DARK VISIONS

by James Byron Huggins

  From time to time, however, agencies not academic had sought his aid. And he had assisted. Once the Central Intelligence Agency had requested that he do what their physicists could not; develop a counteracting agent for a deadly poison in use by Middle Eastern countries. Tipler had succeeded and consequently heard no more of it. And last, the U.S. Army had asked him, rather sternly, if he could not identify a substance in their own anti-germ warfare serums that tended to incapacitate soldiers. In this, too, Tipler was successful, and modifications were made in the synthesis of the serums. Again, he heard no more of it. Yet he knew they would return, as they had.

  A thin smile creased his squared face.

  Before him, he knew from his World War II days as an infantryman, was an army lieutenant colonel, whose rank he identified from the silver oak leaves on his uniform. There was another man in uniform, a major, and an unknown representative who wore nondescript civilian clothes. But, as always, it was the man in civilian clothes who commanded Tipler’s attention, for he was accustomed to subterfuge. Tipler greeted them as the man in the rear silently lit a cigarette, settling into a chair.

  “Dr. Tipler, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Bob Maddox,” the short, gray-haired man said distinctly. “This is Major Preston Westcott. And that “— the colonel gestured vaguely—” is Mr. Dixon. He’s a liaison with the Department of the Interior.”

  Tipler smiled as he weighed the colonel; the army officer carried himself with an air of indisputable authority, as if his self-worth relied upon his rank. His insignia were so highly polished they couldn’t be overlooked, even by civilians. His face was slightly pudgy and his stomach strained against his uniform. He held his hands behind his back as he spoke. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Doctor. I assure you that we won’t take up too much of your time.”

  Something in the voice intimated to Dr. Tipler that he had no choice in the matter, but he revealed nothing as he moved to sit at a table directly opposite the mysterious Mr. Dixon. “Oh, I am always ready to assist the military, Colonel,” he said with exacting courtesy. “In fact, as you are probably aware, I just finished working with an army research team to design new protocols for Arctic survival. So please, continue.”

  Maddox was obviously in charge, Tipler realized, and Prescott was present to verify the meeting or take mental notes. He hadn’t yet concluded a purpose for Dixon.

  “That’s part of the reason we’re here—your experience in the Arctic. We also understand that you’re the world’s leading authority on crypto-zoology.” Maddox strolled before the table. “So we hoped you’d be able to help us with ... a situation.”

  Tipler decided to play their game for now. He did not look at Mr. Dixon. “Perhaps,” he replied casually.

  Clearly, Maddox was proceeding with caution. “Doctor, we would like to ask you some questions about species of predators found in the Arctic Circle. Specifically, species that inhabit the deep interior of Alaska and the North Face region.” He stepped forward, almost delicately. “Recently we lost several members of an elite military training squad to an animal. They were killed. And we want to determine what manner of animal it was.”

  Tipler absorbed it without expression.

  “Surely,” Tipler said finally, “Alaskan wildlife officials can be of more use to you than an old gaffer such as myself. And I am not certain in what aspect my credentials in crypto-zoology are related. Crypto-zoology is the study of animals long presumed to be extinct but which are, in fact, not. Such as some of the marine reptiles like the one the Japanese fishing vessel, the Zuiyo Mam, snagged on a line nine hundred feet below the surface of the Pacific near Christchurch, New Zealand, in 1977. Or,” Tipler could not resist adding, “perhaps like the beast of unknown species that attacked the U.S.S. Stern in the early ‘eighties, disabling its sonar system with hundreds of teeth driven deeply in the steel. It was documented with the Department of the Navy and the ship was examined by the Naval Oceans Center. They reached the fascinating conclusion that damage to the sonar was caused by the attack of a large and unknown ocean-dwelling species.”

  Maddox stood in silence. His face tightened. “Yes, Doctor. We are aware of those incidents. It is certainly verification of...something. But those cases are not why we have come.”

  “I presumed.” Tipler smiled. “So, shall we get to the reason? I am a bit overwhelmed by my work.”

