The Flock (22 page)

They were standing, facing one another in opposition when a key was jammed suddenly into the door's lock and it flew open, flooding the room with soft but blinding light. Ron's pupils quickly contracted to pinpoints and the pain caused him to flinch back. He caught just the glimpse of a human figure, arm extended, gun in hand. It was, he saw as he recovered, Levin. The .357 was aimed right at him.

“Let's get out of here,” Levin said.

Ron stepped toward the doorway, right behind Kate whose long legged strides had already taken her out of the room. The three of them stood in the hallway. Levin's face was ashen, and he kept glancing up and down the hall, as if expecting Satan himself to come flying down it on gigantic leather wings.

“What's going on, Adam? We heard a shot.”

“You didn't shoot Mary, did you?”

Levin's pale face turned toward them. “Someone killed Kinji,” he said. “I saw them on the security monitor. They shot him in the head. He's dead.”

“Who did that, Adam? Who did you see?” Kate's hand had reached out to take Levin's shoulder, to support him. “You see, Ron? What did I tell you?” Her hand squeezed Levin's shoulder to accent her request. “Now, who did you see?”

“I don't know who they are. Two men. With guns. They came into the room where Kinji was and they just shot him. Just like that. They were coming right for me, but I unlocked the freezer in the west lab and came through it to this hallway. I tricked them,” he said, a silly smile on his face. “I tricked them.”

“Suck it up, Adam. I think you're in shock. I don't believe you're thinking straight.”

“I saw them, I tell you.” His face was grim and as white as paste.

Kate reached out and without hesitating, she took the pistol from him. He didn't resist. “Let me have the gun, Adam. You do as we say and we'll find out what's going on.” She, too, looked down the hallway and up it, searching for anyone who might be coming their way. “What did they look like?”

“Just two men. Nothing special about them. But they didn't even think about it, shooting Kinji, I mean. The one in front just aimed his rifle and shot him right in the head.”

She took a second to glare at Ron. “Wonder how they knew we'd all be here? How about it, Ron?”

Ron ignored the verbal barb and stepped up to put his own hand on Levin's back, at the base of his neck. The man was shivering, perhaps already suffering from clinical shock. Now Ron knew he needn't have worried about this pitiful fellow killing anyone. “How were they dressed? Were they cops? Maybe someone called in cops or something. Maybe they thought Kamaguchi was going to shoot at them and they reacted to that.”

“No,” Levin said. “They aren't cops. They're dressed in regular shirts, jeans. Not cops.”

Ron leaned against the wall, closed his eyes. “It must be the same people who sent those two to my house. It
has
to be.”

“What? Finally coming around, Ron?” Kate looked at him suspiciously, but with less of that I-told-you-so anger.

“Look. If they're desperate enough to kill Dodd, and if they're desperate enough to come to my house and try to shake me down, then there's obviously no doubt that they'll kill all of us.”

Levin's eyes went wide. “We have to get out of here. We have to get out and, and, and we have to warn Vance. God, we can't leave Vance out there with these people ready to shoot us on sight.

“Vance doesn't
know,
” Adam screeched, grabbing Kate by the shirt and pulling her to him. He was losing the tenuous grip he had on his panic.

Ron reached over and restrained Levin, making him release his grip on Kate. He shook the biologist and spoke to him. “Look, man. You saw them kill your friend. But what about Mary? What about Billy? Did you see them? And what did you guys do with Mary?”

“We. We tied Mary up and put her in the room where the mainframe's going. It's empty and we thought it would be a good place to put her. She's way down a corridor where even we hardly ever go, so I don't think anyone would think to look there.

“And. And Billy was supposed to be near the garage. Supposed to be watching the gate for Vance. See if Vance was coming back. But I never saw Billy on the monitor. Never saw him at all.”

Ron looked up at Kate. “How do we get out of here? How do we get out of here without those guys seeing us? Can we go back the way Adam came? Through that freezer, like he said?”

“No. Not that way,” Levin blurted. “They were coming that way, and they'll find the freezer. They were right behind me. Not that way. We'd be cornered if we went that way. And they have rifles. All we have is that.” He pointed to the pistol in Kate's hand.

“Damn,” Ron muttered. He looked behind him, and noticed the big windows leading outside. “Why not there?” he asked, gesturing toward the glass panes. “We can just go through there.”

“No. I don't think so,” Kate said.

“Why not?” Ron asked.

“Because of him,” she said.

Ron looked to where she was pointing, and turned just in time to see Billy Crane out in the grounds beyond the window. He was standing braced, aiming a shotgun right at them. It roared, and the glass shattered into a fine rain of glittering shards around them. They all brought up their arms to shield their eyes. Ron could hear Levin screaming something about Billy trying to kill them; but his own panic prevented him from understanding all of the words.

