The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain

by Fernfield, Rebecca

  The sleeping bag unrolled, a torch placed beside his bed, he crawls out of the tent to another howl, far louder than last time. The skin at the back of his neck creeps. “You’re a lying bastard, George!” he hisses as he spins to check the area and pulls out his mobile, clicking the video to on. As before, the only movement is the lapping of waves on the shore, the odd bird flapping across the sky, and the sway of trees as they bend with the strengthening wind. He shivers, pulling his jacket a little closer, and narrates as he films every inch of the curved inlet, the crescent of grass beyond, and the trees that hug it. “There’s something out there,” he says to camera, “but it’s not making itself visible. It could be the deer’s entrails that are attracting it so I’m going to dump those into the water, but my best line of defence is to make a fire.” Phone in one hand, he dumps some of the entrails into the sea, zooming in on the spread of blood as it infuses through the salty water, then collects driftwood for his fire. Much of the wood is too wet to burn, and he makes a paltry heap from a few dried sticks whilst continuing his commentary. “It’s not enough to keep the fire burning all night. I need to search for bigger logs.”

  Stepping beyond the beach and onto the grass, he makes his way towards the edge of the woods, and a skewed, obviously dead, tree. Realising that filming is hindering his progress, he retrieves his tripod from the tent and mounts his phone to video the event. He pulls at the dead trunk. It creaks but is surprisingly sturdy. He grabs a leafless branch, hanging on to it as a deadweight. It breaks with a satisfying snap, and he makes a loud grunt as he drops to the ground and staggers backwards. He repeats the effort, and breaks off two more branches. Laying them in a tidy pile, he readjusts the mobile’s lens, then ventures closer to the treeline, and another dead tree.

  Something pink flashes between the trees.

  Startled at the sudden flash of fuchsia, he stops. Pink is not a colour he has seen since he landed in Kodiak, and then it was only the leggings of a toddler at the airport. At the lodge, George, his wife Carmel, and the staff who helped run it, all wore varieties of camo, black, green, or brown, and he can’t imagine the guests, two corpulent men in their late fifties, and two newly arrived couples who talked about nothing other than the deer and bear they were going to track and kill over the coming two weeks, wearing anything but hunter’s green. Someone was playing tricks on him, supposing him to be a fool! Christopher takes a step back, then runs to retrieve his mobile from the tripod and makes his way back to the tent with slow steps, camera held steady; whoever, or whatever, is in that forest, he wants to make sure he has the evidence on camera.

  A bird catapults from a spruce several feet behind the treeline and flaps into the sky, its wings a silhouette against the sinking sun. Back at the tent, Christopher continues to narrate events as he reaches for his hunting knife. Camera facing the trees, watching the screen as it films, he sweeps the mobile in a slow arc. Another flash of pink! “There it is!” he hisses. He videos its progress, filming glimpses of pink, then losing it as it moves along the crescent of trees. “It’s bloody fast!” He pans the trees, unable to locate it. “Damn!”

  The flash of fuchsia reappears at the tip of the crescent.

  Startled, he jerks to a stab of pain in his chest; there can only be fifty feet between himself and whatever is stalking him. As quickly as it appears, it is gone, and the video rolls for another forty-six seconds, before Chris, realising that such inaction makes for a poor show, and dismissing anything that was clad in fuchsia as being dangerous, switches the video off, and turns to scan the inlet and the sky. Waves slap at the boat and, in a sudden gust, wind rushes through the trees bringing a chill breeze across his cheek. In the distance clouds have gathered making the sky opaque. Chris has a vague memory of George mentioning something about a storm forecast which he had immediately ignored; storm warnings at home were constant, yellow this, red that, and they never came to anything—ever.

  A vast bank of grey and rolling clouds hangs in the distant sky and Christopher takes out his mobile once more and begins to narrate. Gravel crunches underfoot as he points the camera at the angry clouds. “Storm’s coming!” Pebbles clack underfoot as Christopher turns to film himself against the dramatic backdrop of the oncoming storm. The sight that greets him makes his breath catch and, startled, he drops the phone. He bends to retrieve it, heart throbbing with painful beats, and grasps it as the thing that had tracked him through the woods, squats at the edge of the beach.

