Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  The first transformation, brought about by his maniacal violation of procedure, had been a shocking and painful experience—a black blazing maze of taloned hands sweeping laboratory equipment aside and devastating whatever or whoever had been unfortunate enough to encounter his fury. Yet there had also been addictive exultation in the pure animal pleasure, fed with adrenaline and lust, and a thirst that was quenched only with killing. It had lasted long, and longer, bringing him on that tide of bestial might into the next day when it faded and he fell, leaving him alone among the dead in a facility in ruin and aflame.

  He understood now that, yes, his risky experimentation had been a success. He had not expected to take on the fullness of the creature, not in feature and form. But he did not regret it, though he felt somehow that he was losing more and more of his personal identity—whatever he could be called—as the infection continued. Just the glory, the triumph of possessing such bestial supremacy made him feel like a lion among sheep. Yes he had been successful, no matter the unintended after-effects that seemed to become more progressive with each transformation.

  He laughed as he recalled his shocked mind when he had recovered from the first unexpected alteration, not knowing that he would soon glory in it more than he ever gloried in his old life.

  Stunned at the carnage he had wrought, he had transmitted a hasty emergency message to the command center and informed them that the experimental DNA had been successfully fused with his own. And further, he had told them that further testing would confirm that their secret goals had been satisfied. Although they were shocked and enraged that he had grossly and dangerously violated procedure by injecting himself, they had been openly pleased that the serum could indeed be transferred to humans.

  Within hours a secondary team arrived to replace the dead. And although they were also shocked at such a gory spectacle of wanton, wholesale murder, they were indifferent to the loss of life when measured against the stunning success of the experiment.

  Yet they did take prudent measures to ensure that they would not follow the fate of their colleagues. So restraints were set in place to contain him should the transformation occur before the expected hour.

  A steel-reinforced concrete room was selected and locked with a steel door that was in turn reinforced with a niobium-titanium brace. Then blood samples were taken for analysis as he waited through the long day, wondering what night would bring.

  Deep beneath the level where he had been imprisoned, they would be feverishly searching the DNA strand for the genes that had evolved so rapidly, and had indeed evolved without warning to doom his former coworkers.

  Thinking of their deaths, he sensed faint remorse over their coldblooded execution, but strangely did not feel the full measure of regret that he anticipated. It intrigued him as the hours passed, and then his ruminations were broken.

  The massive steel door opened wide, and within the frame stood the white-haired man who was responsible for the operation. He knew the man well, just as he knew the man did not approve of his reckless violation of proper procedure. But it did not matter. He had what he wanted, the power of the creature . . .

  Without words, the man departed.

  He thought back to how it had all begun, remembering the unexpected discovery of the creature. Clearly an ancestor of early homo-sapiens, it had been miraculously and magnificently preserved by the glacier that had hidden it for 10,000 years in an icy tomb.

  Even without analysis of its DNA, the creature’s superior qualities were obvious. Such as its fantastic strength and speed, or the size of its brain and the incredible ocular space dedicated to nocturnal vision. The only disappointment had been to discover the reduced size of its temporal lobes, which indicated a lack of higher thinking ability. But that was something nature had obviously sacrificed for the amazing physical attributes.

  They classified it Homo scimitar, for ‘man-beast.’

  And when it was carefully chipped out of its icy coffin and the frozen carcass of a saber-toothed tiger was discovered beneath—a seven-hundred-pound predator whose neck had been snapped like a rotten branch—they knew it had been a creature of truly unimaginable physical power, undoubtedly the fiercest, strongest, most enduring ancient ancestor of modern Homo sapiens.

  Debate ensued for a logical explanation to explain the startling presence of viable DNA after so many centuries, and they discovered that the creature’s chemical composition at the time of its death consisted of a strange combination of unidentifiable organic substances. Probably part of its floral diet, the chemicals had acted within its system as a form of genetic antifreeze, preventing the cells from expanding as the water froze. Therefore it never completely froze, even despite sub-zero temperatures.

  Yes, it was the discovery of the century, but it had not been for science.

  It had never been for science.

  Hunter knew they would be landing soon and reviewed what Maddox had told him about the support team.

  It had been an informal and enigmatic briefing, the colonel volunteering as little as possible. But Hunter had gleaned enough to know that this Special Response Team wasn’t standard military. Maddox had said, in a rather strange tone, that it was out of the CMC—the Central Military Commission—which was an operational center under the authority of the National Security Agency.

  The CMC, he learned, was the only federal agency not restricted by Posse Comitatus—a doctrine that prevented the government from using U.S. military forces for active missions on American soil without congressional approval. That alone to Hunter was intriguing and distinctly disturbing. For some reason, it seemed, they were afraid this might require active military mobilization. And that didn’t make sense.

  Even stranger, this hunting party seemed bizarre. Hunter had perceived that much when he asked if this was a singularly American event. And Dixon, eyes hidden, had replied with even more vagueness that it was a unique team assembled from half a dozen nations. In essence, he said, they had recruited professional soldiers who were reputed to be highly trained at hunting not only men but animals as well.

