Hunter

Chapter 11

Holding a bleeding rib cage with one hand, he followed them on the slope parallel to the trail. He remained on the far side of the river, which provided more cover for his footfalls with the plenteous moss and wet leaves; he was intent on remaining unseen and unheard.

Hunger devoured him, and he realized that he must eat to rebuild his strength so that he might destroy them. But he was concerned. Soon, he was certain, he would find elk, deer, wolf or wolverine. It did not matter; he would consume them quickly, and the nutrients would power his body to transform the flesh into new flesh, strengthening it for the final hunt that lay ahead.

He growled, almost smiling, and leaped from a rock to drop almost without sound between two huge cedars that provided shadowed silence. As he landed, his ribs tore in sharp, lancing pain and he suppressed a roar. Yes, soon he must eat in order to heal, for his body was exhausted. Raising vengeful eyes, he stared at the woman. He wanted her most of all, now, after the man. For she held what could wound him.

He drew a black pointed tongue over blackened gums and his lips drew back in a submerged, vibrating snarl that made his chest close with the effort. The breath he inhaled afterwards swelled the huge nostrils that allowed him to take in oxygen at a rate far greater than these meager humans were capable of doing. He knew what they were doing, and his reddish eyes glanced at the wolf…the wolf…

He hated them all…

He raked the ground as he watched them run, forcing dirt deep beneath his claws; he loved the feeling. So he did it for a while, enjoying the pleasure. And then he glanced down and saw the ragged remnants of pants he still wore.

It mattered not.

He did not feel the cold as they felt it. Did not feel the pain of briar and rock as they felt it. Did not feel remorse at shedding their blood, or ripping their meaty hearts from their chests to squeeze the blood into his mouth like a grape. No, he felt nothing, body or soul.

His mind, or what was there before it had changed, was only some distant half-something, dim and unimportant. Though somehow, he knew, he even yet retained some ability of primitive speech — some unexpected leftover effect of this strange merging of mind and flesh. Yet it had left him with mechanical aspects of his former self. And he might yet tell them, before he killed, that he had purposefully chosen this glorious form, and infinitely preferred it to life in the puny, mortal husks that carried them around.

His mouth twisted as he tried to form words, but his vocal cords had been altered somehow, and the sounds whispered raggedly from his fanged mouth. Yes, he almost longed for the chance to speak to them — especially to the man — and tell them that he would live for ages. That he would be alive when the man's children were dust, and his children's children — that when all this faded, and fell, and rose again, he would still be alive in this godlike form.

As he considered the experience, the thought became as delicious as the flesh and blood he must soon taste.

Yes, he would speak to the man. He would torture the man with the knowledge that he was not simply a beast but that he was far, far more. And that he would always be more than they could ever imagine.

Then he thought of the others, the ones like him who would be there, waiting. And how, when he joined them with his superior mind, they would make war again. Would drive the puny ones into holes where they would feast on their brains.

His eyes narrowed as he smiled.

Yes, they would consume them.

Body and soul.

Like a sliver of shadow, Ghost came back over the ridge toward Hunter, pausing and staring, and Hunter hesitated. He turned back to see how the others were keeping up and saw that Bobbi Jo, despite her determination, was faltering badly.

There was no reason for false hope and a suicide run for the pass would only end in doom. No, they would never make it before nightfall. Not in this terrain, and not in this condition. They would be traveling through darkness for at least an hour before they reached the pass.

Too long.

He held up a hand. The professor was lowered to the ground, and Takakura came forward, holding the machine gun. "Why do we stop?"

"Because we can't make it," Hunter responded matter-of-factly. Bobbi Jo opened her mouth in protest but she was so winded that she simply-bent, heaving breath on trembling legs.

Hunter expected Takakura to protest his decision but the burly man recognized the wisdom of the move. He lowered the MP-5 to his waist and shaking his head, he searched the far side of the stream as exhaustion forced him to a knee.

Raising his eyes, Hunter looked at Taylor, who stood in place behind the stretcher, no weapon in his hands. Taylor was staring without expression, but his lack of challenge spoke for him. Whatever the commando was feeling was hidden well behind that fire-scarred face. He was a statue, a stoic image of the professional soldier who knew he would die one day as he had lived, and had prepared for it. And now that the moment had come, he would meet it like a man.

