Whisper of Blood

by James Dale

  "Four days at the most, she'll be back here...or not at all."

  "I understand," Hurst said, then offered Jack his hand. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy."

  "Oh, I’m probably crazy, sheriff," Jack sighed, shaking his hand. “But I’ll still find Jen. Keep that chopper in the air. You never know.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out,” Hurst promised.

  "I'm terrible at goodbyes Doc,” Jack said, turning to his friend. “There's a letter in the rifle case. It'll say the words I can't. It's been an honor knowing you. You saved my life."

  Ignoring Jack's hand, Harry stepped forward and gave his friend a hug. There were tears in the doctor's eyes when he released him. "No one should have to endure so much pain. Least of all you Jack."

  "One way or another, it'll be over soon, Harry." Jack picked up the Lapua, chambered a round into the breech, and headed into the woods.

  He didn’t look back.

  An hour later, Jack was deep within the wilderness of the Great Smoky Mountains. There was an eerie stillness about the forest. No birds sang, there was no chittering of squirrels, but Braedan knew the surrounding mountains were teaming with life. He could feel them all around him, cowering in fear, reluctant to give up the meager protection offered by their nests and lairs.

  Braedan understood why.

  The beast had been here.

  Not fifteen feet from where he now rested, he'd found its prints. They were distorted and not well defined, but he knew without a doubt they had been left by the beast. He knew because when he had knelt to touch one of them, a wave of hate and rage washed over him so strongly he wanted to vomit. Braedan knew why the forest animals were in hiding. They were in hiding because a nightmare stalked the mountains of eastern Tennessee.

  But hiding wasn't an option avilable to Jack Braedan. As much as his instincts screamed at him to run from this animal, to run from the feelings of dread and darkness that lingered in the very ground it had tread, he could not. Where could he hide when it stalked his dreams? As terrible as reality had become, in the real-world Jack could at least fight, he could resist the terror. In the world of his dreams all he had ever been able to do was run. And die.

  "No more running," Jack vowed quietly. Picking up his rifle, he moved out again along the beast's trail.

  About an hour before sunset, Jack stopped to rest and check the GPS. He had traveled over seven miles, crossing the North Carolina border an hour ago. Right now, he was only about ten miles from where Harry and Bobby Joe Hurst had dropped him off. Along this path, Jack had found occasional signs that it wasn't the beast alone he was following. Only half an hour ago he'd come across a single footprint. Small but definitely human. Just the right size for a teenage girl. Judging by the crisp edges, he estimated it was less than twelve hours old. A young girl, in the woods now for two days, exhausted and scared, Jack guessed if she kept following the small valley they were currently traveling, he would catch up to her by noon tomorrow.

  The light was fading fast now. Pressing on would not gain him much advantage. In the dark, he might miss some sign that Jen varied off her current path. In the dark, even with his night vision goggles, the beast would have the advantage. Looking around him, Jack decided the spot was likely to be as good as any to stop for the night. Removing his ruck sack, he unpacked the Claymore mine and several trip flares. Although it had been years since he'd had to set up a defensive perimeter, he quickly had an area about thirty yards in diameter completely encircled with flares. The Claymore he faced north, down the narrow valley. It was the easiest approach to his position.

  His perimeter set, Jack tore open one of his MREs. Though it had a water activated heater pouch, he ate the chicken stew cold. Water was for drinking. Applesauce and an oatmeal cookie bar followed, then an entire liter of water. His hunger sated, Jack took his knife and cut several branches from a nearby pine, lashed them together with 550 cord, and placed the makeshift bed in the crook of a sturdy oak at the center of his perimeter. It wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it would have to do.

  Jack pulled the night vision goggles and his poncho liner from his ruck and climbed up into the tree. He laid down on his stomach, trying to get comfortable, and placed the NVGs, the Desert Eagle, and the Lapua rifle within easy reach. With nothing left to do but wait, and watch, Jack opened the cellophane wrapper of the Camel cigarettes and lit up a smoke. Out here in the wild, the smell of burning tobacco would drift for miles. Ordinarily, smoking was a cardinal sin for someone lying in wait for unsuspecting prey. Jack's intentions however, were not to remain undetected. He wanted the beast to know where he was. He wanted his nightmare to try and sneak up on him in the dark. Tonight...tonight he had a few surprises for the monster who had once driven him insane.

