Hunter

Chapter 19

It required ten minutes to remove the screws attaching the aluminum ventilation cover to the smooth cement wall. When he had finished, Hunter stared down into a long square shaft. It was easily large enough for a man and he had a fairly good idea where it led. But he didn't know if he had time for a thorough inspection of what lay below.

Hunter raised his face to the tiered ceiling, listening, but he heard no sounds of gunfire, no alarms — nothing. Yet the lack of declared, open combat was not comforting.

He was confident that the creature would attack tonight, cunningly and quickly. He suspected that when the alarms sounded, the battle would already be half lost.

As he stood there, Hunter contemplated every aspect of the situation. He dissected each incident from the first research station destroyed to the dispatch of the hunting team, the suspected sabotage, the creature's manlike intelligence yet feral nature, and its passionate search to find an unknown treasure.

And he knew whatever lay below held the answer to all those questions together, was confident that the secret hidden there would be the nexus of a mystery that had cost so many lives, and still threatened the world.

If he was going to move at all, it must be done quickly.

Hamilton — no fool, though Hunter held him in contempt — would doubtless soon notice his absence and order a search. It was a chance that he'd have to take. He'd deal with that complication when the time came.

By instinct or habit — it didn't matter, he knew the purpose — he felt for his Bowie knife, half removing the wide ten-inch blade before sliding it downward into the sheath.

He had no other weapon except the device he had constructed in secret before the track had begun, the snare that had already twice saved his life. And even now he carried the slate-gray stick of steel with its killing loop of titanium wire in his belt.

If the moment came, he would use it, though he doubted a situation requiring that desperate measure would end in survival.

Descending the shaft like a mountain climber, wedging his body into the corner, Hunter silently lowered himself into the darkness.

The updraft was colder than he had anticipated, and he suspected that the computer equipment hidden below required an uncomfortably chill atmosphere. It took him less than a minute to cover the distance in absolute quiet — and he found himself staring through the grill at the back side of a large off-white computer.

Unlike the floor above, this grill could be pushed out without the removal of screws, and Hunter entered what he knew already was a vast, open laboratory. The air was still. And although he had not yet looked, he knew it was one enormous chamber.

There was an unmistakable sense of space in the way the air hovered — of a room high and deep — that he hadn’t encountered anywhere else in the complex.

He bowed his head and listened, hearing the drone of numerous terminals. And somewhere in the distance, measuring the length of the room by sound alone, he discerned soft voices.

Angling toward the far end of the computer, away from the voices, Hunter looked into the room and saw only random equipment — it could have been any science complex. Then he looked more boldly and there, with their backs turned to him, were four white-coated lab technicians revolving around a multi-monitored computer dais. In the center of the room, a long cylindrical tube rose from the floor almost to the stark-white ceiling. Although it was filled strangely with darkness, it was clearly an object of importance. The entire chamber seemed designed around it.

Conditioned to avoiding the uncanny instincts of tiger and bear, Hunter effortlessly avoided the dulled, civilized senses of the technicians as he covertly crossed the chamber. And for a split second he imagined how truly easy it had been for the creature to slay them — civilized weaklings with senses atrophied by disuse and insulation. If it were not plainly before their eyes, they would not see it.

Trapped in their routine, they would not notice him or his actions. The only thing that could make them notice would be one of their machines. These were men and women who had surrendered to machines the very abilities and responsibilities that had once made them superior. And if he had been the predator and they the prey, he could have ended it quickly. How much easier it had been for the beast when it had stalked the corridors of the other facilities, effortlessly snatching them from futile hiding places into a roaring world of fang, blackness, claw, and death.

Kneeling behind a black computer terminal — several monitors built with sophisticated networking into a polished altar-like display system — he studied it carefully. He saw blood-analysis charts, the complex breakdown ratios of heme units, electrolytes, receptor cells and genomes, and nodded.

Yes, of course…

Years of association with the world’s greatest scholar of genetics allowed him to understand the data easily; it was a molecular diagram of a DNA strand.

Hunter lightly touched the keypad, scrolling the information, analyzing the coding sequence, and estimated that the dual strand of DNA was predominantly human. Moving carefully to avoid sound, he typed in Directory/pause. And instantly — damn fast computer — he was staring at a screen-sized list of file names with a breakdown of subtopics included in each. He moved the cursor to the file named "Species" and hit enter.

What greeted him next, in full color and with amazing accuracy of detail, was a computer simulation of what he had hunted and challenged and fought through the mountains for the past three days. Nor was it a placid picture, but rather a moving image of primal power, muscles tensed in rage, hands clenched in irrepressible contraction with claws upraised — an image he knew all too well.

Alert to the location of everyone in the laboratory — some had strolled closer and were seated less than twenty feet away — Hunter scanned the files one by one, searching. He opened up a search mode, grateful that he had taken the years to familiarize himself with computer technology, and typed in HD-66.

What opened to him was no surprise:

Hunter read more, a percentage analysis of lymphocytes, T-cells, granulocytes, monocytes, a diagnostic of the response neural network to generate white cell production…

Following every movement in the room by sound, Hunter returned to subject listings and something caught his attention. An instinct, almost like a ghostly touch on his shoulder, caused him to wonder what the video file "Security Video, Station One" contained.

The decision was made as he saw it, and he opened the file to a grainy black-and-white projection with the time—45:14:42 hours — displayed prominently in a lower corner of the screen. Sweating with the stress of hovering so close to the lab personnel, Hunter saw a security video of a large laboratory similar to this one bustling with generic technicians who seemed so nameless, faceless, and lifeless. But on the far side was a glassed-in chamber — a cell of sorts — where a man sat motionless and alone on a blanketed cot.

Without Hunter's direction the camera switched angles to show the man more closely. And for a moment Hunter stared, all the while following with his eyes two more personnel who had walked across the room and now stood six feet away.

He blinked sweat from his eyes.

What happened next made his skin crawl, chilling him even as he felt his heart rate increase, his breath deepen. For the man had fallen onto his face, writhing in pain. Then he clawed at his shirt, his eyes, and his face and began screaming, howling. He tore off his shoes and for a moment vanished beyond the camera angle, and when he writhed back into view Hunter was horrified…

Slowly at first, and then with appalling acceleration, the man's face altered, widening and distorting — transforming — and his hair fell in clumps and waves as he continued to scream and claw at himself. And then, in a maddened frenzy of rolling, beating upon any inanimate object that touched him as if it burned with fire, his body was grotesquely twisted by some tectonic collision of cells, hideously deforming him before he…before it…lay in a stillness far deeper than death.

Hunter recognized the primordial outline of that form, though far smaller in this video than it had since become. And he knew his enemy. Knew finally where it had been spawned, and how.

Recovering consciousness and breath, the creature rose slowly, sullen and sneering, from the floor.

On the left side of the monitor, the glass wall was visible, and Hunter saw innumerable technicians staring in horror, holding clipboards close. He did not need to see their faces to read their fear. And as the creature inhaled deeply, almost with savage satisfaction at his altered state of being, there was an unnatural stillness in them all. Then, striding forward with remarkable slowness, it simply walked into the six-inch Plexiglas, shattering it spectacularly with a hammer-like blow, and was among them.

Hunter did not need to see what happened next.

One less mystery.

Hunter raised sullen eyes to the suspended cylindrical type that hung inside an electromagnetic field — he understood the process because the bare copper wiring that domed the top and bottom of the cylinder fairly hummed with energy — and knew that inside that darkness lay another answer.

He had followed the movement of the four technicians, and rose as they came around the display where he crouched. He knew that they would have cried out if he had allowed them the chance, but Hunter instantly seized one by the throat, shoving him against the chest-high computer terminal. And before the other could react he pinned him also with his Bowie knife. Holding the blade against the technician's neck while easily controlling the first man who, not unsurprisingly, did not resist, Hunter spoke with threat to the others.

"Stay where you are!"

Already on their feet, they moved no farther.

"Don't touch anything!" he continued. Then he shoved the two male technicians toward the other man and woman, crowding them for control. He pointed to the cylinder. "Turn on the lights. I want to see what's inside the tube."

The woman, not removing her eyes from Hunter, reached down carefully to the computer dais. When her hand was close, she cast a quick glance and slowly pushed a switch, and Hunter stepped away from them, staring upward at the tube. His knife hung forgotten in his hand as the image emerged before him, green light washing slowly over a bowed, monstrous head, ragged wisps of hair floating in jade liquid.

The light flooded downward — shaggy gray hair doming a broad deep forehead above a heavy brow that shaded dark eyes, high cheeks that protruded stone-like on either side of a broad, flattened nose; then a wide mouth — a wicked, frowning gash with the pinpoints of long fangs visible through the jade — hanging open. And the hugely muscled, apelike neck and gorilla chest that swelled as thick twin shields beneath the chin, and, finally, to the knotted, powerful arms, matted and dark with coarse hair. And even farther the light descended to reveal long muscular legs — not like those of an ape, but of a man, yet so overdeveloped and powerfully defined that they could have undoubtedly propelled this colossus of human evolution to shocking heights or hurled that hulking weight with a cheetah's speed across the vined and tepid slime morasses of a world long buried beneath the awesome weight of time.

It was dead; Hunter needed no one to tell him that. And from the withered facial features, the smoothness of its flesh, he knew it had been dead for eons. Almost as an afterthought, he studied the large, powerful hands. Even the centuries had not dulled the fiendish aspect of those blackened claws.

Inhaling deeply, Hunter shook his head at the foolishness of man. Not anymore did he need anyone to tell him what they had done. Now the only question remaining…was why.

No alarms had sounded above; he felt no compulsion to rush. Nor had the laboratory technicians moved to flee, although he would have allowed them. Rather, they stood in absolute stillness, apparently fearful that he meant them harm, which he did not.

