Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  He headed across town toward the installation at Langley, calling Brick on the cell phone to leave a coded message that he would meet him later in the day. He had one other appointment he had to keep—maybe two— before he was finished.

  Somehow, he was looking forward to them.

  ***

  He felt his energy building as he raced to catch up to the team, and then he saw a dark moving speck on the far side of the stream, far up the trail. He moved faster, forsaking absolute silence for speed as he raced through the forest, leaping from boulder to boulder, hurtling fallen trees and vaulting small streams with ferocious strength powered by the sustenance he had consumed.

  The caribou had fallen as if struck by lightning and he had lifted his fist from its shattered skull, his taloned hand groping for a split second to withdraw a ragged portion of the brain, which he had eaten first. Then he had ripped huge chunks of meat from its flanks and consumed them voraciously, growling with primitive pleasure.

  He had not taken long before he noticed his arm healing far more quickly, even the searing scarlet scar fading moment by moment until he was whole again. He could feel his body utilizing the nutrients, strengthening him, making him once again what he had been: the ultimate beast of prey.

  As the sun crested fog-shrouded trees, he had consumed enough and turned, running quickly and with purpose. He had hoped to be there when they emerged from hiding, but he had been moments too late, though it had been easy to discern their tracks. As a precaution, since he had come to more deeply respect the strange man who led at the front, he had crossed the stream to avoid detection.

  Yet as he closed on them, his strength rising to match his rage, he began to lose his fear degree by degree, imagining the man’s blood in his mouth.

  Oh, yes, the man would die, though now he might save him for last. To torment him, to torture him, to make him afraid. Through with the thought, as he placed a broad black hand on a fallen tree that he vaulted without effort, he knew the man would never be truly afraid. No, he would die as the old ones had died, fighting till the last, though they had ultimately died.

  Such glory ...

  Days of blood, nights of cruelty and screams in the dark as they had hunted the weak ones, finding them in the shadowed forest to leap with a scream from above. He remembered the ecstasy of falling, killing before he touched the ground. And then rising slowly, so slowly, to behold their horror, to see the rest run.

  Grinning, he increased his speed.

  ***

  They knelt together before the cleft, and Hunter cast a tired glance at the professor, who was again sound asleep. Hunter was grateful for that. He hoped that when Tipler awoke again, they would be at the clearing where the Blackhawk would airlift them to the last surviving research station.

  Takakura was studying the cleft closely. His dark eyes were narrow as he spoke. “It is the perfect place for an ambush,” he said slowly. “But there is no other path we can take. The rock”—he pointed to the sheer cliff that descended like a wedge to the stream—”blocks any other line of advance. We must take our chances.”

  He turned to look directly at Hunter, but Hunter didn’t acknowledge it. His mind was already inside the cleft, imagining the best method of negotiating that long walk in darkness. For they had lost most of their equipment in the pell-mell of the retreat, often casting off load-bearing vests in the heat of combat so they could move with greater agility and stay alive. But they could have used a major light source. All they had was Hunter’s mini-light. Not enough.

  Hunter stood. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll make some torches,” he said. “We can’t go in there without light.”

  Taylor pulled a machete from his waist. “I’ll help you.”

  He followed Hunter off the trail and into the woods. In minutes they had cut branches of dry pine into sections four feet long that Hunter slivered at one end into twigs as thin as toothpicks. Then he ripped up what remained of his T-shirt into tiny ribbons, stuffing them deep into the thin splinters.

  Hunter had the torches burning in ten minutes, and turned to the rest. “Okay, I think we should stay close. We know bullets don’t hurt it. But a blade will, so this will be face-to-face. We don’t know yet how it really reacts to fire. If it’s more man than beast, the torches could hold it for a second. But it might not. Just tell me, Takakura, if you don’t like anything I’m saying.”

  A curt shake of his head and the Japanese answered, “I disagree with nothing.” He lifted his eyes to the cleft. “We must negotiate the pass. That is all. We will deal with what we must deal with.”

