Snowbound - Blake Crouch [82]
Why the fuck were they moving toward him? Ever since coming up to Alaska from L.A., all he’d heard was how skittish they were, and you were supposed to have an orgasm if you saw them in the wild. Fuck this Grizzly Adams shit. God, he missed the Valley. He turned back toward the lodge, raised the Beretta, and squeezed off a burst.
Suzanne was looking over her shoulder for Lucy when the glass of the west-facing window fell out. She hadn’t heard a gunshot, and from where she sat, she couldn’t see either window. Suzanne slowly rose to her feet, reaching for her radio, and as she pressed TALK, someone screamed at the other end of the lodge.
She backpedaled, heard the crunch of broken glass—someone in the alcove now—realized they’d put the bear trap on the wrong side.
A shotgun boomed somewhere on the north wing.
There was a bright, quiet muzzle flash at the end of her corridor.
Will pressed TALK, breathing so hard, he could barely speak. “Guy just came in through the east window. He’s dead.”
Kalyn said, “Copy that. We’ve had a visual. Everyone check in.”
“Devi, here. We’re fine.”
“Ken and Sean. We’re fine.”
After a moment, Kalyn said, “Suzanne? Lucy? Copy?”
No answer.
Will: “Kalyn, did you see or hear anything on the south wing?”
“No, just the glass breaking and the guy screaming at your end, so that had my attention. Look, everyone maintain your positions. I’ll check it out.”
Ken rose suddenly to his feet, as if he’d been resolved to stand for some time, his loops coiling, and just now worked up the nerve to spring.
“Dad,” Sean whispered, “what are you doing?”
“You know, we don’t deal in this currency.” He shook the Mossberg. “We’re gonna get ourselves killed sitting here.” He threw the shotgun down.
“Where are you going?”
“Out there.”
Ken strode twenty feet to the thick door and slid back the iron bolts.
“Dad!” Sean whispered. “You sure about this?”
“I love you, Sean. I’m sorry I brought you here.” He pulled open the door, and Sean could see a meter of snow just beyond the overhanging eave, the railing of the veranda nearly buried. The cold that swept into the passage made his eyes water.
Ken stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed after him.
Jonas put on his goggles, stood at the edge of the alcove, surveying the corridor. He saw the woman he’d shot a short ways down—motionless, sprawled, her shotgun unattended on the floor. He went and picked it up.
Looking down toward the end of the corridor, where it opened into the lobby, he saw bright green flares of light—lanterns perhaps. He could just make out the shape of someone sitting on the hearth.
He removed his white parka and snow pants, but instead of continuing down this corridor, he turned around and started for the stairwell.
Ken stood under the eave, feeling the cold infiltrate his down jacket. In the absence of lantern light from the passage, it took a full minute before his eyes picked out what detail the moon allowed—the veranda, buried under feet of drifted snow, the railing covered in places, poking through in others, the forest fifty yards to the east, out of which meandered a black stream, the snow dipping toward its banks in folds, something voluptuous about the curve, like white hips in the moonlight.
When he saw them, he wondered why the tracks paralleling the railing hadn’t been the first thing to catch his attention, and, likewise, the figure who stood where they ended, perhaps thirty feet away in the farthest corner, pointing a gun at him.
Ken felt his heart trip over itself, but he managed to raise his arms.
The figure waved him over. Ken nodded, moving forward onto the snow, sinking to his waist, doing his best to negotiate the snowpack while keeping his hands above his head.
Ten feet from the masked figure, Ken saw a gloved palm extend in his direction.