Hunters (6)
The Dutton-side chopper, which had descended to avoid collision, was now hovering at about twenty meters. While the pilot patted his pounding chest in shock, that asshole leader was wasting time and fuel on his shameless finger-pointing. At times like this, ignoring him completely was the wisest move. But Nielsen, who had nearly lost the chopper, his team, and—however grudgingly—the two clients he was duty-bound to protect all at once, had finally snapped.
As the hunters on both sides let time slip away, the beast that had been glaring at the sky wheeled around and plunged another hundred paces into the forest. At that spot, it turned again and began drawing up mana. Its soul blazed brighter by the second with an intensifying glow. This was power meant to condense and condense further before exploding in a single instant—a far cry from the endless evasion it had used before. I watched the bloodshot-eyed beast's challenge with keen interest.
A warning? Why the hell should I extend such courtesy? It was a relief that this forest wasn't like the Trembling Giant or the park with "The President," where circuit-riven trees were thick enough to drastically cut visibility. Even with a fair scattering of awakened trees disrupting senses with their mana fields, sightlines remained decent. Amid this gift of anticipation, I unconsciously pictured the impending leap.
Vertical sightline... roughly sixty-five degrees?
One degree was about 17.78 mils. With the Dutton chopper hovering at roughly twenty meters, the boar could only track its target visually from a minimum of twenty-three meters. Meaning it had to leave at least that much gap before leaping. Moments later, the awaited charge began. The acceleration of that massive bulk was a visual shudder. Each time that over-a-thousand-pound mass hammered the ground with destructive force, every branch around shook, dumping piled snow below. It was a spectacle visible from outside the forest even with the naked eye. The snow-blanketed firs revealed their true colors in a straight line—impossible to miss.
The boar dodged obstacles while keeping the straightest trajectory possible, piling speed on speed. "Uh... what the hell is that?" The pilot's panicked voice. The moment Nielsen turned from his argument, the three-meter beast used a slanted rock as a launchpad and rocketed upward like a shell. I found myself leaning forward. Would it succeed? Would it make it? The Dutton crew's reflexive turn and climb, the shrinking gap, the muzzle flashes. Three bullets failed to pierce the boar's reinforced skull.
Our pilot spat curses as he watched. "Oh, shit!" Glass shattered and metal crumpled in a roar that pierced the headsets. Now visible were the boar arcing downward and the chopper spinning like a top, flinging its passengers. Three hunters were thrown clear by centrifugal force. Two avoided instant death thanks to their safety lines, but the third didn't. Gravity claimed him, slamming him into the slope and sending him bouncing repeatedly—like a skipping stone spraying blood with each rebound. The blood on the white snow burned vivid red.
But he wasn't the unluckiest by far. "Whoa, fuck, it's crashing!" Jack's shout, overwhelmed by the sight. The Dutton cavalry's chopper had already lost control. The boar's torso had smashed the front seat. The pilot was dead on impact, and with the stick jammed, the chopper kept losing altitude. The two on safety lines whipped around the spinning fuselage like some amusement park ride. One finally clung to the landing skid; the other raked across a fir, nearly flaying his face. Then came the crunching, shattering metallic impacts once more. Birds, startled by the noise, erupted noisily from the mountains and woods.
White smoke rose from the dead engine, but the aviation fuel leaking onto snow and ground hadn't ignited. Ah, what a splendid show. "Where's the boar? Where'd the damn boar go?!" Squadron leader Nielsen, distracted by the crash, belatedly hunting for the hybrid boar. But all he could see were its tracks—those splayed hooves proclaiming the enraged beast had plunged back into the forest.
"No. 2 and No. 3! Anything in sight? Boar's position, crash site status—anything!" No. 2 and 3 were climbing to scout the crash. I tuned my hearing again to eavesdrop on Nielsen's replies.
"This is No. 2! No boar yet. Movement at the crash site—survivors. Two of 'em. Looks like minor injuries from here. Someone in the copilot seat too, but can't tell if alive. Can't see inside the cabin. Over!"
"This is No. 3. Same here. Over!"
Obviously, unlike them, I had a crystal-clear view of the boar. It was circling the crash site, gradually closing in—like a stalking carnivore, stirring fresh intrigue. Its ragged breaths billowed hot air in visible puffs. Pure hatred in motion, plain for anyone to see. Come to think of it, among the boars I'd killed earlier, there'd been juveniles and females mixed in...
Interesting. Truly interesting. After my unsettling encounter with Grace, this diversion felt especially precious. "This is No. 2. Attempt rescue? Drop a ladder, we can hoist the two walking wounded easy." A light chopper's power wasn't huge, but even fully loaded with passengers, it could lift a few dead boars extra. Hoisting two people? No issue.
