The Brooks Range, Alaska

All dead, all dead, all dead.

Dorian Kapadonis ran in high-stepping lurches through knee deep snow. His breath came in a shallow, whistling pant. At this altitude, he was lucky to draw breath at all. The heavy pack on his shoulders banged rhythmically against his backside. Step-thwack. All dead. Step-thwack. All dead. A kick in the pants he didn't need. Nothing to get you going like a little blood and dismemberment. Muscles burning, chest on fire, he chugged ahead.

All dead. All dead. All dead.

Not far now. He made a beeline for the craggy rock face his team had descended earlier-only to find they weren't alone on the range after all. That . . . thing had been at the camp, waiting to ambush them. White snow bloomed red with blood as his friends were ripped to shreds. Frozen like the world around him, he'd stood there, transfixed. Stood there.

He stumbled, but recovered and saw the elevated alcove they'd passed when he'd been one of six. His boot caught on a stone buried beneath the snow and he went down. The weight of the pack drove out his breath in a blast of steamy air. He could move faster without the pack, but that meant going without provisions. A killer decision. Gasping, he rolled to his back, bleary with exhaustion. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just stay down and wait to become dinner.

Like a six-foot, jumbo shrimp on ice.

Snarling, snuffling, a liquid hoggish sound, whispered closer between gusts of wind and sent his sore heart triple thumping. It was still coming, still on his tail. He yanked an arm free of the pack and groped inside for the flare gun. Gloved, numb fingers slid over objects with no perception of texture or substance. He squinted through wind-whipped snow for a sign of his pursuer.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."

His fingers grasped the muzzle of the flare gun and he yanked it free. On his back, he aimed over the trail he'd made. Another snarl and he shifted his aim to the left. Shadows gathered together, solidified and revealed the oncoming massive shoulders and head. Dorian fired.

The snowscape glowed briefly in the orange glow of the flare. An angry howl brought the hairs on his neck to a stand. The thing was so close and now it was pissed. He shot to his feet and shouldered the pack, his urge to live stronger than his exhaustion.

He gasped for every atom of oxygen as he vaulted drifts in a single leap. One foot after another until he found the path they had cut that morning. Easier going. He'd survive, he'd make it, he . . . didn't have his axe out.

He shoved the flare gun in his parka and reached for the axe dangling from the loop on his belt. Behind him, the thing found the path and that nose-blowing, ugly wet sound of air passing through congestion was right behind him. With a mad leap, he buried the axe into the outcropping.

Spiked toe in, next foot, axe up, breathe! Mind numb, his body a machine, brainlessly counting out the three points of contact rule. Feet, feet, axe, feet, feet, axe. Again . . .

The beast jumped into the air, teeth snapping loudly as it barely missed Dorian's left calf. It landed with a guttural chuffing then leapt again and scraped a claw across his shoe, trying to hook him, grab him, pull him down. He yelled, shook it off and climbed faster.

Fourteen, maybe fifteen feet up he cleaved the alcove's floor and hauled himself to safety. Arms trembling, his face burning with the cold, he pressed into the corner. Protected from the wind on three sides, he waited for the trembling in his limbs to ease. The shadow paced below, jumping now and then, ragged nails scrambling for a hold. It slid back, but returned, enraged its quarry was out of reach.

Dorian panted and waited for his brain to start working again. Spots swam before his eyes and he tried to focus on slowing the rate of his heart. Instead, he saw his students screaming, heard the nauseating sound of bone snapping. He swallowed hard.

Palms pressed to the alcove floor, he boosted himself up straighter. Pure luck had gotten him this far. If he hadn't been slower than the rest, hadn't been trailing behind, he would be nothing but hamburger meat. He'd gotten away. He'd won. He had beaten that murdering son of a bitch!

An insane urge to shove his thumbs in his ears, waggle his fingers, and stick out his tongue made him worry how long he would last on his own. Didn't matter much if he could conquer the tundra or not. Leaving the alcove was impossible, let alone getting off the range. He had to think, be logical, or end up a freeze-dried meal for future cannibals.

Or worse.

