Without Hunter's direction the camera switched angles to show the man more closely. And for a moment Hunter stared, all the while following with his eyes two more personnel who had walked across the room and now stood six feet away.
He blinked sweat from his eyes.
What happened next made his skin crawl, chilling him even as he felt his heart rate increase, his breath deepen. For the man had fallen onto his face, writhing in pain. Then he clawed at his shirt, his eyes, and his face and began screaming, howling. He tore off his shoes and for a moment vanished beyond the camera angle, and when he writhed back into view Hunter was horrified . . .
Slowly at first, and then with appalling acceleration, the man's face altered, widening and distorting—transforming—and his hair fell in clumps and waves as he continued to scream and claw at himself. And then, in a maddened frenzy of rolling, beating upon any inanimate object that touched him as if it burned with fire, his body was grotesquely twisted by some tectonic collision of cells, hideously deforming him before he ...before it...lay in a stillness far deeper than death.
Hunter recognized the primordial outline of that form, though far smaller in this video than it had since become. And he knew his enemy. Knew finally where it had been spawned, and how.
Recovering consciousness and breath, the creature rose slowly, sullen and sneering, from the floor.
On the left side of the monitor, the glass wall was visible, and Hunter saw innumerable technicians staring in horror, holding clipboards close. He did not need to see their faces to read their fear. And as the creature inhaled deeply, almost with savage satisfaction at his altered state of being, there was an unnatural stillness in them all. Then, striding forward with remarkable slowness, it simply walked into the six-inch Plexiglas, shattering it spectacularly with a hammer-like blow, and was among them.
Hunter did not need to see what happened next.
One less mystery.
Hunter raised sullen eyes to the suspended cylindrical type that hung inside an electromagnetic field—he understood the process because the bare copper wiring that domed the top and bottom of the cylinder fairly hummed with energy—and knew that inside that darkness lay another answer.
He had followed the movement of the four technicians, and rose as they came around the display where he crouched. He knew that they would have cried out if he had allowed them the chance, but Hunter instantly seized one by the throat, shoving him against the chest-high computer terminal. And before the other could react he pinned him also with his Bowie knife. Holding the blade against the technician's neck while easily controlling the first man who, not unsurprisingly, did not resist, Hunter spoke with threat to the others.
"Stay where you are!"
Already on their feet, they moved no farther.
"Don't touch anything!" he continued. Then he shoved the two male technicians toward the other man and woman, crowding them for control. He pointed to the cylinder. "Turn on the lights. I want to see what's inside the tube."
The woman, not removing her eyes from Hunter, reached down carefully to the computer dais. When her hand was close, she cast a quick glance and slowly pushed a switch, and Hunter stepped away from them, staring upward at the tube. His knife hung forgotten in his hand as the image emerged before him, green light washing slowly over a bowed, monstrous head, ragged wisps of hair floating in jade liquid.
The light flooded downward—shaggy gray hair doming a broad deep forehead above a heavy brow that shaded dark eyes, high cheeks that protruded stone-like on either side of a broad, flattened nose; then a wide mouth—a wicked, frowning gash with the pinpoints of long fangs visible through the jade—hanging open. And the hugely muscled, apelike neck and gorilla chest that swelled as thick twin shields beneath the chin, and, finally, to the knotted, powerful arms, matted and dark with coarse hair. And even farther the light descended to reveal long muscular legs—not like those of an ape, but of a man, yet so overdeveloped and powerfully defined that they could have undoubtedly propelled this colossus of human evolution to shocking heights or hurled that hulking weight with a cheetah's speed across the vined and tepid slime morasses of a world long buried beneath the awesome weight of time.
It was dead; Hunter needed no one to tell him that. And from the withered facial features, the smoothness of its flesh, he knew it had been dead for eons. Almost as an afterthought, he studied the large, powerful hands. Even the centuries had not dulled the fiendish aspect of those blackened claws.
