Chapter 3: Rain of Terror

It had been raining for two hours by the time Will Osler's van arrived in Marion, Virginia. The van pulled into the parking lot of the Blue Jay Motel and Restaurant. As the driver and his passenger got out of the vehicle, the storm redoubled its attack. Ferocious winds hurled buckets of rain into the faces of the hapless pair, nearly knocking Will Osler off his feet.

"Let's run for the diner!" Osler shouted to his young companion as he put his own advice to effect. Will took several steps, and then he paused when he realized that the youth wasn't following him.

The young man was standing just in front of the van's right fender, his raven black hair plastered to his head, his jacket (already wet from the time he had spent trying to hitch a ride) was now soaked through. The boy, who had simply introduced himself as "Patrick", cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to be heard over the battering, early spring storm.

"Thank you for the ride Mr. Osler." The young man said. "I need to keep going. I don't have time to stop and eat."

Will shook his head. He imitated Patrick's improvised megaphone.

"You can't go on in this weather! You'll catch your death of cold!" Will Osler remembered how the boy had looked half-drowned, standing on the side of the road with one thumb out, and a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He'd been a pale, sad looking statue. Patrick had faced the cold, wet night as stoically as a wooden Indian, but Will had felt the storm's chill in the uncomplaining lad's handshake.

"I'll be okay Mr. Osler." The youth called back. Then, he turned and was gone into the curtains of rain and darkness.

Will Osler stood in the in the parking lot a moment longer. He knew that his chances of catching the athletic looking boy, let alone talking any sense into Patrick's teenaged head were slim to none. Will didn't want to abandon the young stranger, but he didn't want to catch pneumonia either. Reluctantly, the middle aged Osler turned and ran for the shelter of the diner.

Isaac Remington pulled his nondescript Toyota sedan into the Blue Jay Motel's parking lot about ten minutes after William Osler. He knew that the monster called Jason Bryant was on his way to meet his sister. He knew that his quarry had been traveling on the side roads (and, most recently, highway 11).

Gwendolyn Bryant had studied at the University of Virginia, but had disappeared after her brother's phone call three days ago. A team from the Virginia chapter of the C.R.F. had her apartment under surveillance, but she had slipped past them some how. That team had tracked the inhuman bitch as far as Fairfield, and then their reports stopped.

No bodies had been found, but Remington knew that Hodgkin and Bauer were dead. Like Isaac's friend, Russell Dandridge, they were now martyrs to the cause. Fourteen of the most skillful hunters that the Circle had to offer were now in Southwest Virginia. Isaac Remington would use them to make certain that these two demons would make no more martyrs.

Counting Remington, five hunters from the Bryant task force were in Marion. Each carried pictures of the subhuman beasts. They would go to every motel, hotel, and restaurant in town. Isaac didn't expect to find his quarry in these places, but the unknowing dupes that were helping the male beast in its travels and travelers who might have seen either demon would be in these places. Such contacts had helped Remington track his target's northeastern progress.

Isaac had a hunch (born of his experience) that he was now very close to his objective. He only hoped that the FBI would continue to demonstrate the knack for failure that had characterized its search for Jason Bryant so far. The uninformed, blundering interference of the law enforcement community had already enabled the male to escape from Putnam. Isaac wanted no more such "aid".

The young man proceeded north from Marion, toward the Hungry Mother State Park. The driving rain and pitch-black night would not be allowed to impede his journey. Wearing clothes that were soaked through was hardly comfortable, even for one with such a powerful constitution and inborn resistance to the elements, but the youth would not stop to rest. He knew that if his sister was still alive, she would be at the agreed upon rendezvous. The teen couldn't stand to wait any longer to be reunited with his last living relative. He couldn't stand to leave his sister out in the rain alone, uncertain if her brother still lived, one moment longer.

The youth had told Mr. Osler that his name was Patrick. As he was severed forever from his past, "Patrick" was as much his name as any other, but he could never forget the name his parents had given him or the fate that befell them. In some hidden corner of Patrick's heart, he was still Jason Bryant. He would always remember his fallen loved ones. He would also remember their murderers.

