Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Hunter said nothing, holding the professor’s stare.

  He didn’t really know what to say, except that he believed the old man’s theory. Nor was he certain what the next course of action should be, since the professor was clearly too ill for an air transport. In a full-blown emergency, Hunter would risk it, but only then. Because the old man’s heart would probably not endure the strain. Then Tipler relieved him of the burden of reply.

  “Fantastic science is often difficult to believe, my friends.” He lowered his head slightly, staring between them—at nothing. “But one tenet is certain: some things do not belong to man. And changing the fabric of humanity—the very stuff of which man is made—is a task best left to God.”

  Releasing a deep breath, Hunter stood off from the wall, met Takakura’s glancing eyes. Focused again on Tipler. “Professor,” he began gently, “you can’t be moved. You said you want to leave, but to move you now might precipitate another—”

  “I know what you are thinking, Nathaniel.” He raised a hand. “But this is what I surmise. This creature, it will come. Probably tonight. Because it has been methodically assaulting these facilities, one after another which, in turn, means there is something it is searching for – something its human mind still seeks. And when it comes, it will leave no living thing in its wake. So anyone deciding to remain will be in grave danger with nightfall.”

  Hunter leaned closer. “Professor, I’m not leaving. I’m staying here because you have to stay here. So is Ghost. And these other people aren’t going to abandon the facility either. They think they can defeat it and ...I don’t know ...maybe they can. They’re heavily armed with high-caliber rifles, and this facility is far more secure than the others. It won’t be easy for that thing to get in here.”

  Glancing at the rest of them, Hunter continued, “I’m gonna find out what’s so special about this place, Professor. And I will be here until I can get you out. Takakura and Bobbi Jo have my respect, no matter what decision they make.”

  “I’m staying,” said Bobbi Jo squarely.

  Takakura didn’t even reply. His chiseled face and resolute gaze said it for him.

  “Yes,” Tipler responded. “Just as I presumed.” He shook his head lightly. “Sometimes it is unfortunate to possess strong faculties for anticipation. It makes life so much more painful. But, nevertheless, this creature is coming, and each of you will be forced to battle it once more. So you must make yourselves ready, and remove my welfare from your mind so that you are not distracted. In contest against such a beast, who has already decided what it will do and is moving upon that impulse while you are debating the proper reaction, you can tolerate no hesitation. No fear. No mercy. You must become just as merciless, just as instinctive. Equally as animal. And you must accomplish all this without losing your faculties of higher reason, which may yet defeat it. Yes, you must be what it has become, and more, in order to destroy it.”

  Bobbi Jo stepped from the wall and laid a hand on his. Her smile was radiant. “That’s okay, Professor. We’re ready for it. You just rest and leave the killing to us.” She winked. “Hell, that’s what I look forward to!”

  A slight raising of his eyes and Tipler made a compassionate sound—something between agreement and amusement. His voice was raspy when he replied, “Leave the killing to you – yes, it is beyond me now. But I wonder ... What destroyed this creature before, for surely stood at the top of the ecosystem, virtually without enemies. And yet it was, somehow, wiped from the face of the Earth overnight. I wonder: What could have been its doom?”

  Hunter said nothing, because he had nothing to say. But he raised his eyes to gaze out the window and measure the sun’s dying arc. He didn’t have much time to prepare, so he reached out and laid a strong hand on the professor’s shoulder.

  “Get some rest, Professor,” he said confidently. “We’re ready for it. And ...it’s like you said; something killed this thing before. Something can kill it again.”

  ***

  Takakura and Bobbi Jo entered the Armory after preliminary identification was made according to rules and regulations. Takakura wore jungle fatigues but Bobbi Jo had switched to solid-black BDUs. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and she wore dark glasses to prepare her eyes for night vision; the less light she perceived between now and dusk, the sharper her eyesight would be in shadows.

  Takakura’s eyes raked the weapons as the master sergeant looked on, waiting. Finally, the Japanese spoke. “Give me the M-14 on the wall, the one with a Kreiger heavyweight barrel, a belt for ten twenty-round magazines and a .45 with four extra clips.”

  The sergeant laid them out on the counter. The M-14, a preferred weapon of navy SEALs because of its accuracy and formidable stopping power with the .308 round, was almost a work of art.

  “It’s glass bedded with a titanium firing pin for faster contact,” the sergeant said easily. “And the .45 is broken in. You won’t have any trouble with either of them.”

  Saying nothing, Takakura lifted the weapon and cleared it. He inserted an empty clip and removed it. “Where can I practice with it before nightfall?”

  “Got a firing range at the back of the base. It’s supposed to give one minute of angle at a hundred yards. That’s as far as the course goes. You want a scope?”

  “The eyes which I possess are sufficient,” Takakura muttered, outfitting himself with belts, clips, strapping the .45 on with a thigh holster. When he was finished, Bobbi Jo said simply, “I need thirty .50-caliber rounds loaded hot for the Barrett. Seven extra clips. And give me a cleaning and gauging kit.”

  “No problem,” the sergeant replied, and in a minute they were ready.

