Snowblind (18 page)

Josh and Lorraine ran into trouble with snowdrifts and unplowed streets; forced to take a detour around town, they arrived at KNBC a half hour later than they had expected.

During the drive, Josh had called Myron Parks at his condo in Pine Summit. The normally relaxed station manager had by this time grown desperate with anxiety about his missing wife and daughter. He quickly agreed to the idea of letting Josh fly the news department's helicopter, and phoned ahead to the field unit at the TV station in downtown Fairbanks.

The two-story, glass and steel building gleamed in the green leaden light of the arctic dawn. The first storm had begun to let up, and the snowfall had lightened to a delicate flurry. Josh parked his Bug in the partially-plowed lot and hurried inside, dragging the reluctant Lorraine behind him. It was 6:50 A.M.; only a few employees were at the station. A long-haired, bent-backed man wearing leather boots, a silver-buttoned cowboy shirt, and a bolo tie met them in the lobby. He said his name was Randy, that he was one of two helicopter pilots employed by the station, and that Myron wanted him to answer any questions Josh might have about the aircraft.

"How soon can we get in the air?" was Josh's first question.

It's fueling up now," said Randy. He led them out to the back lot of the building, where the black-hulled, white-stenciled KNBC JetRanger III had been rolled onto the freshly-shoveled concrete helipad. Josh spent fifteen minutes doing his pre-flight inspection and going over the instrumentation with Randy while the engine warmed up. He had flown a Ranger during a brief stint with the Civil Air Patrol at Merril Field in Anchorage; other than that, his only experience with helicopters was at the helm of a McDonnell Douglas 500E; he'd spent two summers learning to fly the bubble-nosed chopper while working at his Uncle Greg's aircraft sales company in Seattle.

Though he'd never admit it to Lorraine, he felt a good deal more comfortable in his company Cessna Skywagon. But the truth was, the helicopter was probably a lot better suited for the job they were about to do. He could fly low, hover, and land in tricky terrain. And he didn't have to worry about wings icing up; visibility and strong winds were the only real threats. All he had to do was to keep the chopper straight and level — and stay the hell out of the way of the oncoming blizzard.

He showed Lorraine how to unlock her door in case of an emergency. She shouted over the rising noise of the rotors: "What am I gonna do, jump?" She was shaking visibly. "I'm way too scared for this," she said.

Josh strapped her into the five-point harness of the copilot's seat. "Just cover your eyes," he told her.

"You're not funny, Josh. How the hell did you talk me into this when you're not even
funny
?"

He climbed into his seat, secured his harness, and prepared for take-off. "Relax," he shouted. "You'll get used to it."

"To dyin'? I don't think so."

Josh put on a pair of headphones. He handed a second pair to Lorraine and helped her put them on. Glancing out the window, he saluted the wind-blown cowboy standing at the edge of the pad. Then he pulled back on the collective, and took the helicopter into the sky.

Kris had just reached the peak of the hill when she heard the killer's howl. The wolves bayed in reply, and in seconds high beeps sounded in her ears as the hunters charged up the slope, churning through the deep dune snow on the trail of her scent.

Kris climbed up onto the ridgeline and fell to her knees in breathless exhaustion. The wind swept over the high hill, and the low tones told her she faced another barren descent. She would have to take it — but even then the pack would be on her tail. They were faster than her. No matter how well she skied, eventually they would catch up to her. Their snarling cries sent bloody visions coursing through her mind.

They'll eat me. They'll eat me alive.

Kris grew frantic with shivery fear. She rubbed the painful wound on her ribs, where the teeth of the bear trap had cut through her skin. She tore off her glove and felt the bleeding gash.

The blood. They're following the scent of my blood!

The wolves grew louder. Kris quickly pulled off her backpack and dug inside. The hammer. The knife. Matches. Spices. She whipped out the bottles of chili powder and red pepper. She pulled off her scarf, poured the spices into it, and stuck the scarf into the snow.

The wolves were close, digging their way up toward the ridge. Kris rose quickly to her feet, turned and faced the downward slope on the other side. Her heart was racing. She hesitated, then pushed off, angling down the steep incline.

