Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  What Hunter needed to do first was find any kind of animal run, even a rabbit run, because animals tended to follow certain routes. So he moved into the tree-line and began searching for the thickest brush hidden behind the spruce.

  Heavy undergrowth was always the best place to start because it offered smaller animals concealment while they moved from their dens to food or water. And within minutes Hunter found a slight depression in the ground and knelt to determine the species. The prints, about four days old, were half an inch long. They looked like a miniature bear track. He smiled: a lemming.

  Moving quickly and silently, Hunter followed the run until it intersected with a general trail, the way a paved road intersects a highway. He studied the ground and saw elk, bear, and the five-clawed prints of a large wolverine. Hunter almost laughed; this was a popular route.

  Staying off the trail as he walked parallel to it, he saw that it carved a safe swath around the military compound. He couldn’t help but smile; it amused him to think that an entire convoy of animals moved up and down this trail in the morning and evening, so close to the compound and yet so hidden because the civilized personnel knew nothing of the wild. He had covered a half-mile circuit when he came across the first print of the beast.

  Stopping suddenly in place, Hunter raised his face to search the forest. But he could determine by the natural chorus of activity that nothing was close. Two red squirrels were eating acorns of a white oak less than forty feet away, and a collared pika was barking down the trail, summoning her mate. For a moment he almost felt at home, then dismissed it in the shadow of what he had been caught in. Frowning, he bent to the print.

  It took only a second to determine that it had been moving fast, as if enraged. The ground was almost torn by claw marks, and the front of each print was deeper than the back, like the beast had been running on the balls of its feet. Hunter estimated its weight and size and knew his earlier calculations had been close. It would go maybe two hundred fifty, slightly over six feet. It was right-handed, and it wasn’t older than six years. He raised the radio: “This is Hunter.”

  Takakura replied, “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I’m on the northeastern ridge. Have the team move north from the gate and up this slope. I’ll be at the top. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “Understood.”

  Setting the radio in his belt, Hunter thought of the dauntless tone of the Japanese and felt the first faint sense of security. Though unemotional, the man’s voice and attitude were both forthright and efficient. Then he remembered the severe face and wondered about what manner of man was leading this team, and why Takakura had been selected commander. Hunter had already decided that nothing involved in this situation happened without a reason. Suddenly angry, he shook his head at the distracting thought. Time enough to worry about that later.

  Studying the track again, he determined its direction and moved up the slope to find a second print, and another, and another. Even beyond the force and weight of the impressions, he was amazed at the length of its stride, the almost casual demonstration of titanic power.

  He concentrated on observation and tracking but slowly felt a thought—more of a fear—nagging him. And as he neared the crest of the ridge and saw that the beast had cunningly used a series of large granite boulders—hard stone that left virtually no tracks—to descend, he realized what it was.

  This thing knew it would be hunted for what it had done.

  ***

  Turning as he heard the careful approach, Hunter spoke in an even tone. “It’s not close. You can come up.”

  It was a fire-scarred face that Hunter saw first, rising from beneath a low spruce limb to stare at him with open hostility. Hunter, for some reason, squared off, implacably returning the stare. If there were going to be trouble, he might as well settle it now.

  Staring impassively for a moment, the man suddenly smiled, then laughed silently. He turned, holding a large automatic shotgun, and walked down the ridge.

  Within minutes the rest of them emerged from the trees, each holding a different weapon. Without tactical instruction they automatically branched out across the rock-strewn crest in an efficient guard, poised and apparently unafraid. The Japanese came through the brush last, slightly behind Professor Tipler.

  Hunter saw that the old man was keeping up well, and it assuaged some of his concern. But this had just begun. The first full day would be the primary measure of what the professor could endure, and Hunter felt fairly confident that the old man would maintain his strength for a while. But after that, mostly because of his advanced age, Hunter was uncertain.

  After so many miles in the mountains, everyone, even those in excellent physical condition, would begin to crack at the strain. The back was generally the first thing to go, then the legs, then the feet, and then a general physical blowout that had no exact cause or remedy. And what put someone on his feet every morning wasn’t brute physical strength; it was the pure and simple will to rise.

  Hunter had seen hundreds of well-conditioned gym athletes crumble completely after ten days on the trail, unable even to roll out of sleeping bags to put on their boots, while other, less-conditioned hikers who had a simple but determined will just pushed themselves up and finished the task. Tipler had plenty of will, and Hunter wondered how far it could take him.

  Dignified and solid, the Japanese paused. His curt nod could have indicated anything but Hunter sensed it was respect. Takakura’s eyes, obsidian and impenetrable, flicked past Hunter and then down the ridge. “Is that the direction?”

  “Yeah.” Hunter adjusted the Marlin slung across his back; the leather strap crossed his chest, frontier-style. “It’s moving south, like before. Tracks are about a day old.”

  Hunter once again noticed the katana strapped to Takakura’s back, along with a sawed-off shotgun. The hilts protruded from behind either shoulder while the Japanese held the MP-5. Extra clips and shotgun shells were on a bandoleer, and a large combat knife was strapped to his leg.

