by Skye Knizley
Dustin raced toward it and was off his own sled before it had even come to a stop. River was only a few meters behind, her attention focused on the accident scene. It looked as if the snowmobile had hit one of the rocks at high speed and rolled onto its side, dumping Richie into the snow. She could see the impression and scattered snow where he’d fallen and recovered.
River climbed off her sled and helped Dustin right the damaged sled and pull it off the rocks. Dustin looked around and called out “Richie? Richie where are you?”
“He can’t have gotten far,” River said.
She pointed at a series of footprints in the snow. They led deeper into the woods in a straight line that indicated Richard hadn’t been seriously injured in the crash. Dustin started along the trail, calling out for Richard every few yards. River followed, her attention on the woods. Why had Richie gone that way instead of back the way he’d come? The way his sled was facing, he was coming back from the woods when he crashed, not going toward them. He’d have to have known he had a better chance of cell reception at a higher altitude, why wouldn’t he try to call instead of walking back through the woods?
Dustin stopped at the edge of the forest and again called for Richard. There was no reply, not even the sound of startled predators searching the snow for a midnight snack. The forest was strangely quiet, devoid of all sound except the hush-hush of snow and the gentle rustle of dead leaves in the breeze. River felt the wind through her jacket and hugged herself, but not even its down-filled lining could chase away the cold. She’d felt the same sensation before, back in Afghanistan, a chill than ran deeper than skin.
She reached into her pack and retrieved a hand-sized flashlight. She flicked it on and followed the tracks into the gloom with Dustin close behind.
“I’m glad you thought to bring that,” Dustin said. “I didn’t grab anything but a first aid kit.”
River didn’t reply. The feeling was still there, a sort of sixth sense that told her they were being watched by unfriendly eyes. She considered drawing her pistol, but common sense told her there was nothing in the woods more dangerous than a few owls and foxes hunting rodents in the snow.
They continued walking, heading deeper into the woods. The gloom darkened until the trees were only visible in the beam of River’s light. Dustin began to call out less frequently and at a lower volume, as if he too felt the strange chill of unseen eyes. River could feel him close at her back for what safety she might provide against the night.
After another dozen paces they stepped out onto a road that looked to have been plowed during the storm. Richard’s footprints led down the road in the general direction of Winter Cove, along with fresh tracks from some kind of large truck. River followed at a brisk pace, one eye on the tracks, the other on the road ahead. After only a few paces, her light reflected off a pool of crimson mixed in with Richard’s boot prints. She knelt and reached for it, her hand stopping just short of touching the edge. The pool was lighter in the middle where it was still wet from melting snow, and dark around the edges where it had begun to dry.
“Is that…?” Dustin asked.
River looked at him. “Blood, no more than an hour or so old. We can’t be that far behind them.”
“Dustin wiped sweat from his brow. “Behind who, though? Is this from Richie, or someone else?”
“I have no idea.”
She straightened and looked down the road. “All we can do is keep walking and hope we find him in one piece.”
Dustin pulled his hat back down and set his jaw. “Then let’s get going.”
The road continued through the forest and River walked along the edge just beside the boot prints. From the look of it, this wasn’t a state road. It had no signs, no curbs and minimal signs of use. The latter could be explained by their remote location, but if it was such an unused road going nowhere, why plow it in the first place? No, this road was owned by someone and, for some reason, they’d plowed it even during the storm.
Ahead, the road curved, a sharp turn that took it away from the village and more toward the ocean. River rounded the curve and spotted what looked like a military truck off to the side of the road. It was tilted in such a way that she was certain it had slid off the road and into a tree. Steam still rose from the bent hood and the taillights glowed in the dark. She held up a hand, the signal for Dustin to stop and wait, but either he didn’t understand or didn’t care. He rushed forward, calling for Richard.
“Bro! Are you here?” he asked.
There was no sound other than the crisp of snow beneath their feet and the faint ticking of the truck’s engine.
River followed him, approaching the truck from the rear. “Dusty, step back!”
The truck was an MTVR six by six with a canvas cover over a flat cargo bed. River was familiar with them, she had driven similar vehicles during her deployment. She chinned herself on the tailgate and peered into the bed. What she saw made her drop her flashlight in surprise, she had to fumble for it in the darkness, making the beam dance and flicker over the grizzly cargo.
When her fingers finally closed on the light’s shaft, she was able to confirm what her mind told her she couldn’t have seen. Four corpses dressed in tactical shirts and pants lay on the floor. The soft tissues of their faces looked to have been eaten away by animals and their flesh was thin, emaciated as if they’d been left in the desert for weeks.
She lowered herself back to the snow and moved to join Dustin, who was standing beside the cab with the door open and an odd look on his face. River wasn’t sure if it was shock or resignation.
“I think the driver’s dead,” Dustin said softly.