Although the receivers were very small and hidden high in the tops of several nearby longleaf pines, as were the transmitters placed at strategic points throughout the Eyesore, Holcomb was able to get a good handle on what was going on back at his compound. He was crouching there in his hideaway, a pair of extremely expensive headphones clamped over his ears. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face as three pairs of small ventilating fans whirred silently above him, taking out the hottest air and keeping the temperature inside at a reasonable eighty-eight degrees. Ingenious baffles and air pockets kept out even the most stubborn of insects, so the room/laboratory was comfortable despite the heat and humidity that surrounded it. From a distance of more than twenty yards, his little lab was invisible. But he knew he couldn't stay hidden there for long. Someone was going to come for him as soon as they had finished killing the people back at his compound. In fact, it could be that they were already on the way.

He had flipped through a number of low frequencies as soon as he'd settled into the place. Holcomb had spent a considerable amount of money buying the components, and had dedicated a lot of his valuable time installing the system. Often, he had used it to eavesdrop on the ones he left there while he went out into the forests and savanna to search for the birds. On a number of occasions he had gathered some truly juicy bits of gossip, generally concerning how his employees thought of him. Mainly, they had seemed a loyal and hardworking lot. But not now. He could not get over the feeling that someone had ratted them out, and he could not quite figure out just who was there now, doing the killing.

Cursing himself, he realized as he had heard the panicked voice of Adam Levin recounting the murder of Kamaguchi that he could do nothing for them from his hiding spot out in the bush. While he could listen in on what was happening there, the equipment he'd stashed was good only for receiving and was practically useless with which to transmit. He had the small radio with him, but that was no good, either. It had a specific range, and he was afraid that if he used it now, then it would most likely be used as a point to locate him. If an armed group was at the compound, there was more than likely another one headed his way. It would be a simple matter to triangulate his location if they locked onto his signal for even a minute or so. He stared at his pack, where the little radio was stashed, and shook his head.

As he'd listened to the remaining members of his crew, he had heard them as they had realized that Billy Crane was outside the window. One of them, he thought that it had been Kate, had yelled something about a gun, and then his hidden microphone had gone full of white noise. It had been a gunshot, of course, and he thought he'd heard the unmistakable racket of shattering glass. After that, the mike had gone to all static, an overload on the sensitive component. He had continued to listen for a minute or so, but had given up, soon trying one listening post after another, but had picked up nothing else. In a while, he had slowly removed the headphones.

He knew that he must assume the worst. They had probably all been killed. Except, it seemed, for Billy Crane. That was strange, really. Of the ones present at the Eyesore, he wouldn't have suspected Crane capable of selling them out. When he had taken the Indian on, the man had seemed truly sincere in his desire to do something to save such a wonderful piece of wild Florida. Sincere enough that the team had finally decided to let him in on the discovery of the terror birds. It seemed appropriate to Holcomb, and the rest of them, that Billy be a part of the ongoing research. It had probably been a trite bit of white man's guilt to do so.

Holcomb sighed, stood, and stepped over to a foam mattress lying on the flooring. His lab was lined with a very expensive material he had commissioned; a synthesis of Gore-Tex and Kevlar mesh. The stuff breathed well, let out moisture and allowed the free flow of air, but kept out even the most persistent dampness. He lay there, his right arm covering his face. Holcomb was very tired, having hiked double-time across the miles to this place. But he didn't know how long he would have before he would have to cut and run. Running was a foregone conclusion. They'd find him at his little laboratory. Once that happened, he was as good as dead if he remained there. He'd have to rest for a bit, then leave. Men with guns would soon be after him.

Holcomb wished he knew who had been there doing the shooting, other than Crane.

Shifting, he looked at his equipment in the fading light. In a few moments it would be dark, and if he wanted to be able to see in the room, he'd have to use one of the small, battery-powered lights positioned along the walls. He thought of his friends, of the possibility of trying to sneak back to the compound to see if he could help. But Vance Holcomb was all that stood between the flock of terror birds and their eventual extermination. Of that, he was positively certain. For them, for this entire wilderness, he was indispensable. To endanger himself was an act of selfishness he could not risk.

He would have to leave his people to Fate, and
he
would have to escape. It couldn't be helped. With a flip of a single switch, he shut down the receiver, conserving battery power. For now, he knew what he wanted to know. In the dimness of twilight, he turned, assuming a more comfortable position. It was time to rest.

On the wind. The sign and the scent, and the
warning
were coming on the wind.

The Scarlet rogue aimed his beak toward the sky, opened his mouth to hold the scent in his mouth, to allow it to linger there and to
tell
him what was being carried upon it. Night had fallen and there was more information there than he could ever decipher, should he have chosen to attempt to read it all. But he had learned in his years to filter out the noise of that which was unimportant, and to read only what was of consequence for the moment. And what it was telling him now was both confusing, and even a little frightening.

