The Flock

by James Robert Smith

  When Kate had walked all the way to Adam’s lab, where he dissected his dead turkey vultures and examined the samples of plant, insect, and animal life the others brought to him, she went in. She was feeling very faint again and knew that he kept all manner of beverages and bottled water in the refrigerator in there. Pushing the door open she went in and did not even turn on the light. The icebox was a blocky shadow that was easy to pick out in the dim light that spilled in through the door, which she had left open. Staggering a bit, she made her way across the room and opened the refrigerator.

  Reaching for a bottle of spring water, she unscrewed the top and turned it up, taking a long draw. In a moment, she had all but drained the twenty-four ounces. Turning, the bottle still in her hand, the yellow light spilling from the refrigerator revealed the man standing just on the far side of one of Adam’s lab tables.

  “Where did you think you were going?” he said.

  Kate did not have time to respond before the rifle roared and her left side exploded in pain. For her, the lights went out again.

  One more job done, the gunman sat tight and waited for his friends to return from finishing the others.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Grisham and his fire team were in hot pursuit of Holcomb. Time and again they would catch sight of him through the nightscopes, occasionally getting off a shot or two before he would vanish behind cover or duck out of sight. Despite the fact that he was alone and was being pursued by five armed men, the colonel did have to admit that their prey had a slight advantage on a couple of points. Most in his favor was that the billionaire was traveling light; he didn’t seem to be carrying anything at all. Not even a pistol from the view Grisham had caught of him. That meant that he wasn’t going to be shooting back at them, but it also meant that he could move more freely and perhaps even a touch faster than the colonel and his crack troops.

  Also, despite their crash course in studying the quadrangle maps of the area, it was obvious that Holcomb knew the land far better than they did. He kept following small, shallow ravines at the oddest moments; moments during which sure shots would suddenly vanish as he descended into low places, leaving them with nothing to shoot. At such times they would catch a glimpse now and again of the top of his head, perhaps, or a flailing arm or leg as Holcomb pushed on.

  Eventually, Grisham realized, Holcomb would tire and they would catch up to him. In fact, they didn’t even have to get terribly close. All they needed was a couple hundred yards, a clear shot. And then the runner would be history.

  Even so, Grisham had been growing impatient for the kill, and so he had sent the small, quick Jim Gant ahead. He had cut the man loose, so to speak. “Go get him, Jim. Take him out, if you can get a clear shot.” Gant had smiled, his teeth white in the shadows. “Git,” the colonel had said, slapping the little man on the back. The young soldier had quickly passed the rest of the team, left them far behind, and he was closing the gap between himself and Holcomb. Grisham would be very happy to hear the shot ring out. Just one, if he knew his men well.

  In the meantime, he spread out the skirmish line, just in case Holcomb decided to hunker down in an unseen spot, or tried to double back and pass them going north as he went south. These were things that a good woodsman could accomplish if he were very careful. But Grisham knew that the chances of that kind of success with this group of men were highly unlikely.

  With Gant moving on ahead and leaving them behind, the remaining four members of the team formed a line that skewed at a thirty degree angle from south to north, Gant being an oblique point moving forward from them. In actual fact, Holcomb stood no chance at all.

  At fifty-four years of age, Vance Holcomb was in extremely good condition. He exercised daily, a strict regimen of running and biking and stretching. In point of fact, he was in better shape than most men who were half his age. But he was fifty-four years old. And he was being pursued by men who were all in at least as good condition as he was. His great mistake had been in remaining in his hidden dome, thinking he could rest for a while before moving on. His idea of making it to the Kissimmee and swimming across it to the houses and farms on the other side now seemed to be an impossible goal.

  The assassins were getting close. A couple of the shots they had taken at him had come uncomfortably close. He realized that it was just a matter of time before they got in near enough to get a clear shot and take him out. At least, he hoped, his death would be quick and painless when (and if) it came. The idea of standing and allowing them a clean shot if things began to look hopeless was a gruesome possibility that kept occurring to him despite his revulsion of it. At least there would be no pain if he did that.

  To Hell with that, he told himself. He could outrun these buggers. All he had to do was keep going and not let them slow him down or trip him up. He knew that his biggest advantage was his knowledge of the land. No one knew these forests, swamps, and grasslands better than Vance Holcomb knew them. Each and every hammock, each stream and lowland, each stand of trees were places he had been to and explored on a number of occasions. Of the four hundred plus square miles of wilderness that made up old Edmunds, this part of it was most familiar to him. This was where he had spent the lion’s share of his time and where he had made the most contact with the huge birds that had brought him here.

  Pausing at a stand of tupelo gums, Holcomb hugged the trunk of a particularly large tree and looked back. He controlled his breathing and was as quiet as possible. He listened.

  Not far away, perhaps half a mile back, he could hear someone approaching. The runner was good, efficient, and relatively quiet. But even over the chirp and screams of the forest insects Holcomb could make out the occasional snap of dry twigs and the very faint thumping of booted feet. And he immediately knew that they had sent one of their numbers ahead, to try to catch him and bring him down. This would be a young man, Vance realized; someone who could outrun him and get close enough to get a clear shot.