  Hunter hadn’t pushed it. He suspected already that anything Dixon said was a lie. Even asking him a question indicated a lessening of awareness. Then it was intriguing how Maddox had seemed to spend an excessive amount of time assuring Hunter that helicopter transports would be on constant standby in case of a disaster.

  Hunter grunted as he recalled it. Sure, seemed like they were spending more time preparing for a disaster than for success.

  Rousing himself, Ghost sat and turned his huge wedged head for a brief moment before locking on Hunter. With unnatural alertness the wolf then scanned the empty cargo hold before it blinked, yawning.

  Hunter wrapped an arm about the huge neck, feeling the iron strength locked deep as the stone of a mountain in the dark frame, and laughed. He turned his face away as Ghost tried to nuzzle him with his huge black nose.

  “Lie down,” Hunter laughed again. “I don’t want your big ol’ nose in my face.” He nudged the wolf away. “Go on. Go on, now. Lie down. We ain’t there yet. It’ll be soon enough.”

  With the distinct impression of great weight, the wolf settled on the tarp. His eyes, wide-open now and as black as his mane, stared into the sixty-foot cargo hold, always alert.

  Despite his self-confidence, Hunter felt safer knowing this great beast was with him, a bodyguard that never truly slept. Even when Ghost was asleep, which was rare, nothing could approach him without his acute senses bringing him to his feet.

  Hunter had researched wolves after he adopted the cub and discovered that wolves were very much different from dogs or even coyotes. For one thing, far more of a wolf’s brain was dedicated to hearing and vision.

  Not only could they hear ranges far greater than any other animal except a cat, they also had the ability to purposefully block particular sounds that they didn’t care to hear. It was
an incredible natural endowment, as was their sense of smell—the scent pad within their snout was so large that, if removed and unfolded, it could cover their entire head. And their night vision was superior to every mammal but a bat, a necessary faculty for hunting at night that wolves were prone to do. But the most amazing ability of wolves, and what truly separated them, was their ability to hunt by either sight or scent, or both, simultaneously.

  Most creatures depended upon one faculty or the other, sight or sound, to hunt prey; it was instinctive. But wolves could, and would, switch in the middle of a hunt from scent to sight, or back again. And they were the ultimate hunters—once they locked onto prey they wouldn’t stop until they were successful. But Ghost was special even for a gray wolf. One of his distinctions was his strength, incredible by any standard. Another was his size.

  Hunter knew from experience that most wolves were remarkably lean and limber because excess body weight diminished their ability to go for days and weeks without sustenance. But Ghost, by genetic design and perhaps partially because of the care Hunter had given him since birth, was far more muscular than the average wolf, almost overpoweringly muscular. His shoulders swelled with thick muscle, as did his flanks. And his neck was like corded iron humped behind a massive wedged head. Gingerly, Hunter reached out in the half light of the cargo hold and felt for the closed fangs, and Ghost lowered his head. Then Hunter touched the incisors—they were thick as a boar’s tusks, sharp and set deep in hardened bone, and Hunter remembered when he had taken the wolf on a track last year in British Columbia.

  Hunter had eventually found the tourists deep in the Kispiox Wilderness but it had been a difficult four-day track. The couple, not having the simple presence of mind to just bed down, conserve energy, and wait for help, had wandered dumbly, burning up precious calories in the cold and forcing Hunter to begin foraging to maintain his own energy level. He finally found them and called for a medical helicopter, but then Ghost had vanished.

  Concerned, Hunter had tracked the wolf into a tall stand of birch to find Ghost squared off against another wolf—a large gray alpha, leader of the pack.

  A bull elk had been brought down by the pack, and the alpha, by definition as leader, would eat first. But Ghost would have none of it. He waded in, and the alpha warned him off. Then Ghost emitted an ungodly growl that made even Hunter feel a thrill of fear, and the alpha attacked.

  Ghost evaded the first lightning-quick lunge, struck a shoulder on the larger wolf and was gone again before it could react. And for an amazingly long and savage battle it was blow for blow, Ghost retreating and attacking, leaping and striking with feral fury.

  Hunter watched in fascination as they joined in combat for six hours, neither surrendering, neither striking a mortal wound until Ghost finally slashed a crimson brand that savaged the alpha’s neck and the gray wolf fell to a knee. But there was no mercy. Not now.

  Ghost moved in, slowly at first, and then, in a movement too quick to follow, hit again, and there was a flare of blood, and the alpha lay deathly still. Ghost stood only a moment over the carcass before he went tiredly to the elk and began to feed.

  The other wolves let him feast until he was done. Then, as he turned his back and moved away, the rest of them moved in and devoured what was left.

  Hunter never forgot the episode, or the awesome, utter savagery Ghost had embodied. It had been a display of the purest primal fury, truly awesome in its power and awesome in its ferocity.

  Hungry as he was, Hunter didn’t interrupt as Ghost fed alone, though afterwards he fired a shot into the air to drive off the pack. Then he moved in cautiously beneath the uncaring gaze of Ghost to cut several large steaks from the hindquarter.

