She nodded faintly. "Yes."
Hamilton was instantly on his feet as she handed him a printout. Then he scanned the pages, flipping them rapidly, reading just as rapidly until, finally, he lowered the pages to his side and raised a fist before his eyes. He slowly turned, staring at the ancient man suspended in the electromagnetic matrix, and he smiled.
"At last," he whispered. "To be ... immortal."
Silently he gazed. Finally he turned back. "How long before we can isolate the genomes and prepare buffers for human DNA?"
"Perhaps by tomorrow night. But we'll need ... human test subjects. We'll need to be sure that the serum doesn't kill outright or cause another severe mutation."
Hamilton's face froze. "Test subjects," he said softly, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
Above them was the first subbasement, filled with equipment. And above that, the ground floor: the commissary, the barracks and offices.
And the infirmary.
A grim frown became a satisfied smile.
"I believe I know just where to find them," he said.
Hunter was so exhausted that he had trouble thinking coherently. His entire body felt like a mass of contusions, strains, sprains, and twisted joints.
He had been hurt and exhausted before, but rarely anything like this. He revolved his head, moving it slowly, but it didn't do anything except cause him more pain and make him worry that he had somehow permanently crippled himself. He figured that he'd know soon enough; they were all being examined by the medical team.
Tipler was in ICU on an IV and a number of medications. He was still unconscious but Hunter knew the old man stood a much better chance here than in the mountains. He wasn't as worried as he had been, even feeling some sense of relief that they had been given a brief respite from the ordeal.
He would finish this hunt, but he would be better armed on the next expedition. What weapons he would carry had dominated most of his thinking since they had landed, but he hadn't decided. There was time for that later.
A doctor removed the blood-pressure cuff and listened to Hunter's heart. Very military looking with short-cut black hair and a smooth-shaven face, the physician was in his early thirties. He spoke precisely and confidently: "You have the innate constitution of an ox, Mr. Hunter. Your heartbeat is strong, your blood pressure is perfect, and your pulse is close to normal. You are extremely fit. Perhaps the strongest man I've ever examined. But you're also badly traumatized and dehydrated. Even for someone as strong as you, your body is on the verge of collapse."
He took some time examining the sharp incisions on Hunter's chest. "Hmm, that one's deep," he said. "What did this? A bear? I've never seen a bone scar like this."
"Something like that," Hunter mumbled, rubbing his head. "A bit more hostile."
The physician raised his eyes at the enigmatic remark, turned to the table. "Well, there's no infection. Your medic did a good job cleaning out the wound. So I've given you a tetanus shot and something to stave off any alternate infections. And it wouldn't hurt to have a couple of stitches. It's swollen, but not yet healing."
"Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere."
He performed the antibiotic injections easily and quickly, then prepped a needle with Lidocaine.
"Forget the painkiller," Hunter remarked absently. "Just stitch it up. I can find what I need later, if it hurts that much."
The physician stared at him. "Are you sure you don't want something for the sewing? This will not be pleasant."
"Most things aren't. Just sew it up."
A slight moment of hesitation, and the physician made an expression of "whatever you say" and began. Hunter felt the prick, the needle drawn through flesh, and the stinging of the thread as it was quickly tied off and cut. After five minutes it was over and the doctor dropped the needle and unused silk into a trashcan.
"Took twelve in your chest," he said. "You were lucky it wasn't an inch higher. It could have severed an artery." He wrinkled his brow. "I'd say you were lucky on that one. Lucky or good. Doesn't make much difference. You'll be fine in a few days but I'll need to see you in the morning. Same as all your friends."
Hunter nodded and looked around, wondering how long it'd been since he was in an emergency room; figured it was three years ago when he broke three ribs in a fall. It was a quick trip, in and out, and he had gone back to the search.
Hampered by the pain and lack of mobility, he had nevertheless eventually found the lost party, a hunter who had become lost in a January cold. When Hunter finally found his dead body, he saw that the man still had a backpack of food, a fully loaded rifle, and enough ammunition for a week. A tragedy.