  They were going to a lot of trouble to kill him, Holcomb realized. This was no ordinary group of killers. These were men well trained in all aspects of soldiering. And he knew exactly who was after him. Well, he was surprised the studio had been able to negotiate a deal with Grisham, but not terribly so. He wondered what they had offered the crazy retired officer. It didn’t particularly matter, he supposed, since whatever it was, its ultimate result would be his elimination.

  Taking a few deep breaths, filling his lungs, Vance turned north again and pushed on with renewed energy. He knew that he would have to move faster and run harder just to keep the distance he had made between himself and his pursuers. The one now on his tail would more than likely catch up to him if he slowed even a step or two.

  Not far ahead, there was a tributary of the wetland that led down to Lake Arbuckle. His plan had been to skirt the south side of that low place and make his way toward the Kissimmee. But now he realized that if he did that, he would have to push westward in a straight line, and that the others would come at him on an angle and overtake him before he could make the river.

  However, he remembered something.

  This area of the base had been subject to the dropping of explosive ordnance for a twenty-year stretch from 1965 through 1985. He also knew that there was a lot of unexploded material in the soft earth. In recent months he had scouted it out and had found a way through it, a way that he knew would be safe if he could negotiate it in the starlight. If the assassins moved behind him in a wide skirmish line (as he knew they must), then they would be treading over earth that more than likely hid some particularly nasty surprises. It was the only viable plan he currently had, and not likely to succeed. Still, he had no other choice.

  A further problem for him was that he would have to cross another of the grassy savannas just before he found the bombing site. That would leave him an open, easy target for a distance of perhaps two hundred yards or so. But he had no choice, as he had already realized. He would have to do it.

  Well, he h
oped the man at his back was a crack shot, if it came down to that.

  Jim Gant was not far behind his quarry. From time to time he caught a glimpse of Holcomb through the trees. But, as before, the man kept finding cover before he could aim and fire, or would literally just vanish right at the last moment, finding a low place or passing over a ridge to disappear beyond it. He was using his knowledge of the area to his fullest advantage, and Gant had to admire that. Still, despite that admiration, he was going to put a bullet through the rich man at the very earliest opportunity. He wanted the kill and did not want Watkins, Joyner, or Redmond to have the honor.

  To tell the truth, he was still pissed off at having been the one chosen to crawl through that fabric dome they had found. Oh, he hadn’t minded doing it for Colonel Grisham: it was just that Holcomb’s escape at that point had angered him and he did not appreciate his need to put himself in harm’s way to find the target. Holcomb would pay with a quick shot to the head if he found he could comfortably take aim. It was riskier than a heart shot, but infinitely more satisfying, he thought.

  Gant had closed the distance between them to roughly the length of two football fields. In fact, he could even feel and hear the footfalls of Holcomb as the man raced ahead. For a mature individual, the rich man could really move. But Jim could run the mile in five minutes and he doubted that his target could stay ahead of him for very much longer. Very soon, he figured, he would find himself able to take him down. Grisham would be very happy, and that would be points for him in the organization. This was a very big deal for the Colonel.

  Racing along, Gant was aware that the ground was beginning to give beneath his boots. The earth wasn’t actually muddy, but there was a slight depression each time his feet met the forest floor. So. He knew that they were close to the swamp that bordered the river. He doubted Holcomb would go that way, realized immediately that he was going to turn east and head directly north. Gant sped up and also moved east, away from the wetland.

  He could very nearly hear each and every footfall that Holcomb made as he ran. He doubted there was a hundred yards between them, now and managed to pick up the pace even further. He knew that he would catch up soon. In a matter of seconds he would stop and raise his rifle and take aim. He only had to pass through a tight growth of short pines that lay ahead of him. Running at almost full speed, he burst through the needled branches.

  And he saw immediately that he had come upon another of the weird grasslands that made up vast areas of the bush in this place. It was alien in appearance to Gant, and he didn’t quite like looking at it. But currently he was very happy to encounter such terrain. For right in the midst of it, running along like the big, fat target that he now resembled, was Vance Holcomb. The man was right out in the middle of the big field, tall pines to his right and left, but nothing at all but a few wispy strands of grass between him and Gant.

  The hunter stopped, raised his rifle and peered through the night scope. There he was. Vance Holcomb’s head was like a water balloon waiting to be pierced. Gant pulled the stock tight to his shoulder, breathed easily out, put the crosshairs on Holcomb’s skull, and began to slowly squeeze the trigger.

  But he didn’t do it.

  Because of the gigantic creature that had suddenly appeared from the forest in front of Holcomb.

  The thing was huge. Gant even lost sight of Holcomb, lost all thought of him. It was as if Vance Holcomb no longer even existed for Gant. The picture he had been shown of the thing was nothing compared to the reality of seeing it. It was ten feet tall, at least, looming over the grasses, and all but flying along with a deceptively easy stride. This isn’t any bird, he thought. No bird was that big. None. No bird had arms instead of wings. No bird had a head so large, a beak so hooked, legs so huge. Its tail was straightened out behind it, resembling a huge pointed barb that extended for perhaps eight to ten feet. And as Gant was standing there, his jaw actually gaping at the sight of the animal, he realized that it was making a direct approach on Holcomb.

