Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  It was five hours later before Hunter heard distant but determined splashing upstream. He rose, running at full speed, knowing that this thing, as inhumanly strong as it truly was, was not inexhaustible. Nothing was inexhaustible. So he would run it to ground. Would run it until the sun rose in a few hours.

  And he knew he stood a chance.

  Ducking a low limb with the sinuous grace of a panther, he hit the ground lightly and weaved between rocks, boulders. Some he vaulted, landing only to change direction again, and on and on it went with limbs lashing his face and arms in pitch-dark. His legs and lungs burned, but the land rolled past him. Then he broke the woodland and saw open country, and let out a long, steady, strong stride that had carried him in the past for forty, fifty miles at a time. Five, six, seven miles and he kept the fast punishing pace—noticing without appreciating entire valleys passing or the gigantic stands of timber that loomed up and faded hauntingly into the night behind him. Still he continued. He estimated he had gone ten, maybe twelve miles when fatigue began taking a toll, but he pushed himself harder.

  Never before, though he had often run all day in order to cross a forest, had he held such a brutal pace for so long. Sweat poured from his face in a slicing cold and darkened his leather shirt, and his long black hair was laid back with sweat and rushing wind. His blue eyes squinted against both the mist that fogged his vision and the night air that burned his lungs. And eventually, when entire worlds of landscapes had been claimed by distance, even Hunter's arms became fatigued from holding the steady rhythm, and his thighs swelled with irresistible numbness. Beside him, Ghost effortlessly kept the pace, even when Hunter began to stumble slightly with fatigue. Now beginning to fear that he would commit the ultimate mistake and twist an ankle or knee, crippling himself and leaving him virtually helpless in the night, Hunter decided that he had gone as far as he could go. Breath burning, eyes misty and tearful, he stopped and dropped to the ground.

  No time for rest!

  Groaning, he rose, staggering a moment.

  To hear a vengeful roar terrifyingly close.

  "Now what," he muttered, glancing around.

  And saw a ledge.

  What he needed.

  Hunter saw the slope downward was like angled granite steps and took the first leap boldly, landing on a slab ten feet below and selecting his next angle of descent. Then down again, not worrying about Ghost's ability to negotiate the steep steps. And as Hunter hit the third slab he stopped fully, crouching like a beast, eyes afire, lips drawn in a snarl, listening. He focused, tried to slow his breath, to think.

  The forest was everything to him now, his life, his place, his home. Somehow he felt more animal than man, but he had no time for that. He had to use his instincts but he had to use his mind. He couldn't let the animal out of the cage; he had to use it, control it, retain the human center.

  He unslung the Marlin and held it in one hand as a frontiersman would hold a musket when he ran down a deer by sheer strength, exhausting the animal until he could get close enough for a shot. It was a sure tactic but required the endurance of a wolf and the accuracy of a true marksman when sweat was stinging your eyes, and your breath was heaving in hot blasts. And Hunter had practiced it at length when he was young, often running for twelve or fifteen hours before he could make the shot.

  Ghost landed beside him without a sound, panting.

  Hunter knew it had followed but he hadn't made it easy. Nothing could have followed him easily through the obstacle course of trees and rocks, ledges and ravines that he had leaped and descended, then doubled back to frustrate it.

  A twig snapped.

  Hunter raised his head, blinking sweat. Less than a minute and it would find him.

  Already it was too close, searching now by sight. It was maybe two hundred yards away. Glaring around frantically, Hunter searched for an advantage, a place for an ambush, anything.

  He had to outthink it, but the terrain was completely wrong for every trick that flashed like lightning through his frantic mind. He heard another crash in the woods about fifty yards from the crest of the ridge, then silence. Twisting his head viciously left and right, he searched for some advantage any advantage because he hadn't thrown it off for more than thirty seconds.

  He was on a ledge about four feet wide, six feet deep. Another ledge, about two feet wide, ran to the right, disappearing around the edge of the slope. Beneath them was a river, roaring with white water. Hunter scanned it, estimating . . .

