Operation: Yukon

- 11 -

The lads got the vault door code cracked fifteen minutes later. The cap spun the big wheel and the door came open with a faint hiss of escaping air. The smell hit me immediately, a musky, heavy odor of animal with a faint underlay of piss and shite. And with it came the memory of another cave and a charnel-house in Siberia. My legs didn’t want me to go any farther and I had to force myself to step in after the cap once the door was fully open.

Fluorescent tubes lit a set of metal steps going down at a sharp angle in a rock tunnel with hastily whitewashed walls. The stench came up in a warm draft from below, making me breathe carefully through my mouth as we descended. The cap went first, with the sheriff behind me and Davies bringing up the rear; we left Wilko at the vault door covering our backs in case the wolves were feeling extra sneaky.

We descended in silence, a couple of dozen steps until we reached bottom and stood in a roughly hewn cave, more fluorescent lights buzzing above us. It was a prison, of sorts, three cells again roughly cut into the rock on either side, each with a very hefty iron grille across the front stout enough to contain the strongest of men. But what was inside were no men.

I’d seen them before so was ready for the sight but the sheriff let out an involuntary yelp and had taken three steps back towards the stairs before she gathered herself. Young Davies looked like he’d join her in flight given half a chance and I can’t say I blamed him. On our left-hand side two sullen male Alma stood at the grilles of their respective cages, inspecting us as we were inspecting them. These were paler than the ones in Siberia, almost white to match the snow outside. They stood more than seven feet tall on slightly bowed legs with barrel chests and noticeable pot-bellies, the matted fur hanging like a kilt around their waist, their slightly conical heads almost scraping the roof of their cells. Their hands were the size of shovels, with slate-gray fingernails long and pointed; I knew from experience they could rend flesh like knives through butter. Above shaggy beards that hung on their chests their mouths were full of teeth and their dark brown, almost black, eyes full of anger. And somehow their silence only made them appear all that much more intimidating.

“Fuck me,” Davies said.

“Don’t go giving them any ideas, lad,” I answered. “They’ve been locked up for a while and might take you at your word.”

The sheriff had turned away, but now she let out another yelp of surprise.

“There’s another one over here.”

On the other side of the cave, in the middle of the three cells, we found a third Alma. This one wasn’t standing to watch us but was instead lying on a bed of straw near the rear. I had to wash my gun light over in that direction to get a look but it was immediately clear that this was the pregnant female that Watkins had mentioned. Her belly was heavily distended. She lay on her side, almost as large as the males opposite, and moaned most piteously, as if in pain.

I saw that the cap was building up a steam of rage.

“I don’t care what they are. Even in zoos we don’t treat animals like this. And I’m not even sure these are animals. Get Watkins down here,” he said to me. “Drag him down if need be.”

I was halfway up the steps when Wilko shouted down from above.

“The Englishman’s done a runner. Want me to go after him?”

I went up the stairs two at a time and arrived in the room at the top to find Wilko at the door looking out. Jennings was still in his corner but there was no sign of the Englishman.

“I think he’s heading for the trucks,” Wilko said.

“Then he’s not going far,” I replied as I pushed past him. “The cap and I have got the keys. Watch my back. I’ll go fetch.”

I headed out into the snow, following a fresh set of prints that, as Wilko had said, headed down the slope towards the parked trucks. I looked up and saw the man climbing up into the cab of the nearest truck.

He got out again while I was still only halfway down towards him, obviously having discovered what I already knew; the keys weren’t in the ignition.

“Come back, man,” I shouted, aware that my voice was carrying loud and clear in the air. “Don’t be a wanker about this. We’re safer together.”

He obviously didn’t agree. He turned, saw me coming, and immediately headed off at a run towards the main gate. I didn’t know what his plan was, I’m not even sure that he had one beyond panic and flight, but whatever it was it made him a determined wee sod. He was getting farther away from me. As I passed the trucks he was already outside the compound and heading down the hill. I briefly considered getting in the truck and chasing him down but the sound of the engines might attract the pack, and besides, I’d lose time on him just getting into the truck and getting it going. I put on a burst of speed.

I got lucky. He wasn’t watching his footing, took a tumble arse over tit and plowed head first into the snow, busting his nose and leaving a bloody red smear on the ground. I was on him as he was pushing himself to his feet.

“Come here, ya daft bugger,” I said as I grabbed his shoulder.

He didn’t reply, but something in the trees to the left of the road did, a low growl that told me we were in serious trouble. Watkins had heard it too and grabbed at my arm.

“If we stay on the road they’ll only run us down. This way. It’s our only chance.”