  He ate one raw, cooked another, then air-dried twenty pounds of jerky for the long journey back. And by cutting off one of the massive legs, stripping the skin at the socket, and tying it back to the hoof, he made an efficient shoulder strap of raw meat—enough to sustain the wolf until they reached the Ranger base.

  The forest, all that was in this land, would completely consume what remained of the elk; nothing was wasted.

  Hunter had often thought of the incident, wondering what savage pride had driven Ghost to continue the fight. But, from the first day, it was clear that he would die before he walked away.

  Hunter smiled as he reached out to ruffle Ghost’s mane once more but noticed the wolf was staring away intently, as if perceiving a slowly approaching threat. Suddenly sensitive, Hunter turned his head to gaze into the cargo hold. But he saw nothing.

  Nothing but darkness.

  ***

  Standing half-naked in the shadowed gloom, he was amazed that he could not remember his name.

  Faintly troubled by it, he slowly raised his hands before his face, frowning slightly, for they were slightly different than before. They were wider, thicker, and tipped with what remained of claws. The transformations were lasting longer, and taking longer to fade, he thought. But that was something to be expected. Soon, he assumed, they might not fade at all. That was well with him; he had grown to prefer that superior state of being—that matchless measure of might that he alone enjoyed.

  No, never again would he be one of them—the weak, the puny, the prey. No, he would forever enjoy a higher realm of existence—a physical glory not seen on the Earth for ten thousand years, and which he alone possessed.

  Strangely, though he could not remember his name, he remembered so much else. To test himself, he attempted to recall everything he knew about the alien DNA he had injected into his body.

  Electrophoresis, he remembered clearly, had categorized the recombinant DNA as ninety-nine percent Homo sapiens. Yet it was the one percent that had demanded their attention and launched the first stage of the experiment.

  An aggressive immunity to every disease tested against it had been discovered in that DNA, which contained the very building blocks of life. It was like a battery able to recharge endlessly. Yes, there was not just life, but virtual eternal life hidden within.

  For death, he well knew, was simply the aging of cells—a progressive mutation of the body until the cells could simply no longer reproduce. But this creature, Homo scimitar, was not cursed with such a fate as modern man. Although the DNA hinted that there was ultimately an end to the recombinant strength, it was at a level far beyond modern Homo sapiens. Yes, this Lord of the North had possessed a life span of hundreds and hundreds of years. Theoretically, he realized that a thousand years was not beyond hope.

  Although the true biochemical essence of its phenomenal longevity was, despite their calculations, a mystery, its immunity system had been readily understood.

  A breakdown of the coding had revealed the astonishing level of restrictive enzymes that prevented a foreign agent, like a virus or bacteria, from infecting and interfering with the host DNA. Literally billions of various restrictive enzymes were locked in the helix, a clear indication that this creature had been as invulnerable to virus and bacteria as he was to age—a superior species from a superior realm.

  Then the time came to see if the DNA could be copied in modern homo-sapiens. And after performing his own series of tests, he had decided to experiment on himself.

  He never even debated his right to inject himself with the coding. He knew that, if successful, he would share those superhuman qualities, and he had judged the potential triumph worth the risk. His motives had not been pure, nor did he care. What he wanted for himself was justification enough for his actions.

  But he had not anticipated the transformation to be so overpowering. And he could even now feel the strength growing again, flexing solid muscle that was increasing moment by moment. He could even sense the increasing bone density in his arms and chest and legs, and realized he would soon change again.

  He did not know what had compelled his rampage on that first night when he changed within the chamber. He only remembered a dim t
ransposing of visions, screaming faces and hands raised in appeal as his own hands—black claws there—swept left and right with the scarlet world falling before him. Then morning had come and he was himself, in his own mind and with his own eyes.

  And after the next research team arrived, replacing those he had massacred so joyfully in his rampage, he had felt it building within him again and knew without question that, when night came, he would be as he had been.

  And he was.

  They screamed when the steel door exploded before his blow, and a cloud of concrete dust arose as the deep-set bolts were ripped from the wall.

  It was a single thunderous impact of his forearm, smashing down with the irresistible force of a wrecking ball that reduced the concrete to chalk and laid the steel flat before him. Then he saw them through the familiar red haze. He saw them backing away in horror, screaming, always screaming.

  And he had roared in among them.

  But on that second occasion, everything was clearer, and he gained bestial satisfaction from the sheer exultation, the uncontainable exultation of his omnipotent power.

  Yes, he smiled.

  Like a god on the earth.

  Nothing could stop him.

  Nothing ...

  He knew in that moment that he could bring down a charging rhinoceros with the strength of his arms, that he could kill anything living—any-thing—with the massive might and claws that found no resistance in earthly substance. It was the best of all worlds; human cunning, the fierce blood of the beast, and prehistoric power. But then his human mind was fading, he knew, with each changing. And the changes were becoming more frequent, the beast slowly overcoming what he had been until he would be man no more. He thought of it a moment, and decided he did not care.

  Whatever he had been no longer mattered. Tests no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but the power, the endless life, and the freedom to kill, and kill, and kill.