  If a man fell into that, he would be dead instantly. But this thing ... it would survive. Unless it was badly injured. Hunter debated it and in seconds made the decision because he was in a defenseless position. He moved along the darkened, mist-wet ledge with the utmost caution. Without hesitation Ghost moved carefully behind him. And thirty feet later, Hunter found what he needed.

  A narrow niche, a cave of sorts, opened into the wall about halfway down the curve. It was utterly dark and, three hundred feet beneath, the river roared.

  It'd have to do.

  Ushering Ghost before him into the niche, Hunter slid inside, turning almost instantly as he heard a thunderous impact on the rock far behind him. Then he cocked the hammer on the 45.70, a massively powerful round once used for killing buffalo. Since the demise of the bison, however, the cartridge had been ignored. But Hunter had always preferred its stoutness for felling bear in stride.

  Retreating six feet into the niche, he raised the heavy carbine to his shoulder and waited, aiming at the opening.

  Last stand ...

  His breath, starving and strained, hurt from oxygen loss. And his focus was tunneling, seeing nothing but the target space. He fought it, but the hunt, the chase, the run, and this desperation move had overloaded his system. He tried to eliminate his breathing altogether though, because he knew that its preternatural senses would detect the slight disturbance of air.

  Suddenly Ghost tensed behind him and he felt the great wolf move its shoulder an inch forward, as if to get in front of him. Hunter twisted back slightly against it, all he could allow, telling his friend to retreat and be silent. Hunter didn't know if it would be enough, but he knew he couldn't remove his eyes from the—

  What dropped dead into the tomblike opening of the niche was beyond horror. It descended from straight above instead of creeping cautiously from the side, and was outlined by a glaring angle of moonlight that captured bristling white hair on huge, hunched shoulders that swelled out from a heavily maned head. Its face was sharp and wedged and monstrously deformed. And it was incredibly muscular in its slouched pose, the thickly corded arms hanging slightly longer than a man's. Then it expanded its chest and unleashed a crashing roar—a vengeful blast of hate.

  Talons visible even in moonlight were displayed openly as it unhinged its fangs, glowering and thirsty, and the wholesale murderous gleam in its eyes was shock.

  No time for shock ...

  Hunter fired almost immediately, not a full heartbeat passing between the horror and the detonation, and the report of the rifle was deafening. Then he glimpsed the huge apelike arms raised in pain and an unearthly, bestial roar of pain that contained bestial rage.

  Hunter worked the action and fired again and again and again—six massive rounds as he advanced into it, moving it back on the ledge toward the river. It was swaying on the edge when he ran out of ammo. Then, swinging the butt of the weapon hard, Hunter struck it fully in the face as it fought for balance.

  It bellowed in fury and lashed out with a wild blow. Hunter ducked and then returned his own before it swiped the rifle from his hands and caught him across the face with a clawed hand, leaving narrow furrows. It was only a glancing blow, but the force behind it was inhumanly powerful and Hunter was hurled against the wall.

  Growling, hands raised, it came for him.

  Stunned, Hunter tried to rise, couldn't. But he sensed the immense humanoid shape over him, so large and monolithic that it blocked out the moon and the night together, leaving noth
ing but itself, master of both.

  Hunter clearly recognized its pure, dominating strength, but reached for his Bowie as it prepared, snarling.

  It came.

  Hunter rose, crouching, squaring off.

  What happened next—it was a blur to Hunter—was something that moved with a fury and speed beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined, all coming from a roaring, wild black animal center that exploded from the wall.

  Ghost struck the creature fang to fang, colliding against a creature of supernatural strength and rage, and the violence made the night retreat. Snarling and roaring, Ghost savaged it for a fantastic, spellbinding moment before the creature bellowed in pain and twisted as if to hurl the wolf from the cliff.

  "No!" bellowed Hunter.

  It heard the threat and hurled Ghost into the cleft, turning into the challenge. It slashed at him but Hunter struck first with a purity that merged grace and strength in the unleashed movement, and the blade struck true.