Inhaling deeply, Hunter shook his head at the foolishness of man. Not anymore did he need anyone to tell him what they had done. Now the only question remaining ...was why.
No alarms had sounded above; he felt no compulsion to rush. Nor had the laboratory technicians moved to flee, although he would have allowed them. Rather, they stood in absolute stillness, apparently fearful that he meant them harm, which he did not.
He heard the elevator open behind him, listened calmly as suppressed footsteps approached and counted their number: six pairs of military boots and the squeak of foam-soled working shoes—the kind that Dr. Hamilton habitually wore.
Sheathing his Bowie, Hunter continued to stare with amazed disbelief at the entombed monstrosity until, ever so slowly, Hamilton halted beside him.
Absolutely no registration of anger or disappointment was visible on the scientist's face; obviously, he was a man rarely surprised. His arms were crossed casually and his posture was that of a man admiring a fine painting. And when he spoke, a glimmering smile raised one corner of his mouth in what seemed to be admiration, even amusement, at what Hunter had discovered.
"And so," Hamilton began pleasantly, "now you know."
Hunter almost laughed, but it was more of a disbelieving grunt. The situation was so insane, so beyond the realm of reason and responsibility, that he didn't know what to say. He shook his head and looked at Hamilton.
"How did you ever think to keep a thing like this secret?"
Nonchalant and amused, Hamilton smiled. "But I have kept it a secret, Mr. Hunter."
His confidence, again, was supreme. Hunter wondered how Hamilton truly looked upon others.
Hunter glanced around casually and counted six black-clad soldiers. "I suppose," he said, "that you intend to kill me."
Hamilton said nothing, and his aspect did not change.
Hunter had never seen the uniformed soldiers aboveground and reasoned that they weren't regular military but a special contingent designed to protect this hidden level. Escape was paramount in his mind, and then he thought of Bobbi Jo above with the rest, waiting for the attack. He looked at Hamilton, shook his head.
"You really are insane, you know," he said.
"Hmm?" Hamilton raised his brow, undisturbed. "Well, of course, there are those who might think so, Mr. Hunter. But I disagree. And, as regarding my plans for you, I believe that is self-evident. After all, we are both men of the world. We are both reasonably experienced, each in his own way, with illegal, dangerous, and dark oceans of secrets. Further, I do not wish to be indelicate by stating what is both obvious and unavoidable. And I hope you understand: I really have no choice in the matter."
If Hamilton expected to see fear in Hunter, he was disappointed.
Hunter smiled.
"You know, Hamilton, in all my traveling, all the places I've been, the things I've done, I've never actually killed a man."
Hamilton took it as the insult it was intended to be. His face tightened, eyes crinkling with the sting. He didn't attempt to polish his tone as he replied.
"Really? A shame I can't say the same."
***
Standing on the edge of the roof, Bobbi Jo had positioned the Barrett on a large crate, bipod extended. The huge rifle dominated the weapon-heavy environment, making the M-16's seem like toys. Two freshly loaded clips were set on a table. She had positioned a bench behind her so she could comfortably pick off the creature with one well-placed shot after another when it penetrated the perimeter.
There were perhaps twenty personnel positioned on the building's four sides. Most of them carried lightweight automatic weapons, but there was also an M-60 armed with a gunner and a second soldier, a belt runner, on each wall. The compound itself swarmed with four-and six-man attack squads, and canine units were working in pairs, patrolling the fence line.
Measuring the multilayered security, Bobbi Jo knew that, if she were attempting to defeat the security, she would have called it a "no-go." Nothing, surely, could either steal or fight its way through that hive of dogs, guns, and soldiers. Not to mention the steel-mesh fence powered to twenty-five thousand volts; the generators in the back shed roared with the maximum electrical output. And a ten-thousand-gallon tanker "was parked close to ensure that the two-ton machines had enough gasoline to last the night.
No one spoke to her because it was understood; snipers preferred to work alone. Utter concentration was paramount in the job, and distractions were despised. Without facial expression she wondered where Hunter was, and if he was safe.
