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"Tadpoles eat algae," Mary A
Zack said, "Ugh." He saw it already.
Sylvia nodded agreement. "The frogs lay eggs. The eggs hatch into little tadpoles. The tadpoles eat pond scum until they're big tadpoles. Then the adults eat big tadpoles. It's enough. And the big tadpoles that are agile enough or wary enough, they become adults—"
"You are talking about samlon, aren't you?"
"That's it, Zack. Samlon are tadpoles. Grendels are frogs. There's no way we could have known at the time, but we took the adults out of the picture, so there are a lot more samlon than there should be. And it's spring. And the samlon are getting big."
Zack felt numb. "What have we done? Sylvia? Do you know? Can there be any way to tell?"
"Not right now, but, Zack—" Sylvia spread her hands helplessly "—better late than never."
Hendrick floated halfway up into consciousness. Something was pressing against his stomach: Boogie Boy, a warm, soft roll that gave a growl that was almost a purr. The German shepherd's tail thumped against the ground a few times, then it settled down to sleep.
"This isn't just guesswork," Sylvia said, finally winding down. "We know samlon are related to grendels. Remember when Cadma
"Jesus," Zack said. "And we didn't believe—" "Yes," Mary A
"And it took us this long to put it together," Sylvia finished.
"Yeah." Zack rubbed his eyes. "Thanks, darling." He took a refill of steaming coffee from Rachel and sipped. "Okay. Let's sort this out—"
Halfway to the kitchen, Rachel froze in midstep. "Zack?" She set the coffee tray down as if it were a soap bubble. "Hendrick."
"What about--?" It hit him too suddenly, and he almost dropped his cup. "Hendrick went fishing. We'd better get to the com shack. Sylvia, thanks for a lovely evening."
Hendrick awoke suddenly, the fringes of a nightmare crumbling in his mind. Something was wrong. He reached out a hand for Boogie, and felt only the cool grass, pressed down where Boogie's body had been, and warmer there.
He heard the dog whine: a questioning, curious sound. As Hendrick sat up the whine rose into a pair of sharp yips, and then a growl.
What the hell?
Hendrick reached out for the explosive-tipped spear gun by his head.
Ding dong, the monsters are dead! But mother hadn't raised any brain-damaged children, and Hendrick wasn't taking chances.
"Boogie?"
He pulled on his pants. Boogie suddenly appeared through the bushes and barked urgently at Hendrick, then disappeared again.
The barks abruptly became a ghastly shriek of pain, and Hendrick froze.
The moons were low and weak on the horizon. The mist wreathed the plants and twisted trees like clouds run aground. His handlamp barely pierced it.
Something was killing his dog. Following a response so basic it overrode his common sense, Hendrick took two nervous steps toward the brush. And then another...
The radio aboard Skeeter Four began to shriek.
Boogie...
Hendrick ran for the Skeeter. Leaves crackled behind him, and he glanced back as he ran.
Bits of the blackness streaked toward him. He batted blindly with the harpoon gun. The tip hit something resilient.
His leg flamed with sudden pain. He stomped back, heel crushing into something dog-sized. It hissed.
Hendrick was horribly aware that he was ru
Hendrick looped one of the seat belts through the door handle, tied it shut. It would have to do. He forced himself to get off the deck and into the pilot seat. His leg was a bright sear of pain yammering for attention. It felt like a pit bull had taken a chunk out of it. Blood soaked through his tattered trousers and chamois shirt. He shut his eyes tightly and let his hand move gently downward. His fingers probed the wound: flaring pain, and a hole the size of a good-sized filet mignon.
The radio's squawk drilled through the pain. He struggled up and grabbed the handpiece, thumbed the transmit button and screamed, "God, my leg! Oh, shit. Something's out there killing my dog!"
The voice was Zack's. "Get out of there. Leave the dog."
"Damn straight!" Curiosity fought panic and pain. "What in hell is it?"
"Sylvia's trying to tell us that all the samlon are turning into grendels!"
Hendrick laughed hysterically. Something thumped against the door again and again, shaking the Skeeter. "She's damned right! Tell her her timing is for shit. Oh, Mother, it hurts."
"You're wounded? Can you fly? We'll send out a Skeeter—"
"No way I'm waiting. I can tourniquet my leg for the twenty minutes
I'll need. Just have someone waiting to stitch me up."
Hendrick fumbled until he found the Skeeter's first-aid pack and pulled out the elastic tourniquet. The Skeeter juddered again, and the thin metal door bent inward.
He exhaled harshly and belted his calf tightly just above the wound.
He flexed it once to test. "This will just have to do."
He started the motor turning, reached for the throttle, paused. Was he actually about to take off in the dark? Stupid. Muzzy thoughts. He turned on the lights.
Where he had piled the camp supplies, now dark shapes flashed in and out of a confetti storm of shredded plastic. Nothing was left whole. Half a dozen of the monsters must be batting at his door—he could hear them, feel the impact in his bones—but ten times that many were tearing into his supplies and each other. A knot of thrashing shapes suddenly separated, leaving shreds of Hendrick's self-inflating mattress.
The Skeeter shuddered once more before Hendrick got it into the air. Below him a circle of light expanded and dimmed. Somewhere out there, Boogie was being torn to pieces. "I'm sorry, boy," he whispered. "You probably saved my life."
The lights were only fogging his vision now. He turned them off. That wasn't so good either. It was dark down there. By compass he tilled the Skeeter north, toward the Colony. Some of the darkness was in his eyes.
Dark: the moons were down, the land was hidden. His thoughts wandered. Should he have taken off? Could he have stayed on the ground with unseen monsters batting at the thin metal hull?
Things batted at the hull; the Skeeter rang with the blows, and Hendrick screamed. There was texture in the dark. He'd fallen asleep, or fainted. Vertical spokes were tearing the rotor apart, smacking at the cabin walls.