Hunter

Chapter 6

Fangs distended beneath gleaming red eyes, he stalked into the light of a pale moon that hung like a haggard skull over the mountains. Hulking and horrific, his slouched shoulders swelled beneath a vaguely human face and savage glare.

With animal grace he reached up to brush a branch aside and moved into a wide grassy glade, now that his sleep was done — and that what he had once been was gone.

As he entered the light he could be seen — hunched, tremendously muscular, hands slightly clutched. Long black talons extended from his fingers. He was distinctly mannish, though his bulk and brutal muscularity surpassed anything that could be called human.

He would attack them at night, he had decided. And when the moment was right, he would kill them all. For he had expected them to follow, had known that they would follow and try to destroy him for what he had done. Yes, he would kill them all, but not yet. He would not kill them until he cornered them in a place where their helicopters and support teams could not be their salvation.

Another day, and perhaps another.

He thought back over what he had observed…

During the day he had carefully watched the man who wore the moccasins, the one who moved with the wolf, following its steps so surely. And although he did not recognize fear as they knew fear, he knew he could not escape this one as he had the others.

Yes, he would have to kill the man first. Then the others would be chattel, slain at his leisure as he hunted them through the days and nights. Perhaps, if they were fortunate, some might escape. But he would kill the man with the radio quickly so they could not communicate; he understood this much of their ways.

Snarling, his mind returned angrily to the man…

Yes, he was dangerous; a hateful phantom of days when he had battled truly powerful enemies who had injured him. For certain, with the man he must strike quickly, and finish quickly.

The rest would be prey.

Although he was outnumbered, he was supremely confident because he was faster, stronger, and far more cunning than they. Nor did he fear pain, as he sometimes had when they had blanketed him with bullets and explosions.

Although he did not fully understand this new body, he knew that its hardened flesh was amazingly resistant to modern weapons. Now, all he needed was the rest of the serum to make himself complete, old man and new man; the perfect being.

The fact that he had won this hybrid rage from something lost to the earth for eons did not disturb him. Yes, it was enough to be alive, and if he could only retrieve the serum, he knew he would never know death as mortals knew death.

He stood in the deepest darkness, staring from a ridge over their camp where their fire burned.

Yes, he muttered, laughing, use your fire. As they did before. But we slaughtered you then.

We will slaughter you again.

Darkness shimmered on the edge of the campfire.

In the eerie silence, Taylor inserted and ejected.12-gauge double-ought rounds from a shotgun, working the gun with mechanical precision, almost an extension of the machine. Varied shotguns were positioned around him, and he wore a sawed-off double-barrel with a cut-down stock on his hip. On his other side was a large-caliber handgun. He was the most heavily armed man on the team, and the largest. The great weight of ammo and guns didn't seem to disturb him at all.

One of the weapons slung across his back was an M-16-type cut-down shotgun that exchanged clips filled with.12-gauge rounds, just as soldiers exchanged clips loaded with .223 cartridges. Across one shoulder was a bandoleer of shells. Across the other shoulder was a belt containing magazines for the automatic shotgun.

Hunter hadn't spoken to Taylor until he was preparing to bed down for the night. But he glanced up as Taylor approached and asked, "Why mess with all them sticks and leaves? Think that's gonna keep you from freezing to death?"

"Usually works well enough," Hunter said, simply.

A pause.

"You know, Hunter. You're good." He seemed to think about it. "Fact is, you're real good. Maybe the best I ever seen. But I don't like guys like you."

Hunter shrugged. "Doesn't make much difference, does it?"

"Does to me."

"Well," Hunter replied as he carefully placed a piece of bark, "look at it like this, Taylor. If you're as good as they say you are, you won't have to put up with me much longer, anyway."

Silence. Then Taylor grunted. "I knew a guy like you back in 'Nam. Real mystical. A tracker. Indian dude. Used to talk to spirits, all that shit. Everybody liked him. Until all them great spirits led us into an ambush and they ended up dog meat."

"Sorry about that, Taylor." Hunter finished his task with a curved piece of bark. "But, truth is, I don't do much talking to spirits, divine or otherwise. So you shouldn't have anything to worry about."

After a moment Taylor mumbled something low to himself and walked toward his tent.

Hunter had become accustomed to the sergeant's fire-scarred face. One half was permanently reddened and smooth, the dead eye gazing from a broad, determined brow, the other dark and fierce, changing in a breath from concentrated and distant to personal and close and threatening. Working through the aftermath of the conversation, Hunter sensed yet another presence approaching but didn't turn because he identified it by the familiar soft stride.

