Hunter (63 page)

Live or die now!

Hunter had no thought for Bobbi Jo or Chaney or the rest as he crouched like a boxer, waiting.

Even the fangs were aflame as it closed the remaining distance with three rushing strides, reaching him in a horrifying image of death. Glaring through the wild flame, its blazing red eyes focused on Hunter with a deathless intensity. Hunter waited a final second—waited until the apelike, smoking arms had reached out to encircle, drawing him into the gaping jaws.

Leaping forward with a terrific lunge, Hunter collided hard against it and stabbed outward in the same movement. And, tight in his fist, the knife was a silver blur between the outstretched arms, aimed dead for the chest.

There was a flicker in the half-dark and then the huge blade hit solidly between the thick shields of its chest, disappearing into the beast with a thudding impact. Hunter instantly released the blade, ducking to survive the crushing arms as they closed.

For a moment there was an impression of being torn apart by two mountainous forces, each seeming to rip Hunters shoulders from their sockets, and Hunter resisted with all his strength. Pushing back against the monstrous arms, he separated a small space as talons tore deep grooves across his back and spine. Then he felt the talons lock deep in muscle and his back bent, closed in a force beyond imagination. A moment later, to his surprise, he found himself sprawled on the dusty cold floor, dazed but alive, struggling to regain consciousness.

Rolling painfully, he saw that the creature had collapsed onto its face, rising for a brief instant on a gorilla arm to grasp painfully at the protruding
Bowie. Lifting its head with gaping fangs, it pulled at the blade, finally hauling the steel from its chest. Then it slumped back before struggling, far more slowly, to its feet.

Frowning, death in his eyes, Hunter stood to meet it.

Glancing behind the monstrous shape, he saw the flaming oil burning bright in the serpentine atmosphere. And, still hanging from its neck, was the snare that he had designed. Though designed from the simplest of tools—the tools of a simple man—the weapon streamed heavily with its blood.

One last move to make ...

Hunter stepped forward and anticipated its reaction. He timed it— purposefully slow—in order to draw it into moving too early, and the blind, backhand blow missed by six inches. Then Hunter leaped forward quick, snatching the bloody steel tube of the snare.

Whirling instantly, all the strength of his devastated body behind it, Hunter twisted to hurl the beast in an arch. It was a final finishing move but carried it fully into the flaming pool, where it crashed in a screaming mass of pain. Knowing that everything—their lives and the lives of everyone else—had come down to this moment, Hunter pulled the thermite grenade from his waist and pulled the pin with his thumb to spin back instantly.

Screaming within flame, it rose.

Hunter opened his hand; the clip flew in red light.

Staggering, howling, and seeming somehow to understand, it straightened and gathered itself for the briefest moment to focus absolutely on Hunter. Immeasurable hate blazed in the bloodied countenance as it snarled, striding forward.

Staring it hotly in the eyes, Hunter tossed the grenade and dove away, hitting smoothly to roll clear and then diving clearly over a second dune of skulls before the thermite exploded within the flames.

It was a lifesaving move. The resulting explosion bathed where he had stood in phosphorous- and flame-washed oil that lit the cathedral like lightning. And Hunter was moving again as he narrowly gained balance in the tumult, leaping to place another mound of skeletal refuge between himself and the heart of the storm.

Subterranean thunder shocked the struck cavern, shattering longstanding stalagmites to send them crashing to stone. Reverberating through rock a long while with white sheets of flame descending wildly through the atmosphere like fallen ghosts, the thunder continued until the doomed cave abruptly collapsed with deep trembling.

Stunned, shaking his head, Hunter glanced back.

Only seconds passed before the flames engulfed the entire cathedral
-like cavern, eerily igniting a wide spiraling funeral pyre that blazed with bones and skulls blackening in flame.

Slowly, attempting to clear his vision, Hunter stood and stared over the burning monument to such a black, savage empire. But he did not have long to contemplate anything at all as his attention was drawn away.

A consumed, red-black shape shambled from the flames.

Hunter turned his head, disbelieving.

Rising vengefully from the inferno, the creature even yet struggled to survive, to attack, to kill. It rose from the purest liquid fire, swirling and crackling with the holocaust, and finally gained a foot, an edge, before stumbling—falling to a knee.