  Cold and concentrated, Hunter ignored Taylor and glanced at the other men on the team. Hunter didn’t know where the woman had gone. He didn’t know which of them he could truly trust, but for the moment Takakura appeared the safest bet. There would be time to learn more about them later. He squatted by the trail, staring at the last track and trying to imagine the route that he himself would have taken from this ridge in the dark. After a moment he found it and stood.

  “We are ready to begin?” Takakura inquired, already seeming to understand a little of Hunter’s style of tracking.

  “We need to get some things straight,” Hunter said, turning to face Takakura, who nodded curtly. “I lead,” Hunter continued, “and your people stay back about a hundred yards. Simple as that.”

  “I have no objection.” Takakura frowned. “But we have someone who might be able to aid you. Each of us, as you know, possesses specialized skills which you may, at your convenience, utilize to complete this mission.”

  Hunter considered it. “All right. Which one?”

  Without hesitation—a man comfortable with authority—Takakura raised a hand. “Bobbi Jo!”

  Hunter turned his head to see the team’s female member trotting instantly and effortlessly up the ridge. She reached them in a few seconds, only slightly winded. Standing at port arms with the gigantic sniper rifle, she regarded Hunter without expression.

  She was about five-eight, and slim. Her hair was a dark blond and tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were a vivid blue and her face was sharply angled, indicating that she was in excellent shape. She had a bandoleer stretched across her chest filled with huge metal-jacketed cartridges. Hunter estimated they were at least .50-caliber rounds.

  Takakura began, “I have told Mr. Hunter that—”

  “Just call me Hunter.”

  A pause, and the Japanese nodded. “Hai,” he continued, staring back at
Bobbi Jo. “I have told Mr. Hunter that you are also skilled at tracking. I informed him that you might be of some assistance.”

  Patiently Hunter asked, “How much do you know?”

  Bobbi Jo’s voice was young and confident. “I know who you are, Mr.—”

  “Just Hunter.”

  “All right. I know who you are, Hunter. I’ve followed your work, and I’m not as good as you. I’ll say that outright. But I’ve been through Tracker and Pathfinder. I’ve got five years in the program. And I grew up hunting. So, although I’m not as good, I can hold my own and I don’t make stupid mistakes. And I’d like to take point with you.” Her mouth made a firm line.

  He studied her. “Okay, how may claws on a bear?”

  “Five.”

  “Wolf?”

  “Five.”

  “How do you tell a coyote from a wolf?”

  “A wolf has a larger rear pad, and the digit claw doesn’t print.”

  “How does the movement of a bear differ from the movement of a mountain lion?”

  “A bear wanders. No path, just territory. A cougar follows a circuit. Usually about fifty miles in diameter. And it uses paths.”

  Hunter raised his eyes slightly. “Okay, but what difference does that make if you’re hunting them?”

  “You can anticipate a cougar because it stays on a ridge, in general, and if you lose the track you just crisscross the ridge until you find prints. But if you lose a bear track, you’ll have to circle, widening the circle each time to find it.”

  Hunter nodded. Yeah, she was pretty good. He continued, “How can you tell if a man moves to the right or left?”

  “There are at least fifty different kinds of pressure release marks,” she said firmly. “But, in general, if a man moves to the right, the print will be impressed deeper on the left side. He was pushing himself in the opposite direction, so the print will be higher. Same for the man moving left, just the opposite effect.”

  “And if the track is on a ridge?”

  “If the ridge slopes down to the left and it moved to the right, then the track would be deeper on the right. And vice versa.”

  Hunter was impressed but tried not to reveal it.

  “How do you crosshead?” he continued.

  “If you tell me to crosshead, I’ll go ahead of you and crisscross for sign. If you were moving south, I would be moving east and west, trying to pick up anything that would indicate a change of direction.”

  “And sideheading?”

  “Sideheading is when you move parallel to the track, keeping the sun on the other side so you can read faint indentations. You usually use it on hard ground or rock where the impressions are thin. The main thing is to keep the sun at an angle that pitches shadow just right.” She paused, hefted the heavy rifle slightly. Hunter was again impressed by how easily she seemed to carry it. “It takes a lot of practice,” she said. “I learned how to do it when I was a kid.”

  “I’ll bet. So what have you tracked before?”

  “Bear, cougar, coyote, wolf, elk – just about everything.”

  “And lately?”

  “Lately,” she said, looking into his eyes without discernible emotion, “I’ve tracked and killed men, Mr. Hunter.”

  Hunter studied her a moment. He knew he wouldn’t really be able to tell anything until he saw what she could do in the field; whether she could read the age of a track, how delicately she observed everything else as they moved, how alert she was to the forest itself. But she obviously knew the basics.

  “Okay,” he said. “One last question. How can you tell if you’re close to a snake when you can’t see it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You ... you can ...”

  He waited patiently. From the corner of his eye he saw Takakura’s hard gaze trade between the two of them. Then Bobbi Jo replied, un-intimidated, “I don’t know, Mr. Hunter.”