The campsite where the Bryant's had spent a happy vacation was just a little way up the trail. Patrick reckoned that he would reach it in about fifteen minutes. The young Yethan reached out mentally, beckoning the few bobcats that still lived in the area. He willed two of them to scout the campsite before his arrival. The enemy could have learned of the camping trip, and possibly prepared an ambush for the two siblings. Patrick wasn't going to make their job any easier.

Will Osler looked up from his potato soup when the restaurant door opened. He had hoped that it would be Patrick, coming to his senses and coming in from the cold. Instead, the cold eyes of a killer met Will's gaze. At least they looked liked the eyes of a sergeant that Will had known during his brief service in the army.

Master Sergeant Cliff Tombs had fought in 'Nam. During the Tet offensive, the then Corporal Tombs had been forced to kill several of the enemy in very close combat. Tombs killed some of the VC with his knife. He had to kill one with his bare hands.

Few people had the instincts to survive in such circumstances. Osler reckoned that the gray-haired stranger had the instincts. He may have even used them.

The stranger walked toward the nearest occupied booth. The gray-haired man walked quietly and with economy of motion. With practiced ease, the Stranger's left hand went into his raincoat. Will froze in fear, until the hand came back, not holding a gun, but a laminated newspaper clipping.

The young family in the booth was startled by the stranger's quiet appearance. He spoke quietly to them for a few seconds, and showed the clipping to each member of the family. The young couple and their small child shook their heads as they answered. The cold-eyed stranger spoke again, and then moved on.

The stranger continued in this way from table to table. At each table, he received a negative response to whatever question he was asking. Finally, the cold-eyed man reached Will's table.

"Excuse me sir." The stranger was polite, but there seemed to be an underlying threat in his grave voice. "I wonder if you might have seen this young man recently." The gray-haired man showed Will the clipping.

There in a sepia photograph was young Patrick. The boy was wearing what appeared to be a high school letter jacket. The picture's smile carried a warm joy that had been absent from the quiet youth that Will had tried to help.

William Osler's natural reaction was to be truthful, yet his concern over this stranger's motives made Will cautious. He took a moment to examine the picture. There was something naggingly familiar about the photograph. The caption was no help at first, something about a high school track and field competition. Then Will saw the name of the youngster in the monochrome portrait.

"Jason Bryant." The words forced themselves from out of Will Osler like poisonous snakes tearing free of their eggs. Will had always imagined himself a good judge of character, but now he found that he had picked up, not a run of the mill murderer, but the most reviled killer in the United States. He had given a ride to one of the FBI's ten most wanted.

"You've seen him!" The stranger had clearly understood the tone of Will's voice. "Where did you see him? How long ago?"

"He was in my van." Osler's voice had gone flat. "He could have killed me."

"Where did you drop him off?" the stranger demanded with increased intensity. "When did you last see him?"

"I brought him to this restaurant. He wouldn't come in from the rain. He headed north."

"When!"

"Uh, fifteen or twenty minutes ago."

"Thanks." The stranger called over his shoulder as he ran out into the rain.

Patrick was nearly to the campsite when he spied a large, gray rabbit sheltering under the lower branches of a large hemlock. The Yethan snatched the rabbit from its hiding place before it realized it had been spotted. With a practiced jerk, Patrick snapped the rabbit's neck. He was thankful that the creature died quickly. It was necessary to kill, but it wasn't necessary to be cruel.

Gwen was waiting under the shelter at the campsite when her brother came into view. He had his duffel slung on his shoulder, and something furry in his left hand. The heavy rain interfered with Gwen's sense of smell, but by appearance, she reckoned the furred shape to be a ground hog or large rabbit. Gwen ran toward her brother. The siblings embraced upon collision.

"Jason!" Gwen said, on the verge of happy tears.

"Gwen! I was afraid that I would never see you again." Jason/Patrick sobbed.

"I nearly didn't make it to the rendezvous. Two of our enemies were trailing me. I couldn't shake them, and I was afraid to lead them to you."

"How did you escape them?" Jason felt the anger that had never quite left growing stronger once more. He knew that the organization that had murdered his family and friends would not willingly allow his sister or himself to escape. Knowing a thing and accepting it are different things however. Jason fought down his burning rage. Soon enough it would have release.

