Ice Hunt
Greer had the only flashlight, found near the entrance. His light danced over the walls as he ran, igniting the dark ice to a shimmering blue. It was like racing through the bowels of an ice sculpture.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Craig asked.
“Someone’s down here,” Greer said. “We need to hook up with them.”
“How big is this Crawl Space?” Matt asked.
“Big” was the only response.
They continued to run, knowing the Russians weren’t far behind. Distance was more important than direction.
Zigzagging down the tunnels, they fled deeper into the depths of the ice island. As they reached a crossing of passages, gunfire erupted again. Automatic fire, from up ahead. But which tunnel?
They all stopped.
“Which way?” Pearlson asked.
The answer came a moment later. Light bloomed down to the right. Frantic and bobbling. More shots. Loud and deafening in the close spaces.
“Here comes trouble,” Matt said, pointing his Beretta down the tunnel.
Shouts could be heard now.
The Navy patrol raised their weapons.
Around a bend in the tunnel, the light bloomed brighter, illuminating a running figure. A young man stumbled into view, slipping and sliding despite the sandy floors. He scrambled, arms out, as if grasping for help. He was clearly not military, evident from his shoulder-length brown hair, North Face parka, and Thinsulate dry pants.
He fell toward them. Matt expected the man would beg for help. Instead he ran right through them. “Run!” he yelled in passing.
More figures appeared, racing at full tilt: an older bald man, a twentysomething girl, and another young man. A tall, striking black woman in military blue led this group.
“Washburn!” O’Donnell called out when she came into sight.
“Pick up your balls and get moving!” she barked back at him.
More gunfire blazed behind the group. Muzzle fire framed the last figure, another sailor. He dropped to one knee, firing a barrage behind him. Lit by a flashlight’s beam, the distant tunnel glowed like a blue snake winding deep into the ice.
“What’s the matter?” Greer asked.
Beyond the kneeling gunman, Matt spotted a darkness flowing up the tunnel.
What the hell?
Washburn led her charges to them. She screamed to be heard over the gunfire. “We have to get out of these tunnels…now!”
“We can’t,” Greer said as Washburn pounded to them. “The Russians—”
“Fuck the Russians!” Washburn said, panting hard. “We’ve got a hell of a lot worse on our asses!” She waved the others ahead of her.
The gunfire died. The other sailor was on his feet and sprinting toward them. He fumbled to replace his rifle’s spent magazine. “Go, go, go!”
Greer jabbed a finger at O’Donnell and Pearlson. “You and you. Take the civilians back up.”
O’Donnell nodded. He grabbed Craig by the elbow and took off with the panicked folk. Matt shook off Pearlson’s attempt to do the same.
The seaman shrugged and headed up on his own, but he called over his shoulder back to his lieutenant. “What about the Russians, sir?”
Fuck the Russians. Matt was still stunned by the woman’s response.
Greer’s reply was more useful. “Take them as far as the Crawl Space exit. Then wait for us!”
The only acknowledgment was a quick turn on a heel, and the group continued their headlong flight up the tunnel.
The last Navy man reached them.
“Commander Bratt,” Greer said, sounding surprised.
“Prepare to lay down cover fire!” Urgently, Bratt spun around, dropping to a knee. He ripped a fresh magazine from his coat and slapped it home.
Greer joined his senior officer, standing behind him, rifle pointed over Bratt’s shoulder. He passed his flashlight into Matt’s free hand.
Matt glanced between the retreating party and the two stationary gunmen. He debated which was best—to stay or go. His only other choice was to flee blindly down some side tunnel and get lost. No option seemed wiser than another, so he simply stood his ground.
He stepped to Bratt’s other shoulder.
Bratt glanced up at him, then away. “Who the hell are you?”
Matt raised his pistol, pointing it past the officer. “Right now, I’m a guy covering your ass.”
“Then welcome to the party,” Bratt grumbled back.
“What’s coming?” Greer asked on the other side.
“Your worst goddamn nightmare.”
From beyond the reach of the flashlight, red eyes reflected back at them. Matt’s head began to buzz oddly, like mosquitoes whirling in his skull.
“Here they come!” Bratt said, sucking in a breath.
A massive snowy-skinned creature striped in red…no, blood…thundered into view. It filled the tunnel, weeping red from multiple gunshot wounds. Gouged tracks furrowed its sides. The side of its face was raw hamburger. But it kept coming.
What the hell was it?
Other shadows could be seen in brief glimpses behind it.
The lead beast charged toward them. Claws tore at the ice.
The buzzing grew louder in Matt’s skull.
Then a barrage of rifle fire erupted, startling Matt to react. He aimed the 9mm pistol, but he knew the gun was useless. No more than the Alaskan grizzly, such a meager weapon would never bring down this creature. Several of the fresh wounds had been direct strikes between the monster’s eyes.
And still the beast ripped toward them, keeping its domed forehead low, charging like a bull, using its thick rubbery skin and insulating blubber as a bulletproof shield, a natural battering ram.
Matt pulled his trigger, more in blind fear than with any real hope for a kill shot.
“Damn things won’t die!” Bratt confirmed.
Matt continued to fire, squeezing round after round, until the pistol’s slide locked open.
Out of bullets.
Greer noticed. “Go!” he ordered, tossing his head in the direction of the retreating party, now vanished. His voice vibrated from his own rifle’s recoil as he passed a radio at Matt. “Channel four.”
Matt took the radio, ready to flee.
Then the lead beast crashed to the ice, as if slipping, legs going limp. It slid farther on the ice, nose dragging, then stopped. Its eyes remained staring at them, still reflecting red in the flashlight. But there was no longer life behind them.
Dead.
The buzzing in Matt’s head faded to a nagging itch behind his ears.
Bratt regained his feet. “Pull back.”