Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Chaos!

  The creature tripped a deadfall and they turned as one, unleashing a hail of ammo into the foliage that left it on fire. And the barrage continued until Takakura’s imperial voice demanded them to cease fire. But none of them could tell if it was still there or not because they had been deafened by the gunfire.

  Hunter concentrated, lowering his head, listening not for the creature but for the forest. “It’s moving to the south side, where it came before.”

  “Ready weapons,” said Takakura calmly.

  And it came again, bowed legs thick with simian muscle, shoulders inhumanly large, almost unbelievably thick with strength, and its fangs were distended to reveal jagged white tusks that announced its intent. And for a split second Hunter had a flash of what the soldiers and scientists at the massacred compounds knew as their last sight. He fired dead into it, the 45.70 hitting it solidly in the chest.

  It roared and then Buck fired a grenade from the M-79, but he missed and the detonation disintegrated a tree beside it. Still, however, the concussion hurled it aside, and it staggered up and into the woods again.

  Again, fierce and frantic reloading while Hunter counted the rounds still remaining on the strap of the Marlin. He had twenty shots left, and ten more in his pouch. He had never anticipated that it would take an arsenal to bring it down. Then he glanced at Bobbi Jo and saw her, once again, reloading the same clip from the bandoleer across her chest, full of .50-caliber rounds.

  And on and on it went, time after time a split-second warning where they would whirl together—a tripped deadfall, a snare, sometimes even one of the electronic aids. Buck, with the M-79, was firing blindly into the forest to light it with a mushrooming flame that set part of the woods afire, and before morning most of the stand around them appeared to be clear-cut land. Broken limbs and blasted trees made this heavily forested” area resemble a swamp in winter. The open area was three times as large as when they arrived, but there was no sign of the creature.

  Cautiously, Hunter entered the woods with Buck. Then they walked the entire perimeter, searching for signs of injury. But found only devastation. They returned and delivered the grim news to Takakura, who was silent a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “Break camp immediately. We move.”

  “I got bad news, Commander,” Buck added.

  “Yes?”

  Buck took a deep breath before he spoke. “We’re almost out of ammo. So we can’t do this gig again. We could keep it off for maybe an hour with what we got, but ...”

  Takakura’s frown deepened, then his left fist slowly clenched. He gazed toward the ground. “The radio is not operating correctly?”

  “We’re having a lot of trouble with it, sir. Wilkenson is working on it.”

  Takakura scowled as he muttered something in Japanese that Hunter couldn’t translate, but he understood the tone. A moment more and the Japanese added, “We move in attack mode. Total silence. Plot a course for the nearest town or research station. A village. Anything. We are leaving this area.”

  Buck bent to study the map.

  Thirty minutes later they were working their way up a rocky stream, feet and socks soaked and burning blisters on their feet, blood filling their boots, but they couldn’t stop. They had to move quickly because the nearest civilized location was over forty miles away, and that meant one hundred miles in this mountainous terrain.

  Hunter read their mutual fatigue, but revealed nothing. He knew he could have made the hundred-mile run, if he had pushed himself all-out and carried no weight. But he couldn’t leave them behind. And he knew what would come with nightfall. His mind was working furiously on a plan to keep them alive when they lost the sun.

  As they climbed a steep terrain, boot pressure tearing flesh from already bloodied heels, he began searching for a place to hole up.

  And found it.

  “Takakura,” he said strongly.

  The Japanese glared back angrily.

  Hunter glanced at the sun. “We haven’t gone ten miles, Commander. And you know the professor isn’t up to this, and we can’t radio for an extraction.” He let the implication settle. “We’re gonna have to do it again.”

  The scowl of hate on Takakura’s face was terrible to behold. But he knew Hunter was right. That he had failed as a commander wounded his pride. He had led his men—men who depended upon and trusted him— into certain death. Motionless, he lowered his gaze to the ground, shook his head.