  A nod, and Hunter tightened the strap on the rifle. “You can lead with me.” He turned to Takakura. “Just keep your men far enough back not to mar tracks before I can study them. Is that good enough for you?”

  Takakura nodded. “Most acceptable. But we shall remain close, in case of a confrontation.”

  “Let’s go,” Hunter said to Bobbi Jo, and moved down the slope. She was close behind him, placing her steps carefully. They were halfway to the base when she spoke again.

  “So how can I tell if I’m close to a snake?”

  Hunter lifted his head to the forest.

  “It tells you.”

  Chapter 5

  As they descended the slope it seemed unseasonably hot—a blinding sun blazing in a sky beyond blue—and Hunter felt his blood whitening with adrenaline as he tracked claw marks on stone.

  By the time he and Ghost reached the base of the ravine he had already regressed to a pure and primal state of being. He was only dimly aware of Bobbi Jo moving quietly a few steps behind him.

  He knew the others were farther back, letting him do his job, holding him with a measure of contempt because they believed no one could do this job as well as the military. But it was enough that they moved without speaking because animals—including their prey—would instantly pick up the alien sounds. And in this terrestrial environment the sound of a soft human voice would have the same effect as a shotgun blast.

  No, they had to move as silently as possible if he was going to pick up anything from the forest itself. But he felt slight reassurance because of Takakura s presence. The team leader seemed ready to give unqualified cooperation. For now.

  At the base of the slope, Hunter raised a hand and Bobbi Jo stopped, crouching quietly. Then Hunter himself crouched, studying the muddy ground, measuring its solidity, its composition, water-grade level—a dozen elements that would reveal to him a great deal more when he found this things prints.

  Overall there was little growth in the area, only scattered vegetation. Scanning, he found a slight pool of water as large as his foot. But only one: a single depression. He placed a hand down to feel the slight ridges concealed by the muddy water.

  It was the right age for a track; maybe a day. But the water had already eroded what was important so he would have to go without a direction. Bobbi Jo was moving so silently behind him, despite her boots, that he had almost forgotten she was there. He turned, motioned for her to move to the left, and he moved to the right. Together, twenty feet apart, they entered a long, wide glade covered with tall grass.

  It took Hunter five minutes to find the second track angling on slightly higher ground. But it, too, was in poor condition from drainage. It was covered with leaves and he almost missed it but for the deep slicing of claw marks left in the harder soil. Those had not been eradicated by the storm and remained readable.

  He turned, looking still and straight at Bobbi Jo, waiting to see if she would peripherally catch his sudden lack of movement, and she did. Slowly, she turned her head and he nodded once.

  Not having sight or scent of prey, Ghost roved close behind him, sniffing, searching unsuccessfully.

  Hunter moved up the slope and bent to study the old track. He was feeling a slight frustration. There was one long row of a forward pad with claws digging deep for traction, and what resembled the impression of a human heel. The next track on the slope—the left foot—was more than twenty feet away.

  This thing had leaped twenty feet with a stride.

  No way ...

  No way that it could have done that ...

  Even a tiger would have had trouble covering more than five feet on this slope. And it gave Hunter pause, forcing him to recheck, to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. But after careful study he was certain. No, the forest doesn’t care what you want or what you want to believe ...

  Clearly this thing had leaped twenty feet.

  Hunter tried to convince himself that it was only a temporary st
rength induced from the overflow of adrenaline that had been coursing through its system at the time. And when Bobbi Jo came up close, he moved forward again. He still couldn’t identify the print, but knew it wasn’t anything he had seen before.

  Maybe something he never wanted to see.

  At the Tipler Institute of Crypto-zoology and Paleontology, Rebecca Tanus and Gina Gilbert stared side by side, hands resting on chins, at the plaster cast that had been couriered to them by a military official. The cast, almost sixteen inches long, rested on the table. Their faces only barely concealed the fact that they were profoundly confused.

  Rebecca, laboratory director until the return of Dr. Tipler, sighed. “I have a doctorate from Cambridge in ecosystems, a master’s in paleontology. I graduated first in my class in historical geology and molecular theory of fossilization. I’ve spent a year at the most prestigious institute on earth under the tutelage of the greatest paleontologist of our age.” She paused, her face only inches from the cast. “And I don’t have the foggiest idea what this is.”

  Gina said nothing; silence lengthened.

  With a quick breath that blew a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes, Rebecca continued, “Good grief, Gina. I don’t even know where to start.” She pondered it, tapping a foot. “Well, it looks human. But it has five non-retractable claws. So, it has claws, ergo—it’s not human.”

  “No,” Gina mumbled. “It’s not human. But, then, it’s not an animal. Because it looks human.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rebecca murmured. She began tapping the table. “So ...it’s not human. And it’s not animal.” Her smile had no humor. “I guess that doesn’t really leave us a lot to consider, does it?”

  Again, silence.

  “Okay.” Rebecca roused herself. “Let’s try and think like the doc. When he can’t identify a fossil, he categorizes it according to the number and shape of appendages, size, location, and age. He places it in a category or phylum and begins to find its family. Then he works down from there. Usually it’s a related species of some determined genus we’re only vaguely familiar with.”