The wind howled, a manic ambiance that dulled the mind, the eighth day of the storm. The earthlings huddled helplessly in their shelter, a ragged collection of refugees. Some played cards in the smoky light. Others slept. Unreliable daylight leaked through the apex of the peaked roof, where the sheet metal flue penetrated the logs. The wind-battered metal rattled insanely, and snowmelt dripped and hissed down its length. A musty odor eclipsed all sensations, and sneezes punctuated the whistling draughts more frequently than did civilized conversation.

Shannon checked his watch. "c.r.a.p! They've been out over twenty minutes. Chastain, you and Gordon get your gear on! I'm out!" Shannon threw down good cards and stood.

"Cry baby!" Fenstermacher said, dealing. "Marine's can't play poker."

Lee giggled, a lonely sound.

Shannon ignored them and grabbed his hat and coat, while Chastain and Gordon retrieved weapons from the stacked arms in the cold corner.

"Problem, Sergeant?" Quinn coughed from the warmest corner. Dark circles surrounded sunken eyes. He had lost too much weight.

"Tatum' s overdue, Commander," Shannon replied. "Better find out why."

"Right, huh...good idea, Sergeant," Quinn replied listlessly.

Goldberg looked up anxiously at Tatum' s name, a hand on her grossly distended abdomen.

Walking in a crouch, Shannon stepped over the sitting and reclining humans, moving from the warmer area near the fire to the uncomfortably cold area adjacent the door. A gutted marmot, dripping blood, hung from the rafters near the door, slowly thawing. Seeing what was about to happen, the occupants groaned and pulled their sleeping bags higher. Shannon flipped his hood up, zipped his coat over his chin, and pulled on his gloves. Chastain and Gordon helped move the heavy door inward far enough for them to squeeze through. Wind swirled, blasting through the open door, sprinkling the interior with fine crystals. The men used their feet and free hands to move snow, packing a ramp to the elevated surface. Shannon trudged into the drifts and found the guide rope leading downhill. Rising snow had almost covered it.

Shannon followed the rope, breaking his own rule by not belaying to another person. Gordon and Chastain followed in his wake. If Tatum was wasting time in the other shelter, he was going to get a supreme a.s.s-chewing for bringing them out in the blizzard. The sergeant plowed around the corner of the cabin and saw the body slumped in the lee, a dusting of snow covering the corporal's face and clothes. Shannon grabbed the Marine and shook him violently. He looked into the injured man's face. Tatum's eyes opened, blinked once, and slowly shut.

"Get him inside!" Shannon yelled, lifting Tatum's right arm over his neck and pulling him toward the sleep shelter. He noticed the safety line trailing away and felt the invisible leaden weight at its end. Growling noises separated from the insane howl of the wind.

Explosions! Rifles firing on full automatic spat bullets past his head. Deafened, Shannon fell face down in the snow. As he lay, stunned, something heavy struck him bluntly in the back-an animal, a heavy animal! For an instant it stood, and then it pivoted sharply, footpads and claws seeking purchase on his coat, and was gone. Shannon struggled to his knees; he was drowning in the yielding, frigid whiteness. Gordon and Chastain continued a sporadic fire. Shannon heaved upright, ears ringing painfully, to find three steaming carca.s.ses within arm's reach, their thick white fur splotched with livid streaks. One shuddering heap rose on powerful forelegs, materializing into a prognathous-jawed, saber-toothed horror. Gordon fired a single shot, knocking the yellow-eyed demon's head sharply backwards. It was still. Rifles firing on full automatic spat bullets past his head. Deafened, Shannon fell face down in the snow. As he lay, stunned, something heavy struck him bluntly in the back-an animal, a heavy animal! For an instant it stood, and then it pivoted sharply, footpads and claws seeking purchase on his coat, and was gone. Shannon struggled to his knees; he was drowning in the yielding, frigid whiteness. Gordon and Chastain continued a sporadic fire. Shannon heaved upright, ears ringing painfully, to find three steaming carca.s.ses within arm's reach, their thick white fur splotched with livid streaks. One shuddering heap rose on powerful forelegs, materializing into a prognathous-jawed, saber-toothed horror. Gordon fired a single shot, knocking the yellow-eyed demon's head sharply backwards. It was still.

The door to the near shelter sucked inward and MacArthur scrambled through the drifts, rifle poised threateningly, eyes wild. He was hatless, coatless, and bootless, his hair bedraggled, his bearded face imprinted with the indentations and lines of a makeshift pillow. MacArthur registered on Shannon dragging Tatum through the snow. His mouth fell open, but his eyes lingered for only an instant. He scanned the white nothingness of the howling blizzard. A shouting crowd followed MacArthur through the narrow exit, rifle barrels slicing the air.

