Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  Brick nodded pleasantly to Hunter and Bobbi Jo. "I'm just along for the ride," he said. "Any of you folks want me to step out, I'll be glad to. Don't want to ruffle nobody's feathers."

  Studying him a moment, Hunter shook his head. "No, I was just asking. Glad to meet you."

  "Same here, Hunter," Brick replied, and smiled. "I figured you didn't care much for the 'mister' part."

  Hunter laughed. He sensed nothing suspicious about either man, only honesty and frankness in their voice and expression and an unspoken but inflexible air of duty.

  The fact that Brick was heavily armed with a wide array of weapons seemed to indicate that they could skip the preliminaries. Obviously, both men had a rudimentary understanding of the situation, and had come well prepared.

  Nor did their posture indicate an air of superiority or command. Rather, it seemed as if they were in the dark even more than Hunter and the team. On first impression, Hunter liked them both.

  "I'll do what I can for you, Chaney," he said. "What do you want to know?"

  Chaney sat back easily on the edge of a table, crossing arms over his chest. The sleeves of his black BDUs were rolled tightly to the elbow to reveal his forearms, and Hunter could see that no matter how many hours Chaney spent behind a desk or in court, it was clear that he kept himself in excellent physical condition. And Hunter respected that, because it indicated a practical man who knew that survival in combat, and even life, very often hinged on pure physical strength, endurance, and skill.

  "I won't waste your time telling you things you already know as well as I, and probably better than I," Chaney said frankly. "In a nutshell, I've been assigned to discover what this thing is that's been destroying the research stations. And why it's doing it. Basically, the same mission you've been given."

  Chaney gazed without blinking, as if to make a point. "I know what happened to your team, Hunter. I got that from the CO when I landed." He paused. "I'm sorry. I've led men in combat, and I know what it's like to lose one. It’s something you never forget."

  Hunter replied, "I appreciate that, but it wasn't really my team. Takakura was in charge, and he did the best job any commander could have done. I was just there to track. I suppose you know already that I'm not current military or under any kind of military jurisdiction."

  "I know."

  "All right, so, again, how can I help you?"

  "Well." Chaney cleared his throat, took a sip of coffee. "Can you tell me how many times you've made contact with the creature?"

  Hunter was cognizant that the marshal didn't want to control or command; he simply wanted information, honest and complete. And because of that, Hunter was disposed to cooperate.

  "Three ... maybe four occasions," he answered.

  "And they were all combat situations?"

  "Yes."

  After a careful stare—as if wondering how Hunter had survived the encounters—Chaney added, "How is it that you're all still alive? From what I understand, this thing ... well ... not a lot of folks walk away from a fight with it."

  Hunter held the marshal's stare. "Some of us didn't, Chaney. And, frankly, I don't know how the rest of us did either. It attacks and retreats guerrilla-style. So we never had a prolonged battle with it. It toyed with us, and when it finally got serious, it was too late. We were airborne."

  Chaney didn't reveal any surprise; instead he appeared intrigued. "You say these confrontations were quick but intense, and it would retreat before you could kill it?"

  "Well, Chaney, I don't think we had the ordnance to kill it, anyway. Its skin is resistant to small-arms fire, to a degree. The professor can explain it better than I can, but it's not easily hurt by bullets. Only the Barrett seemed to affect it, but we're not sure if even the .50-caliber rounds really cut through its skin. To make it brief, I'll say the fights were ... I don't know, vicious but quick. Maybe sixty seconds."

  "Yeah." Chaney seemed intrigued by that aspect. "You said before that it retreated. You said it was playing with you. But animals don't do that, Hunter. And you know it."

  Nothing was said for a moment.

  "Seems pretty damn curious," Chaney added finally. "There's no reason I can see why it wouldn't have attacked and killed and then eaten someone and moved on. Like a bear. A tiger. Something like that."

  Neither Hunter nor Bobbi Jo volunteered any information. Hunter was tempted, briefly, to say that the creature had somehow taken Hunter's dogged search as a personal challenge. But he reasoned that it would sound too bizarre. He didn't say anything and Chaney continued to speak, almost to himself.