  It was almost midnight and Jack had just finished his fourth cigarette, when he heard the snap of a twig in the darkness. It wasn't loud, but in the stillness of the deep forest, the snap may as well have been a cannon blast. Jack slowly picked up the night vision goggles and searched the night.

  AN/PVS7B's, like most military night vision, enabled the user to see in the dark by gathering and amplifying light from the stars and moon. In the thick cover on the forest, not much ambient light filtered down through the overhead canopy, but the NVGs still allowed Jack to see thirty or forty yards. Just about where his defensive perimeter...the green field of the NVGs suddenly went blinding white as one of the trip flares burst into life and heavy footfalls could be heard retreating!

  Jack had been looking right at the flare, and his night vision was ruined, but he drew the Desert Eagle and began firing blindly in the direction the beast had sprang the trap. The first .44 caliber round sounded like a thunderclap in the quietness of the forest. By the third round Jack's ears were ringing. He fired the entire ten round magazine into the forest, quickly ejected the empty and inserted a fresh one.

  Jack couldn't hear anything and his vision was shot, but he could clearly sense...confusion, rage, and...pain? Not mortal or debilitating pain, just annoying and uncomfortable. Having suffered so much, Jack could settle for annoying and uncomfortable after the first live encounter with his nightmare. If it could feel pain, if it could be hurt. If it could be hurt, it could be killed.

  "No more running!" Jack shouted.

  "....running!"

  Jen had awakened at the first sound of gun shots. She could not tell where they'd come from. Their sound had echoed from all directions in the mountains. Then...then the shout. Someone was out there...maybe looking for her? Elation coursed through her exhausted, weary body. Lost and alone, her friends dead, a...a monster stalking her every step, just to hear another human being for the first time in two days was like a crystal fountain suddenly springing from the sands of a windswept desert. Hope sprang in her heart, then was just as quickly was swept away again as a roar of pure malice shattered the night.

  "Please God help me. Please God help me. Please God..." Jen whispered, as she wrapped herself into a fetal position beneath the low hanging boughs of the spruce where she was hiding.

  Jack's shout of defiance was answered by a roar that shattered the night. He had heard the roar before in his nightmares, but this was the first time it had sounded in his waking ears. It was more vicious and terrible than Braedan could ever have imagined. But unlike in his nightmares, tonight Jack had struck back. Unlike in his nightmares, the beast's roar no longer had the power to send him fleeing in terror. Jack pulled the Lapua rifle close and resumed searching the dark forest with his NVGs.

  "No more running," he vowed.

  When dawn arrived hours later, Jack was nearing his limit. He had only managed catnaps during the night, awakening at every suspicious sound to resume his vigilant search. After a hard day of tracking and a long night of stressful watch, he was fast approaching exhaustion. Jack knew that sleep was a weapon as valuable as training and skill. He realized if he hoped to continue the hunt, he was going to have to get some much needed r
est before taking off again on the beast's trail.

  With stiff, aching muscles, he climbed down out of his perch and repaired his perimeter. Jack replaced the burned-out flare and one other with fragmentation grenades, wiring the two grenades, as well as the Claymore, to explode simultaneously should any part of his defensive ring be breached. Six feet off the ground, perched in his makeshift tree stand, he would be safe...relatively, from such an explosion. The brunt of the blast would be more dangerous to the beast. It was a risk he was willing to accept to get a few hours of sleep. His defenses set once more, Jack climbed back into his tree, rechecked his weapons, and closed his eyes...

  The roar brought him instantly awake. He realized immediately the beast was some distance away, for he could feel no sense of its presence. But Braedan could detect...impatience, in the animal's roar. Unwilling to try his defenses again, the beast had resorted to another tactic. Keep him awake. Keep him on edge. Jack looked at his watch. Only half an hour had passed since he'd closed his eyes.

