Do it.
He yanked, almost too hard. The slider rolled easily, thanks to all Jed’s WD-40, the metal wheels whispering over the rails like a bowling ball over polished wood. A gust of very cold air ballooned into the boathouse, pulling with it the stink of burning wood and melting plastics. Then he was pivoting, leaping back toward the sled. Outside, the light suddenly shifted as the hunters caught on. Five seconds, maybe ten. Vaulting into the Spitfire’s front seat, he jabbed at the ignition, pumping the accelerator to drive fuel into the engine. There was a millisecond’s delay, and then the engine ground, coughed, spluttered—
And did not catch.
Come on, come on, come on! From outside, there came a shout. The lights bobbed; he heard the thrash of brambles and icy wood. They were coming, fast. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to give the engine two precious seconds he did not have and then tried again.
If it floods, I’m dead. Sweat trickled down his neck. They’ll be around the corner, and if I’m still sitting here—
The engine came to life in a spluttering crescendo roar.
And he began to move.
31
The little boy was dark-haired and bright-eyed with terror, but Alex saw the resemblance immediately. There was a splash of crimson on the boy’s face and more blood on his hands, too, but nowhere else that she could see. So maybe the blood was his brother’s.
“Daniel!” the little boy cried. “Daniel, are you okay?”
“It’s all right, Jack.” Daniel struggled to his knees. “Stay calm, okay?”
“But what are they going to do to us?” Jack’s voice was tight, and his lips were drawn back in a bright, hard rictus. He was very young, no older than Ellie. Huge tears were rolling down his cheeks, where they mixed with gore, so that it seemed like he was weeping blood. “Are they going to eat us?”
“No.” Daniel heaved to his feet, pushing up on his thighs. It was costing him, too; his arms trembled and Alex saw how his breath grabbed and hitched. “You’re going to be fine. It’s all right.”
It was not all right. Acne was helping Beretta to his feet. Spider and Leopard and the others were gathering around Daniel and Jack the same way Wolf and his crew had watched as she and Spider fought. Of course, Spider had that corn knife, too. Already thick and feverish and frenzied, the air suddenly bunched and roiled.
“Oh God,” she said.
To her left, Sharon darted a look. “What?”
Alex didn’t reply. She couldn’t. But she had enough experience with the Changed and knew when she smelled it.
Daniel and Jack didn’t have much time.
And neither did they.
32
A wind sled is not like a snowmobile. The principle’s closer to that of an airboat: a strong engine producing enough air to propel a boat over shallow water or ice. There are two controls: a throttle for power and a wheel or a stick that controls the rudder and directs the air.
The problem with a wind sled? No brake. The only ways to stop are to dump air or power down. And a wind sled is clumsy. This thing doesn’t turn on a dime. Jerk the rudder too quickly, spill enough air, and you guarantee a stall.
As soon as he felt the Spitfire move, Tom jammed the throttle, slotting it all the way forward. The sled responded with a thumping lurch and then shot from the boathouse so quickly he was thrown back against the dog. His foot slid on the accelerator, and he heard the engine instantly dip and grumble as the Spitfire slowed to nothing more than a slow walk. Gasping, he righted, then mashed the accelerator hard.
Bulleting away from the boathouse in a cloud of diesel, the sled sped over the spit and onto snow-mantled ice with a solid thump. The ride was rough; every imperfection and dip in the snow and ice came through as a hard bounce and jitter, but he was moving. Odd’s layout spread before his mind’s eye. Jed’s ice-fishing house was off to his right at about one o’clock. Best to give it a wide berth, bank left, head for the jink.
Something flickered, liquid and orange, and his eyes flicked right. The cabin was a torch. Huge flames boiled from the shattered picture window and splashed over the eaves. Inside that front room, the fire, bright as lava, streamed up the walls and over the ceiling. Even at this distance, he saw the moment a propane tank went, because the fire hitched, pulled back in an ice-blue gasp. The fireball exploded into the night with so much force he heard the boom over the sled’s roar.
He was so stunned that he didn’t realize he was slowing until the engine guttered. Too late, he dropped his boot again, but the Spitfire was already sliding to a halt. In the sudden silence, he caught a shrill sputter, like the scream of a buzz saw.
Jed’s snowmobile.
Come on! He jabbed the ignition, but the engine had flooded and all he got was a click and a whir and a whole lot of nothing. Heart pounding, he forced himself to wait for it . . . wait for it . . . then cranked the engine again. This time, he was rewarded with a bellow. The wind sled lurched and began to pick up speed.
He shot a look over his shoulder. The single eye of the snowmobile’s headlight was steady. They weren’t moving. Why not? Then he saw the lake spread beneath him in a shimmery silver carpet. Reflection. They were lighting him up so they could—
He felt something—big, huge—rush for him. Startled, he faced front just in time to see Jed’s icehouse and his own shadow suddenly leap out of the gloom. Gasping, he wrenched the wheel, banked left. The camper swept by in a dizzying swirl as the sled fishtailed, dumped air, slowed down. There was a hard bang as the Spitfire’s berglass hull slapped and bounced off the camper’s wood runners. Then, a bright spark danced at the corner of his right eye. A split second later, there was a sharp ting as the bullet smashed sheet metal.
Now he knew why they’d stayed on shore. The icehouse’s metal shell reflected light just like the snow. Four hundred yards and change, with a scoped rifle, was nothing.
Go, go! Hammering the accelerator, he spun the wind sled into a wide, drunken port turn. The Spitfire yawed. Behind, he felt the dog scrambling to keep its balance, but they were moving now, gaining speed, heading for the jink, fine rooster tails of ice and snow dusting to a billowing cloud.
He knew what they would do now. The snowmobile was old but much more powerful and faster. All he had was a head start. He could hear nothing above the engine roar now, not the scream of the Spitfire or even the wind. Speed turned the cold air into a scythe that sliced at his exposed flesh. He was blasting across the lake, flying blind, going on memory, relying on luck. As the Spitfire took the jink, he threw a glance over his shoulder and saw the night blue and then brighten as the snowmobile’s light lanced through the dark in a tight, neat arc.