Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Hunter spoke quietly, Ghost at his side.

  “We better get moving.” He held the Marlin low, feeling a fatigue that was somehow deeper than any he had ever known before. “It’ll be moving ahead of us again.”

  “Hai.” Takakura nodded and waved. “Wilkenson will be guard. We cannot afford to lose another. We will return for Riley and Buck ... if we survive.”

  Bobbi Jo seemed to have recovered somewhat, and turned to Hunter. For the first time, he saw true fear in her eyes. Her voice was soft. “We’re gonna die out here, aren’t we?” she asked.

  She didn’t blink.

  No lies, her eyes said.

  Mouth tightening into a line, Hunter reached up and placed a hand on her neck. He shook his head. “No,” he said, “we’re not.”

  She smiled faintly, returned the nod.

  Hunter turned: “Ghost!”

  The wolf was instantly in a stance, four massive legs solid as iron, ready for any command. His eyes locked on Hunter with a world of love and devotion and fearlessness. Hunter flung out an arm down the trail: “Search!”

  The wolf moved away, passing their weary forms as if they were stones. It cleared the small crest before them and hesitated, coming back, always keeping Hunter in view.

  “From now on,” Hunter said stoically, “we have to move as quickly as we can, Ghost will clear the trail a hundred yards at a time. We’ll make the pass in less than four hours.” He looked at all of them in turn. “Can all of you handle the pace?”

  They agreed and Hunter reloaded the Marlin. He could hear Bobbi Jo’s labored breathing from the ordeal, but knew that no one else was qualified to handle the massive Barrett; she would have to endure it. There was no easy way out. Not for any of them.

  Always, Ghost roamed ahead, came back, and Hunter knew he was taking a risk with his friend. For even Ghost could be deceived if the creature was downwind and motionless. But he was thinking that the creature would assume they would continue as they had been—moving slowly, carefully, with extreme caution.

  And it would surely be wounded somewhat by Bobbi Jo’s dead-eye accuracy because she had hit it center-mass. Perhaps, by the time its animal mind suspected the change of tactics, they might have the distance to outrun it, even in this battle-ravaged condition.

  Then, when the rest were safe, and he knew what he needed to know—as in who had betrayed them, and why—he would return to hunt it on his own terms.

  It was a head he would keep.

  ***

  Chaney didn’t like the feel of it.

  The Tipler Institute was obviously a prestigious academy for intellectual dialogue. The listing in the lobby was a virtual who’s who of scientific heavyweights. Obviously, securing a tour of the privately funded facility was a much desired honor. Although the professor’s photo and position were clearly displayed, Hunter’s presence was conspicuously absent from the decorations.

  He sensed the direct attention of a rather impatient looking young woman approaching him from a nearby hall. Displaying the full scope of his limited charm, he smiled.

  “I’m Gina Gilbert,” she said, crossing her arms. She didn’t seem particularly impressed by his Deputy U.S. Marshal credentials. “Is there some way I can help you? I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “I understand.” Chaney flashed his creds respectfully. “I wanted to talk with Dr. Tipler.”

  “He’s not in the facility.”

  “Might I ask where I can contact him?”

  “He’s on an expedition and it might be a week or so before he’s near a communications facility,” she answered, tilting her head. “Aren’t you aware of the expedition?”

  Chaney debated for a split second. “Well, I heard that he was participating in some manner with the State Department,” he said—without discernible hesitation, he hoped. “And, in fact, that’s what I wanted to speak with him about.”

  “Well,” she said, somewhat slower, “maybe I can assist you. What do you need to know?”

  “Are you familiar with the nature of his trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “The trip to Alaska?”

  She blinked. “Yes.” A pause. “What is it that you want to know, Marshal Chaney?”

  Chaney enjoyed her using the “marshal.” This close to Washington, he wasn’t usually given the courtesy. In fact, the closer you got to the capital, the more unimpressed people became with the presence of a federal agent. Whereas in the heartland, say Oklahoma or Montana, flashing U.S. Marshal credentials would get you instant cooperation—or at least a free meal.