"An AEGIS agent waylaid them north of Buena Vista, near Fairfield. They were so busy following me, that they didn't watch their own backs." Gwen seemed to take a certain pleasure in the fate that befell her tormentors.

"AEGIS?" Jason spoke the name with wonder.

The Talem Er-Yetha were a people without one homeland, scattered across the globe since before the first cities were built of sun-dried clay. United by their common origin, there had always been an informal tradition of cooperation among the Yethan communities. This tradition would be suspended in time of war, for Yethans felt a tie to the soil of their birthplaces that was beyond mere nationalism just as instinct is beyond conscious thought. It was not until the carnage of the First World War that the Yethans realized that they could no longer afford to be drawn into human conflicts. In 1920, the Secret Federation was born to unite all the Talem Er-Yetha and AEGIS was formed from the various Yethan intelligence and security agencies.

The chief tasks of AEGIS were to keep existence of the Yethans a secret from the bulk of humanity, to foil the murderous efforts of the Circle of Righteous Fire, and to police the conduct of the Yethans themselves. AEGIS was a society of secrecy within a society of secrecy. Its agents were shadows, seldom heard about and less often seen.

"Yes, AEGIS. Who among our people would claim to be that who was not?" Gwen led her brother under the shelter as she spoke. No sense in being rained on if one can avoid it. "She told me of a safe house not far from here and said that she and her partner would continue to look for you. Our parents must have taught you well if you can evade AEGIS." There was pride in Gwen's voice, and sadness.

Jason found some of his anger now being directed at that shadow agency. If they had done a proper job, his parents, brother, doctor, girlfriend, her family, and half a dozen police officers would still be alive. But the young man wouldn't share such bitter thoughts with his grieving sister. Instead, he sat his bag down and raised the rabbit he had just slain.

"Have you eaten?" he asked. Gwen shook her head.

"Not since last night." She answered.

Jason and Gwen took such nourishment as they could from the rabbit. The leavings, Jason tossed to the two bobcats that they might gain something for the time they could have spent hunting.

Isaac Remington and his four colleagues made it across Hungry Mother Creek just before it flooded out the bridge. The radio announced dire warnings of impending flash floods and mudslides.

"Where do you lead us?" Mikhail Rozhestvensky asked.

"Where are the demons most at home Mikhail Ivanovich?" Isaac answered with a question of his own.

"Dey like de forest, like de wolf," Mikhail's opinion of wolves was as low as his opinion of the subhuman quarry he now hunted. Of course his opinion of Catholics wasn't very high either, but against Satan's spawn all Christians had to be united.

"Si." Pedro Salazar agreed. "I chased one to ground near Madrid. The diabla tried to hide in a wooded lot. That one is ashes now."

"Can we have one discussion without hearing about another of your glorious kills?" Frank DiCarlo asked. Rozhestvensky and George Kruger grunted agreement.

"Look, the point I am trying to make is that our enemy feels safest in the forest." Isaac spoke quickly to preempt an argument. "The male was heard on our phone tap talking to his sister about the bitch that bore him getting sick, and then becoming very hungry. These things don't get sick, but there is a Hungry Mother State Park just ahead. The male and female have had time to rendezvous, and if we are lucky, they will take advantage of their supposed safety and begin to mate." Isaac Remington allowed himself a grim, vengeful smile. "While they are indulging their foul, carnal appetites, we should have no trouble getting close enough to destroy them both."

Jason and Gwen were on their way back to Gwen's hidden campsite, when Gwen received an empathic jolt of warning. Like Jason, she had thought to use her influence to provide security for the meeting place. Gwen's animal focus wasn't feline, but avian. A barn owl that was posted to watch the road to the campground had just communicated that something was coming. Given the limited nature of the communication, no more detail could be sent.

"Jason! Something is coming up the road!" Gwen warned her brother. "The owl wouldn't send a warning for an animal."