Each hour, he had noticed, his senses were becoming more acute, his eyes adjusting to a keenness he hadn't experienced in a long time. There was a renewed acuity for distant searching, and he could read the faintest ghost of a track without a magnifying glass. He could see distant ridges clearly while the rest relied upon cumbersome binoculars. And he knew his senses would sharpen even more as the track progressed.

It was a phenomenon that sometimes happened, sometimes not. For in thick jungle, where only limited vision was necessary, his eyesight never seemed to improve. But in this vast wilderness where a clear superiority of vision was required, he usually adjusted quickly. He heard Bobbi Jo behind him.

"What's that?" she asked.

"A leaf hut," he said without turning. "I learned how to make it when I was a kid."

"It's not very big."

"That's what makes it work."

"How's that?"

Hunter shrugged. "You create a small cocoon with leaves and sticks, place some bark on the outside to keep out the rain, insulate it good so there's nothing but dead air and you're set. Body heat warms the space, the dry leaves keep the heat inside. The bark keeps out the moisture. It works well in any environment."

She knelt, rifle in hand, and studied the structure. "But it's only closed on three sides. It's gonna get pretty cold tonight."

Glancing at her, Hunter gestured vaguely at the fire. "I'll heat a few stones and put them just outside the entrance. That'll do for the night."

"So this is why you don't carry any equipment?" She seemed more interested in him now than the hut. " 'Cause you can just live off the land?" She smiled, something Hunter hadn't yet seen; it won his attention. She added with a laugh, "A Tarzan kinda thing?"

He laughed with her. "I guess it's something like that."

Uninvited, she squatted beside him, watching him work. "Where did you learn to do all this, Hunter? I've had expert jungle training under covert programs where they allow women in combat and—"

"And where would that be?" Hunter asked.

She paused. "In the government," she said, a meaningful bluntness to it. "The only place where they'll take a woman in combat."

"Impressive," he replied. "I respect that."

"Do you really?"

"Sure," he continued. "Why wouldn't I?"

She wrapped her arms around her knees. "You know, seems to me somebody like you wouldn't respect much at all."

He smiled but didn't look. "Why's that?"

"Oh, I don't know," she remarked vaguely. "What they told us in the briefing was that you can survive out here or anywhere. You're rich. Famous. You come up with all those cures for diseases and stuff. You have mansions and penthouses and yet you prefer to live in that old broken-down log cabin. Like you don't really need any of that fancy stuff." She paused; the smile still hovered on his bronzed face. "They told us all that but they couldn't answer my questions. So…what's the score?" she continued, watching closer. "That is, if you don't mind my asking."

He shrugged. "No special reason. You're right. I don't need the rest of that stuff. Neither does anyone else, either. But I have it: I use it for a good purpose."

"You think this is a good purpose?"

"Yeah," he said, a slight lifting of his brow. "Yeah, I do."

Silence.

Bobbi Jo leaned forward. "What'd you do before this?"

"Spent most of my life just surviving," he replied. "An old trapper taught me how to live off the land when I was just a kid. So I traveled out in the Northwest, just tracking, living in the wild. It's all the same as a city, anyway. 'Cause everything you need to survive is beside you. Food, shelter, clothing. A man could come out here with nothing but a knife and an ax and make a home for himself." He laughed. "Not real smart, but it's possible. This place is a lot harder than any other that I've seen. Hard country, for sure."

"I truly think you'd need more than just a knife."

Hunter turned his head. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." She gestured toward her pack. "That's my pack, and it's got the bare minimum for surviving in this terrain. And I'm someone who actually knows what she's doing. I can survive almost anywhere, but I need everything in that pack."

"Like a tent?" Hunter smiled.

Bobbi Jo looked at the structure he had completed in less than a half hour. It looked absolutely solid and, despite herself, she believed that it would be as warm as anything they had brought.

He continued, "You mean like all that food you carry?" He motioned vaguely. "You see that tree?"

"Yeah, I see it."

"That's a white oak. And a handful of those acorns, even the ones on the ground, will give you more protein than you'll find in a ten-ounce steak. They're not too bitter and you can eat them raw. And over there" — he pointed to the side—"is some purslane. Dig up the root bulbs and boil them just like potatoes and they'll give you vitamins and minerals." He continued speaking as he worked, not looking up. "We're surrounded by tamarack trees. Cut off the shoots and they're as good as any vegetable, and tastier. And you can use the stems as bow drills. Then on the other side of this clearing is some wintergreen. It's a plant."

