The Flock

by James Robert Smith

  Letting the dead man fall, Ron looked up at Kate. The barrel of the .357 was coming down from the recoil, and she was bringing it to bear on him. “What,” he started to say, just forming the word with his lips but unable to make any air come up from his throat.

  “I can’t let any of you get out of here,” she said. “It’s time for you to go.” Once more the pistol roared in her fist and Ron squinted, trying to prepare for the impact, for death.

  The blow did not come. She had missed. He dove to the ground, rolling to his left and toward the building, trying to put the wall between himself and her aim. It would save him for a second, maybe, but then all she would have to do was lean out and take aim again. He was looking for something to pick up and throw at her. He chanced a quick look her way.

  And he saw why she had missed him.

  Mary Niccols had hit her from behind. And now she was punching her again, Mary’s fist meeting solidly with Kate’s skull. The impact of the punch forced Kate into the window and partially out of it.

  “Mary,” Ron screamed. He ran forward, looked to see where the pistol was, but Kate no longer held it in her now open hands. Even through his fear, he was enraged and reached up, grasping Kwitney by the roots of her hair, dragging her through the shattered window. She fell at his feet and he delivered a kick to her rib cage. “Damn you.” She grunted as he kicked her.

  Before he could kick her again, Mary scrambled through the window. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “There’s at least three armed men behind me somewhere. I got past them by hiding up behind the ceiling tiles. But they’re going to be on us any second,” Niccols said, her voice a very harsh whisper.

  Ron put his fingers in Kate’s hair and jerked her to her feet. “All right,” he said. “But what do we do with this one? Is she coming with us, you think?”

  Mary’s work-hardened hand also grabbed a handful of Kate’s long brown hair and pulled her back as Ron started off. “Bad idea. They might not be so quick to shoot at us with one of their own along, but she’s a deceitful bitch. No telling what she might do out there. More trouble than she’s worth, right?”

  “Right. Just leave her here,” he said, turning. “This way,” Ron grunted, heading out where he had seen Billy Crane running before the woods had swallowed him. Behind, Mary was still standing with Kate, and Ron now saw where the pistol had gone. He watched Mary raise the weapon.

  “Don’t do it,” he said.

  Niccols brought her muscular right arm up and suddenly sent it down. The butt of the pistol met the back of Kate’s skull. Kwitney went to the grass, her lanky frame lying still there in the fading light. Ron, his knees buckling, reached out to support himself against a pin oak sapling. A moment later, Mary reached him.

  “Let’s get going. Now.”

  Riggs followed, feeling the underbrush slapping against his legs, keeping his eyes front and looking for some sign of Billy Crane. He hoped the other man was not too far ahead. They would probably need the protection of his shotgun. Although he was running as fast as he could to keep up with Mary, Ron spoke between breaths, feeling relatively fresh despite the stress.

  “I thought you were going to kill her. I wasn’t sure.”

  For a moment Mary didn’t answer. There was only the slap of grasses and tough shrubs against their pant legs, their boots thumping against the earth as they raced away from the Eyesore. But after a few seconds, she did answer.

  “I almost did, Ron. I almost blew her brains out. She was going to kill you just like she killed that poor jerk, Levin.”

  I know, Ron wanted to say. He kept it to himself and would not have voiced it even if the sound of gunfire had not suddenly erupted behind them.

  Just as the forest offered them some cover, they heard the first shot come, listened to it whizzing in the underbrush as it sped through the vegetation.

  “Keep going,” Ron said between gasps. “Billy Crane came this way. I think he knows where he’s going, and he’s armed a lot better than we are.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Mary said, the two of them now side by side. They let the forest take them in.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Scarlet rogue was ahead of the Flock. They were moving in a manner not unlike that used during a typical hunt. It was something he recognized and had been a part of more times than he could count. Spread out: they had done that. Give the prey no way to run but forward: that had been achieved; behind him was the bottom of an inverted wedge, probably three deep with adults. To the left and right of him was a line of strong members moving forward to pace him and outrun him if he tired; they were working as a group and would feed off their collective energy and purpose. Be careful, but relentless: this was the aim of the party and they would not deviate from that path unless the safety of the entire Flock was at jeopardy.

  And although the Scarlet was still relatively young, still not the planner his elders were, he knew that was the weakness of his family. They would break off the chase if the well-being of the group became an issue. And only one thing could cause this.

  Man.

  And Man was here, now, in the Flock’s domain, and in numbers. The big rogue did not know just why the men were here, except that he could feel something emanating from their group that was not unlike the song the Flock would croon when the hunt was on. From behind him, too close for his own comfort, he could feel that song moving perfectly from one flock member to the next. He heard it from his own Egg Mother, and from that damned Walks Backward, who he knew had wanted his own death for a long time. If there was any single number among the Flock that he feared, it was that one, the guardian who swept the way clean of their sign and watched everything, those eyes seeing it all. The Scarlet hoped that it would be possible to kill him before the Sun rose.