Jason considered this news for a few seconds. Given the near cataclysmic storm raging overhead and the associated risk of flood and mudslide, he reckoned there weren't any campers coming to get an early jump on the season. Jason thought it might be a park ranger or game warden come to see if any fools had ignored the danger, and needed rescuing. The young man's teeth gritted together as he considered a third possibility.

"Let's see who has come a callin'." Jason said to his sister. With the speed and agility for which his feline comrades were famous, Jason climbed a live oak that stood nearby. Jason wasn't too wild about the prospect of sitting in the tallest tree on the hillside in a thunderstorm, but his need to see who was coming was greater than his concern for his well being.

From the high perch, Jason could see the headlights of the large SUV as they bounced up the mud and gravel road to the campground. He shaded his eyes with his hand to prevent his highly reflective, catlike retinas from picking up that light thus giving away his position. The SUV stopped near the shelter where Gwen had been waiting. The five conspicuously armed men who got out of the vehicle were clearly not rangers.

Gwen's brother swung and jumped down from the tree, landing with an anticlimactic squish on the rain saturated ground a few feet from his sister. Jason would never be a great poker player. His every thought and emotion found its way onto his expressive face. The rage and fierce determination that Gwen saw there now told her who was down at the campsite.

"Head north." Jason said plainly, his mind already working on a plan. "Give them a trail to follow, but don't let them catch you. Lead them north and I'll see how those poltroons like being hunted."

"You can't do this Jason! We aren't murderers, like them! If they kill you, I'll have no one left!" Jason could see and hear his sister's pain. He sat his hands gently on her shoulders and looked into Gwen's eyes.

"If we run, they will follow. If we hide, they will find us." Jason spoke as calmly as he could. "We have to make a stand now, or we will probably be dead by sunrise." Jason hugged his sister. He felt the resistance leave her.

"All right." Gwen spoke with sad resignation. "Don't you die on me Jason." Gwen turned to head north, but she paused for a moment. Without turning, she addressed her brother once more. "Beware when you hunt monsters that you don't become a monster yourself." Then, Gwen ran off to put her part of Jason's plan into effect.

Jason shook his head. His little speech didn't fool Gwen. She'd even been moved to misquote Nietzsche. He hadn't even fooled himself. There was at least some truth in what he had said, but the young man's chief motivation was hateful, blood-soaked, merciless revenge. "I'll do what I must," He thought "and try to do no more."

The youth moved quickly, but quietly down the hillside. Soon, he was close enough to see the five C.R.F. murderers. Jason crouched behind some underbrush, and watched to learn how his hated enemies would proceed. They clearly possessed good hunting skills, as they found, with dispatch, the spot where Jason and Gwen had entered the woods. They talked among themselves for a moment, Jason couldn't hear what was said over the rain, and then, they formed a skirmish line and headed north. They used Gwen's trail as the axis of their advance. Jason felt grim satisfaction at the sight. Their formation would be good for pursuing a fleeing enemy, or making sure that they didn't miss a hidden camp near the trail. The downside was that each member of the hunting group was effectively isolated from the rest. Help would be slow in coming if one of the team members was ambushed. There was a perfect place to the east of the path for Jason's welcoming party. Staying low, the Yethan headed there as quickly as he dared.

Isaac Remington walked at the center of the hunters' line, following the trail left by the inhuman parasites. Just in sight to Isaac's left was Frank DiCarlo, his MP-5 submachine gun in hand. Somewhere beyond Frank was Pedro Salazar, with his flare projector and spray tank of gasoline. To Isaac's right, Mikhail could be glimpsed, his AK-74 assault rifle held at the ready. Beyond him, stood George Kruger, armed with a target rifle and boar spear. Remington swept his area of responsibility with his eyes and the muzzle of his shotgun as he advanced. As the line moved up the hill, the trees and undergrowth thickened, and the slope became uneven and rocky. Visual contact grew steadily more intermittent.

George Kruger anchored the eastern end of the skirmish line. He had his rifle in a hunter's sling, and his spear was in hand in case he came upon an opponent too close to shoot easily. The German hunter had good night vision, and so he spotted the female demon as she climbed toward the crest of the ridge. George sat his boar spear against a tree and knelt in the mud. He raised the Walther sniper rifle to his shoulder and aimed at his target. Kruger didn't fire at once. He wanted a clean head shot. He was about to thumb the safety, when he heard and felt something fall from an overhanging branch next to him. George spun toward the sound, only to have his rifle seized by the barrel.

