The men of the BPRD team arrive at their destination in east Texas, and get their first look at the four-legged monstrous enemy. That everyone says needs killin'.
...
Agent Garcia awoke to the beeping alarm of his wristwatch. He was fortunate to have no problem napping in his seat aboard the Bureau's helicopter, being able to ignore the vibration and rotor noise of the big transport. For the most part, he found it a decently smooth ride. He got up and strolled the short aisle between the rest of the agents, waking some up and getting their attention to listen while he read out reminders from his copy of the mission brief.
"We'll arrive in about half an hour, make landing right inside the Daingerfield State Park, then will move directly into the Bass Lodge. Our contact is the park manager, Cord Phillips. He's set up rooms on the ground floor for Red and Abe with private access to our vehicles and helipad behind the lodge. The rest of us will occupy regular guest rooms, and there won't be anyone but us. Pilots are responsible for vehicle readiness. Phillips has the food stocked up for us, and kitchen duties will be rotated among those of us who are approved to be visible. You know who you are." Garcia looked with amusement at the resulting expressions on the faces of some doubtful cooks. "Except for Abe and Hellboy," he continued, "we're meeting with Phillips, the Daingerfield sheriff and a third gent by the name of Brett Walker who's a consultant for Texas Parks & Wildlife, plus being himself, hands-on at wild hog management."
"Abe and me, stuck in our rooms again," Hellboy drily predicted.
"It's been arranged that you'll see and hear the meeting, remotely from there. Serious, Red," Garcia stressed. "No exposure! The citizens here tend to be extra, really conservative."
"Same old," Hellboy grinned. "Hey, I'll make y'all proud."
The landing and change of scenery couldn't come soon enough. Hellboy and Abe watched from inside the 'copter as their pilots and four field agents climbed the steps to a lengthy roofed deck where a lanky man leaned back in his chair with his legs stretched out, boots resting on the top rail. He got up slowly, looking over the helicopter with an appraising eye. Facing the arriving agents, he shook their hands in turn.
"Cord Phillips. You'll need eight key cards. Got 'em here. You got ID to show me?"
Satisfied with the perusal of credentials, he handed over the cards. "Now, there's two more on your team," he deadpanned, "who are gonna hide out the whole time?"
"It's necessary," Agent Bell explained earnestly. "Trust us – they're the best and we never work tough missions without them."
"Got names?" Phillips asked, his eyes a bit mocking.
"Red. And Blue."
Phillips began to saunter away toward a corner of the wrap-around deck. "Here's how you get in around to the front," he threw over his shoulder. "Settle in and get yourselves to the reception desk in twenty from now."
At the lodge's rear wall, Bell unlocked a door to the connecting rooms assigned to Hellboy and Abe before the two proceeded out of the helicopter, covered in hooded cloaks.
"It must be 98 degrees, Blue," Hellboy observed. "How are you doing?"
Abe hurried to check out his accommodations. "A tank!" he exclaimed, throwing down his cloak. He climbed inside with haste to submerge and rehydrate his thirsty tissues.
Hellboy followed to the adjoining doorway. "Looks like a triple-decker plexi coffin. Enjoy."
"Okay, Red." Garcia pointed out the equipment. "Here's your hook-up and controls. Big screen. Microphones and headsets. See ya later."
Hellboy powered on the monitor and watched for his human colleagues to arrive inside a room furnished with a long conference table. Phillips and the two local newcomers were already seated there.
"Abe, showtime," Hellboy called out. "Pull up a chair."
The merman donned his headphones and watched the screen with keen attention as cameras captured the scene and the Texans opened the conversation.
"Brett Walker. Wildlife biologist," was one's terse introduction. Another removed his uniform stetson and slicked back his sweaty hair. "Sheriff Austin Connor."
"These here," said Phillips, "are the special agents from New Jersey."
Connor was up front hostile. "What the hell do yanks from New Jersey know about our problem?!"
Brett Walker snickered, "They're fixin' to find out."
Stabbing the table with his finger, Connor insisted, "You ain't gonna run the river against thousands of the most evil sons of bitches that ever crapped this earth! A month solid, we been shootin' 'em down, and they keep comin'. Here!" He opened a folder and shuffled photos out onto the table. "Hog-raddled corpses of twenty-eight National Guardsmen!"
Waiting for the sheriff to run down, Walker drawled, "Austin, you didn't fire shot one. Your six deputy force cain't bring up results and had best tend to town patrol."
"We won't get made fun of by none of y'all." The sheriff's glare went around to each man at the table.
Walker addressed the agents. "Normal wild hogs, as wolverine mean as they are, don't form up in organized hundreds and stampede over anything in their way, bent on the kill. These don't look any different and we wouldn't want them any smarter than they are as natural, but it seems like this is the case."
"Whatever's got into them is straight from hell! Whady'all got that's so all-fired special?" challenged the sheriff. Garcia was about to attempt an answer, but Connor went on, "It better be a way more evil son of a bitch than this damnation of wild hogs!"
"No dissing!" Hellboy's emphatic, disembodied interruption raised eyebrows among the informed officials.
"What's that?" questioned Connor.
"New Jersey yank, number seven," came the flat reply, in an ominously rumbling baritone.
"Whatever that is," steamed the flustered sheriff, "keep it shy of decent, God-fearing folks!"
