serious injury, and had sustained only minor cuts. His flak jacket saved his chest and his rifle his neck, although the weapon was scratched and dented where the wolf had bitten into it.

Wiggins kicked the wolf’s dead body.

“The sneaky fucker knew when we’d be off guard.”

“Aye,” Banks replied. “And the big orange fuckers are sneakier still, so if you’ve finished playing with the dog, we need to get a move on.”

As if to confirm it, a wild howl of rage came from the lab behind them.

It was answered by rising howls high in the huge conifers above, and a snorting whuff of laughter from ahead of them in the pens at the end of the walkway.

The Alma were more than just sneaky; they were already in the dome.

The squad was surrounded.

“Leg it,” Banks shouted. “And if anything tries to stop you, put it down hard.”

They moved out, faster than before, Wiggins and McCally in front, Galloway trying to keep up with them, and Banks and Hynd at the rear, trying not to think what might even now be loping at their back and reaching out for them. Their sight-lights flashed and bounced with their running steps, illuminating floor and cage, dome, and vegetation.

“Contact rear!” Hynd shouted, and Banks came to a stop, and whirled, his light joining that of Hynd in lighting up an Alma coming headlong for them in the enclosed walkway. It took six shots to put it down, and by the time the two of them turned back, the other three men were twenty yards away along the walkway, almost at the exit into the enclosures beyond. Two Alma dropped out of the trees into the space between them.