He pulled away from me, went right and ducked under the canopy, almost immediately lost to sight beneath the foliage.

“Bugger,” I muttered, and headed after him, aware that at any minute something might take a bloody bite out of my arse.

Within a few paces I was on some kind of animal trail; big deer at a guess given the size and frequency of the droppings, and Watkins was barrelling along through the branches ahead of me, unheeding of the noise he was making, intent only on speed. I yielded to his local knowledge and followed right behind him. Somewhere at our backs a wolf barked and was answered by a louder bark to my left, not too close, but not too far either.

“I hope you ken where you’re going,” I shouted.

“Not far now,” he shouted back.

The trail brought us out at the rim of a clearing, a bowl in the snow in the bottom of which sat a squat domed metal building with garage doors.

“Hurry!” Watkins shouted.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Something rustled the foliage no more than a few yards behind me. I threw myself down into the bowl and raced after Watkins as he opened a door I hadn’t seen on the side of the building and ran inside. I was at his back, made it in and the door slammed at my back followed by another slam as something heavy hit it from the outside. We heard a frustrated yelp from beyond the door, then we were alone in a suddenly quiet dark.

“Don’t move. There’s a light switch here somewhere,” Watkins said, and was as good as his word when several seconds later a fluorescent tube buzzed and stuttered into life overhead.

We were in a garage with bays for four Skidoos. There was only one machine left and signs that the other spaces had been vacated in somewhat of a hurry.

“This is where you left from the last time,” I said, and Watkins nodded.

“And there’s room for two on that one. We can get off and away clear if we’re sneaky.”

“And sneakily leave my mates up there on their own? You don’t ken much about loyalty, do you? No, lad, you’re coming back with me.”

A second later he had a spanner in his hand and took a swing at me. A second after that the butt of my rifle caught him hard on the temple and he went down like a sack of potatoes, the spanner falling with a clang on the floor. That brought another bark from outside. Something sniffed at the base of the door out there.

“Fucking great idea, Wiggo,” I muttered to myself. “Now what?”

I left the wanker on the floor and went over to study the Skidoo. I’d never driven one, but a quick going over of it convinced me it wasn’t unlike a motorbike; it had a throttle, brakes and handlebars… and the ignition key was already in place. How hard could it be?

I found gas canisters at the back of the garage, filled up the machine and started her up. She clanked and rattled like a shaken can of nails and the air suddenly tasted harsh and tar-like but she was running so I called that a result. Then I had a harder job, of figuring out how I was going to get Watkins back to the others without him falling off the back on the way. I finally strapped him none too gently into the back seat with some guy ropes I found alongside the gas canisters. He was going to loll around alarmingly but that couldn’t be helped; the sniffing outside had turned to scratching and the sound of digging. It wasn’t going to be too long before I had unwelcome company.

Another problem faced me immediately; the main garage doors were shut in front of me. If I opened them, chances were the wolves would get in before I got out. I was sitting in the driving position still pondering that when Watkins spoke behind me. He sounded groggy; a hit from a rifle butt wasn’t easily shaken off, but I heard him clear enough.

“There’s a remote, by your left hand.”

I found a switch, flicked it, and the garage door creaked, complained, then started to lift, showing the first foot of the snow outside. I released the brake and we began to move forward. I had one hand on the throttle, another holding my weapon up pointed at the opening space ahead as the chains kicked in and we roared forward with a lurch that nearly threw me off. The door was still rising as we reached it and I had to duck to avoid losing my head. There was a thud behind me; I realised Watkins hadn’t ducked enough, but couldn’t afford the time to turn to check the damage for we were already out and heading up the wall of the bowled clearing. Something came at me fast from the right. Instinct kicked in and I swung the rifle round and fired blind, holding my trigger down on six shots that almost deafened me even above the noise of the Skidoo.

Whatever had been coming, it wasn’t coming anymore. We hit the rim of the bowl at an arse-juddering speed that almost bounced me off the machine. I found, more by luck than judgement, another of the animal trails, wider than the one we’d fled on earlier, and within seconds the garage was lost somewhere behind us.

I had no plan other than to keep going uphill, on the basis that we’d been going down on our chase from the compound. I hit a curve, took it a bit sharp and almost tipped the bloody thing over when Watkins didn’t move with me into the turn. I slowed enough to let me take time to check on him. Blood poured from a wound on his temple, bone, and possible brain, showing where he’d cracked his skull against the garage door. I had nothing with me that would help him out here; my only hope was to get him back to the cabin and see what Davies could do for him. I pushed the throttle as far as I dared and hoped for a straight path.