“Hey!” Slater shouted, just to grab its attention. “Over here!”
The wolf whipped its head around. There was a bolt of white on its muzzle and plastic hanging from its teeth.
He snatched a specimen scale off the counter and hurled it, missing the target but distracting the beast for a second.
“Come on!” he shouted, treading backwards toward the exit. “Follow me, you bastard!” He grabbed a clipboard and threw that, too, the pages fluttering loose as it flew. “Follow me!”
But the wolf refused to take the bait. Now it seemed to know that he was harmless, and with renewed vigor it turned its head sideways, gathered a hunk of the heavy-duty sheathing in its mouth, and began tearing it away again.
Lantos screamed as a great swath of the shredded curtain fell apart, enough for the wolf to squirm its way into the autopsy chamber.
Lantos swung the saw, but the wolf leapt on her, fangs flashing and claws out, and as Slater ran through the lab he saw her fall under its weight.
He tore through the same opening as the wolf, snatched the biggest scalpel on the instrument tray and slashed at the raised hackles on the animal’s back. The first cut was ignored, and so was the second, but on the third the wolf howled, and twisted around in rage.
Slater stepped back, the bloody scalpel slick in his hand, bracing himself against the freezer for the attack. To his astonishment the wolf snarled, but instead of charging at him, it turned away and leapt onto the autopsy table, squarely setting its paws on either side of the deacon’s corpse, like a predator defending its kill.
“Run!” Slater said to Lantos, who was lying on the floor in her lab suit and rubber apron. “Can you run?”
Lantos scrambled out of the chamber, her hands cradling her abdomen, while Slater, the breath raw in his throat, covered her retreat.
The wolf bent its head to the ravaged remains on the table and sniffed at them. Its own blood matted its thick black fur, lending it an oily sheen.
Slater inched his way backwards, watching the wolf while clutching the scalpel.
But the creature stood its ground atop the table, not even bothering to look at him as he parted the torn curtains and stepped into the lab proper. Still looking over his shoulder, Slater hurried toward the open flaps that were slapping in the wind. Just before he passed through them, he took one last look at the wolf through the hanging shreds of the autopsy chamber. Lifting its powerful head toward the sky, it howled with a sound as forlorn and grief-stricken as any mourner at a funeral.
He staggered through the tent flaps; they were smeared with blood, as was the railing of the ramp. In the last of the daylight, he could see a trail of crimson spots on the white snow, leading off into the colony grounds. All around the stockade, he could hear the baying of wolves, answering the call.
But he could not see Lantos.
The trail of blood and footprints seemed to go first in one direction, and then in another, as if she were staggering blindly, simply trying to put distance between herself and the lab tent.
“Eva!” he called out, and the only reply he heard was from the wolves. “Eva!”
The tents were glowing green all around him, but the blood led him up toward the old well, where he found a deeper and wetter pool. “Eva!”
She was crumpled in a heap, her arms cradling her stomach, against the stone wall of the well. When he turned her over, he could see that the blood was oozing through a gash in her rubber apron. Her face mask was askew, and as he bent over her, he said, “Can you hear me?”
There was no answer, but he felt for a pulse in her neck and found it. “Just hang in there,” he said, “you’re going to be all right. I promise you.” It was a promise he wasn’t at all sure he could keep.
Snow had started to fall in earnest, and it was dark. If he was going to save her life, he would have to perform emergency surgery on her and close that wound, but the lab was now off-limits, as were all the other colony tents. Lantos might have been contaminated, and he needed to keep her in quarantine from now on.
The cockeyed church, with its onion dome, rose before him, and picking her up in his arms, he mounted the old wooden steps, kicked the doors open with one foot, then laid her as gently as he could atop one of the pews.
When she groaned, he was relieved to hear it. “Eva, I’ll be right back.” He placed her hands, still in their sticky gloves, on her own abdomen. “Keep pressing down. You hear me? Keep it compacted.”
She grunted softly, and Slater charged out again. The wolves were howling in the woods—had they picked up the scent of all the blood?—as he yanked the doors firmly closed behind him. The green tents, only fifty yards off, looked a mile away. But he barely stopped to catch his breath before he vaulted down the steps on his way to fetch his surgical supplies.
The mission had just gone completely off the rails, but if he didn’t keep his head, it could lead to a disaster of epic proportions.
Chapter 39