  "So it attacked time and time and let you live.... There has to be a reason why it could change its methods. It's an animal, and they're creatures of habit. It wouldn't do something differently unless it had a damn strong motivation." He looked hard into Hunter's face. "Tell me the truth, Hunter. Take a chance. I'm asking you."

  Hunter's eyes were flat. There was a long silence.

  Chaney didn't move at all.

  "All right, Marshal," Hunter said finally. "I'll tell you something honestly. It's not an animal. And I don't care if you believe me or not. But it's not an animal."

  Chaney didn't seemed shocked

  Brick grunted, an unpleasant scowl clearly visible on his beefy, squared face. And, though he did not reveal quite so much, Chaney also allowed his curiosity to surface.

  "So what in the hell is it?" he asked.

  The question reinforced Hunter's initial impression that the deputy marshal had nothing to hide and wasn't here to command or intimidate. Hunter blinked, and decided to cruise truth, and if Chaney had the instinct to accept it, Hunter would tell him everything.

  "I think," he began slowly, "that it could be an undiscovered species, Chaney. It's manlike and tiger-like in how it stalks and kills, but it's also like a man. It obviously anticipates, and it's exclusively bipedal, but it has the stalking method of a quadruped. It has no territory that I could identify but it doesn't wander, either. So it's unlike a bear or tiger in those aspects. It prefers to attack in the night but it'll also attack in the day if it's presented with the opportunity."

  Chaney made no movement. Didn't even blink. "Hunter, have you ever encountered anything remotely similar to this?" he asked finally. "Anywhere?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever heard stories of something like this?"

  "No."

  "Well, then, how do you explain it?"

  "I don't explain it, Chaney. I'm just telling you what I think."

  Chaney pursed his lips in thought. And Brick, having listened to the entire enigmatic conversation, lowered his gaze at nothing. His visage hadn't altered, but from the depth of his frown it was obvious that he deplored the sullen direction of his private thoughts.

  Shaking his head, Chaney said, "Hunter, I know you haven't lied to me. You've told me what you think. But I don't think you've told me everything. And ... that's smart; I can understand, after what you've been through, why you wouldn't trust anyone in a uniform. But the situation has become more serious than you know. I'm afraid ... that I've got some bad news for you." He paused as Hunter froze. Then: "I'm afraid that one of your employees, Rebecca Tanus, has been murdered. They tried to kill Gina, too."

  Hunter didn't move, but his mouth opened slightly and his eyes turned dark. Slowly he moved away from the table, approaching Chaney with a single step. It was an unthreatening action, and Chaney seemed to understand. He waited patiently until Hunter asked in a hushed, clear voice, "Who killed her?"

  "They're dead," Chaney replied. "Brick and I did 'em in."

  A moment, and Hunter nodded gratefully. "Good. And Gina?"

  "In the hospital. And she's the one who led us here. She indicated you might be able to tell us the plain truth without all the wildlife bullshit."

  "All right, Marshal, let me tell you exactly what you're looking for.

  And no bullshit. But get ready for it, and if you don't believe me, I don't give a damn." Hunter was solid, his eyes unb
linking. "You're looking for a genetic freak. Something that is half man and half monster. Something that can speak. Something that can move like lightning and has skin that is, for all practical purposes, bulletproof." Hunter watched the amazed reaction at that. "We hit that thing with enough ordnance to kill a hundred men, and it kept coming back stronger than it was before. No wounds, no nothing. The only way we've been able to hurt it is with knives."

  "With knives!" Chaney exclaimed. "How in the hell could a knife injure it when a bullet wouldn't? And how did you get that close to it, anyway? From what you said, nobody would stand a chance against it with a knife."

  From his glass cubicle, Professor Tipler responded. Weak and light at first, his voice grew in strength and tone as he continued. "It is quite possible, Marshal Chaney. It is only a simple matter of engineering stress."

  Chaney gazed at the old man.

