Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  Yes, it was the discovery of the century, but it had not been for science.

  It had never been for science.

  Hunter knew they would be landing soon and reviewed what Maddox had told him about the support team.

  It had been an informal and enigmatic briefing, the colonel volunteering as little as possible. But Hunter had gleaned enough to know that this Special Response Team wasn't standard military. Maddox had said, in a rather strange tone, that it was out of the CMC—the Central Military Commission—which was an operational center under the authority of the National Security Agency.

  The CMC, he learned, was the only federal agency not restricted by Posse Comitatus—a doctrine that prevented the government from using U.S. military forces for active missions on American soil without congressional approval. That alone to Hunter was intriguing and distinctly disturbing. For some reason, it seemed, they were afraid this might require active military mobilization. And that didn't make sense.

  Even stranger, this hunting party seemed bizarre. Hunter had perceived that much when he asked if this was a singularly American event. And Dixon, eyes hidden, had replied with even more vagueness that it was a unique team assembled from half a dozen nations. In essence, he said, they had recruited professional soldiers who were reputed to be highly trained at hunting not only men but animals as well.

  Hunter hadn't pushed it. He suspected already that anything Dixon said was a lie. Even asking him a question indicated a lessening of awareness. Then it was intriguing how Maddox had seemed to spend an excessive amount of time assuring Hunter that helicopter transports would be on constant standby in case of a disaster.

  Hunter grunted as he recalled it. Sure seemed like they were spending more time preparing for a disaster than for success.

  Rousing himself, Ghost sat and turned his huge wedged head for a brief moment before locking on Hunter. With unnatural alertness the wolf then scanned the empty cargo hold before it blinked, yawning.

  Hunter wrapped an arm about the huge neck, feeling the iron strength locked deep as the stone of a mountain in the dark frame, and laughed. He turned his face away as Ghost tried to nuzzle him with his huge black nose.

  "Lie down," Hunter laughed again. "I don't want your big ol' nose in my face." He nudged the wolf away. "Go on. Go on, now. Lie down. We ain't there yet. It'll be soon enough."

  With the distinct impression of great weight, the wolf settled on the tarp. His eyes, wide-open now and as black as his mane, stared into the sixty-foot cargo hold, always alert.

  Despite his self-confidence, Hunter felt safer knowing this great beast was with him, a bodyguard that never truly slept. Even when Ghost was asleep, which was rare, nothing could approach him without his acute senses bringing him to his feet.

  Hunter had researched wolves after he adopted the cub and discovered that wolves were very much different from dogs or even coyotes. For one thing, far more of a wolf's brain was dedicated to hearing and vision.

  Not only could they hear ranges far greater than any other animal except a cat, they also had the ability to purposefully block particular sounds that they didn't care to hear. It was an incredible natural endowment, as was their sense of smell—the scent pad within their snout was so large that, if removed and unfolded, it could cover their entire head. And their night vision was superior to every mammal but a bat, a necessary faculty for hunting at night that wolves were prone to do. But the most amazing ability of wolves, and what truly separated them, was their ability to hunt by either sight or scent, or both, simultaneously.

  Most creatures depended upon one faculty or the other, sight or sound, to hunt prey; it was instinctive. But wolves could, and would, switch in the middle of a hunt from scent to sight, or back again. And they were the ultimate hunters—once they locked onto prey they wouldn't stop until they were successful. But Ghost was special even for a gray wolf. One of his distinctions was his strength, incredible by any standard. Another was his size.

  Hunter knew from experience that most wolves were remarkably lean and limber because excess body weight diminished their ability to go for days and weeks without sustenance. But Ghost, by genetic design and perhaps partially because of the care Hunter had given him since birth, was far more muscular than the average wolf, almost overpoweringly muscular. His shoulders swelled with thick muscle, as did his flanks. And his neck was like corded iron humped behind a massive wedged head. Gingerly, Hunter reached out in the half light of the cargo hold and felt for the closed fangs, and Ghost lowered his head. Then Hunter touched the incisors—they were thick as a boar's tusks, sharp and set deep in hardened bone, and Hunter remembered when he had taken the wolf on a track last year in British Columbia.