Sharp rock outcroppings dotted the downward slope, slowing her descent to a careful tacking back and forth, weaving dangerously between scattered boulders. The wolves would bound straight down over the same terrain. She feared they would catch her before she ever reached the bottom.

But halfway down she heard them break into shrieking whines at the top of the ridge. Sniffing at her scarf, they had inhaled the nostril-searing spices, throwing them into a yelping panic. Kris continued her downward glide, dodging rocks revealed as pulsing tones in her headpiece. Twice she rammed submerged boulders that toppled her to the snow. But she quickly got back on her feet, anxious to put as much distance as she could between herself and the predator wolves.

As she pulled up to the brink of a schuss, Kris heard Frosty bellow his wailing howl, and the wolves whimper and moan. Then they broke into feverish yapping. A cascade of beeps sounded in her headpiece as their warm bodies poured over the top of the ridge. She could hear the amplified sound of the killer's skis glancing sharply off the rocks. The predators were coming down the torturous incline.

Kris pushed off and sailed down a long blanketed slope toward a low-tone producing stand of dwarf spruce and aspens. She focused on the sound of the tones, and guided her skis toward an opening in the trees. She glided effortlessly into the woods, following a path that curved sharply to the right. Then the low tones suddenly blared — Kris tumbled to a stop in a thick tangle of trees and brush.

A branch had caught her across the face and cut the bridge of her nose. Kris wiped away the trickle of blood that flowed to her upper lip. She crawled back out of the thicket and sat up in the snow. Through the trees, she could hear the pack scrambling down the mountain high above. Soon they'd hit the schuss — and the killer would fly down after her. He would glide over her trail into the woods, right to this spot.

Thick forest surrounded her. She couldn't go back; she'd have to fight her way through the trees. The killer and the wolves would catch her in no time. She had to stop them here. At the end of this turn.

This blind turn.

Kris yanked off her backpack, and pulled out the can of gasoline. She cracked off a dry branch from a log on the ground, dowsed the end of the stick with fuel, and propped it upright into the snow on the center of the path. Then she flung a spray of the fluid over the trunks and branches and needles of the thicket, dowsed the snow beneath it, and set the half-full can of remaining gasoline into the fuming puddle.

Through the trees, she could hear Frosty's skis gliding to the brink of the schuss above her. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the matches and lit the end of the stick like a torch. She prayed the killer would hit it when he came flying around the turn.

Kris pulled on her backpack and headed into the forest. The densely packed trees wreaked havoc with her audio-guidance system, setting off an indecipherable jumble of low tones. She crashed blindly through the long-armed spruce and aspen, holding forward her poles to deflect the clawing branches from her face. The wolves thundered down the slope behind her. She heard the schuss of Frosty's skis. Kris weaved headlong through the bristly trees, searching for an opening, frantic that the predators would run her down in this claustrophobic crush of trunks and limbs.

The explosion nearly knocked her down. Frosty screamed as the gasoline erupted in a flame-spewing fireball. Wolves yelped, their fur ablaze, scattering through the trees like a wildfire.

Kris paused and turned, listening in glee to their horrible cries. The killer was silent.

I got him! This time, I've stopped him for good!

A whimpering wolf raced by through the snow. She could smell the scent of its smoldering fur.

Kris grinned with relief.

Then she heard Frosty roar. Not a wail of pain, not a cry of fear, but a hell-bent scream of fiery rage.

Chief Adashek, asleep on the only comfortable chair in the control tower, raised his droopy eyelids to see who was tapping his knee.

The hand belonged to Raoul Katukan. The doctor nodded across the room toward Dean Stanton, who sat hunched over the microphone at his control desk.

"Looks like something's happening," whispered Katukan.

The Chief extracted his considerable bulk from the low chair and achingly shambled across the room with the doctor. They passed Lieutenant Walbourne, who sat playing solitaire in what looked like a classroom chair with a small attached desk. The Lieutenant, absorbed in the cards, didn't seem to notice them. Behind him, three National Guardsmen were sprawled on the floor against the wall, heads tilted back, mouths open, snoring.