  Again, Hunter was struck by the stoicism, and he remembered what he had read about the code of Bushido: expect nothing—not victory or defeat—and live knowing only death.

  Hunter shook his head silently at the thought. He understood it, and he respected it, but he had found a different path through life. Neither was superior, he thought, as he rose with two torches in each hand, passing them out, but what he had come to know as life embraced life. It wasn’t life focused on death. But that, too, was part of Bushido, the way of the warrior.

  The torch didn’t seem as bright as he stepped into the cave.

  ***

  He had been forced to move more quickly than he had thought possible to get ahead of them, for he had spied the cleft far away, emerging high on a cresting knoll to see the black ribbon stretching down from the cliff.

  He had leaped right, dropping thirty feet to the ground and rising to run through the forest with enormous leaping strides until he reached their stream. There he had launched himself viciously into the air to land catlike on a dry boulder where he had continued his momentum, casting himself high into the air to gain ground on their side. Then he had moved uphill and west, passing them far on the ridge and down again, where he had entered the cavern before them.

  Now he rested on a ledge, breathing heavily from the tremendous exertion but feeling his monstrous body galvanized by the flesh of the beast he had slain. He was strong, stronger by the moment, and a trembling set into his arms and legs, an anticipation of slaying them in the dark as they wandered unknowingly into his path.

  From his narrow view, he had watched the man fashion the torches— the fire—and knew they would bring the fire with them.

  Creeping silently back until he was well out of whatever meager light the pitiful fire would hurl in the narrow rock-walled corridor, he threw back his hideous head and laughed.

  Yes, bring your fire to me ...

  We will see who is afraid ...

  ***

  “Are you Dixon?”

  Special Agent Dixon of the Central Intelligence Agency looked up at the sharp rap on the door, his eyes flicking down to check the valid pass and the United States Deputy Marshal credentials the man casually presented.

  “I’m Dixon.” He rose with the words. “I assume you’re Marshal Chaney.”

  “I’m Chaney. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Dixon smiled, reaching out to shake. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  Chaney had already moved into the room, noticing as he shook hands that Dixon was a typical-appearing career man: white shirt, dark coat, dark tie, short-cut hair swept back, pale from too many hours under fluorescent lights, and eyes that seemed none too friendly. Chaney took a seat opposite him. He had been careful not to bring any notes, nor did he indicate that he would take any.

  Reasons for that were twofold. First, Chaney wanted to scare Dixon, if he were truly involved in the subterfuge. And second, he wanted Dixon’s immediate attention and respect. He had learned that other federal agents who didn’t bother with recordings scared Agency people.

  Chaney settled back into the chair, almost relieved at the atmosphere, though he knew he was on hostile ground.

  With Gina he had been woefully, inadequately out of his league. But here, surrounded by policy and procedure,
rules and regulations and the aura of secrets, clearances, and easy betrayal, he was at home. He waited for a moment, just to see what Dixon would do, measuring the man’s temperament. But Dixon only leaned back and gestured casually.

  “Well, Marshal,” he began, in a cooperative tone, “I’m at your disposal and I’ll help anyway I can. Of course, you’re aware of restraints placed by Article 2453 negating any—”

  “I’m aware, Mr. Dixon.”

  Chaney accented his response with a curt nod to indicate that he wouldn’t allow the direction of his investigation to be derailed by regulations or policy. Nor would he allow his concentration to be distracted by protocol.

  With Dixon, Chaney felt, it was best to play from strength.

  “Ah, good.” Dixon leaned forward, aggressive. “Then how can I help you?”

  Chaney wanted to set the board up clean, so he didn’t hesitate, didn’t use a friendly tone, didn’t couch anything in polite or tactful terminology. “Tell me about these so-called research stations that run under this program from the Arctic Circle,” he began. “The ones where all the soldiers and personnel were injured or killed. I don’t have to tell you that I’m investigating them.”

