Whisper of Blood

by James Dale

  The Beast growled low in its throat with delicious anticipation. Seeing its prey cower in fear when it realized death was at hand was almost as sweet as the hot, red blood that followed when it sank its teeth into soft flesh.

  Almost.

  "What was that?" Jen asked nervously.

  "Matt probably fell," Robbie sighed. "Hey dumb ass! You okay out there?"

  The surrounding woods were silent.

  "Matty?" Robbie shouted again. Louder this time.

  Nothing. Not even a breeze.

  "Go make sure he didn't knock himself unconscious," Karen muttered.

  Robbie sighed heavily and kissed Karen on the cheek before rising. "Be right back."

  "That's what Matt said," Jen announced to no one in particular.

  Robbie looked down at Karen and grinned. "Keep my seat warm."

  "Go Robert," Karen snapped.

  "Sorry. Be right..."

  "Just go," Karen insisted, giving him a push.

  Robbie sighed and headed towards to woods. There was no moon tonight and it was dark when he moved away from the campfire, but he was used to the forest. He was also used to Matt behaving like an ass as well, but tonight it was getting under his skin. "Matt Witherspoon!" he shouted, peering into the night. "Quit messing around man!"

  Silence. Something was...wrong. Maybe Matt really had knocked himself out. Robbie cursed under his breath and entered the dark woods.

  The Beast moved away from its fresh kill. There would be time enough to feed at leisure once the others had felt his bite. The second male was even now approaching. More cautiously but scared. The Beast could smell delicious terror growing with each passing second. If he could only kill this male as quietly as he had the first, the females would barely be worth his skill. Pride was too high an emotion for the Beast to possess, but it did take primal satisfaction from a good hunt. It slunk deeper into the shadows and waited.

  Robbie moved slowly. He wasn't exactly sure where Matt had gone when he left the clearing. The last thing he wanted to do was become disoriented and get lost himself, looking for his friend. He hated the thought of leaving Matt in the woods, possibly injured, but he knew if he didn't find him soon, the smart thing to do would be to return to the FJ, high tail it back to town, and let the authorities...

  Robbie stepped into something soft and slippery and lost his footing, only catching himself from falling by reaching out blindly and grabbing a low hanging branch. As he steadied himself, the experienced young sportsman became aware of an unsettling smell. He'd field dressed dozens of deer in his years of hunting, and recognized the scent of gutted big game instantly. When he looked down at his feet however, it wasn't the remains of a deer he saw. Even in the darkness, Robbie could see Matt's belly had been ripped open, his intestines spilled out on the ground around him.

  "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus..." the young man whispered frantically. A twig snapped on his right and Robbie whipped his head around in a panic to see of a pair of yellow, menacing eyes not ten feet away.

  Robbie wheeled and broke into terrified flight.

  "Ruu..ruu..RUN!" Robbie shouted, crashing through the dark woods as he made a mad dash for the clearing and the girls.

  The Beast was disappointed the young male had detected his presence, but it was too late to matter. It would not get far. The Beast lopped after the fleeing two-legs with primal glee, growling with anticipation of his kill.

  "...RUN!"

  "Was that Robbie?" Jen cried, instantly leaping to her feet.

  "Robert Norton! You better not be..." Karen began, just as Robbie burst into the clearing.

  "Run Kay! Get in the..." Robbie's warning was cut short as a huge, dark form leapt from woods and landed squarely on his back, driving him to the ground.

  Unable to process the scene unfolding before their eyes, the girls were frozen in disbelief, as they watched Robbie struggle weakly beneath the monstrous form. Then the...thing lifted its huge, brutish head and roared with a force that seemed to shake the trees. It opened its jaw, revealing sharp yellow fangs as large as kitchen knives and clamped down on Robbie’s neck, shaking him like a rag doll. Something flew through the air, trailing a rainbow of blood to land at their feet.