  “But there may be a way to survive the night,” Hunter said, watching him closely. He pointed to a small cleft; it would not qualify as a cave. “That hole in the wall is pretty narrow. Looks from here like only one person at a time can enter. If we can get inside it, and wait, and lay down whatever ammo we still have if it comes for us, maybe it’ll think we’ve still got plenty of ordnance and back off. Buck says he still has two grenades. Taylor has some rounds. And Bobbi Jo alone can make it hesitate.” He gave the Japanese commander time to consider it, then continued: “I think it’s our only way out, Takakura.”

  A moment of concentration, a curt nod: “Hat.”

  It took a tight fit, but they squeezed into the cave and ate some warm MREs while they took turns with the Barrett, watching the entrance. Then Bobbi Jo was finished and took over the cannon.

  And darkness descended.

  ***

  Hunter secured Ghost at the rear of the cave with a rope because he knew that after last night’s siege, the massive wolf would attack the creature on sight. And what they needed was order. It wasn’t long before they heard the quiet but close footsteps approaching their position.

  “Unbelievable,” whispered Hunter to himself, “it can find us anywhere.”

  Hunter saw it first, something that didn’t seem to move. But he was accustomed to that. He had spent so much of his life watching life in darkness, he knew that if it didn’t look like it was moving, it probably was. His tactic was simple: infinite patience. He never took his eyes off the object of his concentration. And after ten minutes or ten hours, if it was an inch to the side, then it was moving.

  The distance was fifty yards, but Hunter knew he could make the shot. “Give me the Barrett,” he told Bobbi Jo, who obeyed. Hunter centered on the shadow, held his breath, released it, slowly squeezed the trigger.

  In the close confines of the small cleft, the detonation was shocking. And it was followed instantly by an enraged roar as the shadow came rushing up the hill while they desperately opened up with the last of their ordnance. If Bobbi Jo had managed a single solid shot at that range, she would have dropped it, but she missed in the darkness and the speed and the blinding blasts of the other weapons, and Hunter knew it would be upon them in seconds.

  Frantic, he whirled and saw Buck’s small rucksack on the ground and dropped the Marlin. He ripped open the pack and tore out the tent, ripping it apart in seconds to sunder the white mosquito netting.

  “Cease fire!” he yelled, and leaped to the entrance, quickly tying the white cloth to either side. And then it was upon them, awesome and raging, eyes glowing with hate. It came to within three feet of Hunter and swiped at him, a blow Hunter ducked as the tremendous gray arm tore thunderously through the air and the claws struck sparks from the flint walls. But Hunter leaped out of range, Bowie knife in hand.

  Growling, it stared at the cloth, and reached out as if to tear it from place. But its hand halted, just short. It wanted to tear through, but hesitated again before a bestial growl of frustration shook its head and it raised infernal eyes at Hunter. For the briefest moment, it seemed more human than monster. The snarl that twisted its face embodied an intellectual hate.

  Hunter held the glare.

  Together, shoulder to shoulder, they paced up and down the flimsy white barricade. And their eyes remained solidly locked. It curled monstrous hands in frustration, claws clicking. Hunter held the huge Bowie knife in an ir
on grip. Up and down, up and down they paced, defiant glare to defiant glare.

  It was the strangest of all standoffs, man and monster, each separated by something that a child could sunder. Then with a final, angry growl of promise, the creature whirled—a movement of tiger-like grace—and was gone.

  Hunter stood there, numb, for a moment. His fist was locked so tightly on his Bowie that he couldn’t let it go. Then he took a deep breath, and then an even deeper breath, backing away slowly from the thin partition. He turned around to see wide eyes, silence. No questions were asked; everyone was in shock.

  Finally, Takakura spoke. “Could you ...explain that, please?”

  Hunter looked at Taylor. “Take the entrance. It worked that time. I don’t know if it will work again. I doubt it.” Then Hunter sat against a wall, staring at the wet limestone. He noticed that his grip on the Bowie had relaxed, and, very carefully, slid it back into the sheath. He licked his lips, took a sip of water, and explained it in a manner that they might understand. He began, “Do you know how they kill a tiger?”

