Their child’s cot.
He could recreate the whole scene in his mind, apart from being able to picture what manner of beast might have been capable of this amount of bloody violence without leaving a trace of itself behind.
“Bloody neat bears,” he muttered to himself as he went back out to join his men.
Hynd and Mac were already investigating the next house up but it too had suffered the same fate. There was more evidence of a full frontal assault and smears, two this time, leading back to the water’s edge, where some torn scraps of bloody clothing were all what remained of whoever had been dragged off. Hynd looked back at Banks and shook his head. He didn’t have to say anything; there was no chance of finding anyone alive here either.
“Cap? What is this bollocks?” Nolan said and Banks heard the tremor in the man’s voice. He’d seen Pat Nolan stand up alone to a frontal attack of a score of murderous mountain men in Afghanistan without a flinch, yet here he was, pale and trembling like a frightened boy.
“I know, lad,” Banks said softly. “This is a bad one. But it’s an animal attack of some kind, has to be.” He patted Nolan’s rifle. “Just point this at anything that shows up and fire until it goes away.”
Nolan managed a wan smile as Hynd and Mac came back to join them.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Hynd asked but Banks didn’t have an answer, beyond the obvious.
“First a Russian boat in trouble, then all out fucking carnage? I don’t know. I thought at first the walruses were victims of a random animal attack. But I don’t believe in coincidences. Eyes open, lads. This could be a rough ride.”
The next two houses up the shore were much the same as the first; broken doors, no power, and bloody smears the only clues as to what might have happened. They found no signs of any weapons fire and although Banks checked the ground for tracks, looking in particular for Russian Army issue boots, he only found confusing scratches and scrapes, some almost bird-like, others more like gouges that might have been caused by claws. He had almost ruled out animal attack in favor of a Russian black-ops mission gone wrong but seeing those tracks, he wasn’t so sure of himself again.
By the time they reached the fifth house, it was obvious the whole settlement had suffered much the same fate, although here there were signs of gunfire but from inside the house itself. The homeowner had a shotgun, a big one judging by the spray pattern of shot. But if he’d hit anything, there was no sign of any spilled blood other than his own. And this time, Banks got plenty of evidence to consider, although he still couldn’t make sense of it.
The attackers hadn’t dragged this victim away; the big man lay in the doorway, scraps of clothing and flesh scattered like a blanket under him. There was nothing left of his legs but bone and fatty tissue – it likes its meat red – his groin and belly gaped open, ribs splayed as if forcibly burst apart, guts and heart and lungs stripped as neatly as the muscles from the thighs, with almost surgical precision. All the attack had left him was his face, mouth gaping in a never-ending scream. Eyes, blood red, almost popped from their sockets.
Banks bent to examine the wounds more closely, wishing now he’d taken time to do so back with the walruses. The long bones of the thighs were scratched, scraped almost, as if the flesh had been scoured off roughly. And now he saw it clearly, he knew what it reminded him of – bodies he’d seen in the Himalayas, of priests left out in sky burials for the crows and vultures. The butchered body below him had much the same look to what was left; a scavenger had been at him, or rather, several scavengers.
“My local knowledge is admittedly sketchy, Cap,” Hynd said softly, “but I don’t remember any wildlife around here that attacks, or feeds, like that.”
Banks stood, careful to avoid stepping in any gore. He shook his head.
“Me neither. But whatever it is, we can’t spend time looking for it; we’re on the clock here. Let’s make for the Russian boat and see what’s to be seen over there.”
The small harbor at the center of town was as quiet as the rest of the settlement and neither of the two boats moored at the short quay were going anywhere except down; both were holed at the waterline, their timbers split, as if pulled open from the outside.
Banks looked over the dark stretch of water between them and the Russian boat. The distance could be swum, if they were in the Med; here it would be suicide, a certain death within minutes in the freezing water.
“Plan B,” Banks said. “This is a fishing community; there’ll be other boats or dinghies somewhere around here. We need to find one and we need to find one fast. Two teams; Sarge, you take McCally and Briggs and sweep ‘round the backs of the buildings we passed; check sheds, backs of trucks, trailers – anywhere there might be a boat or inflatable. Nolan, you’re with Mac and me. We meet up back here in twenty.”
“And what if we don’t find a boat?” Mac said.
Banks smiled grimly.
“Then we’ll hollow out yon belly of yours and use you as a fucking canoe.”
Banks moved quickly north with Nolan and Mac right behind him. The first building they investigated sat directly opposite the quay across the shore track; the local post office. Unlike the houses, it looked to have survived any attacks; Banks spotted it had concrete underpinnings and brick walls, along with a main door that was built to last; metal and glass at least half an inch thick. Whatever had attacked the settlement had obviously chosen the easier pickings to be had in the timber houses on either side.
He rapped hard on the locked door but everything was still and dark inside. Like the rest of the buildings, if there was power, it wasn’t switched on. Either the locals hadn’t thought to seek refuge there or, more probable given what they’d seen so far, the people hadn’t been given the time. Whatever the case, a post office wasn’t the right place to be looking for a boat.
They circled the building anyway, with Mac taking the lead this time. A small paved area at the rear had three Skidoos parked in a neat line. He made a mental note; the vehicles might be handy if they needed to make an overland getaway at some point… but as Banks had suspected, there were no signs of a boat.
Banks saw the other three men down to their south in the backyard of one of the houses; they didn’t appear to be having much luck either. He led Nolan and Mac around to the front of the building to continue northward. Time was passing them by fast; if they didn’t find transport across to the Russian vessel soon, he might have to call in an abort; a first for him and his squad and a step he wasn’t ready to take.
“Step it up, lads,” he said and jogged, almost ran to the next house up the shore. This one looked more promising, a larger property set back a bit from the shore with a double garage to one side that might, if they were lucky, prove to be a boat shed. But when they turned off the shore track onto the short driveway, Banks’ hopes were dashed immediately; one of the garage doors had been pulled open and laid, a crumpled heap, to one side. There had been a boat inside, a fifteen-foot Zodiac dinghy. Like the boats in the harbor, this one was going nowhere; the rubber flayed, torn and tattered into ribbons with scraps of it laying over two more bodies; a woman and a child she had obviously been trying to protect. The woman’s back was flayed open, her spine clearly showing. The girl below her had suffered less wounding, but her legs were similarly stripped clean of flesh, the bone showing too white in Banks’ night vision. Nolan retched behind him and Banks turned to tell the lad to take it outside but never got to say it.