  Robbie’s head stared up at them, eyes wide with terror, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  Jen broke for the SUV. She didn't wait to see if Karen was following, she just ran. Though it seemed like an eternity, she reached the Toyota in seconds and flung open the driver's door, jumping inside. Luckily, Matt had left the keys in the ignition. Jen stamped on the clutch, and the V8 engine roared to life when she turned the key.

  Grinding gears as she tried frantically to find reverse, Jen was almost in a blind panic. Just as the shift lever finally fell into place, the driver's side window exploded with a shower of glass. For a split second, Karen hug head and shoulders through the window, a look of desperate terror on her face. Then a huge, clawed paw ripped her back out, showering the cab with blood.

  Jennifer Hurst, Jen to her friends and only a week removed from her seventeen birthday, began to scream. And scream. And scream.

  The sleeping man bolted upright, screams still echoing in his head. His hands flew frantically over his face and bare chest, expecting to find himself covered in blood and glass. When he realized the dampness drenching his body was only sweat, he collapsed back onto the bed with an anguished moan. Blood would have been more of a relief. It would have meant his mind was still sound. It would have meant the nightmares had not returned.

  “Not again. Not again..." the man whispered in a pleading litany. "Please, not again."

  Jack Braedan didn't know exactly when he had drifted back to sleep, but when he awoke again bright sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window. It had to be approaching mid-morning. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and made his way to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing his face with cold water.

  Looking up at the mirror, Braedan almost didn’t recognize the man staring back at him. His piercing green eyes, usually so bright as to be almost...ethereal, were bloodshot and haunted. A three- or four-day-old beard covered his square jaw. He could not remember the last time he'd shaved. Who worried about shaving every day when you lived a solitary life deep in Northern Maine’s Appalachian Mountains? The only time Braedan braved the noise and dirtiness of civilization was his weekly trip into town to the YMCA and Food King, and his once a month drive to Bangor for court ordered psych evals. Scars stood out whitely on his tan chest. He couldn't remember where he'd gotten most of them, but a few he recalled with vivid clarity; RPG shrapnel from Skinkay Valley. The puckered scar of a 7.62mm that barely missed his body armor and barely missed his liver as well. That had been in Mosul, Iraq. The razor knife scar on his cheek he’d gotten in a dark alley in Jalalabad. The rest...the rest had happened after the nightmares began and his sanity ended.

  "What?" Jack snapped at the man in the mirror when their gaze met again.

  His reflection said nothing, but the look in his haunted eyes was insistent.

  “I'll take care of it," Jack promised. "We won't live like that again."

  His reflection seemed to nod in satisfaction.

  A few hours later, freshly showered, shaved, and dressed in comfortable jeans and a plain, white T-shirt, Jack sat on the couch in his living room. Altough there was half a foot of snow outside, his cabin was nice and toasty thanks to the fire buring brightly in the stone fireplace. Jack was humming absently to himself as he methodically polished a beautiful katana sword. It wasn't some cheap, flee market imitation, but an authentic, sixteenth century blade forged by a legendary Japanese Sword master. It had also once belonged to an equally legendary samurai. He’d bought it on a whim last summer. It had been a $52,000 whim, but the kids at the Millinocket YMCA he where he made his single attempt to interact with the community by teaching Kenjutsu on Saturday mornings loved it. Though it hadn't drawn blood in over three hundred years, Braedan was confident it woul
d still work.

  When most people thought about…checking out…they thought about pills or sucking on the barrel of a pistol. “Black Jack” Jack Braedan wasn’t most people. He was…had been rather, a professional warrior. He’d tried to live by a code of honor. Toward the end he’d…strayed. Badly. But insanity can make you do, well, insane things. Most everyone would think he’d lost his grip on reality again, punching out in such an arcane fashion. Braedan didn’t really care about the opinions of most everyone. A few would understand. His older students would understand. They were the only ones who mattered to him anymore.

