I’ve been flying as a bush pilot in Alaska for the last five years or so. It’s a pretty good job for the right sort of person. It goes without saying that you need to be a pretty handy pilot, specifically of small and light aircraft, but beyond that, it also requires a special sort of personality. Folks who thrive on social interaction and the safe comfort of civilization need not apply. Being self-sufficient and mechanically inclined are pretty much prerequisites for those who want stay on this side of the grave, and I’d say it’s fairly important that you have a level head and don’t have a tendency to panic in stressful situations.
Now, don’t misunderstand; I’m not talking about thrill-seekers or those who don’t have a healthy respect for death; those folks don’t tend to last too long in this business. They either end up as another in the long list of missing planes that gains new entries each year, or else they quickly learn that their employers aren’t willing to risk their expensive equipment and cargo with someone that isn’t going to take every possible precaution to ensure the safe return of said aircraft.
I’m just saying that you have to be able to set your fears aside when you’re in the thick of it. If something goes wrong, you need a clear head – you can always puke or pass out once you’re safely on the ground again. I’ve had my share of cold sweats, standing on a frozen runway after a close brush with the afterlife.
Me? I’m a transplant from south Florida, where I spent much of my time doing puddle-jump charters in a small, twin-engine Beechcraft. Interesting, sure, but dealing with people has never been my strong suit. I’m not exactly the sociable sort, even less so when I’m trying to fly. When you’ve got four passengers sitting a couple feet behind you and expecting you to play tour guide on their two-hour flight across the Everglades, it gets old pretty quick.
Or at least it did for me. I guess it works for some people.
Anyway, a flying buddy of mine that I hadn’t talked to in years called me up out of the blue one day with a lead on an open seat at the bush charter company he’d been working with out of Fairbanks. One of their pilots had decided that the harsh Alaskan winters and isolation were more than his nerves could take, so he gave his notice, packed his bags, and headed back south.
Truth-be-told, I had never really considered looking for a gig in Alaska. I always had the impression that most of the bush pilots working there had been flying STOL – that’s Short Take-Off and Landing – in the back country since they were old enough to walk. Nick assured me that there were plenty of respected pilots up there who had originated from the lower-48. When he floated the salary numbers in my direction, I didn’t take too long thinking about it before I’d made my decision, and two weeks later I found myself standing in the offices of my new employer.
That was a while back, and although it took a bit to become accustomed to the type of bush flying that this place demands, I settled in pretty quick and was soon assigned my permanent ride, a De Havilland DHC-2 Beaver.
Maggie, after a Yellow Lab I had as a kid.
Man, what a beauty she is. Solar-yellow with black piping and looking just as pristine as when she rolled off the assembly line in 1967. The Beaver is probably the best bush plane to ever grace the skies, and I’m fairly certain that Maggie saved my ass from a stupid mistake on more than one occasion.
Anyway, I’m getting off-track.
So, at the time this story took place, I’d been flying for Viking Bush Charters for probably a year or so. I’d just returned from dropping supplies to a ranger station up near Denali when I got a call over the radio from my dispatcher.
I was in the hangar at the time, getting a hot cup of coffee while the mechanic was refitting Maggie with her tundra tires, swapping out the floats I’d needed for the supply drop-off earlier. The big, almost cartoonish tires were perfect for most of the areas I tended to fly into, and made for a soft, if energetic, landing.
I was looking forward to getting back to my trailer and relaxing, maybe watching a movie before dozing off, but the crackle from my two-way told me that my exciting plans for the night might not play out.
“Go for Hooper,” I answered, taking a sip of the steaming coffee.
The voice of Buck Jacobs replied through the light static. “Hey, Hoop. What’s your status?”
“Eh, Mike is working on Maggie’s gear, and I was getting ready to head home for the evening. What’s up?”
There was a moment’s pause before Buck replied. “Sorry, Hoop, but I need you to do a turnaround. We just got a call from a ranger station up near Birch Creek. They’ve got someone up there that had a run-in with a brown bear and is pretty banged up.”
