It was a month before the malnourished cub could clamber around the three-room structure, but after that he grew rapidly, eventually surpassing the strength and size of his gigantic father. Yet it was his spirit that caught Hunter's early attention and made him laugh; something he rarely did.
Hunter had never attempted to train him, but the wolf's keen intelligence was evident from the first moments. Without being taught, Ghost knew where to find food, how to communicate his needs, when he wanted to go outside. And his curiosity was endless, as was his unconcealed joy every time Hunter returned from a trip.
When he was six months old Hunter let him sleep on the porch, sheltered by a fairly luxurious doghouse that Hunter built from spare lumber. Hunter filled the bottom with a thick layer of straw and an old blanket and installed a heat lamp for cold nights, but he never leashed the wolf. If Ghost wished to leave, he was free to go.
For endless nights Hunter went to bed knowing Ghost was staring and listening to the calls of the wild, summoned by the wolf packs that surrounded the cabin. And then when Ghost was two years old, near full size, he began disappearing for days at a time, often returning with bloody wounds — slash marks of other wolves.
Hunter suspected that during the nocturnal forays, Ghost had declared his own dominion over a part of the forest — of which the cabin was the heart. And after those nights, Hunter distinctly noticed, the surrounding howls of wolf packs came from a far greater distance. Ghost had, alone, won his territory.
His relationship with Ghost had not so much developed as it seemed to flourish full-born. And Hunter suspected it was because he himself had never been close to anyone or anything, except perhaps the old trapper who half-raised him. Just as Ghost had never really had a family. So it came naturally and easily that each had simply accepted the other, each of them needing someone.
In fact, Hunter had mostly raised himself, spending long endless days trapping and tracking, living more like an animal than a child. Before he was ten years old he could see a single track and identify the species, the size, how old it was, and where it was going. He could lift his head and find the scent of what had passed this way hours ago, or make shelters that would keep him warm in frigid winter nights. At twelve he could snatch fish from a stream with his hand, or silently sneak up on a deer so that he could touch its flank before it could sense his presence. Yet it was not until he was sixteen that he did what every true tracker considers the ultimate challenge. It had been a misty summer night, and he had come upon a slumbering grizzly, laid his hand softly on its massive side, and then stolen away, having never awakened it.
Sometimes, lying in the somber light of the cabin with Ghost beside him, Hunter remembered the days when he would spend more time in the wild, alone and living — truly living — than among people. He remembered how, as a child, the white look of bone would catch his eye in the bright light of day, and even now the fascination felt fresh. He could still feel the coarseness of red dirt as he sifted it from the white pitted relic of bear or elk or wolverine.
He remembered how he would craft barbaric ornaments and necklaces of bear claws or wolverine fangs, looking not unlike a long-haired ten-year-old wild child of prehistoric Homo sapiens as he walked half-naked out of the forest. The thoughts made him laugh; he ruffled Ghost's mane.
Hunter made no demands — Ghost knew he was free — but they were each other's ally. And, in time, Ghost had taken to sleeping inside the cabin again, sometimes clambering slowly and massively into Hunter's bed in the middle of the night to lay a paw as wide as a plate on Hunter's chest. Or sometimes Hunter would simply awaken to feel Ghost's nose at his throat; the wolf checking to ensure he was all right.
House patrol, Hunter called it with a laugh. But he realized it was only once in a lifetime that a man found an animal he truly loved, just as he knew he could never replace the great wolf. But, then, Ghost was only three years old, and would live a long time.
In a sense, Hunter regretted bringing him on this trip. But he knew that in the harsh terrain of that hostile interior he would need every advantage. Because, while he himself could be deceived, it would be much more difficult for this thing — whatever it was — to deceive Ghost. Together, Hunter thought, they stood a good chance of tracking this thing to ground before it reached more innocent victims.
Before it killed again.
As he knew it would.
In darkness… no, not darkness, he awoke.
He wasn't naked, as he had anticipated. But he was shirtless, and his boots were gone. The prickly green of forest was beneath him and the deserted shade thick, almost gloom, as he slowly rose. He touched his head, feeling, and noticed nothing amiss; no alteration, no transformation. But he knew what it…what he…had done.
What he had become.
He laughed.
Memories of last night were like an unfocused, scarlet-lit dream. But he recalled the visions much better than before; the sight of men running wildly across his perfect red-tinted vision, screams that roared with flame. He remembered how he could visually register the body heat caused by their stark terror, could palpably scent and taste their horror as he struck, and struck, and killed, moving through them to slay without effort. And in the long quenching slaughter he had found bestial pleasure in the power much, much more than before. He realized that he was gaining with each transformation, becoming stronger, purer.
The first transformation, brought about by his maniacal violation of procedure, had been a shocking and painful experience — a black blazing maze of taloned hands sweeping laboratory equipment aside and devastating whatever or whoever had been unfortunate enough to encounter his fury. Yet there had also been addictive exultation in the pure animal pleasure, fed with adrenaline and lust, and a thirst that was quenched only with killing. It had lasted long, and longer, bringing him on that tide of bestial might into the next day when it faded and he fell, leaving him alone among the dead in a facility in ruin and aflame.
He understood now that, yes, his risky experimentation had been a success. He had not expected to take on the fullness of the creature, not in feature and form. But he did not regret it, though he felt somehow that he was losing more and more of his personal identity — whatever he could be called — as the infection continued. Just the glory, the triumph of possessing such bestial supremacy made him feel like a lion among sheep. Yes he had been successful, no matter the unintended after-effects that seemed to become more progressive with each transformation.
He laughed as he recalled his shocked mind when he had recovered from the first unexpected alteration, not knowing that he would soon glory in it more than he ever gloried in his old life.
Stunned at the carnage he had wrought, he had transmitted a hasty emergency message to the command center and informed them that the experimental DNA had been successfully fused with his own. And further, he had told them that further testing would confirm that their secret goals had been satisfied. Although they were shocked and enraged that he had grossly and dangerously violated procedure by injecting himself, they had been openly pleased that the serum could indeed be transferred to humans.
Within hours a secondary team arrived to replace the dead. And although they were also shocked at such a gory spectacle of wanton, wholesale murder, they were indifferent to the loss of life when measured against the stunning success of the experiment.
Yet they did take prudent measures to ensure that they would not follow the fate of their colleagues. So restraints were set in place to contain him should the transformation occur before the expected hour.