Hunter picked up his
Bowie, walking forward.

Luther glared at him, smiled insanely.

"I ... am ... immortal ..."

Hunter reached out and grasped the burning hair, ignoring the flames that curled around his arm. He frowned, a force deeper than himself emerging.

"No, Luther," he said. "You're not."

He twisted violently and the
Bowie came across and struck, and the blow continued without hesitation through flesh and blood and bone to finish the fight, the battle, and the beast. And the monstrous, headless body fell forward to the bone-littered ground.

Still ignoring flames that spiraled upward over his forearm, Hunter glanced into the now lifeless eyes. And if he had possessed the energy, he would have felt relief. For so long he had known only fear, desperation
...rage. Now there was nothing within him but immeasurable tiredness.

He tossed the head aside.

Hunter raised his eyes to the heart of the cavern and saw Bobbi Jo slumped on the hill of bones. Beside her, Chaney rested, collapsed on a bloodied, determined arm. His head moved slowly with each exhausting breath; he didn't look up. Yeah, they were hurt, but they'd survive.

Hunter held Bobbi Jo in his strong arm, and as Chaney stumbled alongside them, stoically enduring the pain, he slowly led them up the mountain and into the world.

* * *

Epil
ogue

Hunter, bloodied and savage, was the last to crest the summit, his Bowie the only weapon he retained as he emerged upon the sloped red rock. He was greeted by innumerable black choppers, soldiers, United States Marshals, some unidentifiable civilians, probably CIA, and two army medical helicopters.

An angry debate seemed to be raging between the leader of the Marshals Service and the army. And then there was Dr. Hamilton—he had obviously somehow survived the obliteration of the installation—standing beside a major.

Hunter ignored them all as he knelt beside Bobbi Jo, brushing back a lock of blond hair from her eyes.

Sitting tiredly on a white gurney, she was a mass of cuts and bruises and claw wounds. Her head was bowed in extreme fatigue while the medics gently dressed the furrows raked across her face and chest. As they started an IV, she spoke softly to Hunter: "Don't let them take you in. You'll
...disappear."

Kneeling to meet her low gaze, Hunter smiled. "Hey, don't worry about me. You just get some rest. I'll see you at the hospital." He winked. "You still got some R and R to spend with me, remember?"

She laughed faintly as they laid her back on the gurney. In a moment they had her in the first medical helicopter, which began a cautious lift from the smooth, flat summit. Vaguely, Hunter wondered that so many choppers could be crowded into so small an area. Then he gave it no more thought as he walked stoically forward to find Chaney beside a tall, gaunt figure he was calling "Skull."

Hunter heard Chaney speaking quickly, alert and logical despite the distraction of his wounds. "Skull, listen, he's lying. It was all a He. All of it. And I've got all the proof we need. About two miles beneath us in that cavern. Trust me, boss. I'm right on this one."

"Never doubted you for a second, Chaney," the man replied, staring hard at Hamilton. "Doctor," he continued, "I believe you have a lot to answer for. And I'm gonna be asking the questions."

Tension, already high, spiraled.

The military behind Hamilton seemed strangely uncertain, but they were obviously instructed to back up the doctor. And the U.S. Marshals behind Skull seemed ready, to a man, to defy them. When an army official, Hunter guessed a major, instructed Skull that Chaney and Hunter were under arrest, Skull laughed out loud.

"They're under arrest, Major," he retorted, leaning into it, "when I say they're under arrest and not a moment sooner. Your jurisdiction under
Posse Comitatus
has been withdrawn and I, notwithstanding the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, am now in charge of this situation." He looked at Hamilton. "You, Doctor, are hereby placed in federal custody for concealing vital information from the United States Marshals Service, for murder, for conspiracy to commit murder, for obstruction of justice, for the violation of civil liberties, and for the violation of federal law prohibiting experimentation in biological weaponry. And if that's not enough, I'll think up some more in a few minutes."

Chaney, too tired to laugh, shook his head.

