Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Bricks flattop haircut hadn’t changed in thirty years. He claimed he kept it that way because it was “geometrically and theologically correct.” And the wide bull shoulders and expansive gut were still present, as were the tremendous gorilla arms and tree-trunk legs. Brick looked up as Chaney walked forward, smiling broadly. He wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his gut and laughed.

  “Hey, boy,” he said, extending his hand. “What’d they do, make you work for a living?”

  “Naw.” Chaney picked up a meatball. “I’m faking it. Like always.”

  “Like I taught you.” He laughed.

  Chaney looked at the meatball. “Damn, Brick, this is good. Did you make this?”

  “Nope. Edna does all the cooking. I’m just a gofer.”

  “I’ll bet she does. How you like retirement?”

  “Best of life, kid. Best of life. Just wait ‘til you get your twenty so you can tell them to kiss your heinie and they can’t touch you. And they still gotta pay. Revenge is best served cold.” His square face split in a becoming smile. “But that ain’t why you come to see me, is it? Just to see how an old man’s getting along?”

  Chaney smiled. He shook his head as he sat on a stool. “I guess I still gotta go some to sneak up on you, huh?”

  Brick laughed. “Some.” He slid the sandwich on the mantle. “Order up!” Turned to Chaney. “Come on. I gotta check the beer anyway. Those CIA goombahs drink like fish. Must be the burden of all their sins.”

  Chaney followed to the storeroom and Brick continued, “So what you got?”

  “Still keeping your nose to the wind?” Chaney sat on a crate as Brick effortlessly shifted four cases at a time.

  “Well, kid, I hear things. ‘Bout like usual.”

  “Heard anything about a few stations up in Alaska? Any kind of trouble up there?”

  Brick set the cases down with a thump. Turned slowly. “They give that one to you?”

  Chaney nodded.

  With a grunt, Brick wiped his hands on the apron. “Well, I don’t know too awful much. Heard some cowboys got killed. Bad scene. Made me want to stock up the bunker.”

  “You get that from the Agency?”

  A guffaw. “Oh, hell no, kid. You think I trust those goons? You know better than that. At least I hope I taught you better than that. I wouldn’t buy an apple from them and I always keep both hands in my pockets when we talk.” His laugh was a hoarse rumble inside a huge barrel chest. “No, got it from a friend of mine uptown. Seems like the army, or the marines, were on it. Don’t know who had full authority and command. But the Corps ain’t too happy about what happened. Seems they lost a lot of recon guys. Tough hitters, ‘bout like you used to be before you retired to work for the bleeding Marshals Service. And nobody is talking much, which means there’s a lot to say.”

  Brick focused fully on Chaney, and the full weight of it disturbed Chaney as much as it did twelve years ago when he was a rookie deputy marshal and Brick was his training officer. “What’s that got to do with you, boy?” Military affairs ain’t your jurisdiction.”

  Chaney sighed. “I’m supposed to find out what happened, Brick. So, yeah, it’s my problem.”

  “A CIA screw-up ain’t your problem.”

  Chaney didn’t blink. “It is now.”

  There was uncomfortable tension as Brick gazed about. Chaney noticed that Brick seemed as robust as he was over a decade ago. He was a bull-thrower then, he was a bull-thrower now. Brick lowered his voice slightly as he replied.

  “You sure you ain’t bein’ set up? Made any enemies inside the agency lately?”

  “No.” Chaney shook his head. “Skull is pissed, but that’s just Skull. You get used to him. No, he wouldn’t do that. Truth is, Brick, I don’t know what’s going on. Not really. But if there are some dead marines, then one of those leatherneck senators is going to be going ape.”

  “So you can’t use official lines.”

  “No. This has got to be done quiet. Just like the ol’ Reagan days, when we could actually get things done, shake people up. ‘Cause if anyone gets wind that I’m sniffing around, they’ll just close ranks and start shredding. I can’t have that.”

  “If you want to stay alive, yeah,” Brick grunted. “Okay, drop by the house tonight. I’ll see what I can get. And don’t go acting like an investigator between now and then. Be a good boy. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, just like I taught you. I’ll see you later.”

