Hunter (31 page)

"Nor have I," Hamilton breathed. "And now we can begin to isolate the specific genes which buffer that incredibly robust immune system. Isolate them, and bring them into the present day. Within a few years, those selected for the glory will know what it knew. A life span of hundreds of years. Immeasurable strength. A hardiness that has been so jealously claimed by a forgotten age. Soon we will have the same fearlessness at the approach of old age or disease or frailty. We shall be untouched by sickness or feebleness, and laugh as all those around us are ravaged by time. Yes
... that was my dream: immortality."

Nothing was said for a moment. Then: "Dr. Hamilton," she began, "the search team ... they made contact with the facility an hour ago."

Hamilton's suddenly darkened presence was chilling. He turned to her slowly. "What did you just say, Emma?"

She took a deep breath, bracing. "The search team is still alive, Doctor."

"That is impossible," he scoffed. "They have been alone in the forest for almost four days, battling the creature. No one could survive such a conflict."

"They radioed in, Doctor. They're still alive, somehow. They survived, and they're being picked up by helicopter within the hour."

"It seems my young protégé, Luther, disappointed me. Hmmph. Well ...nevertheless. Until I see them alive before my eyes, I will not believe it." Hamilton barked a short laugh. "Luther, the young fool, was impetuous and paid for his arrogance. The matrix had not even been tested when he injected himself with the serum alone and unsupervised. He should have died, but he did not, and became what he has become. I consider his transformation ... a blessing, of sorts."

"Will we try and help him if we capture him?"

Hamilton seemed astounded. "Help who, Doctor?" He waited to no reply. "Help Luther? That is truly amusing. No, we will not help Luther, Emma, because Luther no longer exists. Except, perhaps, in some dim half-dream within the creature's mind. Luther is gone forever. Only his body remains. Transformed. Mutated into the mightiest, the fiercest and most predatory beast to ever walk the face of the earth. And in this diluted canard age of evolution, where the true beasts have fallen to fire and ice, and expendable man is the reigning species, he will enjoy his feast."

Dr. Strait's face tightened. "Then what will the creature do?"

"It will do as it has done," Hamilton answered calmly. "It will come for the rest of the serum, for Luther used an inadequate amount for complete replication. There are other genomes which it must absorb to perfectly mirror this indestructible coding. This much, I am certain, he remembers. Though I am sure that, in shape and form and ferocity, it is almost the equal of this magnificent ancestor, and may even retain some of its memories."

"Memories, Doctor?"

"Yes, of course." Hamilton smiled. "Memory is encoded in DNA, just as the manufacturing for particular proteins that decide a propensity for violence or pleasure. There are clearly areas of the DNA strand—imperfectly decipherable to us as of yet—that grant such a faculty. And as Luther's body and mind are overwhelmed, so too I believe are his memories disappearing under the onslaught of the memories of another time, another race."

Dr. Emma Strait stepped close. "And what of the facility if Luther, I mean
... the creature ... comes here for the rest of the serum as it's done at the other installations?"

"Oh, we are well protected, my dear." Hamilton smiled. "I have no fear that it can penetrate this vault, and our means of communication are self-contained. If it does indeed destroy the base, just as it has done, we shall be quite safe within the vault. Even the creature's terrific strength cannot tear that twenty-ton vault from the passageway. It is only an animal, after all, though magnificent and manlike in structure." He released a deep breath. "So, we shall continue our research, and when we are quite finished, I shall allow you and all those who have labored so diligently to join the new society—a society which will never grow old, and will accumulate power century after century until we are princes on the earth. You and I, Emma, will rule nations, enjoy the feasts of kings, and live for centuries with perfect health, perfect strength. All that remains is to isolate the immune strands and the receptor genes and leave the genes regulating instantaneous replication, as Luther so foolishly did not, from the serum."