I cursed under my breath, but there wasn’t any real venom in it. I learned a while ago that, up here, everybody helps when it’s needed. You never know when it’s going to be you on the other side of that call.
“Can’t they fly him out themselves?” I asked, but I was already walking around my plane to where Mike Nichols was working.
“Negative, Hoop. It’s an emergency and we’re the nearest phone call. I’d send Jackie, but she’s not back from her run up to Minto yet,” he replied.
“Okay, Buck – no worries. I’ll help Mike get Maggie refit and prepped. I should be wheels-up in an hour or so,” I said.
“Thanks, Hoop. I’ll have the details in your hands in fifteen. Dispatch out.”
And there went my relaxing evening.
*
True to my prediction, I was taxiing down the company’s private runway an hour later, the vibration from the big radial engine creating a gentle thrumming that filled the interior. It was just before 3PM when I was airborne, and being that it was late February, I knew I had just over two hours before sunset. So long as everything went smoothly, that should have been enough time to reach the ranger station, load up the passenger, and get back to Fairbanks before dark.
The weather was pretty good when I left – it was pushing plus-10 degrees, and although the reports were calling for snow that evening, the sky was clear as I rose above the trees and turned northeast towards the ranger station.
Everything was going smoothly for the first thirty minutes, before those distant storm clouds I’d been watching on the horizon suddenly seemed to take a keen interest in me and headed my way much faster than I’d have liked.
To make matters worse, I’d started to notice a subtle bumping sensation intermittently coming from the engine. I wasn’t sure if I was starting to lose one of the nine cylinders or if it was something else, but it was definitely something I was keeping my eye on.
If I’d been on a regular supply run, I’d have turned around and headed back to Fairbanks right then and there to get it checked out, but I was acutely aware that anyone who’d had a tangle with a grizzly was probably in a bad way. My flight out to the Birch Creek ranger station may very well mean the difference between life and death for this unfortunate soul.
After another fifteen minutes, I knew that I wasn’t going to make it to the ranger station.
The storm clouds that had been approaching had now overtaken me and covered the afternoon sky in a thick blanket of gray-black ugliness. I could see the periodic flashes of lightning within them, and the air had grown turbulent. To make matters worse, that engine miss I’d been feeling had become more frequent and severe, and I was sure that I now had multiple cylinders that were beginning to fail.
I grabbed the VHF and radioed back to dispatch.
“Viking ground, Viking three-two-zero-foxtrot.”
Buck’s voice crackled through a moment later. “Viking three-two-zero-foxtrot, Viking ground. Reading you, Hoop.”
“Buck, I’ve run into some nasty weather here and have started picking up some engine issues. I’m afraid I’m going to have to abort and head for home. Please advise Birch Creek ranger station of my situation.”
Buck didn’t argue; he knew I wouldn’t abort a pickup like this for a few snow flurries. “Roger that, Hoop. Looking at the weather radar now. Advise you make your heading one-eight-five degrees and drop to nine-hundred to avoid the worst of it.”
“Roger that. Viking three-two-zero-foxtrot out,” I said, banking the plane to the right and starting my return to the airfield. The stormfront, which had overtaken me from my left, had also descended with its approach, bringing the clouds low and thick. I pushed forward on the yoke, starting my descent to Buck’s recommendation and hoping that there weren’t any errant mountains in my way.
Five minutes later, I was fighting with the wind for control of Maggie and was now nearly in a white-out condition, relying almost exclusively on my instruments for navigation. The turbulence was getting severe, tossing the workhorse bush plane around like a kite in a gale. More than once, the groaning of the wing struts made me wonder if the storm was pushing Maggie past her comfort zone and testing the limits of her airframe.
I descended a bit more, dropping to five hundred feet, aware that in these low-visibility conditions, I was pushing my luck with the terrain. The air was a little cleaner down here, though, and the visibility a little better, but I was still being thrown around and I knew I’d have to climb again pretty soon in order to clear the ridgeline I knew was not too far ahead of me. An unnerving metallic popping noise from above my head drew my attention momentarily, and in that moment, I made the decision that I had to find a place to set her down and wait out the storm as best I could.
