Hunter

by James Byron Huggins

  Hunter almost groaned at the sight, and knelt beside him.

  A slashing blow had torn away part of the boy's chest. Blood had matted in the wound, concealing its depth. He grasped Hunter's hand weakly, and Hunter knew he could do nothing for him. The creature's blow had torn away ribs, leaving the chest cavity exposed; it was a matter of moments.

  Gasping, the boy spoke.

  "Did we ...get it?"

  Hunter grimaced. "Yeah, soldier. You got it."

  There was almost a smile, then the boy took another breath and was gone. Slowly, Hunter stood, staring down. His rage was channeled now, and he stood like a monument of judgment. It would die for this, he swore to himself. As surely as he lived, it would die.

  Hunter gazed about, knowing exactly what had happened, though he had seen none of it.

  It had chosen its terrain well, using their fear, and they had fallen into the trap. If he had been here, he was certain, this never would have happened. At least not on this scale. But they had allowed themselves to get caught up in the chase. Had lacked the patience to pick their terrain more carefully and wait with infinite patience until the prey was close and vulnerable. He shook his head.

  Here, with shadow and light crossing like a chessboard, it had been able to move only a step before it disappeared, only to re-emerge from complete blackness to kill with a blow before moving on, vanishing again into darkness, stalking.

  Such a loss ...

  It was a battlefield, a graveyard of dead men that might have won, but for want of his direction. He cursed himself silently as he heard a sound.

  Whirling, he had the Weatherby centered.

  Takakura ...

  The Japanese commander was holding his chest, sword in hand. And his face was slack, sweating, while he stared down over the boy, as if the soldier were somehow different from the multitude surrounding him, or if he somehow epitomized the score of dead. Then the Japanese simply shook his head, bowing wearily to lean on the hood of a Humvee.

  "Come on," Hunter said, not wasting time on questions. He put his arm under Takakura s shoulder, supporting him, and they began to move.

  "We've got to get inside the building before it finds us. Which it's going to do fast enough."

  Takakura, a true soldier, merely frowned at his injury. He asked no questions as he stumbled alongside Hunter, his sword dragging a narrow trail in the dust. Hunter knew the Japanese was badly wounded but never asked how or where; this was no time.

  A cacophony of explosions erupted in an area near the shed and Hunter froze, lifting his head. He saw blasts of gunfire and heard heated shouts from the glowing devastation. The gun blasts continued, broken only by short pauses of cursing before they resumed once more.

  Hunter glimpsed a distant silhouetted figure moving back and forth and saw it raise a rifle, firing two rounds that were followed by a heated curse that carried across the compound. In the next moment the figure ran to the right and vanished.

  Hunter leaned Takakura against the front grill of a troop carrier. The big truck easily supported the Japanese, although Takakura's head was bent forward in exhaustion and shock. Hunter pushed him back and spoke close to his face.

  "Takakura!" Hunter pointed to the installation. "Can you make it to the building? Bobbi Jo and Brick are at the side door! All you have to do is get to the building! It's not that far! Do you understand me!"

  A slow nod. "Hai."

  Grimacing stoically, he pushed Hunter's hand aside and staggered forward. Hunter moved toward the place where he had seen the gunfire. He glanced back once to see Takakura moving slowly and slightly off balance, but with determination. It might take him longer to make it alone, but Hunter believed he would. And, although Takakura was easy prey in his wounded condition, Hunter didn't think that the creature was an immediate danger to him. No, he was confident that the man at the far end of the motor pool, the one firing the gun and raging at the night, had sighted the thing and was trying to finish the fight.

  Hunter had a good suspicion who it was before he ever reached the liquefied remains of the tanker.

  Even 150 feet away, the heat was blistering, and Hunter glanced to the far right to see Chaney raise the Weatherby against a shoulder, firing twice. Obviously getting more skilled with the double-barreled rifle, Chaney had ejected the spent rounds and inserted two more in the blink of an eye. As quickly as Chaney had performed the action, he might as well have been firing a semiautomatic.

  "Chaney!" Hunter yelled from behind the protection of a Humvee. As enraged as Chaney was, Hunter was taking no chances that he might accidentally shoot him.

