The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain

by Fernfield, Rebecca

  A deep and throaty growl rises to a roar and then a lumbering and massive form lowers its head and charges. The Small Dark One runs at the bear, but it slaps her to the ground with one swipe of its massive paw. She writhes as the bear rears to its full height, and screams as its bared claws slam down onto her chest.

  The bear’s roar fills Max’s ears, and the stench of its breath fills his nose. It lumbers towards The Red One and Katarina. Hackles raised, they back away from the boat where Katarina has pulled off the cover. The heavy stench of death and rotting flesh rises to mingle with the dank odour of the bear. Max sprints forward, placing himself between Katarina and the bear. The Small Dark One yowls. The Red One snaps its jaws.

  The bear rears again, towering above Max.

  The stench of decay clings to the bear, the corpse’s torn white flesh hangs from its jaws. Standing his ground, Max raises to his full height, lips pulled back in a snarling growl. The bear lands with a thud, growls, then rears on its back legs again. Katarina yowls, jumping, skittering, and gnashing her jaws. In the next second, the bear throws itself forward, sharp claws swipe through the air and rip through Max’s torso. The bear’s massive weight throws Max to the ground. It follows its advantage with a pounce, landing both paws on Max’s shoulders; huge jaws clamp around Max’s jaw, ripping at his cheeks, spiking through to his oesophagus.

  Suffocating under the heavy weight now on his chest, he hauls for breath through a punctured windpipe. Releasing Max’s head, the bear slashes at his torso, gouging his ribs, and cutting at his innards, puncturing his lungs. An agony of pain rips through Max, but with one desperate swipe, he plunges sharp talons down the centre of the bear’s chest, slicing through fur and skin, tearing the fabric of its body from its sternum to its navel and then, as the bear releases its grip around his neck, to its ball sack. With a squealing grunt, the bear sways, pulls back, then drops to the ground, its innards bulging through the opening, held back only by the membrane that covers them. Behind, the females jostle and yip, jumping forward to stab at the bear with their talons. The Red One jumps to the bear, tearing at its throat.

  Blood seeping from his wounds, Max retreats to the side of the boat. The females rush to the bear, pulling at its innards. The membrane breaks and the stomach falls to the beach, sliding and spreading with an undulating roll over the stones. The bear jerks with a spasm, its eyes reflecting the moon as it stares. It grunts, panting as the females snap and snarl, pinching at each other, one pulling the other from its body. The Red One reaches into the cavity, and pulls out the liver, the females grab and grasp for its kidneys.

  As the bear takes its final breath, and the females cackle and snicker, dig and push, and bite and tear, Max sinks against the side of the boat. The stench of the man inside, his face destroyed by the bear’s teeth, his side torn to reveal festering organs, rises to mingle with the particles of Max’s own blood as it runs from his wounded throat through the hairs on his shoulders and chest, to drip onto the stony beach. The pain is agonising, but as the minutes pass, the wound begins to knit. The puncture hole in his lung closes, the fractured ribs knit, and the gaping hole in his throat, and the gouges in his cheek where the bear’s claws had scored the jawbone, heal.

  The others feed, and as the Small Dark One grasps for the heart, Katarina slaps her hand away, tears the organ from the cavity, and presents it to Max. He tears into the flesh, the bear’s blood joining his own as it slides down his throat. At the house, lights appear at the high windows and then the lower rooms brighten, but the house remains silent, and the doors closed, and then the building disappears as an intense white light floods the beach.

  The bear’s heart, half-eaten in his hand, Max limps to the others, grunts at them to follow, then leads them through the woods, and back to the cave.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Michel’s naked hips pressed up against her buttocks, Rachel stares out onto the beach from behind the gap in the bedroom curtains. As the yowls, and screaming growls had erupted, the hairs on her scalp had crept in a painful contraction and she had shivered.

  “There’s someone on the beach! I can see them ...” she peers closer to the window, her breath steaming the pane. She wipes away the mist from the glass. “There’s more than one, I’m sure of it.”

  “I can’t see anyone. The cover has come off the boat though.” His voice holds a note of dread. “I knew we should have tied it down.”

  “The cover? The one over Jean-Luc?”