He heard the elevator open behind him, listened calmly as suppressed footsteps approached and counted their number: six pairs of military boots and the squeak of foam-soled working shoes — the kind that Dr. Hamilton habitually wore.

Sheathing his Bowie, Hunter continued to stare with amazed disbelief at the entombed monstrosity until, ever so slowly, Hamilton halted beside him.

Absolutely no registration of anger or disappointment was visible on the scientist's face; obviously, he was a man rarely surprised. His arms were crossed casually and his posture was that of a man admiring a fine painting. And when he spoke, a glimmering smile raised one corner of his mouth in what seemed to be admiration, even amusement, at what Hunter had discovered.

"And so," Hamilton began pleasantly, "now you know."

Hunter almost laughed, but it was more of a disbelieving grunt. The situation was so insane, so beyond the realm of reason and responsibility, that he didn't know what to say. He shook his head and looked at Hamilton.

"How did you ever think to keep a thing like this secret?"

Nonchalant and amused, Hamilton smiled. "But I have kept it a secret, Mr. Hunter."

His confidence, again, was supreme. Hunter wondered how Hamilton truly looked upon others.

Hunter glanced around casually and counted six black-clad soldiers. "I suppose," he said, "that you intend to kill me."

Hamilton said nothing, and his aspect did not change.

Hunter had never seen the uniformed soldiers aboveground and reasoned that they weren't regular military but a special contingent designed to protect this hidden level. Escape was paramount in his mind, and then he thought of Bobbi Jo above with the rest, waiting for the attack. He looked at Hamilton, shook his head.

"You really are insane, you know," he said.

"Hmm?" Hamilton raised his brow, undisturbed. "Well, of course, there are those who might think so, Mr. Hunter. But I disagree. And, as regarding my plans for you, I believe that is self-evident. After all, we are both men of the world. We are both reasonably experienced, each in his own way, with illegal, dangerous, and dark oceans of secrets. Further, I do not wish to be indelicate by stating what is both obvious and unavoidable. And I hope you understand: I really have no choice in the matter."

If Hamilton expected to see fear in Hunter, he was disappointed.

Hunter smiled.

"You know, Hamilton, in all my traveling, all the places I've been, the things I've done, I've never actually killed a man."

Hamilton took it as the insult it was intended to be. His face tightened, eyes crinkling with the sting. He didn't attempt to polish his tone as he replied.

"Really? A shame I can't say the same."

Standing on the edge of the roof, Bobbi Jo had positioned the Barrett on a large crate, bipod extended. The huge rifle dominated the weapon-heavy environment, making the M-16's seem like toys. Two freshly loaded clips were set on a table. She had positioned a bench behind her so she could comfortably pick off the creature with one well-placed shot after another when it penetrated the perimeter.

She had refused binoculars but held a Generation III NightQuest starlight scope in a hand. Hardly larger than her fist, the two-pound monocular allowed light amplification 45,000 times greater than what was visible with the naked eye. At intervals of two to three minutes, she would raise it and scan the fence, the brush, and surrounding trees before lowering it in stoic silence.

There were perhaps twenty personnel positioned on the building's four sides. Most of them carried lightweight automatic weapons, but there was also an M-60 armed with a gunner and a second soldier, a belt runner, on each wall. The compound itself swarmed with four-and six-man attack squads, and canine units were working in pairs, patrolling the fence line.

Measuring the multilayered security, Bobbi Jo knew that, if she were attempting to defeat the security, she would have called it a "no-go." Nothing, surely, could either steal or fight its way through that hive of dogs, guns, and soldiers. Not to mention the steel-mesh fence powered to twenty-five thousand volts; the generators in the back shed roared with the maximum electrical output. And a ten-thousand-gallon tanker "was parked close to ensure that the two-ton machines had enough gasoline to last the night.

No one spoke to her because it was understood; snipers preferred to work alone. Utter concentration was paramount in the job, and distractions were despised. Without facial expression she wondered where Hunter was, and if he was safe.

The eerie atmosphere of secrets combined with the forthright promise of impending mortal combat continued to wear upon her emotional control. She was trained to control her feelings. She was all too aware that, for him, her control was vanishing.

A voice came from behind her.

"Have you seen Hunter?"

Bobbi Jo turned and saw the marshal, Chaney, with the big man called Brick. They were carrying the Weatherby .454 double-barreled hunting rifles, and each sported a bandoleer of the five-inch-long brass cartridges. Brick also had an AK-47 slung across his back, and six full magazines and four antipersonnel grenades strapped on his regulation-issue gun belt.

"No." She frowned. "I thought he was with you, Chaney."

"No." Chaney shook his head, brow hardening. "He said he was coming up to check the roof, to make sure you were okay. Then I think he said he was going to walk the perimeter."

Bobbi Jo's eyes narrowed in worry. "No. I haven't seen him. How long ago was that?"

"Twenty, thirty minutes."

Brick grunted, soft and low, turned his head in thought. No one spoke for a time and then Bobbi Jo added, "Maybe somebody should go look for him. It's not right for Hunter to say he's gonna do something and not do it." She paused with heat. "He's not like that."

Chaney nodded.

"All right," he agreed, making a half-turn. "I'll go take a look around."

"I'll do it," Brick broke in, placing a beefy hand on Chaney's arm. "I know this kind of setup. Worked one in the Philippines, and there's lots of places a guy can get confused, especially back there around the motor pool. If he's doing some real serious checking, I could speed things up for him and then we can all rendezvous back here."

"Sounds good," Chaney acquiesced. "But tell Hunter to get back here as soon as he can. He understands that thing better than anyone. We can use him to anticipate its attack."

Bobbi Jo spoke up. "Hunter doesn't want to be on a roof, Marshal. He'll want to be out there with it, hunting it just like it's hunting him. That's what he's best at."

"What he's best at, Lieutenant," Chaney responded with an edge of im-patience, "and what we need are two different things. Hunter is the only one that can get inside that thing's mind. So if we have him coordinating our counterattack, we might fare a damn sight better than the other installations that went to ground. Colonel Maddox is in charge, but I think he'd agree with me. The more we can anticipate what this creature is going to do, the better our chances are of countering. And maybe, if we're lucky, we might just survive this goddamn fight."

Brick was walking away, head down in intense thought. "You guys settle it. I'm gonna do some looking." He turned back with an agility that belied his considerable bulk. "You said Hunter told you he was coming up top?"

"Yeah," replied Chaney.

Brick nodded. "Where was the two of ya when he told you that?"

"We were in the basement, looking over the inventory. But he came up before I did."

"Huh." Brick turned back to the sniper. Chaney opened his mouth to continue but Bobbi Jo cut him off. "Listen, Marshal, I'm not in the mood to argue with you. I just take orders. I don't give them. Whatever suggestions you have for Hunter, you can settle them with him."

"Good enough." Chaney nodded and walked across the antenna-strewn roof toward Colonel Maddox, who had taken position in the command center. Field telephone lines hooked with numerous lights were manned by a sergeant, and a young communications officer was dispatching on UHF radios.

Maddox, hands clasped behind his back, paced back and forth in their midst. " 'Evening, Marshal," he said distractedly as Chaney arrived. He signed a clipboard that was presented and absently checked the .45 at his waist. It was the first time Chaney had seen him in battle dress. Chaney wasted no time, saying, "Colonel I think it would be advantageous if we had Hunter in the command center instead of on the grounds."

Maddox looked emptily at him. "Hmm?"

"I said," Chaney repeated, "Hunter is the only one who can anticipate what this thing might do, and we might be able to use him in the command center."

Maddox was nodding, but Chaney wasn't certain if the colonel had heard what he said. It was to be expected; Chaney had seen the same look in 'Nam when a battalion of Viet Cong would have an isolated firebase surrounded, waiting only for darkness to fall so they could launch a merciless, scorching series of attacks that would continue until dawn. Once the battle began, Chaney had never had time or emotion for fear; he was too busy staying alive. But, in the long period when they would be waiting together for nightfall, they all had too much time to contemplate the oncoming horror and knew nothing but terror. Those were the times, Chaney often thought, that he had hated the most and remembered the most. He decided to try communicating with Maddox more forcefully.

"Colonel," he said, stepping up, "we need someone in the command center who can help us anticipate what this creature might do! I suggest we ask Hunter to come up here as an adviser!"

Maddox waved. "Oh, yes, of course. Uh, tell Mr. Hunter his presence is requested in the CP." He glanced nervously at the surrounding trees. "And do it quickly."

Maintaining severe emotional control, Hunter mentally pictured what he knew about the room — the locations of various equipment, doors, cables, terminals.

He didn't know what, exactly, he was going to do. But he had already decided that Hamilton was not leaving his side. He tried to delay what seemed inevitable and, as he spoke, realized that he truly wanted an answer.

"I suppose it was you all along?" he asked.

Hamilton laughed dismissively. "Of course not, Mr. Hunter. It was never 'only' I. In fact, the tentacles of this exercise reach deeply into a dozen, oh, how shall I say it…domains?" He paused. "Yes, domains. Seems a strange word. But many are involved. Men of unlimited wealth, some in government, some in the private sector, all wishing to inherit the benefits contained within this fantastic specimen of evolution. Strange how I never sought to classify those who have labored beside me, until now. I merely considered them part of a higher system, or the heart of the system, you might say."

"And what system would that be?"

Hunter actually wanted to know, now that he had come this far and was likely to pay a severe price for the knowledge he obtained. He added sullenly, "Sounds like a good crew, Hamilton. A system of rich sleazeballs that murdered a young woman to protect some apeman that died ten thousand years ago." He shook his head.

The scientist's entire body shook with an explosive laugh, and Hunter instantly checked his mercurial impulse to kill Hamilton with a single move. But even as the reaction seized him, Hunter had already shut it down. His hand never moved.