The man had possessed everything he needed to weather out a week in the cold. But he had panicked and, eventually, after burning up precious energy stumbling blindly through the woods, had simply sat down and fallen asleep in the sub-zero temperature.
Hunter had seen it on many occasions—strong men who could have survived for weeks if they had used their tools and remained calm. Yet upon fearing that they were lost, they committed themselves to a senseless stampede that left them too exhausted and shocked to do the very few simple things that would have preserved their lives in even the harshest conditions.
Thoughts like that often gave Hunter pause because he sometimes forgot—so native were his skills to him—that some people simply had no concept of wilderness survival.
Hunter rarely measured his skills against anyone; it was not in his nature to compare himself at all. But in rare moments he appreciated the skills that allowed him, with nothing but his knife, to survive anywhere for weeks or months or years.
Part of it was skill and knowledge, and part of it was years of conditioning, but there was more—a certain hardiness of spirit or soul that reinforced his will in times of physical suffering or fear. It was that part of himself that didn't rely upon intelligence or mind for strength or direction—an ability to allow his lower mind to compensate for whatever his higher mind could not provide, carrying him past the point where most would surrender to pain or cold or hunger and, quite simply, die.
He had seen the phenomenon at work within himself before, and knew that he had the ability to live almost as an animal—hunting, tracking, and killing with that ferocious mind-set of surviving no matter the amount of physical and mental suffering he must endure. It was a certain purity of being—a surrendering to the most basic animal instinct and force of will—and he could turn it on or off, almost like a light switch.
The drawback was, quite simply, that when he gave himself to it he also gave himself to an utterly cold ruthlessness that could be somewhat unsettling.
It made him remember what the creature ... what Luther ... had spoken of. And he knew that, despite the lies surrounding what the beast had said, there was a grain of truth to it.
Deep inside the heart of man, there did lay a great darkness. Something to be feared even by man himself. It was the place where darkness reigned. Where killing was no more emotional than eating. Where a man could submerge his soul in the blackest sin and feel no guilt at all. Where life was nothing more than the satisfaction of what he desired, and the fulfillment of that desire. It was a place where ruthless strength fed dark desires—the heart of the beast.
Now the dark heart of man had been given indestructible, superhuman form, and was loose in mankind. And Hunter knew he would have to kill it.
And to kill it, he feared he'd have to become it, to release that darkness inside himself.
Hunter didn't want to think about it. When the time came, he knew what he would become. He just hoped it wouldn't be so difficult for him to shut it down when, and if, he destroyed it.
He did know that if he gave himself to the animal within, he would have to be alone. Because no one could keep up with him if he went into it. He would move with astonishing speed, easily covering fifty miles in a day and killing as he moved, eating the meat raw and still moving, killing again, hunting, always hunting—the animal withi
n him selecting the most perilous and difficult of paths as his gray eyes read the faintest faded track.
Athletically, he would be a human tiger—-jumping, running for hours, or descending from boulder to boulder in sinuous leaps that never seemed to pause as he hit one granite slab only to descend terrifically to another before he struck the ground to continue running.
Until now, he had been holding back because they couldn't have remained at his side if he had traveled with even half of his true ability. But the time had come to unleash a little of his true strength, and they would have to remain behind unless they were ready to follow in a helicopter.
He glanced up to see Ghost lying atop a heavy stack of blankets. Violating regulations, the medical personnel had wisely decided it was more prudent to allow the wolf a quiet corner in the ICU than a space in the hallway.
From Ghost's quick notice of the faintest sound or movement, it was clear that he remained alert. His ears stood straight, quick to catch the faintest rustle of cloth, and his obsidian eyes carefully followed the actions of everyone in the room.
Bobbi Jo emerged barefoot from an isolated trauma room wearing a dark-blue surgical shirt and pants. Her hair was stringy and matted, and she rubbed her eyes sleepily as she walked slowly to Hunter. He watched with a faint smile as she sat down beside him on the table. Gently, she reached over and touched the stitches in his chest.