Hunter held out his hand to Takakura. "Give me the map."

Wearily it was presented and Hunter knelt, laying the rifle on the ground as Ghost came up, panting. Without even looking at the wolf he said "Guard," and Ghost began padding in loose circles, checking the wind, the ground, river, trail.

Reading the topography, Hunter searched for any defensible position. He saw a gully — no good; a flat-topped knoll nearby that allowed them to see it coming — no good; not with the disadvantage of night and their wits and senses numbed by the exhausting travails of this seemingly endless ordeal; and then…an abandoned mine.

Hunter's black-maned head twisted as he sighted it.

A mine.

A mine would have only one point of entry. A mine would be defended on three sides by impenetrable rock walls. Eyes sharpening, Hunter estimated the distance quickly and saw that it was within a quarter mile of their position. He was on his feet as he memorized the easiest and quickest route.

"Let's go," he said. "There's a place near here where we might stand a chance to last the night."

No questions were asked. Together they made a weary pilgrimage to the only site that might provide salvation.

It was late in the day when Chaney checked police reports on the fatal car accident involving Rebecca Tanus. He understood that she had veered off a dry road during a trip from her hotel, plummeting off an embankment only to be killed on impact. No foul play was suspected because there were no collision marks on the vehicle and postmortem blood tests revealed she was not intoxicated. It was listed as an accident caused on the steep downslope when a strut stabilizing the front left wheel — the wheel taking most of the stress on the turn — shattered and caused her to lose control.

Chaney thought about asking to examine the vehicle, then thought better of it. Don't go bustin' no red lights, Brick had warned. Don't go around asking a lot of questions like some hotshot investigator. Don't start attracting attention to yourself

But there was one thing that he could do before he hooked up with Brick later in the evening. He could visit Langley and discover who was in control of these facilities. There was little risk involved because by now — they weren't complete fools — they would have confirmed that this was an official investigation. And not showing up at all would be more suspicious than looking like a guy going through the motions.

It took a single easy — too easy, it seemed — phone call and Chaney was soon admitted into a secure section of Langley. As he walked toward the receptionist in what they call a "white" terminal — a section devoted to research and development as opposed to information gathering — he saw a tall, white-haired man with a clipboard and white lab coat speaking casually with another man. As Chaney stepped to the desk, the man turned.

"Marshal Chaney?" the older man asked pleasantly.

Introductions were simple and Dr. Arthur Hamilton ushered Chaney into his office. Before he even sat down in front of the desk, Chaney knew he was dealing with a heavyweight.

Where the Tipler Institute seemed to have a reserved and somewhat humble tone of intellectuality, there was nothing understated about Dr. Hamilton's office. Obviously concerned about the secretiveness of his own identity, Hamilton had a legion of impressive diplomas on display as well as a polished row of gold-plated awards, none of which Chaney recognized. Graphs and display charts recording geological information were spread on the desk.

"So, Marshal," Hamilton proceeded, "I suppose you are investigating the rather horrendous series of accidents that have plagued our facilities."

Chaney had not expected any stonewalling, at least not recognizable, and played the game. He was glad to see that his instincts had not disappointed him.

"I'm trying to determine the cause of these tragic events at the research facilities, Doctor." Chaney presented the air of a professional — a man who committed himself to an investigation without becoming personally involved. "So I have to ask you a few questions, if you have the time."

"Oh, certainly." Hamilton gestured with concern. "Believe me, Marshal Chaney, we are as anxious as anyone to discover what is attacking our personnel. These are rather expensive facilities and highly trained assistants. Neither are easily replaced. In fact, we have been forced to terminate the research temporarily. But, of course, the greatest tragedy of all is in the truly lamentable loss of life." He paused, shook his head. "Yes, quite tragic."

Chaney cleared his throat. "Just what, Doctor, is the purpose of these facilities? The military has been closing Arctic research stations for years because of the budget. Why is the Central Intelligence Agency funding such an expensive program?"

"Oh, for simple science." Hamilton responded with a wave. "You see, Marshal — and I have, of course, confirmed that you are cleared for this information — those facilities monitor seismic activity in the Arctic Circle. And because of their proximity to the Bering Strait and Siberia, we also can monitor any potential nuclear testing which still might occur." He hesitated. "The cold war is over but vigilance is the price we pay for peace. It is not a mean responsibility, and we take it very seriously."