"Get him inside!" Shannon shouted, taking his knife and cutting through the line around Tatum' s waist. He handed the rope to Chastain. "Rennault' s on the other end."

"What the h.e.l.l?" Gordon shouted. "What are they?" "Nightmares," Shannon gasped. "G.o.ddam frigging nightmares."

"Bring him over here," ordered a disheveled Buccari from the door of the shelter. She and Dawson hurriedly cleared a s.p.a.ce by the fire. "Gordon, get more wood. Boats, get Lee and her first aid kit-fast!" Shannon laid Tatum on the ground next to the stove and headed for the door. He still felt the claws on his back, and his ears still echoed with neck-chilling growls.

Buccari stared at the bleeding Marine. With Dawson' s help she stripped off his coat. Arterial bleeding increased as he warmed, a pumping fountain of life. Buccari pinched the pressure point under his arm. Tatum moaned-a good sign.

"Need help?" It was MacArthur, shivering, his sock-covered feet soaking wet.

"Take care of yourself first," Buccari replied. "You look like h.e.l.l."

"How is he?" MacArthur asked, ignoring her.

"His arm's hamburger and he's bleeding to death," Buccari said, her stomach fluttering. "We need to get the tourniquet on."

"Let me," MacArthur mumbled. "Hold the pressure." He knelt, opened the loop of the sling, and ran it up Tatum' s arm just short of Buccari's hold on the pressure point.

"Okay, Nance, grab his shoulder and squeeze hard," he ordered. "Tighter! I want white knuckles." Satisfied with Dawson' s grip, he pushed Buccari's hands away, briefly inspected the muscular arm, and slid the looped sling as high up as he could, snugging it under the armpit. Blood pulsed freely.

"Hold him down," MacArthur said. "Nance, lean on him."

MacArthur stood, holding the free end of the strap, and put a wet foot on Tatum' s mangled arm. Grunting, he pulled with all his might. The bleeding dribbled to a stop.

"Cover him," MacArthur said. "Keep him warm."

"They find Rennault?" Buccari asked. Blood covered her hands.

"Yeah," he replied, shivering. "Most of him. They put him in the meat house." He walked over to his sleeping bag.

The door opened with a snowy blast and Lee tumbled in. Chastain plodded behind her, carrying the medical kit. Shannon followed both of them. Lee walked unsteadily to the injured Marine and took a long look at the arm, testing the tourniquet.

"s.h.i.t!" she said, shaking her head. "Has he been conscious?" "Barely," Buccari answered, wiping away gore.

"s.h.i.t!" Lee shouted and turned to Chastain. "Put it down." Chastain, pathetically frightened, set the equipment down as if it would explode.

Shannon moved into the circle of light, staring at the b.l.o.o.d.y mess. "Jocko! Get Jones!" he snapped. "We'll need the horses."

Buccari felt her stomach leap. She took an unconscious step backward.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Lee whispered between clinched teeth. She rummaged in the equipment and came out with a syringe. She broke the seal, armed it, and shoved the needle into Tatum' s shoulder. "Hope this stuff is still good. Get a larger fire going and boil water. Sarge, we'll have to cauterize the wound. See if you can find a piece of flat metal we can heat to red hot-a big knife, or one of Chief Wilson's frying pans."

Lee pulled a bone saw from her bag and looked at it with loathing.

"I'll need help," she said. The medic glanced around the circle of people and stopped when she came to Buccari. Buccari understood why: she was the senior officer-the leader. She was supposed to take charge, but all she could feel was revulsion and panic.

MacArthur, in dry clothes, shouldered through the ring of spectators and took the vicious saw. "Ready when you are, Les."

They started. Tatum refused to lose consciousness, remaining lucid despite the drugs. Lee gave orders while Chastain, Jones, and Shannon struggled to restrain the injured man's frantic spasms. Dawson hugged Tatum's head, blocking his vision while MacArthur, pale-faced and grim, maneuvered the saw over the tortured limb. Buccari, her resolve sh.o.r.ed by MacArthur's determination, stood close by, holding a frying pan in the roaring fire, perspiration rolling down her face and neck. Tatum' s screams drowned out the wet, rasping noises of the bone saw. The ravaged arm fell away, and Lee washed the spongy stump with antiseptic. Buccari, using rags to insulate the heat, pressed the glowing-hot frying pan to the pulpy end of the traumatized limb. Tatum, biting on a rag, screamed twice and mercifully pa.s.sed out. The sickly smell of cooking flesh permeated the confined shelter.