The trees below me were becoming visible now at this altitude, their peaks piercing the low cloud cover and heavy snowfall like ghostly claws, reaching up from the depths of some abyssal grave to drag me down.
The biggest issue I faced now was finding a suitable place to land safely. I knew that the winds had pushed me off course and I wasn’t as familiar with this area as most others I spent time flying over. I wasn’t aware of any landing strips nearby and was just praying to find a large enough clearing to accommodate her.
Another engine miss, worse this time.
This time, the strained drone of the radial cut out completely for a half-second before resuming, and for the first time since I’d come to Alaska, I realized that there was a very real possibility that I might not make it home. If the engine died completely in what was now a strong tail wind, my airspeed would quickly drop until one of my wings stalled. When that happened, the Beaver would wing-over and I’d tumble to the ground in an unrecoverable death spiral. It might be months or years before my wreckage was discovered out here in the wilderness.
I considered trying to turn into the wind, to keep as much airspeed as possible in that event, but it was gusting bad enough that I was afraid to attempt it, especially with a limping engine.
I was getting ready to radio dispatch and let Buck know of my worsening situation when the thick clouds parted ahead of me briefly. In that instant, I thought I’d won the most important lottery of my life. Directly ahead of me, a quarter of a mile out, was the unmistakable rectangular shape of a small airstrip. It was covered in snow that I hoped wasn’t too deep, but it was my salvation – a lifeline that I wouldn’t dare refuse.
I quickly adjusted my approach and set my flaps as I made for it. Another strong gust fought me, trying to throw me out of alignment with the narrow clearing, but I fought back with throttle and rudder as best I could as I watched the altimeter steadily wind down like an analog clock going backwards in time.
I reached out for the radio handset to advise Buck of my situation and estimated location, but the next gust almost tore the yoke out of my left hand, and I snapped instantly back to a white-knuckled, two-handed grip.
My altitude dropped to two hundred feet.
I was going too fast, I knew. At this speed, I’d either overshoot the strip altogether and slam into the dense tree line, or hit the ground so hard that I’d shear off my gear and probably break my back in the process. I couldn’t slow her down any further, though, or I would risk dropping below stall speed in the strong tail wind, and that would mean a quick trip to the frozen ground.
A hundred feet.
Maggie’s wings dipped below the tree line now as I entered the long and narrow swath of the landing strip, the tall cedars and spruces towering around me forebodingly. The tail wind dropped, obstructed by the great barrier of trees behind me, and I took a breath to thank whatever powers-that-be for this unexpected bit of good fortune.
Fifty feet.
With the flaps set to full, I bled off airspeed quickly and my reflexes took over, transitioning from my near-ballistic flight to a more controlled approach, one the Beaver was much more suited to.
Ten feet.
I pulled back on the yoke and momentarily throttled up as my gear kissed the top of the snow, flaring the bush plane and setting down a bit harder than I would have liked, the jarring of the impact thankfully cushioned by the tundra tires.
I rolled out for another twenty feet or so before Maggie came to a halt in the knee-deep snow, thankful that I hadn’t nosed over. I killed the engine and rested my forehead on the yoke, trying to get my heart rate under control. I didn’t think the shaking of my hands had anything to do with the temperature.
The daylight was fading, but was still light enough to allow me a good view of my surroundings through Maggie’s windows.
I was in the middle of what I guessed was the landing strip, since the tree lines on either side seemed to be about the same distance from me. Those trees were even more imposing down here on the ground. They rose like towering walls on either side, and the woodlands beyond held deep shadows that were only accentuated by the heavy snowfall that continued to obscure my vision.
I reached for the radio and keyed the mic, hailing dispatch. I didn’t have much faith that the VHF would be able to penetrate the trees and the mountain ridge that lay between me and Buck, but it was worth a shot. After a long moment of hissing static, I tried again, but with the same results. It was doubtful that I’d be able to get a signal through until the storm passed, and even then, I didn’t think it likely unless I could get Maggie airborne again.