  Takakura shook his head.

  “They take a piece of white cloth,” Hunter continued, bowing his head. “Then they make a V with it in the forest. Maybe half a mile long on each side, but it leads to the place where the lines meet. It’s only three feet high. Just a piece of white cloth. Then they drive the tiger into the V with elephants and beaters. And once the tiger is inside the V, they have him dead.”

  “Why?” Bobbi Joe asked.

  “Because a tiger,” Hunter continued tiredly, “although it can leap forty feet, won’t cross a piece of white cloth that’s over three feet high. It scares him, for some reason. And the hunters, the shooters, are waiting for it at the tip of the V. So the tiger is trapped inside this flimsy piece of white cloth, which it could easily leap, but it doesn’t. And when it gets to the bottom of the V, the hunters open up and kill it.”

  Bobbi Jo was staring hard. “Why won’t tigers just jump over the cloth?”

  “No one knows.”

  She continued, “And you gambled that somewhere in this thing, whatever it is, are the latent instincts of a tiger, that it would be afraid to cross the white cloth?”

  “It has to have some weakness.”

  A moment passed, and she smiled. “You’ve got guts, Hunter.”

  Recovering from shock, he laughed.

  “I’ve been told worse.”

  Chapter 9

  They survived the night, emerged into light only to see a darkening sky. Clouds low, black, and sliced by lightning. But the temperature was too high for snow. Hunter didn’t care about the rain but knew it would adversely affect the professor, whom Bobbi Jo had tended to through the long night.

  They began the day early and covered distance cautiously. Professor Tipler held up well until noon, when the terrain grew steeper and he began to need more rest. Without saying a word, Hunter knew it would be one more night before they could make it to safe ground. His mind began to ponder, but he had no ideas. He knew, somehow, that the trick he used last night wouldn’t work again.

  It would find a way.

  They kept walking until finally the professor sat down, exhausted, on a fiat slab. Hunter didn’t even have to turn back to know what had happened. He knew everyone’s rhythm, gait, shuffle, and Taylor’s Frankenstein plodding. He stopped and looked and saw that Tipler was pale, haggard, and sitting with head bent low.

  Hunter didn’t want to usurp Takakura’s authority, so he motioned quietly for the Japanese to join him in a private conference at the front of the line. Together they knelt and Takakura spoke exactly what Hunter was thinking: “Yes, I know. He cannot go much further.” There was a decided lack of fear in the statement, and Hunter remembered “Expect nothing.”

  “I don’t think that what we did last night will work again, Takakura,”

  Hunter said. “It’s getting smarter by the moment. And we’re almost out of ammo.”

  Takakura gazed around, analyzing. “This is as good a place as any to make a stand. We have at least one hundred meters on each side. Perhaps, if we are lucky, we can discourage it with the Barrett.”

  Hunter released a deep breath. Yeah, it was a good place, but that thing could cover a hundred meters in six seconds. And that was too fast to acquisition for a shot. Still, he didn’t have a better idea.

  He shook his head.

  “It’s gonna be a hell of a fight.”

  ***

  Hunter gently gave Tipler a drink of water, noticing the ghostly paleness of the old man’s face. His hands trembled slightly and he moved with an odd stiffness. Hunter estimated that some of the rigidity was due to the severe testing of muscles, but it could be more.

  “How ya feeling, old man?” he asked.

  Tipler laughed, “I am feeling splendid, my boy. I just need a night to rest a bit, and then we shall be on our way.”

  “You bet.” Hunter smiled. “But right now all you need to do is rest. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you, and Bobbi Jo is gonna be close. She’ll be looking in on you, too.” Hunter winked. “You just don’t go trying to pick her up. She’s too young for ya.”

  Tipler laughed.

  Hunter laughed with him as he rose and exited the tent. Then he examined the perimeter. It was a hundred yards across, and Bobbi Jo crouched dead-center in the middle of it, rifle pointed at the sky. She was wearing night-vision goggles and had her back to the fire. She was also wearing what most referred to as “wolf ears”—devices that amplified sound for humans so they could hear as well as a wolf. Hunter had never needed them.