  Before starting on the sword, Jack had prepared his uniform. His army service uniform was on a hanger in the living room, resplendent with rows of ribbons, silver jump wings, a Combat Infantry Badge, and a Distinguished Service Cross suspended from its blue ribbon. He had no idea what he'd done to deserve the DSC. The medal had arrived in the mail six months ago. How it had found him, he couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t even supposed to exist. The accompanying certificate simply said, "Awarded to Command Sergeant Major Jack Braedan for conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty." He could only recall rising to the rank of Master Sergeant, but then there was a lot of things he didn’t remember about the end of his years of service. He supposed both the promotion and medal were consolation prizes of sorts from his chain of command in Delta for abandoning him to the wolves in Washington when his life went off the rails.

  Deciding his sword could not get any sharper or brighter, Jack put it carefully aside, lit a Camel filterless cigarette, and went to the kitchen to pour himself a double shot of bourbon. It was five o’clock somewhere and he needed the liquid courage to finish his letter to Harry before...well, before.

  He had no sooner returned to the couch and picked up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper, when the phone on the living room wall rang. Jack ignored it as he studied the blank page. There was no cell service at his remote cabin on the lower slope of Mount Katadin and only three people alive knew his unlisted land line number: his lawyer, who he could give a shit about right now, his accountant, screw him too, and...

  Jack looked at the phone as the ringing persisted. He set down the pen and paper, downed his bourbon, and picked it up without answering.

  "Jack? You there?" a familiar voice asked. It was Harry Reese.

  "I was just thinking about you," Jack said hesitantly. Dr. Harold Reese was his only friend left in the world. The only one who knew he was alive at any rate.

  "Are you busy?"

  Busy? That was almost funny. Harry knew his schedule. Once a week to Millinocket to train his little ninjas and once a month to his shrink in Bangor where he parroted words which would keep him free and his ass out of a government nuthouse. "A bit," Jack replied, looking to the couch where his samurai sword rested, waiting. "Got a couple things on my agenda this morning."

  "Well clear your schedule," Harry said. "There's something I need you to do for me."

  "What kind of something? It’s sort of a bad timing."

  "A favor," Harry insisted.

  "What sort of...favor?" Jack asked. Harry Reese had saved his life, in more ways than one. If Harry needed him, well...the sword hadn't tasted blood in three hundred years. It could wait a little longer. He owed his only friend that much, nightmares or not.

  "A favor requiring your unique...skill." There was a desperation now in Harry’s tone that immediately set alarm bells ringing in his head.

  "I'm listening." Jack said hesitantly. He knew what skill Harry meant and it wasn’t his ability to shoot a running target at eight hundred yards or argue about soccer in half a dozen languages.

  "Have you seen the news today?"

  "You know I don't watch the news, Doc. Bad for my continuing recovery.”

  "Dust off your remote and turn on Fox," Harry insisted. "You'll understand."

  Curious now, despite the events of last night, Jack did as his friend asked. Aside from a few witch doctors in Bethsaida, only Harry knew about the unique...ability he had acquired during his tortuous stay at Walter Reed. He flipped through the channels until he found Fox News. The running scroll across the bottom of the screen identified the location of the report as Johnson City, Tennessee, Harry's hometown.

  Jack turned up the sound.

  "...details are sketchy," a pretty red head informed the camera, "But this reporter has learned from a source close to the sheriff's department the entire family may be have been victims of a vicious animal attack."

  Animal attack?

  "An animal attack, Angela?" the studio anchor asked incredulously.

  "That's right, Shepard," red head nodded solemnly, now identified as Angela Green, WKMX, Knoxville.

  Behind Ms. Green, half a dozen police and sheriff's department cruisers, blue lights flashing, were parked in front of a modest brick home surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. "This reporter has also learned the authorities believe three local high school students may have also fallen victim to...ummm...what one source described...as a killing frenzy."

  The scene switched to a remote, mountain road where heavily armed sheriff's deputies stood a short distance from a muddy, Toyota FJ Cruiser.

  Jack felt like the earth had suddenly shifted beneath his feet.

  "Three bodies were recovered this morning by National Park Rangers," Angela reported. "Their identities have yet to be released. But there is a fourth, missing teen..." The picture of a petite, pretty brunette with hazel eyes and a cute upturned nose covered the screen.