  Rising, Chaney said, “I owe you, Brick.”

  Brick winked. “You always will, boy.”

  Chaney smiled, walked away.

  ***

  “This can’t be right,” Rebecca whispered. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at a printout of the DNA strand. “No, Gina. This is impossible. This points to something we’ve never seen before.”

  Gina shook her head. “I know. But that’s what we got. The machine doesn’t lie.”

  Neither of them said anything as they stared at the display on the electron microscope.

  “If this is not contaminated, Gina, it’s incredible.” She flipped a dozen pages of numbers, graphs, curves and comparison charts. “My God,” she whispered. “Look at the fibronectin and talin in the inhibitors. This thing ... it has to ... it has to have an incredible resistance to infection. Look at the epinephrine enhancers. Incredible. We’ve never seen this kind of overabundance of factors.” Pause. “Just what in the world is this thing?”

  “Well, Rebecca, the DNA go ninety-nine percent Homo sapiens. The rest is as unknown as how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. This particular strand doesn’t collate with anything in the bank, but you can see that with all these restrictive enzymes and retroactive proteins this thing has a super powered immune system. I don’t know what it is or how it’s done, but it’s there. I ... well, I really don’t know how else to classify it.”

  For a long time, Rebecca stared at a photon level image of the tendril recovered from the plaster. She had a hard time tearing her eyes from it. Then her mouth tightened, almost angrily, and she spoke. “All right. Record everything. Make three copies. You know where to put them. I’m taking one to the lab at Langley. They need to see this or they won’t believe it.” She waited. “Hell, I don’t know if /believe it, and I’m staring right at it.”

  It started in the thickest darkness Hunter had ever known, but he knew it was more than just the night. With Ghost at his side, he moved in total silence, alert, sensing every empty shadow. They caught the first hint of it in twenty minutes.

  It was about six hundred feet north, and Hunter was west. Calmly, Hunter crouched, studying all there was to see in the silver moon. The night gave just enough light to see the ground. Good enough.

  “Come on, boy,” he whispered.

  It was accustomed to prey fleeing its wrath.

  Hunter ran straight toward it, toward the north, closing the gap much, much quicker than it would anticipate. Then he saw the right terrain and leaped high, one foot hitting a boulder that launched him higher to a tree limb, where he leaped onto a slope.

  Ghost made the tremendous leap without the advantage of the boulder, landing beside him.

  Instantly Hunter angled uphill, running as quickly as the steepness allowed, slowing on moccasin-padded feet as he crested and crouched. Below him, he saw a ravine no more than ten feet wide, and then ... a tremendous hulking shape of a humanoid creature. It was shuffling, confused, and even at that distance Hunter could read the anger in its face, its stance. It turned this way, that, searching with quick, jerky movements. The scent was strong here, it knew, but the prey ...

  Hunter smiled, knowing that the very first move he made would snatch its attention. He decided to make it a good one. Backing up a few steps, he rubbed Ghost’s head. The wolf knew what he was going to do, was going to do it with him.

  Hunter ran toward the gap in
the ravine, and leaped, wasting one second to glance down and see the beast whirl as if shot. And he knew what it saw. A man and a great black wolf suspended in the air, soaring across a narrow moon.

  Hunter landed lightly on the other side, and Ghost was beside him. Then Hunter was running, running, weaving a complicated path through roots and trees and over boulders, doubling back, avoiding inclines because they slowed him, and then he began laying traps, tricks, immersing himself in a freezing stream and floating downriver until he lifted himself out with a limb and climbed from tree to tree for a hundred yards before dropping to earth.

  He stopped in place.

  He had landed before a gigantic stone tablet, at least two hundred yards across. It was utterly level, as if ancient glaciers had shaved it. But now it was also littered with boulders, the remnants of earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, flood. Instantly he began a complicated trail, in and out, around good ambush sites, which the beast would approach slowly. He worked for ten minutes, running quickly, crisscrossing a dozen times. He left trails that led into the surrounding forest in a myriad of directions. When he was finished, he was sweating heavily and his legs were numb. But Ghost seemed to have enjoyed it.