"Really, Mr. Hunter, I may have overestimated your worldliness," Hamilton responded. Although the smile failed to fully fade, he grew still, staring with that impenetrable arrogance. "Do you really presume that all…this…could be the work of a single man? Or even a single agency? No, Mr. Hunter, it was a coalition, you might say. People who forever remain in the shadows."

Hunter frowned, stoic.

"Really, Mr. Hunter, you disappointment me and surprise me simultaneously. First you deduced, and correctly I might add, that there was a hidden level to the institution. And other deductions you reached regarding my poor…"

Hunter interjected: "Luther? Your poor Luther?"

Hamilton's smile was benign. "Yes, Mr. Hunter — my poor Luther. Or the creature, as you now call it, who was once a respected colleague of mine. Yes, his name was Luther Friedkin." He shook his head in the mildest remorse. "Poor Luther, he did not know what manner of game he played. Always impetuous. Always rushing ahead of where science had conclusively led. And he was quite brilliant, you know. But — and I assume you have watched the video since it continues to replay the ghastly carnage of that night— Luther impractically moved ahead of safeguards and injected himself with the cloning serum which he himself had ionized from…" Hamilton lifted his hand with reverence. "From one who was like a god."

Hunter didn't look at the creature. "This man must have had a good reason to take a chance like that," he said. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

With the most minute shrug Hamilton said without emotion, "Well, in truth, who will ever know for certain? Luther's genius was, indeed, unparalleled. And perhaps he concluded, erroneously, that he had perfected the serum." He paused. "Earlier tests on his serum, which were conducted on baboons, were spectacularly positive and so Luther bypassed human testing and volunteered himself. Perhaps Luther was simply too impetuous to seize the power, the pure physical might and the immortality that man has sought since time began."

Hunter was dead-steady. "It's a fantasy, Hamilton. Nobody lives forever."

"Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Hunter, I believe that our species is capable of exceeding long life spans. We have simply not isolated the means of rejuvenating cellular structure as the body ages. An enigma since, scientifically, there is very little definition except the loss of cellular modules to explain why we age at all past maturity; an unexplainable phenomenon. And for many years now it has been my goal to uncover that mystery. You see, I am almost sixty years of age. Not old by any means. But I am haunted, more and more, by the specter of my mortality. It is an old story: a young man thinks not of death, the old think of nothing else. And you would represent yourself well if you did not consider me a monster, Mr. Hunter; a man who betrayed his oath and his profession to cheat death. Or, if not to cheat, then to delay interminably."

Hamilton hesitated, and some of his arrogance seemed to subside, as if the contemplation had made him more honest. Hunter allowed him to ponder in silence while he slightly bent his head, observing the exact location of the guards.

Still ranged in a tight semicircle, they held M-16's at port arms. Each of them wore black battle-dress uniforms with black balaclavas that hid everything but their eyes. For a surreal moment, Hunter wondered if it was their duty to keep intruders out or the research personnel inside.

Hamilton beheld him with eyes that seemed strangely more pale. "In truth, those of us who have crossed this ethical and scientific void to realize what has escaped man since Eden should be lauded for our courage, our vision, and our sacrifice. For not in a thousand years, since man accepted that he is not the center of the universe, has the world faced so great a revelation as we have unveiled. Yes, I know what you are thinking, Mr. Hunter. Quite probably, there is nothing you can say that has not already crossed my mind. You are thinking that the loss of that young woman, as well as the deaths at these installations, were too great a price for success."

Hunter was stone-faced. He revealed nothing in his expression as he unblinkingly held the older man's gaze.

"But I tell you that all of these people, to the last one, would have died within the next one hundred years." Hamilton held himself as if the incontrovertible statement would settle the dispute. "And the scientist that was dispatched at your institution because of security reasons…well, the loss of life is always tragic. But that situation was, in truth, beyond my control. Really, how long do you believe it would have been before that woman would have succumbed to the ravages of old age or some vampirish illness that leeched the strength from her soul? How long before she would have prayed for death to cease the multitude agonies? Ten years? Twenty? Fifty?" He shook his head. "You know the answer as well as I. But what if that same woman could have been given the elixir of eternal health and life? Would she have refused? No, Mr. Hunter, I sincerely doubt that. No, she would have gratefully accepted the gift of the gods; immortality, for all practical purposes, and eternal health. Of course, no one, not even with the elixir, truly lives forever. But a life span of a thousand years is incomparably better than a life span of a hundred."

Hunter gazed up somberly at the muted giant, monstrous head bowed so that the square chin rested between huge pectoral muscles thick as armor. "And him?" he asked. "You call that human?"

"No," Hamilton answered frankly. "It was a beast. Half man, at best. And, in truth, we never categorized him. Once his fantastic qualities of rejuvenation and enhanced longevity were discovered, a classification became needless. It was enough that within his bones lay the remnants of heme units that provided the magical coding, which we attempted to duplicate. It was only Luther, the fool, who moved too quickly, precipitating this incident."

"Incident?" Hunter asked coldly. "Several hundred men and women are dead, Hamilton. I wouldn't call that an 'incident.' I would call it a disaster."

"And that is where your mind fails to seize the opportunity for turning a disadvantage into an advantage." Hamilton's tone was dead-steady, certain, and convinced. "You see, in any experiment there is always the danger of compromised security. It wasn't until the creature had struck for the second time that I was inspired to turn this… disaster… into a positive force."

Hunter was appalled. Feeling a rush of warm blood to his face, he spoke: "You let them die." It wasn't a question, and he repeated it. "You're worse than your monster. When you got what you wanted, you let those people die so you could contain your secret."

Hamilton's expression was bland.

"As you said, Mr. Hunter, no one lives forever."

"This is ungood," Taylor muttered.

Bending his head inside the listening post they had established in the motor pool, Takakura spoke in a low tone. "Use your night visor. You should be able to see easily in the shadows."

"The night visor don't see through solid steel, Commander. I've already checked the treeline and the rocks, and it ain't there, far as I can tell. But I know it's somewhere. I can smell it."

Takakura held the M-14-A1 close, a pistol on his chest and thigh. Anti-personnel grenades and extra clips for the M-14 were staggered on the left side of his gun belt. Taylor, as always, was armed with a variety of shotguns. The street-sweeper was loaded with twelve depleted-uranium shells. It fired as fast as the trigger could be pulled. It would be his primary weapon.

The headphone Takakura wore suddenly squawked with a static burst before the Japanese frowned. Watching, Taylor listened to the muted replies: "No…no, we have not observed him… Hai… I will inform you." He returned to observation.

"What was all that about?" Taylor asked.

"It was the marshal, the one called Chaney." Takakura frowned. "It seems they are looking for Hunter. They do not know where he is."

Studious, Taylor squinted. "You know, now that you mention it, I haven't seen him around. That ain't like him. Usually he's on the front line. Where's the wolf?"

"Guarding the professor. I stopped in ICU and checked on them before we took listening-post duty." Takakura’s pause was long. "You are correct. It is not like Hunter to vanish."

Taylor didn't like it either. "Maybe we oughta’ go find him," he muttered, but even as he said it, he realized it was impossible. Every listening post was vital; it was the first line of warning, and their best defense. Plus, the CP didn't have either the time or manpower to reassign the duty. An alarming thought settled over Taylor as he pondered possibilities.

"You don't think Hunter went into the woods, do you?" He hesitated. "I mean, like he did before?"

"No," Takakura answered with confidence. "What he did before, effective as it may have been, was from desperation. Hunter is a brave man, but he is also wise. He does not risk his life unless it is necessary, or unless he consciously forfeits it for what he has decided is a greater good. No, he would not have gone out alone. For with this electrified fence and this much armament, we might have a chance of resisting the beast until dawn. Then, hopefully, we will airlift from this facility and leave it to the creature."

"We should have done that today," Taylor grunted. "But so what. They ain't gonna do it tomorrow either, Commander. 'Cause they're stuck between a rock and a hard place. They have something to do with that thing out there, I guarantee it. And they can't let it roam around killing innocent folk. Word might get out, and then they'd be toast. No, they gotta kill it or capture it before the press and public get wind, one way or another. And that's what all this is for. Man, the brass is briefed on the fact that we don't stand a snowball's chance. But that ain't their problem. 'Cause we're just grunts; we're the ones who are supposed to be doing this stuff while they sit on their butts making their oh-so-smart political decisions. And plus that, we know too much. I don't know what's going on here, but I know it's heavy. And if I know those buttheads in Washington, they ain't gonna want too many witnesses walking around when this is over. Heads have a habit of talking." Anger shook him. "No, they're gonna leave us hanging here until that thing's dead or we're dead. I know that score."

Frowning, Takakura nodded. His expression was stoic, the image of a man who accepted pain without complaint, a professional soldier, a man who intelligently measured risks before a battle yet joined the battle nonetheless. When he looked back at Taylor, his expression altered slightly, and there was a glint of humor in his dark eyes.

"You know, there was a time," he remarked, "when I dreamed of honor in battle."

Taylor stared. "And now you don't?"

"Not for armies," the Japanese whispered. "Just for men."

Quiet for a time, Taylor finally added, "Well, we might be able to put its face in the dirt. We're loaded for bear, we're rested, and we've got the home-court advantage. It won't be easy to take this place."

A grunt, and Takakura glanced at him, the frown returning.

"We shall see."

Words in a moaning wind floated to him as he lay concealed behind more rocks, almost lost to air that vibrated with the roaring engines contained within the building.

He still had a short distance to crawl before he was close enough to vault the fence — he knew from the distinctive feel of invisible fire in the surrounding air that the barrier was dangerous — and the battle would begin.