  Dixon opened his eyes wider and released a deep breath. He shook his head. “Frankly, Marshal, I’m as confused as anyone else. I don’t know what is happening, really. All I know for certain is that the program has suffered setbacks due to the violent interference of some type of animal that is attacking our personnel.”

  “Yeah, I know that much.” Chaney held the CIA man’s eyes, watching for the slightest flicker. “What, exactly, are these stations designed to achieve?”

  “Just geochronology and monitoring of tectonic plate movement.” Dixon was all business. “It’s a simple affair, really. Virtually every major country has some type of research station in the Arctic. Some are in international territory. Ours are on our own turf, in Alaska.” He leaned back, shaking his head with more emphasis. “I can’t really tell you why this bear or tiger or whatever the hell this thing is has singled out the stations. I’ve had people working on it. They say it might be related to radiation, or low-frequency sounds that could be attracting it, but that’s all I can tell you. I’m not a scientist.”

  “Neither am I, Dixon,” Chaney answered, purposefully dropping the “Mr.” Then: “I only know that the information I’ve dug up so far indicates that these ... facilities ... are engaged in something more than seismic monitoring.”

  Dixon tilted his head. “Oh? And how would you reach that conclusion? Because that’s certainly beyond any information that I’ve obtained.”

  “I can’t reveal my sources,” Chaney said, finding faint pleasure in the baiting. “But I believe the stations are engaged in some sort of biological research.”

  There was no hesitation at all in Dixon’s reply. “Really?” He followed with a deliberate pause, as if he were seriously absorbing and considering the weight of it. “I did not know that. Just how accurate do you believe this information is, Mr. Chaney?”

  “Accurate enough. It fits.”

  Silence.

  “I see,” Dixon responded at last. “So ...biological research, you say. Now ... of course, you know I can’t move on that information unless I have corroboration.”

  It was the moment Chaney had been waiting for, but he didn’t know it until it came. “You don’t have to corroborate it. I already have. And I don’t care for you moving on it, either. I’m gonna do that personally.” He leaned slightly forward. “Tell me about this hunting party you have up there, Dixon. Certainly that information is not classified under the Posse Comitates threshold of’ Top Secret and Above! “

  “Well,” Dixon responded, tapping the desk with a pencil, “I believe that they are an elite unit of specially recruited soldiers highly qualified for jungle survival and experienced at hunting both animals and men. They are all experts in small arms, veterans of combat, decorated to a man, or woman, and possessing appropriate security clearances.”

  It was just what Chaney had expected to hear; there had been no mention of this man named Hunter.

  “What about the guide?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Nathaniel Hunter.”

  “Oh, yes.” Dixon waved vaguely. “According to those who selected him for the mission, he is the best wilderness tracker, as they call it, in the world. Seems like he can find anything in the jungle, the forest, the desert, wherever, and capture it or kill it. I didn’t have the responsibility of verifying his credentials, so I really have no idea. Nor did I select him. That was beyond my pay grade.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Oh, yes, but only for a moment. And it wasn’t the type of engagement where you can make a studied analysis.” Dixon’s face and eyes revealed nothing. He could have been reciting a laundry list. Chaney was impressed. “But in the few moments I shared with him,” Dixon continued, “I came to appreciate his understanding of these things. I had no objection to allowing him on the team. We did, after all, need someone who could hunt this bear down and kill it before it caused further damage to the program.”

  “You keep saying that.” Chaney didn’t blink.

  Seemingly surprised, Dixon looked straight at him, innocent. “Saying what, Mr. Chaney?”

  “Saying it was a bear.”

  Dixon blinked, studious. “Well, what else could it be? Unless a tiger swam the Bering Strait—unlikely—then it would have to be a bear. I have, after all, read reports on the attacks.” He shook his head, a jerk. “The loss was ...horrendous. Nor am I a man easily disturbed by carnage. It is my profession to remain dispassionate and unaffected by such things. They color judgment. But upon reading the descriptions of such wholesale murder, I knew that we were facing a beast of incalculable strength. As only a bear would possess. And a rather large member of its species, at that.”