She laughed. "A good job. Tidy. I guess you'll have to add those to your list."
Hunter laughed with her. "I don't keep track anymore. Gave up on it a long time ago. Ran out of fingers and toes."
"Oh, come on, Hunter." She smiled. "Even though you've been frozen, starved, cut, smashed, knocked off cliffs, mauled by wild animals, and sewn back together with all your body parts in the wrong place, you've still got a few good years left. I asked the doc and he showed me your warranty card."
He found himself laughing—rare for him—and glad she was so close. After a moment of enjoying her presence, he asked, "So, what'd they tell you? You come out of it in pretty good shape?"
"Oh, I'm kinda beat up." She shrugged. "They told me I'm dehydrated. I've got a torn muscle in my shoulder. But it's not a rotator cuff, so it won't need surgery. Then, oh, I've got a mild concussion and I've lost twenty percent of the hearing in my right ear. They say it's probably only temporary. Got a ton of contusions, too many to count, and about three bruised ribs." She smiled and winked. "But they gave me some great painkillers." A pause. "Then my right shoulder has a bad bone bruise from not having the Barrett set tight enough on that shot beside the creek. But other than that, I'm just fine and dandy."
Laughing, Hunter shook his head. "Yeah, seems like you came out all right. What about the professor?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "They told me he's not in a coma, but he's unconscious. I guess we'll know by tomorrow. They say he can't be moved."
"No," Hunter rumbled, "I'm sure of that. And I ain't leaving, either, 'til he can be moved. I guess the rest of them are all right."
"Oh, yeah. Taylor is already gone. Said he was hungry. Wilkenson is still in there, they're working on some bruises. He got a flash burn from the explosion in the cave. And Takakura ... well, you know Takakura. He's the curse of doctors everywhere."
With a smile, Hunter said, "Yeah, he's tough. He'll be okay. Guess all we do now is sit and heal up a little. Get some rest."
Silent, she stared at him intently.
"You're going after it, aren't you?" she asked finally.
He said nothing.
She shook her head. "Don't do it, Hunter. Just let it be. I know how you feel. I feel the same. But if you go out there, alone, it will kill you. And you know that."
"Maybe," he replied, stoic. "Maybe not. But if it's not stopped, it's gonna keep on killing. And who's next? Some old woman? Some kid? A village?" He stared at her. "You know it's not gonna stop. Not ever. It's gonna kill until someone stops it."
""It doesn't have to be you."
"So who's it gonna be?" Hunter held the moment with his conviction. "You? You know you can't track it. Not like I can. The army? They've already tried. So who's left?" The silence lasted. "There's nobody, darlin'. Nobody but me."
She didn't say anything, staring into space. Then: "You won't come back."
It was said with a professional warrior's objectivity, but there was an imploring look on her face.
Hunter grunted. He slowly lifted a hand and flexed it, testing its strength. He was hurt bad, but he could continue. Yet he somehow felt that he'd lost something of himself in this hunt—he had had some deep, untapped reserve of endurance or ultimate physical might that, once spent, might be gone forever. Some challenges took away a measure of what you were, and the body could never replenish it.
"Probably," he replied finally. "But I don't have a choice. If I walk away from this ...life won't be anything but regrets and ghosts and guilt."
Watching him steadily, she said, "And you couldn't live like that."
"Couldn't be called living," he grunted. Then he shrugged. "Seems like it's always like this. Seems like there's always someone who can do some ... special thing. They have a skill. A talent. And they find themselves in a place where this ability is needed. And something deep down tells you what you have to do. That you were meant to be here, to do what has to be done." He shook his head. "Like I said, an old story. But true, I think."
She didn't blink. "I understand," she said at last. "And, I thought I'd let you know, I'm going with you."
"No, you're definitely not coming with me."
"Why not? This is still a military operation."
"Not for me." Hunter rose, loosening a shoulder. "I'm done with the military. They're lying to you. To me. To everybody. They always were."
