Hunter (7 page)

Tipler laughed sympathetically.

"I appreciate your concern, Nathaniel. I truly do. You have always had my best interests at heart, and you have never disappointed me in your support. But the issue has been decided: I shall accompany you on this trip." He held Hunter's stare and leaned forward, seemingly taken by a thought. "Don't you understand what we may have here, my boy?" He paused. "I mean, have you truly imagined?"

Hunter didn't blink. "A killer is what we have, Professor. And it'll kill you or me as quick as it would kill anything else." In this, Hunter's certainty seemed to temper his tone. "This thing doesn't care about guns or greater numbers, Professor. It won't be driven like a tiger. And I don't think it can be baited or ambushed or trapped. Whatever this is, and right now I don't have a clue, is probably the most efficient killing machine on
earth. And we'll be alone with it on its home ground. These people talk a lot about a backup team, but if this thing attacks us, we won't be alive when any backup team arrives. So make sure you're willing to die over this before you go into those mountains to find it."

Obviously grateful for the words,
Tipler displayed his resolve. "I understand, Nathaniel. But I am committed to this adventure." He laughed gruffly. "Perhaps, at my age, it will be the last adventure of my life. No need to deny an old man one last stab at feeling alive."

After a moment, Hunter looked down. His jaw tightened almost im-perceptibly, and he nodded.

"There." The professor clapped his hands sharply. "It is settled. Now, where is that big horse you call a dog?"

Hunter shook his head with a faint smile. "He's outside."

With a laugh Tipler rose and walked up the slate-gray ramp to the double doors, and when he was outside they heard his booming voice. Through the window Hunter saw Ghost rear on hind legs, fully as tall as the professor as he licked the old man's face. Faintly he could hear Tipler's booming laugh.

It was Tipler who, so long ago, had helped Hunter nurse Ghost back from death. Without any charge the professor had liberally dispensed antibiotics and necessary drugs and vitamins as he tenderly cared for the cub's wounds. And when Ghost was ill with parvo it was Tipler who had kept him in his own home until the wolf wore out the infection.

For six weeks it was touch and go, but Tipler had vigilantly remained by the wolf's side with Hunter, sometimes injecting near-lethal doses of saline solution and Thorazine to prevent the endless convulsions from shredding the wolf's intestines. But in the end it wasn't science that defeated the plague; it was Ghost's pure brute strength and un-killable will. He had simply refused to die when agony and Nature had told him to die. And after three weeks he stood on weak legs.

Now Hunter watched Tipler laugh as he half-wrestled with the wolf, and knew some part of Ghost's animal mind had never forgotten the kindness. The old man was the only person besides Hunter who could touch him. Then Hunter's mind turned to other things. Darker things.

Finishing his meal, he stood.

"All right," he nodded. "Let's get on with it."

"This creature"—Maddox used a laser pointer on the topographical map—"is moving south in a straight line. It used the Anaktuvuk Pass to cross over the Endicott mountain range. Our trackers told us that much. Then it continued south. Pathfinders lost it somewhere around there." He pinpointed the Sistanche Gorge, located about a mile beneath the pass.

The support team had not yet arrived. Hunter gazed about the room. "You sending the professor and me in there all by our lonesome?" he asked mildly.

"Well." Maddox skipped a single beat that seemed somehow important. "This is not like any kind of team we have used before, Mr. Hunter. As you know, we were forced to assemble them from around the world. And, if I may reiterate, they are the best in the world at what they do, each handpicked for a specific skill. They are soldiers but they are also, to the last, men who are proficient hunters."

Hunter stared, saying nothing as Tipler laughed out loud. Then: "You make it sound as if it is a feat of remarkable engineering to assemble such a team, Colonel. Is it so difficult?"

"No, no," Maddox said convincingly. "We have the best people in the world, gentlemen. Be reminded, we are talking about the United States military, here. However the unnatural events of the past week have caused quite a, uh, a stir, and ... uh, in case of some contingencies we have recruited one or two foreign nationals for the team. It is only a precautionary action, and won't affect unit integrity or final authority."

"When do they arrive?" Hunter asked.

"Well ... why do you ask?"