With only a moment’s deliberation and a resigned sigh, I retrieved the emergency locator beacon from my jacket pocket and activated it. The unit would broadcast a distress signal, along with my location, to the monitoring service. I knew it would be a day, at least, before help arrived, but the sooner I sent the call, the sooner they’d be able to get to me.
I took another look out through the fuselage windows. If there was a landing strip, that meant a possibility that someone was nearby. I didn’t think there was a ranger station out here, but there were enough hunting cabins and homesteads that there was a decent chance I could find shelter. The interior of the plane was still warm, but I knew that wouldn’t last very long in this weather, especially with night approaching.
I unbuckled myself and climbed back through the seats into the cargo area, where I pulled on my heavy coat and shouldered my emergency pack.
Grabbing my rifle from its rack behind the pilot’s seat, I unlatched and swung open the cargo door. A blast of arctic wind hit me in the face, and I squinted my eyes against it, quickly pulling my goggles on and my hood up before dropping to the snow-covered runway.
I pulled the cargo door closed and trudged around the rear of the plane, standing in the furrows left by Maggie’s wheels and turning in a slow circle as I tried to discern any indication of human presence. Despite the howling wind that pulled at my coat and hood, I caught the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke and breathed a small sigh of relief; at least I knew I wasn’t alone out here.
As I scanned my surroundings, my eyes alighted on what looked like a small utility shed on the western edge of the clearing, and I moved with as much speed as the deep snow would allow in its direction. To the left of it, I spied a waist-high railing marking a walkway that led into the shadowed tree line and quickened my pace.
I followed the trail, now feeling what were likely wooden planks beneath my boots. Once in the trees, the brutal wind of the storm lessened and the snow drifted down from the canopy in slow, dancing swirls before settling on the ground with a muted hiss that sounded like the forest around me was quietly exhaling. Between the dim light of the coming dusk and the snowfall, I couldn’t see much beyond the trees nearest me, and I relied on the handrail to guide my travel. It was another few minutes of plodding through the snow-covered walkway before I finally saw the building.
At first, I thought it was a hunting cabin, solitary amidst the endless sea of trees. As I drew closer, though, I could see it was much larger than I first thought – low and wide and of modern construction. Some sort of sign stood between two timber uprights just off the path, its face covered in snow and ice. I paused to brush it clear, somewhat surprised to see the blue background and logo of the Alaskan Division of Agriculture. White lettering beneath it indicated that this was the White River Basin Agricultural Research Center.
I’d never heard of the ADoA having wilderness research centers, but I supposed it wasn’t too far-fetched. Regardless, this was even better news than I’d expected; this meant that I wasn’t approaching some isolated hunting camp, but instead a government post. And that meant my chances of survival and rescue had just increased significantly.
I gave a hoot of joy and patted the sign as if it were an old friend who had just delivered some good news, and jogged the remaining handful of yards to the front door of the building.
Just as I approached, however, the door abruptly swung open, spilling yellow light across the white snow. A man stepped out from the doorway and shouldered a shotgun, leveling it right at my head, his eyes wide and wild as they stared down the barrel at me.
“Stop right there!” he shouted at me, his words coming in angry puffs of steam in the frigid air. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Whoa! Hold on a minute, chief! Just wait!” I answered, my hands going up reflexively. “I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
He motioned with the shotgun. “Drop the rifle, nice and slow. I’m warning you; I won’t hesitate to blow you in half if you make any sudden moves.”
Holding my free hand up to show I was no threat, I bent slowly and placed the rifle on the ground before rising again. “What’s going on?”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He demanded. I could see the muzzle of the shotgun trembling and worried that he might end up shooting me by mistake just due to nerves. He was wearing what looked like a government-issued coat with an embroidered patch on the shoulder and had a week’s growth of beard.
“Easy, boss,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and calm. “My name’s Hooper. I’m a pilot for Viking Bush Charters, out of Fairbanks. My plane was forced down in the storm and I was lucky to find your landing strip before she ended up in the trees.”
I was starting to wonder if lucky was the right word anymore.
He looked at me a long minute, his eyes scanning me over, then motioned at me again with the shotgun. “Take off your goggles – let me see your eyes,” he said.