"Think I can't keep up with you?" she asked.
He smiled lightly, touched her cheek softly. "No offense."
A pause.
"You're not gonna hold back this time, are you? You're not gonna let us catch up to you?"
"It's the only way," he said softly, gazing out the window at the spot-lit night of the compound. "I have to run it to ground."
"And when you do? What are you gonna do when you corner it or it corners you? Just the two of you alone in those mountains? How are you gonna kill what can't be killed?"
"Anything can be killed," he said, sullen, and his face darkened as his suddenly cold blue eyes seemed to behold something beyond the compound. "Anything."
*
Chapter 16
Brick came down the stairs in a rush, the AK-47 slung around a bull shoulder, barrel bouncing on his hip. He walked wordlessly into the vault and came out with three hand grenades hung on his belt. He held a large starlight scope—a night-vision device for the rifle.
He glanced at Chaney, who now sat upright on the bed, testing his arms for injury. Chaney eyed him and knew, from the old days, that Brick was ready to deal out some serious hurting.
He asked, "Anything out there?"
"Not that I can see, kid." Brick adjusted the night-vision scope and mounted it carefully on the AK with a small screwdriver. "But I can't see so good in the dark. They could be laid up in the shadows." He took a moment, adjusting carefully. "Good thing I picked up one of these starlight scopes at the last gun-and-knife show. Figured it'd come in handy one day. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."
Chaney lowered his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed his head. "Thank God for morphine," he mumbled. "Listen, I've got to make a phone call. Where's the horn?"
"Upstairs," Brick grunted. "But I don't think you're in shape for walking."
"I better be." Chaney rose with the words. "I've got to" get in touch with a girl at the Tipler Institute. She's in danger." He picked up the Sig, moved the slide enough to ensure it was chambered, checked the .38 on his left ankle, and slid it back into the concealed holster. Mechanically, he moved the Sig to his left hand.
The semiautomatic pistol didn't have
a safety, all it needed was four pounds of pressure on the double-action trigger to fire. He had fifteen rounds to a clip, and two backup magazines. Strange, but before tonight he always figured forty-five 9-mm rounds to be sufficient for any gunfight. Now he knew they weren't.
"Come on, then." Brick held him by an arm, moving to the stairs. If you gotta go, let's get upstairs."
***
Hunter awoke as a hand touched the doorknob to his room, but he didn't move. Only his eyes, gleaming in the dark, shifted as he watched the darkened portal.
They had all retired to quarters, Bobbi Jo in a room next to his, the professor still in the ICU. Takakura was across the hall and Taylor was also in the wing. Wilkenson was down the corridor, near the exit. And for the longest silent period, nothing happened. Then the door opened, just a crack, and a sliver of light cascaded through the gloom.
Without making a sound, Hunter found the Bowie knife and, even though the move almost made him groan in agony, lowered himself into a crouch beside the bed. He didn't look but knew Ghost was also crouching, poised to attack. He waited and a shadow slowly, almost tentatively, entered and stood motionless.
Bobbi Jo's silhouette stood in the narrow portal.
For the first time. Hunter saw Bobbi Jo the woman, instead of the warrior. Her hair was loose, and she wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Silhouetted against the light, she was more beautiful than any woman Hunter had ever known. She didn't say a word and didn't move, only stared at him.
Hunter laid the Bowie on the table. Then he walked forward, stopping close in front of her. He reached out to touch her cheek softly, and at that movement she reached up, grasping his wrist, leaning her head slightly into his hand, closing her eyes.
He gazed silently at her.
Her eyes opened and stared into his.
"At least we have tonight," she whispered.
Hunter paused, then reached out and lifted her from the floor. He closed the door softly and carried her slowly across the room to the bed.
***
Dr. Hamilton, tirelessly overseeing every aspect of the isotonic distillation of the serum, studied the technicians who were preparing the first twenty cc's. Drop by drop, the serum fell into a glass vial that slowly began to fill. The processing had progressed slowly, but after three hours there was almost enough for the initial test.
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