  Hunter had eventually found the tourists deep in the Kispiox Wilderness but it had been a difficult four-day track. The couple, not having the simple presence of mind to just bed down, conserve energy, and wait for help, had wandered dumbly, burning up precious calories in the cold and forcing Hunter to begin foraging to maintain his own energy level. He finally found them and called for a medical helicopter, but then Ghost had vanished.

  Concerned, Hunter had tracked the wolf into a tall stand of birch to find Ghost squared off against another wolf—a large gray alpha, leader of the pack.

  A bull elk had been brought down by the pack, and the alpha, by definition as leader, would eat first. But Ghost would have none of it. He waded in, and the alpha warned him off. Then Ghost emitted an ungodly growl that made even Hunter feel a thrill of fear, and the alpha attacked.

  Ghost evaded the first lightning-quick lunge, struck a shoulder on the larger wolf and was gone again before it could react. And for an amazingly long and savage battle it was blow for blow, Ghost retreating and attacking, leaping and striking with feral fury.

  Hunter watched in fascination as they joined in combat for six hours, neither surrendering, neither striking a mortal wound until Ghost finally slashed a crimson brand that savaged the alpha's neck and the gray wolf fell to a knee. But there was no mercy. Not now.

  Ghost moved in, slowly at first, and then, in a movement too quick to follow, hit again, and there was a flare of blood, and the alpha lay deathly still. Ghost stood only a moment over the carcass before he went tiredly to the elk and began to feed.

  The other wolves let him feast until he was done. Then, as he turned his back and moved away, the rest of them moved in and devoured what was left.

  Hunter never forgot the episode, or the awesome, utter savagery Ghost had embodied. It had been a display of the purest primal fury, truly awesome in its power and awesome in its ferocity.

  Hungry as he was, Hunter didn't interrupt as Ghost fed alone, though afterwards he fired a shot into the air to drive off the pack. Then he moved in cautiously beneath the uncaring gaze of Ghost to cut several large steaks from the hindquarter.

  He ate one raw, cooked another, then air-dried twenty pounds of jerky for the long journey back. And by cutting off one of the massive legs, stripping the skin at the socket, and tying it back to the hoof, he made an efficient shoulder strap of raw meat—enough to sustain the wolf until they reached the Ranger base.

  The forest, all that was in this land, would completely consume what remained of the elk; nothing was wasted.

  Hunter had often thought of the incident, wondering what savage pride had driven Ghost to continue the fight. But, from the first day, it was clear that he would die before he walked away.

  Hunter smiled as he reached out to ruffle Ghost's mane once more but noticed the wolf was staring away intently, as if perceiving a slowly approaching threat. Suddenly sensitive, Hunter turned his head to gaze into the cargo hold. But he saw nothing.

  Nothing but darkness.

  ***

  Standing half-naked in the shadowed gloom, he was amazed that he could not remember his name.

  Faintly troubled by it, he slowly raised his hands before his face, frowning slightly, for they were slightly different than before. They were wi
der, thicker, and tipped with what remained of claws. The transformations were lasting longer, and taking longer to fade, he thought. But that was something to be expected. Soon, he assumed, they might not fade at all. That was well with him; he had grown to prefer that superior state of being—that matchless measure of might that he alone enjoyed.

  No, never again would he be one of them—the weak, the puny, the prey. No, he would forever enjoy a higher realm of existence—a physical glory not seen on the Earth for ten thousand years, and which he alone possessed.

  Strangely, though he could not remember his name, he remembered so much else. To test himself, he attempted to recall everything he knew about the alien DNA he had injected into his body.

  Electrophoresis, he remembered clearly, had categorized the recombinant DNA as ninety-nine percent Homo sapiens. Yet it was the one percent that had demanded their attention and launched the first stage of the experiment.

