The Devil's Claw

by Nick Pignatelli

  A black jet, with no markings other than a small white tail number, touched down on Runway Four at the Schenectady County Airport in Scotia, N.Y. The jet swung onto Taxiway F, following the paved surface to the Stratton Air National Guard Base ramp, a section of the airport occupied by the 109th Airlift Wing of the New York Air National Guard. The aircraft came to a stop on the tarmac next to a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter.

  The jet’s engines were still winding down as the cabin door popped open. Eleven men, outfitted in black and loaded down with equipment, exited the aircraft and boarded the Black Hawk. Obeying strict orders, the ground crew kept its distance and did not address the new arrivals other than to inform the men serving as pilot, copilot, and crew chief that the helicopter was prepped and ready to go.

  Minutes later, the four long rotor blades began to spin above the fuselage and soon settled into a shimmering disk. The UH-60 leapt off the ground and turned north in one smooth motion. The chuffa-chuffa-chuffa noise of the whipping rotor blades faded away as the Black Hawk became a dot in the sky.

  The UH-60 Black Hawk softly settled onto the BoDex Research & Development runway. Before the helicopter came to a stop, both cargo doors were yanked open and eight men poured out and double-timed to the two BoDex vans waiting for them.

  The visitors were shuttled directly to the monitoring center and ushered to the conference room next to Nichols’s office. The first thing Attwood noticed was a total absence of ID patches. No name tags, unit patches, rank insignias, nothing, just black fatigues and helmets.

  “Come in, please, and be seated,” the general said. “This is Jonathan Nichols, the head of the Centurion project.”

  The apparent leader looked at Nichols, then Attwood. “We know who he is. And he can leave right now.”

  “Hold on one second,” Nichols said.

  “Now! Or one of my people can toss you out.

  “General!” Nichols protested. “Are you going to permit this—”

  “Nichols,” Attwood said, “just leave. We’ll sort this out later.”

  “But, General,” Nichols said, “it’s important they understand that the loss of the remaining Centurions would be a critical setback to the Centurion project.”

  General Attwood held up his hand. “Nichols, there is no Centurion project. It is over. Understand? Over! You failed.”

  “I failed?” Nichols said. “How dare you, you pompous, arrogant—”

  “Gentlemen,” General Attwood said, “remove this man right now.”

  Nichols glared at Attwood, then locked eyes with the group’s leader. Something threatening in the man’s eyes made him turn away.

  He stomped to the infirmary. If there was any way to deflect blame and pin it on Bascombe and his trainers, Nichols would find it. And as far as General Calhoun Attwood, well, this was the last time Jonathan Nichols would be a doormat for him or anyone else.

  “Go ahead, General. Let’s have events from top to bottom, and leave nothing out.”

  Attwood scratched at his ear. “I assume you have a name?”

  “Call me Black.”

  “Seriously?” Attwood said. “Is Black your actual name or are we playing spy games?”

  Black leaned in toward Attwood. “Time is running out for you. Remember, you’re the one who came crawling to our boss for help.”

  “You listen to me, boy,” said Attwood. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”

  A smug smile tugged at Black’s lips. “I know exactly who I’m talking to. Can you say the same?”

  Truly, Attwood had no idea. There were no identifying patches or uniform markings on any of these men, but he had heard the rumors. These had to be The Reapers, the shadowy personnel who didn’t exist and cleaned up problems that didn’t exist. “No, I can’t,” Attwood admitted, “so I am ordering you to tell me who your boss is and who you work for.”

  “General Attwood, who we work for is none of your concern. Understand this, however. We are not part of the military chain of command, which means we do not take orders from you. Now, do we clean up your mess or do we get back in the chopper and head for home?”

  How dare they dismiss me like that? thought Jonathan Nichols. This was my project. Mine! They’ll pay and so will the Almighty General Calhoun goddamn Attwood. How many years did I slave over his dream, and then he cuts my throat in front of a crowd of strangers. Oh yes, he’ll get his too.

