Blake Crouch - Snowbound

He heard screams somewhere in the lodge—definitely a man’s.

The corridor suddenly filled with the noise of incoming footsteps. Jonas spun around, glanced back at the alcove, which was washed out in green light, the details obliterated by the flood of moonbeams. He knelt down, pulled off his goggles. The darkness was streaked with red, exploding with phantom light. His eyes struggled to adjust. He got the goggles back on just in time to see five wolves running toward him.

He squeezed off a burst. The one in front yelped and fell. The others leaped over their compatriot, still coming, unfazed, undeterred.

Two bursts. Another went down. Fuck. The slide locked back, three still coming.

He wasn’t accustomed to automatic weapons—pull the trigger too hard, your magazine’s spent in the blink of an eye. The Alphas had warned them about this. He ejected the clip, was going for another when the wolves reached him.

Jonas was a big man, 250 pounds, six three. He reminded himself of that and stood, bracing for impact, thinking, I’ll just snap some necks. Not like I haven’t done that shit before.

The two in front rammed into him at the same time, the force far beyond anything he’d expected, his head smashing hard into the floor.

He saw pricks of painful light. He was on his back, the Beretta gone, one wolf tearing into his right arm, the other two going for his face.

One of the wolves tore the goggles away. Teeth ripped through the parka around his neck, the down airborne like a shredded pillow. And it occurred to him, They’re going for your throat.

Their slobber was warm, their breath foul. He tried to sit up, but they had both of his arms now, and a giant white wolf that seemed to glow in the dark was straddling him, teeth bared, inches above his face yet hesitating, as if to savor this moment. At some level, outside the fear and the pain, Jonas recognized its sadistic patience, the pleasure-delay, and he thought, This fucker’s a real killer. Doing this shit for fun.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Kalyn followed the south-end stairwell up past the second and third floors. She held the shotgun, her finger in the trigger guard. As she neared the fourth-floor alcove, she heard something—slurping, snarling, ripping.

She stepped into the alcove. It was pitch-black. She held the shotgun in one hand, a flashlight in the other. Its beam shot through the dark and illuminated a shotgun, shells all over the floor, two dead wolves, and three feasting wolves. They looked up, their mouths slicked with blood, their teeth bared, protecting their kill.

Kalyn’s right arm ached with the weight of the shotgun. The wolves glanced at one another, as if consulting; then the big white one started toward her. Gonna have to fire it with one arm.

She kept the light beam on the white wolf, leveled the shotgun, fired, the twelve-gauge recoiling, whipping back, the scalding barrel popping her in the face.

She fell. The flashlight rolled across the floor. Just darkness in the corridor and the patter of the wolves coming. She got to her feet, pumped the shotgun, pulled the trigger. Pumped again, fired. Pumped, fired. Something whimpering. Pumped, fired. Pumped.

The corridor reeked of gun smoke, and it was silent now. She walked to the flashlight, picked it up, blood trailing down her face from where the shotgun had struck her forehead.

The beam of light passed through the smoke. Now there were three dead wolves less than ten feet away, but the white wolf and the gray one weren’t among them.

She moved carefully toward the body in the corridor—a large man slumped over on the floor, faceless and eviscerated. Two down. Thank God. Wolves did my work for me.

She continued on toward the stairwell that would take her back down into the lobby.

Will and Rachael crept through the candlelit passage. Where it began to curve toward the veranda exit, Will stopped, whispered, “Wait here. If they’re dead, I don’t want you to see it. You’ve seen enough already.”

Will pushed on.

To his surprise, there was only one body—Sean’s—encompassed by more blood than it seemed possible for a human body to hold. Snow pants, a mask, and a white parka had been discarded by the door.

Four shotgun blasts thundered out from one of the upper floors.

Will ran back to Rachael.

“What the hell was that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Are they dead?”

“Sean is. Ken’s gone.”

Will’s radio squeaked.

Kalyn’s voice: “Bad guy number two is dead.”

“How?”

“Wolves. They got into the lodge through a broken window in the south-wing alcove. I killed one of them and two were already dead, so that leaves a pair running around here somewhere. Watch yourself. They’re mean as hell.”

Will pressed TALK: “Sean’s gone. Don’t know where his dad is, so another one of them got in.”

“Just get back to your post in the north corridor.”

Devlin’s voice: “Guys?”

“What, baby girl?”

“Are any of you up here? I hear footsteps outside the door.”

“Get the shotgun ready,” Will said. “That isn’t us, but we’re on our way.”

SIXTY-EIGHT

Kalyn moved across the stone floor of the lobby and sat down on the hearth in front of the giant fireplace. She kept looking up and down the north- and south-wing corridors, watching the exposed stairwells that climbed fifty feet toward the rafters on each side of the lobby, the passage behind her, the adjacent library door, closed and locked. She set the shotgun on the stone, fished four shells of buckshot out of the pocket of her fleece jacket. As she reached for the Mossberg to load the shells, a pair of black boots emerged from the flue into the enormous hearth behind her and lowered silently toward the grate.

Devlin illuminated her face with the flashlight beam and held her finger to her lips so the women could see.

She mouthed, “Shhh. Someone’s out there.”

She traded the flashlight for the shotgun but couldn’t remember if she’d pumped it, opted to wait, as the slightest noise would give them away. She crept up to the door, strained to listen. Thought she heard something like a soft exhalation on the other side, perhaps the scrape of fabric against fabric.

She dropped quietly to her knees, lowered herself onto the floor, the right side of her face flush against the carpet. Their room was dark, but a lantern flickered outside in the hallway.

Through the crack under the door, the strand of lantern light was broken in two places. She saw the tips of a pair of boots, could have poked a finger under the door and touched them.

Ten feet away, invisible in the darkness, the infant began to cry.

. . .

Will and Rachael slipped out of the passage and into the stairwell. No lanterns or candles here, the darkness absolute.

Rachael whispered, “Should I turn on the flashlight?”

“No. Just go slow and keep one hand on the wall like we did before.”

Even as he said it, Will knew they might be walking blindly to their death, couldn’t stop himself from picturing a man crouched on the next flight of stairs, outfitted with night-vision goggles, just waiting for them to stumble past.

They proceeded carefully, one step at a time, Will’s heart knocking so hard he feared he’d faint. This was far worse than the wolves. At least you could see your attacker coming outside.

They reached the landing. Will traced his hand along the wall, letting it guide them to the next flight of stairs. Three steps up, he stopped.

“What is it?” Rachael asked.

“I see a light up ahead. Wait here.”

Will ascended the remaining nine steps. At the top, he reached an archway, and from there he could glimpse the corridor, where a lantern mounted to the wall threw shadows and light on a man dressed in black, standing at the door that opened into Devlin’s room.