Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  "Jesus!" Buck shouted without removing his eyes from the shredded black wall of leaves. "Did you see the size of that thing?" He shoved a grenade into his weapon, shouldering instantly, unable to relax.

  "Reload and watch the perimeter!" Takakura raged, quickly exchanging clips and raising his weapon to his shoulder.

  Only Bobbi Jo moved with a deadly air of cold calm.

  With a brief glance, Hunter saw the female sniper very methodically remove the clip from her weapon. Then she took two six-inch rounds from her vest and shoved them into the magazine with mechanical precision before smoothly reinserting it in the rifle. Her motion to rack one of them into the chamber took obvious effort and then she was alert once more, eyes icy and sharp. Lowering the bipod attached to the rifle's stock, she rested it on the ground before her.

  In all, the confrontation hadn't lasted more than fifteen seconds, but it had seemed like a lifetime until the beast had taken the second massive round from the Barrett and fallen to its back. But when it staggered up, it appeared that the awesome rifle had wounded it. It must have hurt it. But in the gloom, with such uncertain light and the detonations of the rifles half-blinding him, Hunter had been unable to tell for certain. All he knew was that it had been Bobbi Jo's weapon alone that had defied the beast's charge.

  Takakura was speaking, still backing toward the bonfire. "For some reason it is resistant to small arms!" he yelled, since their hearing was dulled by the blasts. "But it is not impervious to the pain inflicted when it is hit! So if we can concentrate a heavy enough wall of rounds, the shock might make it retreat once more!"

  Hunter wasn't betting on that; he knew that Bobbi Jo's rounds had really been what deterred its attack. But she could miss, or her rifle could jam, or the beast could launch a rushing attack and kill her first, temporarily disabling their ability to injure it. And all it would need would be seconds before it waded through them as it had waded through the guards at the research stations, stoically enduring the small-arms ordnance as it killed with impunity. No, they needed to come up with another defense if they were going to survive the entire night in this glade.

  Already, it was too late to call for an emergency extraction. Because by the time the chopper snaked a dangerous path through these night-shrouded mountains to locate them, it would probably be over. Hunter estimated it would attack again in minutes—as soon as it determined that its injuries were minor. Obviously, the Barrett had stunned it—probably the first time a ballistic weapon had ever caused anything more than annoyance.

  And despite their apparent shock at its unique ability to resist low-caliber arms, Hunter was not stunned. He knew that many creatures possessed skeletal density and skin composition sufficient to completely defeat low-velocity ordnance. A grizzly's skull could easily deflect a round from a 30.06—a virtual cannon. And anything less than a 30.30 would only flatten on the skin of a rhinoceros. So, without question, nature had repeatedly demonstrated that the right combination of bone and skin could negate the effectiveness of almost any rifle—except the ultra-high-powered Barrett or a similar sniper weapon.

  Hunter looked down to see how the undue excitement had affected the professor. But the old man appeared studious and relatively calm. He stared at the gaping hole left in the distant wood-line where it had fled, and his lips moved in silent thought. His first words came slowly.

  "We cannot hold it off," he whispered, almost to himself. "It retreated only because it was shocked. But it will return soon enough ... Yes, but not with a bold attack. It will attack with cunning unless ...unless it is distracted ... by something. But what? Not flame ... no, it does not fear fire. What could distract it long enough for us to realize escape?"

  Hunter's eyes narrowed; he looked at the old man. "I know what might distract it," he said evenly. With those words Hunter rose and walked away, knowing. He went directly to Takakura. "I know how we can hold it off for the night," Hunter said solidly.

  Takakura stared. "Yes?"

  "It uses the element of surprise. Likes to jump on you from trees and shit. We'll take that from him. If we see him coming, then we can open up and drive him back. No matter how many times he attacks, we can give him more than he can take."

  "But it will be dark soon," the Japanese responded. "We cannot fight what we cannot see."

  "We'll see him," Hunter nodded, angry, " 'cause I'm gonna rig this camp with more than claymores and fancy electronic devices, which it's already defeated too many times. I'm gonna set up some deadfalls, levers and fulcrums. He won't be hurt by them, but we'll know exactly where he is and we can open up. I'll have this place surrounded in twenty minutes."