  The professor added in a low drone, "This creature's epidermal molecular structure is, ah, probably similar to a rhinoceros which, incidentally, has the thickest and most densely designed epidermal surface on the planet." Gesturing as if it would assist him in framing the concept, he continued, "You see, a blunt object such as a bullet or shrapnel cannot penetrate its skin unless the leading point of impact is a cutting edge. This phenomenon does not necessarily reflect the thickness of the skin, however. Merely the composition."

  Chaney moved closer. "Explain that to me, Professor."

  With a nod, Tipler answered. His energy seemed to build with each sentence. "It is easy enough to understand, Marshal, if you think of it in terms of analogy." He drew a deeper breath. "First, we will remember that there are only two means of neutralizing the force of a bullet. Both methods, however, involve the same rule of physics, and that is to absorb, rather than resist, the force. In the first method, the bullet simply cannot make sufficient contact to actuate the intended trauma. The struck substance surrenders so completely that contact, if any, is so insignificant as to be nullified. Perhaps an example would enable you to visualize that type of situation." He paused, then: "Ah, yes. For instance, if one would suspend a silk handkerchief in the air by two corners and then fire a bullet at the hanging portion, the silk would surrender so completely and quickly, even matching the velocity of the bullet, that there would be almost no contact at all.

  "This method, of course, is not an option for a target which, because of immutable physical laws, cannot surrender with such alacrity. Now, the second method involves a partial surrender, or absorption of the force of a bullet's impact. For, upon contact, the shock is dispersed or spread in a pattern over resilient, multi-flexed fibrous tissue that removes the bullet's force. Needless to say, this fibrous material would have to be exceedingly intractable, similar to substances utilized in the manufacture of ceramic-steel plating. An example would be ... ah ... oh, yes; let us imagine that you tossed a bulletproof vest in the air, and shot. Now, the vest would absorb far more of the impact than a scarf because its weight would negate complete surrender. But it would surrender nevertheless and the impact suffered would be dispersed across the fibers, as I've already mentioned, in shock waves. Not unlike ripples created when one tosses a stone into a calm pool. The surface absorbs the impact and sends the resulting trauma out in waves. Now, for the optimistic analysis. This creature, as you said, Nathaniel, is essentially exempt from injury from small-arms fire. However, if you possessed a weapon that could fire a projectile at far beyond supersonic speed—a speed that would not allow its fibrous molecular epidermis sufficient time to absorb and disperse the shock on impact—you would be able to overcome this spectacular defensive faculty. And, in fact, you have almost done this exact thing. Bobbi Jo's weapon—" He gestured toward her.

  "The Barrett." She smiled.

  "Yes, yes, the Barrett. That very large gun that she utilizes with such effectiveness does this. Although it has not yet devastated this animal's epidermis, it has obviously wounded it. What, may I ask, is the velocity of those bullets that you are using, Bobbi Jo?"

  "They're three-hundred-grain bullets loaded with 1110 Hodgdon powder. The ones we chronographed before the mission began were ranged at 4,372 feet per second. It was a hot load but I've boosted the power with some CFI for more explosive detonation. I'd say they're pushing five thousand feet per second because I also dropped to a 195-grain Teflon-tipped bullet. A smaller bullet allows higher velocity as long as it's not so small that it's affected by windage." She paused, shook her head. "I'm probably pushing the gun to the limit right now."

  "Yes, yes." Tipler nodded. "Exactly my point. Certainly, if one calculates the velocity, size and form of the other bullets fired at the creature against the damage resulting from Bobbi Jo's vastly more powerful weapon, you can acknowledge that the creature does have a threshold of tolerance. Subsonic ammunition probably has no effect whatsoever, but when a projectile's speed is faster than the faculty of the epidermis to disperse the force, then it can be injured by weapons. Unfortunately, I fear, a majority of those weapons that protect the complex are useless against it."

  Chaney spoke in a thoughtful voice. "That would seem apparent, Professor. But even if the shock of a bullet was ... was dispersed, as you said, this creature would still suffer a blunt trauma, wouldn't it? Something like bruising?"