There was something familiar in the subdued tones that reached out to him over hundreds of feet; a tone or…emotion. He could not be sure, except to know that he had somehow known the tone before. The sensation caused him to lie very still. But he heard the voices no more.

Scowling faintly, he gazed up, staring through spaces in the rocks, watching the patrolling guards. Their weapons were meaningless. He did not see the woman, whose weapon had blasted the breath from his lung and ripped open his ribs, allowing the black blood to flow hotly over his side. Yes, the woman could injure him, and the fact that he did not see her aroused his anger.

But he was not afraid. He would never be afraid. And if she challenged him again he would hunt her down with singular, undaunted rage and kill her quickly, for she had injured him enough. For the pleasure of that blood, he would ignore the rest of them, would ignore what he sought until it was finished. Then he would continue as he had continued before, stalking, slaying at will, enduring their pitiful resistance until they fled screaming into the roaring night, where he would hunt them down still, slaying one by one.

A growl that began deep in his chest was choked in his throat, because he was too close. He would make no sound until he struck, would give them no warning until he was among them. Then their fear would be his ally, his weapon.

Moving only a muscular forearm and foot, he inched forward. He did not feel the impulse to rush, so complete were his stalking skills. Just as he knew he had the patience to wait for days, if necessary, waiting for a single chance to ambush his prey. With either means of attack he was skillful, though he enjoyed much more the glaring triumph of descending from above, beholding the terror in their eyes as they screamed and raised hands for mercy…before he feasted on their brains.

"So it was Luther who injected himself with the serum," Hunter said, unimpressed by the egomaniacal arrogance. "And that thing out there…"

"Is no longer Luther," Hamilton added without emotion. "No, I'm afraid that nothing of poor Luther remains. But it was his own hand that destroyed my colleague. I shed no tears. And it was not a complete failure, in any case. For although Luther's physicality was monstrously transformed into the living representative of this unknown species, he also retained the healing and longevity factors. Yes, Luther — or whatever remains of him — will live for quite some centuries, although in that irreversible, bestial form. And since his impertinent adventurism, which ended so tragically, we have gloriously completed what he began. For we have isolated and removed the genetic transmitters that allowed the creature's DNA to transform Luther into a likeness of itself." Hamilton's eyes gleamed. "Yes, we have the serum, Mr. Hunter, and the long night is at an end. We have the sentient qualities, those that grant immortality without the lamentable curse of the primitive mind. And soon a select few will be…immortal." He smiled.

Unimpressed, Hunter asked, "You never really planned to kill the creature, did you?"

Hamilton blinked. "Hmm? Oh, yes." He placed hands behind his back, as if lecturing. "Yes, Mr. Hunter, at one point it was considered. And, for prudence and diplomacy, we were certainly required to display some confusion and concern about the recurring attacks. But before your team was dispatched we had already decided to let the creature do our work for us in order to ensure containability of our secret enterprise. By that, of course, I mean allowing the creature to silence the research and military teams, an unexpected effect. And then… who knows? Perhaps we might have terminated him, and may yet do so. Or we might attempt to capture him. Frankly, I have not turned my mind to the matter in some time."

Eyes narrowing, Hunter saw a shadow move — or seem to move — on the far side of the room. He didn't look toward it again as he took a wild chance, moving slightly to the side. Hamilton angled his eyes to follow Hunter's slow step, but he did not reposition. And none of the soldiers advanced, though Hunter saw hands tighten on rifles.

"No more secrets," Hunter said, facing Hamilton squarely. "I know what it's looking for. And I know you could have stopped the killing at any time. But you didn't."

Hamilton displayed rare surprise.

"You are an exceptionally astute individual, Mr. Hunter." For a moment, he appeared to regard Hunter with awe. "Yes, exceptionally astute. What was your first clue that it was searching for something? It could have been wreaking vengeance, you know. Moreover, it could merely have been exercising animal savagery against the only populations that its diseased human mind could recall. And yet…your certainty is complete. You know, indeed, that it was searching and, even, what it was searching for. But how? Would you tell me? I am most curious."

Even without looking for it, Hunter saw a shadow on the floor adjacent to a large computer terminal. But there was no sound. And he tried to follow the almost imperceptible shifting with peripheral vision because he didn't know whether it was Chaney or Bobbi Jo or the creature.

There was always a chance the military might have missed something, some hidden tunnel or gateway that wasn't recorded on the blueprints. His toes curled slightly down within his moccasins as he tensed, preparing to move in any direction at a split-second's warning. And in the short pause he decided to tell Hamilton what the scientist so badly wanted to hear, buying precious time, finishing the charade.

"It was at the research station," Hunter said, with the faintest shadow of a mocking sneer. "That was your first mistake."

Hamilton stared. "Yes? Well, what was there to find? Our sanitation team, and this is no empty boast, are quite thorough about removing evidence, ensuring our secrecy. We use them all over the world for a number of situations. And they thoroughly swept the station long before you arrived."

"I know," Hunter said, unimpressed. "And they did a good job; there was nothing to find. And that was their mistake, Doctor. They did too good a job. And in the wrong places."

"What do you mean?"

"It's the same with men as with animals, Doctor. Nothing moves in the world, anywhere, without leaving a sign — a trace of itself. The same rules apply in civilized environments." Hunter searched for the shadow, saw nothing. "This creature attacked the station, the soldiers, and he left traces of himself. Then he attacked the personnel, the lab techs, and left more traces. Tracks, claw marks, blood that told me where he was going, where he'd been, what he was thinking. And then he attacked the installation it-self, leaving even more traces. All of it like pages in a book. Everything that happens is told in the tracks, or in the pages. All you have to do is know how to read them."

"Yes," Hamilton responded, "I follow your reasoning. But that still does not explain how you deduced that the creature was searching for something, which I myself find quite fascinating.”

"It's just like I said, Doctor. Every room in every installation told a story." Hunter paused. "Except one."

Hamilton seemed to perceive it.

"The vault," the scientist said simply, with a faint smile.

"Yeah. The vault. The only chamber that that thing didn't destroy. And yet it destroyed everything else. So there was a page missing from the story." Hunter caught a glimmer of response in the doctor's eyes. "It's fairly simple to follow a track, once you know where to begin," he continued. "So after I searched the vault and didn't find any traces of the creature, I knew something was wrong. So I searched it again, and found some lines where your crew, probably wearing biohazard suits, had worked the most diligently at sanitation. I suppose you know where that would be."

"Oh, yes." Hamilton smiled, clearly enjoying the endgame. "At the refrigeration module."

"Where your crew removed every trace of its entry," Hunter continued. "And I wondered: why remove traces of this thing's entry into that one chamber while ignoring what it did throughout the rest of the complex? And the answer seemed fairly obvious."

Hamilton almost spoke, some fevered dimension of his personality taking pleasure in this spirited contest of intellects, but with visible effort he restrained himself.

"So I located the module's manifest and ran an inventory, and I located all of the serums that were supposed to be there," Hunter continued, allowing Hamilton the juvenile pleasure of finishing.

"Except one," the scientist contributed magnanimously.

"Yeah. Except one."

"HD-66." Hamilton shook his head, a slightly satisfied smile.

"Exactly. Which didn't mean much to me at the time. But I knew it would mean something sooner or later. Then, when the third facility was destroyed, it was the same thing. HD-66 was missing from the serum module with the area swept clean. No traces, no tracks. Another missing page. So I knew that this entire scenario somehow revolved around HD-66. But, still, I didn't know what it was. I didn't even know enough to run it past the professor because it was just numbers on a page. Its existence had been erased." Hunter stared evenly. "Sometimes by erasing tracks, Doctor, you make them more visible."

Undaunted, Hamilton beamed. "And yet, Mr. Hunter, despite your amazing deduction, you were still unenlightened as to the specific purpose, and salient characteristics, of HD-66."

"At the time." Hunter opened his eyes wider. "But with what I've seen, I believe I understand, at last."

"Really?" Hamilton was openly amazed. "Well, why don't you tell me? Because, as much as I would like to believe you, I find it an incredible suspension of reason to imagine that you could somehow deduce the purpose of a substance that you have never seen or studied. In truth, the only means by which you could understand the properties of HD-66 would be through a diagramed molecular synthesis. Which, of course, you do not possess."

"There are two ways to understand something, Doctor. You can know the thing itself. Or you can understand the world around it."

Hamilton seemed abruptly lost.

"I don't quite…"

"It was you, Doctor."

Hesitation.

"You say it was I?" Hamilton repeated. "How so?"

"Your pride was your downfall, Doctor. Your arrogance. Your self-righteousness. Your greed. Your self-serving satisfaction of your dreams of grandeur. Your maniacal pursuit of scientific glory at the expense of human dignity."

Hunter could determine by the furrowed brow and utterly confused expression that the eminent Dr. Arthur Hamilton was dumbstruck. He decided to end the mystery.

"While you were sleeping last night, Doctor, you weren't the only one in your rather opulent bedchamber. The fact is, I was with you for quite some time."

For the first time, fear was visible in the scientist's pale eyes.

"Yeah, I was there," Hunter repeated calmly and matter-of-factly. "And I searched the entire room, but I didn't find any solid clues. You're quite disciplined at leaving all research materials in the laboratory."

"Yes," the scientist acknowledged, recovering from the shock of Hunter's unknown intrusion. "I am, indeed. And what did you find during your nocturnal skulking, Mr. Hunter? There is no documentation whatsoever in my personal quarters."

"That's what I mean." Hunter almost smiled, but restrained the impulse. "But it's like I said, everything leaves a trace of where it's been, where it's going, what it's thinking. And you're no different from the rest of us. A person just has to know how to read the signs."

"And what was this trace of the truth that you keep mentioning with such obscurity?"

"You, Doctor."

Slight surprise glimmered in the narrow eyes.

"Please elucidate," he said.

