Terror on the Tundra: Terror Series, #1

By J.Esker Miller

Jim Miller, writing as J. Esker Miller, has five previous thrillers that cover diverse but exciting times. But it was Alaska, the northernmost fringe of civilization, that intrigued him most of all. After years of flying over the desolate landscape and hearing the stories of the people there, he imagined a remote island, a desolate, hostile place where evolution was free to create unique creatures. And so, a single pair of shipwrecked Viking war dogs evolved into terrifying Apex Predators that ravaged the island unchallenged. Eventually, the breakup of Arctic ice floated a few of the beasts to the North Slope of Alaska. There, they faced the valiant townspeople of Chintikook Village. Along with a boyish paleontologist and the local schoolteacher, the humans teamed up to battle the attacking creatures they called Super Wolves.
It's an adventure that pits the fangs and claws of giant devil dogs against the wits and bravery of a small group of townspeople who don't know how to give up despite impossible odds. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hydra Publications
• Release date: Dec 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393205906

Book preview

January 23, Alaska North Slope

Wind is the voice of the earth. Joe Ukiak stood up straight on the seemingly endless ice shelf and pulled back his hood to take in the sounds. He was no wiser than many others, but he understood the wind better. His people called the wind Sila, and she told of approaching storms, of animal scents and of the distant groaning and cracking of ice that might bring good fishing or possible breakup and disaster .

Sila had spoken and he understood that it was time to pull in his lines. He had been fishing through an aglu, a seal’s air hole, and the fishing had been good. But now, hard weather was coming and, in this strange land where everything depended on light, the afternoon twilight was fading quickly. He had a long way to travel and he wanted at least some light to navigate.

Once he had known this place by memory, but summer melting and rising water levels were changing the barren desert landscape now hidden under broken ice that jammed together into monumental slabs. Everything was changing. Just ten years ago, the government had moved his village to keep it from falling into the ocean. Now, every year, the shoreline changed, the land changed. Only the sky was constant.

It was time to go. He had a good catch of Arctic Cod already strapped to his snow machine. No reason to push his luck at an air hole he often shared with Polar Bears. Joe always kept his rifle at the ready but today there had been no bears. In fact, there had been no animals at all. No birds flew, no fox or any other creature scurried. And Joe knew why. The wind told him.

Gusting and harsh, it came from the north and chased little whips of snow in uneven strings along the ground. A storm was coming, a storm that would steal the faint light he needed. This far above the Arctic Circle, the sun would still not actually break the horizon for several more days. It had been a long winter of darkness since the last sunset of November.

Joe was about to start his snowmobile engine when he heard a sound unlike anything he had ever heard before - and he knew every sound of this empty place. It was far away, a shriek or cry, but certainly an animal sound. It was no bear or wolf or owl. He knew those sounds as well as he knew his wife’s voice. This was an alien sound, something that did not belong.

He sat straddling his snow-mo with his hand on the throttle and waited. He listened to the wind and waited. Nothing. Perhaps his mind had played a trick. Perhaps the old ones were right about the lost spirits who wander the ice. Whatever it was unsettled Joe Ukiak enough that he started his engine and opened the throttle full, spewing snow as he sped away into a fantastic world of wind-sculptured ice painted in pale grays, purples and deepening black velvet shadows.

Clouds moved over the sky like a blanket pulled up on a cold night. The darkness deepened and he turned on his single headlight. He didn’t like to use it. The bouncing, narrow cone of brightness destroyed his night vision. Everything outside the cone was invisible once his eyes adjusted to the glare. But no matter, he would find the way. He had lived his whole life here on the North Slope. Long before the oil companies came; long before the Native Corporation was formed; long before the monthly checks started rolling in, Joe had traveled the paths, fished the ice holes, lived the life.

Sure, he had satellite TV, a DVD and a microwave oven, but that was just for convenience. In his heart, he was still Inupiat. Called an Eskimo by outsiders, he was a man of the land, a man of his people, a man of the Great North. His fishing was hardly a matter of subsistence although it was covered by subsistence laws that allowed native peoples special rights.

For Joe, now approaching the age of sixty, it was important to live off the land - at least partially. Certainly, things had changed in the way he fished. Now he used a shiny snow mobile to pull his tackle box on a ski trailer. Now, he used stainless steel, multi-prong hooks and nylon filament line. After all, it would be foolish not to take advantage of technology. But, it was still fishing. Man and fish were unchanged. The weather, the cold, the very ice itself were unchanged from times long past.