He leaned forward and measured the quality of his foe. Formidable, to say the least. Though the flesh appeared bluish either by tint or cold and it could hardly breathe, long teeth and sharp talons, made it a terrible adversary. Again it leapt, this time the teeth snapped together a mere foot from the edge. A puff of breath, hideously rancid, bloomed around Dorian's face. He grimaced and fell back.

Yea though I walk through the valley of death, I shall fear no blue beast with bad breath.

He removed the flare gun from his coat, snapped a new cartridge deftly in place, and shoved a gloved finger into the trigger guard. Whatever the hell it was, however it had gotten all the way out here, could be figured out back at the lab. Not here in the middle of hell frozen over.

The shadow stopped pacing, glanced up from the trench it had dug and returned his gaze with silvery, sly eyes. An eerie growl, a plaintive aching melody of fierce lust for the unattainable, rumbled deep in its chest. He aimed the flare gun for where the sound came from. The thing leapt with a bark of fury. Dorian pulled the trigger.

The beast took the flare in the chest and somersaulted backward with a horrible high-pitched scream. Visions of avalanches flitted through Dorian's mind. When it regained its feet, it turned and fled into the whiteness beyond.

Dorian hung his head with relief. If he had the energy, he would jump to his feet and dance a jig that his Irish assistant, Eileen, would have loved. He grinned. They would call him Flare-Gun Dorian, wildest scientist this side of the Brooks Range. Posters of him wearing a cowboy hat and a lab coat beneath clunky holsters would adorn laboratories around the world. He laughed and sat up.

"Fastest flares in the west." Tears sprang to his eyes and giddiness burbled from his throat in large guffaws.

Back in the protection of the alcove, he hiccupped a few last humorless chuckles that threatened to turn to tears if he didn't get himself under control. He wiped at his damp eyes and stared between the fluctuating sheets of snow.

Once he'd thought this landscape more beautiful than any on earth. The pristine North Slope held little vegetation. Nothing for miles but white expanses dotted with jutting brown boulders. No trees, only wind and whiteout. Now, the immensity of the view swept him hollow.

How long would it take before someone found him? The research that brought him here was undeclared. He should have known better, should have taken more precautions. But he couldn't report his findings without investigating the theory first hand. The brass back in Atlanta already thought he was a few test-tubes short of a full rack.

At least a day before they missed him at work. Another day before the team didn't return and someone sounded the alarm. He had to camp, but couldn't in the lee, not with the snow and cold. Research was good for more than just solving mysteries.

True adventurers had become trapped like him and opted out by camping in a lee just like this one. Could have been the very same one. Veterans of the tundra would never deliberately camp where snow would drift, bury them, kill them-either suffocating them from lack of oxygen, or with the poisonous fumes from their camp stove. Unless it was a better way to die. Better than by mutilation.

Dorian would not opt out. He would not die here, not after fighting to live. That meant leaving now, before the thing rallied and returned. Besides, this was no longer uncharted territory and help was not on a far off continent. He had hope.

On his feet once again, he searched for movement. Nothing. Anaktuvuk Pass, a village at the foot of the North Slope, sat about twelve miles north. He could walk there by morning if he took care to rest when he needed, and run when he had to.
* * *
Highway 2
North of Fairbanks, Alaska

State Trooper Don Chezna slowed the patrol car as he passed a Buick, nose first in the opposite ditch. He cursed his bad luck. Thanks to the flu that had brought half the department low, he was at the end of a double shift. Not for the first time that day, he wished he could be home in front of the tube with a can of Bud in one hand and the remote in the other.

And if wishes were spaghetti, the Italians would have it made.

He growled, flipped on the roof mounted lights and u-turned on the empty highway. All four doors hung open on the rusted jalopy. The Buick's end stuck in the air, red lights glowing like hellish eyes in the afternoon twilight. Dark splotches and spatters decorated the white snow near the driver's door. Instantly alert to the possibility more had happened than a wreck, maybe something inside the car, he switched on his high beams. The pattern of those black splotches could only be one thing and judging by the position of the vehicle, someone was hurt.