Hunter half-laughed. "Like I said, I already knew a great deal. I knew that you had somehow created this thing — a creature that once belonged on the earth, but doesn't anymore. And I knew that it was searching for the rest of the serum. The only question left to answer was why." A pause. "After searching your room, I was about to leave when I noticed the book you'd been reading before you'd fallen asleep."

There was concentrated remembrance, and then the scientist slowly nodded. "Yes," he mused, a thoughtful pursing of the lips. "Heart of Darkness. How observant."

"One of my habits."

"Of course." He laughed with a mocking mirth. "But, please, continue. I am fascinated with your deductive abilities and am well on my way to genuine admiration."

Hunter sensed the shadow glide another few inches. It appeared to be slowly working a path through the computers and desks to a flanking position on the guards.

"So," he added, "I saw that you were reading Heart of Darkness. Joseph Conrad. And that was curious to me, considering the gravity of our situation. Because usually, in times of crisis, a man will focus his entire energy and attention on the situation until it's resolved. Especially a man such as yourself. A man consumed with his work, and with himself. So I picked it up and paged to a well-worn section that had a single sentence underlined. And in that entire book it was the only sentence emphasized. I know, because I checked." Hunter recited from memory: " ‘The mind of man is capable of anything because everything is buried inside it — all the past as well as all the future.' "

Hamilton's smile was approving. "And then you knew."

"Yeah, I knew," Hunter said, with no tinge of pride. "I had decided a while back that HD-66 was a serum. But for what, I didn't know. Just like I didn't know why the creature wanted it so badly. All I knew for certain was that it wasn't going to stop until it found it. And then, with that, I understood why."

Hunter, although he was virtually unarmed and outnumbered, controlled the atmosphere now with the straightforwardness of his will, his utter lack of fear, and his unflinching moral courage in the face of insurmountable odds. He could read their reluctant respect in their posture and silence, though he knew it would not alter their intentions for him. He finished his thought.

"That thing out there, which you're responsible for, wants to remember all that it was because its past is somehow genetically remembered in its DNA coding," he concluded. "But the serum that transformed your colleague wasn't only imperfect, it was incomplete, wasn't it?"

Hamilton shrugged. "It was…experimental. At that stage, we were still fundamentally unaware of what, exactly, we were dealing with."

"I know. So, not only did the experimental formula transform your friend into something that was neither animal nor man, the DNA had insufficient coding to fully restore the creature's genetic memory." Hunter was so confident of his reasoning that Hamilton's assertion, or a dispute if it had come, would have meant nothing at all. "Its genetic memory is and always has been incomplete, and it knows that. So it wants the part of itself that's missing. And whatever remains of your colleague knows where to find it. And that's why it's been destroying the research facilities. It's searching." He shook his head. "Yes, Doctor, it wants HD-66, its own heart of darkness, so that its cellular memory will be restored. It wants the serum so that the transformation is absolute."

Hamilton stared for a moment, a condescending grin spreading slowly, before he clapped his hands. "Bravo, Mr. Hunter!" He laughed. "And I had categorized you as a base wild man filling an inconsequential existence with inconsequential thoughts. But you have truly astounded me— a rare pleasure for a man such as myself." He nodded curtly, dropping hands to his sides. "I congratulate you. This was a remarkable intellectual accomplishment."

Despite the steel reasoning required to assimilate all he had learned into a definitive explanation, despite the haughty harassment of Hamilton, despite the finely focused attention of the guards, Hunter had not failed to follow the shadow of the still-unknown intruder as it maneuvered into position behind the masked soldiers. He knew from the lack of overt aggression that it was not the creature; the beast used no subtlety in attacking. So he felt certain that it was someone from upstairs. But whether that person intended to assist him, or not, remained a mystery.

"And now" — Hamilton turned his head to the guards, nodding curtly—"I am afraid that—"

Hunter moved.

Exploding in a violent movement not telegraphed at all, he leaped forward and collided hard with Hamilton to take them together over a computer dais — a wild and twisted tangle of arms and legs — to the other side. Paper and laboratory materials scattered chaotically at the impact and reckless descent, and Hunter was first on his feet, volcanically heaving the scientist around as a shield, his Bowie knife already at Hamilton's throat. Before Hunter spoke a single word Hamilton's upraised hands halted the onrushing guards.

"Stay where you are, you fools!" he bellowed, suddenly graceless. Hunter was amazed he had swung the situation around with a single dynamic move. He pushed the old man forward, hoping to control the situation by ruthlessly taking advantage of their temporary confusion and emotional shock.

Then the large figure of Brick erupted on the far side of a bookcase— the soundless shadow Hunter had followed so long.

The big man held the large, double-barreled Weatherby in both hands with pistols and grenades and extra ammo attached to his brown vest. A leather bandoleer of huge bullets was slung from shoulder to hip, and in a flashing glance Hunter registered yet another rifle — some kind of semiautomatic — slung across his back.

"Drop 'em!" Brick bellowed and two of the guards, quicker than the rest, spun with rifles raised. But before the first guard had completed the turn Brick fired, the enormous expanding flame of the Weatherby reaching out six feet, and the guard's chest exploded with the impact. Then Brick swung the barrel and fired again, thunderously lifting the second guard off his feet as Hunter threw Hamilton to the ground and the laboratory was ripped by gunfire.

Chaney was becoming more frustrated as the moments passed, moving in and out of the trucks, Humvees, tankers, and transport trucks at the motor pool. The area was checkered with pits of black that could have contained anything: he had left his night-vision device in the facility, not reckoning that he would need it.

Despite stumbling on a dozen listening posts that denied seeing Hunter — he had not chanced upon Takakura and Taylor — he was certain that Hunter said he was moving outside to check the perimeter. He was loping at a respectable gait across the yard, passing the front of the shed containing the two-ton generators that were powering the facility, when he caught a slowly moving form high in the air.

It was a bizarre floating, grayish image — like a ghostly apparition emerging from fog. It came across the earth without touching it, hanging in the air, arms outstretched.

Chaney looked curiously, and although he was among the most controlled of all men, shouted something incoherent.

For, seemingly suspended, neither rising nor descending, the beast was nearly twenty feet in the air, hanging for what seemed an impossibly long time before it came down hard, its stone-heavy impact sending a gunshot effect that made a hundred heads turn together.

So shocked was Chaney that he didn't immediately open fire, somehow doubting against reason that it might turn and flee. Then it leaped again, angling for the domed hull of the green tanker parked beside the shed. Immediately Chaney raised the Weatherby and fired.

He had no idea if he connected as it completed an arching descent to vanish from view, landing without sound on the grassy area between the truck and building.

"HOLD FIRE! HOLD FIRE!" a commanding voice boomed over the intercom system. And Chaney needed no one to explain why. It would be simple for panicked troops, some having never seen true combat, to open fire in fear and accidentally detonate the ten-thousand-gallon tank. Chaney himself had recognized the threat only at the last moment and purposefully shot high, hoping to catch it in the shoulder, virtually assuring that he had missed.

Chaney stared in shock.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

For what he had seen suspended in the night air made all human conflict seem insignificant. He had almost not believed it even when it landed with such fearless intent, and cursed himself for his hesitation. For he had had one moment for a clean shot and might have caught it as it stood gloating.

As an afterthought, remembering the hulking might outlined by the fog-shrouded skylight, he was glad he had brought the Weatherby and quickly replaced the spent round, clicking the breech closed.

Soldiers in teams of ten and thirty ran past him, taking lateral and frontal positions on the motor pool. Officers bellowed commands to compete with the roar of the generators, and Chaney ran down the line of Jeeps and trucks, hoping for a glimpse. Whatever it was, they had it cornered in the twenty-acre lot of automotive vehicles.

A hideous scream that rose in volume erupted in the night for a split second, then died abruptly. A wild rattle of M-16 fire was followed by another and even shorter shout of panic. Then silence. Chaney knew what it was doing; it had located the first listening post situated in the pool, killing both soldiers like lightning.

One platoon, close and tight with weapons ready, moved into the south end of the motor pool. Two more teams of thirty, one in the center and one on the north end, moved with them, a hundred men spreading into a skirmish line as they crossed the first line of vehicles.

Carefully, alertly, they moved forward, the instructions of sergeants and lieutenants to "look sharp and fire on acquisition" repeated over and over in the semi-darkness.

Chaney scanned the vast acreage, and in the distance, at the eruption of another frightful scream, saw a brief blurred shape of black moving left to right in a frenzy. Chaney's teeth came together in frustration and rage: two more down.

It was moving quick, slaughtering methodically.

The skirmish line had covered about a third of the distance when more screams echoed violently in the night. Chaney remembered Taylor and Takakura. He keyed his throat mike and tried to raise them, repeating their designation in order to warn them.

But they didn't reply.

Taylor glanced up and saw Takakura's sweating face silhouetted by a stadium-like display of floodlights. The Japanese was bent, sword in hand and a .45 pistol in the other. His eyes were feral, staring with rage, and his teeth shone white in the pale light that made his dark face glisten. He stared high and then dropped, silently searching underneath the truck beside them. When he rose he shook his head in frustration, snarling as he spoke: "It is working its way to the north end, away from us. It is methodically working its way through the listening posts."

"You wanna go after it?" Taylor asked, tightening the bandoleer so it wouldn't slide from his shoulder in violent movement.

Takakura shook his head sharply. "No… I don't think so. Then again, it will find us soon enough. As it has found the others." He calculated, his eyes blinking hard and quick. "Yes, it will find us. But not as it found them."

"You wanna set an ambush?" Taylor whispered.

"There remains one more listening post between us and the creature. If it continues to kill methodically and is not somehow deterred, it will finish them next." His face hardened, dark eyes narrowing into slits. "It will be our only chance. It will be upon us in moments." He wasted a single second. "Do you believe those depleted uranium slugs will penetrate its skin?"