  Jack lit up a Camel and contemplated his choices. Either he could continue to catnap and let the beast keep interrupting his attempts at sleep, or he could answer the challenge and resume the hunt. Thirty minutes of sleep had certainly not been enough to completely refresh him, but it had helped. The beast roared again and his choice was made.

  "So be it," he muttered. "No running. And no waiting."

  After finishing his smoke, Jack climbed down from his perch and began to quickly break down his perimeter. The Claymore he packed away again, but the two hand grenades he clipped to his vest. Everything else went back into the ruck sack except a pouch of sliced peaches, and a packet of peanut butter. He didn't care how impatient his adversary was, he wasn't going to resume the hunt on an empty stomach. After quickly devouring his meager breakfast, Jack picked up his rifle, and headed out.

  He found the trail again where the flare had tripped the night before. There wasn't much to follow on the rocky soil. Only a few indistinct scratches marked the spot where something had fled from his hail of bullets. But it was enough. Final proof it was his animal and not some wandering bear was provided by the lingering aura of mayhem and hate that still permeated the ground.

  Two hundred meters to the west, Jack found a tuft of course black hair snagged in a thorn bush. It was the first hard, physical evidence, evidence he could touch, that the monster of his nightmares was real. Feelings and emotions left behind on blood splattered walls and indistinct prints were one thing, but this...Jack reached out hesitantly and pulled the hairs free. Even those few hairs carried the rage and hate that filled the beast. Jack dropped them with a shudder, not knowing whether it was relief, terror, or exhaustion that made his knees weak.

  A few hundred yards farther along the trail, Jack found more spoor left by the beast. This time however, it wasn't a few hairs or indistinct prints. A large oak had been...marked by the beast, its bark shredded by a matching set of four claws, higher than Jack could reach down to the base of the tree. The wood underneath had been scored at least an inch deep, a grim testimony of the beast's strength and ferocity.

  But what did the markings mean? Many animals identified their hunting grounds in similar fashion. Was this a sign that marked the beginning of the true hunt? As if in answer to his unspoken question, a faint, but distinct, roar echoed through the hills. The roar was filled with darkness and bloodlust.

  "Come," the roar challenged.

  The sheer force of rage and hate contained in the roar was like a spear of darkness plunging into Braedan's heart. But he refused to succumb to his terror of the beast. "No...more... running!” Jack vowed in answered.

  The process started without conscious thought.

  After several weeks of unsuccessful treatment with sedatives and dream suppressants, one innovative young doctor at Walter Reed convinced the staff to let him try a more radical approach to combat Braedan's violent nightmares. He began to teach Jack the art of self-hypnosis. That was what the doctor called it anyway. In actuality, it was simply a mental calming technique “You can’t stop the waves,” the young doctor had said, “but you can learn how to surf.” Though it did not succeed in curing him, it did help Jack separate himself from the devastating aftereffects of his dreams. It was during those brief periods of respite that the recovering Special Forces operator stumbled upon other uses for the self-induced trance.

  What he was doing was dangerous. The state Braedan was consciously inducing would allow him to totally detach himself from fear and pain. But in this state, he could also become injured and never feel his wounds. He could literally bleed to death on his feet and be completely oblivious to any danger. But the trance would also provide him with the necessary strength needed to finish this battle once and for all.

  At this point it was all that mattered.

  Braedan was focusing on the white, exposed wood of the ravaged oak, clearing his mind of the animal's roar until his thoughts were free of doubt and fear. He began to breathe deeply, filling his lungs with fresh oxygen to enrich blood. He closed his eyes and began to communicate with his body, quickening his heart rate until adrenalin coursed through him. He increased the flow of blood to his arms and legs, gorging his muscles with supercharged life to keep them functioning well beyond normal limits. When the trance was completed, Braedan's body shuddered with vitalic fury, like a long dormant volcano on the verge of eruption.

  With an incoherent roar of his own, Jack sprang forward and began to sprint.