"I'm certain that you do, Doctor." Chaney glanced at the charts. "So, these research facilities have a printed Mission Purpose?" He knew that a printed purpose of intent was mandatory for all Central Intelligence facilities, just as they were for the Marshals Service.

Chaney also realized that there were few organizations in the world, that demanded as much paperwork and documentation of covert activity as the CIA. It was a remarkable paradox in the agency's pathological quest for secrecy.

Hamilton already had the manual available and handed it graciously to Chaney. Then he sat with utter composure in the larger chair. "You may read it now, if you like," he continued. "Of course you can't make notes or take a copy with you. Even I cannot remove an operations manual from the facility. But you can take all the time you need."

Chaney perused it, noticing that a substantial amount of personnel and equipment were dedicated to advanced sonic measurement of tectonic plates. He also saw that each research station had the same SOP, or Special Operational Procedures.

"Why do these facilities all have the same SOP?" he asked, attempting to appear casually confused. "Seems like one could do the job of all six."

"No, no," Hamilton stressed. "It would appear that way, yes, but that is not the case." He retrieved a series of charts from a nearby table. "You see, each station is situated over the edge of a particular tectonic plate. Each plate, over a hundred miles in width, floats over what is known as the athenosphere, or the partially molten substance that moves the plates from time to time."

Chaney was amazed at how fluidly and persuasively the scientist expounded. He was clearly believable, which told Chaney something more: if the scientist was lying, he was a very dangerous man. He waited until Hamilton completed his lesson in geophysics.

"I see," Chaney nodded. "Then why do you think there have been so many casualties over the past two weeks? Surely this kind of information isn't worth an incident. In fact, our adversaries are probably doing the same to us. Monitoring our activities, I mean."

"Oh, I can assure you that they are," Hamilton said, and Chaney noticed that the scientist was remarkably fit for his age. Although he must have been in his sixties, his face was smooth, almost unwrinkled, and had remarkable color and tone. In fact, Chaney didn't know if he'd ever seen someone of Hamilton's age in such remarkably good physical condition. Even seated, the man had obvious strength and athleticism. He listened patiently as Hamilton described the "nefarious" attempts of our enemies to use satellite surveillance on the facilities.

"Yes, I'm sure these attempts are… nefarious," Chaney responded. "But that doesn't explain why people are dying, Doctor. I've got a body count of a hundred. Now, surely you have some idea why we have this level of… of carnage."

Hamilton shook his head. "No, Marshal, I am afraid that I do not. I only know that I have done what I know to do. I have approved a special team, some of which you are already aware of, to investigate this matter." He rose, strolling chin in hand. "I am a scientist, Marshal. Not an investigator, such as yourself. So I can assure you, you are speaking with the wrong person. Oh, I understand nature, as well as nature allows itself to be understood. But that type of knowledge is no assistance in a mystery such as this. In fact, it would be a hindrance more than anything else."

"Why is that, Doctor?"

Hamilton raised his eyes. "Because, Marshal, what I deal with, more than anything else, are mysteries. But mysteries that we will likely never solve." He shook his head, bemused. "Even with something as elementary as geophysics, I consider myself an ignorant man, Marshal, despite all my degrees. Long ago, I gave up being frustrated by the profound mysteries of the universe or even trying to explain them. And if I know so little of my own field, imagine how useless to you I would be in yours."

Chaney wondered for a split second if the good doctor hadn't subconsciously given something away. In a heartbeat he intuited that he might gain more by asking about things not directly related to the investigation.

"Doctor," he began casually, attempting to disarm with charm, "you're obviously a learned man. You could probably explain anything you put your mind to as well as anyone alive."

"Oh, not at all." Hamilton turned solidly, and Chaney was again impressed with the man's muscularity. "I am confident that I can explain many things, Marshal Chaney. But the more one answers, the more mysteries one perceives. I could speak for semesters on quantum theory, for instance. Or the force that holds opposing elements together. Or, perhaps, speculate on the origin of thought, or the soul, or life." He stopped in place, smiling. "But that isn't why you came to see me, is it?"