The snowmobile’s engine whined as he gunned it over a small ridge line leaving a rooster tail of snow. He whizzed through the small drifts and banged over the top of larger ones. Joe bounced, going much faster than he really should in the dark, but why not? This was his land, his path. Every inch, every dip, every rise belonged to him. He knew it by heart – at least, he used to. The wind cut deep, as it always did, but he didn’t mind and he didn’t slow. He was anxious to get home. His wife would have a warm soup on the stove and it would be a good night for TV. His life had settled into a comfortable routine and everything about it seemed right.

Joe sang a made-up song, a happy song. Who cares what words he picked, there was no one to hear. He sang and rocked his shoulders in time to his little tune while paying no mind to the jarring ride or the darkness. In the distance, he saw lights, crisp lights of his village. It looked peaceful in the snow, almost like a Christmas card. In the summer, his town was dirty. With irregular garbage pickup, trash just built up around the little frame houses turning them into dumps. In the winter, all that was hidden. He liked the winter.

For a millisecond, something flashed in his headlights – reflections like two yellow mirrors the size of a quarter. Joe tensed but, before he could really react, he had already smacked into whatever it was. The snowmobile bucked and tumbled. Joe was wrenched from his seat and spun. For an eternity of half a second, he hung suspended in the blackness of night. Then he slammed against the frozen ground. The impact winded him, jarred his brain. What happened?

He had hit the ground hard, as hard as he would slap a fish on the ice to kill it. But he wasn’t killed, just stunned. Slowly, his vision sharpened. He was able to breathe again. Then the pain. It was a sharp, almost electric pain in his leg, pain that shot up his spine and made him stifle a gasp. He would never cry out from pain. He was Inupiat.

The lights of the snowmobile glowed softly from the snow drift where it had buried itself. How strange, Joe thought. The engine was still running though the machine itself was lying on its side half buried. Except for the puttering engine, there was stillness. Light snowflakes disturbed by the impact drifted in the headlight.

The cold air felt as if it was being injected right into the bone of his leg. He realized he was wounded, hurt bad. His teeth began to chatter. He had to get to the village. To just lie there getting weaker, was to die. That much he knew. In the Arctic, no matter how bad you’re hurt, you don’t give up. You keep moving, always moving. He pulled himself over the snow-covered ground by walking on his elbows. Each movement of his damaged leg was like a dentist’s cold water spray onto a bare nerve.

As he inched towards the snow mobile, Joe smelled something, an unfamiliar smell like rotting meat but with an odd musky odor he couldn’t identify.

Then he heard the growl. A low, rumbling growl, too deep to be a dog or a wolf. It had to be a bear. Only one kind of bear lived this far north, a bear that hunted men, ate men. Ignoring the pain, Joe thrashed his way to the snowmobile and pulled himself upright.

He didn’t have the strength to lift the big machine. Instead, he straddled the sideways seat and opened the throttle. The drive tracks spun, digging into the soft snow to make a small blizzard. Joe didn’t realize that spray saved his life allowing precious seconds to escape.

His snow-mo skidded along, dragging him for several yards before it flipped upright. Somehow, he managed to hang on but pain shrieked through his body. He settled into the seat and accelerated towards the lights of his village. His damaged leg bobbled alongside as Joe fought desperately to stay conscious, to stay alive. He had to make it to the village.

The beast sat on its haunches and watched the snow mobile crest a small rise. The scream of its engine faded and silence returned to the tundra. The only sound was the wind.

It surveyed the village as it chewed. There were many lights. Perhaps there would be more fish there - perhaps more humans. The beast was satisfied for the moment, but it would need to feed again. With a great blast of steaming breath, it turned and padded off into the blackness leaving a trail of footprints, each the size of a small frying pan.

Marge

Marjorie Jane Clemons came to Alaska on an oil company contract expecting to be an elementary school teaching assistant. Back in Wisconsin, she had completed her associate’s degree in childhood education but then been unable to find a job. She worked part-time as an Emergency Medical Technician but that didn’t pay enough. At a job conference, a traveling recruiter was happy to hire her - or anyone willing to relocate and teach in a remote native village above the Arctic Circle .

That was two years ago. She remembered clearly the day she arrived in Chintikook to discover she wasn’t going to be just a teaching assistant. The previous teacher had quit. The previous assistant had quit. Marge was all alone, in charge of an all-grades school. Preschool to junior high, she was it: teacher, counselor, administrator, janitor and social worker. She did find help from Ruby, a local lady, and between them they ran a tight ship. She loved it, loved her kids and their parents and even her new home on the North Slope. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she really belonged somewhere. She loved that feeling.

She did not love Henry Koch. The native corporation administrator was a surly New Jersey expatriate who seemed to dislike pretty much everyone and everything. Luckily, the citizens of the town were easy going and accepting of both their youthful teacher and their reprobate corporate manager.