Jason pinned the barrel under his arm and pivoted, swinging/dragging the burly murderer head first into a nearby tree. As the man lie there stunned and bleeding from his buzz cut head, Jason yanked the rifle away. Before his enemy could recover, Jason drove the butt of the weapon down on the killer's throat.

The rifle butt crushed George's larynx and windpipe, continuing with enough force to shatter vertebrae and sever the spinal cord. The release of Kruger's last breath made a wet, gurgled wheeze. All of the muscles in his body relaxed. Then he was still.

Jason made a cursory search of the corpse. He took the spear, rifle, and a falchion from his fallen foe. He paused to kick the self-righteous cur in the head, and than he rushed to get ahead of the next zealot in line.

To the west, Remington had stopped his advance. He heard a rustling in the bushes ahead and to his right. Isaac looked left and right, but his teammates were out of contact. The sound continued. "Perhaps I've found their nest." Isaac thought. He grimaced at the thought of what the filthy beasts were up to. Remington didn't want to warn his quarry by shouting for backup or leave and give them time to finish and move on. Isaac rushed around the bush with his shotgun at the ready. Instead of catching the demons unaware, Isaac Remington surprised a foraging skunk. It took great effort to resist crying out when the frightened creature reacted in classic fashion.

Jason found a good spot for his next improvised ambush moments before his intended target came into view. Standing among a group of huge boulders left over from the last ice age, Jason took a moment to line things up. The Yethan knew that he was no physics genius, but if his guess was right, he could scarcely miss his target.

Jason placed himself between two boulders, his back to the uphill rock and his feet on its downhill counterpart. The youth pushed for all he was worth. The task was nearly too much, even for Jason's superhuman strength. The boy's muscles felt as if they were on fire and cramping pain was beginning to set in when, the boulder finally slipped and toppled down the hill. The huge stone took mud and several lesser rocks with it as it rolled down the hill.

Mikhail heard a cacophony of rumbling, punctuated by thuds and crashes, coming from uphill. The Russian looked up in time to see a dark juggernaught bearing down on him. His cry of dismay was drowned in the landslide's impact.

Isaac Remington was using the omnipresent rain in an effort to wash the skunk musk from his eyes when he heard the titanic racket to the northeast of his position. Nearly blind, he snatched up his shotgun and stubbornly headed toward the noise.

Frank and Pedro heard the thundering noise as well. It was clearly traveling downhill. They angled north of the sound, hoping to get behind their quarry and get the drop on it. They ran as fast as they could, knowing that one of their comrades must be under attack.

Jason remained in hiding at the boulder location, guessing that the assassins would head straight at the last place the noise had been heard. As he readied his captured rifle for firing, Jason noticed that the scope had been damaged. He would have used the rifle's open sights, but the exotic weapon didn't have any. The Yethan sat the rifle aside and took up the boar spear.

As a member of his school's track and field team, Jason was adept at hurling the javelin. The spear has heavier than any he had thrown before, and the crossbars (used to hold speared animals at bay) would make throwing the spear even harder. Jason grabbed the crossbars, and bent them away from the spear tip until they pressed close to the shaft.

Jason was finishing the alteration of the spear when he heard movement upslope from his position. He moved around the rocks to get a look in that direction. One of the hunters was coming down the hill, almost right at him! Jason hefted the spear and the hunter spotted him in that moment.

Pedro was momentarily shocked to see the young man standing among the rocks ahead. Then, he saw the silver-blue glow of the creature's eyes and knew that he faced one of the monsters he'd come to kill. Salazar saw it raise a stick above its head. He brought his flare projector up and began to take aim.

Jason threw the spear with all of his strength. It flew lower than he had intended, hitting his enemy in the abdomen. The spear passed through the man's body, and punctured the spray tank on his back. The killer's momentum carried him forward. The spear butt struck the ground, forcing the spear deeper, and jarring his body. His hands reflexively tightened, his finger pulled the trigger. The flare hit the ground and bounced into the path of the gasoline spewing from the damaged tank. The resultant explosion knocked Jason to the ground.