Chaney realized: Mistake.

"No," he said. "I want to know what you think is killing your people. Or why."

"And in that, unfortunately, I cannot help you."

"Well, Doctor," Chaney sat straighter, "something is for sure killing them. So you might as well give me some ideas."

Hamilton leaned forward. "I can tell you what I have been told," he began. "This…murderer, whatever it is, has literally decimated three of my research facilities. One other remains. But if that installation is destroyed, then the entire program will be terminated. Apparently, this…this thing… is strong. Extremely fast. Highly intelligent. And I, for one, believe that it may well be an unknown species. Something we have not been aware of. That is why we've gone to extreme measures in hunting it down."

Chaney stared. "Thing?"

"Why, yes." Hamilton's brow hardened. He seemed shocked. Or suspicious. "I… ah… don't you know details of these atrocities, Marshal? The accounts of this things inhuman cunning? It’s almost unbelievable display of fantastic brute strength?"

"Well, I know that whatever killed your people fought its way through many soldiers at each site, Doctor. But it didn't completely defeat the video surveillance, some of which was recorded at covert sites in Washington. And I believe Washington, specifically the Senate Intelligence Subcommittee, is where this plan to find the creature originated."

"Yes." Hamilton nodded. "We were attempting to deal with the situation internally, of course. But when we were called for conference, we agreed that a highly skilled team was probably the best means of resolving the situation. Obviously, our own efforts had been demonstrably insufficient. In fact, I am on record as saying I had no objections at all to the idea, as long as the National Security Agency could retain full authority and command."

"But the hunting team wasn't your idea?"

"Not originally, no. However, I had no objections."

"Nor was it the idea of anyone inside the Agency?"

"Well, I have no knowledge of that."

"I see." Chaney paused. "And that's when the army and marines got involved? Is that correct? That's when someone from the Pentagon, this Agent Dixon, was assigned to assemble this team?"

"Well" — Hamilton cleared his throat—"there was always a military contingent present at the sites, but only for security. But, yes, they became involved in the more intimate aspects of the situation when this special unit was formed to, ah, destroy this creature."

Chaney carefully analyzed what he had heard. "Tell me, Doctor. I mean, you're a scientist. You know a great deal about biology. What would you make of this creature?"

"Well, Marshal, I would ask you the same thing. After all, you are the one investigating the situation. What do you yourself think of such a creature?"

"What do I think?" Chaney opened his eyes a bit wider with the frankness he felt no desire to conceal. "I would think that he or she, or it, could be classified as a monster, Doctor."

"Yes." Hamilton smiled, suddenly more distant. His ice-blue eyes chilled. "Of course."

The silence was unusual, and Chaney decided to take a different tack. He had already, despite Brick's gold-plated advice, gone over the line.

Now Hamilton knew that he was actually interested and, even worse, serious. He'd decide later how much to tell Brick about his misstep. It probably wouldn't be much.

"Tell me about this team you've organized," he said. "Surely they asked you for input when they designed it."

"Well, my primary suggestion, which I demurely presented, was to include someone of substantial scientific acumen present as an adviser. That, to me, seemed indispensable. The man selected was Dr. Angus Tipler, a scholar of unchallenged genius. I did not participate in the selection of the soldiers; I have little knowledge of them. But I understand they are quite adept at this type of search and… how do they say it in the military?"

"Search and destroy."

"Yes," Hamilton replied, "a search-and-destroy mission. And we have, oh, some other gentleman who knows something about hunting, or tracking. Something like that. I myself am not so familiar with this last individual. I did not consider him important — not important at all, really. So I only perused his file briefly."

Chaney found that more than interesting: Hamilton didn't consider the addition of Hunter, a millionaire and highly recognized wilderness expert, an important event.

"This man," Chaney said, "is Nathaniel Hunter?"

"Yes, yes, he, uh, I believe he is something of an expert tracker. Somewhat well off financially. Not rich, by any means. But comfortable, and used frequently for finding people lost in wilderness areas. I am not sure that he does much of anything at all except support certain wildlife organizations. So I do not know why he was considered so important. But I have a file here, somewhere, if you would like to peruse it."

"Yes," Chaney said. "I would. But, first, I want an answer to a question that you've avoided twice already."

