Hunter

Chapter 18

Hunter raised his eyes to the horizon to measure how much light remained. There would be a pale moon tonight, but the base would be brightly illuminated by the thirty-million-candlepower spotlights strategically positioned along the perimeter and inside the compound itself.

From their angle and proximity, Hunter estimated there would be very little shadow, though he doubted that it would deter the creature from attacking. It had attacked them in daylight already, indicating that it did not fear the light so much as before. They had convened on the range so Bobbi Jo and Takakura could sight in their weapons.

Takakura had been especially diligent, firing over a hundred rounds through the M-14 in thirty minutes to break the weapon in and gain confidence in its reliability. But Bobbi Jo had only fired thirty rounds before she was certain that she had the scope adjusted for close-quarters battle.

Strangely, the Barrett was less accurate at a hundred yards than a thousand. Nothing severe, perhaps only a half inch off point of aim, but enough for a sharpshooter to notice.

Bobbi Jo explained the differential in accuracy by saying that, at a hundred yards, the supersonic bullet was still "washing" in the air, or swaying slightly. Then, when it stabilized at two or three hundred yards — a distance reached in one-tenth of a second — it settled down and flew true, stabilized by the rifling-induced spin.

Hunter was impressed by Bobbi Jo's skill and mastery over the huge sniper rifle from the beginning. But as she honed the scope and rifle into a unit, he was even more impressed as she talked, rather abstractly and with remarkable emotional detachment, about how the rifle had to perform.

She spoke about shots fired in past combat situations. Such as scoring a headshot on a Palestinian sniper at nine hundred yards as he risked a quick glance over a wall. "It was like hitting the stamp on a postcard at three hundred yards," she remarked casually.

Then she had spoken of how she once decimated all ten members of a Shining Path death squad with a hail of .50-caliber rounds fired at twelve hundred yards from an elevated position. Even with a 12 X 3 Tasco sniper scope, it had been akin to shooting flies at fifty feet.

When she was through reminiscing, Hunter held her in high regard not only because of the professional manner in which she described the acts, but because of her almost encyclopedic understanding of ballistics, windage, bullet speed, placement, and fall.

Seated side by side on a table while she cleaned the Barrett with easy familiarity, Hunter wondered how she felt about last night. He wanted to ask, but found himself silently watching Takakura finish his last twenty-round magazine. He was uncomfortable — mostly because love was something he had never known before, but also because he felt himself becoming more and more dependent on her.

Although he had never known a woman with her background and training, he had discovered that beneath her professional veneer, she was, indeed, very much a woman with the same softness, eagerness for intimacy, intuition, and sensitivity as other women. He contemplated where the relationship would proceed, or if it would at all, and felt a pang of loss at the latter. Then out of his peripheral vision, he saw a slight grin cross her face. She spoke as she continued to clean and oil the Barrett.

"You were all right last night, Hunter." She smiled mischievously. "Especially for a man who was all beat up, physically exhausted, emotionally wasted and wounded." Then she laughed; a good laugh. "Yeah, I'd give you a ten, all right. Ha. Dead drunk, I'd probably give you a ten."

Raising eyes slightly, Hunter smiled. "I thought it was a good idea to do my best. Didn't wanna get whacked in my sleep."

She was enjoying it, and Hunter could see she had no regret.

"And," she added, "I don't know if you know it, but you talk in your sleep."

Hunter froze. "What?"

"You talk in your sleep," she repeated, enjoying it more and more. "Gotta tell you, it was pretty interesting, too. You've led quite a life."

"Well, uh… what did I say?"

"Oh, you talked about hunting. About tracking, about how you won't let this person die, or that person die. You talked to some of the kids that you rescued. 'I got ya, kid, I got ya… It's okay.'” Smiling slightly, she began inserting the six-inch-long brass rounds into the oiled magazine. "Then you talked about blond hair. And love. That kind of thing. Kept me up, for sure."

Hunter realized his mouth was open.

"So." She laid the rifle against the table and propped her chin on her hands as she gazed at him with mock seriousness. "When do you want to get married?"

Hunter laughed and glanced away to see Takakura walking toward them. The M-14 was smoking from heat and the Japanese seemed pleased. Hunter looked back at Bobbi Jo: "How about today? Or is that too soon?"

Her open laugh joined his. "You know, Hunter, I never figured you for a romantic. But you are, in a way."

Shaking his head, Hunter understood that she was relieving some of the pressure from last night, and the night to come. She was not relaxed, she was only trying. He knew too well from experience that it was impossible to stay at a high pitch of concentration constantly. Everyone needed a moment to breathe easily before an unavoidable battle.

Takakura arrived at the table and reached for the cleaning kit. "It is sufficient," he said, and noticed their sudden silence. "I… uh, did I disturb something?"

"Not at all." Bobbi Jo smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

The Japanese cast a narrow glance at Hunter before he smiled openly. And it got Hunter's instant attention because it was only the second time he had observed anything other than duty or obligation on the sharply chiseled face.

Dark eyes narrow with amusement, Takakura added, "Not, I suppose, as well as some whom I know. But, then, I had nothing to distract me." He nodded to himself, as if he had discovered something profoundly pleasing. "Yes," he added, "it is amazing how the crucible of war can bring hearts together. For you can discover more of a person in a few hours of combat than in years of casual acquaintance. And when the battle is over you realize that you have glimpsed into a heart. I have seen lives forever changed by such things."

Bobbi Jo said nothing, but her smile didn't fade.

Glancing over at her, then at the range, Hunter said, "Guess you're right. Never really thought about it."

"Until now," Takakura said, finishing disassembly of the M-14. "But it is a lesson worth learning, and remembering. I can tell you that the closest friends I possess are those who fought beside me in war. And the only people I truly trust are those who have, out of honor and courage, risked much for me.

"Anyone can be brave in the day, when you feel warm and safe and protected. But one must first walk in the night, alone and unaided, before he can say he is not afraid of the dark."

Without another word he began cleaning the weapon. Even at a distance Hunter could feel heat emanating from the barrel and receiver, but Takakura seemed not to notice as he efficiently swabbed the bore. In fact, the Japanese seemed not to be thinking of anything at all as they tell silent.

A distant drone coming out of the southwest caught Hunter's attention and he turned his head, searching the sky. Then a small speck like a metallic dragonfly rose from the far side of distant bluffs and he looked closer, recognizing the distinct forward silhouette of a Blackhawk flying fast and low.

"Looks like we've got visitors," he remarked.

Bobbi Jo rose, shielding her eyes from the light of the dying sun. "It can't be more troops," she replied. "They've already got almost a hundred guys here." She was quiet, gazing steadily. "It's not a gunship. They're not racked and they're not carrying missiles. I wonder…you think it's another hunting party?"