  Chaney decided to change tack; this was going nowhere. He decided to fall back on one of Brick’s oldest rules: when lying doesn’t work at all, try using half the truth. Just remember to always mix it with enough lies to keep them off balance.

  “Do you believe this creature might be a mutation?” he asked.

  Dixon gazed at him, open and honest. “Mutation?” He let the question hang. “Well, Mr. Chaney, I believe I already told you that I don’t know anything about any ... mutations or experimentation ... at those stations. However, I do not rule out the supposition. I have been in intelligence too long to doubt any concept, however illogical and bizarre it may seem.”

  “Is it bizarre?” Chaney said, deciding he wasn’t going to let up. “What would be so bizarre? ‘Cause these stations are perfect for it. They’re isolated, easy to quarantine. The area is largely unpopulated, and far beyond executive supervision. Anything is possible in those backwoods, especially if the U.S. government is picking up the tab. Surely, Dixon, you’re aware of that.”

  Dixon was nodding. “Yes, yes, Mr. Chaney, I am aware of the theory, and the history, of similar events. But that is not to say that I will believe it unless I have incontestable proof to present to my supervisors. They are not men ...who suffer fools. And they consider anyone who makes an unconfirmed estimation of a crisis as an ignorant man—the kind of agent that is never promoted or trusted.”

  Chaney’s eyes were focused like lasers, unblinking and sharp. “Have you investigated to see whether there were other forms of research beyond seismic monitoring occurring at these stations?”

  He nodded. “Yes, according to policy our sanitation crew always performs analysis on disks, records, logs, and military reports. We operated according to the procedure, and found nothing to convince me that there were anything but legitimate tasks being performed by the personnel and their on-site supervisors.”

  “I want to see the records.”

  “That is not possible.”

  “I ca
n obtain a subpoena.”

  “Well,” Dixon replied, “you must do as you see fit, Mr. Chaney. But I assure you that those records, which are highly classified, will reveal nothing to you.” He paused. “If you are insistent I can ask the director for permission, and perhaps in three or four days you can peruse the less classified sections.”

  Chaney knew not to go for that one. In three days they could manufacture any kind of false records about the activities of the installations. Then he remembered what Brick had said about realigning a satellite and decided instantly. He moved to the heart of the situation.

  “I want to make contact with this hunting team.”

  “Impossible.” Absolute certainty in the terse reply.

  “Why?”

  “Because we cannot reach them.”

  Dixon looked at him as if he were content to let the silence linger forever. Chaney tilted his head, almost unable to believe that the team had been totally cut off from support. But he knew it in his soul.

  “What did you just say?” was all he could phrase.

  “I said, Mr. Chaney, that we have lost contact with the ...the hunting party ... as you term them.” Dixon leaned forward. “Under law I am obligated to remind you of your secrecy pact. What I’m about to tell you requires the highest clearance.”

  Chaney said nothing.

  “We lost contact with them two days ago,” Dixon continued blandly. “They advised us that they were beginning the hunt, leaving the installation. And later that day when we attempted a status check, we received no reply. This ...beast...was in the area, by last reports. It is quite possible, even probable, that they are all dead.” No betrayal of remorse. “We launched an air search and have yet to turn them up, even though we’ve used infrared and starlight scopes. So at the moment we are debating our next move.”

  “So, I suppose, you’ve fortified the last installation?”

  “Absolutely. We have doubled the Ranger contingent, now at almost seventy men. We have increased voltage in the perimeter fence and reinforced external doors. Plus, we have backed up all information at the station in case of attack. Nothing that has been recorded, including an illegal underground nuclear blast performed by the Soviet Union three months ago, shall be lost in an attack.”