Quest Pandora

Chapter 1
ALASKA, THE DENALI NATIONAL PARK PRESERVE was what it was called now. The name had gone through some changes. First it was called Mount McKinley National Park in 1917. Then it was called Denali National Monument in 1978.
He knew all of the names and studied the place well. He had to; it was what he did all his life. He always researched his environments anywhere he traveled, slept, or worked. Today was a workday.
He speculated, how did Mr. Burrows see him make the move toward him? Was he getting old at this? No, he was only thirty years old. Was he getting sloppy? Yes, he was getting careless.
He’d been doing this job for ten years and trained for it five years earlier than that. He’d been doing this his whole life; don’t get shoddy now. His superiors taught him better.
Maybe a grizzly bear or wolf will do his job for him? He laughed. Highly unlikely, he figured, given the circumstances that these animals, though vicious and huge, stayed away from humans, and it was the middle of the day. It brought him back to the reality that he was going to have to see this one through.
He ran over another honeydew grassy hill hoping to see Burrows. Nothing yet. There were only more rolling lush hills with miles of a tea green tundra.
He was surprised how fast he could sprint in his heavy black snorkel parka. Yes, he was still conditioned. He had to concentrate on his tracking.
His hunting skills were impeccable. His occupation at hunting humans might sound insane to most, but one had to look at it through his eyes. He saw the target as not human but more like a vermin. Think about it, he considered. What do I do when I need pest control? What do I do to prevent diseases? A pest to the fabric of his organization had to be dealt with so the disease won’t spread. Believe, he assumed, it works and has worked many times.
He had been on dozens of missions before. For ten years he specialized in baiting, camouflaging, flushing, scouting, and trapping humans in the wilderness and civilized situations alike. He named his human hunts either big game or predator.
This hunt today was big game. It was big game because the individual being hunted wasn’t skilled enough to escape. He may fight back, but with only futile results of his demise.
A predator hunt was skilled in what he was skilled in. The only edge he had was they usually didn’t know he was coming.
The predator hunts were agents expelled from the association—rogue, awol, individuals of that nature.
This institute was run like the mafia; there was no getting out, this was his life. They told all the agents of this in the beginning.
He wondered, if he was to quit, was there an agent better than he, on the hunt for him? No time to think about that right now; he had a wild rabbit to catch and the farmers, his superiors, were nervous.
He could see his exhaust in front of him smoothing out now. He was in his rhythm and warm in the ten degree weather.
When he ran to the top of the next hill, he stopped for a second and checked his bearings.
The hills ended about a mile ahead of him, as far as he could see. In all directions there was nothing but flat gray grass that seemed to go on endlessly. The powder blue sky with white long clouds scattered everywhere would have been a spectacular view if he cared.
He smiled, not because of the view, but because he spotted his rabbit, Mr. Burrows. "Get it," he whispered, "rabbit—burrows."
He pulled his SIG Sauer P226 9mm from his jacket and took aim. He seemingly could have hit him from this distance, about a mile away. He watched at the tip end of the black gun, Burrows run from his cover of the hills across the level grass. He moved his gun past Burrows to study his direction of flight.
Then he saw it. The small forest was about two or three miles east of Burrows' position. The many slender cylindrical evergreen trees called white spruce were spread wide from each other.
It didn’t make a good hiding place, but used right and with the right skills, could lift your chance of survival, just a little. He knew Burrows lacked that skill. Just in case, though, why wait to find out?
He only had about eight more hills to run over. Then he’d have a clearer shot, and judging his speed over Burrows, he’d get him probably before his chances were raised.
He put away his gun and sprinted ahead.
The first two hills were easy; he jetted over them in about twenty seconds. The next few were taller and more evenly spaced out. They were harder to run over, but he pushed on.
He jogged six miles every other day when he wasn’t on a mission. This is nothing, he kept thinking. The only strain he felt was adrenalin; the thrill of the hunt, and he was excited.
Every time he made it to the top of a hill he could feel himself closing in on his prey. He was sure Burrows felt it, too, death creeping upon him as he reached the crest of another hill.
He saw the rabbit glancing back as it sprinted.
Three more hills to go. Two. One.
He felt like shooting him from atop the final hill. The clear high open shot was tempting, but using his better judgment he thought against it. It was a sure kill, but to shoot on the flat ground in a direct line, of course the chances were greater for a hit on the first shot. A straight line from point A to B, mathematically always reach his destination quicker.
When he reached the hill's end, he pulled his handgun out again.
Strange, he pondered; the man hadn’t made it far, he guessed about a little more than a half mile and about two miles from the forest. He knew the guy was overweight, but he wasn’t that fat. He felt he himself was just that fit and Burrows wasn’t used to this sort of exercise. He smirked, his bad luck.
Aiming, he fired his pistol. In the distance he watched the man drop.
Damn, he was going to have to shoot him again, he realized. He aimed at his head, but the bullet hit him in the back. He saw feathers flutter up in the air from the rear of the man’s coat before he fell. From this distance the velocity of the bullet arched from the effect of gravity. It apparently didn’t go deep enough because Burrows was struggling to get up. He might have miscalculated his ratio of miles. Burrows could have been a mile away. This flat, almost endless terrain sometimes can play tricks on the eye.
He jogged toward his injured target; he had to get this over with. This was still a civilian park, and a ranger could pop out anywhere at any time. Also someone might have heard the loud bang from the firearm. Hopefully not; he felt the gun didn’t give off an echo though the mountains were just far enough away.
As he trotted, the ground was slushy beneath his feet, and his rabbit left no tracks. Like his rabbit's, his own footprints disappeared. His boots slipped ankle-high under the tall grass. Marsh mixed with frozen dirty snow sloshed about, slowing his trot a bit. Now he knew why Burrows didn’t move as fast as he thought. After running over all those hills he had to make it past this almost unseen swamp before entering the forest.
Moving his pace to a walk, he found Burrows crawling through the muddy shrubs.
Burrows, who wore a dark blue snorkel jacket, tried to crawl as fast as he could, but just kept stumbling in the mud face-first, turning his entire wardrobe black and soggy.
He noticed, Burrows, realizing he was walking beside him, stopped and turned on his side huffing and puffing, his breath shooting out like steam on a nineteenth century locomotive.
“What . . . I.” Burrows coughed spitting up blood onto the mud. “What I leave . . . behind will be woven.” He hacked some more. “. . . will be woven into the lives of others.” He breathed in deeply, trying to catch his wind.