Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “Yeah,” Chaney mused. “I know.”

  Brick grabbed his coat. “You listen to me, kid.” He didn’t smile. “No matter what, always remember one thing. You don’t run into a fight. You walk into it. And there’s bodies enough already on the ground that they won’t hesitate to lose you, too. Remember the rules. Three-call everybody. False ID. Watch your back. Change cars every day. Stay off the cell phone. Land lines only.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Chaney smiled. “I remember, Brick. I ain’t a geezer yet.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t underestimate a geezer, either.” Brick reached the door. “Hey, I just got a new crate of brand-new M-l Garands yesterday. Best battle rifle ever made. Want one?”

  Chaney laughed. “Brick, what do you need all those guns for? You can only shoot one at a time.”

  “Huh,” the big man grunted as he closed the door. “Guess ‘cause I’ll never know when some boy that I turned into a United States Marshal might get his butt in the wringer. Something like that, it might make ol’ Brick mad.”

  Laughing, Chaney walked toward his car. “I appreciate everything, Brick.”

  “What’s your next stop, kid?”

  “A junkyard. Then the CIA.”

  Brick stared after him.

  “There’s a difference?”

  ***

  Together they were on their feet.

  The first sound they heard was Ghost growling.

  The second sound was a subterranean rumble.

  Immediately it was followed by a raging, almost reptilian roar on the far side of the wall that seemed to hang in the air and then closed with a horrific impact that struck the wall like a truck, bringing down dust from the roof. A concussion, hurled by the incredible collision, swept over them in what felt like a sonic boom.

  “Good God,” Taylor whispered, stepping back.

  They took a line behind the wall, and the next impact was equally as titanic—a thunderous, wrecking-ball forearm brought down with unbelievable force on the reinforced logs.

  They edged back.

  It continued again and again, a ceaseless uninterrupted crashing that would occasionally halt for the briefest heartbeat with a shrieking, outraged roar only to be followed by another thunderous impact that reverberated like a gunshot through the mine.

  Hunter noticed they were still backing up.

  “Hold it here,” he said angrily. “We can’t give it any more room.”

  “Maybe we should give it something else to shout about,” said Taylor.

  Only one of them possessed a weapon capable of penetrating those logs. Hunter glanced at Bobbi Jo. She raised the Barrett.

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  She waited until the next colossal impact and then, with a surgeon’s detachment, tracked the barrel a foot to the right. Bracing, she pulled the trigger of the .50-caliber sniper rifle, hurling a three-hundred-grain solid-steel bullet from the barrel at over four thousand feet per second. The blast itself was tremendous, blinding and deafening them together. And a large section of wood splinters shot over them at the impact, exploding from where the Barrett penetrated the logs.

  On the far side a haunting pause was followed by an enraged scream. And then an even more monstrous blow was hurled against the barrier. It cracked the third beam—positioned at chest level—down the middle.

  When Hunter saw it crack, he knew what would strike the mind of the beast. He was right.

  It had found a weak spot, and it would seize the moment.

  There was a short pause with a spiraling roar of victory, and then an incredibly colossal blow, and another, and another, and with each one the log cracked deeper with a sound that was even louder than the primordial howling that preceded it.

  “Get ready!” Hunter shouted.

  One final blow followed, and two cleanly split pieces fell into the mine in a swirl of dust.

  Two red eyes glared at them from the darkness, white fangs distended in victory. Then, as it screamed mockingly, they opened fire together, filling the tunnel with fire and splintering the wall with the cascade.

  Hunter saw it stagger back. But he could see nothing more, and they continued firing until the rifle barrels were dangerously overheated. Then they paused together, as if afraid the weapons were about to melt down.

  There was a faint ringing, the choking scent of cordite in the air, thick smoke carried from the entrance by the out draft of the mine, and Hunter saw nothing in the space of the severed log. Nothing but darkness.

