Russell was so disoriented—and panicked now—that he hardly knew which way to turn. But he did know that the cave was still far off, while the old Russian colony was close. He could give himself up to the Coast Guard, claim he was just some stupid kayaker that the storm had washed up on the shore. Maybe that guy Dr. Slater could even take a look at his ankle, and better yet, give him something for the pain.
The colony, as best he could make out, was off to his left, in the direction of the strait. Keeping a close eye on the brush, and moving as quickly, but as cautiously, as he could, he cut a trail through the trees. The snow was swirling more thickly than ever. Remembering something his uncle had once told him, he thought of breaking the end of a branch here and there as a way of marking his progress, but he knew it was too dark for him ever to find the broken bits again. It would only be possible the next day … and he was beginning to doubt he would live that long.
Something leapt over a fallen trunk on his right, and he caught a glimpse of sleek black fur.
And then, from his other side, he heard a yip.
A short one, a signal to its mate.
Which was responded to with the same sound.
He picked up his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. He clenched the end of the stave, his only weapon. His eyes strained to see ahead, to catch sight of the colony. His breath was coming in bursts, and he told himself to breathe more evenly, more deeply. The essential thing was to keep moving. They would only move in for the kill if they thought he was helpless and had given up … or if they had already acquired a taste for human flesh.
Focus, he told himself, forging ahead. Focus. And through the trees, down a slope, he saw a spot of something bright green. And glowing.
A tent! One of those colony tents!
It was behind what was left of the stockade wall. Christ, it felt like a hundred years ago that he had first seen this damn place. He swung the stave through the brush, clumsily trudging down the hillside, and then exulting as he shimmied through a gap in the timbers.
He was behind that old church, but when he turned, he saw that the wolves—and there were four of them, not two, all black, and their yellow eyes gleaming—were slinking between the logs, too. Their heads were lowered, their hackles raised, and they showed no signs of quitting their hunt.
He swung the stave in a wide arc, but only one of them backed off. The others stood their ground, snarling now, saliva dripping from their jaws.
“Help!” he shouted, but the wind was roaring in his ears. “Somebody help me!”
He could feel the wolves spreading out around him, cutting off any retreat. He swung the stave again, and this time the alpha wolf, in front of the pack and with a blaze of white on its muzzle, snapped at the end of the stick, nearly managing to yank it from his hands. He could feel the heat of its body; he could smell its rank breath.
Whirling around, he saw a hole in the foundation of the church, not much bigger than a manhole cover, but big enough. He backed up toward it, poking the stave at whichever wolf got closest. When the alpha lunged at it again—and gripped the stick between its teeth—he suddenly let go, turned around, and scrambled into the hole. The wood was jagged, and splinters cut through his gloves, but he was pulling himself in with all his might, wriggling his body in after. He was jackknifed into the gloomy interior when something snagged the bottom of his boot. He pulled the leg harder, praying he had caught his shoe on a shard of wood, but the foot was only jerked back even harder.
And now he could feel the bite, the fangs sinking right through his boot and heavy woolen sock … and into his skin.
He pulled again, but to his amazement he felt himself being hauled backwards. His hands scrabbled at the thick wood of the wall, trying to find any purchase, but all he got was a handful of splinters and sawdust. He shook his leg, and kicked his foot out. He heard his pants ripping, and felt his own hot blood soaking through his sock.
He screamed again, his cry echoing in the empty church.
And then there was another set of fangs, fastened like a vise on his other foot.
Like a snake being yanked out of its den, he slithered backward, out of the hole, and flopped onto the ground. Turning over to punch at their snouts, he saw above him a frenzy of yellow eyes, black fur, and open, dripping jaws. He tried to lift his hands to fight back, but the alpha had already nuzzled its head under his chin, seeking, and swiftly finding, his jugular. Its teeth felt as long and fine as knitting needles as they sank into his neck.
Chapter 36
The electric chandelier was ablaze with light, and Jemmy, who usually slept soundly on her feet, was stirring. Anastasia rubbed her eyes and said, “What’s going on?”
Her father was standing in the doorway in his nightshirt. “The commandant has asked us to dress and go down to one of the lower rooms.”
“Why?” Olga asked from her cot.