Marge was just tidying up her classroom when Henry barged in. He was a round man with a wire-brush mustache and a personality to match. He dressed like an outdoorsman but, with his glasses, balding head and thick paunch, it was not convincing. He was panting from exertion after plodding through deep snow, some of which had accumulated on his ridiculous international orange parka.

Henry tried to catch his breath and leaned a gloved hand on the chrome and vinyl tabletop. It took three deep gasps before he could speak. Marge…Marge… did I remember correctly that you are a trained EMT?

She gave him a face. Henry, you know I am. I put a couple of stitches in your elbow after that hunting accident. Don’t you remember?

He puffed. Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that we have a real medical emergency. Joe Ukiak just came in, and he’s really hurt bad. Do you think you can help?

She straightened and tried to look professional. Yes, I will certainly try but if it’s serious, you need to call a medical team from Dead Horse or Barrow.

Henry was still wheezing. I tried, but they won’t be able to get here till tomorrow – if then. The Air Force is sending a C-130 airplane to evacuate Joe, but it won’t be here for hours. He’s hurt real bad. Please come with me.

Marge clasped her hands and thought. She was a prim young woman with a face as sweet as a choir girl, but two years in the Arctic had hardened her considerably. I’ll get my bag.

Going anywhere in Chintikook’s January weather required several minutes to don gear. Marge rushed, but you can’t overlook any item in a sub-zero climate. Lose a glove – lose a hand, they said. She had gloves - layered gloves. She also had mukluks, insulated coveralls, a lined parka, ski mask and scarves. Once done up like a toddler in a snow suit, she was ready to stomp out into three feet of crusted snow lugging what looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s satchel.

It was no more than two hundred yards from the school to the combination city hall and fire station but it was unplowed. Drifts could be waist-high and every step created a post hole. It was exhausting.

Once inside the warm building, she stamped her feet and peeled off her winter clothes. Okay, where is he? She sounded upbeat. Joe’s wife came to her looking anything but.

Marge, the old woman said softly, a bear got him. It don’t look good. She took Marge by the hand and led her to a well-lit room where Joe lay still on a table covered by a bloody sheet. Henry pulled the sheet back and Marge fought the urge to gasp. She needed to be calm for the others.

She opened her satchel, donned latex gloves and spoke with an authority that surprised everyone including her. Call the Fairbanks Emergency Medical Center and set up a video Telementor conference with a surgeon. Do it quickly. Joe is still losing blood.

She bent over and inspected the bite. A chunk of his right thigh muscle was gone. The cold had probably saved him by constricting blood flow, but he was warm now and losing too much, too fast. She rummaged in her bag, found a set of clamps and pinched off the artery. Then she began cleaning the wound.

Henry sat a monitor in front of her and adjusted a camera. After a noisy squeal and some static, an image appeared. It was a dark-haired young man in a white coat and black-rimmed glasses. He looked intense. This is Doctor Eric Kleiderman. Please step out of the way to let me see the wound. Who will be working with me, and what are your qualifications?

She spoke louder than necessary. You can call me Marge. I was trained as an EMT back in Wisconsin, but I really have very little experience.

Doctor Kleiderman wet his lips and grimaced. Well Marge, you’re about to become a trauma surgeon. What instruments do you have?

Gene

At twenty-one, Eugene Putnam had been the youngest Ph.D. ever hired by the University of Alaska. He had been a prodigy, a phenome, a real celebrity. But, that was two years ago, and his star had since fallen dramatically. Now, he was just another young assistant professor. Worse, as the resident paleontologist, he fell under the Geosciences Department where the geology and geophysics of oil and gas exploration ruled. This was, after all, Alaska, where oil paid for the government and every citizen received an annual check from the pipeline permanent fund .

Not only was he on the academic fringe, his budget for field work had all but evaporated in a series of drastic budget cuts. Gene didn’t really miss losing his special status as a boy wonder—well maybe a little bit. But he did miss being in the field. He loved the dirt, the comradery, the excitement. Most of all, it was an adventure, uncovering the past, almost being part of the past. When he was on a dig, he felt like a hero to his students as he dug back through layers of earth to the time of ice age mammals. He loved the big creatures best. Wild, vicious, larger than life; he reveled in their past. The present seemed dull, sterile, even superficial.

The Geosciences Department offices were simply beige partitions jammed together in a maze. His cubicle was the only one still lit at seven o’clock at night. On the cubicle name tag, under the words E. Putnam, Ph.D., someone had scrawled the words Bear Boy in magic marker. Inside, his partition walls held pictures of ice age bears and other mammals. The desk was overpowered by a prehistoric bear skull the size of a prize-winning pumpkin at a county fair. It was the skull of Arctodus Simus, the largest and fiercest bear that ever lived. Gene called it his paperweight.

