“Okay, Eirek. And now, I say good night.”
Rook sat down in the car and closed the door. He let out a groan as his shoulder moved, the first expression of pain he had allowed himself tonight. Then he put the car in gear.
A couple of minutes out of town, he remembered the envelope. He was weary, and his eyes had started drifting shut, but he didn’t want to wait to get to Peder’s house to examine its contents. He stopped the car in the middle of one of the lesser inclines, put on the emergency brake, and opened the envelope.
The envelope contained a black and white photograph of about eight by ten inches. The picture contained two figures, and a caption scrawled underneath read “Father’s Day.” Rook couldn’t be certain, but the writing looked an awful lot like those signatures he’d seen so many of when looking through the folder of lab reports earlier in the day.
The father in the photo was a man with hair starting to go gray, with the name Edmund printed under it in a different hand.
The son was around twelve years old; his picture had the name Eirek printed under it.
EPILOGUE
Rook crouched on a cliff halfway between Peder’s house and the town. Below him lay the road, and below that another cliff and the ocean. Fenris Kystby lay a mile to his right, just visible through the lifting fog. The rays of the early morning sun sparked as they met the waves, lending the scene a tranquility that Rook welcomed.
But he knew it was an illusion. The past few days had shown him how much conflict lay beneath the town’s calm exterior. The question once again was whether he should return to his team or stay just a little bit longer. He was beaten and bruised and not in any condition to hoof his way out of town, but Peder had offered him a ride. The man did his best to make the offer sound innocent, but the underlying tone of “get out while you can” lingered.
Peder wanted him to leave because the old man feared for Rook’s life. Even after the serious smack-down he’d delivered to the mad scientist turned yeti. And that meant that whatever secret the town of Fenris Kystby still concealed was even more dangerous. Worse, the man in charge oozed megalomania.
Fossen. He was up to something. But what? And what was the endgame? All Rook really knew was that the man wasn’t alone.
Not one, but two people had tried to kill Rook. He would have bet money that Fossen’s son attacked him on Fossen’s orders. He couldn’t remember the exact sequence of events, but he suspected that Fossen gave the order after first meeting Rook, and didn’t manage to rescind it before realizing that he needed Rook’s help. The town had brains, Rook realized, but lacked brawn. With his employees being targeted, Rook thought Fossen must have assumed that the creature got his son, too. Fossen might be questioning that assumption now, given the newly discovered identity of the creature, but all evidence to the contrary had been burned to dust and swept out to sea.
Then there was the second attempt on his life, the shots fired at him as he drove Peder’s car. Who had done that? Maybe Fossen had arranged it because he didn’t want Rook rooting around where the creature had disappeared. Or maybe Fossen didn’t intend to kill him, but had just arranged the shots to keep him focused on his own survival and not thinking too much about the town’s secrets. Or hell, maybe Fossen wasn’t behind it, maybe someone in the town took a shot because Rook was working with Fossen.
The truth was, he had no idea about those shots. One more reason to stick around and find out which heads needed busting for that particular attempt on his life. But even without the attempts on his life, he knew he couldn’t leave without getting some more answers about Edmund Kiss and Eirek Fossen. The piece of paper he held in his hand only made him more determined to do just that.
In court, they would have called it a “dying declaration.” He had discovered the single sheet of paper behind the photograph in the envelope that Kiss had clutched as he died. It was written in German, in the same scribbled hand as the document he had found during his first visit to the old lab—now rough and nearly illegible, as though written quickly.
Ich hab ihn gesehen, Deinen Wolf. Du musst aufhören. Es ist zu gefährlich Zu schrecklich. Ich kam zurück um Dich aufzuhalten aber ich bin zu spät. Du musst die ---- versiegeln—
Rook had memorized the translation.
I've seen it, your Dire Wolf. You must stop. It's too dangerous. Too horrible. I came back to stop you, but I'm too late. You must seal the ---- or —
Dire wolf?Is he talking about the large black wolf? Rook shook his head. Couldn’t be. He protected them. And seal what? The old man’s chicken scratch was hard to read in general, but that single word was illegible. If only the man had finished the note, which was clearly intended for Fossen and likely regarded his research. The only thing the note made clear was that even the Nazi turned yeti feared Fossen’s research, and Rook was pretty sure that Nazi yetis didn’t typically fear a whole lot.
Rook stood and wrapped his arms around his chest as a cool breeze flowed down the hillside and plummeted over the cliff. The wind howled for a moment and Rook felt a chill run up his spine. The sensation was momentarily so intense that he nearly dropped to a knee. That wasn’t the wind, he thought, fighting the shiver. The howl sounded distant. Miles away. Yet it emanated power and fear. He quickly ran through the possibilities.
Not the yeti.
Not the wolves.
I've seen it, your Dire Wolf.
Fossen’s research.
The crunch of approaching footsteps snapped Rook’s attention away from the distant sound. The wind carried wood smoke and moth balls.
“Peder,” he said in greeting.
“Have you decided, Stanislav?”