  “Yes. I just hauled it across. I meant to go out and secure it later, but ...” he stares through the glass, “someone distracted me.”

  Rachel riles. “So it’s my fault!”

  “Hey, don’t get on your high horse. I was just pulling at your leg,”

  “Pulling my leg.”

  “Okay, pulling your leg.”

  “But someone’s been murdered!”

  “How. He’s already dead.” Hands cup Rachel’s breasts, and Michel nuzzles into her neck. “Do you know what I think has happened?” he asks between soft kisses at the nape of her neck.

  Rachel casts his reflection in the window a glance, and then turns her attention back to the moonlit beach. There are too many shadows to see clearly. “No, well, I guess I do, but go ahead.”

  “Well, I think a bear came sniffing around Jean-Luc.”

  Rachel pulls a grimace, wrinkling her nose as though that will stop her hearing the next part of his explanation.

  “And it started to eat him, and then another came along, and before you know it, it’s picnic time for Mr Fuzzy and his friend.”

  “God, that is a disgusting thought. And, Mr Fuzzy?”

  “Yeah, just what I used to call my bear.”

  “You had a bear?”

  “Sure, didn’t you? I used to sleep with mine.”

  “Sleep with your bear?”

  “Yeah, but ... but not in a weird way.”

  Realisation dawns. “Do you mean a ... stuffed bear.”

  “Yes, of course! What? You thought I meant a real-life bear? Who in their right mind would sleep with a real bear? They may look cute and all, but they’re goddamned dangerous!”

  A flush rises to Rachel’s cheeks. This evening was making her head bend and the thoughts just weren’t flowing the way they should. She needs a glass of wine to calm her nerves, or, after that godawful commotion outside, something stronger. Realising that the bar downstairs will be closed, and that she has drunk the last of the bottle they’d brought up from their meal, she turns her attention back to the beach. “We should go and take a look.”

  “Nope! No one in their right mind goes out in the dark to track down a bear.” Michel presses up behind her, and her attention wavers as his excitement becomes obvious. Her body responds with a deep ache that still hasn’t been satisfied, and won’t be ignored, and all thoughts of the disturbance outside, and the hideous wails, screams, and growls, disappear. Jean-Luc is dead anyway, and the Coast Guard will be collecting what’s left of him tomorrow. She twists to face Michel and his excitement, and they fall together on the bed, devouring each other with open mouths.

  ***

  “Goddamn!” George had flooded the beach with light. It doesn’t extend to the boat, but he is sure he caught a glimpse of something hobbling towards the forest. He picks up the phone, and dials the number for the Institute’s director. The phone cuts to dead after the third ring. “Goddamned liars!” Tomorrow he will be paying the Institute a visit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  As sunlight filters in through Rachel’s window, and Max curls behind Katarina on their bed of ferns deep in the cave, the air just west of Volkolak fills with the distinctive chop, chop of the US Coast Guard’s MH60 Jayhawk helicopter.

  The journey out of Air Station Kodiak has been uneventful, but as the helicopter approaches the wilderness lodge, and the wide expanse of stony beach that curves along its front, the brow of US Coast Guard, Joshua Bartholomew wrinkles with a deep frown as he attempts to make s
ense of the sight on the beach. Two boats sit high on the beach, one has an outboard engine, the other is half-covered with a flapping piece of blue tarpaulin. Both appear to have been neglected for some considerable time.

  A corner of the blue tarp flaps like a dying fish as the wind catches it. The area around the boat with the tarp is red. As the helicopter hovers to land, he gets a clearer view of the scene. Blood and gore is sprayed around the boat, as well as smeared down its side. A trail of blood leads away from the beach and into the trees, passing what can only be a very large bear laying stretched out on its side. Its belly is concave and it is also surrounded by pools of blood. Something straggles from its belly, but before he can register quite what it is, the blue tarp flaps open, and reveals its cargo; the body of a man, half-eaten.

  “Holy ... what has happened here?”

  “Straight out of a horror flick!”

  “Carnage! Just carnage!”

  “Looks like a bear got to our guy before we did!”

  Five minutes later, Joshua, and his crew, are inspecting the remains of the bear, and the man, presumably Jean-Luc Macron, the victim pulled out of the sea they were charged with collecting.

