for their leader or already in the midst of filming.
In short, that they were all alive and well.
And it might be very difficult to figure that out.
Because, according to Misty Blaine, they were going to find a scene of carnage—blood and destruction—whether it was real or not.
Misty had supplied them with the file folder on the day’s intended shoot. Wickedly Weird Productions had filled the Mansion and the Alaska Hut with bloody mock-murder scenes. Scenes meant to terrify the Fate cast. Of course, before anyone succumbed to their terror—the film crew would jump out and scream, “Gotcha!”
“Almost there,” Thor heard. He turned around. Lieutenant Bill Meyer, with the Alaska State Troopers, approached them.
“We’ve got a storage shed near the docks,” Bill told them. “We don’t have any permanent force here—a good majority of the year, no one is out here at all. But the owner paid for the snowmobiles we keep. There’s been trouble before, of course. One rush to the hospital. Wild party and a man wound up outside naked and nearly froze to death. Other than that...let’s see, alcohol poisoning, a fight, one time a break-in...mostly, people behaving badly. Not lethally.”
“Thanks,” Thor said. He liked the cops he and Mike were working with—then again, he liked cops in general. His father had taught him from a young age that most were decent and hardworking and doing their best. Only a few were assholes—which he assumed was true in any vocation. Bill Meyer was a good guy, he knew. They’d worked together before. Bill had been assigned to Anchorage for a year and he’d spent many of his off-hours finding the down-and-outers and trying to get them help.
The Coast Guard cutter arrived at the one long dock the island offered. Captain Filmore handed out walkie-talkies to Thor, Mike, and Bill Meyer and his men, instructing them to keep close contact.
“There’s no telling what you’ll encounter, but...”
“We’re not going to be meeting an army,” Mike said.
“But, a strong man with some lethal weapons,” Thor said. “Perhaps meeting up with a number of accomplices? Thing is, to escape the hotel security, it had to be someone who appeared to be part of the hotel staff. You didn’t have just anyone doing that. You had someone with an extremely sharp weapon—and the strength to make that weapon cut through flesh and bone.”
Someone who might not even be on the island—who might be chopping off more heads back in Seward.
Then again...
They might find a slew of dead right here. Oh, wait. They definitely would; he just hoped the dead were all mannequins and stage props.
“Yeah. Anyway, watch your backs,” the captain said.
“Will do,” Meyer murmured. Thor and the others nodded.
Ten minutes later, they were on the snowmobiles, headed to the Mansion. And then another ten minutes, riding through the snow that almost continually covered the island, brought them to their destination—and a scene of utter chaos.
Bodies strewn here and there, blood sprayed everywhere.
Thor hunkered down by the first body.
He looked up at Mike. “Mannequin,” he said.
Bill Meyer had hurried on to another. “Fake blood,” he called.
Thor moved through the downstairs, stopping at each body—it was all part of the staged scene that the assistant producer had told them about.
“Someone thought that this would be funny?” Mike asked with disgust.
“Apparently,” Thor said, rising after his inspection of the last “corpse.”
“They just had to come to Alaska,” Bill Meyer muttered.
“Thing is,” Thor said, “where is the film crew? And where is the cast?”
“Alaska Hut—or here, somewhere, in all this. I’ll take the upstairs,” Mike said. “We may find real bodies yet. Fellows? A hand?” he asked the state police officers.
They nodded and started to follow him up the stairs to the many rooms above. “Man, this is sick!” one of them muttered.
“I’m on the exterior,” Thor said.
Near the top landing, Mike nodded.
Thor headed out. There were no snowmobile tracks leaving the Mansion, but there had been precipitation in the last few hours, so a path might have easily been covered.
He kept looking. And that was when he found the trail of footsteps.
And he began to follow it.
* * *
The Alaska Hut, the Alaska Hut... Help would be there, all she had to do was reach it...
It might be summer, but the snow was still thick on the ground on the rise. She was slogging through it, sinking and falling and trying to right herself. She staggered and fell—thinking of the times she had mocked horror movies, those that featured victims who seemed to trip over their own feet.
And then, over another rise, she saw it. The Alaska Hut.
Help! Help would be there.
Producer, director, fellow actors, makeup artists, costumers and...security! All she had to do was reach it.
But...was anyone left alive? She hadn’t waited long enough at the Mansion to find out, not after she’d seen what she’d seen and heard movement upstairs and then...
Coming down the steps.
She’d run.
She should have stayed to help Larry.
No, how could she have helped him—against all that carnage? She didn’t even have a plastic butter knife on her!
She could see it...the Alaska Hut...just ahead.
Hope allowed her to redouble her efforts. She heard the sound of her breath, and the squish of her footsteps as she ran the best she could over the snow. Her legs burned, her lungs were now pure fire.
Suddenly, a voice called out to her. She nearly lost her footing in the snow as panic swept through her anew.
“Stop! Stop now!”
Stop? What insanity was that?
She ran all the harder!
She didn’t hear footsteps following so close behind her—she didn’t hear or feel anything at first, just that pounding of her heart, the ragged and desperate rise and fall of her breath...
And then, it felt as if she was hit from behind by a semi.
She went down, flying, her face smashing into the coldness of the snow, a mouthful of the stuff nearly choking her. There was someone on top of her...or