  "In a sense, yes," Tipler answered, eyes closing suddenly to a sting of deep pain. "But if the creature possessed an enhanced healing factor, then any resulting blunt trauma would be quickly erased. So the only advantage we would gain would be through its pain, and the consequential distraction, both physical and mental. For even a short-term and superficial wound would reroute its chemical reserves into the laborious act of healing, thereby subtracting these same substances from its superior strength and endurance. Quite probably, the lack would consequently weaken and slow it, which would be another advantage.

  "This is why, after Bobbi Jo struck it with the sniper rifle, it retreated. It was not wounded, merely shocked." Holding a hand briefly to his chest, Tipler inhaled deeply before continuing, "Yes, it had to retreat because of the loss of strength, and the distraction of pain. But when the pain subsided and it replenished itself with nutrients to replace those used in healing, it returned even stronger. You see, its body was learning, conditioning itself to the phenomenon of injury, probably even mutating to compensate for the new threat. As it will no doubt continue to do. For its spectacular proclivity for enhanced evolution within hours seems to pace the evolution Homo sapiens experience in as many centuries. I do not doubt that, shortly, if it is not destroyed, there will be no weapon powerful enough to defeat it."

  Chaney had approached the bed as the professor spoke, and Hunter could clearly see that the marshal wanted to continue. "Are we exhausting you, Professor?" Hunter asked. "We can continue later, if you wish."

  Raising a hand weakly, Tipler answered, "No, no, I am fine. Hear me out...before I rest, which I must do shortly." He took another deep breath. "So, that is why bullets fail to sever its multi-layered epidermis. However, and remember this, an edged weapon provides the very opposite kind of force. An edged weapon, such as a knife or sword, reinforces speed and structure to create what is known as 'pyramidal penetration.' Which is exactly ... as it sounds. You see, instead of the base of the pyramid making impact, allowing a dispersion of force created by the combined factors of velocity and form, a pyramidal impact delivers a singularly focused edge of contact that multiplies weight and velocity into a razor’s edge. And by this means the fibers are unable to disperse, share, or otherwise escape the trauma. So this, in a simplistic way, would explain the creature's near-invulnerability."

  Chaney said nothing, seeming to realize that the professor had reached exhaustion. Then with a nod he murmured, "Thank you, Professor. I appreciate your help." He walked slowly over to Hunter.

  He didn't look Hunter in the face but stared at the closed room of the infirmary; the nurse had been ordered outside so that they might talk in private. Bobbi Jo was monitoring the displays at her statio
n. Finally Chaney said, very quietly, "Hunter, tell me something. Just how strong, exactly, is this thing? Don't tell me that 'strong as a gorilla' stuff. I want an exact estimation."

  "Strength?" Hunter returned the question. "I would say that nothing short of a bank vault, and I mean a big one, could stand up to a full-scale assault from that thing, Chaney."

  Chaney grimaced. "You're sure about this?"

  "I'm sure." Hunter nodded curtly. "I've tracked it. I've fought with it. And the only reason I'm standing here is because I'm lucky. I can tell you about many who weren't. And I can tell you something else. Whatever this thing is, it was created. That much I'm certain of. Somebody, Chaney, with a secret agenda wanted that thing to live, so they made it happen."

  Chaney frowned.

  Hunter's conviction was complete. "Chaney, if you can handle the truth, this isn't some undiscovered species. It's an extinct species. Its time came and went. There is no way that a race of these things could have existed in those mountains for the past ten thousand years without somehow revealing themselves. Even if they had stayed in the mountains or high on the North Ridge, there would have been occasional sightings, the discovery of bones or tools, campsites or caves. Something. Anything. But there's nothing. Not a trace. Not even a footprint. This land, this territory, may have been its haunt once, but not for a long time. Like ten thousand years."

  Hunter leaned closer as Chaney recalled the magazine article from Hamilton's town house. It was all coming together, now. Almost to the last. Then Hunter added, "The only thing we don't know is who found the relic of this creature, how they used it somehow to re-create it, and what their intention was."

  "And something else," Chaney said, staring with anger and a tinge of fear. "What their intention is."

  "That, too. And when you figure out who ultimately created this monster, and why, you'll know why they killed Gina and Rebecca. And so will I. I already have an idea, I just can't prove it yet."