  Gravely, even apprehensively, Maddox laid a gory series of full-sized color photographs on the table. And Tipler precisely set glasses on his nose, leaning on broad hands to examine them. So total was his concentration, it was as if, in seconds, he had physically removed himself from the room.

  The old man made no sound as he studied the photographs, but his brow hardened frame by frame. His lips pursed slightly and he began to take more time with each, returning often to the first, beginning over. Finally he lifted a single eight-by-ten and studied it inches from his face, peering at the details. “Colonel,” he said, casting a slow gaze over the massacred bodies. “These wounds, were they all inflicted by the same creature?”

  There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

  “You are certain of this?”

  “Yes, Doctor, we are certain.”

  “And how can you be certain? In science, certainty is determined by exceedingly strict criteria.”

  Maddox grimaced slightly. “There were obscured video images. Nothing too revealing, but it gave us glimpses of whatever this was. We couldn’t make out the species. And, despite what I said earlier, we can’t be, uh, absolutely certain on whether it was one or two of them. It’s just that the evidence, except for some of these photographs, seems to indicate that.”

  Without reply, Tipler shifted several of the photographs of massacred soldiers until he had the most vivid, the ghastliest. He placed a hand on it and touched the image of wounds as delicately as if the soldier were before him. Finally, he mumbled, “This is not the work of Ursus arctos horribilis.”

  Clearly, Maddox was trying to be patient. “Could you be more specific, Doctor?”

  “This is not the work of a ... a Grizzly.” Tipler was again staring at the photo he had lifted, a close-up image of tracks leading across hard sand. The elongated footprints moved in a straight run down a strand to disappear in the distance, but some of the tracks were disjointed, as far as three feet to the side. It was not a straight line of tracks, though clearly the creature had been running straight. Rocks littered the stream.

  “Now ... “ the old man continued in a genuine tone of confusion, “this is somewhat curious.”

  “What?” Maddox asked.

  “The way that the tracks are broken.”

  “That’s what our own trackers said, Doctor. I mean, despite the cameras, we want to know about this. Do you think there could be two of them?”

  Tipler took a long time to consider. “I am not an expert in tracking, Colonel Maddox. I cannot say. But I do not think that there were two creatures involved in this ... this catastrophe.”

  “Then how do you explain the way some tracks are so far to the side from others?”

  “As I said, sir, I cannot explain such a phenomenon.”

  Maddox concentrated. “You’re certain this isn’t the work of a Grizzly, Doctor? Or maybe a polar bear? A tiger, maybe?”

  “No, not a Grizzly, nor a brown bear,” the professor expounded in a low tone. “For one matter, a Grizzly has five claws. And whatever did this had four predominant claws, and a smaller one. But the paw print is distinctly ...humanoid. Now this,” he paused, “is damn peculiar.” A long silence lengthened. “No, gentlemen, not a bear of any kind. Perhaps a tiger could have caused this much carnage to your team, but the tracks are ... just ... they just appear to me to be somewhat too manlike. In fact, far too manlike.”

  “But clearly no human being could do something like this, Doctor.” Dixon spoke for the first time.

  Tipler raised his eyes, gazing over bifocals. “I would not make a determination of any fact until I had
obtained the information necessary to make the determination of that fact, Mr. Dixon.” He smiled. “That is the discipline of science.”

  Dixon leaned back, smoked in silence.

  The army officials were, indeed, leaning forward as Tipler raised a magnifying glass from his pocket, studying the photograph more closely. Finally he lowered it with the glass, but continued to stare profoundly. His voice was quiet. “These tracks ... how far did your men follow them, gentlemen?”

  “Why?” Maddox asked.

  “Because they do not ‘register.’ “

  “Register?” the colonel asked. “What does that mean?”

  “They ... they are not in line.” The scientist gestured. “A tiger, which is the only terrestrial beast that could have struck with such fury, registers when it walks or runs. Which is to say that both paws on the left side are in a line, as they are on the right. There should be two paw prints set closely together, in a straight line, left side and right side. And, clearly, they are not the tracks of a Grizzly, though they resemble one in size.”