  Takakura s reply was instantaneous. "Do so. Take Buck with you. And Wilkenson. And hurry, Hunter." He glanced at the forest. "Or men will die tonight."

  Hunter was in the woods like a panther, knowing every sound, every move, discerning instantly whether the forest told him it was near, knowing whether a broken branch had fallen from a tree, or whether it had been broken by a monstrous, approaching footstep. His skills were supreme now, and he used them supremely. His Bowie knife made swift work of sticks and twigs and the string he had brought by habit was vital. Buck and Wilkenson gathered the larger logs, and within a half hour they had completely surrounded the perimeter with carefully hidden traps that nothing could penetrate.

  They returned to camp drenched in sweat, and Hunter knelt beside the fire, warming his bloodied fingers—fingers bloodied because he had worked more swiftly than caution allowed. But it didn't matter. He washed them in the stream and threw a hooked line across to the other side. It wasn't as good as a fish trap, and there was no bait, but should they survive the night, they would have food in the morning. And he knew the professor needed sustenance. For the first time he truly wished the old man had not come along.

  Takakura spoke. "It is done?"

  "It's done."

  "Hat, this is good. At least we can know his direction now from the sound of the traps. We cannot kill him, but we can drive him back with concentrated ordnance."

  "I hope so," Hunter threw in. "But we don't know its full potential yet. There's still a chance that bastard, if it's mad enough, can take more damage than we can dish out."

  Takakura said nothing. Then Hunter noticed the sword strapped to his back and couldn't help but ask, especially since this might be their last night together. "Tell me," he said, "why do you carry that sword? Seems kinda archaic. No offense."

  A soft grunt, perhaps a laugh, made the corners of Takakura's mouth rise slightly. "You are," he answered, "the first man to ever ask me about it."

  Hunter waited. "Didn't mean to intrude."

  Takakura laughed, actually laughed, as he turned fully to Hunter. Then he reached behind his shoulder and slowly, very slowly, withdrew at least forty inches of the finest steel Hunter had ever seen. It was a beautiful weapon, obviously forged by sword makers who were masters of a craft that the world had long forgotten.

  "This sword was my father's," Takakura said, extending the blade so Hunter could behold its purity, its strength, the razor-sharpness. "And before that, it was my grandfather's, who died in battle with the Chinese. And before that, his father's, and his father's. Who also died in battle. It is four hundred years old." He laughed grimly. "Why do I carry it? I carry it because I am born of a warrior clan. And my code is Bushido. I have never used it in combat. And should I, I expect nothing from it."

  Hunter blinked. "Nothing?"

  "No ...nothing. I do not expect life. I do not expect death. I expect nothing but to fight well. Life and death are the same. The water changes, but the river remains the same. It is the way of all things. And should I face death with this sword in my hand, then all will be good." He waited, staring at Hunter with a strange transparency. "Westerners do not understand such a life, do they?"

  Hunter stared into the dark eyes. Takakura brushed his own forearm with the blade, a feathers touch, and a trickle of blood fell to the ground. In a single swift movemen
t he sheathed the weapon. "You never draw the sword without drawing blood."

  Hunter waited. "Yeah ... I think I understand."

  Chaos!

  The creature tripped a deadfall and they turned as one, unleashing a hail of ammo into the foliage that left it on fire. And the barrage continued until Takakura's imperial voice demanded them to cease fire. But none of them could tell if it was still there or not because they had been deafened by the gunfire.

  Hunter concentrated, lowering his head, listening not for the creature but for the forest. "It's moving to the south side, where it came before."

  "Ready weapons," said Takakura calmly.

  And it came again, bowed legs thick with simian muscle, shoulders inhumanly large, almost unbelievably thick with strength, and its fangs were distended to reveal jagged white tusks that announced its intent. And for a split second Hunter had a flash of what the soldiers and scientists at the massacred compounds knew as their last sight. He fired dead into it, the 45.70 hitting it solidly in the chest.