"No," Hunter answered, "they're not going to do that again anytime soon. They've already got some kind of plan for capturing, or killing, this thing. I figured that much out. I don't really know what they would need…unless it's some VIP."

Takakura had ceased cleaning the M-14. He scowled as he watched the chopper close on the compound and then set down gently on the pad. A moment later, two men, one big and heavily armed, the other smaller but obviously in good condition, exited and walked slowly toward the station. After flashing some sort of credentials that demanded immediate respect, they gained entrance and vanished within the steel door.

"Curious," Takakura mumbled. Clearly, he did not like what he had seen. "Two soldiers to add to a hundred. It is not enough to make a difference, should the others fail to defend the compound."

The Japanese scowled, eyes squinting at the helicopter as the four-bladed rotor finally stopped spinning. Abruptly he looked at Hunter. "Perhaps we should investigate this," he added. "Clearly, we are among those that we cannot trust."

"Where's Taylor?" Hunter asked as he picked up his Marlin. "He'll need to know about this."

"You think they're hitters or something?" Bobbi Jo asked as she lifted the massive sniper rifle. "They didn't look too friendly, for sure. In fact, they kinda looked like professionals, if you ask me."

"Professional what?" Hunter addressed her.

"I'm not sure." She shook her head. "But they sure know how to handle themselves. Plus, that Blackhawk isn't a Chevy. It takes six months to learn to fly one and the only ones qualified are military. Marine or army."

Hunter analyzed the situation before addressing the Japanese commander. "Why don't you find Taylor? Bobbi Jo and I'll try and find out what this is all about."

"Hai," Takakura replied, reassembling the M-14 before he had completed the cleaning. "I will notify him. Then we will meet back in the intensive care unit in thirty minutes. No more."

"Sounds good," Hunter walked forward. "See you in thirty minutes. And it might be a good idea to look sharp. This place is dangerous, but what's out there" — he lifted his chin toward the darkening forest—"is more dangerous. As dangerous as anything gets. And it's coming. Coming tonight."

Eyes slitted like a cat's, he watched the helicopter descend. His vision, almost perfect even in total blackness, followed the two of them until they were inside the building, and then he looked over the rest of the expansive, fenced-in compound.

There were more soldiers, dogs, and guns here than at the others. He considered the large contingent that was visible and searched for a suitable place of entry. Then, as twilight faded to what would soon be night, and the huge lights ignited to blaze as day, he knew that there would be only one means of penetrating the complex.

He was grateful that he had fed, for he could feel his fibers absorbing the nutrients, making him stronger by the minute. Yes, he was at the peak of his strength, and would need eat no more until he attacked. Then, as before, he would devour as he slew, methodically working his way through the compound until he shattered the steel portals and gained entrance, slaying still.

Rising on legs thick and hard as oak, he stood in shadow. His hands, clutching involuntarily, made sharp clicking sounds as the long talons grazed each other.

Soon…

By the time he had crept close enough for exposure to the bright lights, which he would have to disable, the darkness would be complete. And after he cast them into darkness he would become their lord, master, and destroyer. As always.

He did not recognize fear as they recognized fear. No, he could feel nothing but the super-oxygenated blood coursing strongly from his chest, providing him with enhanced and all-but-matchless might. His shoulders swelled with chemicals that accelerated his speed and dulled whatever pain he might receive. His bare feet pawed the ground, toes clenching cold dirt and the decayed, cast-off leaves of many seasons.

Glowering, he bent and glided over a hidden grassy path, using the trees to disguise his silhouette from their night-vision devices, for he still understood these things somehow — how they used things to see in the dark. These things would not be enough to stop him.

Even darkness was as day to him, now that he was almost complete. And with the moon, the woods were white fire and pale shadow. And the presence of every living thing that had passed this way for weeks, and even months, hung heavy in the air.

And yet, still, he was not perfect.

But he knew what was protected within that facility — the purest part of his blood that would make him even greater than his brothers, would complete the transformation. Yes, greater, for then he would have the full power of the ancients plus the higher faculties of man himself — enhancing his glory.

And when his system reached its zenith he would be as nothing the world had ever seen, or wanted to see. He would be without limits, an indestructible and wrathful god come to deliver a dark judgment upon the earth. Their flesh would be his for the taking, their lives and their deaths existing only for his amusement, the brutality of his pleasure.

Hiding his steps under the whispering wind, he crept on monstrous strides — a Goliath etched against skeletal trees, shadow moving from shadow — fangs distended in a hideous smile.

Soon, he knew, he would not need the wind.

"So," the man introduced as Chaney said with guarded interest, "you're Nathaniel Hunter."

Measuring the man while he searched for whatever truth might be revealed in the stern eyes and face, Hunter answered, "Yeah, I'm Hunter. What can I do for you?"

Facing each other squarely, they stood in the ICU where Professor Tipler, having regained consciousness and refusing to take medication to ease his pain, lay listening.

Despite his agony and obvious exhaustion, the professor maintained an expression of keen concentration. His pale eyes never left Chaney's face, nor did he move. The heart monitor beeped regularly, no trace of arrhythmia.

"I'm glad you asked, Mr. Hunter," Chaney responded. But Hunter detected the faint edge of caution in the reply and the pause that followed, as if the U.S. Deputy Marshal wasn't exactly sure whether Hunter could be trusted. "The truth is that I've come a long way, and I've been through quite a lot of trouble, just to ask you a few questions. I hope I haven't wasted my time."

Hunter cast a glance at the professor, who said nothing. "Well, I don't know if any of us can help you, Marshal…"

"Just Chaney."

Hunter nodded. "All right, Chaney. Like I said, I don't know if any of us can help you, but we'll do what we can." He glanced at Bobbi Jo. "We're probably the only ones here that don't care much for secrets. Ask whatever you want. But, first, why don't you tell us who your friend is. Looks like he's loaded for bear."

Smiling slightly, Chaney gestured to Brick. "Forgive me, that was an oversight. This is a friend of mine. He a retired marshal. But he's temporarily reinstated until I close the investigation. As far as what to call him, you can just call him Brick. Everybody else does. Anyway, we're working together."

Brick nodded pleasantly to Hunter and Bobbi Jo. "I'm just along for the ride," he said. "Any of you folks want me to step out, I'll be glad to. Don't want to ruffle nobody's feathers."

Studying him a moment, Hunter shook his head. "No, I was just asking. Glad to meet you."

"Same here, Hunter," Brick replied, and smiled. "I figured you didn't care much for the 'mister' part."