In the cooling evening he was aware that the Flock was in movement. And not in a routine way that indicated a hunt was on, or that they were merely relocating to a more advantageous position to assure that they remained undiscovered for another day. This was different. The Flock was moving out in a strange pattern, all of the adults at the fore-front, with the chicks left far back and the youths behind them and flanking them, in a guarding position. This was not something the Scarlet had ever been a part of, something which he read in the way the scent of the flock members came to him on the wind, and in the sounds he detected from time to time. In addition, although they were still a comfortable distance from him, they were heading his way. Obviously, they were following the sign he had inadvertently left during his daylight journey, for the wind was currently in his favor and he knew that they did not have his scent, or even know his exact location. But it was bothersome to know that they were coming toward him. Since he had taken leave of the Flock, the Egg Father had kept a distance between their numbers and the Scarlet. Something had changed.

There was prey on the wind, the warm and
satisfying
scent of meat on the hoof. But he had placed that secondary to the other things he knew.

The Man Who Watches
was among them again. The Flock had known of him for some time. He had descended into their midst some cycles before, making a covered nest at the edge of the open grasslands they sometimes liked to hunt. This man had scattered strange things, the things the Flock knew men somehow constructed, the way a worm constructs a cocoon, or a spider makes its web. Man's ways were a mystery to them, but they were aware of many of the things men did and made. For a time, Egg Mother and Walks Backward had sought out the places where
The Man Who Watches
had left his constructs, and they had bitten them, tearing them and dropping the remains into the river as they did with things they wished to hide. And after a time the man had ceased to leave the things where they disturbed the Flock. And they had decided not to remove the things this man had left high in the trees, even though there were young among them who could make the climb, who were not too heavy to do so. Egg Father had decided not to risk it.

This particular man had returned to his sometimes-nest, and was there now, resting in it.

And there was a third, and also disturbing development. The Scarlet had detected a number of men moving into the wilderness from the west. They were coming from that place where the men grouped and pretended to hunt, as men had done on this place at intervals for many years until they had left. This was the first time the Scarlet could recall that these men had crossed the line and had come into the forests and grasslands that belonged to the Flock. Their scent told him many things: there were six of them; they were, for men, being very silent; and they were hunting. He could smell it. Could taste it. Could sense it on the breezes—an electric spark that leaped from their great brains and traveled on a plane the Scarlet could sense, could read, could understand.

And the men were there to hunt
him
. He could see himself in their thoughts.
Red
. They had seen him, somehow, although he had never seen them. But his image was there, crossing the night winds from their minds to his.
The Red Bird
, they were thinking.
Kill it
.

Well.

Well, then.

He would be ready for them. He would be ready for his parents and for Walks Backward.

The Scarlet was not going to make this an easy night for any of them.

 

The Flock had set out on the trail the Scarlet had left for them. Alone, with no one to walk his trace and remove his sign, he was visible to them. There were two dozen adults moving along a V-shaped line, each of the great birds spaced thirty meters apart. Behind them, a half-mile back, were the smallest of the chicks and thirty youths of sufficient age and ability to guard them. One youth was serving as the sweep, as the one who would become Walks Backward when the time came. It seemed a good, safe way to protect the young.

The point of the
V
was Egg Father. The eastward end of it was Egg Mother, and the western point was Walks Backward. It was their plan to continue on the trail the Scarlet rogue had left until the spoor became hot, became fresh. At that point each trailing end of the
V
would come forward, would arch up and around until the
V
became a circle and they would quickly surround the rogue. He would try to break free, of course, and he was certainly large enough to do so, but even he could not hope to take on so many of his own kind. Not when the command to
kill
had been given.

For now, the rogue was not merely prey for the Flock. He was more than that. He was not just the object of the hunt, but also a thing they rarely had faced in so many years. He was their
adversary
. It was not unknown for a member of the Flock to fall to another predator. The great alligators who lived and hunted the waters sometimes took a chick or a youth at the edge of the river. It was unfortunate, but part of the cycle of life. When they had been more numerous, the wolf packs and even the big cats had been known to kill and eat a lone member of their number, as had bears. But not since the Flock had formed this new society, and had hidden from Man were they more than rarely a victim to anything that lived. And so the Scarlet had become not only the object of this night's hunt, but also their enemy. He was a danger they had never faced and tonight was his last night.

Leaving the youths behind, the formation had set out, moving through the forests and into the edge of the grasslands with the tall pines interspersed throughout. If this were where he was, then the task would be easier. Yes, his stride was great and his speed formidable. But out on the savanna he would be completely visible and they would run him down as they did a deer or a fox. Egg Father hoped that the rogue had been foolish enough to try to hide out there in the grasses.