At the control desk, Stanton was on his radio mike. "Aircraft in the vicinity of twelve miles north of Fairbanks, this is Fairbanks Tower. If you are monitoring this frequency, would you identify yourself, please."

Adashek yawned. He looked over Stanton's shoulder, noticed a blip on the radar screen. Katukan noticed it, too; he looked at the Chief, arched his brow and shrugged.

Nothing but static came from the tiny radio speaker. Stanton tried another frequency, repeating his request. This time he got an answer.

"Fairbanks Tower, this is KNBC Chopper 2. We're at 5,000 feet heading north-by-northwest, over."

"I'll be damned," exclaimed Chief Adashek, suddenly wide awake. "It's the kid!"

Stanton glanced up at him, scowling. He spoke into his microphone with barely controlled anger. "Chopper 2, please inform us of your destination, over."

There was a short pause before Josh responded. "Destination is Caribou Mountain, sir. We are looking for stranded motorists off Dalton Highway. ETA is forty-five minutes, over."

Adashek watched the veins swell on the back of Dean Stanton's neck.

"Mr. Marino, are you aware that a second storm front will be inundating that area with heavy snowfall and high winds in a less than one hour's time?"

Again, a pause. "I... yes, I am aware of that, sir. It is our intention to accomplish our mission and clear the area before the storm hits. Sir."

Stanton grabbed the microphone tight in his fist. "This is a very dangerous stunt you're pulling, Marino. Do you have a copilot with you, young man?"

"Uh... Yes sir, I do sir."

"So you're putting two lives in danger. What's his name, pilot?"

"Uh...
her
name, sir. Lorraine. Lorraine Turner."

"Lorraine Turner? I am not aware of any female helicopter pilots in the local area."

"She's uh... she's new, sir."

Stanton paused. "Would you put her on the radio, please, I'd like to ask her a few questions."

"Uh..." Josh mumbled something inaudible.

"Marino?"

"Yes sir, just one moment please, sir."

Stanton threw a burning glance at Adashek, who, to the controller's dismay, seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

Stanton lost his patience. "Miss Turner, are you there?"

Lorraine's voice came in loud and clear. "All right, yeah, I'm here, whaddya want?"

Stanton pulled back from the mike. He squinted at Adashek and Katukan. Then he cleared his throat and spoke. "Miss Turner, are you licensed to fly a helicopter in the State of Alaska?"

"Licensed? What — you think I'd be heading into a blizzard if I was licensed?"

Stanton sighed. "You do realize the seriousness of the situation you're in."

"I realize Josh is crazy, if that's what you mean."

Stanton glanced again at the men behind him. He pulled the mike closer. "Miss Turner, do you know how to autorotate?"

"
Excuse
me?"

Josh squeezed in: "Sir I think—"

"I'm asking your copilot, Marino. Miss Turner, can you land that chopper if the engine stalls?"

"If the engine stalls?! Josh — is he kiddin'?"

"Sir, I don't think there's any poss—"

"Quiet, Marino. Turner — can you read the GPS?"

She paused before she answered. "Yeah, no problem."

"Well, that's good, 'cause you're likely to be flying around that mountain with zero visibility."

"Hell I got that right now—"

Josh cut her off. "I understand your concern, sir, but I'm certain we'll be well clear of the area before we'll have to use GPS."

Stanton tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Marino... You don't have GPS on that chopper, do you?"

"Well, sir..."

"Goddammit, son, you better turn that blasted aircraft around right this minute—"

"I can't do that, sir."

"I'm warning you..."

"Sir, we appreciate your—"

"Goddammit Marino, I order you—"

"With all due respect, sir, I do believe your jurisdiction is over the Fairbanks Airport only."

Stanton choked, clenching his teeth.

Josh continued: "We're going to sign off now. We'll contact the tower when we've picked up our passengers. Until then, we'd appreciate any advisements on changes in the weather. That's all for now. Over and out."

The radio went to static.

Stanton fumbled for a cigarette, lit it with shaky hands. He turned to glare at the Chief.