He ran both hands through his hair and stretched. He still wasn’t comfortable wearing corduroy and khaki but that was the almost-mandatory professor’s uniform. He was working late. Well, he wasn’t really working. He just had no place to go, no one to see. He petted the giant skull as if it were a favorite spaniel. As his fingers slid over the thick ridge of the brow he paused to admire the strength of its jaws and six-inch fangs and spoke to it softly. Old friend, you have caused me a lot of grief.

Gene looked into the darkness and imagined his bear, once, the greatest predator on earth. It was huge, fast moving and incredibly powerful. It feared no living thing - not saber tooth cats, not cave bears, not even mammoths. Arctodus was at the very top of the terrestrial food chain.

Gene, however, was at the very bottom of his school’s career chain.

What am I doing? he spoke aloud. The bear skull listened without comment. Okay, I’ve got to publish. Got to get serious about cranking out those petty, back-biting journal articles no one reads. Sure, it’s demeaning, but so is standing in front of a classroom of mindless adolescent students.

He thought about that last statement and had to grin. Okay, okay, I know many of those ‘adolescents’ are older than I am.

For a moment, he pictured his class. He could almost hear the coughs, yawns and sighs. How could they not share his excitement? Maybe he wasn’t the most dynamic speaker in the world, but his creatures were the stuff of nightmares, savage monsters from a savage world. They were fascinating. Why did these kids think it was all a big joke?

You know, he explained to the skull, I am one of the world’s leading authorities on you and your kind. But here, in this silly little world with the thirty-second attention span of social media, I’m dismissed, ignored. The frustration is… I have ideas. I am learning more all the time. I am contributing to man’s knowledge. I am not a fool.

He rapped his knuckles lightly on the bear skull and laughed. His little speech sounded pathetic, even to him.

You’re not buying any of this, are you?

Gene raised his hands and bared his teeth as though to growl at his stoic bear skull companion. Then, with a final chuckle, he turned off the light and left. Tomorrow was a new day. Maybe it would bring a fresh perspective, some new opportunity

Gene Putnam sat alone at a four-seat table in the F Street Station bar. The other patrons were loud and lively but most were older than he. Even though the place was mobbed, no one asked to sit with him. He nursed an Alaskan Amber beer and concentrated on his fried halibut chunks. The music was too loud, and he was constantly jostled.

The waitress, a tattooed biker-looking girl in baggy military pants and boots, wore a spaghetti-string Tee shirt and an impudent sneer. Drink up, Butch. We got a crowd tonight and you’re using up a whole table.

He leaned back. It’s Gene, not Butch. I’m a regular here. I’m in a couple of nights a week.

She eyeballed him. Well, Regular Guy, you’re still using up a table of mine, so how about you take your regular ass over to the bar, and I can seat a foursome who might even tip. She tossed her head in the direction of the bar, but her eyes stayed locked on him. Every bar seat appeared to be taken.

Just get me a to-go box, all right. Is that asking too much? Is it? By the way, I know your name. It’s Kitty. I’m a regular here. We’ve talked several times…

She was gone, swallowed into the crowd. Gene stood and slugged his beer. The noise level was getting to him anyway. He took another quick swallow and grimaced. Let her have the damned table, he was ready to go. Kitty was back to present a piece of foil and his bill.

He snatched both, wrapped his three remaining chunks of fish in the foil and threw a twenty on the table. She looked down with a sulky teenager expression. Wow. That works out to a seventy-cent tip.

Yes, said Gene. Yes, it does. Not much from a regular, is it?

She turned with a huff. Gene pushed his way through the crowd and out into a frigid, snowy night. He looked left and right. Everywhere, people seemed to be enjoying themselves in spite of the challenging passage on sidewalks two feet deep in snow shoveled to a single lane. Couples in heavy coats jostled arm-in-arm, mixing clouds of steamy breath as they laughed and bumped against one another while navigating the narrow passage. Gene put his hands in his pockets. He felt very alone.

Then his cell phone vibrated. It was a familiar number.

Professor Putnam? the caller asked.

Yes. Gene hunched against the cold and put a finger in his ear to lessen street noise.

This is Dean Schnelling. I hope I’m not disturbing any important research you might be doing. His sarcasm was thick. The man could be such an ass.

Back when Gene’s doctoral dissertation first created a stir, he had been interviewed on national TV. After that bit of notoriety, he was courted by several universities but chose Alaska, thinking it would the perfect location to study Arctodus, his favorite beast. Dean Schnelling had never shared the school provost’s enthusiasm for the youthful "Bear