River shined her light inside the cab. The windshield was broken where a tree branch had smashed through, the side window hung loose in its frame and the controls were spattered with blood and ice. Whatever had happened, the driver had been going far too fast to make the turn in all this snow. Knowing these trucks like she did, River knew he had to have been driving like a maniac. The trucks were notoriously sure-footed if handled by someone who knew what they were doing.
The driver, his eyes wide and staring, was still in the cab. His head rested against the steering wheel and blood wept from a deep gash in his forehead. The wound was deep, but it hadn’t killed him. Rather it was the bullet holes in his chest and the single shot to his temple that had ended his life after the accident. River didn’t need a medical degree to know he was beyond help. She closed his eyes with two fingers and began to search his pockets for any hint as to who he was or what he was doing out here. She found no wallet or other means of identification, but she did find a well-used Glock 19 holstered on his right hip. She drew it and checked the magazine; the weapon was half-empty and reeked of cordite.
“It’s been recently fired,” she said.
Dustin frowned and pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the police. They need to get some staties up here.”
River heard him dial 9-1-1 and turned her attention back to the cab. The dashboard was clean as was the captain’s box between the seats. Blood, high velocity spray from the shots that had killed the driver, dotted the passenger seat and window and ran down onto the floor, which was wet and tinted pink from a mix of blood and melted snow.
Dustin threw his phone into the woods in frustration. “Dammit! Does this thing have a radio?”
River pointed to the shortwave radio installed in the dash. Its face had been shattered by the same bullet that had passed through the driver’s skull. “It’s useless.”
“Shit! What do we do now?” Dustin asked.
River dropped to the ground and closed the door. “We preserve the crime scene as best we can and go call the cops. I’ve left enough prints behind as it is.”
“But what about Richie?”
River looked away. “I don’t know, Dusty. But there’s is a nut with a gun running around out here, he’s al
ready killed an armed guard−”
“All the more reason to find Richie! Somebody killed this guy, what if they are after him, too?” Dustin asked.
River sighed and took a few steps away from the truck. She could see several sets of footprints in the snow. Most were older and filling in with snow, but Richard’s still made a clean track down the edge of the road. A final set that River presumed were left by the killer headed off into the woods, away from the cabins.
She looked back at Dustin. “Where does this go?”
“Nowhere, really. It’s an old access road, it goes from somewhere outside town to the old logging camps on the far side of the mountain,” Dustin said.
“Fine, I’ll keep looking, you go back to the cabins and get some cops up here.”
Dustin shook his head. “I should stay with you, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Don’t give me any male bullshit, Dusty. I know more about what I’m doing than you do. Get back to the cabins, call the cops, take care of Jody and Rylee. There is one body in the cab and four more in the back. This is bigger than just Richie,” River said.
Dustin didn’t look happy, but he nodded his agreement. “All right. I’ll go call them, but I’m coming right back out when they get here.”
He started off the way they had come. River waited until he was out of sight then set off at a jog in the other direction. She didn’t think she could be that far behind Richard. She just hoped she caught up to him before the killer did.
It seemed as if she was just getting into her stride with a military ‘Jody Call’ playing in her head when she saw lights less than half a mile away. In minutes the strange glow resolved itself into the running lights of an airplane. Or what was left of it. It was lying on its belly with one wing torn off in a ragged mess of metal and wires. The cockpit was still intact, as was the mid-ship section, but the tail was missing. Dangling wires shot sparks into the night sky and a slim trail of fire danced inside the remaining engine. River recognized the massive aircraft as an Airbus A400. The military had recently started using them to carry heavy cargo and passengers, but they were also available for civilian use. This one bore a strange S logo on the side that she wasn’t familiar with and had been painted flat back like old stealth-bombers. By the look of it, it had to have crashed earlier in the day. The trees around the crash site were burned and the snow was melted from the heat, but the fire had died out hours ago.
River walked to what was left of the rear and looked inside. It wasn’t what she’d expected. Instead of the familiar cargo and passenger space there was a torn bulkhead and a narrow corridor that lead deeper into the plane. Red emergency lights and showers of sparks from still-live conduits lit the interior, making shadows jump and dance. A handprint in what looked like blood was smeared along the outer wall.
River ducked beneath the dangling wires and shined her light around the cabin. To her left was a lavatory, much larger than a typical aircraft restroom with a full-size toilet and sink while to her right was a small galley, most if which had been destroyed in the crash. Elaborate meal trays much like what used to be found on commercial aircraft back in the 60s, were strewn around the cabin along with a coffee pot and an assortment of soft drinks, all covered in spatters of blood.
River moved past the galley and into what could only be called a conference room. A table designed to look like antique oak was bolted to the floor surround by high-back leather chairs. Papers, damp from melting snow and ice that dripped through the cracked fuselage, covered the floor and parts of the wall. The ink had run on most of them, but River was able to make out a strange “S” logo she didn’t recognize along with the word ‘Classified’ on nearly every document. Her curiosity got the better of her and she knelt to sort through the pages, hoping something might be legible. Most of it seemed to have something to do with a research project called Rapid Storm, but what Rapid Storm was or who was involved was impossible to discern from the ruined pages. River folded one of the driest pages and stuck it inside her pocket, then stood and continued toward the cockpit.