  Together they edged slowly forward, not trusting their hearing since they were temporarily deafened by gunfire in the enclosed space. Hunter held up a hand after a dozen steps, motioning for the others to stop, and edged another step.

  The logs were shredded by the rounds, an awesome sight of long splintered holes torn into the massive logs. Even the logs were smoking from the impact of so much lead in so short a period of time. Hunter took another step, almost within arm’s reach, then stopped cautiously.

  He waited, listening, but heard nothing on the other side. He began to take another step when he heard an approach behind him, saw Ghost running forward. Bobbi Jo made a leap for the wolf but he was past her and Hunter commanded: “NO!”

  He sensed it, just as he sensed the Siberian that had come up behind him in Manchuria—how it had vaporized out of utter gloom and silence to be gigantically, horrifically there as he slowly turned.

  It was the same instinct, a different foe.

  The creature came on with a roar, thrusting a long arm through the shattered space and seizing Hunters leather shirt, jerking him toward the wall with titanic strength.

  Instantly Hunter’s leg lashed out, his moccasin smashing against the wall, and the thing was stalled for the briefest moment before its left arm also lashed out, a massive clawed hand grappling.

  Enraged white fangs beneath glaring red eyes were visible as the beast strained to pull him close, and then the leather shirt began to tear. Hunter heard the leather ripping as he felt its breath on his face. Struggling with all his might, he measured the incalculable strength surging deep within that bestial chest, the inhuman will to kill, kill—fangs close!

  With a roar Hunter surged back, the shirt ripping at the sides as the beast at last slammed the Marlin out of the way, lashing out for his throat in the same movement. Hunter dropped the rifle and caught the arm by the wrist, digging his fingers hard into the incredible rhino-like skin.

  Arm to arm they struggled, Hunter straining to push the poised taloned hand from his throat. Then, holding tightly to his shirt with its right hand, it hurled itself away from the wall and Hunter’s leg caved.

  In the blast of power Hunter flew toward the wall but his left hand lashed out to smash against a timber, still holding him from the wall at arm’s length. And in a shuddering, straining contest of strength they hung there, only a few timbers separating them as they surged face-to-face— Hunter trying to escape whatever monstrosity of nature was attempting to haul him within reach of those gaping fangs.

  For a spellbinding moment each endured, resisted, and then Hunter felt his strong right arm—the one holding its left arm at bay—losing to the might of something he could never approach, glimpsed the long curving claws coming closer as—

  A white vise of fangs flew up from beneath, smashing against the beast’s right arm with such force that it rocketed off the top timber and down again.

  Hunter saw a furred demon savaging the creature’s bicep, fangs buried deep in muscle and twisting viciously, jerking, tearing with a low roar smothered by the dark flesh.

  Clawing backwards against the wood, Ghost surged with his full weight of incredible strength, seeking to tear the arm from the beast’s shoulder. And for a moment they were fang to fang, red eyes glaring into the wildest untamed black, and Hunter couldn’t tell which was the more savage.

>   Its taloned left hand scraped his neck.

  Straining violently, shuddering with the incredible effort, Hunter pushed it back an inch ...

  Hunter only glimpsed the flash of silver that passed him, barely sensed that it had come from above, descending with a flicker to strike the beast’s right arm. And up it came again in the same flickering movement to hit the arm again and Hunter knew: a sword!

  Yet again the blade descended and the arm was jerked back through the wall. And, understanding instantly, Hunter fast-drew the Bowie at his waist and stabbed upward, viciously plowing the wicked ten-inch blade completely through the forearm so close to his face and saw the red eyes blaze in pain.

  Vengeful, Hunter mercilessly twisted the blade lengthwise, slicing a long twisting path through bone and muscle, and with a terrifying roar the hand released and rocketed back through the gap, tearing its grip from the wolf and vanishing into darkness.

  Hunter was already rolling back as he hit the ground, holding his massive Bowie. His rifle lay on the floor beside the wall and at the moment he couldn’t care. He crawled back gasping for breath, sweating, and collapsed on his back, trying to recover.

