Read Hunter Online

Authors: James Byron Huggins

Hunter (2 page)

Cahill spoke. "You really don't have much use for people do you, Hunter?"

He waited. Hunter didn't reply.

Cahill continued, "But you risk your life finding these people when we got a thousand people in the woods that don't have a chance." Cahill didn't seem disturbed by Hunter's silence. "Like last year when you found that couple lost down below the Sipsey. You tracked 'em for four days with no food, no shelter." He grunted. "They got lucky. So did you. That track almost killed you."

Hunter sighed, raised his eyes slightly in agreement. "Once you get on a track, it's best not to take a break. The more single-minded you are, the better your chances." He paused. "But you're right. That one was tough. So was this one. The little guy kept wandering on me."

Cahill nodded, thoughtful. "So where you headed off to?"

"Manchuria."

Cahill laughed out loud. "Manchuria! For what?"

"The Tipler Institute wants me to try and capture a Siberian tiger."

Hunter shook his head. "They're pretty rare, but a recent expedition said they saw one." He shrugged. "I doubt it's there, but it's possible. I'll find out if I don't get myself killed."

Cahill smiled. "So, ol' Doc Tipler is still alive." Then his smile thinned, disappeared. "You know, kid, I hear a tiger is the meanest thing on four feet. Meaner than a grizzly. And they're kinda like a griz, too. They like to sneak up on you."

Hunter smiled. "Yeah, Siberians are the best stalkers in the world. They don't make a sound 'til they move, and they always attack from ambush. I've captured them before, but I think this might be different."

"What's gonna be different?"

'Just the range." Hunter set the coffee on the desk, stretched his arms. "Because of the foliage I'll have pretty limited range for a shot. Maybe thirty, forty feet."

"Think you can get that close to a tiger and stay down wind?"

"Guess we'll have to find out." Hunter's face was contented and easy as he spoke. He rose and reached for the door and Cahill could have sworn he heard half a laugh as the man went out the door.

***

He moved through the night, at home with the darkness.

Cold wind separated around his form, swaying the surrounding spruce, birch, and pine. He paused, breathing slowly and rhythmically, reminded of so much, and knew that the moss beneath his feet had survived here for ten centuries. The scent of a dozen flora concealed by the night rose to greet him, he knew them all. The bark of this nearby tree could quell pain, and the root of that plant could fill his stomach. He knew their secrets, their uses, even merely as food, though this was not the land he had known, was far from the land he had known. He could survive here.

And he could do even more than survive.

The guard drew near the gate.

It is time.

He knew that he must move before the dog could sense his presence. A hunting instinct that was clearer than human intelligence, purer than any purpose, pulled him forward.

His human intelligence reigned, yet it was reinforced by the instincts of this fantastic evolution of his flesh. Crouching low, he padded forward
with silent steps, emerging ghostlike from the forest—a phantom rising from a dark mossy silence and gloom into the light of a dead moon to near the gate almost undetected. Only at the last did a guard turn to behold the phantasmic shape taking horrific form from darkness—an image beyond fear—and screamed in disbelief before whirling to wildly chamber a round in his rifle.

It was too late.

A single horrific blow tore the first guard's head from his neck and another clawed hand rent a lung from the second before the dog's howl burst from the fence. Snarling, the beast turned to see the German shepherd hurling itself forward with a fury beyond anything human.

A clawed hand arched through dark air to tear away the animal's heart and then he cast the lifeless body aside. It required no effort—so easy was it—and he leaped forward to finish, evading the panicked rifle fire of the last guard before he slew again.

It was over quickly.

Growling, he stood over smoking red snow and turned, glaring bale-fy at the heavy metal doors that secured the facility. He stalked forward and when he reached the portal he roared, hurling up gigantic arms to bring them down against the steel, thunderously sundering the panels.

Night eyes narrowing instantly at the light, he saw a white-coated mob screaming and running, running and screaming. He struck again and again as he moved through them to slay, and slay . . .

And slay.

* * *

 

Chapter 1

 

"Vicious little beasts, aren't they?"

The words, spoken with ominous disaster, came from a white-haired old man in a white lab coat. Seated patiently, he watched as a host of red army ants, some as large as his thumb, attacked what he had dispassionately dropped into the aquarium. The ants overwhelmed the rat in seconds, killing it almost instantly with venom, then devouring it. In three minutes a haggard skeleton was all that remained.

Dr. Angus Tipler clicked a stopwatch, staring down. "Yes," he frowned, "utterly vicious."

He turned to others in the laboratory of the Tipler Institute, the leading crypto-zoological foundation in the world. His face portrayed consternation. "What are we to do with them?" he asked, almost to himself. "They kill with venom long before they dismember their prey." He looked back. "Yes, and so we must therefore devise some type of ... serum, if for no other reason so that people will stop bothering us all the time. Has anyone concluded the molecular weight of the poison?"