"Because the tracks are getting old." Hunter leaned forward. "This soil is hard, good for tracking. But there's still gonna be erosion. Deterioration. And from the pictures, these tracks already have 5 curves in them, which makes them even harder to read. Plus that, a lot of them will be covered by leaves and debris. You've got severe temperature variations in the mountain range, and that's gonna age them even faster because the change in heat and cold will break down the edges. If you want me to go after this thing, then we need to move as soon as possible. Every day we wait makes it more difficult."

Maddox absorbed it, staring at Hunter for a long moment. "All right, Mr. Hunter. From our latest intelligence I believe the team will arrive by early morning. Then you can begin." He moved to the table. "Now, let me give you something to examine."

He lifted a plaster cast of the creature's footprint and almost gingerly
presented it to Hunter, who laid it down. Professor Tipler removed his eyeglasses from the front pocket of his vest and leaned forward as they looked closely.

They studied it for a moment in silence.

"Well?" Maddox asked finally. "Now that you've seen a cast of the print, what do you conjecture? Surely the cast can tell you more than a mere photograph."

Hunter delicately ran fingers over the impression. "How long from the time of the attack to the time this cast was set?"

"Approximately six hours."

"Weather conditions?"

"Dry."

"Wind?"

Maddox paused. "It was relatively mild, I believe."

"Was this in sand or dirt or clay?"

"Simple dirt, I believe." Maddox appeared frustrated. "Why do you ask? Yes, yes, I remember what you said about time and age and erosion and how the tracks are affected by these things. But now, having seen the cast up close, surely you can give me some idea as to what we are dealing with."

Tipler cast Hunter a concerned glance.

"Gentlemen?" Maddox pressed. Frustration was quickly graduating to nervousness.

With a sigh, Hunt
er shook his head. "It's a plantigrade walk," he said simply. "It's bringing the heel of the foot all the way down to the ground, like a human. Normally, when you see a track, an animal is moving at its usual slow rate of speed. But this thing was moving fast. Running. It's probably male, because it pronates. Males tend to walk more on the outside of their feet while females tend to supinate, or put more pressure on the inside of the foot. And it's not very old, because there's not any mulling."

"Mulling?"

Hunter waved vaguely. "It's complicated. It takes years of practice before you can read something's age in a track. Don't worry about it. But I'm pretty sure this thing isn't more than five, maybe six years old."

"You still have no idea as to what it is?"

"No."

The colonel seemed vaguely stunned. "But surely by now you have some idea!"

Hunter was thoughtful. "I know how it moves, Colonel," he said. "I know how it thinks. How it attacks. How it kills. I know it's right-handed, and I'm pretty sure about its age. I know it weighs close to three hundred. I know it's strong and fast and dangerous. But, no, I don't know what it is."

"Yet you said the tracks were vaguely bearlike."

"Those tracks were severely marred, and that doesn't make it a bear," Hunter responded. "I also said they were vaguely humanlike. All I know is that it's not a tiger. And I don't see how it can be a man because no man can carry that stride width. Right now I think it's something I've never seen before. Maybe something none of us have ever seen."

Tipler lifted the cast and studied it before raising his eyes to Maddox. "Colonel," he began, "would you have any objections about sending this cast back to the Institute where we might analyze the indentations? It is an excellent reconstruction of the print, and my people might be able to discern clues that we may have missed by a simple visual examination."

"Of course not, Professor."

The colonel was clearly becoming frustrated at the continuing enigma. He strolled away for a minute. A decision was evident in his tone when he spoke again. "All right, gentlemen, the Special Response Team should arrive at first light. But since you've told me that time is such a vital factor, I'm going to change orders so that they will rendezvous with you at the first base that was destroyed. From there, we'll fly you to the second and third stations so you can study its habits. And from there, Mr. Hunter, it will be your responsibility to track it down."

Hunter shook his head. "Just drop us at the third base. The tracks at the first two stations will be useless. When was the last station attacked?"

"Twenty-four hours ago."

"Survivors?"

"None."

The answer was clipped.

Tipler's brow hardened with a slight scowl.

"Colonel," he asked, "you must have increased your security at these outposts. You must have had more men, more guns, more gadgets. Why is this thing still alive?"

"It seems ..." Maddox gazed down as he lightly touched a photo of red flesh on snow, "to understand
... things."

Tipler waited. "Things?"

"Yes, it seems to understand our, uh, tactics." The colonel didn't look up as he continued. "It seems to know how to penetrate a security screen, such as the timing of patrols, the formation of flanking. Apparently it does some kind of circular surveillance of an area before it attacks. And it appears to kill listening posts before it does anything else. It doesn't sneak past them, it kills them. Only then does it move into a compound."

