Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  His best hope of picking up a track, he presumed, would be in the woods, in finding its mind through its approach. But if there were tracks inside the facility he might learn something of its habits. As he neared the door he saw a portal of solid steel blasted from the hinges by some incredible velocity of force. It was split widely at the top, as if struck by a foot-wide ax.

  Carefully Hunter bent close to the ground, studying, but all the footsteps led away from the door. His jaw hardened.

  Yeah, those who had fled the facility had obliterated whatever he might have discovered. Rising, he moved inside, turning back and raising a hand to indicate that no one should follow. Then he entered the shrouded darkness alone.

  The scent of blood was everywhere, permeating the atmosphere, seeming to replace the air. Hunter bent, staring into the gloom. He sniffed, releasing a bit of the animal instinct within him. His eyes narrowed into the distant dark, but he sensed nothing. Only a cold scent of rusty copper hovered in the dead blackness.

  Red lights flickered in the distance, and the scent of smoke was stronger there. And for a long time Hunter stood, staring at nothing, at everything, feeling the atmosphere, letting it speak to him.

  Then he tried to imagine what he himself would have done if he were attacking, killing, slaughtering—something not completely alien from the wild animal side he had been born with and had cultivated through the years, yet kept in check.

  Though he never fully released the animal within, he never forgot it was there, so much stronger in him than in most. And sometimes, in a long track, with the wind in his face and the cold and the wild surrounding him as he was running free, he felt it rise up, more alive than he was himself. But it was the part of him that he would never let go.

  His enormous success in business, his wealth, his skills were a valued part of his life, but they were not his heart. No, the heart of his life would always be here, and free, where he was hunting and hunted ... at home.

  Scowling, he turned his mind to the task.

  He saw a wide corridor—the most obvious line of attack—and bent, searching the floor. Removing a flashlight from his side pack, he shone it over dry bloody footsteps, all heading toward the door. Then he moved farther into the corridor, trying not to step on anything, always searching. He was twenty feet inside when he found the first blood-dry print of the beast. It was moving hard to the left, as if with purpose.

  It took only a moment for Hunter to read the pressure release marks that indicated its speed and lack of hesitation, and he followed it slowly. With the obscuring redness of the floor, it was difficult work, but he followed it deeper into the facility. Despite the frigid air, hot sweat beaded his forehead and chest, and he moved as silently as if he were close to a kill. He knew the beast had fled, but he could not help the instinctive fear that made him breathe deeper, oxygenating as if for a fight.

  It was a jagged thin tendril of black that attracted his attention, high and to the right, and Hunter paused. He stared up and angled the flashlight, not rushing anything. And what he saw took a moment, his brow hardening degree by degree in concentration. He straightened. Then, carefully, he walked forward and stared at four long claw marks.

  They were torn through steel in a movement of rage and nothing less—claw marks that had shorn metal like paper, as if it had not exhausted enough of its enormous energy by now, slaying the dozens that lay behind it. No, it was compelled to strike at anything living or dead—a vicious engine of unquenchable savagery.

  Gently, Hunter lifted the flashlight higher and shone it into the smooth cuts. He saw that the steel was split by something far harder than itself, an edge that had torn through it with incredible velocity. All the cuts were the same, smooth in and out.

  Except for one.

  Hunter's eyes narrowed as he studied the ragged, stunted end of the gash, and he moved closer, shining the light into the crack.

  And saw it.

  It was obscure at first, but as he tilted the light just so, he knew what it was. He removed his pocket knife and gently pried it from the steel. Then he stared down at what he held, carefully raising it before his face to study the long curving sharpness. The edge was serrated, like a steak knife. Glancing over his shoulder, ensuring he was alone, he placed it in his pocket.

  Step by step he found a silent path deeper into the facility until he arrived at what appeared to be a laboratory. He gazed about the dimly illuminated chamber and saw that it was demolished like the rest. Then a yawning steel door, framed by light within, drew his attention. Walking slowly, amazed at the dented steel doors and smashed machinery, he approached it and stared inside.