"Oh, I am sorry." Hamilton seemed sincere. "It was certainly an oversight. And to allay your suspicions, should you possess any, please be assured that I am not attempting to be evasive. Quite simply, I have nothing to be evasive about."

"I understand." Chaney smiled blandly. "Do you think that whatever is killing your people could be somehow controlled by competing foreign interests? Particularly former Soviet or Communist enterprises that do basically the same thing as these facilities? Would the information contained at those centers benefit them?"

Hamilton almost smiled, but it never emerged. "No, Marshal. There is nothing contained within the centers that would merit any kind of foreign attack at all. We monitor tectonic phenomena that have nothing, really, to do with military matters."

"Who is in ultimate command of the hunting party?"

"As I said, the National Security Agency."

"I mean, who's in charge in the field?" Chaney continued.

"Well, that would be Colonel Maddox from the Pentagon. I have spoken to him on many occasions. He frequently calls me for…well, advice, I would say."

"Do you know an Agent Dixon?"

Not even a pause, as Chaney had expected. "Oh, certainly." Hamilton glanced to the side, back again. "Agent Dixon, I believe, is attached to the NSA. He is apparently supervising the operation, according to the mandates of the full command and authority parameters."

"Where can I find him?" Chaney asked.

"Well…" Hamilton paused a long time. "I believe he must be in Langley. But I am not certain. As I said, I have only spoken with him on two occasions. He is not, other than the fact that he is supervising the situation for the NSA, awfully important to the execution of this team's activities."

Something about this didn't feel right. Chaney stared for a brief moment, trying to decide how to go into it. "Doctor," he said finally, "surely you know that whoever is ultimately responsible for the team's actions should be closely involved in their day-to-day activities."

Hamilton was either truly ignorant of military operations or feigning with skill. "I…well, I suppose so, Marshal. I never served in the military. I suppose that is something you should speak with Agent Dixon about."

"I will," Chaney affirmed, and decided to end this charade. He took a while, wanting to leave on the right note. "All right. That's enough. Now I'd like to look at this file, if you don't mind."

Hamilton rose also, lifting some folders. "Well, Marshal, I'm afraid I don't have a file on Agent Dixon."

"I'm talking about Hunter, Doctor."

"Oh, yes." Hamilton waved dismissively. "But as I said, I do not believe that he is important."

Without words Chaney took the file and opened it, seeing a black-and-white eight-by-ten of a man who had obviously known hardship. Eyes as pure with purpose and opaque with instinct as a panther's stared out of the photo. His hair was black, shoulder-length, and ragged. The mouth was neither frowning nor smiling, but, rather, set in a stoic line of indifference. It was a countenance that Chaney could easily imagine as threatening, but threatening didn't seem to fit the broad forehead. No, it was a countenance that seemed to hint more at a quiet command of deep confidence combined with a certainty of extreme ability — as if he knew that he possessed a concentrated purity of will that had been forged with extraordinary and tested skills.

Chaney had a feeling one more thing would unveil whatever was hidden within all this: he had to find out why this man was so damned unimportant.

Hunter led them unerringly to the mine, arriving while there was still enough daylight remaining to prepare for the night.

Chiseled by pickax into the side of a hard bluff, the mine was perfect for the night. Its opening was barely the size of four men standing abreast, and previous owners had closed it with ax-tapered logs that were weathered but still solid and strong despite twenty years weathering. Even better, the logs were buttressed into the side of the hill by steel beams.

For a forced entry, unless the logs were levered over the top of the beam, the creature would have to smash them asunder with brute force. Not an easy stunt, even for this thing. Ripping a steel door off its hinges was one thing; only two hinges of steel had to be shredded and a lock cracked. Smashing a two-and-a-half-foot-diameter log in half was another thing altogether.

Kneeling together, as if in prayer, they discussed the situation beside the professor who, remarkably, seemed to be regaining a little strength. Takakura seemed unconvinced. "It will rip the logs from the foundation," he said plainly.

"I don't think so," Hunter answered. "Those logs won't shatter easily. And if one does, we'll be doing whatever we have to do. This won't be easy for it. And I don't think it will go head to head with us when it sees that it's gonna take at least twenty minutes to break down that wall. It knows we can hurt it."