  For a moment he knew nothing but red light and the merciful absence of a roaring attack, and it was peace to him. Then Bobbi Jo was there, bent, checking without asking. She moved his torn leather shirt, felt his neck. He heard her voice through a fog: “There’s some deep cuts! Get me my kit!”

  She was shouting encouragement at him, and he was grateful for it. But he could barely hear, with the blood pounding in his ears, the roars still reverberating in his head, adrenaline making his vision blurred and cloudy with sheer fear and exhaustion.

  He took a deep breath; it seemed to help.

  Bobbi Jo had her medical kit unfolded and was working on him delicately. At first he couldn’t feel anything at all. She washed the deep wounds with an antiseptic, and then he felt a faint stinging that was somehow good.

  “Oh, man,” he managed, finally, raising a hand to his head. “How ... bad?”

  She spoke quickly. “It gouged your sternum and your right second rib. No major veins. But very deep cuts. But it’s gonna be all right. It ... I think it was trying for your throat. But you were too quick. You moved before the arm came through the wall.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  He was beginning to recover as she worked on him. He clenched his teeth as he felt her scraping the bone, cleaning. “I have to,” she said gently. “Too great a chance of infection. It’ll only take a minute.”

  As she worked, Hunter glanced toward the wall and saw Takakura, sword in hand, beside Taylor and Wilkenson, a human wall. They stood stoically at ten feet, facing the broken portal, weapons ready. Then Ghost was beside him, sniffing. Hunter looked at the wide black face, the coal-black eyes, and shook his head. He reached out, rubbed the blood-soaked mane of the wolf that had saved him.

  “First you almost get me killed,” he mumbled. “Then you save my life.” He ruffled the gigantic wolf’s mane, looked into the eyes, now gentle and concerned.

  Hunter laughed. “Make up your mind.”

  Chaney bought an afternoon beer in a mall off Pennsylvania Avenue and sat staring glumly at the huge arched copper fountain, pondering. The sudden rain that had blown up from the river had turned the day to doom and gloom. It didn’t help his mood at all.

  Some things fit well, but some of it was wildly out of kilter. Taking a meditative sip, he analyzed it: There were NSA research stations supposedly dedicated to watching seismic activity near the Arctic Circle. Already he didn’t believe that one. Call it gut instinct, professional suspicion, whatever. He didn’t know for certain. He just had a bad feeling about it. And not because it couldn’t be possible, but because it didn’t fit well enough with anything else.

  Nobody was going to kill a ton of soldiers to get into what was basically a glorified radio tower. Not for any reason. Nor were they going to destroy them by running monstrously throughout the entire facility, killing with the ferocity of a lion.

  Second, the street gossip Brick had picked up was right; the biotech stuff backed it up. He thought of the rest.

  All right, there was a hunting party with a professor and a legendary tracker hunting a beast that had decimated some research facilities. And at these facilities, which no one was willing to admit, was a probable experiment in biological or germ warfare. Where this creature came from, or what it was, was still a mystery. Why Hunter was so unimportant was a mystery.

  He knew now that the Agency had never really wanted the hunting team—they had been forced into the procedure by others—and that explained why they were secretly trying to sabotage it. But then that brought it back to ...what? To protect this creature? Which brought him back to ... the secret reason for the installations ...

  “No ... there’s no way,” Chaney muttered, closing his eyes as an idea came to him.

  No, he thought, shaking his head. That’s impossible. They couldn’t have done that. They couldn’t have been that stupid.

  There is no way, his rationality told him, that they had infected, or altered, or in some way changed something, like a bear, with some wild experiments and created this fiasco. But if they had done it, and it was loose, they sure wouldn’t want anyone to know about the disaster, which would explain why they would try and sabotage the hunting party. Nor would they want anyone to know the true nature of the research facilities, which explained the recalcitrance.