  It took a moment, staring silently at the interior, for him to identify what was wrong. And then it was there, so obvious that he felt ashamed for missing it: The room was a storage vault with refrigerated sections neatly lining a wall. But the strangeness was that this room, and this room alone, hadn't been damaged by the creature's attack.

  None of the glass doors had been shattered. None of the heavy doors had been torn from their hinges. The stainless-steel autopsy-like table in the center of the room was undamaged. So Hunter bent, staring at the floor, shining the flashlight at an angle.

  Why did it destroy every other room and not this one?

  He saw no bloodied tracks on the gray tile, no indication that it had even entered. But that wasn't right. This thing had purposefully moved through this entire facility releasing a rage that couldn't be quenched.

  Something was wrong here.

  Stepping carefully to the side to avoid marring near-invisible tracks, Hunter examined everything. He searched along the walls for scratches, smears, anything. And all the while, concentrated to the task, he kept alert to the slightest whisper of sound behind him. For, though his mind was engaged in pinpoint concentration, his reflexive survival mode prevented anything from approaching him without his knowledge.

  It was a while before he found a thin line on the floor, a ghostly tendril of white powder as thin as a razor. And Hunter spent a long time examining it, studying it, reconstructing how it came to be. And then he knew. Nodding, he stood and opened a refrigerated door and examined the serums within. Despite the carnage, the unit was still functional.

  He searched randomly, and then began to sense what had happened here. Then, after checking the manifest of inventoried fluids, he felt more certain, and left the door open as he exited.

  Already he knew things were not as they seemed. But it would be dangerous to mention anything until he was certain of who, and why. He left with the same measure of alertness he had when he entered—a habit he had perfected from years of surviving in environments that were safe one day, lethal the next.

  The undamaged chamber was not all that he would have to hold secret for a time. He knew it would also be unwise to tell them he'd found a broken claw.

  ***

  Finding nothing more on the grounds, Hunter exited the facility and approached the colonel. He knew now that nothing else would be gained by a concentrated search. Only trampled tracks and blood remained of the holocaust that had consumed the building.

  "You people can finish whatever they're doing in the building," Hunter said as he turned his head to the support team.

  They were standing silently, and at his glance they stared back, implacable. There was a moment of testing, measuring. But one member of the team gave Hunter particular attention.

  A large soldier, with a barrel chest and stout, muscular arms—he could have a heavyweight boxer—concentrated on Hunter the longest. His face beneath short white hair was viciously scarred on one side by fire, and a white eye gazed at Hunter from the ravaged section like a lifeless marble. His other eye was calculating, cold, and it glinted with an unconcealed wildness.

  Expressionless, Hunter turned to Maddox. "From here, it's my call. I suppose they understand how things are going to work."

  "They do."

  "All right." Hunter looked at the surrounding landscape. "We
ll, let's get started. I'm going into the hills to see if I can pick up this thing's scent. Keep everyone inside the compound."

  Silently, Ghost appeared at his side.

  "Yes, of course," said Maddox. "And good luck. We'll back you up as soon as you find it."

  Moving away, Hunter paused beside Tipler, who stood near the chopper. The old professor seemed to know from Hunter's expression that whatever needed to be said couldn't be communicated at the moment. Hunter wordlessly picked up the Marlin and strapped it across his back.

  He was descending into his tracking mode, allowing a deeper concentration to command all his energy and mind, as he moved slowly for the open gate. Ghost, needing no instruction, paced head-down at his side. At the gate, Hunter paused, taking his time to study the terrain.

  He saw patches of scattered snow and, between them, soggy ground. He lifted a handful of snow and squeezed a fist to see how it compressed, measuring its dryness. He watched the spruce as they swayed in a whispering wind, noting the direction of the breeze. For a long time he stood perfectly still, listening, watching.