"I don't know. It'll penetrate the armor of a tank. But I don't know if these magnum shells give 'em the velocity it's gonna take. I'm damn sure it's gonna feel it, but to kill it… I don't know." He shook his head, sweat dripping from his scarred face as he took a breath.

"It will have to suffice." Takakura crouched, peeking around the front of a transport.

Frantic rifle fire tore through the night at the other end of the field, a wild continuous blaze of at least twenty rifles on full automatic. A bestial roar rose above it all, and there were the horrifying sounds of men dying in fear, and then the firing became wildly unorganized and sporadic. Even from a distance Takakura could tell from the white muzzle blasts that some of them were firing in all directions or into the air, lost in war madness and fear.

"Now is our chance," he rasped. "While it is engaged we will take up a flanking position near the right listening post. If it comes for them next, then perhaps we can make contact with it before it hits. We must move quickly."

Forsaking greater stealth for speed because the far end of the field still thundered with rifle fire and an occasional bellow that could only have come from a man knowing death was upon him, they located the listening post without being sighted and took up a discreet flanking position. Takakura laid the M-14 across the hood of a Humvee, turning on the starlight scope. And Taylor angled across to the back, securing himself inside the rear of a tent-covered transport truck with a thirty-foot clear range at the probable area of contact.

Startlingly, the next chaotic cries and rifle fire erupted behind them, near the front of the lot.

It was incredible; the thing had traveled the entire expanse of the twenty-acre pool in fifteen seconds, effortlessly bypassing a thirty-man platoon securing the center, to launch an attack on troops searching the south end.

"God help us," Taylor whispered. It seemed incredible that they had survived it in the mountains — unless it was becoming stronger, more cunning, and more powerful as it continued to mutate.

Broken rifle fire over a hundred yards behind them erupted, as if they couldn't acquire the target and were simply firing into the darkness. Then the truck, a ten-ton rig with a twenty-foot wooden bed suddenly tilted toward the hood — silence, staring, not moving, staring — and with lionish velocity and grace the massive manlike shape sailed over Taylor's hidden form, landing fully ten feet from the fender, hurling itself forward as it struck the ground.

Almost before Taylor could rise to his knee and fire, it had struck the first man in the listening post, a sweeping blow from a taloned hand that finished the scream. But the second man managed a quick shot that went wide before the same hand struck his chest, smashing through the Kevlar vest like straw and—

Taylor pulled the trigger.

The blast was blinding. Taylor leaped from the truck to see it leaning back against the door, holding a hand to its shoulder. It gazed at him in anger, but without pain, and opened a fanged mouth, unleashing a roar that felt like a hand pressing against Taylor's armored chest.

Taylor roared and pulled the trigger again, only dimly aware of distant shots that told him backup was coming fast. But not fast enough.

As the bestial image of death rushed forward on horrible bowed legs, arms outstretched beneath glaring red eyes, Taylor pulled the trigger again and again, focusing all his skill, all his will, all his training and experience to make certain each of the twelve rounds hit solid. He sensed rather than saw Takakura's leaping shape as he emerged from behind a Humvee and dropped to a knee, instantly sighting and firing. Then the creature was upon him.

Taylor fired his last round.

He saw a depthless wall of gray might that blocked out the night and sky and stars and light; taller, inhumanly massive and indestructible with awful glee glaring from the purest bestial fury. Then it seemed to angle left, its right arm raised high, and Taylor leaped into it, roaring in rage as he reached for his Bowie knife to—

"NO!" Takakura shouted as Taylor, standing for a strange moment, fell back before the beast. In the shadows Takakura saw that a wide portion of the commando's chest had been torn cleanly away, leaving half a man falling backward to the ground. The creature tossed a black mass to the side, and turned its grotesque face toward Takakura.

Fangs parted in a menacing smile.

Takakura saw the other soldiers converging on the site — twenty seconds — and dropped to a knee, firing all that remained in the thirty-round clip at the creature as it strode slowly forward. So contemptuous was it of the Japanese and the rifle that it did not rush at all, but came with thundering, remorseless strides that closed the distance in horrible certainty.

Somewhere in the last few rounds Takakura understood its inhuman pleasure at a slow kill and spaced the bullets, firing the last one — it was still moving slowly — when it was five feet away. It opened its fanged mouth in an explosive roar.

Gambling that it would expect him to react as the others had reacted at its horrific image and approach, Takakura lifted the rifle in a frightened stance, feigning shock. Gloating, growling, it raised its right hand high, fangs wide with a hellish smile.

Takakura moved.

With the speed and skill perfected from a lifetime of kendo he dropped the rifle and quick-drew the long katana, angling the sword through a cross-body cut with all the strength of his back and arms and wrists. The entire movement, from the time his hands left the gun until the momentum of his cut carried him to the side, had lasted less than a second.

A normal man would have been cut cleanly in half through the hips. But the thing staggered forward a space, glaring down at the deep gash torn in its chest, blood already descending in dark rivulets. Then it turned slowly in a tight half-circle, staring at itself, then at Takakura with an odd mixture of shock and anger.

Takakura knew he would not be so lucky next time. He had deceived it with its own pride. But now it knew it could be injured by the katana. It would not make the same mistake twice.

The other platoons now reached the site and opened fire. Takakura ducked away as they unleashed hundreds of rounds at the creature. Glaring back in the deafening smoke-choked atmosphere Takakura could see the lead impacting against the thick skin, bouncing or flattening and utterly failing to penetrate.

Yet its rage ran deep, for despite the concentrated attack it came for Takakura again, who stood sword in hand. Takakura knew it would kill him this time; if his first masterful blow had not been enough to finish it, then he could not kill it at all. And although the Japanese moved as quickly as he could, far quicker than most men, it was on top of him as he hit the ground, rolling under a thirty-ton Dooley.

Charging at the last, it struck the gigantic transport vehicle in the door with its shoulder — a thunderous impact that shattered glass and half-lifted the Dooley from the ground — and a split second later Takakura saw the wide steel door ripped away and hurled into shadow.

It reached beneath the cab to snatch him and Takakura scampered to the far side, narrowly avoiding the reach of that colossal arm and rending talons.

But he knew he couldn't keep up the game; sooner or later it would get him. Then the entire night was a wall of rifle fire, illuminating everything — the Dooley, tires, vehicles, lights, the fence, and the creature, screaming and roaring in the apocalyptic night. And with a hideous bellow it charged fully through a line of soldiers, hesitating only a heartbeat to kill anyone in reach, and was lost.

Stunned, breathless, and shocked, Takakura rolled onto his back, feeling his chest, checking for injury. As caught up as he was in battle, he knew he could be hit in half a dozen places and not notice. After a moment, as scattered fighting continued to rage — the creature continuing to play its game of devastating guerrilla attacks — he rolled out from beneath the truck and wearily gained his footing.

He searched for his rifle, saw a dozen slaughtered troops in the smoking opening. Then he staggered forward as an invisible fist whistled in from the darkness — a rocket he did not see but sensed — and an unseen baseball bat hit him hard in the chest, fully flattening him back against the ground.

Groaning, rolling, fighting violently for breath, Takakura knew what it was: a stray .223 round had found him. He had not been the target, but so many rounds fired in so small a place would eventually find friendly casualties.

Breathless, dazed, and nauseated, he managed to detach the bulky load-bearing vest, dropping it to the ground. Then, eyes blurring, he ripped away two of the Velcro straps securing the bulletproof vest, feeling his sweat-slicked chest beneath.

He groaned, too tired to feel relief.

No, it hadn't penetrated.

As he struggled to rise, he felt the night whiter, lighter, warm, and hazy. He took one staggering step… two…

Blackness rushed up.

Hunter heard Brick hurl the elephant rifle violently across a desk and began to rise when, on impulse, Hunter whirled, swiping with the speed of a leopard with the Bowie. The butt of the hilt caught Hamilton, also attempting to rise, square on the cluster of nerves located midway up the neck, and the physician fell limp to the tiles.

Reorienting, Hunter saw the second guard's rifle lying close but still too far to reach without exposing himself. So he risked a quick glance and saw that the other four had opened up on Brick's position with fully automatic fire, apparently forgetting him in the presence of an armed and obviously very dangerous intruder firing upon them.

Launching himself forward, Hunter dove and snatched up the M-16 as he sailed over the cleaved body of the second soldier. Then he hit the ground and rolled, instantly finding cover behind a thick metal desk as one of the guards glimpsed the bold move and fired, bullets tearing through the steel panels.

Moving quickly, Hunter rounded half a dozen corners and threw his back against the wall as he ripped out the magazine. Shaking his head to clear his face from the sudden eruption of sweat, he saw that it held thirty rounds. So he set the selector switch on fully automatic and chambered a cartridge, insuring that the safety was off. Holding the rifle close, he angled back to the firefight.

Brick had obviously hurled the Weatherby aside after the first two thunderous rounds — there had been no time to reload — and was using the semiauto. Listening and catching quick glimpses of desperate black shapes outlined by a strobe of gunfire, Hunter targeted two of the guards. He lowered the barrel around a corner, taking time to adjust for elevation, and pulled the trigger.

Recoil was greater than he'd anticipated and he lowered the aim quickly, striking both guards, the equipment around them, and the floor, losing a number of rounds into the ceiling before he completely adjusted. But when he turned and retreated, breathlessly selecting a new line of attack, he had acclimated. Not as bad as a 30.30, the M-16 nevertheless became quickly unmanageable on fully auto if a firm grip wasn't applied to the stock. With no backup magazines, Hunter realized he would have to conserve rounds.