  “I’d like to discuss Dr. Tipler’s role on this expedition,” Chaney continued. “If you have the time, I’d like for you to show me anything you have on it.”

  She was silent a moment, studying Chaney’s innocent smile.

  “All right, I’ve got a minute.” She turned away. “Follow me, please, and I’ll show you what we’ve been studying.”

  ***

  It had been awhile since Chaney had done any hunting, but he could tell immediately that whatever had made the plaster imprint wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t anything he had ever seen. And if he could believe this woman, he wasn’t alone in his belief.

  “And Dr. Tipler couldn’t identify what manner of creature made this cast?” he asked, bending low. “I mean, isn’t he the expert the experts turn to on this kind of thing?”

  “He’s the foremost expert in the world, Marshal,” Gina said as she laid a long printout on the table. “This is the DNA printout that we mapped from a fiber taken from the bottom of the cast. It couldn’t be seen with the naked eye but I spotted it on a microscope and we did the test the day before yesterday. Do you understand DNA coding at all?”

  “No.” Chancy shook his head. All he saw were rows upon rows of repeated letters. It meant nothing. “Can you explain it to me?”

  “Not as well as Dr. Tanus.”

  “And that is ...?”

  “Rebecca Tanus. She’s in charge of the Institute while Dr. Tipler is on his expedition.” Gina folded the printout. “She should be back later if you want to stay around and talk to her. She’ll be in Langley until then, if you want to try and reach her immediately.”

  Chancy tried to keep his voice low and calm. “What’s Dr. Tanus doing at Langley?”

  Gina obviously sensed nothing sinister about it. “Well, she went down there to deliver these findings. We could have faxed them but we don’t have secure lines here. Dr. Tanus was nervous about it.”

  “I see.” Chaney mused. “Does she have a cell phone?”

  “Sure.” She reached for a book as the phone rang, picked it up as she opened it. “Yes,” she said, slowing her movement. “Yes, this is Gina. Can I help you?”

  Chaney saw her face open little by little in obvious shock, but barely heard her almost inaudible words when she finally spoke. “Thank you,” she whispered. “No. I’ll take care of it.”

  Silently she set the phone on the hook.

  Chaney knew.

  “Gina?” he said quietly. “Are you all right?”

  She didn’t look at him.

  “Dr. Tanus,” she said dully. “She’s dead.”

  Chapter 11

  Holding a bleeding rib cage with one hand, he followed them on the slope parallel to the trail. He remained on the far side of the river, which provided more cover for his footfalls with the plenteous moss and wet leaves; he was intent on remaining unseen and unheard.

  Hunger devoured him, and he realized that he must eat to rebuild his strength so that he might destroy them. But he was concerned. Soon, he was certain, he would find elk, deer, wolf or wolverine. It did not matter; he would consume them quickly, and the nutrients would power his body to transform the flesh into new flesh, strengthening it for the final hunt that lay ahead.

  He growled, almost smiling, and leape
d from a rock to drop almost without sound between two huge cedars that provided shadowed silence. As he landed, his ribs tore in sharp, lancing pain and he suppressed a roar. Yes, soon he must eat in order to heal, for his body was exhausted. Raising vengeful eyes, he stared at the woman. He wanted her most of all, now, after the man. For she held what could wound him.

  He drew a black pointed tongue over blackened gums and his lips drew back in a submerged, vibrating snarl that made his chest close with the effort. The breath he inhaled afterwards swelled the huge nostrils that allowed him to take in oxygen at a rate far greater than these meager humans were capable of doing. He knew what they were doing, and his reddish eyes glanced at the wolf...the wolf. . .

  He hated them all ...

  He raked the ground as he watched them run, forcing dirt deep beneath his claws; he loved the feeling. So he did it for a while, enjoying the pleasure. And then he glanced down and saw the ragged remnants of pants he still wore.