  “Yes,” Maddox said. “Our military trackers told us that. But they lost the trail when it moved to high ground. They said no one can track across rock. This animal seemed to know it was being hunted.”

  “Most creatures are more intelligent than we presume, Colonel,” Tipler replied, casting a narrow glance at Dixon, who was smoking quietly. “No,” Tipler added finally. “It was not a tiger. The fury of the attack is commensurate with a tiger, but it is not feline or canine. Nor is a larger species of Ursus. No. Whatever did this ... was distinctly bipedal.”

  They waited, but the old man merely placed his glasses back in his lab coat pocket. Then he bridged his fingers, capping them, allowing them to continue the conversation.

  “Bipedal?” Dixon asked without friendliness. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Quite probably,” Tipler smiled. “It means that whatever killed your men walks on two legs, Mr. Dixon.”

  “That’s preposterous.” Dixon leaned back again. “Humans are the only animal that walks on two legs, Doctor. What do you suggest left these tracks? Bigfoot? This thing must have been registering! It’s just that the tracks are too difficult to read.”

  “Difficult, yes,” Tipler scowled. “But not impossible. Is that why you called me here? Because your men have already told you that they know of no creature that could have done this? And now you wish to know if, perhaps, there is an undiscovered species?”

  “To be honest, I’ll admit it occurred to us,” Maddox replied. “And let me add that this is a situation of some seriousness, Doctor. We’ve got dead soldiers near secure facilities and we want to know how they died. We want to know why they died.”

  Tipler gazed over the photos of carnage. “I cannot give you the answer, gentlemen,” he said finally. “There were species of beasts that are presumed to have been exterminated hundreds of thousands of years ago, yet we still find evidence of their continuing existence. But I am not familiar with this paw print, or footprint.” He paused and strolled a short distance away before turning back. “In order to answer your question—to even attempt to answer your question—we would need a scientific expedition, saliva samples, blood samples, plaster casts of the prints, hair samples, video surveillance records. If you are willing to fund an expedi-”

  “We can’t do that.” Dixon stood up. “There are factors which preclude that option. We just wanted your best opinion, Doctor.” He paused for effect. “We still do.”

  Tipler held the stare.

  “My best opinion, Mr. Dixon, is that whatever did this has the strength of a Grizzly, the speed of a Siberian tiger and, quite probably, the stalking skills of a tiger. Which happens to be the most skilled predator on Earth. Further, if it managed to evade the initial pursuit of your military, I would confidently surmise that it has unnatural intelligence.”

  “So,” Maddox asked, asserting some kind of vague authority, “what do you think it is? I want your best guess.”

  Tipler sighed once more and glanced at a photo of the tracks. “Your best guess will be revealed by these tracks, Mr. Dixon. But I don’t understand why some of them”—he pointed at several—”are so far to the left of these others. It makes no sense that I can see.”

  They exchanged glances as the old man stared over them. Then, after a moment, they began wordlessly gathering papers.

  “Will you be hunting this beast again?” the scientist asked, interested.

  “Yes,” Maddox replied solidly. “We will.”

  “Then I suggest you find a man who can possibly track it,” said Tipler.

  He hesitated, as if scientific passion and personal loyalty were competing with something more hidden, staring at the photograph.

  “I know the man,” he said softly, “who could do this? If anyone could. But I do not know if he will cooperate. He has his own reasons ... for why he does things.”

  Maddox stepped forward. “Who is he?”

  Tipler stared slightly to the side, brow furrowed.

  “His name,” he said finally, “is Nathaniel Hunter.”

  Chapter 2

  The sunset breeze carried a sweet tang of mountain laurel. Nathaniel Hunter was emptying his simple leather pack onto the table. The door of his cabin was wide open, allowing the green sound of rushing water to move over him. And yet it wasn’t sound, but a sudden silence, that made him lift his head.

  Where there had been a communicative chorus of bird surrounding his backwoods home, there was now an unnatural quiet. He turned to stare out the door, listened, and heard a car coming slowly up the one-lane dirt road. It was still a mile away.