  Holcomb, too, had seen what was happening. That the beast was coming at him. To the millionaire, it must have seemed as if a chunk of the forest had just detached itself and come flying at him along the ground. Gant continued to watch as the creature closed the distance between itself and Holcomb in a couple of seconds.

  Its gigantic right foot came up, and it seemed as if the thing hopped, just a bit, and then that talon came down with great force on Holcomb’s chest. Gant saw the one he had been chasing go down as if he were a rabbit being squashed by a man. Holcomb disappeared beneath the monster as it paused for a second to make sure that the little thing had been flattened beneath its foot. And then it continued on, toward Gant.

  The soldier then caught his breath. He could see that the animal was coming fast, very fast. He couldn’t have known it, but it was doing better than fifty miles per hour and would have been merely a great blur to him if it had been moving in any direction other than directly toward him. Realizing that it had targeted him and that it would be on him very quickly, he found his nerve. Straightening his posture, he pulled the rifle tight once again, drew in a breath and slowly let it out. The thing was a huge target, filling his scope. It would at least be easy to hit and was still far enough away to get off three shots, minimum, before it was on him. He once more began to squeeze the trigger.

  There was a strange noise in the air. Like the whir of insect wings, but very, very loud. He blinked.

  The giant bird was gone. Gone.

  The Scarlet had been losing ground to the Flock. They were slowly closing the gap and he had detected the ends of the attack line beginning to close in on him. He could hear the songs coming loud and with great power from the adults pursuing him. But they were so intent on finding and catching him that they had not detected the humans who were moving slowly their way. Although the Scarlet could scarcely believe it, the probability that they would not spot the humans until they were upon them was growing greater as they went.

  Most of the chase had been taking place in the tall hardwood forest in which they had been living for some days. The hunting was not so easy in such a place, but it was not a difficult task to hide there, and it was something that the Flock did more and more often in the time since Man had begun building their huge nests beside the Flock’s home. The Scarlet had run swiftly, dodging between the tall trunks and bounding over fallen logs, over brushy barriers that would have impeded a lesser creature. But still he was losing the chase. He could hear the calls of his former mates: food, they called him. Kill, they said. There was nothing to do but run.

  Suddenly, the Scarlet had burst free of the trees. He was out on the open savanna and saw his chance to put some distance between himself and the Flock. And, better than that, he saw the first of the men as he sped across the grasses, leaving great, dark furrows in the earth wherever his talons met the ground and pushed his bulk along at breakneck speed.

  Out on the savanna he saw the man. He immediately recognized the scent as belonging to The Man Who Watches. The human was small and slow, running in their plodding manner. The Scarlet realized that the man was also being pursued by his own kind. It was a situation not unlike that of the Scarlet. A trill of humor came up out of the great bird’s beak as he turned directly toward the man, bearing down on him.

  Men, the Scarlet decided, were nearly blind in the night. Their eyes must not be suited for seeing the starlight world in the stark contrasts that made everything obvious to those of the Flock. He looked at the small man as he lowered his head for speed, tucking his short, powerful arms in tight to his chest. This man would serve as something to help him. This man would soon be a heavy portion of meat sprawled on the grasses and waiting for the Flock to find it. At worst, it would delay their progress toward him as he continued on, into the midst of the other men who were chasing The Man Who Watches.

  Too late the man realized what was coming toward him from the edge of the forest. At the last moment he tried to duck under the heavy slashi
ng claws that the Scarlet was bringing down on him. There was nearly half a ton of weight behind those talons as they connected with the human and bore him down onto the ground. The smell of blood welled up, finding its way into the Scarlet’s vast nasal cavities and tempting him with the thought of meat. But he didn’t have time. Better that the downed human becomes a marker that would delay the others and allow him to press on.

  The Scarlet left the prone figure behind him and took aim at the other human who had been chasing the first. He looked. The human was standing fast, and there was no fear coming from him. It had something in its long arms, was holding something not unlike a branch, pointing it at the Scarlet. The histories of the elders came to him. Histories of the first humans who had come down from the cold north and who had driven the old Flocks before them, killing them from a distance. Those histories had told of claws thrown from a long way, or teeth delivered from farther than any creature could possibly reach. The Scarlet saw that this human felt no fear, that it stood its ground and was preparing to do something. Sensing this, the Scarlet did the first thing that came to mind. He decided to hide in plain sight.

  Hundreds of tiny muscles throughout his legs and torso suddenly shifted. His mottled, striped feathering moved on their hard shafts, edged in dozens of different angles, blending with the grassland surroundings. The Scarlet suddenly became virtually invisible. He sped on, toward the human, from which it could now detect emotions equivalent to confusion.

  And just a spark, perhaps, of fear.

  Gant spoke into his radio. He had disdained it until then, not wishing to alert Holcomb. But now he felt the need to contact the others, to let them know what was happening. He began to speak quickly.