There were so many questions floating in Hunters mind that he wasn't even tempted to ask the first one. Obviously, whatever had done this was nothing he'd ever seen. And if he hadn't seen it, it was a safe bet that nobody had.

He knew the only way to find any answers would be at the site. Only by learning to think like this thing could he harbor any hope of tracking it. He stared at the colonel, trying to determine whether something vital was being hidden behind that military mask.

Rising, he turned to Tipler.

"Try to get some rest tonight, Professor," he said. "Tomorrow's gonna be a hard day."

"Ah, my boy, most certainly." Tipler rose beside him. "Thank you, Colonel. We shall leave at
...?"

"0500 hours." Maddox nodded curtly. "We'll be on site by 0600."

"Very good. I shall retire now, so that I can prepare."

"Everything you need is in your quarters, Professor."

"Thank you," Tipler waved. "Good night."

With Ghost at his side, Hunter saw the professor to his room. Then he slipped silently into the night and, hidden in shadow, searched through a mound of discarded construction materials. It was a long while before he found what he needed: a long, pliable shoestring-thin wire of titanium alloy and a peg-sized section of solid steel. The steel fit perfectly in his hand, comfortable and cold.

Then he returned to his own room and made preparations through the long night, working till sunrise. When he was finished he carefully placed the improvised weapon inside his wide leather belt with a frown.

He thought that if this thing went as he feared, it might give him a last desperate chance.

* * *

Chapter 4

Thundering out of low dark clouds, the Blackhawk descended into a charred glade. Twenty-four hours after the carnage, the snow was still widely stained with red—trampled by military boots.

He quickly scanned the surrounding terrain for a quick orientation and in a breath memorized ravines and hills, what would be the natural approach, the most calculated line of an attack. It took him ten seconds to read the scene, proceeding more by instinct than by intense scrutiny.

The Blackhawk settled gently in the square and Hunter was out first, turning back to help Professor Tipler from the bay. Then, after the old man dusted himself off, they walked out a hundred yards or so and stared silently at the fire-scarred facility. Clearly, the unfortunate team trapped inside it when the creature attacked didn't stand a chance.

Entire portals constructed from fire-resistant steel had been ripped from the hinges as if by a hurricane.

Shaking his head at the devastation, Hunter turned and saw them; the support team. A group of five, they wore specialized forest-camouflaged BDUs. They also wore load-bearing vests packed with weapons and clips. Ignoring Hunter and Tipler, they were unloading equipment from a second Blackhawk.

Hunter observed that they moved with a certain cold economy; no emotion, no questions. They spoke little and each seemed to recognize his responsibility without instruction. Then he saw something else that attracted his attention.

It was a woman dressed in forest BDUs like the rest, but also wearing some kind of high-tech, obviously lightweight armor. She knelt on one knee beside the chopper, bent over a rifle of formidable size. Hunter had never seen one like it, but noticed how adeptly she managed it. When she had finished loading four oversized rounds in a clip and tapping it on her knee to seat the cartridges, she inserted it into the rifle and loudly chambered a round. When she was finished, she lifted it to her shoulder as if it were weightless and aimed across the scorched square, moving left, right, hesitating
...before centering on him.

For a moment, she held aim.

Hunter didn't move, gazing stonily into the glare of the sniper's scope. Then, expressionless, she lowered the massive rifle to her side and turned back to her work. Hunter ignored her and studied the devastated, windswept station.

An air of utter defeat was the first impression, then a lingering sense of horror: shattered steel doors, scars of explosions and fire, broken windows and red snow told the story.

Everywhere the ground was stained crimson, and Ghost was pacing busily across the compound, checking scents. Hunter knew he was attempting to separate the human from the inhuman.

Studying the tracks, Hunter determined easily that many of the men and women present here had fled wildly into the freezing night, heedless of the consequences. Obviously, facing what had been inside that facility had been infinitely worse than the grim fate of freezing to death in the dark.

Hunter moved toward the facility. He glanced at Maddox. "Tell everyone to stay where they're at until I get back."

The colonel turned. "What?"

"Tell everyone to stay where they're at." Hunter approached the shattered door. He knew that the discovery team, or sanitation team or whatever they had used, had already marred whatever evidence he could gain from the facility, but he would give it a try.

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. "Well, 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.