Hunter laughed. He sensed nothing suspicious about either man, only honesty and frankness in their voice and expression and an unspoken but inflexible air of duty.

The fact that Brick was heavily armed with a wide array of weapons seemed to indicate that they could skip the preliminaries. Obviously, both men had a rudimentary understanding of the situation, and had come well prepared.

Nor did their posture indicate an air of superiority or command. Rather, it seemed as if they were in the dark even more than Hunter and the team. On first impression, Hunter liked them both.

"I'll do what I can for you, Chaney," he said. "What do you want to know?"

Chaney sat back easily on the edge of a table, crossing arms over his chest. The sleeves of his black BDUs were rolled tightly to the elbow to reveal his forearms, and Hunter could see that no matter how many hours Chaney spent behind a desk or in court, it was clear that he kept himself in excellent physical condition. And Hunter respected that, because it indicated a practical man who knew that survival in combat, and even life, very often hinged on pure physical strength, endurance, and skill.

"I won't waste your time telling you things you already know as well as I, and probably better than I," Chaney said frankly. "In a nutshell, I've been assigned to discover what this thing is that's been destroying the research stations. And why it's doing it. Basically, the same mission you've been given."

Chaney gazed without blinking, as if to make a point. "I know what happened to your team, Hunter. I got that from the CO when I landed." He paused. "I'm sorry. I've led men in combat, and I know what it's like to lose one. It’s something you never forget."

Hunter replied, "I appreciate that, but it wasn't really my team. Takakura was in charge, and he did the best job any commander could have done. I was just there to track. I suppose you know already that I'm not current military or under any kind of military jurisdiction."

"I know."

"All right, so, again, how can I help you?"

"Well." Chaney cleared his throat, took a sip of coffee. "Can you tell me how many times you've made contact with the creature?"

Hunter was cognizant that the marshal didn't want to control or command; he simply wanted information, honest and complete. And because of that, Hunter was disposed to cooperate.

"Three… maybe four occasions," he answered.

"And they were all combat situations?"

"Yes."

After a careful stare — as if wondering how Hunter had survived the encounters — Chaney added, "How is it that you're all still alive? From what I understand, this thing… well… not a lot of folks walk away from a fight with it."

Hunter held the marshal's stare. "Some of us didn't, Chaney. And, frankly, I don't know how the rest of us did either. It attacks and retreats guerrilla-style. So we never had a prolonged battle with it. It toyed with us, and when it finally got serious, it was too late. We were airborne."

Chaney didn't reveal any surprise; instead he appeared intrigued. "You say these confrontations were quick but intense, and it would retreat before you could kill it?"

"Well, Chaney, I don't think we had the ordnance to kill it, anyway. Its skin is resistant to small-arms fire, to a degree. The professor can explain it better than I can, but it's not easily hurt by bullets. Only the Barrett seemed to affect it, but we're not sure if even the .50-caliber rounds really cut through its skin. To make it brief, I'll say the fights were… I don't know, vicious but quick. Maybe sixty seconds."

"Yeah." Chaney seemed intrigued by that aspect. "You said before that it retreated. You said it was playing with you. But animals don't do that, Hunter. And you know it."

Nothing was said for a moment.

"Seems pretty damn curious," Chaney added finally. "There's no reason I can see why it wouldn't have attacked and killed and then eaten someone and moved on. Like a bear. A tiger. Something like that."

Neither Hunter nor Bobbi Jo volunteered any information. Hunter was tempted, briefly, to say that the creature had somehow taken Hunter's dogged search as a personal challenge. But he reasoned that it would sound too bizarre. He didn't say anything and Chaney continued to speak, almost to himself.

"So it attacked time and time and let you live…. There has to be a reason why it could change its methods. It's an animal, and they're creatures of habit. It wouldn't do something differently unless it had a damn strong motivation." He looked hard into Hunter's face. "Tell me the truth, Hunter. Take a chance. I'm asking you."

Hunter's eyes were flat. There was a long silence.

Chaney didn't move at all.

"All right, Marshal," Hunter said finally. "I'll tell you something honestly. It's not an animal. And I don't care if you believe me or not. But it's not an animal."

Chaney didn't seemed shocked

Brick grunted, an unpleasant scowl clearly visible on his beefy, squared face. And, though he did not reveal quite so much, Chaney also allowed his curiosity to surface.

"So what in the hell is it?" he asked.

The question reinforced Hunter's initial impression that the deputy marshal had nothing to hide and wasn't here to command or intimidate. Hunter blinked, and decided to cruise truth, and if Chaney had the instinct to accept it, Hunter would tell him everything.

"I think," he began slowly, "that it could be an undiscovered species, Chaney. It's manlike and tiger-like in how it stalks and kills, but it's also like a man. It obviously anticipates, and it's exclusively bipedal, but it has the stalking method of a quadruped. It has no territory that I could identify but it doesn't wander, either. So it's unlike a bear or tiger in those aspects. It prefers to attack in the night but it'll also attack in the day if it's presented with the opportunity."

Chaney made no movement. Didn't even blink. "Hunter, have you ever encountered anything remotely similar to this?" he asked finally. "Anywhere?"

"No."

"Have you ever heard stories of something like this?"

"No."

"Well, then, how do you explain it?"

"I don't explain it, Chaney. I'm just telling you what I think."

Chaney pursed his lips in thought. And Brick, having listened to the entire enigmatic conversation, lowered his gaze at nothing. His visage hadn't altered, but from the depth of his frown it was obvious that he deplored the sullen direction of his private thoughts.

Shaking his head, Chaney said, "Hunter, I know you haven't lied to me. You've told me what you think. But I don't think you've told me everything. And… that's smart; I can understand, after what you've been through, why you wouldn't trust anyone in a uniform. But the situation has become more serious than you know. I'm afraid… that I've got some bad news for you." He paused as Hunter froze. Then: "I'm afraid that one of your employees, Rebecca Tanus, has been murdered. They tried to kill Gina, too."

Hunter didn't move, but his mouth opened slightly and his eyes turned dark. Slowly he moved away from the table, approaching Chaney with a single step. It was an unthreatening action, and Chaney seemed to understand. He waited patiently until Hunter asked in a hushed, clear voice, "Who killed her?"

"They're dead," Chaney replied. "Brick and I did 'em in."

A moment, and Hunter nodded gratefully. "Good. And Gina?"

"In the hospital. And she's the one who led us here. She indicated you might be able to tell us the plain truth without all the wildlife bullshit."

"All right, Marshal, let me tell you exactly what you're looking for.