But the real problem was elsewhere. Nielsen nailed it. "No—too risky! Think about ladder length!"
"Shit."
"Even if one gets attacked mid-hoist, that's an accident waiting!"
Solid call. As they hesitated, the boar—wary of the hovering choppers—finally launched its follow-up. Dodging obstacles, accelerating. "Boar sighted!" No. 2's belated warning. As the two herding pilots reflexively climbed, the charging hybrid boar savagely rammed one survivor. The man's waist snapped, blood spraying everywhere. Breeding-season hybrids had tusks like wild boars. It impaled the man and, head low, whipped upward with neck muscles alone—hurling the body toward nearby treetops. Hot innards exploded like cheap fireworks from the torn cavity.
"God almighty..." A nearby militiaman groaned. The last Dutton survivor—probably screaming—scrambled into the wrecked chopper. The boar wheeled 180 degrees and slammed the wreckage. Impact as thunderous as the initial crash. Bang! Bang! Boom! Each full-body ram dismantled the remains in real time. Tail boom snapped, fuselage tumbled like a ball, main wing twisted like taffy under hoof.
"Fire! Fire!" The Pioneer Hunter Brigade unleashed aimed shots. Unwilling as I was, I mimed firing too. I shook my head at Kyung-tae, who eyed me for orders. Our cautious firelines—worried about hitting people—still menaced enough to make the boar dodge. Once it vanished, Nielsen ordered: "No. 3 holds hover! Block follow-ups! No. 1 and 2 land outside the woods!"
"Land?!"
"Yeah! Me and Jack from No. 1, Aaron and Connor from No. 2—foot approach to the crash! Rest relaunch for air cover!"
"You're insane? After that, walk in?"
"No arguments!"
"Don't order us, Nielsen! We're not soldiers!"
"Right! Militia hunters! We volunteered for high-risk hunts! If you didn't know the dangers, get out now! Quit whining like kids!"
More shouting followed, but eventually, the three choppers bent to Nielsen's will—all but one defector. I wondered what mix of duty and ego drove that call. As the choppers touched down on gentle ground outside, Nielsen apologized to Kyung-tae and me. "Sorry again. Tour's done—full refund."
Kyung-tae glanced at me; I shook my head. "No need. But let me join you."
"What?!"
"Just want to help save lives. More boots on the ground can't hurt, right? Just me."
Kyung-tae pointed at himself, eyes wide at being left behind, but I shook my head again. Nielsen already looked burdened by even one extra. Despite my excuse, he hemmed and hawed, citing reasons to dissuade me. But when I made it the price of no refund, he glanced miserably at Kyung-tae and relented. Time was short, and as family man to his own, those 5,336 dollars we'd paid were too tempting to refuse—especially against a client.
Off the chopper, Nielsen slotted me mid-column. "Litter duty!"
"Got it!"
Wind and engines forced us to shout. The chopper dropped us and gear, then relaunched toward the crash overhead. I shouldered the folded litter, rifle in my free hand. Our seven-man rescue team crept—agonizingly slow to me—into the forest edge. Awakened trees scattered everywhere scrambled hunter senses with mana fields, making woods inherently high-risk hunting ground.
If possible, maybe spare it once.
I'd joined for the boar, not people. Its code wasn't impressive, but after all that exertion, no tumors spread, no organs failed. Talent or luck—it had one or the other in spades. Better to keep it intact for potential gain. Who knew? It might evolve a better code and cross paths again. Survival till then was quality assurance; death meant that's all it was worth.
Rat-tat-tat! "Damn!" Gun smoke grazed my nose. The militiaman who'd fired bit his lip. He'd glimpsed a boar silhouette dozens of meters off, gone in a flash. Bushes rustled briefly. The fir grove fell silent again—heavier, with other beasts long fled.
Rat-tat! My three-round burst this time. Hip-fired heavies ricocheted off the boar's forehead as it began charging. Aimed high to bounce it away. It aborted, relocating. Third check came from above—crossfire from No. 2 and 3 forcing the blood-tasting boar back again. No fourth needed. Crash site was shallow in. I dropped the litter and lunged toward the boar's slow approach.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Nielsen freaked. But I needed even a moment away from the team. Just a moment. Sprinting ahead for minimal spacing, I ballooned my mana field, blasting grand magus presence. Knee-shoot stance for cover fire. "Squeeeeal!" Amid the racket, the boar's shriek. Sensing my field, it startled, tumbled, then bolted headlong into cover. Still eyeing us—commendable grit. My presence couldn't fully quell the skull-boiling enmity. Fine, as long as it wouldn't rush again. To Nielsen's crew, it'd look like my shots drove it off, complete with squeal. No suspicion.
"Sorry." Nielsen accepted my return apology with reluctance.