He lifted the radio and depressed the button on the side, then released it. How should he call it in? There wasn't any indication of an accident; the windows were all intact, the car, though old, didn't appear to have sustained any damage. The roads weren't slick. Perfect weather, if frigid-so the driver hadn't been blinded by blowing snow or hampered by any other sort of climate induced hazzard. No evidence of another vehicle. Possible DUI?

His headlights lit the interior of the car, showing no one sat upright in the seats. At temperatures in the single digits, a sane person would have waited in their car for help to arrive. He scanned the bank and saw a trail disappearing into the trees that shielded the El Dorado Gold Mine from traffic on the highway. Not good.

He coasted to a halt and inspected the back of the vehicle for a license plate. Nothing but an empty, rusted rectangle where the plate should have been. From the ancient condition of the car, he suspected the missing plate might be due to poverty, and not necessarily criminal intent. Car thieves, in general, chose vehicles that at least looked as if the engine would turn over. He lifted the radio again and depressed the button.

"Dispatch, I've got a 10-37," he gave the code for suspicious vehicle and paused, glanced at the rearview mirror and continued, "southbound a quarter mile from Old Chatanika Trail."

A hiss, a crackle. "10-4."

He returned the handset to its cradle and zipped his parka to the neck, preparing to brave the elements in the line of duty. The snow strobed as the hood-mounted lights rotated over the scene. Wind battered at his clothes, hungry to get inside and gnaw at his skin. Snow crunched loudly beneath his feet along the icy shoulder.

A sense that something or someone watched from the darkness beyond the pines lining the opposite side of the ditch, made him uneasy. Gut tightly wound, he pulled his service revolver from the holster at his hip.

Approaching along the flank of the car, he eased past rusty holes and dents. The dome light was bright, indicating the vehicle's battery hadn't had time to run out. The accident was recent. Hodgepodge, stained quilts covered the back seat, making it difficult to spot anything out of the ordinary. He cleared the back as unoccupied. With the opened back door as a shield, he leaned forward, searching for a driver, maybe crumpled to his side and hidden from view.

The front seat was not empty, but neither was it occupied. Stunned, he stared, seeing, but unbelieving. His gorge rose, and he jerked backward on unsteady feet. Blood thundered into his temples, pushing the bile higher in his throat. He bent at the waist and breathed deep, trying to hold back the contents of his stomach, loathe to contaminate the scene.

Hands on his knees, muzzle of his revolver pointed to the ground, he regained control of his stomach, if not the rest of him. He forced himself to stand and walk around the tail end of the vehicle. Gun raised in front of him, he peered around the side. Relief, swift and enormous, flooded him. No body, no mangled thing that once had been a person, only a large circle of blood and the spatter pattern he'd seen from the cruiser. Blood he could handle.

But the front seat, Jesus Christ.

The sight was so awful, he feared he had imagined it. Maybe it was just all that blood, maybe it wasn't what he thought it was. Maybe it was a toy, a discarded bundle of clothing. Afraid it just might have been something as idiotic as his overworked and overtired mind supplying false information, he needed another look.

Poised for movement, he froze, locked in place, for what felt like an hour, or more, yet couldn't have been but a few seconds. He took a deep breath, exhaled with a curse, and forced his feet to obey. A good look, a quick one, but a good one, just for confirmation. His pulse hammered thickly, he felt it at the collar, against the inside of his shirt.

"Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

He stared, unable to turn away. An arm, as if reaching for the passenger, lay cocked, the hand curled loosely. Splintered bone protruded from the bloody stump where it had once been attached to a shoulder. A cheap, plastic watch around the wrist gave it a hideous reality he couldn't shake. Oh, God, and worse, much worse, an eye stared at him from the seat.

A Goddamned eye.

A human eye, brown, and red, and liquid under the dome light. Stuck in a pool of flesh that vaguely resembled the profile of the person it had once belonged to. A tuft of dark hair floated beside it in a congealing lake of blood.

The smell hit him. Before, he'd jerked back too soon to catch the unmistakable odor of urine. Now the stench, so strong and obliterating, hit him full force and his stomach erupted. Twisting, unable to get fully around before his guts sent coffee and lunch back the way they'd gone in, he retched over the door onto the snow-covered shoulder.

"Jesus," he said when the storm ended, wiping his mouth on the back of his glove.