A tense moment followed, and Dr. Emma Strait responded, addressing him by his first name. "Arthur, the staff ... is concerned. They don't want ... well, they're worried. I know what you say, but Luther, uh, the creature, it's killed so many people and—"

"Emma, Emma." Hamilton spoke indulgently. "Rest assured that we are all quite safe. I created this. I know quite well what it is capable of accomplishing. I am as familiar with its glory as with its corruption." He smiled—a spectacular smile. "A terrifying beast it is and shall remain. But even a beast of such incalculable power must die one day. As it surely will."

***

Crouching in darkness, lifting the torch high, Hunter scanned the jagged, broken ledge that stretched out before him. Twenty feet above the passageway, carefully balanced on a granite slab, he saw nothing but shadows leaping before the flickering flame.

He leaned his head to the side, attempting to discern a better angle, but saw nothing more. And he tried to ignore his racing heart, the adrenaline that surged from his chest with each thunderous beat of his heart. His hands were sweating and he wiped them on his dirt-grimed pants, licking his lips.

He knew fear now, true fear, because he had stood alone on the ledge in the dark with nothing but flame and steel, and should he fight it face-to-face, Hunter knew it would be a swift end. He didn't have the advantage of a barrier, couldn't move with that fantastic speed, and would be quickly overpowered by its irresistible strength.

Thinking of the power that surged to pull him into those monstrous fangs, he shivered before turning his will, shutting down emotion. He had to concentrate; he couldn't let horror cloud his judgment however terrible the price. And after a moment of cold concentration he inched forward, trying not to reconcile himself to the fact that he was as good as dead.

He had told Takakura to wait for his signal before they entered the crevice. And Hunter was certain that they would; the commander was too cautious and professional to alter a plan once it was decided upon.

Then Hunter remembered how Taylor, in a remarkable display of friendship, had come up to him at the last minute and handed him a rectangular canvas-covered satchel about a foot long and six inches wide. Without asking permission Taylor had pointed to a looped handle on the top and said, "Pull this and you've got five seconds, buddy. It'll blow anything inside that cave to hell and gone. And once you pull it, run your butt off, 'cause there ain't no stopping it."

Shocked for a moment, Hunter had nodded, then set the satchel in his pouch, the only other thing he wore on his upper body beside Riley's rope, looped shoulder to hip.

Shadows moved weirdly before him. And with some unconscious instinct he withdrew the Bowie, holding it close as he inched cautiously forward.

His breathing, despite his iron control, was heavier and faster, making him feel almost light-headed. He released a long, slow breath and tried to keep himself from hyperventilating. Then he shook his head sharply, as if to physically throw off the chimeras dancing like vapid ghosts before his eyes.

"Come on," he whispered, "get a grip ..."

Another ten feet, twenty, and still his senses revealed nothing. And despite his fear he felt a descending sense of security, perhaps because some unconscious part of him hoped that, since he hadn't been attacked so far, he wouldn't be. But his mind told him better. He knew that, if it were here, it would be waiting patiently, fearing the blade if it feared anything at all.

He made another ten feet, glancing at the torch to see another fifteen minutes remaining. Eyes flashing in the gloom he continued, searching, thrusting the torch around a corner and withdrawing it quickly, tempting an attack. It never came.

In another ten feet he would tell them to proceed.

It was a flickering shadow ahead of him that made him tense as if he'd been struck, instantly rising to his feet to place them fully across the four-foot crevice, straddling the long drop to the floor with a foot on opposite ledges.

He watched the shadow
...rise?

Fall?

"What—" he began.

And knew.

Electrified with thrilling breathlessness, slowly moving only his head, Hunter turned cryptically to gaze behind.

Glowing red eyes, fangs distended, it stood gigantically less than five feet away. It smiled.

Its arms, so incredibly huge, hung almost to its knees, and Hunter noticed a difference in its face, as if it were more grotesque, more deformed with a heavier brow brooding over the baleful glare. Claws clicked as it moved its fingers in a rapid, staccato flexing that was almost too quick to follow. It seemed to laugh.