As they went through the great trees, Egg Father scented the wind and looked all around. His night vision was superb. He could see the entire panorama of the forest in stark, tinted shades of black and gray. Even with almost no moonlight to show the way, they could all make out the smallest detail in the night. Sedges swayed on the wind, branches bobbed, palmetto twitched. Beneath their feet, small animals crouched on the ground or huddled in burrows. Above them, birds sat high in safe perches and looked on, making no comment. Clawed feet rose and fell, taking them along at a distance eating pace.

 

Colonel Grisham and his fire team passed over onto the old military range at sunset. By then, he knew that his men would have already groomed Holcomb's compound and were now cleaning it up. Hopefully there would be no sign of a struggle. And if there were, the cleanup would be so thorough that no one would ever know. How the bodies would be disposed of he neither cared nor wished ever to know. That it was done and that there would never be any comebacks was enough for him.

And then it was
his
turn. This was the job he wanted for himself. More than likely, if Holcomb was not at the initial target, then it would be up to Grisham Company to take him down and dispose of his mortal remains. Also, there was the issue of the
terror bird
.

‘Phorusrachids. They were a race of ground dwelling birds of prey that became extinct about a million years ago,' his encyclopedia had told him. Someone at Berg Brothers had done what research they could, and the mole inside Holcomb's team had filled in the rest. That was a bit of luck, making a turncoat out of one of the billionaire's own. But Grisham wasn't surprised. Everyone had their price. He had yet to meet a human being who couldn't be bought.

According to their source, there was a flock of about a dozen or two of the birds living out there. They mainly hunted in the open longleaf savanna at night, and bedded down during the day. At least, that's what the traitor had told them. In actuality, even Holcomb's team had been unable to locate the birds' hiding places during daylight hours. And they had only a slim bit of direct observation of them during lightless times, when the things apparently did all of their hunting and socializing. Despite the fact that the birds were large, and also appeared to be built for speed, Grisham didn't think that killing them all would prove to be much of a problem. He, for one, didn't have any doubts.

The colonel and his five men were all equipped with personal radio gear, compact boxes attached at the epaulet, right side. They would be as silent as possible, but it would be foolish to head out, armed to the teeth in the nighttime bush without being able to communicate effectively. Each man was carrying an AK-47 rifle. Grisham had chosen the weapons, keeping the complement of firearms uniform in case any man exhausted his ammunition and had to rely on another for spare cartridges. The guns were accurate, fired smoothly, and could go to automatic with the simple flick of a switch. And each of them carried the reliable 9mm Beretta, Grisham's sidearm of choice. There were pistols that packed a lot more power, but he enjoyed these weapons immensely and had handed them out to each of the members of his fire team. In addition to the guns and ammo, they of course carried emergency provisions to enable them to comfortably endure several days in the bush without returning to base to resupply. But it wasn't going to take that long. Within twelve hours, he felt certain that both Vance Holcomb and his giant dino-birds would be extinct.

They all moved eastward in a more or less even line, roughly fifty meters between each man. In this way they could cover a lot of ground and were likely to notice any evidence of either man or animal. Nothing would move or try to get away from them without being seen. And, likely, nothing trying to hide from them would escape their notice. Each gun was equipped with a night scope, and as they trolled along, they would periodically stop, raise the scope and look down it, seeing what the night could no longer conceal from them.

Grisham was so at rest, peering down the barrel of his rifle when he saw something out of place. It wasn't anything living, no movement or quick flash of panic from something forcing itself not to bolt in fear. What he saw was a pair of sumac limbs, the leaves partially wilted and pointing in the wrong direction for a growing bush. Patiently, he held the gun to his chest, looked down the sight and stared. Someone—someone who had practiced it well—had tried to hide something in the undergrowth. The colonel stood still, held his breath, and moved the barrel of his gun up a degree, and down, then swept it right to left a few inches. There was a tarp under the limbs and brush, and just at ground level he caught sight of a tire.
An ATV,
he thought, seeing.

“Watkins. Number one here. Out.”

“This is Watkins,” came the reply, bulling through a very slight mist of static.

“Fifty yards ahead of my position. Hidden vehicle. Approach with caution,” Grisham ordered. He waited, watching, and soon Watkins's form came into view. The soldier approached the hidden ATV and soon had pulled the camouflage free of it. The vehicle belonged, he knew, to Holcomb. So that meant that Vance Holcomb was either out there, hiding in the forest and waiting for them, or sitting out there, somewhere, thinking he was just doing a little bird watching. Little did the billionaire creep know that Colonel Winston Grisham was about to hunt him down and kill him. Along with his stinking birds.

“It's time that we find Vance Holcomb,” he rasped into his epaulet. “You all know what he looks like. Kill him on sight.”