  Takakura, also keeping his back to the flame, held the MP-5 close, and was wandering a tight circle while the rest held established positions. Hunter walked directly to him, and Takakura, acutely aware of any movement, turned slowly to face him.

  “It has the advantage, Takakura,” he said.

  “Yes,” Takakura responded. No emotion.

  “But I think I know how to keep it from attacking.”

  Takakura stared an unusually long time. The black eyes narrowed. “And what would that be?”

  “A challenge.”

  Consternation in Takakura’s face betrayed his confusion. “I believe we have given it as much of a challenge as possible, Hunter. I do not understand your—”

  “It’s an animal, Takakura, and I understand animals more than any of you. It’s the alpha of this forest. The strongest. The ruler of the forest, if you want to put it like that. We’re on his ground now, and he doesn’t like it. He wants to show us he’s boss.”

  Takakura replied, “And?”

  “And so we show him that he’s not. That’s a challenge he can’t resist.”

  Silence.

  “And how would we go about doing such a thing?”

  Hunter lifted his head to the darkening forest that surrounded them. “I give it a challenge. It won’t be able to resist. If I go out there, I’ll be the alpha. It will hate that. It will hunt me instead of you. Then it won’t attack the camp.”

  “You are speaking of ...”

  “Yeah. I go out there. Let him chase me instead of me chasing him. Turn things around on him. It’ll be surprised at first, but it’ll take the bait. I can lead it south.”

  Takakura said nothing for the longest moment, as if the idea did not deserve a reply. “If you encounter the creature in the dark, it will tear you to pieces.”

  Hunter bent to retie his moccasins. “That’s a big ‘if Takakura. ‘If bullfrogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their butts when they jumped. But I’m taking Ghost with me. And nothing can sneak up on him. Not even this thing. And I can give it a run for its money.” Hunter stood. “I can keep it away from the camp until daybreak.”

  “I cannot allow this.”

  “It’s your outfit, Takakura. But it’s my life. And I’m not under military com
mand. I’m only telling you this ... as a friend. Either way, I’m going out and play a little cat-and-mouse. If I’m not back by dawn, head southwest for twenty miles. Follow the Yikima Creek for five miles, then strike across. The research station is another five. If you push hard, you can make it in six hours.”

  “The professor cannot make such a journey.”

  “Build a cot for him and carry him.” Hunter removed his shoulder pack and checked his thick leather belt, pulling out a small fist-sized piece of steel with a long thin wire attached to it.

  “What is this?” the Japanese asked.

  Hunter suddenly grew grim. “A last chance.” Then his mood changed and he inserted it back into his belt. He strapped the Marlin to his back, cinched it tight, and turned his face to the almost totally darkened tree-line. “Game time,” he whispered.

  “Ghost!” he said sternly.

  Instantly the wolf was at his side, and Hunter was moving for the darkness.

  Takakura called after him. “Hunter!”

  He turned back.

  “This thing we hunt, it also hunts you.”

  ***

  It was a dismal, strangely soundless and chilled afternoon when Chaney strolled casually into the McMillan Deli. It was the habitual watering hole for off-duty, and sometimes on-duty, government agents and was owned by a retired FBI agent named Frank “Brick” McMillan.

  “Brick” had earned the nickname twenty-five years ago when, as a deputy marshal, he had been trapped in a house that was fully aflame and all the exits were blocked. Not content to be burned alive, Brick—a former fullback for Texas A&M—just got a good running start from one end of a long hallway and “made” a brand new door in the rear wall of the structure before it collapsed behind him. Somehow, the nickname seemed to stick through the rest of his career.

  Chaney sauntered through the crowd with a few handshakes and some smart remarks about how the service was doomed for the graveyard under the new administration. He went back to the kitchen and saw Brick standing over a stainless-steel counter, deftly slicing meatballs and lettuce for a sandwich.