Raging, firing, cursing, and roaring, Brick was holding his own against the surviving four, and Hunter located him by the distinctive sound of the rifle. It was a louder, booming blast that by comparison made the M-16's sound weak and wispy. Then the shooting stopped — stopped all at once to a ringing silence — and Hunter froze.

He had been halfway to his intended location when somehow, somewhere far above they heard the report of a tremendous explosion, followed by a subterranean vibration that rattled the floor and walls and ceiling.

Hunter knew it had begun.

He had to get up top.

He had to reach Bobbi Jo.

"No," Bobbi Jo whispered as the tanker exploded, engulfing a third of the compound in flame.

It had finally happened, as she knew it would. The wild and erratic rifle fire of the troops had found the gasoline tank, and now the compound roared with the inferno. Night rushed over her head, sucked into a firestorm that created its own wind.

She saw probably thirty troops fully aflame, rushing blindly around the motor pool. Other soldiers grabbed them and threw them to the ground only to have their arms and legs light up from the rain of fire still spiraling from the sky. She shook her head, shocked at the carnage.

Never had she seen anything like this. This was the end of the world, a war fought in hell with the devil among them. They would die tonight, she thought. Every one of them. They would die.

Her attention was snapped awake as she saw a Herculean form striding, neither fast nor slow, from behind a Humvee, moving for the back of a soldier assisting a burn victim. She didn't need any more to recognize that Goliath-like profile — the shaggy squared head with gray hair sweeping back — and her eye was at the scope. She had instantly flicked off the safety, sighting solid.

She knew the range by heart: 120 yards.

Point-of-aim contact.

It raised wide hands when it was ten feet away from the unaware victim…

Bobbi Jo fired.

The incredible blast of the Barrett blinded her for a split second and she blinked. A moment later she saw the unwounded soldier already on his feet, firing his rifle at the creature, prostrate beside the Humvee. The burn victim had ceased moving, lay still in the flame.

The next explosion, from generators overheated by the burning tanker, rocked the mountains around them. Thousands of gallons of gasoline stored in the shed for emergencies went up with a small nuclear-shaped mushroom cloud of fire that scorched her face though she was three hundred yards away. The roar of the explosion continued on and on into the distant cold night, reverberating from mountain to mountain, over the world.

Bobbi Jo shouted at the secondary concussion, a breathtaking shock wave that shook the building. Blasted-out windows and rocketing antennas clattered behind her as they fell.

She was instantly up and searching, flicking on starlight illumination to acquisition the creature in the flame-lit night. She didn't find it beside the Humvee where it had fallen. It wasn't finishing off the wounded from the explosions. It wasn't slaughtering the last group of unwounded soldiers huddled tightly in the middle of the compound. Struck by quick fear she swung the scope, searching desperately for that terrifying—

"No!" she screamed.

It landed with solid intent on the cab of a truck less than twenty feet away and she fired. But even as the Barrett discharged she knew she had missed and set her shoulder tight against the butt, forgoing the scope; at this range she didn't need it.

Ten soldiers stationed on the roof opened up with her, a cascade of lead pouring defiantly down, but it leaped forward and at the ground launched itself powerfully forward, running full speed — a wild bull with the speed of a cheetah — to smash with awesome force into the steel door securing the rear of the building. Following its lightning-quick strides they tracked a devastating deluge of lead, centering on its mutated form until it burst the door from its hinges and bolts and vanished.

Soldiers on the roof, already electrified with panic at the horrifying slaughter in the motor pool, erupted in confused panic and contradictory orders. Then Maddox, fear and desperation strengthening his spine, bellowed for them to lay down a cross fire with the M-60's — heavy-caliber, fully automatic machine guns that were the major small arms of the Vietnam era — on the single door leading to the roof.

They moved with the efficiency of action inspired by life-and-death situations. In quick time they had the door covered. If it could walk through that concentrated barrage, there would be no stopping it. Ever.

Crouching behind the short wall that hid her profile from the ground, Bobbi Jo reviewed what she knew about it, tried to remember what Hunter had told her. It was difficult to think but she concentrated, closing her eyes briefly to regain control. A few breaths, and she analyzed what it had done…

Would it simply come up the stairs?

Did it ever attack as they anticipated?

Flashing through every confrontation that she'd suffered with the creature, she knew that only one thing was indisputable. It never attacked like you anticipated.

"Not this time, no," she whispered, running to the south side of the building, searching down. Nothing. She ran to the east, behind the cubicle that housed the stairway, to the warning cries of soldiers. They were simultaneously screaming at her, ten voices bellowing the same thing, colliding with each other for supremacy; "Bobbijo! Get out of the way! If it breaks the door we'll have to shoot you, too!"

Grimacing with physical exhaustion and ravaged nerves, she searched over the edge. Nothing.

"Get out of the way, Bobbi!" a soldier bellowed with concern and rage.

Sweat pouring, Bobbijo ran for the north side as—

She saw it emerge, backlit by roaring flame that reached hundreds of feet into the air, and it did not see her. And she knew; it had simply leaped, as before, clearing the twenty feet to land on the edge of the roof. It landed hulking and bent, broad bowed head glaring at the backs of those who'd been deceived. As she stopped and spun the Barrett, sighting from the hip, it noticed her and turned its head slowly.

Snarled.

What happened next could only happen to those who knew they would surely die, here and now, if they did not reach deep within, to that place where even professional soldiers rarely went, for that last measure of courage.

Bobbi Jo fired and the impact was high in its torso, slamming it back against the wall. Mentally she calculated how many rounds remained in the magazine: two. She fired the next as it leaped, and she hit it again, center chest contact. It staggered a step before it fell onto its face, folding slowly to its knees, a hand rising with a growl. Bobbi Jo dropped the near-empty clip and did a tactical reload, slamming in a new magazine of five rounds.

The rest of the platoon, well aware of its surprise attack by now and having adjusted to swing aim, opened up together. And at the irritating impacts, bruised and burned and somehow bloodied, the creature rose and ran toward Bobbi Jo.

Standing solid, Bobbi Jo frowned: there was nothing else to do,

She fired, teeth emerging in a snarl, the six-foot flame almost joining them past the long barrel. It roared, grunted, staggered, and she raised aim, hitting it again as the Barrett lit the rooftop with its devastating muzzle blast. She hit its chest, heart, placed another round to the heart, saw her last bullet tear off a chunk of its neck.

It stood, staggered off balance, as if in shock. Apparently deeply wounded, broken, it twisted slightly away from her, placing a monsters hand against its savaged throat.

Frowning — with nowhere to retreat to, anyway — Bobbi Jo dropped the clip and inserted another in less than a second, racking the six-inch bolt almost for the sheer pleasure of letting it know what was coming. But her action didn't get its attention. It staggered away, clutching its throat, groaning.

"Hey!" she shouted. "We ain't finished!"

The thing staggered toward the platoon.

"Bobbi Jo!" they screamed together. "Get out of the way!"

It closed on them.

They were in each other's line of fire. The platoon couldn't shoot the creature without also shooting her, and she couldn't open up with the Barrett with them so close in front of it.

Ten more steps and it would be on them.

She didn't have time to run to the sides.

She read the panic on their faces: God help me, they have to be able to shoot…

Twisting her head, she glared over the edge of the roof, saw a twenty-foot drop to a rusty brown gazebo above the kitchen door. Trash cans littered the tiny area. Only for a tenth of a second did she consider the possibility of a safe descent. Then, Barrett in hand, she placed the other hand on the waist-high wall and vaulted into the night.

"Kill it!" she screamed as she was claimed by the fall.

Behind her the sky was instantly lit by strobe and roars and wounded rage. It continued as white flashed past her and she struck something hard that shattered, surrendering, and closed.

She struck again, harder.

She lay there, hair across her face.

Then darkness.

Clenching his teeth with heated emotion and adrenaline surging in his system, Hunter narrowly suppressed the impulse to rush, knowing it would be a mistake. Then, moving carefully but wasting no time, he rose and continued forward.

As quickly as the gunfire had halted it began again, Brick viciously returning as good as he got, and then Hunter had come up behind them, more worried about Brick's unceasing wall of lead than the two soldiers yet unaware of his presence.

Just as Hunter edged carefully around a concrete pillar he glimpsed Brick's flattop-gray image — an old, big guy with teeth clenched in rage firing a fully automatic rifle with beefy arms — erupt from behind an overturned desk. Ducking back instantly Hunter evaded the cascading round that ripped steel and plastic and buried his section of the room in rifle fire. He waited until the barrage broke, then dropped the barrel of the M-16 around the edge and fired.

One guard went down as the other turned, raising aim. Hunter ducked back again as cement was reduced to chalk, and then Brick's enraged voice cut through the booming chaos.

"Vis a vous, darlin'!"

Hunter didn't look but knew who had fired first. Then he peeked out to see Brick standing coldly over the last guard. Massacred by a long stream of 7.62's fired from what Hunter now recognized as a cut down AK-47, the guard was unmoving. Brick dropped a banana clip and withdrew another from his vest, racking the slide. When he looked at Hunter, his face held no remorse, no emotion.

"I think we got 'em all," the big man said.

Even so, Hunter knew what he had said more by vision than sound because he was temporarily deafened. He shook his head a moment and dropped the clip from the M-16, pausing to remove a bandoleer from one of the dead guards that had another six full clips. He inserted a full thirty-round mag and racked the bolt, rising as Brick approached carrying the Weatherby. The big man snapped the breech shut as another explosion rocked the laboratory.

"They started without us." Brick looked up, his voice low and controlled. "We'd better kick in and join the party."

"Yeah," Hunter mumbled, moving away quickly. He opened the door of the vault — a refrigerated, lead-reinforced chamber about twenty by twenty — and walked inside. In reality, it was simply a large freezer, and nitrogen-cooled mist rushed into the brightly lit room as he searched through the cold white atmosphere.