“Yeah,” Rook said. A part of him hated this decision. He’d been gone too long. His team would be worried. Queen would be… Thinking of her was nearly enough to change his mind. But if any member of Chess Team stood in his shoes, they’d see it through, too. Something dangerous brewed in Fenris Kystby and it would eventually find its way to the outside world. It has to be stopped, Rook thought. It’s what we do.
Rook turned to Peder and the old man frowned. He could see Rook’s decision in his stone faced expression. Peder sighed, turned and walked away.
“Where are you going?” Rook asked.
Without looking back, Peder said, “To reload my shotgun.”
###
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of eleven novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series. His novels have been translated into nine languages. He is also the director of New Hampshire AuthorFest, a non-profit organization promoting literacy. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.
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EDWARD G. TALBOT is the pen name for two authors. Ed Parrot lives in Massachusetts and has long been fascinated with turning ideas into written words. Jason Derrig lives in Maine and likes to tell stories, especially about conspiracies. The two authors have collaborated to create a brand of thriller that keeps the stakes high while not taking itself too seriously. In addition to the Chess team thriller, their current work includes the conspiracy thriller novel New World Orders and the thriller half-novel Alive From New York. Their second novel, 2012: The Fifth World, is available now.
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THE LAST HUNTER by JEREMY ROBINSON
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DESCRIPTION:
I've been told that the entire continent of Antarctica groaned at the moment of my birth. The howl tore across glaciers, over mountains and deep into the ice. Everyone sa
ys so. Except for my father; all he heard was Mother’s sobs. Not of pain, but of joy, so he says. Other than that, the only verifiable fact about the day I was born is that an iceberg the size of Los Angeles broke free from the ice shelf a few miles off the coast. Again, some would have me believe the fracture took place as I entered the world. But all that really matters, according to my parents, is that I, Solomon Ull Vincent, the first child born on Antarctica—the first and only Antarctican—was born on September 2nd, 1974.
If only someone could have warned me that, upon my return to the continent of my birth thirteen years later, I would be kidnapped, subjected to tortures beyond comprehension and forced to fight...and kill. If only someone had hinted that I'd wind up struggling to survive in a subterranean world full of ancient warriors, strange creatures and supernatural powers.
Had I been warned I might have lived a normal life. The human race might have remained safe. And the fate of the world might not rest on my shoulders. Had I been warned....
This is my story—the tale of Solomon Ull Vincent—The Last Hunter.
EXCERPT:
12
My foot rolls on a bone as I kick away from the bodies. There’s so many of them, I can’t make out what I’m seeing. It’s like someone decided to play a game of pick-up sticks with discarded bones. I fall backwards, landing on a lumpy mass. My hands are out, bracing against injury. Rubbery flesh breaks my fall, its coarse hair tickling between my fingers. I haven’t seen the body beneath me, but I know—somehow—that it’s dead.
Long dead.
This is little comfort, however. After finding my footing, I stand bolt upright. My chest heaves with each breath. Each draw of air is deep, but the oxygen isn’t getting to my head. I try breathing through my nose, and the rotten stench of old meat and something worse twists my stomach with the violence of a tornado. I drop to one knee, fighting a dry heave.
“Slow down,” I tell myself. “Breathe.”
I breathe through my mouth. I can taste the foul air, but I force each breath into my lungs, hold it and then let it out slowly. Just like I learned at soccer practice. I only lasted a few practices before giving up, but at least I came away with something. Calm down. Focus. Breathe.
My body settles. I’m no longer shaking. But when I look up I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. Stars blink in the darkness, like when you stand up too fast. But they’re not floating around. They’re just tiny points of light, like actual stars, but I get the feeling they’re a lot closer. The brightest of the light points are directly behind me, and to test my theory I reach out for them. My hand strikes a solid wall.
Stone.
The points of light are small glowing stones, crystals maybe. I’d be fascinated if I weren’t absolutely terrified.
My hand yanks away from the cool surface as though repulsed by a magnetic force. For the first time since waking, a rational thought enters my mind.
Where am I?
It’s a simple question. Finding the answer will give me focus. I turn my mind to the task while my body works the adrenaline out of its system.
The dull yellow stars behind me are large, perhaps the size of quarters. They wrap around in both directions, almost vanishing as they shrink with the distance. But I can see them surrounding me with a flow of tiny lights. There is no door. No escape.
I’m in a pit.
Full of bodies.
Long dead bodies, I remind myself as my breathing quickens. It’s like looking at the mummies in The Museum of Fine Arts. They can’t hurt you.
With my eyes better adjusted to the dim light, I crouch down to look at the bone I stepped on. What I see causes me to hold my breath, but I find myself calming down for two reasons. First, my mind is engaged, and like Spock, my emotions, which can overwhelm me, are being choked out. Second, the bones are not human.
The nearest limb looks like a femur, but it’s as thick as a cow’s and half the length. I try to picture an animal that would have such thick, short limbs, but nothing comes to mind.