The eerie atmosphere of secrets combined with the forthright promise of impending mortal combat continued to wear upon her emotional control. She was trained to control her feelings. She was all too aware that, for him, her control was vanishing.
A voice came from behind her.
"Have you seen Hunter?"
Bobbi Jo turned and saw the marshal, Chaney, with the big man called Brick. They were carrying the Weatherby .454 double-barreled hunting rifles, and each sported a bandoleer of the five-inch-long brass cartridges. Brick also had an AK-47 slung across his back, and six full magazines and four antipersonnel grenades strapped on his regulation-issue gun belt.
"No." She frowned. "I thought he was with you, Chaney."
"No." Chaney shook his head, brow hardening. "He said he was coming up to check the roof, to make sure you were okay. Then I think he said he was going to walk the perimeter."
Bobbi Jo's eyes narrowed in worry. "No. I haven't seen him. How long ago was that?"
"Twenty, thirty minutes."
Brick grunted, soft and low, turned his head in thought. No one spoke for a time and then Bobbi Jo added, "Maybe somebody should go look for him. It's not right for Hunter to say he's gonna do something and not do it." She paused with heat. "He's not like that."
Chaney nodded.
"All right," he agreed, making a half-turn. "I'll go take a look around."
"I'll do it," Brick broke in, placing a beefy hand on Chaney's arm. "I know this kind of setup. Worked one in the Philippines, and there's lots of places a guy can get confused, especially back there around the motor pool. If he's doing some real serious checking, I could speed things up for him and then we can all rendezvous back here."
"Sounds good," Chaney acquiesced. "But tell Hunter to get back here as soon as he can. He understands that thing better than anyone. We can use him to anticipate its attack."
Bobbi Jo spoke up. "Hunter doesn't want to be on a roof, Marshal. He'll want to be out there with it, hunting it just like it's hunting him. That's what he's best at."
"What he's best at, Lieutenant," Chaney responded with an edge of im-patience, "and what we need are two different things. Hunter is the only one that can get inside that thing's mind. So if we have him coordinating our counterattack, we might fare a damn sight better than the other installations that went to ground. Colonel Maddox is in charge, but I think he'd agree with me. The more we can anticipate what this creature is going to do, the better our chances are of countering. And maybe, if we're lucky, we might just survive this goddamn fight."
Brick was walking away, head down in intense thought. "You guys settle it. I'm gonna do some looking." He turned back with an agility that belied his considerable bulk. "You said Hunter told you he was coming up top?"
"Yeah," replied Chaney.
Brick nodded. "Where was the two of ya when he told you that?"
"We were in the basement, looking over the inventory. But he came up before I did."
"Huh." Brick turned back to the sniper. Chaney opened his mouth to continue but Bobbi Jo cut him off. "Listen, Marshal, I'm not in the mood to argue with you. I just take orders. I don't give them. Whatever suggestions you have for Hunter, you can settle them with him."
"Good enough." Chaney nodded and walked across the antenna-strewn roof toward Colonel Maddox, who had taken position in the command center. Field telephone lines hooked with numerous lights were manned by a sergeant, and a young communications officer was dispatching on UHF radios.
Maddox, hands clasped behind his back, paced back and forth in their midst. " 'Evening, Marshal," he said distractedly as Chaney arrived. He signed a clipboard that was presented and absently checked the .45 at his waist. It was the first time Chaney had seen him in battle dress. Chaney wasted no time, saying, "Colonel I think it would be advantageous if we had Hunter in the command center instead of on the grounds."
Maddox looked emptily at him. "Hmm?"
"I said," Chaney repeated, "Hunter is the only one who can anticipate what this thing might do, and we might be able to use him in the command center."