  An aggressive immunity to every disease tested against it had been discovered in that DNA, which contained the very building blocks of life. It was like a battery able to recharge endlessly. Yes, there was not just life, but virtual eternal life hidden within.

  For death, he well knew, was simply the aging of cells—a progressive mutation of the body until the cells could simply no longer reproduce. But this creature, Homo scimitar, was not cursed with such a fate as modern man. Although the DNA hinted that there was ultimately an end to the recombinant strength, it was at a level far beyond modern Homo sapiens. Yes, this Lord of the North had possessed a life span of hundreds and hundreds of years. Theoretically, he realized that a thousand years was not beyond hope.

  Although the true biochemical essence of its phenomenal longevity was, despite their calculations, a mystery, its immunity system had been readily understood.

  A breakdown of the coding had revealed the astonishing level of restrictive enzymes that prevented a foreign agent, like a virus or bacteria, from infecting and interfering with the host DNA. Literally billions of various restrictive enzymes were locked in the helix, a clear indication that this creature had been as invulnerable to virus and bacteria as he was to age—a superior species from a superior realm.

  Then the time came to see if the DNA could be copied in modern homo-sapiens. And after performing his own series of tests, he had decided to experiment on himself.

  He never even debated his right to inject himself with the coding. He knew that, if successful, he would share those superhuman qualities, and he had judged the potential triumph worth the risk. His motives had not been pure, nor did he care. What he wanted for himself was justification enough for his actions.

  But he had not anticipated the transformation to be so overpowering. And he could even now feel the strength growing again, flexing solid muscle that was increasing moment by moment. He could even sense the increasing bone density in his arms and chest and legs, and realized he would soon change again.

  He did not know what had compelled his rampage on that first night when he changed within the chamber. He only remembered a dim transposing of visions, screaming faces and hands raised in appeal as his own hands—black claws there—swept left and right with the scarlet world falling before him. Then morning had come and he was himself, in his own mind and with his own eyes.

  And after the next research team arrived, replacing those he had massacred so joyfully in his rampage, he had felt it building within him again and knew without question that, when night came, he would be as he had been.

  And he was.

  They screamed when the steel door exploded before his blow, and a cloud of concrete dust arose as the deep-set bolts were ripped from the wall.

  It was a single thunderous impact of his forearm, smashing down with the irresistible force of a wrecking ball that reduced the concrete to chalk and laid the steel flat before him. Then he saw them through the familiar red haze. He saw them backing away in horror, screaming, always screaming.

  And he had roared in among them.

  But on that second occasion, everything was clearer, and he gained bestial satisfaction from the sheer exultation, the uncontainable exultation of his omnipotent power.

  Yes, he smiled.

  Like a god on the earth.

  Nothing could stop him.

  Nothing ...

  He knew in that moment that he could bring down a charging rhinoceros with the strength of his arms, that he could kill anything living—anything—with the massive might and claws that found no resistance in earthly substance. It was the best of all worlds; human cunning, the fierce blood of the beast, and prehistoric power. But then his human mind was fading, he knew, with each changing. And the changes were becoming more frequent, the beast slowly overcoming what he had been until he would be man no more. He thought of it a moment, and decided he did not care.

  Whatever he had been no longer mattered. Tests no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but the power, the endless life, and the freedom to kill, and kill, and kill.

  ***

  It was midday when Hunter climbed off the plane. Standing stiffly in the bay, he stretched for a moment. Then he hoisted his small pack, shouldered the Marlin and, looking out, saw Maddox dressed in a camouflage uniform walking toward the ramp.

  Authoritative but more casual than anticipated, the lieutenant colonel stopped and clasped his hands behind his back, nodding. Hunter saw a pistol holstered at his waist and glanced at the grip: a Colt .45 semi-auto. Standard army issue for World War II.

  " 'Afternoon, Colonel," Hunter said as he walked slowly down the ramp, Ghost close beside him.