  It mattered not.

  He did not feel the cold as they felt it. Did not feel the pain of briar and rock as they felt it. Did not feel remorse at shedding their blood, or ripping their meaty hearts from their chests to squeeze the blood into his mouth like a grape. No, he felt nothing, body or soul.

  His mind, or what was there before it had changed, was only some distant half-something, dim and unimportant. Though somehow, he knew, he even yet retained some ability of primitive speech—some unexpected leftover effect of this strange merging of mind and flesh. Yet it had left him with mechanical aspects of his former self. And he might yet tell them, before he killed, that he had purposefully chosen this glorious form, and infinitely preferred it to life in the puny, mortal husks that carried them around.

  His mouth twisted as he tried to form words, but his vocal cords had been altered somehow, and the sounds whispered raggedly from his fanged mouth. Yes, he almost longed for the chance to speak to them—especially to the man—and tell them that he would live for ages. That he would be alive when the man’s children were dust, and his children’s children—that when all this faded, and fell, and rose again, he would still be alive in this godlike form.

  As he considered the experience, the thought became as delicious as the flesh and blood he must soon taste.

  Yes, he would speak to the man. He would torture the man with the knowledge that he was not simply a beast but that he was far, far more. And that he would always be more than they could ever imagine.

  Then he thought of the others, the ones like him who would be there, waiting. And how, when he joined them with his superior mind, they would make war again. Would drive the puny ones into holes where they would feast on their brains.

  His eyes narrowed as he smiled.

  Yes, they would consume them.

  Body and soul.

  ***

  Like a sliver of shadow, Ghost came back over the ridge toward Hunter, pausing and staring, and Hunter hesitated. He turned back to see how the others were keeping up and saw that Bobbi Jo, despite her determination, was faltering badly.

  There was no reason for false hope and a suicide run for the pass would only end in doom. No, they would never make it before nightfall. Not in this terrain, and not in this condition. They would be traveling through darkness for at least an hour before they reached the pass.

  Too long.

  He held up a hand. The professor was lowered to the ground, and Takakura came forward, holding the machine gun. “Why do we stop?”

  “Because we can’t make it,” Hunter responded matter-of-factly. Bobbi Jo opened her mouth in protest but she was so winded that she simply-bent, heaving breath on trembling legs.

  Hunter expected Takakura to protest his decision but the burly man recognized the wisdom of the move. He lowered the MP-5 to his waist and shaking his head, he searched the far side of the stream as exhaustion forced him to a knee.

  Raising his eyes, Hunter looked at Taylor, who stood in place behind the stretcher, no weapon in his hands. Taylor was staring without expression, but his lack of challenge spoke for him. Whatever the commando was feeling was hidden well behind that fire-scarred face. He was a statue, a stoic image of the professional soldier who knew he would die one day as he had lived, and had prepared for it. And now that the moment had come, he would meet it like a man.

  Hunter held out his hand to Takakura. “Give me the map.”

  Wearily it was presented and Hunter knelt, laying the rifle on the ground as Ghost came up, panting. Without even looking at the wolf he said “Guard,” and Ghost began padding in loose circles, checking the wind, the ground, river, trail.

  Reading the topography, Hunter searched for any defensible position. He saw a gully—no good; a flat-topped knoll nearby that allowed them to see it coming—no good; not with the disadvantage of night and their wits and senses numbed by the exhausting travails of this seemingly endless ordeal; and then ...an abandoned mine.

  Hunter’s black-maned head twisted as he sighted it.

  A mine.

  A mine would have only one point of entry. A mine would be defended on three sides by impenetrable rock walls. Eyes sharpening, Hunter estimated the distance quickly and saw that it was within a quarter mile of their position. He was on his feet as he memorized the easiest and quickest route.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “There’s a place near here where we might stand a chance to last the night.”