She rounded the next bulkhead and lavatory, and stopped. The lavatory door was sealed and indicated it was occupied.
River tapped lightly on the door. “Richard? Are you in there?”
There was no answer. River called out again and listened. She thought she heard a whisper of breath from the other side, then silence. She drew the knife from her belt and used it to pop the lock, then pushed the door open. Like the other lavatory, this one was much larger than those usually found on aircraft. There was a full-size stainless-steel toilet, a sink, vanity and wide mirror that took up most of the forward wall.
River’s attention, however, was drawn to the woman lying on the floor. She was dressed in what River’s mother had always called ‘the uniform.’ A neat charcoal grey skirt-suit, cream blouse and stiletto pumps. She lay in a pool of drying blood that looked almost sticky, a large piece of glass had been rammed through her throat with enough force that her spine showed through the wound.
River sheathed her knife and knelt beside the woman. She knew it was useless, but checked for a pulse anyway. There was none, and her flesh was cold and rigid. She’d been dead for hours.
River straightened and turned to look at the purse and belongings that had been dumped in the sink. It looked as if someone had been looking for something, the woman’s wallet and cosmetics bag had been emptied and three lipstick tubes opened and cast aside. River picked up the wallet and looked at the driver’s license. The woman’s name was Jerri Atwater from Phoenix, Arizona.
“You’re a long way from home, Jerri,” River muttered.
She put the wallet away and knelt beside the victim again. Her first thought was that Jerri had been killed in the crash, but the mirror was somehow unbroken and there was no other source of glass in the small room.
River shined her light around and spotted more blood on the ceiling and the forward bulkhead. It looked as if the woman may have been killed just seconds before the plane hit the ground, had hit the ceiling and bulkhead in the crash and ended up sprawled on the floor.
She straightened again. None of this made sense. Had the person who shot the truck driver been the same person who’d killed Jerri? It didn’t seem likely, but the idea of two different murderers so close together seemed just as ridiculous.
River rubbed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She shouldn’t be here, she wasn’t a cop, this was a job for a crime scene unit and team of detectives, not a retired Marine suffering from PTSD.
A noise in the corridor outside snapped her out of that train of thought. River spun and stepped back into the cabin, her light reflecting off the ice-sheathed windows.
“Hello?”
The only answer was an odd scraping noise from somewhere near the front of the aircraft. River shined her light into the next compartment. The powerful beam reflected off of white leather captain’s chairs, side-tables and a broken flat-screen television. Most of the seats still had the seatbelt fastened across the cushion, meaning most of them had been empty during the flight. Only a handful showed any signs they had been used, but there were no bodies nor any indication of survivors. Just empty seats.
“Richie? Is that you?” River called.
The sound came again, a sort of rustling noise like old newspapers, from somewhere near the front of the aircraft. River drew her pistol out of habit and continued through the cabin. She reached the forward bulkhead and turned to find Richard lying on the floor in the forward galley. Blood was seeping around a wound in his stomach and had stained both his shirt and the carpet beneath him. A second wound creased his cheek so deeply that bone was visible through the weeping slit. He looked up with pain-filled eyes and said, “Run!”
CHAPTER FOUR
River knelt beside Richard, set her pistol beside him and unslung her pack. “What happened?”
Richard shook h
is head. “No…no time, Riv. They’re coming back, run!”
River opened her first-aid kid and pulled Richard’s hands away from the wound. It was a bullet wound from a hunting rifle, if she was any judge. The wound was just under his ribs, which meant it had probably nicked his stomach unless he’d been extremely lucky.
“This is bad, Richie. Who did this? Who shot you?” she asked.
Richard tried to push her away. “No time. No time! Go, River!”
River gently, but firmly pushed his hands aside. “Richie, I’m not going anywhere, if I don’t tend to this wound you’re going to bleed to death before help arrives.”
Richard opened his mouth to say something else, and fell back against the bulkhead, his energy spent. River checked his pulse and found it was weak, but he was still alive. River placed him in a more comfortable position and bent to the wound. Her kit was adequate enough to examine the hole and stem the flow of blood, but she couldn’t see the bullet. Where the wound was, it was too dangerous for her to root around for the slug, she might cause more harm than good. Instead, she poured a generous amount of styptic powder into the wound, a quantity that made Richard jerk awake in pain, then compressed and bandaged the wound as best she could.
“Okay, Richie, we have to go. I’ll help you stand, I don’t want to move you, but−”
Richie shook his head and seemed to be looking at something River couldn’t see. River half-turned and saw two men moving silently through the cabin. They were clad in black and white tactical uniforms complete with helmets and respirators that obscured their faces. In their hands they held MP7 submachine guns like they knew how to use them.
River picked up her pistol and turned to face them. “This man is hurt, do you have radios or working phones?”
The first one leveled his weapon at her. “Identify yourself!”