  Chaney paused before he called out, "Hunter?"

  Instantly Hunter was out from behind the Humvee running forward, searching the area where Chaney had been shooting. And they began the conversation long before they stood face-to-face, Hunter alert to everything, close shadows on the right, distant shadows beyond flame on the left. He raised an arm briefly against the tidal wave of heat pouring from the ruined tanker and shed.

  "What do you have?" he shouted to Chaney above the roaring inferno.

  "I near tripped over the thing!" Chaney yelled back. "Somebody finally hurt it! I don't know who! It was on the ground and I just shot it point-blank!"

  Hunter knew before he even asked. "Did you kill it?"

  "Hell, no!" Chaney glared at him, sweating. Hunter saw that he had used about a third of the cartridges on the bandoleer. "But I sure got it mad." He grimaced, catching his breath. "I hit it again as it got up off the ground and then it was gone! I chased it across the compound, hittin' it every chance I got! Then it vanished over here! I got a glimpse of it a second ago and sent two over there!" He pointed to the far side of the flames, shook his head. "Haven't seen it since!"

  Another time Hunter might have congratulated him, but there was no time for praise. Then a voice roared from the flames on the other side of the shed.

  "Hunter! I know your name! I will kill you for this!"

  It was the beast.

  Still alive …

  Hunter debated a reply, and shouted back, "Then come and kill me! Do it now!"

  "No! Not now! But soon! Soon! You think you have won but you have won nothing! Because I am more than man!"

  Hunter snarled, "You're an animal, Luther! An animal! You'll always be an animal!"

  "Tell me that when I eat your heart!"

  Chaney shouted, "Eat this!" and fired the Weatherby blindly toward the voice before Hunter grabbed his arm.

  "No!" he said. "We've got to get back to the building. It's our only chance. We can't stop him with these weapons. Come on! Let's move! We gotta get everyone into the building and wait for it to come to us!"

  Frowning with anger, Chaney raised his head to search briefly over the flames before he grimaced, turning. Hunter saw that, as fired up as Chaney was with the close combat, his fever had not overridden his tactical judgment.

  "All right!" He loped forward, holding the Weatherby. "Let's get back!"

  Holding his heart, Professor Tipler sat on the edge of the bed, bathed in red light flooding out from the corners. The emergency lights had kicked on and he had heard the roar and clash of battle in the motor pool, the howls of wounded men, the screams of the dying.

  Even from this great distance, secured within cement walls, he had discerned frantic orders, endless gunfire. And now that the gunfire had ceased, except for scattered resistance, he presumed the battle had been lost.

  Standing monolithic in the gloom, Ghost filled the narrow entrance of Tipler's cubicle. True to his loyalty and love, the great black wolf had not left Tipler's side since the ordeal began. Like a great unsleeping spirit of flesh and fang cloaked in black, he fearlessly stood his ground.

  Tipler smiled. He knew Ghost would never leave his side. Not until Hunter gave the word. And he wondered what would happen if he told the noble wolf to find his master. Tipler closed his eyes as the possibility entered his mind that Hunter had been killed by the beast. Again, he
shook his head; so little an old man can do ...

  Raising his eyes, Tipler regarded the ever loyal Ghost. Perhaps, if all was lost outside, the wolf could yet escape. He knew that Ghost would easily survive in these mountains, which were his true home. Or he might find Hunter, still alive, and fight beside him. Surely, though, he was not needed here. Not any longer.

  Tipler could feel a chill in his spine, an emptiness in his chest, that assured him – No, not much longer. He nodded, firm in the conviction. Then he pointed to the open door leading from the ICU.

  "Go!" he shouted. "Find Hunter!"

  Ghost's alertness at the words was complete. The ears were straight black angles against red light. And although Tipler could not quite see the eyes, he knew from the quick blinks that made the shining obsidian orbs fade in and out that the wolf had focused on him completely. There was a new tension in his stance.

  Tipler repeated the command, shouting to fill his voice with anger.

  Still, Ghost did not retreat, held his guard. But the wide wedge-shaped head tilted, confused.

  "Go!"Tipler roared, and stood away from the bed. He pointed thunderously. "Go and find Hunter!"