Taylor looked at the mine and smiled, shook his head. "That's a deathtrap, Hunter," he said. "Anything goes in there tonight, it'll be in there a long time."

Standing, Hunter turned to him. "You have a better idea, Taylor? If you do, I'd like to hear it."

He stared hard at the commando, who looked back at the mine again. Then Taylor shook his head and smiled in the way a man smiles when he's just been told he's about to die. "No, Hunter," he said, a black half-laugh. "I'm completely out of ideas."

All of them were on their feet and Hunter saw that Tipler had raised himself to an elbow. The old man was listening intently, alert once more. He seemed to have recovered somewhat from his attack. He looked at the mine, studious.

"All right." Hunter pointed at an old mining shack, and another. Both of them were still in decent condition; it appeared they'd been abandoned some years earlier. "This is how it has to work." He looked at the Japanese. "If you have any objections, Commander, feel free to share them."

"I have no objections," Takakura said.

"Then we do this," Hunter continued. "But we have to move fast 'cause we don't have much time. First we remove a few logs from the entrance, enough to carry in what we need for a fire. Takakura and I can handle that. Taylor, you and Wilkenson search the cabins for a couple of cots, food, fuel, lanterns, anything we can use. Bobbi Jo, you stay here and watch the professor and guard. You're the only one that can hurt it anyway. Does that sound good enough?"

They nodded.

"Good. We've got an hour and a half until sundown. By then we have to be secure inside the mine."

Together they moved.

It took Hunter and Takakura, working hard, to dislodge the top log. But they were finally forced to lever it over the top of the steel beam that was anchored to the cliff. The second was easier and provided enough room to slide equipment over the top. By then Wilkenson and Taylor had acquired three full lanterns, a half can of kerosene, six blankets and three portable cots.

There was no food, but a small spring coming from the cliff allowed them to refill canteens. Thirty minutes later they were secure inside and with the use of a lever slowly slid the top log back in place, leaving the faintest sliver of light at the top. It was enough for fresh air, but not enough for the beast to get in.

The lanterns were lit and positioned, and MREs were opened. They were all ravenous. Even Hunter ate one, unaware of the taste. Ghost was inside with them, and they lit a huge bonfire outside that would easily rumble through the night.

Now all they had to do was wait.

They ate in silence until Professor Tipler, propped on a pillow, spoke in a low tone.

"I believe… that I know what it is… that we face," he said weakly. "If it were not… for my diminished capacities, I believe I could have told you sooner."

Hunter looked at Tipler, at Takakura. The Japanese had stopped in mid-chew and stared at the professor.

"Finish your meal, please," Tipler continued. "You are…exhausted. I want to thank you… for saving my life. And, afterwards, I will tell you who our enemy truly is."

"I think," said Tipler, as they finished eating, "that it is time for me to give all of you my thoughts." He coughed hoarsely. "Yes… time, I believe, while I still… have time. And you were right, Nathaniel, in having us barricade ourselves within this cavern."

"Sun Tzu said it is always better to take the defensive when strength is insufficient," Takakura muttered. "First to be victorious with your life, then do battle."

Tipler smiled and nodded. "Well put, my friend. And that is why I will tell you… as best I can… what you confront. Forgive me, if it seems I do not, at first, make sense. Indulge me. First, listen closely, and hear a small analysis. Nothing I say shall be ultimately irrelevant, as you will soon see. Nor will I test your patience. Nathaniel, do you remember the Arctium lappa on the far side of the stream at our first campsite?"

Scowling, Hunted nodded.

Arctium lappa, or burdock, as it was commonly known, is a bush with a huge dome of head-size leaves elongating to a sharp point. It commanded a large area of a bank, for even one bush of burdock with its mushrooming bowl top of green leaves will usually shade a wide expanse of soil and other plants.

Tipler followed, "And do you remember how this plant aided you when you were sick last year? The time when you were injured and feverish in the Canadian Rockies?"

"Yeah, I remember," Hunter said. "I made tea from the leaves. It got rid of the fever."

"Exactly," the old man nodded. "And do you remember how you used

Euratorium perfoliatum when you broke your leg near your cabin not five years ago? The tea you made from the leaves caused the leg to heal twice as quickly."