  Nichols shoved the infirmary door open. Dr. Julia Talbot sat at the front desk, cradling her head in her hands, chestnut brown hair enmeshed in splayed fingers, eyes closed. She didn’t seem aware that Nichols had walked in.

  How could she not have heard me enter? Could she also be involved in this plot to disgrace me?

  “Doctor?” Nichols said.

  Dr. Talbot’s eyes flickered open. Her normally bright green eyes were dull and bloodshot.

  “You look terrible,” Nichols said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a hell of a day.” She pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  “What’s the latest on Bascombe and Dufresne?”

  Julia Talbot took a deep breath. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses and flipped a medical chart open. “Well, honestly, I don’t know why Dufresne is still alive. He has massive internal injuries and just about everything that could be broken is. I keep thinking he’s going to expire any second now.” She looked up at Nichols. “And the fact that you will not let me put him on that helicopter is like signing his death warrant.”

  “General Attwood’s orders.”

  “Well, maybe the good general will notify Dufresne’s next of kin when he dies, and he can tell them he did nothing to stop it.”

  “What about Bascombe?” Nichols asked. Julia Talbot shoved Dufresne’s chart aside and flipped open Bascombe’s.

  “He seems to have gotten away with relatively fewer and less serious injuries than Derek Dufresne.” She looked at him. “Or Paul Sanford, Sue Carson, Ken Yamaguchi, and Dom Briccola. Oh, and let’s not forget those two poor people who wandered onto the property.” She threw her glasses on the desk. “Your killer apes have had quite a busy day, haven’t they?”

  Was that accusation in her voice? “That will be enough, Doctor,” Nichols said. “I’m going back to see the men now.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure your visit will make their day.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said, knock yourself out, but don’t bother them. They’ve been through enough.”

  Oh yes, Doctor Talbot, you bitch. You just made my payback list.

  Jonathan Nichols didn’t know what to expect when he approached Derek Dufresne. There was a mummy-like figure lying on the hospital bed, sprouting IV bags and wires leading to monitors. Jonathan Nichols recognized some toes, a foot, a few fingers, a hand, and a closed eye poking out of the bandages. Nichols felt barely able to catch his breath. The only sound was the beeping of one of the monitors.

  “Not a pretty sight, is it?” Tony Bascombe was propped up in another hospital bed, staring through sedative-bleary eyes. Julia Talbot leaned over Bascombe, reinforcing bandages around his left arm.

  When the hell did she sneak in here? “It’s unfortunate,” Nichols said, “but accidents happen.”

  “That’s what you’re calling it now?” Bascombe said.

  “Yes, because that’s exactly what it was.” Nichols’s voice became more confident. “These things happen at zoos and marine parks all the time. Wild animals get out of control and people get hurt, sometimes killed. It’s one of the dangers in this line of work and you damn well know that.”

  Julia Talbot adjusted Bascombe’s pillow, and said, “I’ll be out front. If you need anything, or if you have a problem,” she glared at Nichols, “just call me.”

  Jonathan Nichols had never been popular, but today’s events seemed to be turning everyone against him. He was being pushed into a corner, and he was not good at dealing with that, even though he had spent most of his life in that very same corner. Nichols
walked to Bascombe’s bedside.

  “It’s not my fault, Tony,” Nichols said softly. “I followed all the rules set by General Attwood. This thing today, it just...happened. It wasn’t my fault.”

  Tony Bascombe did his best to focus on Nichols. “You sure about that?” Bascombe asked. “You sure the Centurions got their sedative shots this morning? Or were they forgotten? Forgotten like every other time Attwood is here for a review?”

  Nichols was shocked. How could this man know that the daily sedative shots were withheld when Attwood was on site? Nichols had ordered it quietly, figuring for that one day the Centurions would be more aggressive than usual, and wasn’t General Attwood looking for aggressive replacements for United States service personnel? But no one knew except the technician administering the shots. Nichols thought about the technician. Another one who turned on me.