That caught me off-guard, but I nodded and slowly moved my hands to remove the tinted goggles, careful to not make any sudden moves.
He leaned towards me, eyes locked hard on mine searchingly. Then, seemingly satisfied, he abruptly lowered his gun and nodded, as if reassuring himself. He jerked his head back toward the doorway and his entire demeanor suddenly changed. “Well, Hooper, come on inside. And bring your rifle. It’s too damned cold out here.” With that, he turned and walked back inside, resting the shotgun against the interior wall next to the door as he did so.
Now even more confused than before, I reached down and picked up my rifle from the snowy ground, my gaze never leaving the man. As inconspicuously as I could, I worked the lever, chambering a cartridge, and followed him in. It was such a bizarre interaction, I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t surprise me again if he decided to change his mind.
When I entered the building and closed the door behind me, I found myself in what looked like a wood-paneled visitors room, with a couch on one wall and a blazing fireplace fronted by a couple of chairs on the opposite. The man had moved over to a small table near the fireplace, pouring a glass of whiskey from a half-empty bottle and now seemingly completely disinterested in my presence. I frowned and glanced around the room. Aside from the sparse furnishings, there was a closed door across from the one I had entered through, labeled with a “Restricted Access” sign.
The man took a long drink from his glass and turned back to me, holding the whiskey bottle out to me in offering. I just shook my head.
“Sorry about all that,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the door behind me. “Can’t be too careful. I’m Morgan Tate – field research.”
I eyed him cautiously. “Okay, Morgan Tate. Do you make a habit of welcoming visitors with a shotgun?” I still wasn’t sure exactly who I was dealing with here, but something was clearly off.
He just grinned at some private joke that he alone shared and then ducked his head in a nod, taking another swallow of the whiskey. “Lately? Yeah. Or, at least, I would if I got any visitors.” He pointed at me with his tumbler and sat heavily in the chair. I was starting to get the impression that this wasn’t the first drink of the day for Mr. Morgan Tate. “You’re the first living person I’ve seen in more than a week,” he added.
“Are you the only one here?” I asked, looking around the room. There was a row of hooks on the wall beside the door and I took note of several coats hung there.
He smirked, something unreadable behind his eyes. “Now, yeah.”
I didn’t know what sort of game he was playing at, but I was starting to lose my patience. “Care to elaborate on that? I’m having kind of a rough day and you’re not making it any easier.”
The dark-haired man finished off his drink and stood. “Sure, why not? I suppose you’re part of this now,” he said, moving past me toward the “Restricted Access” door.
I followed him as he pushed the door open and proceeded along a narrow, tiled corridor, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. It felt out of place, more like I was walking through the halls of a hospital than an ADoA building in the middle of the bush. He looked over his shoulder and took note of my surprise.
“Yeah, not quite like the ranger stations, is it?” He said, stopping in front of a heavy-looking door at the end of the corridor and keying a quick code into the panel above the handle. I heard a soft click and he pushed it open, exposing a darkened room beyond. He entered and the lights flickered on as I followed.
The room we now stood in was larger than the previous one – probably thirty feet across and smelling of antiseptic and chemicals. Several rows of stainless-steel tables were neatly arranged within, occupied with various unfamiliar laboratory paraphernalia and equipment. In addition to these lab stations, there also appeared to be examination tables along the far wall, a few of which had white cloths covering unidentifiable shapes. I suppressed a shudder; it reminded me of a morgue, though the concealed objects were too small to be human bodies.
“What is this place?” I asked, my eyes taking it all in.
“Just like the sign outside says, Hooper, this is the White River Basin Agricultural Research Center,” he replied, leaning against one of the tables. “It was set up to monitor large mammal wildlife migrations with potential correlation to climate change.”
“Huh,” I replied evenly. “Sounds interesting.”
He grinned. “No, it doesn’t. Not even to me, and I work here. Would you believe that a week ago, there were twenty-five researchers living and working here? Twenty-five, Hooper. This place was hopping, man.”