  It roared and then Buck fired a grenade from the M-79, but he missed and the detonation disintegrated a tree beside it. Still, however, the concussion hurled it aside, and it staggered up and into the woods again.

  Again, fierce and frantic reloading while Hunter counted the rounds still remaining on the strap of the Marlin. He had twenty shots left, and ten more in his pouch. He had never anticipated that it would take an arsenal to bring it down. Then he glanced at Bobbi Jo and saw her, once again, reloading the same clip from the bandoleer across her chest, full of .50-caliber rounds.

  And on and on it went, time after time a split-second warning where they would whirl together—a tripped deadfall, a snare, sometimes even one of the electronic aids. Buck, with the M-79, was firing blindly into the forest to light it with a mushrooming flame that set part of the woods afire, and before morning most of the stand around them appeared to be clear-cut land. Broken limbs and blasted trees made this heavily forested" area resemble a swamp in winter. The open area was three times as large as when they arrived, but there was no sign of the creature.

  Cautiously, Hunter entered the woods with Buck. Then they walked the entire perimeter, searching for signs of injury. But found only devastation. They returned and delivered the grim news to Takakura, who was silent a moment. "Very well," he said finally. "Break camp immediately. We move."

  "I got bad news, Commander," Buck added.

  "Yes?"

  Buck took a deep breath before he spoke. "We're almost out of ammo. So we can't do this gig again. We could keep it off for maybe an hour with what we got, but ..."

  Takakura's frown deepened, then his left fist slowly clenched. He gazed toward the ground. "The radio is not operating correctly?"

  "We're having a lot of trouble with it, sir. Wilkenson is working on it."

  Takakura scowled as he muttered something in Japanese that Hunter couldn't translate, but he understood the tone. A moment more and the Japanese added, "We move in attack mode. Total silence. Plot a course for the nearest town or research station. A village. Anything. We are leaving this area."

  Buck bent to study the map.

  Thirty minutes later they were working their way up a rocky stream, feet and socks soaked and burning blisters on their feet, blood filling their boots, but they couldn't stop. They had to move quickly because the nearest civilized location was over forty miles away, and that meant one hundred miles in this mountainous terrain.

  Hunter read their mutual fatigue, but revealed nothing. He knew he could have made the hundred-mile run, if he had pushed himself all-out and carried no weight. But he couldn't leave them behind. And he knew what would come with nightfall. His mind was working furiously on a plan to keep them alive when they lost the sun.

  As they climbed a steep terrain, boot pressure tearing flesh from already bloodied heels, he began searching for a place to hole up.

  And found it.

  "Takakura," he said strongly.

  The Japanese glared back angrily.

  Hunter glanced at the sun. "We haven't gone ten miles, Commander. And you know the professor isn't up to this, and we can't radio for an extraction." He let the implication settle. "We're gonna have to do it again."

  The scowl of hate on Takakura's face was terrible to behold. But he knew Hunter was right. That he had failed as a commander wounded his pride. He had led his men—men who depended upon and trusted him— into certain death. Motionless, he lowered his gaze to the ground, shook his head.

  "But there may be a way to survive the night," Hunter said, watching him closely. He pointed to a small cleft; it would not qualify as a cave. "That hole in the wall is pretty narrow. Looks from here like only one person at a time can enter. If we can get inside it, and wait, and lay down whatever ammo we still have if it comes for us, maybe it'll think we've still got plenty of ordnance and back off. Buck says he still has two grenades. Taylor has some rounds. And Bobbi Jo alone can make it hesitate." He gave the Japanese commander time to consider it, then continued: "I think it's our only way out, Takakura."

  A moment of concentration, a curt nod: "Hat."

  It took a tight fit, but they squeezed into the cave and ate some warm MREs while they took turns with the Barrett, watching the entrance. Then Bobbi Jo was finished and took over the cannon.

  And darkness descended.

  ***

  Hunter secured Ghost at the rear of the cave with a rope because he knew that after last night's siege, the massive wolf would attack the creature on sight. And what they needed was order. It wasn't long before they heard the quiet but close footsteps approaching their position.

