“I wanna know something,” Clayton said. “Tell me da truth. You just fuckin’ that girl, or you love her?”
The question magnified Colding’s misery, his powerlessness. That familiar feeling of tears again, but this time, tears of frustration, maybe even tears of rage.
“I love her.”
Clayton nodded, took off a glove and rubbed his mouth. “Thought so. You need anything, you let me know. I’ve seen a lot of shit come and go on this island. Something’s off here, I can feel it.” He kicked snow off his boots. “Something’s real off, eh? And one way or another, we’re gonna have to deal with it before too long.”
Clayton walked inside and shut the door behind him, leaving Colding alone in the frigid morning to wonder what the words really meant.
DECEMBER 1: 7:15 A.M.
HAD SHE SLEPT on a bed of dull nails? Every atom hurt, pulsed, screamed or ached. She smelled of sweat and dirty hay, the odors combining with the unmistakable scent of cows and cow shit so that even her nose found something to bitch about.
Sara pushed herself up on one elbow. She wanted to sleep. Sleep for days, for weeks, even, but she had to move. She looked at Tim Feely—and suddenly all the pain was worth it.
He sat on his butt, hugging his knees to his chest, head down and eyes closed. He swayed slightly.
“Tim?” Her voice cracked from a dry throat. “Are you okay?”
He looked up. A huge red and purple bruise covered the right side of his face from hairline to chin. Dried blood clotted the black line of stitches on his forehead. Dark circles ringed both eyes.
“I’m pretty fucking far from okay,” Tim said. “How long have I been out?”
Sara took a deep breath, then gave Tim the condensed version of everything she knew—Jian’s death, Colding sending the plane out in the storm, Magnus’s bomb, the crash landing, and the struggle to reach Sven’s barn.
Tim sat quietly for a moment, taking it all in. He gently rubbed his swollen knee. Even the smallest touch there made him wince. “So everyone but you and I are dead. I’d be dead if you hadn’t dragged my ass a mile through a blizzard?”
Sara nodded.
“Thanks,” Tim said. The word couldn’t have been simpler, and the look of gratitude and sheer amazement in his eyes couldn’t have been deeper. “Sounds like Rhumkorrf really fucked up the works. I hope he’s dead.”
Sara hoped for the same. Rhumkorrf’s actions had caused her friends’ deaths. “I got out just before it blew,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone else.”
She looked around the barn, taking in its details for the first time. Fairly standard: fifteen-foot-wide aisle, big enough for a large farm tractor to drive through. Twenty-five stalls on each side. Full haylofts above each row, all under a high arcing roof supported by thick wooden rafters. A few small birds fluttered up there, tiny chirps adding an oddly optimistic feel to their dark situation. Big cow heads peeked out from most of the stalls, vacant black eyes staring curiously at the strangers lying on the ground. Instead of a cow, the first stall to the left of the big sliding door housed a brand-new Arctic Cat snowmobile. Its presence was only a partial comfort—they could use it to get away from Sven’s barn, but where would they go?
“We can’t stay here, Tim. How’s the knee?”
“Fucked up nine ways to Sunday. I think the patella might be broken. Sure as hell can’t put weight on it.”
She shook her head. “I almost died carrying your ass here. You’re coming with me, and you’re walking. I’ll help you, but you are coming with me.”
“But what about the storm? It’s warm in here.”
“I don’t hear much wind, so I think the storm is over. That means Sven will be here soon to check on these cows.”
“But isn’t that what we want? We need help. I’m hurt, I need a doctor.”
Sara rubbed her eyes. Just one other survivor, and it couldn’t be Alonzo or one of the Twins, someone with mettle—it had to be this pussy. “Tim, listen to me. If Magnus finds out we’re alive, he’ll come for us. We’re still too close to the plane. We’ve got to get out of here, try and find Colding. Maybe we can use that snowmobile over there.”
Tim looked at the Arctic Cat, but his thoughts were obviously on the bigger picture. “Didn’t Colding send us up? How can you trust him now?”
Sara took in a slow breath. She couldn’t trust Colding. But those nights they’d spent together, the things he’d told her… at the very least, he was a far better risk than Gunther or Andy or even Clayton. “I don’t know that we can trust him.”
A dog bark from outside made them freeze.
The barn door slid open, just a crack. Sara grabbed Tim’s hand and yanked him into a stall just as the door opened a little bit more, letting a golden rectangle of brilliant winter morning sunlight spill onto the barn floor.
SVEN BALLANTINE LEANED against the door for a third time. The snow had drifted high against it, half blocking it, half freezing it shut. It opened just enough for him to slide inside. Mookie pushed through his legs and ran into the barn, tail wagging furiously. She darted from cow to cow as if to say hello! to the friends she’d missed during the storm, staring at each one briefly to let them know she was there and that she was in charge.
“Take it easy, girl,” Sven said. “I’m sure they miss you, too, eh?”
And then Sven Ballantine heard a moo.
At least, he thought he’d heard it. But it hadn’t come from the barn.
He looked back through the open door, out across the blazing expanse of his snowed-over hayfield. Sunlight roared off the undulating surface, an electric field of frozen white waves running up to the thick pine trees at the field’s edge.
Moooooo.
There it was again. And it hadn’t been his imagination.
Mookie started barking, a long ro-ro-ro-ro, the kind of urgency usually reserved for trespassing squirrels or insolent rabbits. But Sven didn’t look, didn’t turn around to see Mookie’s hackles raised at two battered people hiding in a stall, crouched down by the black-and-white legs of the stall’s normal occupant.
Ro-ro-ro-rororo.
“Shut up, girl,” Sven said.
Mooooo.
No mistake that time. And it wasn’t just one cow, it was several.
Roro-ro-roro-ro.
“Goddamit, Mookie, shut da hell up!”
The scream seemed to hit Mookie like a rolled-up newspaper. Her head dropped to the ground, her tail curled slightly between her legs.
Sven walked out of the barn. He peered across the blinding field, looking for movement. He had to squint to block the worst of the reflected light. There… cows. At the edge of his field.
Sven pushed the barn door open a little wider, then walked inside and hopped on the Arctic Cat. It started on the first try. The sound of the engine drew Mookie away from the two people her master didn’t seem to notice. The dog barked at the snowmobile and turned three fast circles.
Sven eased the sled out of the barn, then gunned the engine. Mookie followed, barking all the way.
DECEMBER 1: 7:31 A.M.
CLAYTON SAT IN the Nuge’s toasty warmth. Frank Sinatra blared from the stereo. Sinatra—now, there was a man who could knock back shots of bourbon. Clayton fondly remembered his earliest days on the island, when he and Frank and Dean had drunk Sammy under the table. After Sammy passed out, Clayton had replaced the singer’s glass eye with a ball bearing. Sammy had been pissed as hell the next day, but Frank thought it was fucking hysterical.