  Hunter looked at him, smiled. “You idgit-head. All you want to do is fight him, don’t you?” He rubbed Ghost’s head. “He ain’t the alpha, old boy. You are. You always will be.”

  Afterwards, Hunter floated down a frigid stream, downwind, and finally saw an overhanging limb—too far to reach! In a split-second Hunter had grabbed the snare from his belt and held the steel tube, and as the branch came closer he saw a broken limb, short enough for one good throw. As he passed under it the titanium lasso lashed through the air, silver and spiraling. The loop landed solidly on the projection, tightened, and suddenly cold water was splitting around Hunter.

  Hands cutting to the cord, Hunter hauled himself back to the branch, and only by the most extreme strength of his forearms was he able to maintain a grip on the titanium as he hauled himself up. His hand lashed up, settled on the limb and he was clear.

  He sat on the limb a minute, breathing heavily, freezing, but he knew his clothes would dry quickly. He could endure. He attempted unsuccessfully to undo the lasso from the four-foot-long limb for five minutes, but the lasso had been designed so that, once closed, it would not open. With his heavy Bowie he severed the limb at the trunk and carried it with him. After another ten seconds of hacking he had severed the limb, unwinding the lasso to replace it carefully in his belt. He smiled to himself; the makeshift device was coming in handy. He climbed the tree to another and then down to the ground at least a hundred yards distant.

  Then he sat. Waiting.

  Ghost, beside him, listening to the night, was uncannily alert. And Hunter was already exhausted, so he ate some pemmican for strength. Then he gave Ghost a large slab of beef jerky.

  If the beast eventually unraveled the trail, Hunter would be able to confirm that it could hunt by scent as well as sight. Every discovery he accumulated about it was important because Hunter never knew what he might be able to use for an advantage.

  It was five hours later before Hunter heard distant but determined splashing upstream. He rose, running at full speed, knowing that this thing, as inhumanly strong as it truly was, was not inexhaustible. Nothing was inexhaustible. So he would run it to ground. Would run it until the sun rose in a few hours.

  And he knew he stood a chance.

  Ducking a low limb with the sinuous grace of a panther, he hit the ground lightly and weaved between rocks, boulders. Some he vaulted, landing only to change direction again, and on and on it went with limbs lashing his face and arms in pitch-dark. His legs and lungs burned, but the land rolled past him. Then he broke the woodland and saw open country, and let out a long, steady, strong stride that had carried him in the past for forty, fifty miles at a time. Five, six, seven miles and he kept the fast punishing pace—noticing without appreciating entire valleys passing or the gigantic stands of timber that loomed up and faded hauntingly into the night behind him. Still he continued. He estimated he had gone ten, maybe twelve miles when fatigue began taking a toll, but he pushed himself harder.

  Never before, though he had often run all day in order to cross a forest, had he held such a brutal pace for so long. Sweat poured from his face in a slicing cold and darkened his leather shirt, and his long black hair was laid back with sweat and rushing wind. His blue eyes squinted against both the mist that fogged his vision and the night air that burned his lungs. And eventually, when entire worlds of landscapes had been claimed by distance, even Hunter’s arms became fatigued from holding the steady rhythm, and his thighs swelled with irresistible numbness. Beside him, Ghost effortlessly kept the pace, even when Hunter began to stumble slightly with fatigue. Now beginning to fear that he would commit the ultimate mistake and twist an ankle or knee, crippling himself and leaving him virtually helpless in the night, Hunter decided that he had gone as far as he could go. Breath burning, eyes misty and tearful, he stopped and dropped to the ground.

  No time for rest!

  Groaning, he rose, staggering a moment.

  To hear a vengeful roar terrifyingly close.

  “Now what,” he muttered, glancing around.

  And saw a ledge.

  What he needed.