And no bullshit. But get ready for it, and if you don't believe me, I don't give a damn." Hunter was solid, his eyes unblinking. "You're looking for a genetic freak. Something that is half man and half monster. Something that can speak. Something that can move like lightning and has skin that is, for all practical purposes, bulletproof." Hunter watched the amazed reaction at that. "We hit that thing with enough ordnance to kill a hundred men, and it kept coming back stronger than it was before. No wounds, no nothing. The only way we've been able to hurt it is with knives."

"With knives!" Chaney exclaimed. "How in the hell could a knife injure it when a bullet wouldn't? And how did you get that close to it, anyway? From what you said, nobody would stand a chance against it with a knife."

From his glass cubicle, Professor Tipler responded. Weak and light at first, his voice grew in strength and tone as he continued. "It is quite possible, Marshal Chaney. It is only a simple matter of engineering stress."

Chaney gazed at the old man.

The professor added in a low drone, "This creature's epidermal molecular structure is, ah, probably similar to a rhinoceros which, incidentally, has the thickest and most densely designed epidermal surface on the planet." Gesturing as if it would assist him in framing the concept, he continued, "You see, a blunt object such as a bullet or shrapnel cannot penetrate its skin unless the leading point of impact is a cutting edge. This phenomenon does not necessarily reflect the thickness of the skin, however. Merely the composition."

Chaney moved closer. "Explain that to me, Professor."

With a nod, Tipler answered. His energy seemed to build with each sentence. "It is easy enough to understand, Marshal, if you think of it in terms of analogy." He drew a deeper breath. "First, we will remember that there are only two means of neutralizing the force of a bullet. Both methods, however, involve the same rule of physics, and that is to absorb, rather than resist, the force. In the first method, the bullet simply cannot make sufficient contact to actuate the intended trauma. The struck substance surrenders so completely that contact, if any, is so insignificant as to be nullified. Perhaps an example would enable you to visualize that type of situation." He paused, then: "Ah, yes. For instance, if one would suspend a silk handkerchief in the air by two corners and then fire a bullet at the hanging portion, the silk would surrender so completely and quickly, even matching the velocity of the bullet, that there would be almost no contact at all.

"This method, of course, is not an option for a target which, because of immutable physical laws, cannot surrender with such alacrity. Now, the second method involves a partial surrender, or absorption of the force of a bullet's impact. For, upon contact, the shock is dispersed or spread in a pattern over resilient, multi-flexed fibrous tissue that removes the bullet's force. Needless to say, this fibrous material would have to be exceedingly intractable, similar to substances utilized in the manufacture of ceramic-steel plating. An example would be… ah… oh, yes; let us imagine that you tossed a bulletproof vest in the air, and shot. Now, the vest would absorb far more of the impact than a scarf because its weight would negate complete surrender. But it would surrender nevertheless and the impact suffered would be dispersed across the fibers, as I've already mentioned, in shock waves. Not unlike ripples created when one tosses a stone into a calm pool. The surface absorbs the impact and sends the resulting trauma out in waves. Now, for the optimistic analysis. This creature, as you said, Nathaniel, is essentially exempt from injury from small-arms fire. However, if you possessed a weapon that could fire a projectile at far beyond supersonic speed — a speed that would not allow its fibrous molecular epidermis sufficient time to absorb and disperse the shock on impact — you would be able to overcome this spectacular defensive faculty. And, in fact, you have almost done this exact thing. Bobbi Jo's weapon—" He gestured toward her.

"The Barrett." She smiled.

"Yes, yes, the Barrett. That very large gun that she utilizes with such effectiveness does this. Although it has not yet devastated this animal's epidermis, it has obviously wounded it. What, may I ask, is the velocity of those bullets that you are using, Bobbi Jo?"

"They're three-hundred-grain bullets loaded with 1110 Hodgdon powder. The ones we chronographed before the mission began were ranged at 4,372 feet per second. It was a hot load but I've boosted the power with some CFI for more explosive detonation. I'd say they're pushing five thousand feet per second because I also dropped to a 195-grain Teflon-tipped bullet. A smaller bullet allows higher velocity as long as it's not so small that it's affected by windage." She paused, shook her head. "I'm probably pushing the gun to the limit right now."

"Yes, yes." Tipler nodded. "Exactly my point. Certainly, if one calculates the velocity, size and form of the other bullets fired at the creature against the damage resulting from Bobbi Jo's vastly more powerful weapon, you can acknowledge that the creature does have a threshold of tolerance. Subsonic ammunition probably has no effect whatsoever, but when a projectile's speed is faster than the faculty of the epidermis to disperse the force, then it can be injured by weapons. Unfortunately, I fear, a majority of those weapons that protect the complex are useless against it."

Chaney spoke in a thoughtful voice. "That would seem apparent, Professor. But even if the shock of a bullet was… was dispersed, as you said, this creature would still suffer a blunt trauma, wouldn't it? Something like bruising?"

"In a sense, yes," Tipler answered, eyes closing suddenly to a sting of deep pain. "But if the creature possessed an enhanced healing factor, then any resulting blunt trauma would be quickly erased. So the only advantage we would gain would be through its pain, and the consequential distraction, both physical and mental. For even a short-term and superficial wound would reroute its chemical reserves into the laborious act of healing, thereby subtracting these same substances from its superior strength and endurance. Quite probably, the lack would consequently weaken and slow it, which would be another advantage.

"This is why, after Bobbi Jo struck it with the sniper rifle, it retreated. It was not wounded, merely shocked." Holding a hand briefly to his chest, Tipler inhaled deeply before continuing, "Yes, it had to retreat because of the loss of strength, and the distraction of pain. But when the pain subsided and it replenished itself with nutrients to replace those used in healing, it returned even stronger. You see, its body was learning, conditioning itself to the phenomenon of injury, probably even mutating to compensate for the new threat. As it will no doubt continue to do. For its spectacular proclivity for enhanced evolution within hours seems to pace the evolution Homo sapiens experience in as many centuries. I do not doubt that, shortly, if it is not destroyed, there will be no weapon powerful enough to defeat it."

Chaney had approached the bed as the professor spoke, and Hunter could clearly see that the marshal wanted to continue. "Are we exhausting you, Professor?" Hunter asked. "We can continue later, if you wish."

Raising a hand weakly, Tipler answered, "No, no, I am fine. Hear me out…before I rest, which I must do shortly." He took another deep breath. "So, that is why bullets fail to sever its multi-layered epidermis. However, and remember this, an edged weapon provides the very opposite kind of force. An edged weapon, such as a knife or sword, reinforces speed and structure to create what is known as 'pyramidal penetration.' Which is exactly… as it sounds. You see, instead of the base of the pyramid making impact, allowing a dispersion of force created by the combined factors of velocity and form, a pyramidal impact delivers a singularly focused edge of contact that multiplies weight and velocity into a razor’s edge. And by this means the fibers are unable to disperse, share, or otherwise escape the trauma. So this, in a simplistic way, would explain the creature's near-invulnerability."

