Hunter (59 page)

Eventually the passage became almost like a shattered stairway, narrower and more defined.

Leading cautiously and in complete silence, Hunter no longer searched the shadows because the connecting corridors had faded. Now they were on a definite pitch that was carrying them directly downward, and in the distance Hunter saw specks of white light on the wall where the tunnel bent into blackness. Approaching stealthily, he lifted a flare and saw tiny leechlike creatures clinging to the moist stone.

The air was warmer, and utterly still. Hunter realized they must be at the base of the mountain, if not beneath. Yeah, they had come at least three miles through the cavern and were probably at the final chamber; this didn't appear to be a maze cave. Rather, the entire serpentine structure indicated that it led inevitably to a cathedral-like cavern.

Hunter had explored similar caverns and knew from experience what could be expected. And then, as the path turned sharply around a huge stalagmite, they saw it.

What was more amazing—the faded, titanic images painted on the sweeping cathedral walls, the underground lake that burned with a strange green tint, or the last and most terrifying discovery of all—Hunter could not say. But the last was, without question, a sight that chilled his blood and made his skin tighten.

Heaped in endless dunes and mounds and bleached crests, scattered across the vastness of the underground mausoleum, were hundreds of thousands of stripped bones—skeletal specters of some hideous subterranean slaughter. The scent of ancient decay, of old death, hung hauntingly in the blackened atmosphere, and as Hunter stared over the skeletal underworld he could almost count every bony finger pointing motionless into a dome of darkness, could almost register every crushed skull, shattered spine, or splintered bone.

To himself, he nodded.

Yes, it made sense at last, and he understood completely. Just as he knew that this ghastly tribute to mindless savagery was all that remained of the greatest predators ever to walk the earth.

Together they stared over the ghostly remains of a long-ago carnage that must have been the ultimate of horrors to behold. None of them broke the silence.

Scattered across the shadowed chamber, bony arms stretched silently from heaps of twisted, shattered skulls and taloned hands even now locked in combat—all that remained from a ten-thousand-year-old rampage that had decimated a nation, an entire species, in a single devastating battle.

Staring somberly, Hunter could read the scene, knew what had happened in this dark moment of history. Without equal in might or ferocity, this predatory species had stormed without rival to the height of the food chain, conquering all the world as they knew it, fearing nothing. With physical supremacy rivaled only by their inherent savagery, they had killed all that could be killed, leaving only themselves. Hunter saw the severed
heads and dark skulls shattered by the sweeping black claws still buried in bleached bone.

It was a war, but it was only themselves that they destroyed.

Insatiable in their lust for blood, uncontrolled because the nexus of mind that powered their ferocity had no restraint or regard even for their own kind, the predators had eventually directed that unlimited thirst for blood and physical rage into this.

Hunter imagined that it had begun with a single attack that had somehow spiraled through the cavern like a forest fire. For once the rage was fueled it had met no barriers of consciousness. No, it had been pure and unbridled, and it had caught and spread as they blindly turned one upon the other, each rending and striking with that inhuman strength to slaughter the next.

Head bowed. Hunter imagined the wholesale battle as it must have been—monstrous forms slashing to dismember and slay only to be slain in turn. And he thought, dimly, that it had probably happened in the space of a few hours. The remorseless conflict had raged until there were only three, two ...one.

Finally the wounded survivor, if any, had perhaps wandered into the mountains and died or simply remained here and perished from age or some pestilence. It didn't matter; what happened here had been their death. Their own ferocity had been their doom. There were no questions remaining.

Chaney's voice was strange.

"Well, now we know," he said in an unnatural voice. He shook his head, attempting to control his tone. "
They actually killed
themselves
off
! And all at once!” An awed pause; “Must have been a hell of a fight."

Takakura shook his head, frowning across the ghostly maze of shattered bone, the slashed or shattered skulls staring emptily toward the torches. He gazed somberly upon a twisted heap of slender skeletal arms and legs that lay in a larger dune.