  No questions were asked. Together they made a weary pilgrimage to the only site that might provide salvation.

  It was late in the day when Chaney checked police reports on the fatal car accident involving Rebecca Tanus. He understood that she had veered off a dry road during a trip from her hotel, plummeting off an embankment only to be killed on impact. No foul play was suspected because there were no collision marks on the vehicle and postmortem blood tests revealed she was not intoxicated. It was listed as an accident caused on the steep downslope when a strut stabilizing the front left wheel—the wheel taking most of the stress on the turn—shattered and caused her to lose control.

  Chaney thought about asking to examine the vehicle, then thought better of it. Don’t go bustin’ no red lights, Brick had warned. Don’t go around asking a lot of questions like some hotshot investigator. Don’t start attracting attention to yourself

  But there was one thing that he could do before he hooked up with Brick later in the evening. He could visit Langley and discover who was in control of these facilities. There was little risk involved because by now—they weren’t complete fools—they would have confirmed that this was an official investigation. And not showing up at all would be more suspicious than looking like a guy going through the motions.

  It took a single easy—too easy, it seemed—phone call and Chaney was soon admitted into a secure section of Langley. As he walked toward the receptionist in what they call a “white” terminal—a section devoted to research and development as opposed to information gathering—he saw a tall, white-haired man with a clipboard and white lab coat speaking casually with another man. As Chaney stepped to the desk, the man turned.

  “Marshal Chaney?” the older man asked pleasantly.

  Introductions were simple and Dr. Arthur Hamilton ushered Chaney into his office. Before he even sat down in front of the desk, Chaney knew he was dealing with a heavyweight.

  Where the Tipler Institute seemed to have a reserved and somewhat humble tone of intellectuality, there was nothing understated about Dr. Hamilton’s office. Obviously concerned about the secretiveness of his own identity, Hamilton had a legion of impressive diplomas on display as well as a polished row of gold-plated awards, none of which Chaney recognized. Graphs and display charts recording geological information were spread on the desk.

  “So, Marshal,” Hamilton proceeded, “I suppose you are investigating the rather horrendous series of accidents that have plagued our facilities.”


  Chaney had not expected any stonewalling, at least not recognizable, and played the game. He was glad to see that his instincts had not disappointed him.

  “I’m trying to determine the cause of these tragic events at the research facilities, Doctor.” Chaney presented the air of a professional—a man who committed himself to an investigation without becoming personally involved. “So I have to ask you a few questions, if you have the time.”

  “Oh, certainly.” Hamilton gestured with concern. “Believe me, Marshal Chaney, we are as anxious as anyone to discover what is attacking our personnel. These are rather expensive facilities and highly trained assistants. Neither are easily replaced. In fact, we have been forced to terminate the research temporarily. But, of course, the greatest tragedy of all is in the truly lamentable loss of life.” He paused, shook his head. “Yes, quite tragic.”

  Chaney cleared his throat. “Just what, Doctor, is the purpose of these facilities? The military has been closing Arctic research stations for years because of the budget. Why is the Central Intelligence Agency funding such an expensive program?”

  “Oh, for simple science.” Hamilton responded with a wave. “You see, Marshal—and I have, of course, confirmed that you are cleared for this information—those facilities monitor seismic activity in the Arctic Circle. And because of their proximity to the Bering Strait and Siberia, we also can monitor any potential nuclear testing which still might occur.” He hesitated. “The cold war is over but vigilance is the price we pay for peace. It is not a mean responsibility, and we take it very seriously.”

  “I’m certain that you do, Doctor.” Chaney glanced at the charts. “So, these research facilities have a printed Mission Purpose?” He knew that a printed purpose of intent was mandatory for all Central Intelligence facilities, just as they were for the Marshals Service.

  Chaney also realized that there were few organizations in the world, that demanded as much paperwork and documentation of covert activity as the CIA. It was a remarkable paradox in the agency’s pathological quest for secrecy.