An uncomfortable tingle ran down my spine, and I shifted the rifle in my hand, the weight of it reassuring as it hung at my side. If Tate noticed, he didn’t mention it.
“What happened last week?” I asked carefully.
When he turned back to me the smirk was gone from his face and his eyes had widened. Whatever was in his thoughts now, he didn’t find it amusing anymore. “That’s when they came, Hooper.”
“They?”
“The shadows, man. The shadows! They came from the storm! You remember the storm, don’t you?”
The storm.
I knew what he was talking about, of course; I don’t think anyone around here would forget it anytime soon. It was a little more than a week ago, when that freak blizzard came out of nowhere, unpredicted and unexplained. What had started out as a cloudless and unseasonably warm morning ended up burying us in nearly two feet of snow by the time it was over. The sky had shifted from bright and sunny to a bruised and angry granite color within the span of an hour, clouds rolling so low and heavy that it seemed like you could almost reach up and touch them. Our weather station at the field was clocking sustained wind speeds of fifty knots, with gusts up to eighty-five, and we were in a total whiteout condition for the next fourteen hours. We were all trapped in the hangar, huddled around the kerosene jet heaters, listening to the wind as it tried to tear apart the heavy steel structure around us.
By the time the next day came, it was just gone, replaced by the clear blue skies of the previous morning.
Nobody had any good explanation for it, but I’d heard a couple of the old-timers who ran the machine shop whispering about it in the back. I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying – I didn’t much care, if I’m being honest – but they sounded worried. At the time, I thought it was a little strange that the weather would unnerve them as much as it seemed to; these guys were both full-blood Inuit and as hard as nails – it was almost comical to think they’d be worried about a surprise blizzard. No, now that I think back on it, it almost seemed like they were more worried about something in the blizzard. I can’t be sure, since they kept switching in and out of English, but that’s the impression I got, anyway.
“The shadows?” I asked, confused.
His eyes had drifted off into the distance for a moment, lost in his own world. In the next moment, he snapped them back to me eagerly, like he’d just had an epiphany, and said, “Yeah. Do you want to see one?”
“Do I want to see a shadow? What the hell are you talking about, man? You’re not making any sense.”
But he was already on the move again, walking across the room to another door. He beckoned me to follow, entered his code, and pushed it open. Wordlessly, I followed, unease whispering in my ear.
He led me along another hallway, glancing over his shoulder periodically like he was making sure I was still there.
“I caught one. The other researchers didn’t think it was possible, but I knew I could,” he said, and it almost sounded like he was talking to himself more than to me. He stopped at a door marked “OR-2”, pushed it open and walked inside.
I trailed behind him hesitantly, feeling apprehensive about this whole thing. A slow feeling of dread had been worming its way through my subconscious and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to follow this man much further. The whole situation felt wrong, and I was starting to think that Mr. Morgan Tate was more than a little unhinged.
Where were the other researchers he’d mentioned? I’d question whether they ever existed at all, if not for the size of the place and the coats hanging by the door in the reception area.
The room I stepped into now was much smaller than the others and had the feel of some sort of control room. The wall to my left held narrow lockers and a rack of coat hooks occupied by several white lab coats. To my right was a console lined with monitors and keyboards, and above that, the entire upper portion of the wall appeared to be an observation window looking into a darkened room. On the opposite wall was one of those airlock doors that you see in isolation areas of hospitals, stainless-steel and with a small circular window in its smooth surface.
The computer monitors were on and were displaying various graphs and streams of data. Tate sat on one of the chairs at the console and started typing into the keyboard.
“They’re incredible,” he said absently. “Like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”
I moved closer to the observation window, straining to make out anything in the darkened room beyond. All I saw was the stygian blackness, though.
“You have something in there?” I asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see whatever this nutcase wanted to show me. “Why are the lights off?”
He glanced away from the console for a second and turned an unreadable grin on me. “They’re not.” With that, he stood and leaned forward, pounding the heel of his fist against the window with a resounding shudder, making me jump in surprise.
I didn’t quite understand what I saw next. The darkness that had obscured my view suddenly swept aside, like someone snatching a curtain violently from across a window and out of sight.