  It took them more than ten minutes to arrive. He met them on the porch wearing old blue jeans, a leather shirt, and knee-high moccasins.

  One of the contingent—a portly army colonel—spoke first. But it was the man in civilian clothes, standing in the rear that drew Hunter’s sullen attention. Quiet but close, the man was dressed in a suit you would have forgotten without even trying, and dark sunglasses protected his eyes from any probing. Hands clasped behind him, he followed the others like a schoolteacher ensuring that the students perform the assigned task. It was clear who was truly in charge.

  “I am Lieutenant Colonel Maddox of the United States Army,” said the man in uniform. “We would like to speak with Nathaniel Hunter, if that’s possible.”

  “I’m Hunter,” he said, his voice low.

  “Well.” The colonel stepped forward, an ingratiating smile on his lips.

  “We’d just like to get your opinion on some photographs, if you don’t mind. Of course, if there is a problem, we can arrange a more formal appointment.”

  Hunter took his time before turning toward the door, motioning vaguely. “Come into the cabin,” he said.

  It took only a few minutes for them to recount their story of blood and death in the snow. Then they displayed a series of photographs on the cabin’s crude wooden table. They wanted his best guess as to what the killer was, they said, and they wanted to know if there was more than one of them. Hunter bent over the photographs and studied them for a moment. His eyes narrowed as he examined the tracks, as well as the terrain.

  Maddox began, “We want to know why these tracks here are so far from the others.”

  “Wind,” Hunter said simply.

  Hunter heard the man introduced as Dixon step forward. But Maddox only stared as he said, “Excuse me, did you say ‘wind’?”

  “Yeah.” Hunter had expected this confusion. “These tracks to the side were in a straight line with these others. But the wind moved them, inch by inch. The other tracks weren’t moved because they were shielded from the northeastern breeze by this boulder.”

  Maddox seemed astounded. “Wind can do that?”

  Hunter pointed to the tracks. “These to the side were originally over here, like the others. You can see the gap that was left when they were moved. The wind just edged them to where they are here.” He s
hrugged, gave the picture to Maddox. “It’s a common phenomenon on sand like this. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Uh.” Maddox started. “Uh, actually, no. We wanted you to—”

  A sudden, silent atmospheric change in the cabin stopped him short. It was as if the room had been instantly charged with a primal force, something utterly savage. Hunter watched as Maddox slowly turned his head. He almost smiled at the nervous expression on Dixon’s face as he began to sense what was behind him. Slowly, moving only his head, Dixon managed to look down stiffly. Hunter saw sweat glisten suddenly on his forehead.

  Massive and menacing, Ghost stood less than a foot behind Dixon and Maddox, slightly to the side. The gigantic wolf was almost entirely black, touched with gray only on his flanks.

  Ghost’s jet-black eyes seemed to possess a primal and predatory glow. Black claws clicked on the wooden floor as he took a single pace forward, head low, again unmoving. Ghost’s uncanny silence seemed more terrifying than a roar.

  Hunter made them suffer for only a moment. With a slight smile he snapped his fingers.

  “Ghost,” he said.

  The wolf glided innocently through the men and sat beside Hunter.

  Hunter spoke politely. “You were saying, Colonel?”

  Maddox had trouble speaking. “I, uh, I was saying that...uh, we wanted you to help us with ... with ... something.”

  Hunter smiled at the trembling tone and noticed that Major Prescott’s fists were clenched. All of them were sweating, and Maddox’s face was pasty, whitening by the moment. He knew this would take all day with Ghost in the room. He looked down, speaking so low that none of the others could catch the word.

  “Outside,” he said.

  Treading with an air of shocking animal might, the wolf moved fearlessly through the three of them. Then it reached the door and angled away, disappearing with haunting silence and grace. The air silently trembled with the wildness, the power, the very scent of it as it was gone. But Hunter knew Ghost would remain close, just as he knew they wouldn’t see the wolf again—not ever—unless it wanted them to.