The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain

by Fernfield, Rebecca

Rachel takes a step back as they approach. “Who are they? That’s not the uniform of the US Coast Guard.”

  “It’s not,” is Peter’s laconic reply.

  “Doctor Peter Marston?”

  Rachel stares at him with an open mouth.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve been sent to retrieve you and the carg-”

  “And this is Rachel Bonds.” Peter says with a quick step towards Rachel, blocking the man’s advance. “She’s an investigative journalist.”

  The man’s gaze flits from Peter to Rachel. The man, obviously ex-military judging by his demeanour and build, the way he expertly handles his weapons, and picks up on Peter’s hint, quickly hides the flicker of concern at the mention of Rachel’s occupation, and turns. “We were told to come and look for survivors.” As he speaks, the other two men approach the box.

  “Be careful!” Rachel calls. “There’s a wolf in there.” They ignore her and continue to inspect the box. As the first of the two makes adjustments on a handheld device, and the second loads a small gun with a dart, the third man places an arm around Rachel’s shoulder and attempts to lead her to the dinghy. She is on edge, perhaps sensing Peter’s discomfort. He makes an effort to respond naturally as the man asks if there are any other survivors.

  “We haven’t seen anyone else. Have you spotted any debris?”

  “The animal in the box is still alive,” Rachel butts into the conversation taking a step towards the metal box and the two guards attempting to lift it. Peter is relieved that they have tranquilised the creature without Rachel noticing. “We think it’s an illegal wolf being imported by the lodge’s owners. We should call the Coast Guard and report it.”

  “We’re working with the Coast Guard, Ma’am. A wolf you say?” The man asks with what appears to be genuine surprise, then shouts to the guard. “Dane, can you check on that animal? Lady here says it’s an illegal wolf.”

  “Already did, boss. It’s a dog.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “You saying my colleague is a liar, Miss Bonds?” He glares at Rachel then turns back to his men. “Get it on board and let’s haul on out of here.”

  “Do you have blankets? Aren’t you supposed to have thermal blankets or something when you rescue people? Who sent you? You’re not wearing a service uniform. I was expecting a helicopter.”

  The man grits his teeth and replies. “We’re on Special Ops in the area. The US Coast Guard asked us to cover this mission, Miss.”

  “Oh ... special ops?”

  “Special Operations.”

  Rachel makes no effort to hide her curiosity and after scanning the men’s uniforms and equipment, asks, “What Special Operations?”

  Peter sighs, relieved that the uniforms carry no identifying logos.

  “I’m not at liberty to say, Ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  Rachel continues to question the guard as the box is hauled onto the boat and, after stuffing as many belongings into Chris’ bags as she can, she joins them on the now full dinghy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sam Brewster wakes to the distinctive notes of a wolf’s howl. George is a god-damnable liar! She jabs a fingertip into her husband’s muscular back. He grunts in his sleep, “What!”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “No. Go back to sleep.”

  He snorts, immediately asleep. She purses her lips in irritation; even after sixteen years of marriage, his ability to sleep at the drop of a hat, or as soon as his head hit the pillow, irks her enormously. The howl repeats. Her heart thuds, but not with fear. She throws the covers aside, swinging her legs over the bed, alert for further noises, and peers out of the window and into the blackened forest. There are definitely no wolves on Volkolak Island, despite its name. There were bears, black-tailed deer, and a host of other mammals, but no wolves, at least no legally acknowledged wolves. Pulling on her sloppy joggers and Jerry’s extra-large hoodie, she walks through to the cabin’s living-cum-dining area and flips her laptop open. The screen flashes to life, and after only moments, the browser re-opens on the last page she had been reading—the Department of Fish and Game’s guidelines on hunting and permits. She types in the URL for the lodge’s website, scouring each page for mention of wolves. There is nothing other than a brief mention of how it came to be called ‘Volkolak’ – something about a previous owner’s desire to keep visitors away that was possibly linked to his belief there was gold in the hills and a statement that ‘No wolves have been on the island since 1986 when the island was made into a hunting ground for brown bear and blacktail deer by the current owner George Wilson’. A wry smile crosses her face; the old coot made them extinct so he could run his business. That would explain the dusty wolf pelts above the fireplace in the entrance hall to the lodge.