  Flashing white in the moon in a crescent that hit the creature full in the neck, the ten-inch blade sliced through the armored skin to exit the other side in a flood of smoking blood and the creature staggered back, holding its throat.

  Nothing but this . . .

  With his right hand on the hilt, Hunter ducked under the wrathful counterattack—a wild clawed swipe—and slashed backwards to tear a deep slice through its torso, yielding a wild outpouring of blood.

  It howled.

  Staggering, it grasped roughly at both wounds—mortal for any natural creature—and focused on Hunter with a power and rage beyond anything worldly, staggering forward.

  Incredible ...

  Hunter staggered back.

  Moving with a savagery that shocked even Hunter, Ghost exploded from the cleft once more, roaring in the air, and they collided with a vicious exchange of fangs. Stunned, the creature toppled backwards.

  It was too much.

  Hovering in midair, the creature wind milled on the edge of the ledge for a long, surreal moment, before the true fall began.

  "Ghost!" Hunter screamed as he leaped forward and viciously snatched the wolf by its thick black mane, hauling him from the monster's deadly embrace as it was claimed by space and night.

  Only at the last minute did a taloned hand lash out to smash against the ledge with titanic strength and titanic rage before its great weight pulled it down and away, leaving claw marks in the stone.

  It was gone.

  ***

  Wind and the last of night enveloped Hunter as he crouched on a boulder, resting on his way back to the ragged campsite. From the stars, he estimated two hours before dawn.

  He moved only his eyes as he scanned the broad expanse, patient and disciplined. He felt alive in the purity of it, at home again. But it had been a narrow escape, and even Ghost had not come away unscathed. A series of savage gashes had been torn in the wolf's neck and ribs, slashes that had even torn through the thick fur, though the wolf did not seem to notice. Hunter smiled at the thought; Ghost never noticed anything at all, had never asked a question in his life.

  Easing down, Hunter had traveled less than a mile, moving toward a pass that would quickly return him to the camp, when Ghost stopped in place and emitted a single threatening growl. Hunter reacted instantly, swinging the Marlin from his shoulder in a vertical movement.

  Immediately Ghost fell silent and Hunter remembered that the big wolf only gave one warning. The next sound Ghost made would be something beyond wild, something that thundered from the center of a blurring black death.

  For almost five minutes Hunter held position, conditioned to waiting without sound or movement. Then, in the distance, he saw a black silhouette emerge over a ridge. Ghost lifted his nose slightly to the oncoming wind, tasting a scent as he stood solidly on all fours, head slightly lowered at an intense animal angle.

  "Easy, boy," Hunter whispered, noticing the shape was walking slowly and somewhat unsteadily. He squinted through the night, grateful that his vision had improved so much with use, and tried to make out details. He saw almost instantly that it wasn't the creature because it was too small, held too short a stride, and its bulk wasn't right.

  Hunter moved to the side without a sound, crouching low, using a boulder to hide his profile against the sky, and then he slid around it and out of sight. He knew that if the man was alert, the width of the boulder would have appeared slightly larger for a split second before Hunter had moved behind it, but he doubted the man had noticed. Hunter gave no concern to Ghost, knowing the wolf would melt beyond the rock with only the faintest flicker of night shadow.

  Carefully selecting his ground, Hunter crouched on a slope, still hidden from the stranger's view but bisecting his path. Then, when the man passed beneath him, beyond view but well within Hunter's acute hearing, Hunter stood, staring down.

  Instantly the figure whirled, raising a rifle.

  Hunter was implacable.

  It was an old man. An old Anathasian man.

  A hundred years ago, men knew them only by the primitive term "Eskimo," native Indians of the far north. But in the white light of approaching dawn Hunter could identify the style of crude leather clothing, the hair, could almost read every harsh year of survival etched in the gaunt brown face. And he recalled that the Anathasians were once revered as the continent's most accomplished hunters and trackers, even selected their chiefs by their prowess at such things. Those, and war.

  It was a warrior race, Hunter knew, and the aspect before him did not belie that suspicion. Slowly, the old man lowered his rifle.