  He thought about the cold rationality he had cultivated during twelve years as a Deputy United States Marshal, and he laughed. With a smile, he took another swallow.

  Yeah, he was certain how that would look when he gave it to ol’ Skull: “Well, boss, there’s this mutated son of a bitch up there in Alaska, see, and he’s meaner ‘an a junkyard dog, and that’s what’s killing all these good folks. No, don’t have any proof. And then these guys have this germ warfare gig going... no, don’t have any proof of that, either, but. . .”

  He figured that’d be about as far as he got before Skull threw him out of the office and then out of the service. Then he thought of the murdered colleague of Tipler, Rebecca Tanus.

  It was murder, obviously.

  Only he could never prove it because the strut was so expertly cut. He had stopped by the junkyard just long enough to examine the car, and found what he’d expected. The left front strut had been very carefully filed away until there was only a thread remaining. And on the downhill slope, when the entire weight of the car was centered on that single point, it snapped. Artistic work.

  With a gathering fear, Chaney glanced around. He attempted to appear casual, but felt twice as conspicuous. Shrugging, he sat almost upright, utterly alert.

  Professional hitters. Illegal biological warfare. Some mutant killing people left and right. A hit team that was doomed from day one. Dead folks that shouldn’t be dead.

  He shook his head.

  He should have known it would come to this. It took him awhile before he conceived something even faintly resembling a respectable plan. And he played it out slowly to measure the good and bad, weighing the value of the information he might obtain against the risk he’d have to incur to gain it.

  He knew that, first, he would have to discover what was really going on inside those research stations. That would be the crux, give him something to work with. But to do that he would have to do some very covert work, probably even illegal.

  Then he thought of all the good men that had gone down in this, men who were good soldiers, husbands, fathers. And, as an ex-marine, it affected him.

  His mouth tightened slightly.

  Let’s go get ‘em.

  He was rising as his beeper went off, and he scowled as he looked down. He was on special assignment and shouldn’t be disturbed for anything less than an emergency. Then as he saw the callback he knew that it just mi
ght be an emergency. It was Gina Gilbert at the Tipler Institute.

  He left the mall quickly and walked outside into a hard rain.

  Chapter 13

  Submerged in gloom, he collapsed within a dark leafy silence, holding his hideously injured right arm. The man had stabbed and twisted. He had viciously severed muscle, vein and nerve, and carved into bone.

  He had been so close.

  He snarled with rage as he breathed heavily, truly wounded for the first time. He had never known pain like this, not ever. The rest, the guns, they could not hurt him. But this had hurt him. He did not understand. The fang—the knife, as his mind remembered it—was dangerous.

  It was the same with the wolf.

  The fangs tore through his flesh as bullets and blade never could. His arm ached where the demon had savaged him, and closing eyes to rage, he remembered that great weight straining against him, his shoulder twisting beneath the surging strength and the crushing fangs that numbed his arm and would not let go.

  Yes, oh yes, they would die for this. If he had to track them to the ends of the earth to kill them all, he would do it.

  Once he rejoined his brothers he would return, and together they would destroy them all, eat their brains, and rejoice in the blood. They would hunt them as before, in the night beneath the moon through the shadows of the forest, howls haunting the night as they caught them in the woods and valleys. As they cracked their bones for the marrow and sucked out the delicious black juice.

  He attempted to rise, to return to them, to slay . . .

  Collapsed upon the ground.

  Breathed deeply. Shuddered.

  A red moon ... black lines against sky.

  Almost nothing of what he had been could be remembered, but he did not suffer from it. He was content to be what he had become, content with the killing.

  Yet he remembered another time, a time now dim but still there; a great darkness...something he could not define, could not see ...screams and howls, roars of pain and rage and vengeance and defiance and surrender that died ... the wildness, the purity, the ecstasy ... another hunt, a different hunt. And the weak ones had not been the prey ...