Maddox was nodding, but Chaney wasn't certain if the colonel had heard what he said. It was to be expected; Chaney had seen the same look in 'Nam when a battalion of Viet Cong would have an isolated firebase surrounded, waiting only for darkness to fall so they could launch a merciless, scorching series of attacks that would continue until dawn. Once the battle began, Chaney had never had time or emotion for fear; he was too busy staying alive. But, in the long period when they would be waiting together for nightfall, they all had too much time to contemplate the oncoming horror and knew nothing but terror. Those were the times, Chaney often thought, that he had hated the most and remembered the most. He decided to try communicating with Maddox more forcefully.
"Colonel," he said, stepping up, "we need someone in the command center who can help us anticipate what this creature might do! I suggest we ask Hunter to come up here as an adviser!"
Maddox waved. "Oh, yes, of course. Uh, tell Mr. Hunter his presence is requested in the CP." He glanced nervously at the surrounding trees. "And do it quickly."
***
Maintaining severe emotional control, Hunter mentally pictured what he knew about the room—the locations of various equipment, doors, cables, terminals.
He didn't know what, exactly, he was going to do. But he had already decided that Hamilton was not leaving his side. He tried to delay what seemed inevitable and, as he spoke, realized that he truly wanted an answer.
"I suppose it was you all along?" he asked.
Hamilton laughed dismissively. "Of course not, Mr. Hunter. It was never 'only' I. In fact, the tentacles of this exercise reach deeply into a dozen, oh, how shall I say it ...domains?" He paused. "Yes, domains. Seems a strange word. But many are involved. Men of unlimited wealth, some in government, some in the private sector, all wishing to inherit the benefits contained within this fantastic specimen of evolution. Strange how I never sought to classify those who have labored beside me, until now. I merely considered them part of a higher system, or the heart of the system, you might say."
"And what system would that be?"
Hunter actually wanted to know, now that he had come this far and was likely to pay a severe price for the knowledge he obtained. He added sullenly, "Sounds like a good crew, Hamilton. A system of rich sleazeballs that murdered a young woman to protect some apeman that died ten thousand years ago." He shook his head.
The scientist's entire body shook with an explosive laugh, and Hunter instantly checked his mercurial impulse to kill Hamilton with a single m
ove. But even as the reaction seized him, Hunter had already shut it down. His hand never moved.
"Really, Mr. Hunter, I may have overestimated your worldliness," Hamilton responded. Although the smile failed to fully fade, he grew still, staring with that impenetrable arrogance. "Do you really presume that all ...this...could be the work of a single man? Or even a single agency? No, Mr. Hunter, it was a coalition, you might say. People who forever remain in the shadows."
Hunter frowned, stoic.
"Really, Mr. Hunter, you disappointment me and surprise me simultaneously. First you deduced, and correctly I might add, that there was a hidden level to the institution. And other deductions you reached regarding my poor ..."
Hunter interjected: "Luther? Your poor Luther?"
Hamilton's smile was benign. "Yes, Mr. Hunter – my poor Luther. Or the creature, as you now call it, who was once a respected colleague of mine. Yes, his name was Luther Friedkin." He shook his head in the mildest remorse. "Poor Luther, he did not know what manner of game he played. Always impetuous. Always rushing ahead of where science had conclusively led. And he was quite brilliant, you know. But—and I assume you have watched the video since it continues to replay the ghastly carnage of that night— Luther impractically moved ahead of safeguards and injected himself with the cloning serum which he himself had ionized from ..." Hamilton lifted his hand with reverence. "From one who was like a god."
Hunter didn't look at the creature. "This man must have had a good reason to take a chance like that," he said. "Why don't you tell me about it?"
With the most minute shrug Hamilton said without emotion, "Well, in truth, who will ever know for certain? Luther's genius was, indeed, unparalleled. And perhaps he concluded, erroneously, that he had perfected the serum." He paused. "Earlier tests on his serum, which were conducted on baboons, were spectacularly positive and so Luther bypassed human testing and volunteered himself. Perhaps Luther was simply too impetuous to seize the power, the pure physical might and the immortality that man has sought since time began."
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