  Hunter spoke. "It is too cold to be walking alone in the night, Grandfather, so far from your fire," he said. He knew that, among all North American Indian tribes, "grandfather" was a term of respect.

  The old man nodded once. "Yes," he said. Then, "I hunt. Only now I do not hunt so well. Or I would have seen you." He shook his head. "I must be getting very old. I must hunt very badly now."

  "Not so bad," Hunter smiled. "Not so old."

  Hunter noticed that the gaunt voice, so low against the wind, seemed weary and disturbed. He continued, "Why do you leave the safety of your village to walk alone in the night? And what do you hunt in the night that you cannot hunt in the day?"

  The old man hesitated. "I hunt the beast that walks by night," he said simply, unafraid.

  There was no need for more. Hunter knew what the old man hunted, alone and helpless, wandering through the hungry cold in the coldest hours before dawn. "Why do you hunt this beast that walks at night?"

  The old man bowed his head. "I had a grandson." He waited long, and longer. "I have one no more. He was young. Just learning to hunt. I was there when the beast ..."

  Hunter bowed his head. Then, bracing, he looked up. "I am sorry, Grandfather. I am sorry for you, and for your family, and for your people. But I will avenge your grandson."

  The old man seemed to stagger slightly. He did a kind of quarter turn, to face Hunter fully. "You ... hunt ..."

  "Yes," Hunter said plainly. Up here, he knew, where men were so alone with each other against so much that was not man, there was no need for lies. "Yes. I hunt it."

  It was enough. The old man nodded, simple as that. He believed, but Hunter knew he believed for more than the words. A long time in the wild, and a man learned to read the words of other men, perhaps because they heard them so little.

  Hunter saw more clearly the old man's withered face as he seemed to somehow step into a fresher shade of moonlight. The countenance was indeed old, but the eyes scintillated with intelligence, keen and quick. "And what is this beast, Grandfather?"

  The old man approached the foot of the rock.

  Hunter did not move.

  "It is not the bear," the old man said. "But it is not man. I do not know ...what it is. I only know that it does not belong."

  "Why does it not belong?"

  "Because ..." The old man paused. "I have seen pictures of it. Many years ago, when I was a boy, I saw pictur
es of it in the caves." He pointed to a faraway ridge with his rifle. "Long ago, when my people lived in the caves, we knew the pictures well. The pictures, they were drawn by those who came before us, the storytellers. There were pictures of this beast that walks in the night ... I remember these pictures."

  Hunter frowned. "And so what did these pictures say, Grandfather? You said it is not a bear. You said it is not a man. Tell me more of these pictures."

  "It is not man ... but it was feared by man," he answered slowly, but his voice seemed subdued, taken by the gusting wind. "The pictures, they spoke of war. War among the natural man and the unnatural man, the Iceman. They spoke of slaughter, and much killing. And they spoke of bones at another place, a cursed place. We do not go there. To the other place." He pointed south with the rifle. "It is at the place the white man calls ... White Mountains. On the river where it bends, beside the water that comes out of the rock. We call it Cave of Souls. There was much death there."

  Hunter knew.

  "I heard the old people speak of it once. They said that the Cave of Souls is where the Iceman lived long ago, before it no longer belonged, and the forest took it. They say there are also pictures there. And much death. For it is a haunted place. An evil place. But you can find it by following the water that flows from the rock between the two beasts, I have heard. But I do not know. I have never been there."

  Hunter said nothing.

  Pausing, the old man continued: "When I was a boy, we would find things in the mountains. Weapons not made by my people. All very old. My grandfather told me it had always been that way. And then he would speak of hidden things ... of things buried in the ice. And one day, after we found a bow deep inside the north, he spoke of when he was a young man and they found one of the men of ice. It was very old. Frozen. And when they lifted him from the ice and carried him to the village, his body crumbled like ancient bone. But I remember my father's eyes as he spoke of it, and I know he was very afraid." A pause. "Just as I know that I, too, am very afraid."