Adashek was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Kris tore through the thick brush, desperate for a way out of the tangle of trees. The explosion had dispersed the wolves, throwing them off her trail; she heard their single cries now, scattered through the woods behind her. One or another of them was bound to pick up her scent again. Then its howls would call the rest, and the pack — and the killer — would converge on her.

She had to throw them off her trail. In a tight clearing, she paused, knelt in the snow, pulled off her backpack, and searched for the bottle of ammonia. The fumes jarred her when she unscrewed the cap. Crawling back over her tracks, she poured the pungent liquid out over the snow, masking her trail.

A high beep sounded in her ears.

Kris jerked upright, dropping the bottle.

She listened.

Silence. A yap from a wolf far off in the forest. And something else, barely audible...

Breathing.

Kris swallowed. She held her breath. She listened.

The beeps came tumbling into her ears. Growing faster and louder. Something was charging toward her through the trees. Her headpiece picked up the sound of frothy breathing, and the loping patter of paws in the snow. Kris crawled back, tried to stagger to her feet—

With a roaring growl the creature lunged on her. Kris fell back into the snow as the giant timber wolf pounced down, sinking its two-inch fangs deep into the muscle of her left shoulder. She grabbed at the beast's body — but its fur was completely gone — burned off to cindery flesh!

The crazed animal locked its jaws on her shoulder, growling viciously. Kris reached out with her free right arm, groping in the snow for the bottle. The wolf clamped its teeth into her flesh, cracking the collar bone and tearing the muscle. As blood seeped out under her clothes, Kris grew dizzy with shock. Her shoulder went numb, her mind swiftly fading. Then her hand fell on the plastic bottle. Passing out, she limply raised it over the snarling head of the embracing beast.

The wolf yelped, releasing its grip. The searing fumes of ammonia jarred Kris back to life. She flipped over and crawled frantically toward her backpack. The wolf seized her ankle in its jaws. Kris kicked, jamming the bottom of her ski in its teeth. She reached for the bag as the wolf raked its fangs across the calf of her leg, ripping through her pant leg and scraping the flesh. Kris groped inside the pack for the carving knife. She gripped the blade, slicing the palm of her hand. The wolf nuzzled her crotch, then sunk its fangs deep into the flesh of her thigh. Kris cried out in agony. She grabbed hold of the handle of the knife, twisted free of the creature's fangs, and pushed away on her back, dragging her bloody body through the snow.

The wolf lunged for her throat. The beeps blared. Kris raised the knife with both hands, plunging the long blade deep into the soft underbelly of the naked beast. The creature yelped, fell in a crush down upon her, dropping its hairless skull and drooling jaws limply across her face.

Kris lay still, nearly fainting with exhaustion. With a groan, she rolled out from under the dead wolf, her parka drenched in the animal's steaming blood. She lay there on her stomach in the snow, wondering in a delirium if she was still alive.

Gradually, the sounds and silence of the forest came floating back to her. She slowly dragged herself up to her knees, trying to catch her breath, trying to keep herself from passing out. She reached into her jacket, her fingers drifting across her throat to the deep and bloody wounds in the soft flesh of her shoulder. She drew her hand from her coat, wiping the dripping fingers across her lips.

She would not last long now. Blood was draining like tears from her body. The wolves would have the scent of it, and the killer's rage would drive them to her.

A cold breath of wind blew the hair from her eyes.

What did he want? she asked herself. Why did he seek to take her life?

Out of the forest came the answering cries of the wolves, cries of insatiable hunger.

*  *  *

From whose womb did this creature come forth? Would that I had devoured her mother. The girl is a viper. Her heart is not red. Her lungs are not black. These are lies. Those who lie must die by the tooth. Cut off like heads of grain. They abhor me, they keep aloof from me; they do not hesitate to spit at the sight of me.

My heart has followed my eyes, but blood has clung to my hands. She burns me with the demon's tongue and casts me into the fire.

I will open the doors of her face. I will steal the void from her eyes. The gates of death will be revealed to her. The gates of deep darkness. Let what grows from her be rooted out. I will bring her to death. I will feed her to the Worm. I will bind up her limbs and tear at her flesh. I will hang her like the earth upon nothing.

She will tremble, astounded by the drip of her blood from my teeth.