Chaney said nothing, seeming to realize that the professor had reached exhaustion. Then with a nod he murmured, "Thank you, Professor. I appreciate your help." He walked slowly over to Hunter.

He didn't look Hunter in the face but stared at the closed room of the infirmary; the nurse had been ordered outside so that they might talk in private. Bobbi Jo was monitoring the displays at her station. Finally Chaney said, very quietly, "Hunter, tell me something. Just how strong, exactly, is this thing? Don't tell me that 'strong as a gorilla' stuff. I want an exact estimation."

"Strength?" Hunter returned the question. "I would say that nothing short of a bank vault, and I mean a big one, could stand up to a full-scale assault from that thing, Chaney."

Chaney grimaced. "You're sure about this?"

"I'm sure." Hunter nodded curtly. "I've tracked it. I've fought with it. And the only reason I'm standing here is because I'm lucky. I can tell you about many who weren't. And I can tell you something else. Whatever this thing is, it was created. That much I'm certain of. Somebody, Chaney, with a secret agenda wanted that thing to live, so they made it happen."

Chaney frowned.

Hunter's conviction was complete. "Chaney, if you can handle the truth, this isn't some undiscovered species. It's an extinct species. Its time came and went. There is no way that a race of these things could have existed in those mountains for the past ten thousand years without somehow revealing themselves. Even if they had stayed in the mountains or high on the North Ridge, there would have been occasional sightings, the discovery of bones or tools, campsites or caves. Something. Anything. But there's nothing. Not a trace. Not even a footprint. This land, this territory, may have been its haunt once, but not for a long time. Like ten thousand years."

Hunter leaned closer as Chaney recalled the magazine article from Hamilton's town house. It was all coming together, now. Almost to the last. Then Hunter added, "The only thing we don't know is who found the relic of this creature, how they used it somehow to re-create it, and what their intention was."

"And something else," Chaney said, staring with anger and a tinge of fear. "What their intention is."

"That, too. And when you figure out who ultimately created this monster, and why, you'll know why they killed Gina and Rebecca. And so will I. I already have an idea, I just can't prove it yet."

"Dixon?" Chaney asked.

Hunter shook his head. "Hamilton. 'Cause this isn't a government issue. It's private, and has been from the first. The government only got involved on some kind of convoluted sublevel to cover various incompetent butts. I don't what unit is ultimately responsible but I know that Hamilton is the brains behind it. And he's civilian with a lot of interest in a lot of things."

Cocking his head, Chaney had no reservations that Hunter, no matter what form of justice was meted out by the system, would apply his own brand of wrath to those responsible. Although Hunter would probably not kill them, he would certainly use his considerable talent and awesome power to make their lives a living hell.

Brick came to life with that.

"Time's getting close for a killin'," he said abruptly.

Together they turned as the ICU door opened and Dr. Hamilton approached. Strolling slowly, hands comfortably cradled in the pockets of his white lab coat, he gazed with unconcealed amusement from Chaney to Hunter, as if he were singly master of the situation and always would be. Halting, he waited in silence.

Hunter knew it was a power display and he remained silent as well, despising the arrogance. Chaney, obviously, also knew that it was a manifest display of authority but wasn't in the mood for mind games. Staring hard into the scientist's eyes, he stepped close.

"Tell me something, Doctor," he almost whispered. "Why is it that a physician, a healer of men, is heading up an operation far better suited to geologists or computer geeks? And what was of such vital import that demanded your immediate presence here when I hadn't completed my investigation?"

In lieu of an immediate answer, Hamilton pursed his lips. He cast a brief, bemused glance at Hunter before saying, "I see that you have been listening to Mr. Hunter's outrageous speculation." His smile was tolerant. "To be truthful, I myself am in the dark as to the creature's past and his existence. However, I must disagree with the theory Mr. Hunter expounds."

"Which theory would that be, Doctor?"

Hamilton's eyes opened wider and he glanced briefly at Hunter, who remained stoic. "Why, I assumed, wrongly it appears, that Mr. Hunter would have already indoctrinated you about his 'creationist' theory."

"Which is?"

A laugh, and Hamilton gestured. "I'm certain that Mr. Hunter can far better illuminate you on that scenario, Marshal. I myself had trouble completely following it when he graced me with his advanced scientific perceptions."

None of the disparagement seemed impressive to his listeners. Hamilton recognized his diminished status.

"Yeah, he mentioned it." Chaney leaned back on a table. "But I'm not a scientist, Dr. Hamilton. Why don't you explain to me why the theory is so unsound."

"Well." Hamilton raised his eyes, quite humble. "I am not formally trained in anthropology or genetics, Marshal, as Mr. Hunter may be. I have only a rudimentary understanding of these things. But, and please correct me, Mr. Hunter, if I inadvertently misspeak your hypothesis. But I believe that Mr. Hunter suspects that this creature is somehow, ah, a product of science. He even intimated to me that perhaps these stations which are singly devoted to monitoring seismic activity might be somehow involved."

"And that's an outrageous theory?" Chaney stared at him.

"Oh, yes — well, I do not mean to insult Mr. Hunter — but yes, I would categorize it as a bit farfetched. Even if — and I remind you that it is not the case — these facilities harbored the undocumented goal of creating a.. uh, a creature such as this, what would be the point? This creature has destroyed three facilities already and almost terminated the program. We will never recover from the episode because the congressional funding was a onetime venture that was almost vetoed in the line-item budget. No, for us to create such a thing only so it would cause the expiration of the program would be the most foolhardy of all endeavors." Hamilton's confidence, if Hunter hadn't seen what he had seen, would have been contagious.

Hamilton continued with only the faintest air of superiority. Apparently he knew he'd overplayed his hand and had quickly and gracefully retreated to a pedantic analysis of the theory. He could have been teaching a biology class at a university.

"Further, I have no idea how, in according with the laws of genetics as I understand them, such a thing would be possible." He hesitated, as if someone might offer an idea. "DNA, under perfect conditions, may sustain its molecular structure for two or three thousand years," he continued. "And, in fact, there are documented instances in which it has. However, if I am correct, this is a creature which Dr. Tipler presumes to be from the Pleistocene epoch, which dissipated an incredible ten thousand years past. Now, that is an amazingly long period of time for DNA to withstand destruction. And to be brutally frank with you and Mr. Hunter and, of course, Dr. Tipler, whom I hold with respect, I find it inconceivable that DNA, or even heme units of blood, could survive half that time."