On unsteady feet he tripped toward the cruiser, fumbled with the door latch, and slumped inside. His head, his heart, his breath pounded in unison. He grabbed the radio, dropped it, searched blindly beneath the steering wheel, and lifted it.

"Dispatch!" His voice croaked and squeaked, burred by the vomit, high-pitched from the horror. "Dispatch, 10-69, 10-69! Got . . ." What? Body parts? "Jesus, get everyone you can."

"10-4, backup's rolling to your 20."

Without thinking, Don Chezna slammed his door closed and engaged the locks. He stared at the tree line, praying for backup to arrive. Whatever had done . . . that, he didn't want to be alone with it out there, somewhere.

He could feel it watching him.

Chapter One

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Mitchell International Airport

"This plane is not going to take off until I find it." Amanda McCourt didn't take her gaze off the carpet. Down on all fours in the narrow aisle, she raked the fibers, searching for the charm her grandmother had given her not thirty minutes ago. "It's gotta be here."

"But ma'am, the seatbelt sign is on." The fight attendant pointed over the shoulder of the big guy who'd caused this mess. "I have to ask you to take your seat."

Amanda glanced up, a hank of chestnut hair falling over one green eye. She shoved the hair behind her ear and glared. "Not happening. You can stand there, or help me. Up to you."

She ignored the woman and went back to her search. Please, she prayed, please let me find it. Of all the times for her bad luck to kick in, this wasn't one she had expected. Before a presentation, if she was running late, or if one of the professors were counting on her, that was par for the course. But not right before take-off and not her bracelet. Her luggage could be sent to Timbuktu for all she cared. Only the bracelet mattered.

Where was it?

She didn't give a hoot if the plane ever got to Alaska. She couldn't just blow off the last thing her grandmother had given her. All morning she had controlled her tears and now they threatened to close off her windpipe. What if she never saw her grandmother again? Her tour with the Epidemiology Intelligence Service may only be two years, but a lot could happen in that amount of time. She knew from personal experience.

"I'll help." The culprit dropped to one knee. His mane of strawberry blond hair brushed the shoulders of his offending cable knit sweater. It had caught on her bracelet as he'd passed by on his way to his seat. "I'm so sorry."

She cleared her throat, uttered a thanks, and pointed toward a patch of carpet she couldn't see from her angle. "Look there for me."

"Sir, this isn't your problem," the attendant scolded. "You need to return to your seat."

"It was my fault," he said, sounding contrite. "Just give us a few seconds here."

"Ma'am, I insist you get back in your seat." She reached for Amanda's arm with a red-taloned hand.

Amanda halted her with a grim look. "You don't want to do that."

The woman straightened quickly. "I'll be back." She spun on her heel and stalked toward the front of the plane.

The big engines hummed and whined, eager to take to the skies. Passengers stared, their impatient snorts and rustling made her cheeks hot and bunched the muscles at her shoulders. Any minute now they'd form a posse, throw her in the seat, and duct tape her down.

"There's not much wiggle room in the aisle," the man said, patting down the pile. "But I should have been more careful."

"It wouldn't be such a big deal." Amanda expanded her search to the next row. Could it have landed so far away? "But my grandmother gave it to me before I boarded."

God, a little help please.

Tears blurred her vision and she cursed them. How undignified and silly to cry now. She couldn't help it though, every single charm on her bracelet was important. They measured her life, every event memorialized. A life she had vacated such a short while ago, maybe forever. At least it hadn't been Jimmy's St. George medallion, she thought thankfully.

"Found it!" he said triumphantly. It looked minuscule pinched between his meaty thumb and forefinger. "It was stuck to my sweater."

She grinned and took it with a shaky hand. "Thank you, thank you so much."

"I'm glad you got it back. And I'm sorry again."

She waved a hand and sniffed back tears. "No problem, really."

The attendant appeared at the far end of the aisle, a matronly looking woman on her heels. Both wore scowls that meant trouble.

"We'd better get back to our seats." Amanda nodded past his shoulder. "I think we're in trouble."

He followed her nod, turned back with a kind smile and stood, offering her a hand. "If we get back to our seats quick, maybe they'll ignore us like they usually do."