Abe stood by, wide-eyed, as Hellboy fairly roared back, "What needs to fear me, ain't folks!"
Then the half-demon pulled back his volume to direct, "Garcia, straighten out the mouth almighty, before I get seriously pissed."
Phillips wiped at his smile with one hand. "Austin, go ahead on home," he said tiredly. "You're done preachin'." He waited until Connor was well out the door to chuckle, "That crusty boy's all hat." Phillips grinned to note that six yankee brains seemed to be puzzling over whether this was pertinent information.
Walker looked up from an eight by ten inch photo in his hand, then passed it to Malloy. "Now, y'all are lookin' at the common as dirt black feral hog. One invasive pig species with no natural enemies, heavy breeders, coverin' this great state and bustin' out faster than any legal methods can manage. Boars can get three feet high at the shoulder, weigh up around four hundred pounds. They've got no fear and will butcher up anything they can run down." The photo circulated from hand to hand. "Keep clear of the cutters in the jaws. What y'all call tusks. They take diseases to cattle, kill small stock, wreck crops and creeks. They pretty much moved in here and tore up this park, but when they started runnin' the towns, we evacuated our children. Hunter gangs are on 24 hour patrol."
Garcia thoughtfully considered Walker's information. "Something else – your hospital-"
"Is up over in Pittsburgh," Phillips picked up, "twenty minutes out of Daingerfield. Got it covered. My wife Donna is a nurse practitioner. She set up a staffed emergency clinic in the next-door lodge."
"Mmm, pretty nurses." Hellboy's much friendlier tone floated over the table.
"Y'all have ten more minutes to hear me out," said Walker, "then we light out on a recon to the park."
...
Minus the pilots, the outgoing convoy was made up of two agents' trucks, following Walker and Phillips on well equipped all-terrain vehicles with collections of firearms on racks. They stopped at several areas of investigative importance, all well marked with repeat warning signs. Danger. Active Predators. Entry Strictly Prohibited. With his dark tinted back seat window slightly open, Hellboy listened to the conversations outside and recorded his own observations. When they arrived at a certain camping site entrance, the cussing came through, loud and clear.
"Dammit!" Brett Walker exploded, looking down a far-off continuous trail of crushed grass. "Fresh tire track! Every local here, knows to keep out." Seeming to have a definite idea, he pulled out a two-way, into which he demanded, "Who's gone up in the park?!"
After long seconds, the baying and barking of dogs transmitted in, and a man answered, "Me, Brett."
"Buster Nix! You no-account, dumb as dirt! Come on outta there!"
"We made a kill. Got us one," returned the voice.
"One hog! They're leadin' y'all down in for a skinnin'! Git back to town where I need you, or you're off the payroll!"
"Gimme an hour," retorted Nix.
Walker hurled his peaked cap to the ground, then looked straight at Garcia, "You packin'?"
"Nine-mil," answered the agent.
"Jump on."
Beckoned by Phillips, Bell took a seat behind him, and the ATV's sped off into the park.
The emergency gave Abe and Hellboy the chance for a break from concealment. A chance to exit their truck and survey around for what they were up against. So far, nothing. Aggravated at being left out of the action, Hellboy paced and stared past the untended, empty campsites where the ATV's had gone out of sight through the tall grass.
"Malloy, anything yet?" he asked, having heard the agent transmitting for updates from the absent men. Nearly eight minutes had ticked by without response. Malloy shook his head, his face tense with concern as bursts of shooting reached their ears, then opened the channel for all to hear the tight, breathless voice of Bell. "Incoming now! Three injured. Am driving a truck, with ferals in pursuit!.."
It was a chilling sight – a hunter's roll-barred truck leading at desperate speed, Bell straining at the wheel to steer away from smashing into the agents' parked vehicle. Hellboy darted to grip the rear bumper, and swiftly dragged it back out of the way. Abe sprang to open a door for him and Red on the hidden side. Both ATV's roared into view with Garcia facing rear and firing into the small herd of screeching hogs chasing behind, drivers fighting to brake to an upright stop. Carter and Malloy drew weapons and joined in the killing until the ferals that were able, broke off and scurried away to safety. Agent Bell looked well relieved to have his feet again on the ground as he checked over the wounded men he had brought back.
Battered and shaken up by the bouncing ride, three men dropped to the ground from the smoking, overheated vehicles. Brett Walker pulled himself and agent Garcia up to sitting position and began to chuckle, watching Cord Phillips in his clumsy struggle to roll over.
"Hey, ole boy," he laughed, "Got your chickens scattered?"
"Soon's I rock up off my pockets.." Phillips grinned back and gave a thumbs up. "Helluva ride!"
Garcia had his own problem. Carter took over pressuring the wound under the bloody sleeve of his jacket as he helped him into the agents' vehicle. There were others in need of attention. Phillips and Walker limped to the truck where two of the hunters lay hurting with filthy tusk punctures, and one who'd fractured an ankle. A young woman softly sobbed, cradling a dead pursuit hound in her lap.
"This is on you, Buster," snapped Walker. "Your family here, might coulda been killed. We'll take them direct over to Donna. She'll take good care of them."
Phillips and Walker collected their weapons, climbed into the hunters' truck and led the drive back to the lodges.