The storm stopped two days later. Bright, heatless rays of morning sun found the c.h.i.n.ks and gaps in the rafters of the shelters, inducing the hapless occupants still asleep to awaken and to look once again upon a world with horizons. The dawn air, dense and transparent, revealed a host of morning stars twinkling thinly overhead, displaying their arrogance, daring to be visible during the light of day.

Cold! So cold! Faces covered and hands gloved, the earthlings struggled upward, throwing back the snowy blanket of an alien winter. Of their shelters, only the peaked ridge beams protruded into the new day. The thin forest was reduced to a field of pygmy trees, drifted in virgin powder. Standing close to their shelters, the humans looked anxiously across the shrouded lake, vaporous breaths freezing in the air. Snow chirped under their footfalls, and every whisper, every sound, flew fast and far in the iron-hard air. In the distance, connected to camp by a trail of snowshoe prints, two hikers made slow progress. Avoiding the smooth craters that identified the hot springs, they plowed across the bowl of the lake, trudging in velvet shadows, growing smaller all the while.

"Couldn't stop her, Gunner," Shannon said. "Didn't want to. We can't just hide in our shelters. Those things aren't going to go away."

"You could've sent a couple more men," Wilson admonished.

"Those two can move as fast as anyone," Shannon responded. "Sending more men would only have slowed them down. The nightmares won't be a problem as long as the visibility's good. They've got plenty of ammo."

Ammunition. Shannon thought grimly about the limited supply. He worried as he turned and scanned the softly mounded terrain. The blanket of snow eradicated the sharp edges of their rock-tumbled world, and it worked to soothe his anxieties. His vision slipped outward, over the muted ridges and foothills to the awesome and lofty granite giants; the snows could not dampen the sharpness of those spires. Low rays from the rising sun gave the alpine vista a wash of colors from soft gold to brilliant alabaster, presenting the hard lines of precipitous terrain in emphatic relief. Shannon felt a reverence, a sense of awe. Shannon thought grimly about the limited supply. He worried as he turned and scanned the softly mounded terrain. The blanket of snow eradicated the sharp edges of their rock-tumbled world, and it worked to soothe his anxieties. His vision slipped outward, over the muted ridges and foothills to the awesome and lofty granite giants; the snows could not dampen the sharpness of those spires. Low rays from the rising sun gave the alpine vista a wash of colors from soft gold to brilliant alabaster, presenting the hard lines of precipitous terrain in emphatic relief. Shannon felt a reverence, a sense of awe.

"What did Commander Quinn say?" Wilson persisted.

"He's out of his head," the sergeant replied. "For dinner, if you cook up any of those furry devils, don't grab Rennault by mistake."

"Not funny," Wilson retorted. The men stomped their booted feet for warmth. Both carried rifles.

"Let's check out the lake," Shannon said. "Maybe we can still fish."

"How's Tatum?" Wilson asked, content to trudge in Shannon's wake.

"The dumb grunt doesn't know how to complain," Shannon replied. "How's Goldberg?"

"Real good," Wilson said. "I thought Tatum going down would do her in, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. She's gotten tougher."

"She's going to have be d.a.m.n tough to bring a baby into this world."

"So's the baby," Wilson sighed.

They struggled through the snow for several minutes without speaking.

"Nance is pregnant, too," Shannon said at last.

Wilson looked at him. "You ever have kids before, Sarge?" "h.e.l.l, I never even owned a G.o.ddam dog."

"Think they'll take us in, Lieutenant?" MacArthur gasped.

"Don't plan on giving them a choice," Buccari huffed, adjusting the ride of her pack. The backpacks were loaded heavily with firewood. It had grown dark, and the long day's hike over loose snow had taken its toll. Buccari trudged in MacArthur's wake, ungainly in her crude snowshoes. It was painfully cold, too cold to talk.

Something moved in the gray distance.

MacArthur stopped and peered into the gloaming. The large moon, a crescent settling behind the mountains, offered little a.s.sistance.

"I saw it," she whispered, checking their rear.

"Good," MacArthur replied. "I wasn't sure how to break the news."

"Stick to the plan?" she asked.

"Yeah. Soon as it gets too dark to see we'll build a fire." "Pretty dark now," Buccari said, unshouldering the carbine. "Careful with that," MacArthur said. "You're a little too anxious."

"I am not anxious," she sniffed. "I qualified 'Expert' at the Academy."

"You ever shoot anything that moves? Or bleeds?" MacArthur asked.

She shook her head.

"c.r.a.p, it's cold," he said, turning his head.

The false light revealed only the texture of snow, and their own footprints trailing into the distance. Stars, subdued by an icy overcast, twinkled feebly overhead.