  Camera on, phone held at the creature, he shouts, “Get back!”

  Still filming, he stumbles as he retreats, then, overridden with panic, he turns to run to the boat. Foot catching on the driftwood he’d shifted up the beach, he falls. The thing behind him jumps forward. He screams, scrabbles to stand, and runs to the boat, throws the mobile to safety on a bag, then wades into the sea. The shock of the freezing water is instant, but he grabs the boat’s side and pulls. Seconds pass as he launches the boat and hauls himself aboard. He grabs the outboard’s pull cord whilst checking the creature’s position; the thing squats, feet from the lapping waves, watching as he leaves.

  “You’re a liar, George!” he shouts to the vast sky. He yanks the pull cord. “A great big dirty liar!” The outboard engine roars into life, and he steers the boat to face the open sea. The thing rises, darts to the water’s edge, then jumps back.

  At a safe distance from the beach, he slows the boat, reaches for his phone, scrolls through the contacts to ‘RACHEL B’ and types in the message ‘WTF! Our secret. Will call later,’ and attaches the video. Swept in from the east, clouds now blot out the sun, and cast a grey pall over the water. As he hits send with a trembling hand, laughing with glee verging on hysteria, the boat is rocked by agitated waves, and thunder rumbles in the near distance.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two days later

  Opening her eyes to an unfurnished room, Melanie Jager lies in a state of semi-consciousness unable to process quite where she is. The place is unfamiliar, but that’s not unusual; Melanie has lost count of the number of times she’s woken in a strange room. At least twice someone has dropped something in her drink. Some tricks just weren’t happy with taking what was on offer, what she was willing to give in exchange for eighty bucks, and on those two occasions the tricks had used her to fulfil their twisted rape fantasies. Idiots, if they’d just asked, she would have gone along with it, for another twenty bucks or so, but she guesses that having permission would spoil their fun; she would have given it a go and pretended; her acting classes wouldn’t have been for nothing then.

  The pain working through her body is a dull ache riding every muscle, but intense in her stomach. She’s vaguely aware that she’ll need another fix soon. Lifting her head from the mattress something heavy sits around her throat. Through dulled senses, she feels her neck. A thick band of cold plastic rings it. Senses alerted, she searches the room for a mirror, but each windowless wall is smooth and blank. Fingering the ring, feeling at the back of her neck, she searches for a buckle or a button, but there is none. The ring, like the room’s walls, is completely smooth. It has a slight vibration and, as consciousness returns, she hears, as well as feels, its low hum. Fingers push between the ring of plastic and her neck, and hard plastic presses against her vertebrae.

  Fear grips her belly, and she checks her memory for evidence. Last night is hazy. Earlier on there had been a trick, a blowjob in his car. Easy money and the guy had been polite. The rest of the evening is a blur of car lights and cold drizzle. She checks her body; fully clothed, her jeans still buttoned, her top un-ripped—unviolated, at least for now.

  She walks the length of the room. It’s an oblong, twice as long as it is wide. She knocks on the walls. The sound is muffled; insulated partition walling. Her head throbs. So, plasterboard, perhaps with insulation board between timber used to construct the wall. See, Dad. I did listen. A flash of memory back to her father on one of the jobs he’d taken her on. He’d wanted her to become an apprentice, help
him in his business, but she’d wanted the excitement of the big city; didn’t want to end up like him and mom stuck in their boring lodge with their boring humdrum lives. She knew that was exactly how she’d end up, if she didn’t do something about it, and when her mom had started to talk about what a lovely boy Jack Oskolkoff had turned out, and how his fledgling business was really taking off, she’d taken off the following weekend. The rest is history.