  “Definitely don’t need to medevac this one!”

  “You don’t say!” Boyd laughs.

  “He is one hell of a mess!”

  “Is it our guy?”

  “I think so. Where’s the lodge’s owner?”

  “Wade has gone up to the lodge to find him.”

  “I guess someone didn’t think to tie this sucker down,” Joshua says reaching for the blue tarp. “There is no evidence that it has been slashed to gain entry. The bear just pulled it off.”

  “Easy pickings!”

  “Ughh!”

  “The bear’s dead though. I guess the owner took a dislike to it chowing down on Mister Macron.”

  Joshua moves from the boat, and focuses instead on the bear’s mutilated body with relief; at least it was just an animal, seeing a man’s flesh torn, even if he was already dead, and perhaps because he was already dead, was too hard to stomach. His belly gives a queasy roll and he gags back the retch that is twisting at his gut. The stench is abominable.

  “Stinks like it shit itself.”

  “I think it did!” He agrees, “but I don’t think that the owner had anything to do with its death. Look at the state it’s in! Its intestines are pulled out from its belly. See how the belly sags?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I’ve seen that before.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s been disembowelled. It looks just like the cows my Gramps slaughters. He hangs ‘em up, slits their bellies, then lets the innards just fall out. The belly’s empty then, just like this bear.”

  “Well ... then where are they? A bear this size’s gotta have a whole lot of intestines in there, plus internal organs. If-”

  “Looks like someone took them down the beach.”

  Joshua follows the man’s pointing arm to a smeared trail of blood that snakes towards the forest.

  “That’s not right! Who in their right mind would take the intestines out and cart them down the beach?”

  “I don’t think it is a who, more of a what.”

  “What the hell kind of animal would do that?”

  Joshua continues to follow the trail. Ahead of him, Craig turns and shouts, “Looks like we’ve got some footprints here too.”

  “What kind of animal?”

  “Well ...” he squats to inspect the marks. “You’d best take a look for yourself.”

  Stepping beside Craig, he crouches beside a clear footprint that extends across two flat stones. The heel is rounded and narrow, the foot long and widening towards the toes. The flat rock stops where the toes should be, and the small stones beneath are smeared with blood. “They’re human, right?”

  “Well ... they do look human.”

  Boyd joins them. “I think you’re right.”

  “What the hell has gone on here?”

  “I think we need to talk to the owner.”

  Half an hour later, Joshua is making preparations to move what remains of Jean-Luc Macron whilst Kyla, the only female member of their crew, photographs the scene. George Wilson, the lodge’s owner has finally arrived. Out of breath, and with face flushed red, he carries himself with a defensive air.

  “It’s one hell of a mess.”

  “It sure is. What happened here, Mister Wilson?”

  “Bear! What else.”

  “Well ... there are human footprints around the boat, bloody footprints that lead into the forest.”

  A flicker of fear crosses George’s face as he glances at the forest. “That can’t be right. I’ve told my guests to stay inside, and there’s only me and Carmel ...” he trails off.

  “And?” Joshua prompts.

  “And nothing. Damned bears! I need me some more hunters to get their numbers down. I’m going to have to call in the Department to get them culled otherwise. Right now, I’d appreciate it if you could get Mister Macron off of my island. My guests are starting to get a little antsy.”

  “Well, the State Medical Examiner-”

  “I ain’t waiting for no Medical Examiner! That body is stinking this place up, making it dangerous around here. I don’t have nowhere suitable to keep it.”

  “I was going to say the State Medical Examiner’s Officer, back in Anchorage, will want a full report. We’ll have to take photographs, make notes ...”

  “But the guy died at sea!”

  “Sure, but we still need to make our report. And then we can bag him up.”

  “And how long’s that gonna take?”

  “As long as it does.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  As Kyla focuses down on the face of Jean-Luc, and George continues to bluster about the bear and its stinking carcass, Rachel opens her eyes to light flooding in through the curtains left parted as she’d made an effort to see onto the beach last night. Throwing off the bedcovers, she moves to the window to get a clear view of the boat in daylight. She notices the uniformed men first, and then the red mess around the boat. She pulls the curtain at an angle across her naked body, and stares with disbelief at the carnage.

  “Michel!”