  She opens a new tab and begins to search for any mention of wolves being reintroduced to Volkolak. Her search returns nothing. She checks the Government’s web page for their Department of Fish and Game. Again, there is nothing on their site. She widens the search, typing in ‘new wolves Alaska’, and then ‘reintroduction wolves Alaska’, and finally ‘hunt wolves Alaska.”

  Finding no information about the reintroduction of wolves on Volkolak, and sure that George wouldn’t allow them back on the island, given his detestation of the creatures, she leans back in the chair with a smile; all the evidence suggests that there are wolves on Volkolak, unregistered and illegal wolves, and that means only one thing to Sam; an unlimited cull. The Department of Fish and Game could go suck on one, and stick their ‘One bear only’ hunting permits where the sun don’t shine; she was going to hunt the wolves down from dawn till dusk without anyone telling her to stop. She strides back into the bedroom, and jumps onto the bed beside Jerry.

  “What’re-”

  Barely able to contain her excitement she says, “Jerry! Jerry! Get up!” She prods his shoulder for added effect.

  “What is it?” he asks finally sitting up. She straddles him, hands cupping his full beard. “We are going hunting!”

  “Of course we’re going hunting,” he returns with a bemused smile, his hands sliding to cup her full buttocks. She presses her chest to his face. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Yes, but we’re not hunting bear.”

  He squeezes her buttocks, pulling her hips closer to his. “We are,” he says through a face full of warm breast. “I got the permit.”

  “Nope.” She nuzzles his neck, excitement growing. “We are going to hunt wolves!”

  He releases her nipple from his mouth. “Wolves? There aren’t any on Volkolak.”

  “There are. I’ve heard them. They’re not supposed to be here, but they are. And do you know what that means?” She pushes her hips over his growing hardness. “Do you?”

  He moans as she rises then lowers herself over him. “Right now, I don’t care.” He cups her breasts as she begins to rock.

  “It means we can kill as many as we want.” She rocks her hips rhythmically. “It means we can kill a whole fucking pack!”

  In a quick movement, he flips her to the bed, anchoring himself with one hand around the bedpost, thrusting hard against her. “Sure, babe, but first ...”

  Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed, they sit at breakfast with their long-time friends Suzy and Caleb. All four sit tight-lipped as George, the lodge’s owner, along with his wife, Carmel, a tiny oriental woman at least thirty years his junior, serve a breakfast of hash browns, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast.

  “All okay for you folks?” he asks with a slight frown.

  “Just fine,” Jerry returns with a smirk. Sam taps his leg beneath the table; the last thing she wants is for George to cotton on to the fact they know there are wolves on the island. They had all agreed to keep exactly what they intended to hunt today a secret; nothing was going to stop them enjoying their day of unrestricted hunting. Sam has already imagined the wolfskin hides pinned above their own fireplace at home, or laid out as a rug
in front of the fire, Being a woman who took pride in being able to turn her hand to anything from fixing a gearshift to sewing her niece’s prom dress, she also wanted to turn her hand to making a pair of wolfskin moccasin boots, or at least slippers.

  “What’re your plans today?”

  “We were thinking about heading up to Eagle Point.” The hill, with its distinctive rocky promontory, several miles from the lodge, is an area that George, Sam had realised this morning, had guided them away from.

  A frown quickly furrows George’s brow. “If you want to get your bear today, then you’ll be needing to be over at Halo Bay,” he says as he places a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Suzy. “That’s where they’re at. Best hurry though; won’t be long before they’re all hibernating, and your permit is only good for this year.”

  “Sure.” Jerry agrees too quickly, and with a bemused, bordering on paranoid, frown, George retreats to the lodge’s kitchen along with his wife. Suzy picks up the conversation they had shut down as breakfast was served. “Are you sure you heard wolves, Sam?”