Then Hunter stepped into it, shouldering his way between Skull and Chaney to engage Hamilton's enraged glare. The physician appeared unhinged, and seemed not to recognize his brutal, bleeding countenance for a moment. Then, pointing a trembling hand: "It was this man!" he shouted. "This ...this animal! He is the one who destroyed my facility!"

"And your life," Hunter nodded coldly. "Nothing left but the truth, Hamilton. And, just so you know, Luther is dead. He's lying two miles beneath your feet with his head cut off."

Skull nodded curtly to the marshals behind him and a team began rappelling over the edge of the cliff, headed down to the cave. Hunter knew they would retrieve all the evidence, the bodies of his compatriots, and what was left of Luther. He didn't know if any of it would ever see daylight, but it would be enough to put away the guilty for a long time.

Grimacing in pain, Chaney added, "You picked the wrong man for the
job, Hamilton. That's why Hunter was so damned unimportant, wasn't it? He was the wild card. The rest of them, they were soldiers. You knew they didn't stand a chance against Luther. But you weren't sure how Hunter would react. What he would do. That's what scared you from the first, but you couldn't figure a way out of it 'cause you had to put on a good show. Well, I'm glad to see he disappointed you." Chaney turned in beside Hunter as they walked away and then called back: "See you at the arraignment, Doc."

As they walked to the second medical chopper, Skull began giving terse instructions for documentation of the scene and preservation of the beast's body. Hunter glanced back to see Hamilton, arrogant and despising to the last, being led away in cuffs. Although both of them were so wounded they could barely walk, now that the abysmal pain of a dozen serious injuries was emerging from beneath the stress, the sight brought a smile to Hunter's face as he spoke quietly. "You gonna be all right with the way this burned down?"

"Oh, yeah, no problems," Chaney said, obvious pain making his voice chipped and brittle. "How about you?"

"I'll be fine, I think. I just want to get to the hospital and check on Bobbi Jo. She was hurt pretty bad."

"Yeah, but she'll be fine, Hunter. She's strong. Got a strong spirit, too." He spoke slower. "I'm sorry about Ghost. And about the professor. He was ... a good man."

Moving another step, Hunter was silent. Then he stopped and slowly turned, staring back at the cliff. The marshal's team had already descended, and he was briefly immobile. After a moment he shook his head.

"Killing it don't seem like enough," he whispered.

Chaney, still holding his broken shoulder, let the moment last. "Come on, Hunter," he said finally. "You're hurt. I'm hurt. The rest are dead and that thing is dead. It's over. Now it's up to you and that body of yours to make sure something good comes out of this. Skull and I'll clean up the rest of the mess."

Frowning, Hunter paused, then began walking beside Chaney up the hill, toward the descending sun.

"So much for immortality," he said.

James Byron Huggins emerged from the cobwebs of Alabama in 1993 and literally stunned both the American East Coast and West Coast with multiple million-dollar movie and book deals to create some of the most admired story lines and characters in recent fiction.

After creating his allegorical first novel, “
A Wolf Story
,” Huggins switched to the counterintelligence genre with the ground-breaking, “
The Reckoning
.” Long hailed as the first true thriller with the backdrop of a profoundly religious plot, “
The Reckoning
” remains a favorite of actions fans. Then Huggins wrote “
Leviathan
” – the story of a Komodo Dragon transformed into the biblical Leviathan and the havoc it wreaks upon those who must destroy it before it destroys the world.

Million dollar deals were immediately signed for “
Cain
,” and “
Hunter
,” before Huggins could even finish the books and overseas rights were sold before the novels were even released in the United States. Even now Huggins remains one of the most sought-after action screen writers in Hollywood.

Raised in a small Alabama town Huggins grew up to become involved in fantastic adventures that took him to the far side of the world and so very far from his beginnings. After spending several years in Europe smuggling people and materials in and out of the Iron Curtain to assist those suffering religious and political persecution in nations doomed to war, Huggins became a decorated police officer in Huntsville, Ala. But he resigned from police work in 1993 after publication of his first novel.

Huggins continues to write and to speak and frequently holds writing seminars for libraries, book clubs, colleges, high schools and churches. Anyone wishing to have Huggins visit your group or edit your work before publication or theatrical production need only contact him through this site.