  Then he sensed a presence and heard the hard crunch of gravel beneath boots, but didn't turn even when the intruder was close. A gruff voice spoke down to him.

  "We can get a move on any time, tracker."

  Hunter gave no indication that he had heard.

  "Jesus," the man said, "I hope this ain't gonna be one of them Indian things. This is a hunt, not a vision quest." Hunter felt the man turn his attention to Ghost. He laughed without any hint of humor. "Nice dog you got there."

  Vaguely Hunter bent his head and saw the big man, the one with the fire-scarred face, raise a single hand at Ghost, holding two fingers as a pistol. "Click," he said. Then, after smiling with clear malice at Hunter, he walked away.

  Hunter turned back to the ground, raising his eyes to the hills, letting every slight bend of leaf, each sway of bush or angle of slope, compose a mosaic of the terrain. He determined which ways were most easily negotiable in the dark; he knew too well that any animal, even a big cat, would select the path of least resistance—a natural path, if it was there.

  A moment later he heard more steps, but different. These contained the softness of respect, of patience, as if the intruder did not want to disturb him. They halted about fifteen feet away to be followed by silence.

  At last, sensing a general direction of its approach, Hunter rose and turned to see who had come up behind. Whoever it was—it didn't matter—had demonstrated a measure of respect; Hunter would do the same.

  Standing less than ten feet behind him—surprisingly less than Hunter had estimated—was a large Japanese. The man was dark-haired with a chiseled, severe face, and there was no emotion whatsoever present in the coal-black eyes. He was big for a Japanese and dressed in BDUs. He carried a camouflaged MP-5 and a cut-down pump-action Remington shotgun. Then Hunter saw the leather hilt of a katana extending over his powerful right shoulder. After a moment the Japanese nodded curtly. Hunter returned the nod.

  "I am Takakura," he rumbled.

  His voice indicated a disciplined inner strength, both patient and tempered. Overall, he had the presence of a feudal samurai displaced to the twentieth century.

  "I am the designated commander of this team," Takakura added. "I only wished to say that I am familiar with your skills and your instructions. We will wait here until you contact us." He handed Hunter a small radio, barely the size of his hand. "With that you can communicate, even in these mountains, for a distance often kilometers. I believe you will find it indispensable."

  "Thank you." Hunter placed it in his hip pack, casting another glance at the team. "I'll call you as soon as I pick up a track."

  "I understand," Takakura nodded.

  Moving at a slow trot through the gate, Ghost ranging at his side, Hunter loped across a ridge and angled right, following a tree-line. He had a feeling that it had approached from somewhere along the northern slope where the spruce were thick. The lack of undergrowth would make stalking easier, and the spruce trees would still provide deep shadow to conceal it from electronic and human listening posts.

  What Hunter needed to do first was find any kind of animal run, even a rabbit run, because animals tended to follow certain routes. So he moved into the tree-line and began searching for the thickest brush hidden behind the spruce.

  Heavy undergrowth was always the best place to start because it offered smaller animals concealment while they moved from their dens to food or water. And within minutes Hunter found a slight depression in the ground and knelt to determine the species. The prints, about four days old, were half an inch long. They looked like a miniature bear track. He smiled: a lemming.

  Moving quickly and silently, Hunter followed the run until it intersected with a general trail, the way a paved road intersects a highway. He studied the ground and saw elk, bear, and the five-clawed prints of a large wolverine. Hunter almost laughed; this was a popular route.

  Staying off the trail as he walked parallel to it, he saw that it carved a safe swath around the military compound. He couldn't help but smile; it amused him to think that an entire convoy of animals moved up and down this trail in the morning and evening, so close to the compound and yet so hidden because the civilized personnel knew nothing of the wild. He had covered a half-mile circuit when he came across the first print of the beast.