  Maddox's expression altered slightly when he saw the wolf but he had the fortitude not to display the barely controlled nervousness of their first encounter. Still, his eyes shifted jerkily, as he tried to watch Ghost as well as Hunter.

  "Welcome to the base, Mr. Hunter. How was your flight?"

  " 'Bout like the rest," Hunter replied as he scanned the facility, observing with a wide, unfocused vision. It was a method he'd perfected in the forest, reading everything at once, concentrating on nothing in particular. If something important appeared, instinct or reflex would lock his gaze on it.

  This place required no reflex or instinct to see what was important. The compound resembled a battle post more than a research station. Within a high wire-mesh fence sat six Blackhawk helicopters, all armed with rocket pods and M-60's hung from bungee cord in the open bays.

  Squinting, Hunter counted eight Light Personnel Carriers—heavily armored vehicles mounted with deadly 25mm Bushmaster cannons. There were at least fifteen Humvees, each carrying an M-60 machine gun mounted on the roof, and maybe six personnel trucks. Hunter estimated at least sixty personnel, which was a lot for a research station. Tin-domed winter huts were set well within the compound in a tight square, and there was a single-level tin structure about two acres in size that was reminiscent of Arctic research outposts located farther north. Yeah, Hunter thought, they were expecting to be attacked soon. He could almost smell the fear in the wind.

  Expressionless, he looked at the colonel.

  "We have a briefing at twenty hundred hours," Maddox said pleasantly. "Would you like to rest?"

  Hunter gently grabbed Ghost by the scruff of the neck. "A little food would be fine, Colonel," he said.

  "Ah, very well. The commissary remained open for you and the crew. Please." Maddox gestured.

  It caused slight consternation at the commissary when Hunter requested thirty pounds of raw meat for Ghost, but Maddox smoothed it over. And before he himself ate, Hunter stationed Ghost outside the door with a shank of beef, knowing the wolf would eat it through the long day and night, storing up for a time when food might be scarce.

  It was a wolf's way, he had learned, to eat continuously on prey for a period of a day and night, knowing it might not eat again for as much as a week. So, leaving Ghost in view, Hunter listened to Maddox expound on the importance of the mission.

  "Here we cannot speak plainly," the
lieutenant colonel said in a low tone. "But make no mistake. We have assembled the best support team in the world. Every conceivable emergency is anticipated. All you are required to do is...well, what you do best. Track."

  Hunter, chewing slowly on a steak, cast a glance at Ghost to ensure that no one was approaching him—an unlikely event in any case. He saw several soldiers standing about fifty feet away, staring with fear and curiosity. But he doubted anyone would bother him, which would be a tragic mistake. Suddenly Maddox raised his head and Hunter sensed a presence. He heard the voice and turned to see a short, square, white-haired figure behind him.

  Dr. Tipler was dressed like he was going on safari, hands stuffed deeply in the pockets of a well-worn fishing vest. The chain of a pocket watch dipped on the right side. He was smiling broadly.

  Hunter laughed as he stood, embracing the old man.

  "Ah," Tipler said," 'tis good to see you again, boy." He patted Hunter's powerful shoulder with a pale hand, standing close. "I heard about Manchuria. Were you injured at all?"

  Hunter had not had an opportunity to speak with the professor since returning from Manchuria, where he had narrowly escaped death after being trapped in a cavern by two Siberian tigers fighting for territory. Caught between them as they raged through the cave in battle, Hunter survived only because they had killed each other in the conflict.

  Hunter shook his head. "No, I didn't get hit by either of them. But.. . I guess it came close."

  "Well, good." The old man nodded with satisfaction. "Yes, all very good." He noticed that Hunter had ceased eating. "Here now, sit down and eat, my boy. Please finish your meal. It might be the last time for a while that we might enjoy a calm moment of relaxation." He continued as Hunter took a bite. "So, what of the resemblance?"