  "Jen?" Jack said with disbelief.

  “Jack?” Harry whispered. "How do you..."

  "Jen. Matt. Robbie. Karen." Jack repeated the names which until a second ago had only existed in the nightmarish labyrinth of his damaged mind.

  "Jesus, Jack." Harry Reese said quietly. "How in hell do you know their names?! Jack? Jack?"

  "I'm still here Harry."

  "Jen is my goddaughter," Harry whispered. "If she's still alive..."

  "I'll call you in a few minutes and let you know what flight I'm on." Braedan hung up the phone with shaking hands, then vomited on the living room floor.

  Chapter Two

  The Hunter or the Hunted?

  American Airlines Flight 231 arrived at the Tri Cities Regional Airport in Blountville, Tennessee at 10:45 PM Eastern Standard Time. Jack hadn't dared sleep during the six hours it had taken to fly from Bangor. He was quite simply too...scared to close his eyes. Terrified of what he might dream, Jack was cruising on Red Bull, No-Doz and adrenalin. If he hadn't kept himself in excellent condition since leaving… since being forced to leave…the army, his heart would likely have been ready to burst at this very moment.

  Not that the God he knew would ever let him off so easily.

  Jack was the first passenger off the plane. Money couldn't buy happiness, or apparently keep his nightmares at bay, but it could still purchase first class, VIP seats on American Airlines. The terminal was virtually empty at this late hour, so Jack was able to make his way quickly to the baggage claim area where Harry Reese was waiting.

  The two men exchanged a wordless embrace.

  "Bags?" Harry asked.

  "Just my carry on and one I’ll have to sign for," Braedan answered.

  Harry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  "Any updates?" Jack asked, making small talk as they walked through the terminal. The serious talk would come when they were alone in Harry's car on the ride to Johnson City.

  "Jen is still missing," Reese said quietly. "Park rangers found one of her shoes about a hundred yards from the SUV. No blood on it."

  "That's...hopeful."

  "Jack..." Harry said hesitantly, "How did you know? That it was Jen I mean."

  "Later."

  "But..."

  "I'll tell you everything," Jack promised. "But not here."

  Harry looked at his friend, his former patient, intently. Haunted, bloodshot eyes. Exhausted. Frightened? He knew of only one thing that scared Jack Braed
an. "Jesus. They're back, aren't they?"

  When Jack refused to meet his gaze, the doctor knew he'd guessed correctly. "How long?"

  "Last night," Jack said quietly. "But it wasn’t the same this time. And…it wasn’t after me.”

  “Jesus…the kids?” Harry whispered.

  “Yeah,” Braedan nodded. “But don’t worry. I know how to stop them this time.”

  Jack had only brought one item with him from Maine besides a change of clothes and toiletries in his small carry on; his sword. Beyond all explanation, his returned nightmares had some-how become...real. Walter Reed had cured them the first time with drugs and…other methods still too painful to dwell on. If coming to Tennessee, where his dreams seemed to have taken corporeal form, did not cure him, he had no intention of making the return trip to his cabin in Maine.

  "What do you mean you know how to stop..."

  "Picking up," Jack said, interrupting his friend as they arrived at customer service.

  "Receipt and ID please," said the courteous American Airlines official. Jack gave him a crumpled ticket, and his Maine driver’s license.

  "Mr. Cantwell?" the man asked, examining it carefully. Thomas Cantwell was the identity WITSEC had provided for him as part of his plea deal to disappear.

  "That's me," Jack nodded, and handed him a retired military ID.

  The official compared them, then gave an imperceptible shrug. "Welcome to the Tri Cities Mr. Cantwell." He smiled, handing over a sturdy Pelican rifle case. “Thanks for your service.”

  “Right,” Jack sighed. If the smiling American Airlines employee had had any idea how his service had ended, he’d probably have spit in his face.

  "Lead the way, Doc."

  Harry motioned towards the exit and Braedan fell in by his side.