But that wasn’t quite right, either, though. It was more fluid in its abrupt motion, almost like smoke being pulled away by an incredibly powerful and unseen exhaust fan. A muted screeching sound reached my ears, sounding eerily like a poor imitation of a bird of prey. I assumed that the observation room was soundproof, or near enough, and wondered exactly how loud that wailing must have been for it to reach my ears.
I leaned closer to the window, peering upward and to the left, where the darkness had disappeared to, but I couldn’t see any vestige of it.
And then I looked to the rest of the room and drew an involuntary gasp at the horror I saw.
A dozen corpses lay strewn about the otherwise barren interior of the room.
But they weren’t bodies anymore, not really. They were nothing more than skeletons now, still dressed in the clothes they’d worn when they fell. Most were intact, though a few had scattered where they struck the tiled floor. The bones were stripped of all remnants of flesh and were bleach white.
“What the fuck?” I said in revulsion and shock, barely above a whisper.
Tate nodded excitedly. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? The others left, but I was able to lure two of them into the holding room and trap them there.”
I stepped back, feeling my stomach turn, and turned an incredulous gaze upon the man. “But, the bodies…”
He nodded again, almost eagerly. “That’s how I lured them. Most of the remaining researchers fled in here to hide. You see, it needs to eat, to hunt. It can’t survive without sustenance, no more than you or I. There were two in the beginning, but after the food ran out, this one turned on the other and now there’s only one.”
“The food? You mean those people?” I tightened the grip on my rifle and took a step backwards to put a little space between the two of us.
“When the shadows came in the darkness of the storm, a few of them were able to slip into the building before we realized what was happening. Half of the researchers were taken that night, in their sleep. You see, they hide and wait for the right moment. They avoid the light; I think it weakens them, but in the darkness…” he trailed off, and I saw an uncomfortable smile grow across his lips, almost of admiration, it seemed. “In the darkness, that’s where they live. That’s where they thrive, where they reign.”
I took another step backwards, my free hand reaching for the door handle behind me and opening it, pushing it with my foot. “You’re crazy,” I said, bringing the rifle up in line with his chest.
If he even noticed it, he gave no indication. His eyes had taken on that maniacal glint again, and he stood, giving a small nod that I thought was meant to reassure me. “There’s no more for it to eat, Hooper. It’s been days since I’ve been able to feed it.” He took a slow step towards me, and I matched it with a retreating one of my own. He smiled and continued, as if explaining to a child. “I have only myself left to offer, but that’s not enough. Don’t you understand? This isn’t just a thing, not just an animal. It’s far beyond our understanding – far beyond our own primitive evolution. It’s perfect.”
His eyes flicked away from me for a moment to an illuminated red button on the console nearby, and his hand drifted over to it.
“Don’t!” I shouted, bringing the rifle up to my shoulder. “Don’t do it, Tate!”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said, an obscene caricature of gentleness filling his voice. “It’s quick.” His hand hovered over the button.
“I will shoot you, Tate! Don’t make me do it!”
From where I stood, I could see another of those airlock doors through the observation window, and to my horror, a swirling mass of impenetrable blackness massed at the threshold. I could almost feel its anticipation. This wasn’t the first time it had been fed. It knew what was coming.
In that instant, when my eyes flicked away from him, Tate stabbed at the button. With a curse, I squeezed the trigger on the rifle at the same instant, but it was too late. The deafening report in the small room was immense, but even as the round tore through the man’s chest, he’d already pressed it.
I watched in horror as the twin airlock doors began to retract, and without another thought, I turned and fled as fast as my weary muscles could carry me. Thankfully, the codes required to open the doors weren’t needed to exit them, and I flew down the hall and through the research room. As I passed it and threw open the door to the reception area, I heard that wailing screech again from somewhere behind me, haunting and otherworldly, echoing through the empty facility, much louder than before.
Then, I heard another sound, this one the agonized screaming of Morgan Tate. I only gave it the briefest of thoughts as I jerked open the outer door and fled into the snowstorm. I could only hope that feeding time would give me enough of a window to make it back to Maggie.