"Yes." Hunter had no idea where the old man was going with this, but knew the time was not wasted, especially if it helped them to understand what horrendous force was probably even now pacing around the small compound outside, slavering, searching, staring at the logs and debating its next move.

"Plants, roots, herbs, all of nature is a laboratory," Tipler said, and coughed violently for a long moment before continuing. "If one only knows where nature's secrets lie, the world can provide untold bounties. And that is only the world we know. But ten thousand years ago this area we inhabit was probably the most ecologically diverse land the world has ever known. Yet for years the earth has been suffering the extinction of probably 100 species of animal or plant every day. So the creatures and plants that inhabited this area in that time were far, far more diverse than what we know now. Imagine that unspeakable volume of medicinal qualities? Imagine what secrets they contained? And imagine, what if a race of people, a species similar to Homo sapiens, had known those secrets?"

No one spoke.

Hunter and Bobbi Jo exchanged glances.

"Yes." Tipler nodded, smiling. "Already you see. For if some ancient ancestor of man had known which plants enhanced strength, which ones promoted healing, produced paranoia, granted voyages of the imagination, increased musculature and bone density and inhibited aging, what would such a race have resembled after a hundred generations of subsisting on this rich treasury of physically and psychologically altering substances?"

Hunter stared at him. "They would have assimilated some of the qualities into hereditary genes?"

"Exactly!" Tipler snapped his fingers as he laughed. "I knew you would understand, Nathaniel! Variations of a genetic pattern would have developed!"

"So you're saying that thing out there is some mutated form of ancient man?"

"I am saying more, my boy." Tipler leaned forward. "I am saying that that creature out there is a species that was quite probably physically superior to Homo sapiens even without the assistance of that plentitude of nature's medicines. Yet in altering their DNA through dozens of generations of substance usage, in selecting strength and predatory perfection over their higher qualities of reason and conscious thought, that particular species was left with only one thing to dominate their minds." He paused. "And that is the Unconscious."

Hunter squinted. "The Unconscious?"

"Yes, Nathaniel. That part of the mind that responds as it will respond, regardless of the conscious interruption of morality, community, responsibility, love, or temperance. All of the higher qualities that make us men. Those things that have built civilizations and make us proudly human! Yes, I am saying that what lurks for us outside that wall" — Tipler pointed with condemnation at the logs—"is the unconscious mind of man unleashed on the earth in the body of a being that should have been extinct from the planet over ten thousand years ago!"

Half submerged in shadow, Taylor spoke. "So what in the world's it doing here now?"

With a deep sigh, Tipler sat back, raised his brow briefly. "Ah, Taylor, that is a question that we have yet to answer. But I do know this." The elderly professor fixed them all with a penetrating gaze, "What is outside that wall is a being that kills at the slightest impulse. A type of…of proto-human, if you will, that understands neither mercy nor compassion, but will fulfill the slightest whim, the slightest impulse, simply because it is there. It is unrestrained by thought. Unrestrained by the inclination to stay its hand against the most common or meaningless or wanton act of wholesale murder. Its only drive is the fulfillment of subconscious desire. Any desire. And it will fulfill the slightest want. You cannot reach its mind because, frankly, it does not possess a mind as any of us recognize such a thing. It possesses only whatever dark and violent impulses and desires are hidden and repressed in the cerebral cortex — that most primitive form of man. And there is nothing… nothing that it will not do, simply because it desires. And, tragically, because whatever race that bred it used generations of alteration by nature to enhance its predatory powers and unconscious essence, it has the power to do much, indeed."

Hunter felt whiteness in his breath, a slight adrenaline surge. He looked at Takakura and the Japanese was staring solidly at him. They made no gestures, said nothing. With a glance he saw that Bobbi Jo had quietly closed her eyes, was leaning her head back against the wall. Taylor had taken his Bowie knife and was scrawling slowly in the dirt. His bent face was hidden in shadow. He remained silent.

"Professor," Hunter asked, "how do we kill this thing?"

Tipler nodded his head. "We will know, my boy, when we know who created it."

Ghost lifted his head, ears straight. Hunter looked at the log wall. "Game time," he whispered to Bobbi Jo. He lifted his rifle as he rose.