  “I am. And if Caleb heard them too-”

  “I sure did!”

  “Then I’m positive there are wolves on this island.”

  Jerry throws his napkin down after wiping it across his mouth. “Then,” he says in hushed tones, “let’s get going.”

  All four push their chairs back. The group is uncharacteristically quiet, their excited chatter in hushed tones. As the room empties, Carmel scurries through to clear the plates as George watches from the doorway.

  Ten minutes later, an outboard engine hums as Sam climbs into the passenger seat of the 4x4 that will take them away from the lodge and deeper into the island’s thick forest. She pulls out a map of the island, scouring each marked promontory. “Eagle Point is marked with caves, I’ll just bet that’s where the pack is.”

  Leaning over to the map, Jerry agrees, starts the engine, then manoeuvres the car to leave the lodge’s parking area. Overhung with trees, it is edged by the forest, and the sense of being swallowed plays with Sam’s anxiety. Walking through the wilds, challenging herself to the next adventure, is what Sam lives for, what has gotten her from semester to semester for the last five years since she took up her position as lead teacher in the school’s English department. The increased workload hadn’t been a surprise, but the stress and pressure that went along with her new role had, and she had transitioned with a lurch from being in love with her career to barely hanging on with broken fingernails. The last straw had come two months ago when, after months of banging heads with another colleague, her mental health had taken a nosedive and she had her first panic attack in the middle of class. Forced to take time off for stress, she was slowly recovering from burnout. The holiday on Volkolak was supposed to be her final treat before going back to work. She was loving the holiday, but truly terrified of going back to work and, for the past few mornings she had woken from a dream where the pupils and teachers at the school were bearing down on her. The howling wolves, and the plans to track them down, had come as a welcome distraction, but the same sense of drowning, of being overwhelmed, had caught at her as the car had backed up from the dark bank of towering pines.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The boat ride to the lodge had taken less than thirty minutes, but it had seemed far longer with the metal box laid at his feet. Through the roar of the boat’s engine, and Rachel’s stream of questions to both himself and the other men on board, he had listened for any sign that whatever was in the box was waking. What was certain, was that Rachel did not believe Dane’s lie that inside was a dog. She had quizzed him, trying to catch him out, no doubt practicing her investigative techniques, which certainly needed honing – there was nothing subtle about her efforts of interrogation – until he had simply begun to ignore her and stared out at the horizon. Having gained no information whatsoever about who they worked for, or what was really in the box, she had turned her attention to Peter, quizzing him about the Institute. He had cursed himself for mentioning it, and remained tight-lipped, the fear of reprisal from Marta far more powerful than any concern that he was being rude in not answering Rachel’s questions.

  The dinghy pulls up and onto the beach as a large bearded male of about sixty years of age strides from the lodge. From his purposeful stride, and waving ‘hello’, he is obviously expecting their arrival. Behind him, a small woman with dark hair, carrying a bundle, follows, running to match the much larger man’s stride. As they approach, it becomes obvious that the woman is holding a folded blanket, and she throws it up and across Rachel’s shoulders as she steps from the boat. They greet her like a queen, and Peter is sure that Kendrick has radioed ahead.

  “Miss Bonds! Welcome to Volkolak Lodge. I’m George Wilson, the owner, and this is Carmel, my wife.” The woman makes a small bow in deference. Rachel makes an awkward curtsy in return. “We’re so sorry that you’ve had such a terrifying time getting here.” He turns to the small woman tugging at the blanket in an effort to wrap it even tighter around Rachel’s shoulders. “Carmel, honey, take Miss Bonds to her room and run the lady a bath.” The woman nods and tugs at Rachel’s hand. Rachel doesn’t budge.

  “Peter?”

  Peter takes a step towards her, and a large hand grasps his elbow. “Peter is coming with us. We need his help with the dog, Miss Bonds.”

  Peter nods, surprised at the force in the hand around his elbow.

  “Will you bring him back?”

  “He’ll be back before sundown,” Kendrick lies.