  "Unbelievable," whispered Hunter to himself, "it can find us anywhere."

  Hunter saw it first, something that didn't seem to move. But he was accustomed to that. He had spent so much of his life watching life in darkness, he knew that if it didn't look like it was moving, it probably was. His tactic was simple: infinite patience. He never took his eyes off the object of his concentration. And after ten minutes or ten hours, if it was an inch to the side, then it was moving.

  The distance was fifty yards, but Hunter knew he could make the shot. "Give me the Barrett," he told Bobbi Jo, who obeyed. Hunter centered on the shadow, held his breath, released it, slowly squeezed the trigger.

  In the close confines of the small cleft, the detonation was shocking. And it was followed instantly by an enraged roar as the shadow came rushing up the hill while they desperately opened up with the last of their ordnance. If Bobbi Jo had managed a single solid shot at that range, she would have dropped it, but she missed in the darkness and the speed and the blinding blasts of the other weapons, and Hunter knew it would be upon them in seconds.

  Frantic, he whirled and saw Buck's small rucksack on the ground and dropped the Marlin. He ripped open the pack and tore out the tent, ripping it apart in seconds to sunder the white mosquito netting.

  "Cease fire!" he yelled, and leaped to the entrance, quickly tying the white cloth to either side. And then it was upon them, awesome and raging, eyes glowing with hate. It came to within three feet of Hunter and swiped at him, a blow Hunter ducked as the tremendous gray arm tore thunderously through the air and the claws struck sparks from the flint walls. But Hunter leaped out of range, Bowie knife in hand.

  Growling, it stared at the cloth, and reached out as if to tear it from place. But its hand halted, just short. It wanted to tear through, but hesitated again before a bestial growl of frustration shook its head and it raised infernal eyes at Hunter. For the briefest moment, it seemed more human than monster. The snarl that twisted its face embodied an intellectual hate.

  Hunter held the glare.

  Together, shoulder to shoulder, they paced up and down the flimsy white barricade. And their eyes remained solidly locked. It curled monstrous hands in frustration, claws clicking. Hunter held the huge Bowie knife in an iron grip. Up and down, up and down they paced, defiant glare to defiant glare.

  It wa
s the strangest of all standoffs, man and monster, each separated by something that a child could sunder. Then with a final, angry growl of promise, the creature whirled—a movement of tiger-like grace—and was gone.

  Hunter stood there, numb, for a moment. His fist was locked so tightly on his Bowie that he couldn't let it go. Then he took a deep breath, and then an even deeper breath, backing away slowly from the thin partition. He turned around to see wide eyes, silence. No questions were asked; everyone was in shock.

  Finally, Takakura spoke. "Could you ...explain that, please?"

  Hunter looked at Taylor. "Take the entrance. It worked that time. I don't know if it will work again. I doubt it." Then Hunter sat against a wall, staring at the wet limestone. He noticed that his grip on the Bowie had relaxed, and, very carefully, slid it back into the sheath. He licked his lips, took a sip of water, and explained it in a manner that they might understand. He began, "Do you know how they kill a tiger?"

  Takakura shook his head.

  "They take a piece of white cloth," Hunter continued, bowing his head. "Then they make a V with it in the forest. Maybe half a mile long on each side, but it leads to the place where the lines meet. It's only three feet high. Just a piece of white cloth. Then they drive the tiger into the V with elephants and beaters. And once the tiger is inside the V, they have him dead."

  "Why?" Bobbi Joe asked.

  "Because a tiger," Hunter continued tiredly, "although it can leap forty feet, won't cross a piece of white cloth that's over three feet high. It scares him, for some reason. And the hunters, the shooters, are waiting for it at the tip of the V. So the tiger is trapped inside this flimsy piece of white cloth, which it could easily leap, but it doesn't. And when it gets to the bottom of the V, the hunters open up and kill it."

  Bobbi Jo was staring hard. "Why won't it just jump over the cloth?"

  "No one knows."

  She continued, "And you gambled that somewhere in this thing, whatever it is, are the latent instincts of a tiger, that it would be afraid to cross the white cloth?"