"Such stupidity," he said.

"No," Hunter remarked. "Not stupidity. They were never mindful enough for that. They were without minds, really, as we understand it. They were just creatures of impulse. They killed on a whim, a thought, the slightest inclination. Whatever controlled them wasn't the conscious mind. It's what all of us fear inside ourselves. The beast, the rage we control because it terrifies us.
” He nodded. “We've evolved beyond that. But they hadn't. They were the closest thing to the unconscious mind of man that this world will ever know."

"And look what it got 'em," Brick grunted. He, too, revealed astonishment, but was recovering quick. "Guess it goes to show you; be careful what you ask for."

A moment passed, and then Takakura walked forward, igniting another flare and tossing it onto a ledge where it cast a higher angle of light across the room. Shadows vanished at the elevated illumination and, slowly, they moved forward.

Then a familiar scent reached Hunter and he bent, examining a black pool. Vaguely the size of a man, the depression was heavy and stagnant, and he felt the thick liquid with a hand, slowly raising it to his face.

"Oil," he whispered, as Bobbi Jo knelt beside him. "Here," he added, "let me see your flare. Stand back." He touched the wick to the pool and it ignited explosively.

The mushrooming blast swept past Hunter's face before he could jerk back. Shocked, Hunter felt his face for a moment, reflexively checking for injury. But there was none and the fire burned bright, dulling the light of their flares to insignificance. Now the entire room was brilliantly visible, and they saw cave paintings that had endured the centuries.

Faded red images of creatures that had ruled this region long ago were inscribed on the stone—images of beasts running, leaping, hunted, slaughtered. And as Hunter turned slowly he saw that the entire mammoth cave was decorated in the primitive art. Entire frescoes of huge animal hunts— whole herds of buffalo and deer driven from cliffs by hunters in ragged clothing—occupied vast spaces before another image, some kind of cleaning and gutting, was detailed.

Almost every image involved hunting, killing, slaughtering, as if that had been the dominating force of their existence. There were no displays of family or play or societal rights—not anything that would indicate culture or civility.
It was simply the bestial exultation of carnage – of slaying and gutting and feasting. And as Hunter saw it altogether he was overcome by the wild, barbaric atmosphere.

Dark images of their own dead were displayed on a nearby wall. He saw the mangled image of a severed skull and felt an undeniable sensation of revulsion.

So, they were also cannibals.

He felt no surprise.

It would only be right. For they had no consciousness, no sense of morality or regard for life. So one of their own dead would naturally be as welcome as another creature's. Flesh was flesh, and any blood was warm enough if drunk quickly.

Staring about, he saw that the cave emptied into a dozen large tunnels that doubtless led into lower levels, possibly more lakes or even to the outside. He didn't presume that this was the only entrance. In fact, he reasoned that there would probably be much more accessible openings, but most had been half-buried or obscured by the mountain's changing geology over time.

Everyone was fairly scattered now and Hunter searched the ground, looking for tracks. He saw where the creature had entered, how it had hesitated, as if in shock. And he began to wonder about the scream he had heard.

Could it be that whatever genetic memory the creature possessed didn't contain any memory of the war that destroyed it? Was it possible that it had come here expecting to be received by its own kind? He wondered; this scientific madness had created something that was in essence the equal of this ancient species, but it was also the twisted manipulation of nature. It seemed possible that genetic coding, distorted and erased by the unnatural transmutation, had been lost.

It had come here expecting its own species, and had found nothing but a bone-Uttered tomb. So its rage had been expressed in the only manner it knew—by an unchecked release that would have destroyed any living creature, if it had been present.

Hunter nodded; he could use that to his advantage.

Rising slowly, feeling the stiffness in his limbs from the brief respite, he wiped his brow. The heavy humidity, probably close to a hundred percent, was making all of them perspire heavily. Already Bobbi Jo's hair was plastered back across her head. She had ripped a piece of clothing from her shirt for a headband, and her battle-dress uniform was blackened with sweat. The rest were equally suffering.

