A crosswind slapped the C-5, shaking it, rattling metal hard enough to make Sara’s teeth clack. She’d flown in some bad shit before, but nothing like this. “We’re here, ’Zo, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Now quit whining and help me get through this.”
If she could take a step back in time, maybe she’d have pulled her Beretta and taken her chances in a shoot-out rather than flying into this storm. Was Peej’s note for real? Was Jian actually dead, or was that just a trick to motivate her to fly out in this ridiculous weather? Was he just using her again?
No. Couldn’t be. He wanted to get her and the boys away from Magnus. Peej had no choice—Magnus had already killed Jian, which meant everyone else’s life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. If this was her one chance to get off the island, to get her crew to safety, she had to take it.
The plane lurched right, yanking her body against her seat restraints. Even though the cows were another deck down, she heard them mooing, braying. The sound carried tangible terror. She shared the sentiment, wondering at the power of a storm that could knock the C-5 around with such ease.
Alonzo snapped a peek at the instrument panel, then looked at her, his eyes wide. “That last gust was sixty-two knots.” Sweat drenched his face, but he kept his hands firmly on the yoke.
“Just be cool, ’Zo. Nothing to it.”
She focused on the instruments. She didn’t bother looking out the window; there was nothing to see but snow and ice.
NOVEMBER 30: 8:52 P.M.
THE C-5 FELL again, but only slightly this time. Compared with the roller-coaster ride of the past thirty minutes, the drop was barely noticeable.
“Wind down to forty knots,” Alonzo said. He looked better, relieved. They were now on the blizzard’s edge, still in significant danger, but it was nothing the C-5 couldn’t handle.
“Cue the Barry Manilow,” Sara said, “’cause it looks like we made it. I’d better see how the civvies handled that mess. Keep on this heading for another five minutes to get us some distance from the storm, then circle around it. See, ’Zo? I told you there was nothing to it.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Right, boss, nothing to it as long as you don’t mind wet-vaccing the poo streaks off my seat.”
She grabbed the handset to the in-plane intercom. “Deck two, deck two; everything okay back there?”
Rhumkorrf’s voice came back. “Are we quite finished with that tumultuous experience? I wouldn’t exactly call that the friendly skies.”
“You holding up okay, Doc?”
“I’m fine. I’m afraid I had some difficulty in retaining my preflight meal. I assume I am now free to mop about the cabin?”
Sara laughed. “Sure, Doc. Get yourself cleaned up. Don’t worry about it—I almost blew chunks myself. How’s Tim?”
“One of the cows fell out of the harness during flight. Tim is working on her.”
“Bad?”
“Not good,” Rhumkorrf said. “Not good at all.”
“I’m coming down,” Sara said, then put the handset back in the cradle. “Take over, ’Zo. I need to see what’s going on down there.”
NOVEMBER 30, 8:55 P.M.
COAT IN HAND, Sara descended the fore ladder. The second deck was a total mess. Two or three cabinets had popped open during the flight. Debris littered the lab like scientific shrapneclass="underline" scattered papers, sterile vacuum packs, broken test tubes and petri dishes. Miller scurried about the area, picking up loose equipment and cleaning up in general.
Pitiful cow sounds filled the air. Sound wasn’t the only thing that escaped them—the lab smelled like a shithouse. Froth clung to the big animals’ mouths and noses, glistening sweat covered their coats. Wide black eyes looked for a way out.
At the far end of the barn near the folded-up rear ramp, Sara saw an open door at stall three. Tim Feely and Cappy were in the aisle, Cappy kneeling and pushing all his upper-body weight on the cow’s head to keep it still. Its eyes blinked spasmodically, its tongue lolled. Tim Feely had one knee pressed heavily on the cow’s big neck. He held up a vial and tried to slide a syringe needle into it. Bright blood covered the sleeves of his jacket.
Sara ran to them. Standing up, the cows had a decent amount of room in their stalls—lying flat, hardly any. The cow lay on its right side, legs pointed toward the front of the plane. Blood seeped from the cow’s ruptured stomach: a ragged, glistening tear ran from the udder almost to the sternum. A small, bloody, clawed foot hung from the tear, flopping limply in time with the cow’s twitches. The fetuses. The predator fetuses. Holy shit… it hadn’t seemed real until this second. If the cows gave birth, were the fetuses dangerous? No, even if they happened to be born at this very moment, they were still just babies.
The cow’s chest rose and fell in an arrhythmic pattern. A crack in the stall wall told the story—the crack was where the harness’s anchor used to be. The rough flying jostled the cow so much that the anchor ripped free and the cow fell, its overly pregnant belly splitting from the severe impact.
A sign, drawn in Magic Marker in Jian’s scrawled handwriting, hung from the stall door. The sign said MISS PATTY MELT. Sara felt a sharp pang of loss for her murdered friend.
Tim kept trying to get the needle into the vial. The C-5 still shook and lurched from the storm, but not bad enough to make him miss like that.
“Tim-dog,” Sara said, “you need some help with that?”
“I can handle it.” His words sounded slurred.
Sara looked down at Cappy, who mouthed the words he’s drunk.
Oh joy. Great timing, Tim.
He finally slid the needle into the vial, then drew back the plunger. A yellow fluid filled the hypo. He put the bottle in his pocket and flicked the syringe a few times, then gave the plunger a test push. Liquid shot out the needle.
“Hold her,” Tim said, and knelt harder on the cow’s neck. Sara leaned in next to Cappy, put her hands on the animal’s head. Even a halfhearted twitch betrayed the cow’s massive strength.
Tim grabbed at the IV line still stuck in the cow’s neck. He slid the needle into a port on the IV line and pushed the plunger all the way down. The cow’s twitching slowed, then stopped.
Sara watched Tim. The man didn’t move, didn’t breathe—he just stared at the cow. Finally, after a few seconds, relief washed over his face.
Tim stood and let out a long, cheek-puffing breath. “Well, time for a drink. I was getting very worried there for a—”
The cow lurched to life with an earsplitting bellow. A front hoof snapped out and hit Tim in his right knee, so fast and powerful it knocked the man’s legs out from under him. He dropped, his legs in the aisle, his body falling into the stall and sliding down the cow’s bloody, torn belly.
Sara dodged the kicking hoof and stuck her left arm into the stall to grab Tim’s hand. She pulled and Tim started to scramble out, but the front leg came back hard, the hoof’s sharp edge clipping Tim’s forehead. His head snapped back, blood instantly pouring from his scalp and sheeting down his face. Sara kept her right hand on the stall wall for balance, her left locked on Tim’s hand.
“Cappy, help me get him out of there!”
Cappy hopped up, his hands grasping either side of the open door. He raised his knees high and came down with his shins pinning the cow’s front legs. A part of Sara’s brain wanted to stop and applaud the brilliant move. Miss Patty Melt’s struggles slowed. Cappy reached deeper into the stall and grabbed the front of Tim’s jacket.
She and Cappy leaned back to pull Feely free. In the same instant, a bloody thing slid out of the cow’s ruptured stomach. Sara saw a flash of wet red, a gaping, triangular mouth and long white teeth that snapped down on Cappy’s left arm. The sound of cracking bones joined the cow’s bellows, followed instantly by Cappy’s agonized scream.