  “Surprised?” Bascombe grinned. The sedatives were beginning to hit him hard now. “I even know about you messing with their meds against the researchers’ recommendations. As soon as the general stops by, me and him are gonna have us a little talk. Maybe it’s about time you got your sorry ass busted.” Tony Bascombe’s eyes closed, his voice trailing off. “Oh yeah, I think you’re gonna get yours.”

  “Tony? Tony! Wake up!” Nichols hissed, but Bascombe was out cold.

  Nichols sped past Talbot without a word and hurried through the infirmary door, trying desperately to figure out his next move. His eyes locked on the building that housed the pens where the Centurions were kept, and then it came to him. He knew what he had to do. Jonathan Nichols took off at a dead run.

  The setting for Jennifer Pruitt was anything but pastoral. An occasional spear of sunlight would find its way through the thick canopy of branches, but for the most part, she was racing through subdued shadows.

  The young girl had no idea how long she had been running. Her wristwatch had been torn from her arm during one of the countless episodes of crashing through bushes, and tripping over rocks, fallen trees, and broken branches. It seemed like forever since she heard her mom scream for her to run. Was her mom still alive? Had she gotten away from the monster? And her dad... She could not even think about that again. She could hear her dad’s voice, C’mon Jenny, you can do this. Just put one foot in front of the other. Don’t think about anything else. Just do it! She had to run, keep running, never stop until she found help.

  She propelled herself over a fallen tree trunk and landed on a muddy slope, her sneakers sliding along the slick surface like skates on ice. Somehow, she was still on her feet. The slope fell away to a small stream where her mud-coated sneakers hit a pile of rocks at the shoreline, the sudden stop sending her sprawling face first into the water.

  She let the cool water run around her prone body, washing the sweat and fear away. Lowering her face to the surface of the slowly moving stream, she drank greedily, the crystal clear water quenching her incredible thirst. She lifted her head and listened. No sounds of pursuit.

  The stream stretched almost twenty feet across with moss-covered boulders poking up through the water. She rolled onto her back and let the water continue its journey around her body, feeling her long hair fanning out and drifting downstream. She lay there, taking in the peaceful scene.

  Jennifer Pruitt sat up abruptly. Downstream. Downstream. That was it! Downstream! Her grandfather once told her to follow water downstream, that it almost always led to a populated spot. She glanced to her left, where the water stretched upstream in a straight line, then to her right, in the direction of the flow, where the stream curved and disappeared from view.

  Before she could rise, there was a noise. A subtle noise, a splashing sound. She saw them, a long distance upstream. Two of those monsters drank at the edge, looking like giant dogs with their faces in the water.

  Jennifer eased back down, then rolled onto her stomach, trying to hide her body in water that was only a foot deep. Her shaking hands crawled along the streambed like underwater spiders, scrabbling to use stones embedded in the bottom of the stream to pull herself toward the bank.

  Slow. Must move slow. When her hands touched the muddy shoreline, Jennifer stopped and glanced upstream. The monsters had not noticed her. She sank her fingers into the cold, wet mud, and pulled her body forward, inch by agonizing inch, sliding onto the shore.

  Out of the water, the young girl lay motionless, her cheek against the mud, trying to control her terrified breathing. She began to crawl, rising on her hands and knees once she entered the protection of the forest. Afraid of stepping on twigs, she continued to move on all fours until she was well within the cover of the forest.

  Jennifer rose and listened for any sound that might announce the monsters’ pursuit. She moved in the direction of the stream’s flow, careful of where she placed her feet.

  Alpha raised his face from the water, ears perked up and twitching, nose sniffing. Charlie lay dozing in the sun. Alpha picked up a scent, then gave a low growl. When Charlie did not respond, Alpha roared. Charlie erupted from his nap, staring at Alpha, who lumbered downstream along the bank. Charlie followed Alpha. He knew who was in charge now.