Slowly, Hunter turned toward it, saying nothing, doing nothing, prepared to drop cleanly to the floor and take his chances. And what happened next almost caused him to stagger. His eyes opened in shock as strength flowed from his form.

Fangs laughed beneath glowing, blood-red eyes.

"You cannot escape me," it growled.

In a truly foul mood, Chaney parked and walked slowly toward Brick's diner. For once, he was actually hungry as he neared the doors, but his mind was so preoccupied that he knew he couldn't eat. He had played out whatever meager hand he'd been dealt. And for the time being he didn't know what to do next. This thing was going down like nothing he had ever seen.

He didn't mind putting on his real mood for Brick; Brick wasn't affected by anything and had seen him like this before. He supposed that's why he always liked stopping in on the retired marshal when a case was going to pieces.

Chaney would stop by, complain and curse, and Brick would go on calmly cutting meatballs and filling orders and occasionally nodding to indicate that he wasn't completely ignoring him. Chaney would feel better having vented and go on his way with a beer. It was a system he liked, even if it was predictable—a danger in this profession.

He walked through the door at
midafternoon to see the place fairly crowded. Without announcement—he had never announced himself— Chaney went through the swinging doors and saw Brick sitting at a desk surrounded by his uniquely personalized system of chaotic organization.

Watching over bifocals, Brick followed him as he half-collapsed in a chair. Chaney said nothing. Brick said nothing. Brick's face was bland. "I seen you look worse," he said.

"Really?" Chaney answered wearily. "When?"

"When you had that accidental discharge as a rookie and shot the front windshield out of your car."

Chaney paused. "Oh ... yeah, well, that was a bad day."

"You're telling me." Brick went back to the calculator. "I'm the one who had to do all the paperwork." His fingers flew over the pad with remarkable dexterity. "So what you got besides what I gave you?"

"I'm not sure, really. This scientist, a smart gal, says that this ...creature, whatever it is, is off the charts. Says she doesn't have anything to match its DNA." Chaney paused before continuing. "She said that it's got some kind of immunity to disease, injury, anything. It was weird."

Brick stopped adding, stared dead at Chaney. His gravelly voice held an equal amount of amusement and disbelief and intrigue. "You don't say?"

"Yep," Chaney answered as he opened a beer from a nearby case. "Brick, this is out of my league. I ain't no scientist. And the only person I might have nailed down has gone to Alaska. To the last research station."

"So?" Brick began adding again. "Doorstep him. He can't get away from you. I learned a long time ago that you had the tenacity of a bulldog and half the brains. Follow the mother to the ends of the earth. Make him nervous. It's called 'harassment 'til you spill your guts to me.' " He looked pleased at the number he had reached. "That's what I'd do."

That option hadn't occurred to Chaney, but the more he thought of it, the more it seemed appropriate. He did, after all, have an unlimited budget and the right to commandeer a private jet at his discretion, though there might be hell to pay with Skull afterwards.

Yet all of it kept coming back to Alaska, the research station, and the man most responsible for whatever was going on inside that facility had gone there ... to hide something? To finish something?

"You might have an idea there, Brick," Chaney mused after a slow swig of warm beer.

"I know most of the games, kid. Heck, I invented a few of 'em myself. He's ducking you and you know it. Best way to rattle his cage is to show him you can't be ducked." There was a long pause. "You should go just to let that scientist fella know he can't get away. Sometimes it's the principle of the thing. But I'd do something else before I went hightailing after him."

Chaney knew what he was talking about. "A little extracurricular activity?"

"You got it."

It was a phrase Brick had invented in the old days for serving search warrants on dangerous felons.

The night before the scheduled raid, Chaney and Brick would illegally break into the suspect's house and search it for guns, weapons, anything that might endanger them in execution of the warrant the following
morning. They wouldn't ask permission and wouldn't tell anyone what they'd done. And if they found a weapon they would disable it—remove the firing pin, jam it, remove the barrel, or something else equally as effective—so they didn't have to worry about being shot the next day.