  He was being herded toward the southwest. That thought was maddening to him, that he could be moved and chased like something to eat, like one of the frightened deer that sustained them. The inverted wedge that kept him moving was coming from the northeast, where the extended family had been bedding and hunting in recent days. It was far from the new activities of the men, where they had built their wooden and stone nests and had brought their dogs on which the Scarlet had been feeding.

  The Scarlet had felt the need to attempt to cull some of the young females, so that he could begin a new flock of his own in a way that would not threaten the one from which he had been spawned. He had not intended to cause the present situation. There was an urge in him to create his own young, to expand the numbers of his kind. Wasn’t he healthy, larger even than his own father, heavier than the huge male who stood guard over them and watched for danger? It was his place to create strong, new young, to move into places that had long been denied to his race. Man, he was convinced, was not the threat the histories dictated. He had never seen a man deliver death from a distance, without touching: it was only a story. He had chased that lone man and would have feasted upon him if the others had not appeared.

  And it was those others who were now invading the land that had protected and sustained the Flock for so long. He recognized the taste of them that was delivered in molecules floating on the night air. His great nasal cavity drew in the motes, the particles, the gasses, and he held them there, tasting and scenting and examining each indicator. Yes, he had scented these same men before. They were coming, and he would use them.

  With a song of triumph barely concealed, the Scarlet felt his great heart push blood through his lungs. His wide, taloned feet pounded the grasses as he headed toward the wetlands that lay ahead, and toward the men.

  Grisham and the others had examined the ATV before pushing on. Their intelligence had indicated that it was likely that Holcomb would use such a vehicle to take him to his camps in the bush. Without radio contact to the fire team sweeping through the billionaire’s compound, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that the man was dead. However, the presence of the ATV was all he needed to prove to him that one of their targets was nearb
y. There were items, technical instruments still in the covered bed of the little vehicle that also told them that Holcomb had perhaps left it in something of a hurry, that he might even know that there was the possibility of pursuit. Grisham was willing to work on that assumption until they had located the crazy tree-hugger and eliminated him.

  Running point, following the occasional sign of Holcomb’s passing, Grisham set his face in a grim mask and thought. He would never be able to understand a man such as Vance Holcomb. The spoiled cad had inherited great wealth, had expanded his wealth by virtue of utilizing the vast system of free enterprise that had been protected and defended and expanded by soldiers such as Winston Grisham and so many like him. How could a man who enjoyed such wealth even consider standing against a system of economic freedom that had sustained and enriched him? The old Colonel had encountered such men in the past, could not fathom the way their stunted minds reasoned, and it would be good to kill one of them.

  Pushing on, moving relentlessly through the brush, the soldier enjoyed the images of Holcomb’s death that flashed periodically through his mind. He almost wished that it were daylight so that he could watch the fan of crimson that would open up behind the doomed man’s body or skull when the steel jacketed slugs tore through him. It would indeed be a pleasure to finally make his acquaintance.

  “Sir,” came the voice. It was Gant, who was scouting the line to the north. Gant was the one who would come to the wetlands first, would encounter the edge of the stream that led toward the low country down at the bottom of the ridge.

  “What is it?” Grisham replied, whispering.

  “Kilgo Creek dead ahead. I’m less than forty yards from the bank.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing but some nesting egrets. Saw a gator’s eyes off in the water a ways. That’s about it.”

  A dozen types of crickets and four species of cicadas joined in a chorus, whirring, chirping, screaming into the night. Grisham slowed and breathed in the warm, moist air, tasting the richness of the southern winds. It was all in there: the soil, the pines, the moss, the collected blood of billions of living things cruising the darkness. God, he loved it. This would truly be a fine night to kill a troublesome enemy and to make history by exterminating the last of a species. Some day, it would be spoken. Maybe he would live to hear it or see it appear in print. But he didn’t really care. It wasn’t important for the stupid cattle-public to know, but it was going to be a great thing. He breathed deeply and smiled.

  “Joyner,” he said. “Respond, Wallace.”

  “Joyner here,” came the reply. “Moving out. I’m closing in on the big fields you said we’d encounter. Definite sign of the target’s passing.” In the night, Wallace Joyner was looking down at the broken twigs and the trampled grass that had marked Holcomb’s hurried passing. The man was as good a tracker as there was, and he was going to quickly discover just where the millionaire had bedded down for the night. There was no doubt about that particular fact.

  “Keep your eyes open. You think you’re near him?”

  “Yes. Couldn’t have passed this way more than two hours ago. Unless he’s trying to hack through here in the dark, we’re going to happen on him pretty damned soon. Instructions?”

  “Hold your position.” Grisham hissed into his radio. “Fire team. Joyner’s position. Assemble now. Double time. Go.” As one, they moved, becoming a single unit again.

  Vance Holcomb gasped and snapped instantly awake.

  He blinked, shook his head. For a second or two he couldn’t remember where he was or why he was there.

  Oh, he thought. I’m here.