  Jennifer heard noises coming from different directions. Animal grunts? Bushes rustling? Heavy footfalls? Each time, she dropped and froze. Whether imagined or real, the sounds helped to propel her through the woods. Jennifer had no idea what lay in the direction she was running or whether she was traveling back the way she had come. All she knew for sure was that she was tired, so very tired, and hungry.

  Bernie Robinson handed a small, pink wristwatch to Foster. He wiped the dirt away from the dial. The face was decorated with a small cartoon drawing of a farm. The second hand was a red rake sweeping around the dial. The plastic watchband was broken.

  Foster glanced at his own watch. “The time is right and the second hand is still moving. This watch hasn’t been out here long. I think trespasser number three is just a young girl.”

  “I haven’t had any problem following the tracks of the Centurions,” said Robinson. “Once in a while, I see a small athletic shoeprint. The location of the watch in their trail tells me the Centurions are onto her too.”

  “We better find her first,” Foster said. He slipped the watch into his jacket pocket, hoping he would be able to return it to her.

  The team walked single file behind Robinson, continuing to follow the Centurions’ trail. In less than a mile, Robinson no longer saw the tiny athletic shoeprints.

  Foster ordered everyone to fan out. Minutes later, Serrafino’s voice came through. “Think I got the trail here.”

  The team dropped and brought their assault rifles up.

  “Yeah, Dave, that’s her,” said Foster. “Wonder why she went off this way and the Centurions kept going?”

  “I don’t think she’s following any real plan here, Sean. If she’s just a kid, she’s probably scared to death, running as far and fast as she can.”

  The men split into two groups and followed both trails. Foster had Cummings radio their intentions and coordinates to the monitoring center. He was surprised General Attwood wasn’t burning up the airwaves requesting updates every minute, given the implications of their operation. Attwood was not know for being patient, but he was famous for trusting the people he had personally chosen, and this was a top-notch group.

  Bernie Robinson stepped out from the bushes cluttering the shoreline, his assault rifle tight against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. Satisfied the area was clear, he waved to Foster and Cummings. Robinson followed the tracks to the water’s edge. He held up two fingers, then pointed them. Foster understood. The two Centurions had been here and then headed off downstream. The three men took off, following the tracks on the shore. Daylight was still good, but it would fade. There was no time to waste. Foster radioed Serrafino.

  “We’re just downstream from you,” said Serrafino. “We have two sets of tracks again.”

  “Hold your position. We’re on our way.”

  Foster ex
amined the marks in the moist mud. “Looks like she went in the water here and crawled back out. See the hand prints?” He turned toward the trees. “She must have headed back into the woods right there.” He pointed. “And here is where the Centurions crossed her trail and kept going. They must be following the stream.” He removed his hat, ran his fingers through his damp black hair. “But I don’t know why. You think they would have picked up her tracks visually. Maybe it’s her scent they’ve been following.”

  “Just an idea, Sean,” Serrafino offered, “but if it is her scent they’re following, well, maybe the water would have washed it away. Or maybe they’re drawn by heat, like infrared, so the water cooled her down to where they couldn’t pick her up.”

  “Hell, Dave, anything is possible. We don’t know how these things operate. No matter what, it looks like we still have two separate trails to follow. I’d prefer to keep the team together.”

  “Me too, but we play the cards we’re dealt, right? Anyway, Eric picked up the girl’s trail again going out the way she came in. Time for you to make the call, boss.”

  The rest of his team had formed a defensive perimeter around their position. Foster weighed the pros and cons, then made his decision.

  “Dave, Sal, and Eric, follow the girl’s trail. Dave, you’re point. Sal, watch the rear. Bernie and Kurt, with me. I’ve got point. Bernie, take the rear. Let’s move out.”

  Jennifer felt like she had been running for days. Her feet were like blocks of lead, barely clearing the ground. The sun was high in the mid-day sky, the puffy clouds overhead a brilliant white, but the woods around her were so thick they remained dark, gloomy. She stumbled and dropped to her knees.

  She imagined her dad’s voice again: C’mon, Jenny, I know you can do this. Don’t give up now. You’ve come so far. You have to keep moving!