  Hunter saw the slope downward was like angled granite steps and took the first leap boldly, landing on a slab ten feet below and selecting his next angle of descent. Then down again, not worrying about Ghost’s ability to negotiate the steep steps. And as Hunter hit the third slab he stopped fully, crouching like a beast, eyes afire, lips drawn in a snarl, listening. He focused, tried to slow his breath, to think.

  The forest was everything to him now, his life, his place, his home. Somehow he felt more animal than man, but he had no time for that. He had to use his instincts but he had to use his mind. He couldn’t let the animal out of the cage; he had to use it, control it, retain the human center.

  He unslung the Marlin and held it in one hand as a frontiersman would hold a musket when he ran down a deer by sheer strength, exhausting the animal until he could get close enough for a shot. It was a sure tactic but required the endurance of a wolf and the accuracy of a true marksman when sweat was stinging your eyes, and your breath was heaving in hot blasts. And Hunter had practiced it at length when he was young, often running for twelve or fifteen hours before he could make the shot.

  Ghost landed beside him without a sound, panting.

  Hunter knew it had followed but he hadn’t made it easy. Nothing could have followed him easily through the obstacle course of trees and rocks, ledges and ravines that he had leaped and descended, then doubled back to frustrate it.

  A twig snapped.

  Hunter raised his head, blinking sweat. Less than a minute and it would find him.

  Already it was too close, searching now by sight. It was maybe two hundred yards away. Glaring around frantically, Hunter searched for an advantage, a place for an ambush, anything.

  He had to outthink it, but the terrain was completely wrong for every trick that flashed like lightning through his frantic mind. He heard another crash in the woods about fifty yards from the crest of the ridge, then silence. Twisting his head viciously left and right, he searched for some advantage any advantage because he hadn’t thrown it off for more than thirty seconds.

  He was on a ledge about four feet wide, six feet deep. Another ledge, about two feet wide, ran to the right, disappearing around the edge of the slope. Beneath them was a river, roaring with white water. Hunter scanned it, estimating . . .

  If a man fell into that, he would be dead instantly. But this thing ... it would survive. Unless it was badly injured. Hunter debated it and in seconds made the decision because he was in a defenseless position. He moved along the darkened, mist-wet ledge with the utmost caution. Without hesitation Ghost moved carefully behind him.
And thirty feet later, Hunter found what he needed.

  A narrow niche, a cave of sorts, opened into the wall about halfway down the curve. It was utterly dark and, three hundred feet beneath, the river roared.

  It’d have to do.

  Ushering Ghost before him into the niche, Hunter slid inside, turning almost instantly as he heard a thunderous impact on the rock far behind him. Then he cocked the hammer on the 45.70, a massively powerful round once used for killing buffalo. Since the demise of the bison, however, the cartridge had been ignored. But Hunter had always preferred its stoutness for felling bear in stride.

  Retreating six feet into the niche, he raised the heavy carbine to his shoulder and waited, aiming at the opening.

  Last stand ...

  His breath, starving and strained, hurt from oxygen loss. And his focus was tunneling, seeing nothing but the target space. He fought it, but the hunt, the chase, the run, and this desperation move had overloaded his system. He tried to eliminate his breathing altogether though, because he knew that its preternatural senses would detect the slight disturbance of air.

  Suddenly Ghost tensed behind him and he felt the great wolf move its shoulder an inch forward, as if to get in front of him. Hunter twisted back slightly against it, all he could allow, telling his friend to retreat and be silent. Hunter didn’t know if it would be enough, but he knew he couldn’t remove his eyes from the—

  What dropped dead into the tomblike opening of the niche was beyond horror. It descended from straight above instead of creeping cautiously from the side, and was outlined by a glaring angle of moonlight that captured bristling white hair on huge, hunched shoulders that swelled out from a heavily maned head. Its face was sharp and wedged and monstrously deformed. And it was incredibly muscular in its slouched pose, the thickly corded arms hanging slightly longer than a man’s. Then it expanded its chest and unleashed a crashing roar—a vengeful blast of hate.

  Talons visible even in moonlight were displayed openly as it unhinged its fangs, glowering and thirsty, and the wholesale murderous gleam in its eyes was shock.