I scan the field of bones. Most are similar in thickness and size, but many I can’t identify. Whatever these bones belonged to, I’m fairly certain they’re not human. In fact, they don’t belong to any creature I’ve ever seen before.
Remembering the soft flesh that broke my fall, I turn around and look down. If not for the clumps of rough red hair sticking out of the sheet of white skin, I might have mistaken it for a chunk of rug padding. The skin is thick, perhaps a half inch, and hasn’t decomposed at all despite the bones beneath it being free of flesh.
A scuff above me turns my head up as dirt and dust fall into my face. Someone is above me.
“Who’s there?” My voice echoes.
The only response I get is silence, which makes me angry. I’ve been beaten and kidnapped after all. “Hey! I know you’re there!”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The sinister scrape of the voice makes my stomach muscles tighten. This is the man who took me.
“Why?” I ask through clenched teeth, determined not to show this man fear.
“Because...” I suspect his pause is for dramatic effect. When I feel the sudden urge to pee, I know it’s working. “...you’re not alone.”
I spin around, forgetting all about my bladder. I can’t see more than ten feet of body-strewn floor. Beyond that it’s just a sea of light flecks. If there is someone down here with me, I’ll never see them.
Then I do.
In the same way we detect distant objects moving in space, I see a body shifting to my left, blocking out the small lights.
“Who is it?” I whisper.
“Not a who,” answers the voice.
Not a who? Not a who!
“What am I supposed to do?” My whisper is urgent, hissing like the man’s voice.
“Survive. Escape.”
“How?”
“That’s up to you.” I hear him shuffling away from the edge. His voice fades as he speaks for the last time. “I will not see you again until you do.”
A rattle of bones turns my attention back to the sneaking shadow. My eyes widen. It’s no longer slinking to the side. It’s growing larger, blocking out more and more stars. That’s when I realize it’s not growing larger, it’s getting closer.
In the moment before it strikes, I hear it suck in a high pitched whistle of a breath. I duck down to pick up the thick bone that tripped me up. But it’s too late. The thing is upon me.
13
I scream.
I’m too terrified to do anything else. My hands are on my head. I’m pitched forward. My eyes are clenched shut. Every muscle in my body has gone tight, as though clutched in rigor.
It knocks me back and I spill into a pile of bones and old skin. But I feel no weight on top of me. No gnashing of teeth on my body. The thing has missed its tackle, striking a glancing blow as it passed, but nothing more. Perhaps because I bent down. Perhaps because it can’t see well in the dark. I don’t know. I don’t care.
I’m alive. For now.
And I don’t want to die.
But I’m certain I’m going to and the events of the past few months replay in my mind. I can’t stop it. I can’t control it. And in a flash, I’m back at the beginning. A moment later, my mind returns to the present. I’m still in the pit. Still waiting for death. But I feel different somehow.
My attention is drawn down. The thick bone is still in my hand. I stand, holding it at the ready like Hercules’s club or Thor’s hammer. What I wouldn’t give for an ounce of their strength right now.
But strength is something I lack. I can already feel my limbs growing weak from fright. If this fight doesn’t end quickly I’ll probably lie down and accept death like a deer in the jaws of a mountain lion. It always amazes me how quickly prey animals accept their fate once caught. Will I be any different?
The answer surprises me.
A shift of shadow to my left catches my eye. But this time the fear is drowned out by a
rage I have felt before, a rage that now has an outlet. I lunge for the shadow, bone-club raised. The thing flinches back, surprised by my attack. My first swing misses, nearly spinning me around. But I follow it up with a backhand swing worthy of John McEnroe. The impact hurts my arm, but it lets me know I’ve hurt the thing, too.
The thing stumbles back, letting out a high pitched whine as it strikes the wall. I struggle to see it, but it’s backlit by the wall. I can, however, see its silhouette more clearly now. Its body is egg-shaped and maybe four feet tall, with short, thick legs. Its arms are almost comical—short stubs sticking out to either side as useless as a T-Rex’s tiny appendages. I feel emboldened by the thing’s size and awkward build. But I’ve underestimated its will to live. This thing doesn’t want to die as much as I don’t.
It lets out a shrill scream and charges again. I start to duck, but this time it doesn’t leap. Instead, it lowers its top half—I can’t see where the head begins or ends or if it even has a head—and plows into me like a battering ram. It lifts me off the ground and carries me ten feet before slamming me into a stone wall. I hear a crack as my head strikes, but I don’t lose consciousness. There’s too much adrenaline in my system for that to happen.
But when I open my eyes and look at the thing, I wish I had fallen unconscious. Then I wouldn’t have seen it. I wouldn’t be awake when it devoured me. But I am awake, staring into a set of jaws that looks like it belongs to a great white shark—rows of serrated triangular teeth set into a jaw that protrudes from the mouth. The entire top half of the creature, just above its pitiful arms, has opened up to take me in. I have no doubt I’ll be severed in half. I’ll spend my last living moments bleeding out in this thing’s gullet.
Callsign: Rook - Book 1 (A Stan Tremblay - Chess Team Novella) Page 9