Amanda smiled, took his hand and stood. "If we're lucky."

"We found your charm, didn't we?" He tipped her a nod and headed back to his row.

She slid into her seat and fastened the seatbelt as the women reached her. Before either could speak she held up the caduceus. The silver medical symbol twinkled in the overhead light. "Found it. Sorry for the trouble."

The younger woman huffed. "In the future, keep your hands out of the aisle."

"No problem." Amanda gave them her most cooperative smile. She wasn't, after all, a panic prone passenger holding up the flight over a twenty-dollar bit of jewelry.

They retreated and most of the passengers occupied themselves with an in flight distraction. Only a balding man in a suit made sure she saw his scathing look before turning his attention to a palm pilot he worked fastidiously with a stylus.

When they were in the air, she hooked the charm back on the bracelet and squeezed the jump ring tightly closed to make sure it wouldn't get lost again. The empty seat between her and the window gave her ample room, but no one to talk to. Maybe the redhead who had helped her was flying solo, like her. Right, that was the last thing she needed. Handsome or not, she couldn't entertain those thoughts. Especially now, when she was starting a brand new life.

She touched the charms one at a time, thinking of all she was leaving behind. Everything had led to this moment, even before she'd chosen to follow in Uncle Dorian's footsteps. From birth she'd been put on this course and now that she had embraced it, given up hope for a normal, white picket-fence life, things were a heck of a lot easier. The loneliness did get to her though. It would get to anyone.

Anchorage may not be the epicenter of amusement, but Uncle Dorian would be a lot of fun and there was always work. Not everyone got waved into the EIS after rotation had started and Dorian would get a big fat kiss for that-if he remembered to pick her up. She had left him four messages since yesterday and he hadn't returned any of them. He'd probably gotten sucked into his research again and wasn't coming up for air.

A typical genius, Uncle Dorian wasn't very good about time. But his cheerful disposition rescued his friendships from certain death-and made him one of her favorite family members. By the time the in flight movie started, she was wondering what crazy story Dorian would tell her when she landed. From heat-seeking fireworks on the Fourth, to man-eating mosquitos, Dorian had more big fish stories in him than a red-neck with his own comedy show.

The charms tinkled quietly as she turned off the overhead light and closed her eyes. Alaska wouldn't be all that different than Milwaukee. Another lab, another set of interns to blend in with, and once she established herself, it would be similar to her old life. Day in, day out, work and home. The same routine. The thought comforted her and as she drifted to sleep, she wondered if that was a good thing or not.
* * *

Kenai Municipal Airport

Kenai, Alaska

Major Damon Wyatt of the Air Force's Special Command Operations waited to deliver the news to his immediate superior, Lt. Col. Jim Masterson. Impatient, he watched the airfield. Flat lands to the north, west and east, created a big sky effect he found calming, despite his excitement. This could be the detail he'd been waiting for.

New to Masterson's tactical team, he'd been sent to the airport on grunt duty, while the others prepared for the mission. He didn't mind. One of his objectives was to gain the team's trust, and that of his boss while he was at it. All in good time, he tried to tell himself. Yet time was a commodity in short supply these days. There were serious drawbacks to working undercover.

First, they'd made him run the Pipeline. A nice little kick in the ass for agreeing to take on the job. He already knew how to climb, rappel, dive, and free-fall and didn't need the Air Force drill instructors screaming in his face every inch of the way. That, followed by Indoctrination at Lackland, was the icing on the pain pie. Boot camp seemed like a holiday in comparison. Still, keeping those skill sharp didn't hurt and the stories he came away with helped him ease into Masterson's team.

The single engine Cessna coasted toward the runway, blocking what remained of the sun. Wyatt followed the progress of the small plane. Masterson had taken his good buddy, Senator Banks, on a government sponsored wolf hunt. The cronies wouldn't be thrilled to hear their trip had been cut short to rescue a scientist, one native guide, and four students from the U of A, Anchorage. The National Parks Service and the CDC were screaming for somebody to do something, damn it. Of course, the somebody they meant was Masterson's team.