  Stopping suddenly in place, Hunter raised his face to search the forest. But he could determine by the natural chorus of activity that nothing was close. Two red squirrels were eating acorns of a white oak less than forty feet away, and a collared pika was barking down the trail, summoning her mate. For a moment he almost felt at home, then dismissed it in the shadow of what he had been caught in. Frowning, he bent to the print.

  It took only a second to determine that it had been moving fast, as if enraged. The ground was almost torn by claw marks, and the front of each print was deeper than the back, like the beast had been running on the balls of its feet. Hunter estimated its weight and size and knew his earlier calculations had been close. It would go maybe two hundred fifty, slightly over six feet. It was right-handed, and it wasn't older than six years. He raised the radio: "This is Hunter."

  Takakura replied, "Yes, Mr. Hunter."

  "I'm on the northeastern ridge. Have the team move north from the gate and up this slope. I'll be at the top. I'll tell you when to stop."

  "Understood."

  Setting the radio in his belt, Hunter thought of the dauntless tone of the Japanese and felt the first faint sense of security. Though unemotional, the man's voice and attitude were both forthright and efficient. Then he remembered the severe face and wondered about what manner of man was leading this team, and why Takakura had been selected commander. Hunter had already decided that nothing involved in this situation happened without a reason. Suddenly angry, he shook his head at the distracting thought. Time enough to worry about that later.

  Studying the track again, he determined its direction and moved up the slope to find a second print, and another, and another. Even beyond the force and weight of the impressions, he was amazed at the length of its stride, the almost casual demonstration of titanic power.

  He concentrated on observation and tracking but slowly felt a thought—more of a fear—nagging him. And as he neared the crest of the ridge and saw that the beast had cunningly used a series of large granite boulders—hard stone that left virtually no tracks—to descend, he realized what it was.

  This thing knew it would be hunted for what it had done.

  ***

  Turning as he heard the careful approach, Hunter spoke in an even tone. "It's not close. You can come up."

  It was a fire-scarred face that Hunter saw first, rising from beneath a low spruce limb to stare at him with open hostility. Hunter, for some reason, squared off, implacably returning the stare. If there were going to be trouble, he might as well settle it now.

  Staring impassively for a moment, the man suddenl
y smiled, then laughed silently. He turned, holding a large automatic shotgun, and walked down the ridge.

  Within minutes the rest of them emerged from the trees, each holding a different weapon. Without tactical instruction they automatically branched out across the rock-strewn crest in an efficient guard, poised and apparently unafraid. The Japanese came through the brush last, slightly behind Professor Tipler.

  Hunter saw that the old man was keeping up well, and it assuaged some of his concern. But this had just begun. The first full day would be the primary measure of what the professor could endure, and Hunter felt fairly confident that the old man would maintain his strength for a while. But after that, mostly because of his advanced age, Hunter was uncertain.

  After so many miles in the mountains, everyone, even those in excellent physical condition, would begin to crack at the strain. The back was generally the first thing to go, then the legs, then the feet, and then a general physical blowout that had no exact cause or remedy. And what put someone on his feet every morning wasn't brute physical strength; it was the pure and simple will to rise.

  Hunter had seen hundreds of well-conditioned gym athletes crumble completely after ten days on the trail, unable even to roll out of sleeping bags to put on their boots, while other, less-conditioned hikers who had a simple but determined will just pushed themselves up and finished the task. Tipler had plenty of will, and Hunter wondered how far it could take him.

  Dignified and solid, the Japanese paused. His curt nod could have indicated anything but Hunter sensed it was respect. Takakura's eyes, obsidian and impenetrable, flicked past Hunter and then down the ridge. "Is that the direction?"

  "Yeah." Hunter adjusted the Marlin slung across his back; the leather strap crossed his chest, frontier-style. "It's moving south, like before. Tracks are about a day old."

  Hunter once again noticed the katana strapped to Takakura's back, along with a sawed-off shotgun. The hilts protruded from behind either shoulder while the Japanese held the MP-5. Extra clips and shotgun shells were on a bandoleer, and a large combat knife was strapped to his leg.