"I'll shoot first," MacArthur continued, head still turned to the rear. "This a.s.sault rifle will do a lot of damage, and there's no sense in wasting bullets. If you have to shoot, make sure you're aiming at the target. Don't just point-"

"Mac!" Buccari shouted. Yellow-fanged, mustard-eyed nightmares pounded out of the darkness, their growls rising in pitch like an approaching locomotive. MacArthur threw up his arms and ducked sideways. The first beast struck his shoulder and knocked him into the snow, unholy jaws snapping for purchase and finding nothing but backpack and wood. Buccari had no time to think-a second snarling creature was leaping straight for the bare whiteness of MacArthur' s face. Her carbine barked and the nightmare twistedin midtrajectory, landing in a convulsing, screaming pile. Other creatures scattered into the dusk.

She swung her weapon to bear on the violence at her feet. The nightmare, straddling the fallen man, ripped and tore at MacArthur's bedroll. MacArthur's rifle was still slung over his shoulder. The Marine, trying to protect his face, struggled to sit. Buccari staggered to find a safe line of fire. With explosive abruptness muzzle flashes lit up the dusk as three gut-m.u.f.fled reports from MacArthur's pistol rent the air. The animal jerked violently and slumped to the snow, its whiplike tail slapping a pattern in the snow. And then it was still.

MacArthur shed his pack and crawled, trembling, to a crouch, a.s.sault rifle in one hand, a smoking pistol in the other. He pounced on Buccari's still thrashing nightmare, slamming his rifle b.u.t.t on its skull. Bloodcurdling growls whimpered to silence.

"You okay?" she panted, wrenching her eyes from the saber-toothed monster at her feet. It was dark. All she could see was his silhouette.

"Yeah. Just.. .some scratches. Time to build that fire."

"Sentries have heard the sound of long-legs' death sticks," Craag reported.

Braan nodded thoughtfully. The two warriors stood in the outermost chamber of the hunter leader's residence. Brappa-theyoung-warrior, grown taller and backlit by the hearth's golden glow, stood in the tunnel pa.s.sage leading to the main living area, listening to the news. Soft noises of mother and child came from within.

"What dost thou make of it, my friend?" Braan asked.

"Growlers are about. 'Tis likely a patrol of long-legs makes their way to us, and they have been beset by hungry beasts," Craag answered.

"Can we not help?" Brappa asked impetuously, and insubordinately.

Braan excused himself and turned gently to his son.

"Brappa-the-young-warrior," Braan said. "Dost thou not have enough to think about with thy wedding on the morrow? Spare thy courage for the ultimate test. Leave this trivial matter to old hunters."

"Eeyah! Young warrior!" Craag added. "Gliss, thy mistress to be, my young sister, is fair and strong. Growlers are as playthings by comparison. Thou must save thine energy and wiles if thou art to be the master of thy residence. Marriage and mortal combat are as first cousins." Young warrior!" Craag added. "Gliss, thy mistress to be, my young sister, is fair and strong. Growlers are as playthings by comparison. Thou must save thine energy and wiles if thou art to be the master of thy residence. Marriage and mortal combat are as first cousins."

A derisive hoot emanated from the direction of the fire's glow where Ki-the-mother sat by the hearth. It was a time of felicity in the house of Braan and universally for all hunters of the cliff colony. Winter was for marriage and mating. The ferocity of cold storms kept the tough animals near home. The young hunters, the sentries, still posted the cliff edges, ever vigilant for encroaching enemies, but the mature hunters found themselves idle. With the scars and injuries of the summer campaigns behind them, well fed and of welling energies, the experienced warriors directed their attentions inwardly, to their families. It was a time for training, for teaching, for telling, and for touching.

"Apologies, my father, and my brother-to-be," returned the chagrined young cliff dweller. "I have intruded where I belong not. I apologize for the directness but not for the essence of my question. The long-legs took care of me in my need. Is there not something we can do to help?"

"A fair question, and from the heart, but for now we must wait. It is too cold. We cannot fight in the open under these conditions. Permit us to finish our discussion."

"Sarge! I heard gunshots," Gordon shouted as he came through the door of the dayroom shelter, bringing with him a wave of frigid air.

Shannon glanced up from his meager and greasy dinner and looked over at Chief Wilson. Wilson shook his head, keeping his eyes on his plate.

"How many, Billy?" Shannon asked.

"A couple-maybe three or four," he responded. "Way out. You could barely hear 'em. You know how sound carries in this cold air. Beppo heard 'em, too."

Shannon stared past the sentry's shoulder. There was nothing to do.

"Mac's just taking target practice. Let me know if you hear more."

"You're bleeding," Buccari said as she kindled a small fire. It flared, its amber flames revealing a ragged gash down the corporal's cheek.