Frank DiCarlo had found the mangled remains of the Russian, and was wondering where the rest of his team was, when he heard the explosion. He looked north in time to see the fading fireball.

"Holy Mary!" the New Yorker exclaimed. Frank swung wide as he ran up the hill. He wouldn't come at his enemy head on, but from the southeast.

"They're behind me!" Jason thought. He realized that he had underestimated his opponents in his rage. Now, he felt he would have to hurry to get out of the trap the surviving assassins were no doubt about to spring. The youth decided to head east, then north. He would try to circle behind them. Jason moved out as quickly as he dared. His eyes were full of the afterimage of the explosion, and his ears still rang from its deafening blast. Without his sharp, predator's senses, much of his edge over his foes was gone.

Jason dodged around trees, underbrush and rocks as he ran east. He was hoping that the obstacles that he was forced to dodge would impede the C.R.F. as effectively. As he rounded an especially large, old tree, Jason collided with a man coming from the other way. The man's submachine gun went sailing into the night, but he reacted quickly. The assassin kneed Jason in the groin and struck him in the face. Jason fell and rolled down the hill, curled around the horrible pain he felt.

Frank had reacted as his training had conditioned him to. There hadn't been time for conscious thought. Now that the monster was stunned and at a distance, Frank drew his backup weapon, a steel tomahawk.

"Hey you demon bastard! Can you hear me?" Frank shouted down the slope. "I'm gonna chop off your head and tear your black heart out of your chest, you son of a bitch!"

Jason pulled himself to his feet. The pain was fading rapidly, but not Jason's anger. In his rage, Jason forgot the other hunter out there. His world shrank to include only the patch of forest where he stood, the unending rain, and the man he was going to kill. The enraged Yethan circled to the right, drawing the short sword he had taken from the first hunter.

Frank went cautiously down the hill. He found a patch of torn cloth from the beast's jacket in the underbrush where he thought it had come to rest. His quarry was nowhere to be seen.

"What's a matter asshole? You only know how to push rocks on to people? Don't ya got the balls to face the guy you're trying to kill?" Frank's taunting was calculated. He wanted to bring his enemy out into the open. "After I hit you, maybe you don't have any." Frank laughed savagely. The hunter saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He turned to find the monster coming at him with a sword in hand.

Jason brought the falchion down at the jackanapes' head. The target brought his tomahawk up and parried the swing. The enemy swung the locked weapons down, trapping the sword against a tree. Jason was fully in the grips of rage now. He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. The Yethan's reflexes beat the human's training. Jason landed his punch before his foe. The murderer's head snapped to the side when Jason's left hook landed on his jaw. Blood and teeth sprayed across the area. The killer was spun around by the impact, dropping his hatchet. Jason stepped forward and grabbed the man by the shoulder. He shoved the sword into his enemy's back. After the second thrust, the human fell to the ground. Jason stabbed him five more times before he realized that the assassin was dead.

The youth lurched to his feet, his knees feeling like jelly. The numbness began to fade, and Jason saw and smelled the blood that covered his hands. He staggered away. The rain was already washing to blood away. The young man wondered why that didn't make him feel clean.

Nearly blind from the musk in his eyes, Isaac continued toward the scene of the fighting. He had heard the explosion, and DiCarlo's shouts. It was quiet now, and Remington figured that he had missed out on the kill. He would at least help in the disposal of the monsters' bodies and the clean up. Up ahead, Isaac heard footsteps coming toward him.

"Did you get them?" Isaac asked when he thought the person close enough to hear. There was a moment's pause before he got an answer.

"All but one." A quiet, shaky voice said. Isaac didn't recognize the voice, but it had a definite southern accent. Realization brought fear and anger.

"Bryant, you blood-sucking spawn of Satan! I'll send you back to Hell where you belong!" Remington raised his shotgun, but it was yanked from his hands before he could fire. The hunter realized that he had to buy some time for his eyes to clear, and for him to sneak his pistol.