The air had darkened even more with the coming of dusk and had grown colder. Thankfully, the storm seemed to have lost much of its fury, the front having now passed by and leaving me in its relatively calm wake.
I ran along the path, just enough light remaining of the day to follow the tracks I’d made on my way in. The rifle was heavy in my grip, but I didn’t dare lose my only defense. When that howling screech echoed through the trees behind me, I redoubled my speed, praying that it wouldn’t be able to find me before I’d reached Maggie.
The frigid air burned my lungs, and my throat was raw by the time I reached the snow-covered landing strip. I almost cried with joy at the sight of my bright yellow Maggie, waiting patiently for my return.
I reached the cargo hatch and swung it open, throwing myself inside and pulling it shut behind me just as another of those haunting wails reached my ears, closer this time.
Much closer.
I didn’t dare look out the windows as I threw off my pack and rifle and climbed back into the pilot’s seat. I buckled on my harness and my hands danced over the controls, the start-up procedure second nature.
Battery master on, fuel selector to center, mixture lever forward, fuel-oil shutoff lever down…
A resounding high-pitched howl penetrated the cabin and something black moved outside, rushing from window to window, door to door, searching. It was here now, trying to find a way inside!
Concentrate!
…throttle at 10%, fuel pressure pumped to 5 PSI, engine primed…
I froze. My windshield had suddenly gone completely black, shrouding me in darkness. Even though I couldn’t see anything in the featureless void just a foot away from my face, I could feel its desperation. I felt its sightless gaze, and below that, some dark malice, an inhuman and alien hunger.
I pressed the starter switch and the 9-cylinder radial engine started turning over, slowly at first, laggard and sluggish. My blood chilled as I realized that it wasn’t catching, wasn’t starting. My thoughts flew back to the engine problems I’d been experiencing before my emergency landing and, in that moment, I was certain my luck had finally run out.
But then, a backfire, then another, and then a third, coughing black puffs of smoke from the exhaust.
And then it caught, and that big, beautiful Pratt & Whitney radial took over, the loud drone rising smooth and steady as Maggie woke from her slumber. I pushed the throttle forward, inertia pressing me into my seat. I no longer cared about the engine misfires or the storm – a fiery death in the trees was preferable to whatever that thing had in store for me, I was sure.
The snow was deep, and even with the big tundra tires, I had to work to keep from nosing over as I began to gain speed. At some point, the black mass disappeared from my windscreen, and I was greeted with the glorious sight of an open path before me.
With the passing of the stormfront, the wind had shifted directions, and I was into a headwind now, perfect for my needs. I pushed the throttle to full and pulled back gently on the yoke. I felt the wheels leave the ground, now free from the snow’s drag, and continued my climb until I was above the trees and gently banking back toward the south, towards home.
As I passed over the landing strip, I thought I could just make out a black shape on the ground below, stretching and snaking along after me in its futile pursuit before I lost it in the trees.
*
The engine miss returned after another ten minutes of flying, but Maggie carried me back to safety. She always took care of me. Forty minutes later, I was back on the ground in Fairbanks and taxiing for the hangar.
Stopping the bush plane just outside, I shut her down, unbuckled myself, and carefully climbed down to the runway, where my body fought with itself for which was going to happen first, the puking or the passing out.
At this point, I’d happily suffer either.
Mike Nichols came jogging out of the hangar after hearing my approach and helped steady me.
“Jesus, Hoop, you gave us all a scare,” he smiled amiably. “It must have been a hell of a flight – you look like you saw a ghost, man.”
I could only nod and stumble my way towards the warmth of the hangar, grateful for his shoulder to brace myself against. Just before we reached the service door, he paused and looked back at Maggie. “Buck told me you had some engine problems, but he didn’t say anything about a fire.”
I frowned and shook my head. “No fire. I lost some cylinders.”
He stood there a moment longer, an odd expression on his face, before opening the door and ushering me inside. “Weird. I thought I saw some black smoke coming from under the engine cowl right after you shut her down.”