  He hadn’t meant to sleep. He turned his head toward the face of a backlit digital readout that never faded, never went down. It was the timer on one of the monitors. 10:15, it read. God, he had been out for over two hours. Not good.

  What woke me? He peered around, not moving from where he lay. A half dozen microphones fed him the sounds of the darkness. Billions of excited insects screamed lust at one another. Some night birds sang a few tunes, telling also of love, perhaps, or threatening to kill a rival if space were invaded. Hard to say, actually. Who knew, but the birds?

  Sighing, he supposed he must just have awakened from the stress of the day getting to his subconscious. The interior of the little room was completely quiet. He could even hear the light push of his own lungs, and little else. But had something else brought him to? He sat up.

  There were always the perimeter cameras through which he could spy. He had set up a number of them throughout the area, high in the tallest longleaf pines where he had finally supposed none of the members of the Flock could reach. Holcomb had never actually seen any of the birds take out one of the electronic eyes, but he knew they had done it. The remains, typically just the fiber optic cable, had always been sliced cleanly through. Those jaws were frightening in their power and dangerous cutting ability. On one four-second tape of action he had witnessed a fully-grown whitetail buck having its head severed with three quick slashing bites of a single terror bird. In the lab, he and Kamaguchi had slowed the tape down more and more, turning split seconds into minutes. Those birds moved faster than any man could move, faster than any human eye could see. The deer had gone to the ground with its head detached from its body. Both prey and hunter had been moving at perhaps forty miles an hour during the attack.

  Holcomb grunted and stood, stretching, arching his back and bringing his arms out fully. Still thinking of the birds, he looked around the little room, letting his eyes become accustomed to the bare light given off by the few electronic readouts that he allowed to burn constantly. In otherwise total darkness, such illumination was reassuring. The terror bird was fast, he knew. He wasn’t certain just how fast, but Kamaguchi, from examining the film and calculating length of stride and frequency of movements had come to the conclusion that some of them could run at speeds approaching fifty miles per hour. They were magnificent creatures. He would have to ask Kamaguchi…

  The wealthy man groaned and sat back on the foam mat. He had forgotten. Levin had said that Kinji was dead, shot. “Two men,” he had babbled. Now Vance wondered if Levin and the rest of them were still alive. Probably not, he figured. It was time for him to get moving himself. Crawling across to one of the video monitors, his hand rested upon it while he tried to decide whether or not to risk turning it on. What he needed to do was get out of there before he was located. What he needed to do was hit the north side of the old military base, move through what remained of the area of what was basically a no man’s land of possibly unexploded ordnance and lost mine fields. He knew a way through it, had carefully mapped a way past the dangerous place. On the far side was the Kissimmee River. A quick swim would take him to the farms and campgrounds over in that direction. He doubted anyone would expect him to head that way, through the heart of the wilderness that Edmunds Military Site had accidentally protected for almost a hundred years.

  “Throw caution to the wind,” he whispered, and threw the switch. The monitor hummed to life.

  The dark figure he could see on the screen was the same one who was at that moment speaking into the small radio on his right shoulder.

  “Target positive,” Joyner relayed to the others.

  As Holcomb watched, five killers came out of the night to converge on the artificial shelter in which he thought he’d been hiding.

  Both Ron and Mary paused for breath, kneeling in the tangle of a patch of young pines. Even if the men who were shooting at them had some kind of night vision scopes, they would have found them hard to hit in the tangle of limbs and brush and moss that were now affording them some cover. They crouched, gasped for breath, and listened intently for the sound of pursuit. So far, there was nothing. The sun had set completely beneath the line of trees, and stars had appeared in the clear sky. All around them the wildlife had geared up for the night shift. The whir of insect life alone was enough to drown out most other sounds.

  “Think they’re s
till on our trail?” Ron asked. He had one hand resting on his bent right knee, the left one touching down on the damp soil to support his weight.

  “I don’t think they intend to let us get away, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t think any of them are close enough to shoot as us. Otherwise the bullets would be flying right now.” Mary was on all fours, her head slumping toward the earth. She was just a big dark shadow to Ron, one that shifted among the others.

  “Wonder where Crane went,” Ron whispered.

  “Hell if I know. Without any way to see in the dark, I don’t think we’re going to find him. If he was smart, he hauled ass out of here and is halfway to Salutations by now.” Mary’s breath was coming easier. She went to a kneeling position, her head turning this way and that, straining to hear if anyone was trying to sneak up on them.

  “We’d better not stay here,” Ron said. “They’ll be coming this way soon, I’d think.”

  Mary stood up. “How many do you think there are?”

  “I don’t know.” Ron stood, too, ready to be off. “You saw, what, three of them?”

  “Yes. And Levin encountered two. So let’s go on the supposition that at least five men are going to be tracking us. I saw the van they came in on, and I doubt it could carry more than six without being conspicuously overcrowded. Let’s say five.”

  “Okay. Five.”

  “And all of them are probably heavily armed. I think they were carrying rifles. Can’t say what kind. Some kind of assault rifles, though. That last volley sounded like it, to me.”