Fifteen years as a beat cop in Minnesota had helped prepare Tony O’Malley for days like these. He pulled the collar of his old sheepskin coat further up around his ears and hunched his heavyset shoulders against the biting wind whistling across the sound before him. He sat back against the hood of the old Buick, muscle memory instinctively patting at his chest pockets for a packet of cigarettes long since gone. How he’d kill for a smoke right now, he sighed, musing that it was probably the least likely thing to kill him these days.

Out across the water before him, an early morning mist hung low over the slow moving tide. Ominous dark waters shifted like a thick, black living mass. O’Malleys eyes flicked and traced the ponderosas lining the other side for any signs of movements. Nothing stirred at this early hour, except for a scarce few birds. Glancing down at the watch on his left wrist, he felt a pang of something deep in his chest. The watch was an Omega. He knew little of watches but was aware he’d never have been able to afford something like this in his old life. Thick fingers traced over the glass. Five forty six am. By his reckoning, he had another forty five minutes before the tides slipped back enough to reveal the dark stone path, and access to the island for the next few hours. Though little scared him, he was once more aware of that anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. An uneasiness that only came when the tides receded, and which only subsided as the causeway once again vanished under the shifting waters.

Reaching down to his side, O’Malley lifted the familiar weight of his trusty rifle from beside his foot, slipped the strap over his shoulder and adjusted his jacket collar, preparing for the long shift ahead. Like the Omega, he’d had the rifle some time. It had become a welcome part of his daily routine. Meticulously stripping and cleaning the parts thoroughly at the end of each shift had helped to keep his mind sharp. Though unlike the watch, the rifle hadn’t come from the corpse of a unknown man in Tacoma.

Pushing himself away from the car, O’Malley glanced over his shoulder at the girl asleep in the back seat. He’d give her another fifteen minutes. Foster. He liked her. She reminded him of an old partner. Resilient and tough. She could certainly hold her own against the others in the camp and stood for no shit whatsoever.

Then he heard the noise. That noise. It snapped him back to the present instantly. He lifted the rifle and tapped the butt against the cars side window. Foster stirred to life inside. The noise came again from across the water. A deep, guttural drone. Clicking and hissing. O’Malleys eyes darted back and forth, scanning across the water and into the undergrowth beyond. He began to sense their presence and knew today would be different.