McFaul stumbled onto the lawn along with a mass of panicked media people, everyone scrambling madly to get away from the inferno. The huge wooden structure had gone up like a tinderbox, engulfed in flames so fast it almost felt like a bomb had gone off. There had been no sprinkler system going on, no firefighting effort, nothing. It had been crazy how fast the flames burst out of the elevator shafts, punching down the doors. It had been everyone for themselves, crews dropping their cameras and mics and whatever and running for the exits, the terrible screams as the flames boiled across the room, engulfing people.
He crossed the lawn, half running, half stumbling, feeling the heat of the conflagration on his back. He had to get far enough away from the fire to be safe. The lawn ended at a low stone wall, beyond which ran a lush meadow that sloped down toward the lake, framed on either side by groves of aspen trees. McFaul staggered to the wall and rested on it for a moment, coughing and spitting. He stank, and his lungs felt raw from breathing in the searing smoke. A few other media people had collapsed on the wall. And here came a stocky figure in a suit, lumbering and swaying. He recognized the white beard, the red face. Gunnerson.
The man sat heavily on the wall and put his face into his hands.
McFaul looked back at the lodge. It had become an inferno, a column of fire boiling a thousand feet into the evening sky. He could feel the heat on his face, and he was racked with another cough. The heat was intense—he had to move farther away. Others around him were doing the same. He rose unsteadily to his feet and climbed over the wall and walked through the long meadow grass toward a stand of aspen trees. Past it, he could see the lake, now vacant. The animals had all fled.
“Hey, McFaul! Hey!”
It was the billionaire, Gunnerson.
McFaul tried to quicken his stumbling walk, but Gunnerson fell in beside him.
“What the fuck happened?”
McFaul didn’t answer.
“Hey, you know who I am? Talk to me,” the man bellowed.
“The crazies got their hands on dynamite,” said McFaul, still walking. “Stole it from the movie set.”
“That was the explosion?”
McFaul nodded.
“And the fire? Did the crazies start the fire too?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Erebus security was supposed to be guarding the lodge. That wasn’t our responsibility. The security just … disappeared.”
Gunnerson shook his shaggy head. “Fucking incompetents. They killed my son.”
McFaul coughed again. He just wanted to get away, lie down, and curl up. They were almost in the grove of aspens. The rest of the media corps had dispersed over the meadow, away from the fire, shellshocked, some sitting or lying down, waiting to be rescued.
“Where’s the cavalry?” Gunnerson asked. “I mean, when are we gonna get some help here?”
“All the comms went down with the explosion,” said McFaul. “I can’t get in touch with anyone. But I’m sure they’re scrambling a response. I’m sure we’re going to see some action soon.”
They reached the grove. McFaul walked into it, intent on getting somewhere in the middle, somewhere dark and anonymous, far away from everything. Gunnerson followed, much to his dismay. McFaul found a spot and eased himself down on a fallen tree trunk and put his head in his hands. His mind seemed to have stopped working.
“What about the CBI?” asked Gunnerson. “What about Cash? What are you fuckers doing?”
“I don’t know,” McFaul said, speaking through his fingers. He thought of Cash and Romanski up at the mine. God knows what was going on up there. He lifted his head. Through the trees, he could see the fire still raging, bathing the surrounding area in a malevolent glow and casting bloody reflections over the water of the lake. As he stared, he saw something moving cautiously along the far shore of the lake—two small figures.
“You see the people down there?” Gunnerson asked.
McFaul shook his head and didn’t answer. He really didn’t give a damn now. He felt numb.
“Where’d they come from?”
“We had a report,” said McFaul wearily, “of some media people sneaking out of the lodge to film the animals.” He glanced up at the sky. The stars, just starting to come out, were almost washed out by the orange glow of the fire. There was a muffled sound then a sudden roar; he watched with incredulity as the roof of the lodge buckled and collapsed inward with an enormous rumble, sending up a trillion sparks that danced and whirled upward as if to replace the stars themselves.
Through the slender trees, he could see the two people down by the lake coming around the shore and heading up toward the meadow where most of the refugees from the lodge were waiting. There was something odd about those figures; they were moving cautiously and, it seemed, almost furtively. As the two figures got closer, they became more visible in the glow of the fire, and McFaul could now see they were wearing masks and what looked like bodysuits.
“Jesus, they’re two crazies!” Gunnerson said loudly. “They’re two—”
“Quiet,” McFaul said, crouching. He watched as the figures moved swiftly across the field toward several refugees from the fire, who were huddled together in the meadow about two hundred yards away, waiting to be rescued.
“You have a sidearm, right?” whispered Gunnerson.
McFaul ignored the question.
“Give me your gun,” Gunnerson said.
McFaul shook his head. He didn’t have the energy to engage further with this son of a bitch.
“Hey, you listening?”
“No.” McFaul shook his head. “No.”
McFaul’s eyes remained fixed on the two figures, now approaching a seated group of people. The people, unaware of the approach until the last moment, sprang up and backed away, but the two figures rushed them. There was a brief struggle and several piercing screams, abruptly cut off into silence. Others waiting in the field saw what had happened and broke into a panicked flight, running every which way, while the figures, silhouetted against the fire, hunched over their struggling victims, and then one of the figures abruptly stood up, holding aloft a round, dripping object by its hair, and letting loose a cry of triumph.
“Get down,” whispered McFaul. “Lie flat. Hide.”
He quickly lay flat on the leaf-strewn forest floor, face up. In a flash, Gunnerson was down beside him, his breathing heavy, breath laden with whiskey. Slowly, McFaul eased his sidearm from its holster and placed it on the ground next to him. He could hear, in the meadow beyond, more commotion and screaming and the thudding sound of feet. Don’t come in here, he prayed. Please, God, don’t let them come in here.
“Cover yourself,” he whispered to Gunnerson. And slowly, trying not to make any noise, he began raking leaves up and around him with his hands, covering his body. He heard the billionaire next to him doing the same. After a minute, he was sufficiently covered, and he rested his hand once again on the cold, reassuring steel of the 9 mm at his side. Staring straight up into the dim crowns of the trees above him, licked in red from the fire, he told himself they were well hidden in the shadowy grove, lying among fallen trees where they’d be almost impossible to spot. Surely they would not be found.
“I want your gun,” whispered the hoarse voice of Gunnerson in McFaul’s ear.