  A wary silence fell upon the surrounding hills as Braedan's cry faded in the distance. Except for the quiet snapping of branches beneath his running feet and the huff of his rhythmic breathing, the forest was as still and noiseless as the first morning of creation. All creatures great and small, from the timid white tail deer lying low in the underbrush, to the clever gray fox hidden its den, waited with an unearthly hush for the fast-approaching confrontation between this angry new predator and the dark forest god which had appeared less than two nights ago.

  Their wait would not be a long one.

  Braedan's sprint through the forest soon led him to a small, isolated valley, about three hundred yards from end to end and roughly half that in width. The valley was strangely bare of foliage, save for a carpet of thick, ankle high grass, and two tremendous, hoary oaks that dominated the center of the clearing. Both trees reached well over one hundred feet in height, with the base of their massive trunks measuring more than ten feet in diameter. So closely had the two trees grown, side by side for countless years, that their branches were intertwined as if in a lover's embrace. Braedan was so engrossed by the majesty of the twin oaks that it took him several seconds to notice the motionless form of lying on the ground perhaps ten yards in front of the trees. It was the green sweater that shook him from his trance.

  Jen?

  Jack snapped the Lapua to his shoulder, instantly alert. Without conscious thought, he searched the surrounding valley for some impression of the beast. But the unusual ability he had become so accustomed to depending upon over the last few years failed him. It was as if his searching mind suddenly encountered a brick wall. The unexplained loss of his ability was like a physical blow, but years of hard, often brutal training took over and Jack began to sweep the valley with the barrel of his rifle, searching for targets as he moved toward the motionless girl.

  He traveled the distance quickly, constantly sweeping, constantly alert, reaching Jen in less than half a minute. She looked exactly as she had in his dream, only exhausted, and with two days of dirt and grime covering her pretty face. But it only took a second to notice her eyes. They were glazed and lifeless, staring blankly into the sky as she lay on her back.

  Jack took a knee beside the girl, eyes constantly scanning. With his ability to sense the beast still lost to him, he was forced to depend on his normal sense of sight and hearing alert him of any danger.

  "Jen?" he said quietly. "Jen?" No response. She was in shock.

  He reached down slowly,
careful not to startle her. As his hand touched her shoulder, the wall blocking his senses instantly disappeared. A wave of hate and violence washed over him and he recoiled in horror. It was coming from Jen! All the rage and death he'd endured from the beast of his nightmares was radiating from the young girl. Her eyes suddenly sprang into focus. But they were no longer the eyes of a teenage girl. They were they eyes of a monster.

  “A’nis ga faec mi thu, tha aegal bheil mi air a bhith a 'caithaemh mo ùine.” Jennifer Hurst snarled. The language was one Braedan had never heard before, but the tone was easy enough to understand. Thrown from Jen’s mouth like a curse, the words dripped with contempt. “Chan’eil da fhuil. b'urrainn a bhith aeir a-riamh. Cuir crìoch air an obair agad agus cuiridh mi dhachaigh gaibh."

  The last words were directed over his shoulder. Not meant for him. The silence of the forest was broken by a howl as terrible as the wailing of the damned. The earth itself seemed to convulse in horror from the maliciousness of the cry.

  Realizing the beast had used his focus on Jen to slip in behind him, Braedan rolled to his right and came up in a kneeling, shooters stance. The .338 Lapua tucked tight against his shoulder, he found himself staring into the face of an animal spawned in the deepest pit of Hell. In his dreams, the beast had always been shrouded in darkness, wrapped in evil like a cloak. In the light of day, it was hulking and brutish. It was nearly hairless, with muscles that rippled as it moved with restrained fury. Its form was so dark with hate and violence the sight of it threatened to burn Braedan's soul. Its wide, snarling mouth bristled with yellow fangs, dripping saliva and bile that scorched the grass where the drops fell. And its eyes! Looking into the beast's eyes was like gazing into the open pit of Hell. They glowed yellow with sickening rage. There was no mercy in them, only death and slaughter.