"I don't think I'd go in there without one of them blue suits, kid." Brick stood at a respectful distance, watching. "I heard everything, know the score. And we can take 'em down without the serum. There's enough proof, or there will be, once this is over. Come on," he added anxiously, "we're missing the fireworks."

Ignoring Brick's plea, Hunter located the serum module and spun the smoothly designed cylinder until he saw it: HD-66. It was surprisingly slim, a plastic bag filled to the top with an amber liquid. In appearance it was not unlike a saline bag used to rehydrate hospital patients, and Hunter slipped it in a small black canvas bag as he crossed the lab, moving for the elevator. They had used the ventilation shaft to descend, but they'd make it public when they re-emerged.

"You got anything else to do?" Brick shouted.

Frowning menacingly, Hunter walked toward the cylinder.

"Just one thing," he said.

He stopped directly in front of it and fired the M-16 from the base of the magnificent cylindrical sarcophagus to the crest and down again. Glowing green phosphorescence exploded into the electromagnetic field and the copper coils erupted violently with electrical discharge.

The proto-human body hung for a moment before its great weight completely disintegrated the glass coffin. Hunter held aim, continued firing until the entire atmosphere was heated by the holocaust and the body pitched forward in an ages-overdue death.

It was shredded by the unceasing assault before it crashed into the copper and exploded instantly into flames, ignited by the spiraling electrical surge loosed by the short-circuited wiring.

Merciless, Hunter watched the body consumed by flames.

Turned away.

"Let's go," he said coldly.

Shocked at the carnage, Brick turned with him.

"Jesus, Hunter," he whispered.

Knowing it was likely their emergence would go unnoticed as the fight raged aboveground, Hunter speed-reviewed everything he had just learned about the creature. That it had once been a man was of no use; what it had been and what it had become were as night and day. He was already familiar with its enhanced healing ability. Only the revelation that it had a life span over ten times that of man had been new, and that had no bearing on the battle.

The elevator doors opened to a night already torn with flame and smoke and colliding sounds of rifle fire. Soldiers sprinted chaotically through the blackness and, somewhere in the distance, the louder roar of something huge surrendered to an inferno. Hunter felt a brief moment of panic.

But you have what it wants… it will come after you.

Use it…

Brick was at the door, almost filling it with his bulk. He pressed his back pressed against the frame as he glared outside, turned his slag face to Hunter. "Can't see jack in all this smoke!" he coughed. "The thing musta’ knocked out the power! Look, I'm gonna partner up with Chaney if I can find him in this mess! Where're you gonna be?"

Mounting stairs that led to the roof three at a time, Hunter called back, "I'm going high to get a visual! If I can get its attention, I think I can lure it away from the complex!"

Brick barreled into the night as Hunter turned on the stairs, ascending quickly as the howls and cries of the wounded and dying followed him.

Stunned almost into unconsciousness, Bobbi Jo rolled slowly across something flat and hard before realizing it was a section of tin. Blindly reorienting, she reached out and felt for the Barrett, found a section of severed steel.

With a groan that emerged as a curse, she brutally forced herself to a knee. The shock of plummeting through the overhang had numbed her entire body. She knew she might have numerous broken bones or other serious injuries, but was thankful that for now the volcanic adrenaline would prevent her from feeling them.

Acclimating to the reduced light, she found the Barrett and attempted to lift it, but failed.

Taking a deep breath she looked around and saw that no one else had made the jump. The roof above was silent while the grounds on the far side of the building seemed to reverberate with chaotic cries and panicked howls. Gritting her teeth, she slung the heavy sniper rifle from her shoulder, poised to fire from the hip, and racked the bolt to chamber a round.

Instantly she was moving at a fast walk, uncertain of her injuries. But she found that she could move well enough, and rounded a corner to see the storage shed in back fully ablaze.

From skills honed in a thousand training missions, she felt her load-bearing vest for the extra five clips and confirmed they were still in place. She reached the back of the building and boldly stood in the open, searching coldly for the humped silhouette. She saw nothing but scores of wounded, some with their limbs torn from sockets and rolling in abysmal pain, others clutching huge empty holes in their body where the clawed hand had struck a fiendish blow.

Eyes narrowing, she searched, but it was not there. Nor was it on the roof. But it was somewhere close; the German shepherds were frantically howling and barking, each of them confused by terror and pain and the alien creature that strode with demoniacal power and wrath among them, leaving devastation and death in its wake.

A large figure came around the fir end of the complex and she swung the Barrett, finger tightening hard to—

Brick saw her outlined against the raging flame of the shed and waved hard, signaling. She ran as hard as her bruised body would allow, painfully halting before him as he gasped, "I think it may have gone…inside." He breathed hard a moment, face contorted with the effort. "How many still alive?"

She found the strength to shake her head. "Not… not many. Most of them are dead, the rest are dying. Their wounds… God, I've never seen anything like it…we can't do anything for them." She lowered her head, fighting the pain of a possible concussion. "Where’s Hunter?"

"He's alive," Brick responded as if that in itself were a miracle. "But he won't be for long if we can't put this thing down. They're going to go head-to-head."

"I know," Bobbi Jo whispered, and together they ran for the side door; it was locked. Without words they loped as fast as possible to the front and it was Bobbi Jo who saw it first, Brick close behind. What happened next was chaotic — a glimmering black monstrosity holding the ravaged body of a soldier. The victim's entrails hung long and black and glistening, trailing into the night as the thing gloated at the feast. The soldier bore little semblance to a human form: its arms were severed at midshaft, its trunk had been eviscerated, and its shattered head fell backward on a broken neck.

It sensed their presence, turned its hulking torso.

Dropping the soldier, it leaped forward, hurling its monstrous form across the compound, the long legs covering the distance with superhuman strength and speed.

Savagely raising the Barrett with a vicious scream, Bobbi Jo fired instantly and the night was rocked by the thunderous blast. Then Brick had dropped to a knee and targeted as the massive black form seemed to stop magically in midair, held suspended above the ground, before it landed solidly. And in a space of time that had no true measurement, both of Brick's .454-caliber rounds hit it solidly, staggering it backward.

Not waiting to see the result of the shots, Bobbi Jo had cut loose with the Barrett, the .50 shells hurled thirty feet from her position as she pulled the trigger again and again, firing from the hip, each bullet flying true to hit the pectorals before it raised gorilla arms in front of its face and turned, running with long leaps that seemed to barely touch the ground. Brick had reloaded and his third round hit it squarely in the wedged back, propelling it forward. Roaring in rage, it staggered slightly as it rounded the corner, and the ex-marshal's last bullet pulverized a foot-wide section of cement.

Already Bobbi Jo had speed-changed clips, chambering another of the five .50-caliber magazines. She expelled a hard breath and waited for Brick to rip the smoking brass cartridges out and insert two more from the bandoleer. Then he snapped it hard and nodded. She didn't need more communication than that.

As they began to move forward a hand snatched her from the shoulder to pull her back. Brick whirled, prepared to fire from the hip before he recognized the flame-etched profile.

Bobbi Jo leaped into him. "Hunter!"

"Come on," he whispered, "we can't fight it like this."

Instantly, wasting no time on preliminaries, he crept back down the wall and Bobbi Jo asked no questions, though she recognized a fullness that had erupted in her breast at the welcome sight of his face. They edged carefully around the corner, separated only a few steps, and closed on the open rear entrance.

"We've got to pull back," Hunter whispered. But his eyes, constantly scanning, never looked at them. "If we try to fight it in the open, we'll lose. We have to trap it somewhere and then open up on it with all we've got. If we can hit with enough heavy rounds in a short enough period of time, we can put it down."

Despite the sweat that masked his face and plastered his ragged mane back over his head, Hunter appeared to be suffering little from exhaustion. His words were terse and his balance and poise perfect as he led them silently closer to the steel portal.

Brick's hoarse voice reached forward.

"Where's Chaney?" lie gasped. "And the Jap? They were securing the motor pool and back fence."

Turning her head briefly, Bobbi Jo stared at him. "Taylor, he's dead. I saw him go down. And then Takakura went down but I don't know if he’s dead." She bent forward in a sharp surge of pain before shaking her head wearily. "I… I don't know where Chaney is."

"Okay, this is how we're gonna play it," Hunter whispered, glancing inside the doorway to note the red glare of emergency lights. He looked at them. "I'm going out there to try to find anybody that's still alive. Did you say Chaney and Takakura were at the back fence?"

"Yes." Bobbi Jo nodded as she wiped sweat-plastered hair from her forehead.

"Good. All right, secure this door. It's the only door that's open and the rest are welded shut. I've checked." He gave them a moment, but there were no objections.

"So give me ten minutes or until you see that thing coming again. Then you've got to shut and somehow bolt the door whether I'm back or not. The bolt is busted so you'll have to somehow wedge it and keep firing to keep it away from a rush. Weld it shut if you can. And once the door's shut, it stays shut. Get on the radio if you can find it and call for an emergency extraction…" He glanced at the Blackhawk — unmolested by the beast's rage as if it did not understand the importance of the machine — before he looked at Brick. "Unless one of you can fly that thing."

Bobbi Jo shook her head, drawing deep breaths.

"Not a chance in hell," Brick rasped.

"That's what I thought," Hunter responded, revealing no trace of disappointment or fear as he moved away from the wall. "Look sharp and use your ears. And don't forget to keep checking the roof up there for silhouettes. It might climb up the other side and attack you from above. Look quick."

"You'd better take this." Brick handed him the Weatherby and bandoleer. "You got two fresh rounds. They hurt him, but it ain't gonna put him down for the count."

Without another word or expression, Hunter loped quickly and lightly across the yard with silent, tiger-like leaps. He did not slow down until he reached the motor pool, engulfed in darkness.