63. weird, world.
At some point in the forgotten past someone had gone to the trouble of building a hunting blind between the forks of the massive tree. Dangerously neglected, the rough-hewn wooden slats hung well over ten feet above the forest floor. Weevils and beetles had been industriously eating away at it, until the boards resembled aged Swiss cheese, and the nails that had been hammered into the living tree were bent and rusted, the color of dried blood.
At least, he hoped it was only rust. In these woods, it was all too easy to believe that the trees could bleed. He had never been one for superstition, but after the things he had seen…
He shifted carefully to alleviate a cramp that had been building in his right leg, mindful of the way the blind creaked. He had climbed up here eight hours ago, not long after sunset, and every inch he’d gone up had only sent his heart throbbing higher in his throat. It wasn’t too far down, but at the right-or should that be wrong?-angle he could break his neck or back at worst, a leg or an arm at best. He wasn’t a large man, and his muscle was more lean than bulky, but something this decrepit couldn’t be trusted to hold even his weight. It was why he was sitting so awkwardly and so close to the tree trunk. Hopefully his reflexes would be quick enough for him to grab at the bark if the whole damn thing gave way.
Why was he up here again, freezing his ass off in the early morning grayscale light? Crouching on an unsteady contraption, clothes wet and heavy with dew, fingers going numb while his lips chapped? Because orders were orders and the strange activity in the woods had increased significantly in the last month. The locals had reported strange lights on a nightly basis. A pair of teenagers who had been dared by their friends to venture into the clearing had staggered out minutes later convinced days had passed, disoriented and vomiting, noses bleeding and arms scratched as if by a wild animal’s claws. The unsettling nighttime noises were growing louder with each passing day; the man who lived in a small house on the edge of the forest said he’d taken to sleeping with ear plugs in to block out the unearthly laughter, wailing, buzzing… Hoia-Baciu’s reputation for paranormal activity stretched back decades but this much strangeness in such a short period warranted investigation.
Personally, he didn’t truly expect to find any of the Touched behind it. It was far too flashy, too sensational, and anyone capable of producing such a show would know about the Order and have the sense to keep a low profile. He thought it far more likely that it was all a smokescreen for something much more mundane; there had long been rumors of government testing and chemical dumping here, which would easily account for the lights, the noises, even the bizarre ‘dead zone’ clearing at the center of the forest where only grass could grow. Someone was playing upon human gullibility and society’s fondness for folk tales to scare away the superstitious and unsure. The only thing he really expected to see was a military vehicle, or perhaps a couple of technicians with a prototype to test or a metal drum to be buried.
Still, he couldn’t very well refuse a direct order. So he’d sit for a couple more hours fighting muscle cramps and dizzying flashes of vertigo, struggling with wayward eyelids that insisted on closing every twenty seconds. Normally an all-night (and morning) stakeout such as this wouldn’t be a problem-he had never needed much sleep to function, not even as a child, and his conditioning over the years had given him the ability to operate reliably on only cat naps. But it had been three days since he had had even an hour of sleep. He’d had an uncomfortably close shave with Owens; he would have to be incredibly careful for the foreseeable future if he was to successfully deflect any lingering suspicions. The encounter had been such a jolt that it still made adrenaline spike his blood in a volatile, burning cocktail when his mind fumbled back over it like a tongue pressing upon a sore tooth.
And then, before he could properly right himself and regain his balance, he’d gotten the call from home. His previous assignment had made it difficult to keep abreast of world news as it happened, so it was the first he’d heard of the unusual crimes. The hallmarks-invisible to most but readily seen by him-kicked his heart into overdrive. It was too close, too damnably close, and he was stuck three countries away. He could probably plead his case for a temporary leave of absence, or even a reassignment to Branch 2, but then that would invite further scrutiny from Owens. And that was the absolute last thing he needed right now; and that meant he was forced to wait and see. The best he could do was cross his fingers and say a quick prayer that whatever was happening in the city wouldn’t touch his family.
It would be the worst and cruelest irony if he had signed on to protect people only to be denied the chance to protect his own flesh and blood.
Dawn crept leisurely through the trees, taking its time. In a place like this things tended to happen slowly. The fallen trees were slowly dissolved by fungus and moss, crumbling back into the loam in inches that took years. Each season sidled in timidly, the previous unwilling to relinquish its hold with any haste, and as a result the leaves grew, changed colors, and fell in a slow but steady wave. The only time the calm peace was ruptured was in the split second of a predator’s attack-or when some unearthly cry went up from the local ‘ghosts’.
There was a faint rustling in the leafy undergrowth as some small furry creature crawled by, a vole or mouse or rabbit, invisible from his current position-besides, he could hardly look straight down from the edge. That would only invite nausea. A scattering of birdsong trilled out but was hardly the enthusiastic chorus you would expect in most forests. This close to the clearing most wildlife was scarce. Which probably explained with the blind had fallen into such disrepair: whoever had built it had realized the futility in its location and had abandoned it for better poaching elsewhere. That must have been a blow to the hunter. It couldn’t have been easy to drag lumber and nails this deep into Hoia-Baciu, not when vehicle engines inexplicably stalled so close to the clearing.
At least the spot was, in a certain way, still serving its original, intended function. ‘Hunter’ was a term that broadly fit him. He was definitely waiting for something and he was armed. The standard issue Makarov sat in the holster at his hip and he had his rifle slung over his back. It would be useful for its scope if nothing else, should he see any unusual movement. But it had remained in place throughout the night. The only sounds he had heard was the wind rustling through the leaves and then the hunting screech of an owl as it dove onto something squeaky (then promptly less so) not long after midnight. The ghosts of wailing Romani women, the playful child poltergeists, and the UFOs with their bright search beams had neglected to repeat their performances from the previous evenings. Perhaps they had been embarrassed by such a focused, official audience. Tomorrow night he should bring a bag of popcorn to show he was in the mood for a proper show.