"Yes, thank you. I know what it is."

With a patient smile he continued, "Yeah, well, anyway, boil wintergreen and the leaves make a tea that reduces fever better than anything in a hospital. It's good for a sore throat and the tea is full of vitamins." He shrugged. "It goes on and on. You're surrounded by a pharmacy and all the food you would ever need. And if you need clothing there are plenty of places for snares, deadfalls, bow pits. We passed over about a hundred trails and runs and beds today with everything from bobcat to beaver, so there's an abundance of food. And they're easy enough to catch with your hand if you know how. And this place is alive with fish, which I've already built a trap cage for. In the morning, while you're preparing your MRJEs, I'll cook up a couple of trout and eat them. Or eat them raw. Doesn't matter. What hurts you and the rest of these guys is that you try to overcome the land instead of taking advantage of it."

Bobbi Jo was silent, but her eyes had narrowed as he talked. Then he was finished and rose, walked slowly around the hut. He shook it with his hand: It was solid. It would keep him warm for the night.

Kneeling, he removed three large stones from the fire and placed them near the entrance, covering them lightly with dirt. He did not seem fatigued by the work; it was as if he had lived this life for so long that his body could complete the movements by muscle memory alone. His face reflected nothing but effortless concentration; a purity of movement that came from the purest strength and patience ruled by a disciplined soul.

"You really are some kind of Tarzan, aren't you?" Bobbi Jo asked quietly. She shook her blond head as she added, "You're more at home in the wild than anyone I've ever seen." She paused. "But there's still something about you I can't figure out."

He raised his eyes with a faint smile. "What's that?"

A pause.

"I don't know," she remarked plainly. "It's something you seem to hide. But I can sometimes glimpse it in your eyes when you respond to a sound. You react with some kind of wild purity. Like a wolf. Or a tiger. It's like you've got this fantastic instinct that is just way beyond the rest of us. I… I really don't know how to describe it and I don't know whether to be afraid of it or just be glad you're on our side."

Hunter gazed down at her, silent.

He blinked, considering her words.

Really, neither did he.

Lying quietly in her tent, Bobbi Jo stared at Hunter s hut, unable to forget the great black wolf that lay slightly to his side, ever on guard even in a thin semblance of sleep. Hunter was already asleep inside the enclosure. She had noticed that when he lay down he was asleep in seconds although she figured he could stay awake far longer than the rest of them, if he chose.

She wondered about what kind of man he was inside, and what he had found out here in the wild. Perhaps it was a simplicity of life that somehow escaped him in the cultured world, but she didn't think so. It was something more. Something deeper. And for the first time in a while, she felt an attraction. Even though she tried to shield herself from such thoughts in the field, she couldn't help but recognize the sensation.

She had read his dossier and was familiar with his documented history. Of the life he had led before he emerged in the public eye, little was known.

Yes, an unusual man…

She blinked. Then she reached out and gently clutched her rifle, sensing somehow that the strength, the will, and the spirit of this enigma of a man was probably worth more than all of them and their weapons combined.

Crouching, monstrous hands clenching, he stared at the camp, studying all he could see in the moon's skull-like light. Silent and unmoving, he saw the big man who led at the front, the man who tracked with such remarkable skill. Then he studied the wolf that lay at the man's side, the black one.

Even in sleep, the wolf seemed alert. Its ears still stood straight and its face was away from the fire. He could not tell if it was gazing into the treeline. The canine black eyes melted into the utter blackness of its face but its posture was decidedly tense, as if it never relaxed. He knew that it was a creature that could possibly deliver a savage battle. As much, even, as the grizzly he had killed earlier in the day.

But by now the wounds that branded him in that fierce fight had healed; only a thin pink scar marked the moment. With his frightfully dim human intelligence — what had been his name? — he estimated that he could recover from almost any wound within a day's time, the hybrid DNA in his system somehow synthesizing to accelerate cell replication and enhanced blood generation.

Slowly, outlined against the sky, he stood, still gazing somberly on the campsite.

No, he would not attack them tonight. He would wait. He would lead them across the forest tomorrow, allowing them to close. He would lead them and let them think they were cornering him, as he would corner them, in the end. Then, when his stalking was complete, he would launch his first attack, killing several of them before he escaped again.

He did not fear injury, or the soldiers, or the wolf. Though he did, somehow, fear the man.

They would fight fiercely, as all of them did, but the titanic might in his form, in his acutely enhanced senses and his superior intelligence would be more than enough to destroy them.

Yes, to destroy all of them.

He growled as he turned into the night.