  Ghost retreated before the great enraged voice and looked at the door. Then he looked back at Tipler, clearly unsure. Tipler picked up a plate from his tray and flung it high, scattered utensils and roaring with his command. "Go, Ghost! Find Hunter! Find Hunter! Go! Go! Go!"

  Ghost was halfway across the intensive care unit, standing his ground and glancing with confusion at the door, at Tipler, the door, and back again. And then Tipler's strength faded with a washing, light-headed announcement. Still standing close to the bed, he leaned and reached out, falling lightly onto his right side ...

  "Go, Ghost," he whispered. "Ghost ..."

  Ghost stood his place and watched, head tilted, until the man was utterly still. And after a moment, when the man had not moved at all, he wandered close, sniffed, and caught the scent of death. With a whine, he stepped back, still holding his place. Then, finally, with a solemn turn he moved across the antiseptic room into the red-shadowed darkness of the door, turned and was gone.

  ***

  Chaney had no trouble, uninjured as he was, keeping pace with Hunter. But as they cleared the motor pool they saw Takakura struggling, only halfway across the compound. The Japanese was moving more slowly with each step and Hunter instantly angled to the side, making for him. Chaney, understanding instantly and too conditioned to the wild unpredictability of combat to waste breath on questions, followed with strong strides.

  Hunter glanced to the left to see Bobbi Jo on one knee, the bipod of the Barrett resting on a crate. Her head turned as she searched everything around them, and Hunter knew the creature couldn't come upon them without her hitting it with the sniper rifle. And even if the massive round couldn't stop it, the impact would slow it down, possibly giving them time to reach the sanctuary of the complex. In any case, a little hope was better than no hope at all.

  Takakura fell forward as Hunter reached him. Hunter heard heavy approaching footsteps in front and raised the Weatherby, turning the Japanese aside.

  Brick.

  Breath heaving, he came up with the AK-47 slung on his back. His hands, beefy fists as large as rocks, worked rhythmically over his chest as he covered the last few yards. He bent and slipped his head under Takakura's left arm. With Hunter on the right, they hoisted him and Chaney took rear guard, running backwards with the Weatherby held close across his chest.

  Bobbi Jo heard a shuffle and whirled.

  Her intellect instantly assured her that it couldn't have been the beast but her reflexes made her react as if it were. She stared for a long silence and then saw a creature, utterly black and moving with effortless grace, around a far corner. Pausing, it saw her and without hesitation or sound loped quickly forward.

  She smiled. "Ghost ..."

  The wolf came up slowly and pressed his nose against her face. Bobbi Jo touched the rough black fur, smiling. Her next thought was of Hunter as Ghost swung its huge head to gaze out over the compound, and her hand closed tightly on its midnight mane.

  "Ghost!" she yelled suddenly. "Stay!"

  Ghost surged forward as he saw Hunter but she held him back, both hands locking around the neck as she spoke sternly, trying to push him against the building. It was desperate enough with the three of them out there; the wolf would only complicate the situation, and would probably refuse to retreat at all if it sighted the creature.

  But without really even moving, Ghost brushed off her attempt, merely shifting his stance to make her slide awkwardly down his side. To him it was merely play, nothing that required conscious effort. But Bobbi Jo was struggling with all her strength and skill to control the wolf's twisting, powerful form.

  Bobbi Jo's hands scraped and grasped at the body and mane, trying to find a grip that he could not easily escape when Ghost, rising suddenly on hind legs, roared with a rage and fury that sent her sprawling wildly back. She glimpsed the savagely separated white fangs, black eyes blazing in a fury beyond anything mortal, and twisted her head to the side.

  She screamed as she saw the creature almost upon Hunter and Chaney, hurtling across the compound with the speed of a lion. She dove for the Barrett but knew she'd never target it at such velocity.

  She screamed a warning.

  And Ghost was already forty feet from the building, silently hurling its magnificent black shape forward with a speed that rivaled the beast's. Another volcanic stride and it vanished into darkness.

  "Ghost!"

  ***

  At Bobbi Jo's warning scream, Hunter raised his head and saw Ghost's black form racing across the compound. But the wolf wasn't directly running for him so Hunter dropped and spun, understanding instantly. The Weatherby rose as he hurled Takakura roughly back.