A woman bent over an enormous electron microscope positioned neatly in the center of the room muttered in reply. "Not yet, Doctor. I need another minute."

Dr. Tipler said nothing as he turned back to the aquarium where the ants were safely—very safely—contained. The rest of the laboratory was filled with virtually every poisonous animal in the world, insect and mammal and reptile. There were black scorpions, Indian cobras, adders and stonefish, brown recluse spiders and the lethal Sydney funnel web, the most dangerous spider in the world. A single unfelt bite from the tiny arachnid would kill a full-grown man within a day. It was Tipler himself who had created the anti-venom.

"It seems this venom is neuromuscular in nature," he said in a raspy, harsh voice into a recorder. He waved off the video technician who had recorded the grisly episode. "The venom, no matter the location of injection, seems to infiltrate the ligamentum denticulatum, thereby bridging the pons Varolii to decussate the involuntary respiratory abilities of the medulla oblongata. Now, if we can—"

"Dr. Tipler?"

Tipler raised bushy white eyebrows as he turned, seeing a young woman scientist with long black hair. The Asian woman was obviously apprehensive at the intrusion, despite the old man's well-known patient nature.

"Yes, Gina?" His voice was gentle. "What is it?"

"There are some men to see you, sir."

Tipler laughed, waving a hand as he turned away. "There are always men to see me, lass. Tell them to wait. The commissary should still be open. They serve an excellent roast chicken. It is my best recommendation."

"I don't think these men will wait, sir." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. Her eyes widened slightly. "There are three of them, and they're wearing uniforms."

Tipler barked a short laugh. "Uniforms! What sort of uniforms?"

"Army uniforms, sir."

Tipler laughed again and shook his head as he rose. "All right, Gina. Assist Rebecca in discovering the molecular weight of this venom. And, also, if you would be so kind, extract venom from, oh ... let's say fifty of these infernal creatures. Just sedate them with chloroform and use the electroshock method—the same procedure we use for the black widows." He removed his glasses with a sigh and stood up. "And I will deal with these impatient men in uniforms."

"Yes, sir. They're waiting in the observation room."

"Thank you, lass."

Upon seeing the three, Dr. Tipler stopped short. He had been told often enough that, upon first impression, he was not an imposing figure, so he had no illusions. At seventy-two years of age he was short and thick with a wide brow and snowy hair laid back from the forehead. But he knew that his eyes, blue like Arctic ice, distinguished him from other men both with their startling color and their equally startling intelligence. And equally their quickness to perceive the heart of a mystery. And it was that
perceptiveness, a blending of art, science and intuition that had made the world's eminent paleontologist and crypto-zoologist.

Crypto-zoology was in itself an almost unknown area of biological expertise. Fewer than a dozen distinguished scientists in the world practiced it with any measure of dedication. And, for the most part, few scientists realized that it was practiced at all. But, in essence, it was a systematic and highly rigid system of investigation designed to determine whether species thought to be extinct still inhabited the planet.

Tipler had known significant success in various stages of his career, discovering the last surviving Atacama condors in the Andes Mountains of Chile in 1983, and later discovering a species identified as the blind stone-fish, off the northern coast of Greenland. The deep-water fish had been thought extinct since the Paleolithic Period, but Tipler had pieced together a theory that they still existed in the south-flowing East Greenland Current, which drew directly from the Arctic Sea. He held even further suspicions that the fish existed higher in the Arctic Circle, protected by the vast ice caps of the pole. But a lack of funding had prevented further exploration.

However, his startling discoveries had earned him a modest measure of global recognition, which consequently delivered the attention of several wealthy philanthropists who deemed his unique nonprofit enterprise worthy of endorsement. So, with significant funding and a larger, better-trained staff, he had founded the Tipler Institute. Now, a decade later, he was recognized universally as the world's leading expert on unknown species, and their extinction or survival. Along the way he had also gained significant exposure to deadly snakes, fish, and spiders and discovered, to his own surprise, that he had a remarkable acumen for pinpointing the molecular characteristics of each type of venom.

Studying venom was, at first, simply a means of aiding those few medical institutions already overwhelmed trying to keep apace with the new strains of poison. But through a working relationship with the Centers for Disease Control, Tipler also joined the crusade, synthesizing over a dozen effective anti-venoms over the past decade. Nor did he find it distracting. Although he was an increasingly sought-after author, lecturer, and researcher, his greatest pleasure remained the simple pursuit of biological science.

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

A thin smile creased his squared face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tipler absorbed it without expression.

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

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

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

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

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

There was no hesitation. "Yes."

"You are certain of this?"

"Yes, Doctor, we are certain."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Maddox asked.

"The way that the tracks are broken."

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

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

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

"As I said, sir, I cannot explain such a phenomenon."

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