  She runs a hand down the plasterboard, which now her vision has returned, and her senses are less dull, she realises are un-plastered, the joins between each board neatly taped. Whoever was working on the room was doing a good job, at least a neat job. A waft of bleach rises to her nostrils. She scans the room; empty apart from the thin mattress. An air duct, which is also probably the heating unit, sits in one corner, and in the other is a camera. The hair on her scalp creeps—a camera! “Mel, what the hell kind of situation have you got yourself into?” With sudden clarity, she realises that the room is exactly the size of a shipping container, the same dimensions as the one her father had converted to a workshop. So, if it is a container, then one end should have double doors. She twists to see. A black line runs down the centre of the far end of the box—the doors.

  The ring around her neck emits a low and monotonous buzz as she hammers at the doors; they barely move under her efforts. Taking a step back, she forces her fogged brain to think, and notices faint spatter marks on the plasterboard. The urge to run is overwhelming. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! You’re an idiot, Mel. Just like Daddy told you. Fingers grab handfuls of hair. Blood! It’s blood! Bleached-out spatter marks of arterial spray are on the door and across several feet of the sidewall. The urge to defecate is intense and a dribble of urine leaks down her leg. Stay in control! Yes, but you’ve been kidnapped by a lunatic, how the hell can you stay in control? She scratches at the tape hiding the plasterboard’s joins, pulls at the ring around her neck. The tape is fast, just like the ring. Her mouth dries.

  As she continues to scratch at the tape, desperate to pull off the plasterboard and break off a timber baton from the framework beneath, a low rumble rises to grating and something outside thuds against the container. To the sound of grinding hydraulics, the doors of the container begin to open. Startled, she stands back. Brighter light shines through into the room, but as the doors open to their full extent, and are anchored back to the sound of locking, she is only met with another bare room. At the other end are thick metal railings. Behind them the space is black.

  Like the container with the mattress, the new ‘room’ is constructed of plasterboard but this one has a sloping floor that descends towards the grilled opening at the other end. It is a corridor, identical to the ‘room’ she stands in, complete with bleached spatter marks. She stands frozen as her pulse throbs, and listens.

  A heavy, unpleasant scent, wafts from the room at the end of the corridor.

  Shuffling; something moving along its walls. Footsteps.

  She swallows. Movement behind the bars, and then a pair of red eyes stare out from the dark. The grille slides open, and she screams.

  ***

  As Max takes another step towards the girl, Gabe Lewinski, second only in command to First Officer Kendrick Kingsley, is too agitated to sit, and stands with his attention completely absorbed by the drama unfolding on screen. The monitors that clutter his desk flash and beep, returning their information of the players’ vital signs. The female’s heartrate is tripping at the higher end, the male’s is steady but rising; odd how fear and excitement have the same rhythm in the body.

  An arm brushes his, and he’s aware of his colleague for a moment. The man reeks of tension and, like Gabe, he’s conflicted about the ‘experiment’ but, also like Gabe, he had parked his morals two years ago, trading them in for filthy lucre, and the path less travelled. Nowhere on this planet was there a job as fascinating, or probably as illegal, as this.

  “Status?” Kendrick asks.

  “The doors to the female’s quarters have been opened. She’s showing the typical signs of disorientation.”

  “Did she make it to the tunnel?”

  “No, she hung back.”

  “The male?”

  “Showing signs of movement. His heartrate is climbing and his position has shifted. The door has been released and is fully open.”

  The monitors beep. “Shut that noise off,” Kendrick demands. “I want to concentrate.”

  Gabe reaches for the monitors and mutes the incessant beeping.

  “The lights are too low, Lewinski. I need a clear view of proceedings to make my observations.” The light brightens. “Is this one clean? Doctor Steward said to get a clean one.”

  “She is un-fucking-believable. What? Are we supposed to give Jane Doe a drugs test before we kidnap her, or after?”

  “It might make a difference.”

  Silence for a moment, and then, “Do you think he’ll kill this one too?”

  “Too early to tell.”

  “If it looks like he’s going to, can’t we close those doors.”

  Kendrick is silent for two seconds, then says. “No. There’s no turning back. Once we set this in motion, there’s no turning back.”