  “Peter?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Rachel. Go inside. It looks like you’ll be well taken care of. I’m sure I’ll see you later.” Relieved that he won’t have to keep up the pretence once they leave the shore, the lies slip from his tongue with ease.

  As Rachel is ushered up the stony beach to the wooden steps leading to the lodge, asking questions about when the police will arrive to take her statement, and what security measures they have in place against the wolves, George placates in soothing terms about hot baths and glasses of wine before a log fire. Kendrick powers up the boat, and turns it around to face the sea. Storm clouds have gathered on the horizon and a pearlescent glow has spread across the greying sky. In the distance a wolf howls, and Peter notes the flash of fear that flits across Dane’s face as they momentarily lock to Kendrick’s and then glance back at the forest.

  “Goddamn those wolves!”

  “Keep it under control, Gillespie,” Kendrick says as the boat swings to follow the island’s coastline.

  Peter remains silent as the boat hugs the coastline, focusing on the horizon rather than the gathering storm or the dark forest, and forces himself to ignore the coffin-like box that sits at their feet.

  “Not much further, Doctor Marston,” Kendrick reassures after nearly a quarter of an hour has passed. A fine mist has begun to fall, and the sky has become an angry grey. “We should make shore before the storm hits.”

  Peter shivers as memories of his icy plunge into the water surface. “I hope so!” I’ve only just got warm,” he replies in an effort to lighten the mood. Kendrick merely nods in return then focuses on steering the boat. Another inlet appears. It also is a crescent surrounded by a bank of trees but there is evidence of industrial activity where massive tracks have gouged and scarred the earth. An earth mover sits silent, its huge bucket resting on the beach. A short road winds up through the trees to a clearing on the hillside where a compound of container-sized buildings, camouflaged in dark wood, has been built. Several plumes of smoke rise from the compound. “The Institute?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peter grips the boat’s side as it is run aground, and quickly jumps to the stony beach. A sulphuric and shitty stench seems to have invaded his nostrils. He rubs his nose and takes a breath of fresh air. Cold and salty sea spray spatters his face as the wind whips at the waves. A hand grabs his elbow once more and Kendrick urges him to move forward. The metal box lands with a thud jus
t feet away. Inside the creature growls.

  “I thought it was supposed to be knocked out,” Dane says with a flash of fear in his eyes.

  “It is.”

  “Then why is it awake?”

  “What did you give it?”

  “The stuff in the syringe.”

  “Which was?”

  Dane pulls out the empty bottle and shows it to Peter. ‘Thiodrental Sodium’ is printed on the vial. “That’s not strong enough!”

  “It’s just a dog.”

  Peter stares at the man with incredulity, then turns to Kendrick. “Does he really believe it’s a dog in there.”

  “We don’t have clearance to divulge the contents of the box.”

  “Ten millilitres of thiodrental sodium, particularly a dose that has been administered with such a short needle will not allow adequate sedation of one of the ... weres.”

  “Doctor Steward doesn’t want us to call them weres.”

  “Shut up, Dane!”

  Peter frowns and closes his eyes with a blow of breath through his nose. “What you must do is use twenty-five millilitres of the drug and administer it via intramuscular injection at the ventrogluteal site. That is the best option for a rapid absorption of the drug.”

  “In the ass?”

  “Yes, using the buttocks allows you to use a longer needle with a larger gauge and penetrate deeper into the muscle with a larger dose. What exactly is in the box, Kendrick?”

  “I’m not at liberty-”

  “For crying out loud! I’m one of the scientists who worked at Kielder.”

  After a moment, Kenrick admits, “A were.”

  “Yes, yes, but what age and sex? Male, female, adult, juvenile?”

  “Adult female.”

  A howl rises from the forest and all men turn to stare into the trees.

  “Jesus, that shits me up!”

  “I’ve radioed ahead. Johnson should be here any time to collect. We’re fine if we stay near the water.”

  Perturbed by the men’s fear, Peter asks, “The wolves ... weres ... are they ... in the forest?” Kendrick remains silent, and doesn’t meet Peter’s gaze. He’s going to lie.