  “I will meet you at the range ,” Takakura said to her. “I do not go into battle with an untested weapon.”

  “I’ll meet you in a half hour.” Bobbi Jo placed the ammo and clips and kit into a small duffel. “I’ve got to clean and oil the Barrett and gauge the headspace and scope mount. I think all the jostling has it out of alignment.”

  “Very well. I will await you. After we check the weapons we must prepare for tonight.”

  “How much time till sundown?”

  “Three hours.”

  “That’s enough. Thirty minutes.”

  As the big Japanese vanished out the door, Bobbi Jo scanned the racks for anything that might penetrate the creature’s bullet-resistant skin. “What did the other team member, Taylor, acquisition?” she asked, unable to find anything that might prove useful.

  “The big guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The one with the scar on his face?”

  “Yes,” she replied, slightly perturbed. “Do you remember what he took?”

  Lifting a clipboard, the sergeant loosed a long whistle. “Man,” he began, “that mother cleaned us out. He got fifty depleted uranium twelve-gauge shotgun rounds, took the only .50-caliber Desert Eagle we had in stock and forty rounds for it. Then he checked out ten antipersonnel grenades.” He looked up, fear in his eyes.

  Bobbi Jo was reminded that the team, and what had happened to it, was not a secret among the rangers. By now, everyone would know that this thing had almost wiped them out in the mountains. She had noticed that everyone on the base was very heavily armed with large-bore rifles and handguns. Just like the master sergeant, who wore a .45 in a shoulder holster, another one in a hip holster.

  Beside him, leaning against the wall against regulation, was a World War II Garand, probably the most powerful self-loading battle rifle ever designed. Yeah, everybody knew what had happened to them, and the rest of the stations. This place, if it went down at all, would go down hard and slow.

  “Is this gonna be bad as all that?” the sergeant asked, his eyes narrowing.

  Bobbi Jo paused, a frown lowering the edges of her mouth. She didn’t look up as she nodded. “Worse than you can imagine.” Then she looked at him. �
��And that old Garand ain’t gonna help you, Sarge, if you want to know.”

  He was shocked.

  “Well, what will?” he asked nervously.

  She shook her head.

  “Prayer.”

  The sergeant’s mouth hung open.

  Bobbi Jo turned away. “Save the last one for yourself. You don’t want it to get its hands on you while you’re still alive.”

  Dr. Hamilton stood outside the glassed-in ICU, staring at the sleeping form of Dr. Tipler. The old man was completely unconscious and heavily sedated so his blood pressure and breathing could be more carefully regulated.

  Moving his hand slowly, a smile creasing his face, Dr. Hamilton carefully removed the syringe from his right pocket, feeling the plastic safety cap.

  It would be over quickly, and no one would know, he told himself. He would simply inject the experimental serum into the professor’s IV and then wait, observing the results. If the serum was perfectly isolated from the receptors and transmitter genes that caused monstrous mutation, then the professor’s health would improve immediately. If not, then the genetic transformation would require that they kill the old man. It would be the loss of a human life, but a significant gain for science. Nor did he have any compunctions against sacrificing a few for the greater good of others. Namely himself.

  When the serum was perfected, they would never release it to the masses, to the world. No, they would conceal its greatness in the corridors of power, where those who were chosen could become immune to disease and decay and even death.

  Yes, it would be easy to build unconquerable power in such a time, to gain control over entire continents, living from century to century consolidating forces, laying plans and pursuing them with cunning determination to actualize a kingdom without peer in history.

  Moving through the almost abandoned ICU—a single nurse sat at the monitor desk recording vital signs and making notations—Dr. Hamilton approached the room where Tipler lay sleeping. He nodded to the nurse and she smiled, returning to her work. She would notice nothing, so quickly would he work, and then time would be his only enemy because he did not know how long it would be before the serum assimilated the indigenous DNA.

  The creature might, indeed, penetrate the compound and kill many. It might even be sufficiently powerful to shatter the steel portals above and massacre those within the facility, but his team would be well beyond its demonic reach within the vault.

  With soft steps—he did not know why he was moving with such stealth because the old man was sound asleep—Hamilton entered the room where he lay and with his thumb carefully removed the plastic cover on the syringe.

  Four seconds ... that’s all I need ... four seconds ...

  He reached up to grasp the IV and found the injection port. He was smiling as he—

  A blackness moving silently and quickly around the foot of the bed, a wild shape low and massive, made Hamilton turn and gasp as he saw a huge dog head leading a gigantic body. He took the sight in at once; black eyes blazing over shockingly white fangs already distended, ears standing straight and hackles rising on broad, thick shoulders. Huge and powerful, it stood solidly before him. An ungodly subterranean growl made the tiles tremble.

  Already sweating and trembling, Hamilton backed away, attempting to call for a nurse but again found that he had no voice.

  “Good ... good God,” Hamilton whispered, hands trembling violently. “I ...my God ...” He patted the air, slow and careful. “Stay, boy ... Stay! ... Good dog!”

  It didn’t move.

  The opaque eyes glowed like a leopard’s.