He shook his head, as if estimating.

"No," he added firmly, "think what you will of me, gentlemen. I know that you hold me in suspicion of untoward activity. And, in a sense, your suspicions are correct. There are, indeed, some classified purposes of these research stations which I cannot reveal. Why else do you believe its supervising administration is secreted at Langley?" He smiled warmly before continuing. "However, there is nothing that involves the scenario I have perceived from Mr. Hunter. The most I can do for all of you is offer my opinion on the probability of such an event transpiring, and I would have to say that it is beyond calculation. It would be odds of one against many tens of billions that heme units would survive such a period of time. Then, again, it would be odds of trillions against one that these units could be reconstituted in some speculative, and probably quite immoral, adventure of science with such startling success. No, I begrudge Mr. Hunter nothing. We had a disagreement of minds, and for that I apologize. I will admit that, with a rude presumption of my own superior learning in the sciences, I treated you with arrogance. I am a man disposed to such arrogance, something I must constantly guard against. But to imagine such a phenomenon is…well, it is simply beyond me, gentlemen. I am at your disposal to assist in whatever means are necessary. But I cannot in good conscience agree with a theory for which I do not have verifiable evidence or even theoretical explanations."

Hunter half-smiled, shook his head. "And then there's common sense, Doctor."

Turning his head, Hamilton again appeared to raise an invisible guard. "Common sense," he said. "And why, Mr. Hunter, would common sense lead me to believe that something which I believe is scientifically impossible could occur?"

Hunter tilted his head toward the window where a gathering dark had already activated automatic security lamps on the wall. It would be another thirty minutes before it was dark enough for the gigantic spotlights that would sweep the compound through the night. He looked back at Hamilton without emotion.

"In the last week, Doctor, you've lost three one-million-dollar installations. Several hundred personnel. Some creature — and it's not an animal — has been searching one research station after another, looking for something that you have. Now, common sense tells me that these research stations are important to it. And so far, Doctor, you're the only one who has told me that these installations aren't so important. Why is that?"

Hamilton's anticipated line of retreat was more polished on its execution. "Mr. Hunter, I know you are not a fool. You are a learned man, a philanthropist, an expert on ecology, and an internationally respected survival expert. I am none of those. I am simply a scientist — nothing unique or special — who operates under a policy of full disclosure to the Senate Intelligence Subcommittee. To whom I report four times each year. You have theories, and they may be good theories, and you may even be correct. But the simple truth — if you accept that as common sense — is that I personally find your theory inconceivable and therefore honestly voice my disagreement." He accented it with a stare. "If you had one shred of evidence to support such a fantastic proposal, I would listen most passionately. However, you only have a suspicion for which I find no verification. We may not practice full disclosure, Mr. Hunter, but we are not mad scientists conducting some irresponsible genetic experiment gone so terribly wrong that it cost several hundred innocent men and women their lives!"

Hunter said nothing, and Hamilton's expression revealed that he was finished, both listening and expounding. After a moment of dull silence he turned to Chaney. "Do you currently have any questions for me, Marshal? I came to ensure the welfare of Dr. Tipler, who appears to be recovering nicely. If you do not, then I shall return to the lab. They are conducting classified experiments which require a supervisor for verification."

"Just a couple," Chaney replied. "But I'll make it quick. How many floors are there to this complex, Doctor?"

"Well, there are three floors aboveground and one below, Marshal. It is only a storage area, or warehouse, you might say, for the facility. All of the scientific equipment is located on this floor, and the other floors are dedicated to offices and barracks for the military personnel and medical…uh, I mean, staff personnel."

"I'd like a tour of the basement," Chaney said. "I want to see what kind of equipment you're housing."

"Of course, Marshal. I have nothing to hide. I can also provide you with a tour of the barracks and science facilities if you so desire. I assure that you will have no suspicions afterwards." He lifted his wrist to examine his watch. "I still have a little time. If you like, we could do it now and get it over with."

"Right now is fine."

Hamilton exhaled, as if he were dealing with children that he must reluctantly indulge. "Very well, then. Though I doubt that you'll be able to conduct a full inventory. No matter; we can complete it tomorrow." He raised an arm to invite the tour. "We can begin now if you wish."

Chaney walked forward.

Hunter caught a momentary grimace on the doctor’s face. A flash — less than a tenth of a second — that was subdued by the friendliest of smiles. "It will no doubt be brief because there is nothing to see," he added. "Unless, of course, you enjoy skulking about seemingly endless rows of cardboard boxes filled with computer equipment, food, blankets, or replacement parts for vehicles. You can understand that, up here, so far into the mountains, we must remain quite self-sufficient. It is necessary to keep at least a six-month supply of everything available at all times." He focused with the air of a busy man too long detained. "Could we begin immediately, Marshal?"

"That's fine with me." Chaney nodded and looked at Brick. "Get a feel for the place. I can handle this."

Hunter turned his head to Ghost: "Guard."

Ghost rose on hind legs and put both paws on Tipler's bed, staring down, panting. The old man laughed, and the great black wolf began pacing back and forth before the door opening. Nothing mortal was coming inside without permission.

Hunter turned to Chaney. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go along. I wouldn't mind taking a look around that place myself."

"Got no objections at all," Chaney said, lifting the Weatherby .454 from the desk. He snapped open the breach to make sure two mammoth brass shells were chambered and closed it with a sharp iron click. Holding the weapon midway, in perfect balance, he said, "Let's go, Professor. You're the tour guide."

"I'm gonna stay with the professor," Bobbi Jo said to Hunter alone. "And when the nurse returns I'm going outside to take up position. Probably on the roof."

"All right." Hunter followed Hamilton from the room, but turned backwards for a single step — he didn't know why — to see her staring intently after him. Then she moved her lips to frame a silent sentence and Hunter knew exactly what she said. With a slight surprise, he realized that he'd expected it.

"Be careful. "

Takakura and Taylor scanned the compound, roaming. They checked the fence at one point with a small piece of steel, laying one end on the ground and letting the other end fall over so that the current grounded out. A split second later the automatic breakers reset and they knocked the steel aside with a long section of a severed two-by-four — a safe thing to do because wood can't conduct an electrical current — and resumed roaming.

Taylor had spent most of the afternoon, or what time was left after his debriefing by army intelligence, arming himself for the expected battle. Two bandoleers of shotgun shells, at least fifty per belt, crisscrossed his barrel chest. A semiautomatic street-sweeper — a short shotgun with a cylindrical twelve-round magazine — hung heavily on a sling. And he had a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in a hip holster. The side-by-side barrels were barely eight inches long; the stock had been sawed off and sanded to allow a firm and comfortable pistol grip. He also had a .50-caliber Desert Eagle semiautomatic on his right hip with clips attached to his combat belt. Night-vision goggles hung on an elastic strap from his neck.