  Michel makes no reply, and she realises that she is alone. “Damn!” He has left her without saying goodbye, and there isn’t even a note on her pillow. Disappointment envelopes her. “Bloody men!”

  Head thumping from lack of sleep - Michel had just kept going! - and too much wine, she makes her way to the bathroom. The scent of Michel, and their lovemaking, still clings to her and she takes a final deep breath of the odour before taking a hot shower and soaping every inch of her body. Teeth brushed with the complimentary toothpaste and brush Carmel had supplied, she pulls on yesterday’s jeans, top, and fleece, and makes a mental note to swallow her embarrassment and ask Carmel if she has any spare underwear—she’s hopeful that some knickers have been left behind by previous guests. Relieved to feel fresh, and now in full control of her faculties, she takes the complimentary pad and pencil from the bedside table, and makes her way to the dining room, starving after her night of passion, and hunger induced by lack of sleep. The lodge is silent, and even when she sits at the table set with breakfast cutlery, no one appears to take her order. She sits and makes notes as she waits: the facts she knows, what she suspects, and a list of suspects and, or, witnesses. Five more minutes pass, and wondering if she has somehow misunderstood the protocols of American breakfasts, she leaves the room.

  The entrance lobby is also empty, the silence of the lodge is exchanged for the deep tones of men’s voices, and a putrid odour. She covers her mouth and nose with her sleeve.

  “Miss Bonds,” George rounds the corner as she takes the last riser down to the beach. “You may want to stay inside today.”

  Moving her sleeve from her nose, she replies with what she hopes is a professional air, “Actually, I’d like to take a look around. Jean-Luc isn’t
the only man to have died in the vicinity of Volkolak Island in the last week.”

  George’s frown is instant. “Mr Macron died in a plane crash, Miss Bonds.”

  With deliberation, she says, “But Chris didn’t.” She watches George’s response with a trained eye and tries to appear natural.

  “You are correct, Miss Bonds. Mister Miller sadly lost his life at sea.”

  She decides to ambush him; his response will tell her more than his words. “After he sailed from your lodge ... in your boat.”

  “Well ... yes, that’s true, but I fail to see-”

  “The Institute, George. Tell me about the Institute.”

  “Well, it ... I ...” His jaw snaps shut, his eyes focus over her shoulder, and he walks away.

  “The one on the island, George,” she calls after his back. “The one ...” her words fade as the doors swing shut behind him. Several uniformed men follow George into the lodge, and she catches ‘check the woods’, ‘looked human’, ‘lethal predator’, and ‘coffee first’. Remaining on the beach is a uniformed woman taking photographs around the boat. She decides to take the opportunity of speaking to the woman alone, and perhaps questioning her about Chris, after all, it was the US Coast Guard who were alerted to his disappearance and then called off the search. The putrid stench intensifies as she approaches the boat. The woman’s skin is sallow beneath her summer tan and she greets Rachel with a smile that is more of a grimace. “Stay back please ma’am. This is a crime scene.”

  “But he’s dead!”

  “Yes, ma’am, he certainly is. But as his body has been desecrated, we’re having to treat it as a crime and take down all the evidence.”

  “Desecrated?” The word seems ill-fitting, reminding Rachel of graveyard robbers and grotesque perverts with a penchant for death. Only last year, one of her colleagues, Brian Smiley, had covered the story leaked from a friend in the police force about the local funeral director and his penchant for necrophilia. He’d hugged the story to himself for several days, sporting a self-satisfied grin each time he’d passed her - they had a less than friendly rivalry - then crowed when he’d handed her the story of Mr Dalby’s sexual molestation of the dead, ten minutes ahead of going to print. The story had been sensational, truly scandalous, and picked up by the national redtops and even a couple of broadsheets. The Sun, having gained access to photographs, had run with the headline, ‘Cross-Dressing Zombie Bride.’ And printed a picture of Mr Dalby dressed as a bride in full, and drag-queen style make-up, arm around a corpse in black tie and tails. Despite the pixelated face of the ‘victim’, the paper had had to print an apology. When Brian had been promoted ahead of Rachel, despite her seniority and longer time served at the paper, Rachel had decided that this time, ‘for certain’, again, that she would look for another position, or even another career.