"All right," Hunter said, turning to them as he racked the bolt on the Browning, slamming home a six-inch, .50-caliber cartridge. "I can track it, but we're gonna have to stay alert. This is its home ground, and it
’s gonna use it. So look high, and get a shot off quick if it charges. The rest of us will back you up."

An animal roar, angry and wounded, bellowed from the depths of the cavern, enlarging the room with an astounding bestial fury that smothered them together. Hunter raised his head at the thundering rage and frowned before casting a glance to Bobbi Jo. She revealed nothing as she chambered the Barrett.

Haggard and pale, she carried the huge rifle on a shoulder sling, the long barrel leveled at her waist. Her finger was curled around the trigger and her poise was solid. But Dixon trembled, backing away from a huge yawning tunnel that echoed deeply.

Hunter grabbed him by the shoulder, pushing him forward as they advanced. "No place to go, Dixon," he said. "This is where you learn all about eternal life. And the lack of it."

The tunnel was wide enough to accept all of them with a separation of ten feet. But its vastness defied both their hand-held light and the illumination of the burning oil pool.

Staring steadily into its depths, Hunter understood why the creature had chosen this terrain.

Ledges loomed, unseen in shadow, along the tiered stone walls. And the floor, flat and level, was unencumbered with crumbling rock, allowing rapid movement. Other, higher tunnels disappeared into the uppermost reaches of the passageway—blackened eyes that could conceal anything. Hunter moved forward carefully, alert to the slightest sound. But he knew this was more of a wait than a search.

No, he wouldn't see it first, and knew it would come from a ledge. It would descend into them furiously and hope to finish them quick. And if it hit the ground before they could target it, Hunter recognized that they would be seriously handicapped. For it would move fast, in and out and back again, and they'd have to be careful not to shoot one of their own. He blinked sweat from his eyes as all of them moved in painful silence, the lights revealing their position to the beast.

Brick spoke from the side.

"This thing, it's gonna try an ambush, right?"

"Yeah," Hunter said, raising eyes to a submerged ledge.

"Then why don't one of us stay a little farther back?" the big ex-marshal asked. "If it's directly above you, you won't see it coming down. But somebody a little farther back, they'll get the angle on it."

Nodding, Hunter knew it was a good idea. In fact, he had already considered it, but discarded the tactic because one man isolated as a rear guard would become more vulnerable. He explained the objection to Brick.

"Yeah, it's a risk." The big man breathed heavily. The suffocating humidity was affecting them all. "But I'll take the risk. If that thing lands in the thick of us, we're gonna be shooting each other, son. I know what I'm jawin' about."

Hesitating, Hunter looked at Chaney, who nodded. "Let Brick take rear guard for a while," Chaney suggested, swiping his face. "But I'll flank him. That leaves the three of you up here, two of us in the back. It won't be that easy to get the drop on us."

Hunter stared, finally nodded. He wondered when it was that he had somehow taken military control of the situation, then forgot it; it didn't matter. Takakura acknowledged his agreement and they divided forces, Hunter leading a wary wedge.

Behind him Brick and Chaney had the double-barreled Weatherby poised high as they searched the ledges, ready to shoulder as if shooting clay pigeons. And Hunter felt safer with them guarding the upper tiers, but slowly began to sense a vague, intensifying nervousness that he couldn't lock down. It was a sensation that whatever should have happened by now hadn't happened.

He quickly analyzed all his former battles with the creature, reviewing its tactics, instincts, habits, and almost unconscious inclinations. More than anything, it used the same tactics over and over again. It ambushed from high ground with a directness of action that capitalized on the prey's limited reaction speed. It never attacked directly unless it was in the open field, always used darkness or broken terrain for short, devastating assaults before seizing solid cover from small-arms fire. It also preferred to use the advantage of confusion, but that wasn't an option for it now, so . ..