Takakura carried the katana on his back and the M-14 in his arms. He also was heavily armed, with a .45-caliber pistol on each hip and at least eight antipersonnel grenades in his pockets. He had used a thin strip of white tape to doubly secure each pin, thereby preventing the pin from being pulled prematurely. Although the tape made it twice as difficult to pull the pin, a man in combat, hyped on adrenaline and fear, might disregard it.

Glancing down, Taylor noticed the combat trick.

"Nice gig, securing pins like that," he said. "Reminds me of Panama when we were hooching the worst bush you'd ever seen. And some green puke, about two months in, was trying to work his way through a jungle of 'wait a minute' vines. I was at covering distance right behind him, maybe fifteen feet, and he was almost through the wall when the pin on one of his grenades got jerked loose by a vine." He cocked his head sympathetically at the memory. "Never did trust grenades after that."

Takakura grunted. "Precaution is always wise, especially in combat, where surprise is the last thing the dead realize. I suppose we will discover if we have taken enough of them."

"You really believe it's coming? Tonight, I mean?"

"Yes."

Silent for a moment, Taylor then asked, "What makes you so sure? I mean, look around you."

Takakura lifted his eyes to the ceiling and angled them to the darkened hills outside the compound. A stygian cloak seemed to absorb the light rather than be illuminated by it. "It will come," he frowned. "It comes for him."

"For Hunter?"

"Yes," Takakura said with subdued emotion. "For Hunter."

He had discovered the outside listening post by scent, disappointed that it had been abandoned. Then a distant, mournful howl carried through the night and he raised his head, laughing.

Yes, the wolf he had slain with a single slashing blow, severing the head and consuming the brain just for the primitive pleasure of it, had been discovered by its mate.

Killing was such sweet pleasure.

Feeling again the physical release he had felt when the wolf's body had fallen, so slowly, to the ground — its eyes blinking in shock as the head hung suspended in the air before it landed on a slope — he growled and turned back to his task, studying the structure.

Wooden logs covered with a thick layer of dirt and brush would have concealed the bunker from a visual search, but human scent thickly marked the air.

Only a small slit cut into the hill had allowed a narrow view. He knew that the entrance and exit would be in the back, also concealed. Yes, they were wise to withdraw within the safety of the fence, a fence higher than any it had yet encountered.

Crouching in darkness three hundred feet from the compound, he saw the soldiers, dogs, guns, and armed vehicles, the heavily manned towers in constant movement.

Frowning, he studied all that was here, memorizing the routine, the location of troops. With narrow red eyes he spied a large building located at the back. Even across the distance he could hear the drone of machinery as the machine powered the fence, the lights. Without the machines, they were helpless in the dark.

Rising slowly, apelike arms hanging with a fullness of refreshed strength, he inhaled, and his mammoth chest swelled gigantically. Snarling, he prepared himself, rising on an internal tide of empowering rage, knowing this would be the most difficult of all.

And yet fear did not enter his animal mind as he turned, loping high across the surrounding ridge, constantly searching for the tiny wires that had injured him once before, because he had not known the danger. And quickly he was close to the building that roared with the turning electrical thing that he would destroy.

Creeping soundlessly across waist high bush, he moved in.

"What's this, Doc?"

Chaney's voice echoed across the near-silent underground chamber and Hamilton moved slowly toward him.

"Oh, that is a backup electromagnetic monitor," he answered. "We are trying to correlate any sunspot activity with the change in the tectonic plate shifts. So far, we have been unsuccessful in tracing any coordination. But it was an interesting theory, nevertheless."

Rising slowly, Chaney removed a crowbar from the wall. "Let's have a look."

"Of course, Marshal, you are in authority here. Feel free to examine anything you wish."

In a minute Chaney pried off the wooden lip and removed the cushioning Styrofoam and cardboard. He didn't lift it from the box, but felt the back, the front. Then he walked inside to examine the seemingly endless rows of food, fuel, spare parts, weapons, clothing. It was a virtual harbor of goods, and Chaney wore a displeased frown as he wandered about.

On the far side of the room, Hunter was utterly still. He hadn't moved more than thirty feet since he'd entered the lower level, though Chaney thought Hunter was also checking inventory.

No, he hadn't moved, nor did he plan to blindly wander the storage aisles looking for what he knew was not there. He was confident Hamilton would have never complied with their request if there were any evidence of guilt.

For certain, whatever they were searching for would be better concealed. And so he turned his mind to role-playing the prey, attempting to think as Hamilton. It was a trick he used when hunting elusive animals; he hoped it would help him now.

Think like a tiger…

Like a wolf…

Like a fox…

What did an animal do when it wanted to conceal something?

He knew most of the answers without effort: An alligator would shove the body of its prey beneath a stump, allowing it to rot before it fed. A bear would cover his prey with dirt, all the while hovering nearby and eating the carcass at its leisure for days at a time. A fox would cover his food inside a log close to the den and bury it with leaves. But never too close, lest the dead prey lure rivals into a fight for possession of the hard-won sustenance. A tiger would simply drag his prey into a secluded location where he would bury it under leaves and eat for a week, never leaving the slaughter for more than an hour at a time. A quick review, and Hunter realized that the same instinctive practice was occurring again and again, though in varied form.

Bury it.

Yes…

Bury it!

As Chaney opened another box before the patient and endlessly indulgent Dr. Hamilton — arms crossed in calm cooperation — Hunter placed a hard hand on the concrete floor.

Cold, smooth, and… something else…

He frowned as he studied it, wondering.

Cold, smooth, and… what?

Time passed.

Hunter scowled, unmoving, and concentrated. He closed his eyes, letting it speak to him, searching.

Cold… smooth and…

What did he feel?

He shook his head, frustrated.

Before he understood.

Vibration.

Hunter didn't open his eyes, revealed nothing in his repose. Then, slowly, he raised his hand until only the tips of his fingers — a place where the nerves were clustered closer than any other place in the body — were touching lightly. He relaxed and closed his eyes, feeling, reading, waiting, and he noticed that the infinitesimal vibrations were rhythmic.

So slight as to be unnoticeable to anything but the lightest touch, they continued without respite. And Hunter looked around, searching and wondering. Upstairs, he knew, the second story of this facility was fed electricity by massive generators housed in the tin shed at the back of the complex. Too far, he knew, to make the cement floor beneath him vibrate with the labor.

No, this was something different. It was from the machinery housed upstairs or from something… beneath.