Perhaps Suka had had a more exciting evening from her side of the clearing. He pulled out his phone, making slow and furtive movements to minimize his presence. Report? he sent.
Nothing. Not even deer. Thought the fuckers lived everywhere on this continent. You? came the reply moments later.
No. All quiet. Give it another hour, then we sweep. Can I ask a favor?
No, I will not fuck you.
And I’ve never asked you to, yet you sure do make a point of constantly saying no. You know what Freud would say about that?
Blah blah blah displacement. Right. What do you want?
I’m dead man walking right now. Can you file the report when we get back? If I don’t crash soon I’m going to burn and it won’t be pretty.
Okay, but you’ll owe me one.
No, I will not fuck you.
Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, boy.
He suppressed a smile. Of the three partners he’d had since entering the Order, he liked Suka the best. She was the most capable, the most dependable, and the most uncouth. When they had been on assignment in Russia and she had discovered that her name doubled as street slang for ‘bitch’ she had been positively gleeful; he appreciated her earthiness, which was a relaxing contrast after Mohinder’s dourness. He preferred traveling with someone who had a sense of humor and didn’t immediately sour the atmosphere of every place they entered.
Of course, he was under no illusions when it came to their partnership. He could see her as a friend all he liked, and she almost certainly returned the favor. But if she discovered the truth about him she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger-she was loyal to her cause, an operative who had been born into the Order and carried it on as a noble family legacy. For her, this life was the only life and her actions under orders were fully justifiable. She was fighting the good fight and no amount of argument would persuade her otherwise.
He hoped it would never come to it: him and her and their guns, the truth spread out between them like a bloody sheet, the most condemning and undeniable evidence.
But if it did come to that, he’d face it when it arrived. He’d already been pushed to drastic measures; he would fight that particular battle when he had to. Until then, it would be best to just push the possibility out of his thoughts-worrying and over-thinking would only cause unnecessary stress and throw him off of his focus. He’d have to stay as sharp as possible until Owens started looking elsewhere for the leak in need of plugging.
Another yawn warped his jaw at an unpleasant angle with a sharp clicking sound. He absentmindedly rubbed at it and tried to ignore the painful grumbling of his stomach. One more hour and he could clamber down, doze in the truck on the way back to the village, eat a sandwich or two, and then properly crash back at the room they’d rented from a middle-aged widow. He might even be able to sleep until nightfall, when they’d have to come back for one final round of observation. If the area was as quiet as it was last night, they’d submit a closing report of ‘no findings’, pack their bags, and head back to Branch 1.
There was a faint rustle overhead. A bird must have just landed on a higher branch, he thought, brushing away the leaf that had fallen onto his shoulder. Another rustle, louder and more forceful than the first, sent a veritable shower of twigs down upon him. Brow furrowing, he glanced up.
Into a pair of luminous gold eyes.
The steady pace of his heart faltered and his throat clenched, strangling the last breath he had inhaled. It was impossible, his brain said. But his body knew better. The brain still thought of itself as the top of the food chain, an apex predator, a master of its domain. A sophisticated being capable of controlling the world around it with cleverness. But the body still remembered when it had been nothing more than a monkey in a tree-one not unlike this one-dependent upon its physical reflexes when faced with a death delivered by tooth and claw.
It knew its chances with a threat like this-and they were not good.
The large animal crouched on the branch only a foot or so above his head stared at him thoughtfully, sizing him up with a degree of intelligence that was unnerving. It was calm and relaxed, its long tail unfurled, the tip curling and uncurling. It blinked, flicked its ears, and then slowly pulled back its whiskered lips to bare massive yellowed canines. A slow hiss escaped it like air from a punctured tire-it was a sound that made every one of his hairs stand on end as his skin tried to crawl away.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t, even if he had wanted to. What was the point in expending the energy? There was no possibility of escape, not at these close quarters. He could try to reach for either the Makarov or the rifle, but he knew very well that at the first sign of movement the giant cat would fall upon him. All he could do was stare as the black-striped beast lowered its head, back haunches raising noticeably, an anticipatory shiver quivering across the tawny flanks as it prepared to launch itself onto its prey.
It struck with all the instantaneous and dizzying force of a lightning strike. One moment they were both frozen-the next, it had seized his left arm in its mouth, the weight of it dragging him from the unstable blind and straight down to the forest floor. His back struck the ground and he saw stars blossom and explode across his vision, knew that his shoulder had been wrenched at such an angle that it had to be dislocated, but felt nothing thanks to the numbing chill of shock. He lay there breathless and half conscious, waiting in paralyzed silence for the crunch of teeth against bone, the rending of flesh and the terrible tang of blood to fill the air.
It didn’t come.
Instead, the tiger dropped his numb arm, warm and damp with saliva, and sat back on its haunches like a cat depositing a mouse at the feet of its master. A master that, he vaguely realized, was standing over him. A huge figure leaned above him, blotting out the weak sunlight, swimming in and out of focus. He was aware of a black leather coat, a long white beard, and what looked to be a… top hat?
“Looky what the cat dragged in,” a deep voice boomed with a chuckle. “Got anything to say, son? Better make it good, ‘cause it might just be the last thing you ever say on God’s green earth. Go ahead and take your time to collect your thoughts-I’m a patient man and I believe in being fair.”
Last words? His brain sluggishly tried to reassert control over the primal influence of screaming nerves and animal terror. His throat was so dry he half expected it to crack apart as he struggled to clear it, vainly running his sandpaper tongue over his chapped lips.
“Well…” he finally managed to croak. “…Don’t you think it’s a shame how the world so often mistakes kindness for weakness?”