  The bank of monitors is set up to show various angles within the female’s cell, the male’s cell, and the corridor. Top of the range surveillance equipment has been installed, the cameras recognising movement and following the figures.

  As the light brightens, the male’s figure becomes clear and he steps into the corridor. The female’s screen is suddenly alive with movement.

  “Here we go.”

  Both men are silent as the male steps forward.

  “Get me a close-up of his face, I want to see every reaction, every nuance.”

  The camera zooms in. The male stops, and turns his head to stare at the moving camera. A pair or red eyes stare into the lens.

  “That always freaks me out.”

  “Just watch, Lewinski.”

  The woman is at the furthest recess in her ‘room’. As the male progresses up the corridor, she grabs the thin mattress and holds it as a protective barrier.

  “He’s going slow. Perhaps this time will be different, but we should have taken out that mattress; Marta will be pissed.”

  Kendrick remains silent, completely absorbed by the proceedings, watching as the male’s enormous talons slice down.

  “Shut it off! I can’t watch this.”

  “We have to watch.”

  “Jesus!” Gabe says turning away from the screen.

  “Too hot in the kitchen, Lewinski?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay. He’s done. Close the doors once he’s back in his cell and get the cleaning crew in there.”

  “He hasn’t ... eaten her?”

  “No, just killed her.”

  “What a waste! What the hell is wrong with him? Marta will be pissed if we don’t get some results soon.”

  “Talk to Katarina. She’s the behavioural expert. It’s up to her to figure this out. We just facilitate events.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Birmingham, England

  The mobile phone vibrates for a third time before Rachel Bonds reaches across her bedside table and scrolls through the list of new messages; the first, an older message still unopened, is from old school mate and now D-list celebrity Chris ‘Windy’ Miller, and is probably another whinge-fest about his failing career, the second is from her best friend Bianca, and the final one is from her mother. She clicks on ‘MUM’ and reads the message: ‘Happy Birthday, Darling! See you for lunch at Bellini’s. Don’t be late. Xxx’. Irritation at how she has allowed her mother to control her birthday yet again is followed by a wave of nausea, and Rachel remembers last night’s bottle of red consumed in front of the television as she watched the late-night film. The tears had started after the second glass, and the bottle was followed by several extra-large gin and tonics. She has a vague recollection of a blurry Benicio del Toro strapped to a c
hair, or was that Anthony Hopkins? Maybe both?

  Sunday night’s alcoholic binge had followed on from Saturday’s and the ache at the nape of her neck and temples intensifies as she wonders how she will make herself look presentable enough to sit with her immaculate mother at the pretentious Bellini’s. Rachel replies through dulled senses to her mother’s text message, reads Bianca’s birthday message and promise of drinks later, and determines to read Chris Miller’s message after taking a shower. Sagging back into her pillow, she glances at the bedside clock; 8:46. She should be walking into the office right now, but since her last published exposé had gone so spectacularly wrong, she’d been told to take a leave of absence until the dust had settled, or more likely, until they’d had a chance to talk to HR and found a legal way of getting rid of her. The sombre face of the Human Resources director as he’d delivered the news, rises in her memory, and her vision blurs with tears.

  The phone rings, breaking into her wallow of self-pity; Dexter Mason, her editor-in-chief. She sits up, coughs to clear her throat and, heart thumping, head pounding, answers the call.

  “Morning Bonds.”

  “Good morning, Mr Mason.” Her reply holds a lilt that she hopes oozes confidence and says she’s ready for the next assignment.

  “Bonds ...”

  Griping pains ache through her belly at the hesitation in his voice; she knows what is coming. She forces brightness into her voice. “Yes?”

  “I have an assignment for you.”

  He’s not calling to terminate her contract! A silent fist pump into the air that she regrets instantly as the dull and throbbing ache intensifies in her head. “Brilliant! ... I mean, thank you.”

  “You may not thank me once you’ve heard what it is.”

  “Oh?”

  “But I’ve done my best for you ... given the circumstances.”

  “Oh.” Be more appreciative, Bonds! “I’m up for anything, sir. Hit me with it.”