The Cessna halted, the doors opened, and the Lt. Col. stepped out first. Wyatt might not have recognized him in his civvies if it weren't for the thick, bushy head of grey hair that stood on end in the brisk wind. Behind him, Banks climbed down, sporting an arm in a sling. Wyatt grinned. Looks like they got more than they bargained for.

He wiped the smile from his face, turned from the window and strolled over to meet the older men. The doors opened and let in a burst of brisk wind. Behind Masterson, the red sky colored the lanky man in what could only be recreated by a Full Moon production-real B-horror flick stuff. A hook nose, shrubs of white eyebrow, and gaunt, leathery skin made a ghoulish mask of his face. His height, nearing six-four, and his scarecrow frame, made him appear a foot taller than everyone around him-though Wyatt stood only an inch or two shorter. The grim reaper arrives.

"Well, spit it out Major, we ain't got all day. Banks here needs to get his butt in for stitches." Masterson hooked a thumb toward the senator.

Banks raised his arm with a sheepish grin. "Took a bite out of me, never saw it coming, thought the bugger was dead."

Wyatt nodded once, then turned to the Major. "Sir, NPS asked for aid in extracting a lost party from the Brooks Range."

"VIP's?"

"Yes, sir. A scientist, and four students."

"That it?"

"And an Inupiat guide, sir."

Masterson grunted, squinted at the senator, and said, "Gotta go, don't forget to take the carcass with you. They'll want to check it for rabies."

Banks blanched. "You think that's likely?"

Masterson shrugged. "Hell if I know." The pilot came in, shivering and Masterson swung his piercing brown gaze on him. "See the Senator gets to a doc."

"No problem." He nudged Banks forward and pointed toward the doors leading to the parking lot.

Wyatt stared after the pair. Another part of working undercover he detested. Only a few knew about his true mission here. His immediate superior at the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Defense Secretary and the President himself. Normally, he'd interview the Senator right then and there. Not with his boss watching though. Get in, get out, quick and clean. He still liked working alone better.

Wyatt fell in step behind Masterson. How long did he have until the team learned why he'd been transferred here? More importantly, how would this isolated, close-knit group of soldiers react when they found out? They breathed and bled loyalty.
* * *

Epidemiology Intelligence Service

Anchorage, Alaska

"Jesus Christ on a crutch, doesn't anybody know what he was doing up there?" Eileen Murray watched with disgust as everyone at EIS central command shook their heads. "What did his computer bring up?"

John "Burger" Cheeseman arms folded, shook his head. "Not much-he was doing interviews with the families, but there's nothing in there about the trip north, except on his date calendar, and all that says is 1:00pm, meet Noonhi."

"Noonhi." Eileen shook her head. "Dorian didn't need to interview him or his family. No one's sick in that village. Has anyone called to see if Noonhi's home, or lost along with our fearless leader?"

Phone pressed to one ear, Harley Collins rolled his chair into the central walkway and called from his cubicle. "Can't get anyone on the line, Eileen. What's up with Bennet? He get through to NPS yet?"

Eileen nodded. "Yeah. There's a big storm brewing up there. Thank God, they called in their position before it hit, we'd never know what happened to them. How could Dorian be so reckless?"

Harley shrugged. "I don't know."

"I wasn't asking you." Eileen snapped more harshly than she meant to. "Just keep trying to get someone on the line. Burger-you get back on his computer and dig deeper. I want to know what's going on."

"You've probably forgotten, I know I did, but when I was looking at Dorian's schedule, I saw the notation. His niece's plane lands today."

Eileen rolled her eyes. "Just what I need. A panicky intern. Jesus, what else can go wrong?"

Elevator doors, visible through the glass wall along the north end of the room, opened. A group of men, some tough looking and in uniform, flanked the big boss from upstairs. Bennett looked much smaller in comparison to the military cut of his escorts. They all turned in her direction.

She had her answer-this was what else could go wrong. What the hell was she going to say? Oh, Dorian, the head geneticist working on the outbreak, doesn't say a word and just up and leaves, and guess what guys, his niece is arriving from Wisconsin today. Who wants to tell her that her uncle might be dead, or dying, lost somewhere on an Alaskan mountain during a blizzard? Volunteers? Anyone?

© Jennifer Turner, 2005