  Finally, since it had not killed him outright, Hamilton realized that it might not, and he found the courage to reach over and quietly press the switch summoning the nurse. In a moment she was at the door.

  She focused on the wolf.

  “Ghost!” she said sternly.

  Not immediately, but within a minute, the wolf backed away the slightest bit, though the uncanny eyes never left Hamilton. The small retreat returned some of his courage. “Nurse,” he managed, trying not to appear overly rattled, “what . . .just what ... is that dog doing in the intensive care unit?”

  “Orders, sir.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “The orders of Colonel Maddox, sir.”

  Hamilton paused, taking deep breaths. “Is there some reason, I ask you, why the colonel ordered you to violate hospital safety standards and endanger your job by allowing a dog into ICU?”

  “It’s a wolf, sir.”

  “I don’t give a damn what it is!” He glared at her. “What is a dog or wolf or whatever it is doing in ICU?”

  A commando appeared in the door behind the nurse; a woman heavily armed with her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed in black fatigues, two pistols on her belt and a massive black rifle slung from a shoulder. She stared at Hamilton.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “No,” Hamilton said sternly. “You cannot help me. I will speak to the colonel of this intrusion of the ICU and this blatant violation of hospital procedure.”

  “Ghost,” she said, looking at the wolf. “Down.”

  Ghost didn’t remove his eyes from Hamilton. And Hamilton seemed to know without doubt that if he moved one inch toward the old man, he would die horribly.

  “Ghost!” the commando repeated. “Down!”

  The wolf didn’t move.

  Her eyes narrowed on the great black form. “He doesn’t like you, Doctor.”

  Hamilton’s face twisted in true fear. “I am the senior medical staff member at this facility ... uh ...”

  “Lieutenant,” she said.

  “Lieutenant,” he provided. “Yes, well, Lieutenant, I am the senior medical supervisor at this facility, and I will instruct you that if that animal is not immediately restrained, I shall have him shot.” He reached out, slowly, to grasp the phone.

  Ghost growled.

  “You would do well to restrain him,” he added in a low, non-threatening tone, “before the guards arrive.”

  Bobbi Jo measured the raised hackles, the growl that continued to make the air shudder. For whatever reason, Ghost was fully aroused and she didn’t know why.

  “No, Doctor,” she replied with the faintest worry, “I think it’s a very bad idea to touch him right now.”

  The commandos eyes watched him closely as he dialed the phone. She looked at Ghost again, slight fear in her eyes. “Ghost!” she said sternly, “Go lie down! Go lie down, boy! Do it now!”

  Ghost stood unmoving.

  Hamilton spoke quietly into the phone and then hung up. His gaze switched between the two of them and he managed a thin smile. “Do not worry, Lieutenant. I have summoned someone to help with this situation. They should be here in thirty seconds. And they will promptly kill this animal.”

  A squad came through the door with rifles ready. Bobbi Jo jerked her head and saw six of them, fully armed with M-16’s, running to Tipler’s cubicle and sighting Ghost still poised.

  She didn’t move from the doorway and felt a wave of panic. As they reached the door she lowered her head to the side.

  “Stand fast. Sergeant,” she said. “I’m senior officer here.”

  “But ...”

  “But nothing!” Bobbi Jo shouted. “I’m senior officer! Get Maddox on the horn and do it now!”

  The sergeant, a powerfully built soldier with the emblem of the 82nd Airborne sewn onto his left arm, stared at the wolf and jerked his head hard to the side. “Do as she says!” he ordered another guard and the soldier was instantly on the radio, calling for Maddox.

  Then another form parted the soldiers like a ship slicing through water. Without announcement or permission Hunter boldly entered the cubicle and Bobbi Jo turned her head at the approach.

  He passed her without a word. H
e didn’t ask questions and paid no attention to the soldiers as he reached Ghost and grabbed the huge wolf by the scruff of the neck, forcibly pulling him back.

  Ghost strained against the granite physical control for the briefest moment and Hunter bent, eye to eye with the wolf, before he spoke in an imperious tone: “No!”

  Ghost did not move, so Hunter lifted him from the floor by the scruff of the neck and moved him to the foot of the bed. Then Hunter pointed at him, locking eyes.

  “Stay there! Stay!”

  Glaring at Hamilton, the wolf growled once more and shook its head in frustration.

  Without a wasted second, Hunter approached Hamilton and stood in amused silence. He noticed the syringe, still exposed, in Hamilton’s trembling hand. Then he reached out, slowly removing it from his grip. Eyes narrowing, Hunter raised it before his face, studying the amber-colored liquid.

  “What you got here, Doc?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “It is something for pain.”

  “Really?” Hunter smiled, glancing at Tipler. “The professor doesn’t look like he’s in too much pain right now.” The smile faded. “Maybe I’ll keep this for later.”

  “And you are qualified to make such a medical judgment?” Hamilton’s force of personality was instantly enlarged. “For this interference in the treatment of a trauma victim I could have you forcibly removed from this facility. I could even, if I so chose, have you locked up in the brig.”