  Chaney was slower, but not by much. Before Hunter had fired he had already turned, saw it all, understood, and the stock was at his shoulder when Hunter pulled the trigger.

  The four barrels blazed as one and the creature staggered aside, hurt and slowed. It raised its face as it launched itself forward again. An explosion erupted at the door of the faraway complex and it was hurled onto its back, rolling with the wrecking-ball impact of Bobbi Jo's .50-caliber round.

  It rose snarling wildly, glaring at Hunter.

  Fangs displayed, it charged again.

  Chaney's breech snapped shut and Hunter remembered that he hadn't reloaded. He cracked the breech, burning fingers on the spent cartridges. He speed-loaded two more cartridges as Brick targeted with the AK-47—not a damaging round but certainly more painful than the meaningless .223's—and fired, the lead bouncing off the creature's ballistic-resistant skin.

  Chaney had fired both rounds and reloaded again as Hunter raised aim. And the creature still staggered forward, relentless.

  Its nightmarish face twisted in pain and rage, striding through the onslaught as if the sole reason for its being was to kill and to kill more, to endlessly kill and kill and kill.

  And in that surreal moment, Hunter saw it as it truly was.

  The professor's words descended through his mind like a tilted water tower, the deluge disgorging everything inside with a single titanic blast. It took no time, and it was there in all its complexity.

  Here, before Hunter, was the deepest, darkest mind of man; without conscience, without mercy, without pity. Untouched by compassion or regard or restraint, it was the center of what man once was before he rose above blood and mindlessness, to become man. For in those scarlet eyes and gaping fangs lay the black heart of death and murder and destruction for the sake of destruction alone, impulses felt and fulfilled for nothing other than the satisfaction; nothing to question or challenge; no reason to stay its hand when it might shed the blood it craved. It was a creation that lived—that existed—only for the physical expression of the darkness so deeply buried within man that even man feared to pry away the stone and see the horror within. As Chaney speed-l
oaded the Weatherby and Brick frantically dropped to a knee, exchanging a clip, Hunter stared at the epitome of human evil.

  It stalked forward, a growl building within, and it sprang upon them, its terrible strength carrying it in a long twenty-foot arch. Then Hunter glimpsed the blinding streak of black racing from the side. He turned and screamed.

  "Ghost! NO!"

  The gigantic black wolf struck the beast in the air, and they instantly locked in a thunderstorm of blows thrown and blows returned, fang to fang, spinning through red darkness until they crashed to earth together, savagely fighting to the death.

  Scattering blood with each blow they revolved through the dark. Ghost hurled himself with unimaginable force against the monstrosity to blast it away from Hunter.

  Again and again the great wolf struck, tearing savage gaps in the creature's arms, chest, and neck that brought forth rivers of blood. The beast returned the same, hurling vicious swipes of its clawed hands in a devil's battle that wounded Ghost with equal violence.

  It was the heart of fury, the place where savagery and rage were conquered by something greater, something even more furious. The beast hurled a clawed hand that struck Ghost's shoulder, ribs glistening white at the impact, and Ghost came off the ground like a rocket, hurling himself from the bloodied earth to hit it full force. Together, they smashed into a truck and then they hit the ground again, revolving and wrestling with fang striking fang.

  Hunter didn't know he had leaped forward until Brick's massive form tackled him from behind.

  Falling forward, he felt a wet collision with the earth. Then, with a roar—a roar that surged from a sacred and unknown place—Hunter volcanically pushed himself up from the ground and flung the larger man off like paper. He spun to the rest of them and said nothing, communicating only with the fire of his eyes.

  Ghost and the creature raged against each other almost fifty yards away. And Hunter saw, even in the half light, white streaks in Ghost's side; ribs exposed to the night. But the wolf held his ground, his hideous growls and roars vibrating in the atmosphere.

  Yet the creature was severely injured, clutching ravaged red gaps torn in its chest and neck, its forearm savaged with bone shining reddish-white in the semi-darkness. Retreating slightly, it circled, cautious now, with taloned hands threatening.