He opened his eyes to see Hamilton aiding Chaney once again in the examination of yet another ubiquitous military crate. In the space of a breath Hunter rose and walked toward them. When he was close, he spoke loudly to Chaney with a trace of carefully constructed frustration, of defeat.

"I'm outta here, Chaney," he said, waving as he turned away. "We're not gonna find anything. I'm gonna check on Bobbi Jo."

Chaney scowled. "We haven't had a chance to check this place out yet, Hunter! Why don't you look on the other side? See if you can find anything that doesn't have shipping orders attached to it!"

"No time!" Hunter threw up a hand. "I'm going up top to make sure we've got our ducks lined up and check on Bobbi Jo! You can finish this!"

He had walked ten feet when Hamilton called after him. "You needn't worry about the elevator!" he instructed. "It will automatically stop on the first floor! I'm sure you will know your bearings!"

Hunter said nothing — don't overplay stupidity — in reply as he reached the elevator and entered, hitting the button and waiting as the doors began to shut. He had a moment of panic as Hamilton continued to stare at him and then the doors began to slide. At the same instant, Chaney said something to the doctor and Hamilton glanced down.

Years of split-second decision-making gave Hunter the edge to slide with animal grace out the doors as they closed. He moved with the stealth of a panther, flattening himself against the end of a shelf along the wall. He was almost completely submerged in darkness.

Carefully glancing over the crates, he saw Hamilton turn to the elevator. The doors were closed completely and for a second the doctor frowned, as if he had been denied the pleasure of observing Hunter's departure. Then Chaney was moving again and Hamilton — ever too eager to assist — was beside him.

They walked farther into the warehouse as Hunter bent and crept in the opposite direction, stooping occasionally to feel the floor. But the vibrations became weaker as he worked his way to the west end of the building, more powerful as he stalked toward the east. Concentrated on the task, he could almost hear the dim subterranean drone when he sensed shadows approaching.

It wasn't so much sight or sound as that nebulous and unexplainable "something," warning of another's presence that caused his face and narrow eyes to rise.

Hunter had learned how to obey the sensation instantly and was moving slowly and silently between two huge crates that might have housed refrigerators when they rounded the corner where he had been. He heard rather than saw Chaney and Hamilton at the elevator cargo doors, and followed Chaney's every word.

"We're not done here, Doctor," he said with obvious displeasure. "We'll put off the rest of the search until morning. But we'll continue. So plan for it."

"Of course. Anything you wish, Marshal."

Then they were gone and Hunter emerged, gazing at the empty warehouse. Every fourth overhead fluorescent light remained lit, and Hunter assumed they were on all the time.

Step by step, he worked his way closer to the heart of the vibration, eventually locating a section near the east wall. He knew only one thing: if it was a cooling system, it would require ventilation because it couldn't circulate either cool or warm air without evacuating it as well.

Searching the floor, Hunter found two small vents. But he discovered a much larger vent not far away. He knew the two smaller vents were for heating and cooling. This big one was something else: it was an exhaust vent for the floor below.

It took him another ten minutes to move a heavy crate away from the wall, and he frowned grimly at the discovery.

Holding his open hand before the ventilation grill, Hunter clearly felt warm air expelled from the lowest and unmentioned level of the research station — a level that the cooperative Dr. Hamilton had somehow forgotten to name. He waited, letting his senses speak to him, and found that what was below was scented with heat, electrical circuitry, paper, people, science…

He shook his head, saddened at what he knew lay beneath.

"No more secrets, Doctor," he said aloud.

A gigantic ray of light, so intense that he could feel the heat of it, passed over his head, but he did not move. Motionless behind an outcropping of rock, he waited patiently until it reached beyond him to starkly illuminate a barren slope.

Closing on the deserted area behind the shed had proven more difficult than he'd anticipated. Four times already dogs on patrol had stopped and stared directly over him, but he knew their limitations, knew they could not see him behind the rocks, nor could they scent him because he was downwind. After a moment their handlers had prodded them to continue moving, though the patrols were so close together he could only gain a few precious feet before he was forced to lie still once more.

Somewhere within him there arose a fear: a fear of the man. Then he shook his head to clear it and continued, crawling closer.

He knew that what this body had once been was almost completely consumed. And he was pleased. Because for so long now, in the most unexpected moments, a flare of past awareness would spark white through the lower depth of his darkest being, remembrance of a consciousness not completely destroyed.

It was of no matter. For in time he would completely overcome the vestiges of whatever this being had once been.

He was already as pure physically as he had been in his lost age, though he yet continued to mutate, each change enhancing and enlarging his strength, endurance, or cunning — all the faculties that made him the greatest, and the purest, of all predators.

Without effort he could catch the scent of a wolf when it was yet miles distant. And as he loped with unending endurance through the mossy dark forest, the leaf-strewn floor buried beneath countless seasons of decayed vegetation, he could effortlessly identify plants that he could barely see in the gloom.

Yes, he knew which plants yet survived and thrived beneath the loam, and whether they would heal or hurt. He knew what animals had been this way, and when, and what lay dying or dead on the farthest surrounding hill. He could hear the faintest broken twig that filled the silence, and knew whether it was from wind or decay or another's presence. There seemed no end to his strength, his rage, his glory, and he reveled in it.

He knew that if others had seen him as he made this dark journey — a spectral image of fangs and monstrous talons, tirelessly, relentlessly closing the distance to his prey — they would have beheld the purest image of physical perfection, of ultimate predatory might.

No, he told himself, he was not afraid of the man.

The man had wounded him, but he would wound him no more. For when he had the man in his grasp again, the end would be quick. And the man would know he had been defeated; he would know true fear. As all of them had known fear before… before…

Again, images came to him.

Screaming/descending through night to crush flesh/brains, hot blood, wet fangs, red throat/consuming, consuming/war that was won/glory, leaping, ecstasy/green forest in sunlight, others who challenged and were defeated/red-white images on stone with shadows dancing before flame/ blackness burning/roars/fear and screams, fleeing, descending/confusion within/war within/ turning, war within/fighting, hurt, fleeing/anger, cold, fear/white blood/war-death behind him/tiger beneath, kill, eat/ falling together, white ice/white…

He had forgotten where he lay.

War?

A long time he waited …

No answer came.

He drove the images from his mind, attempting to remember where he lay beneath this cold cloud dome of bright white, and it returned to him. They could not see him yet, he knew, but soon he would be observed. But it would be too late.

Humans… so frail.

They could never be as he was. Because they would never know the night as he knew it with the rage and the flame and the hunger that was satisfied only by the blood.

Yes… the blood.

Their blood …