Caliburn’s head tilted to his master, the dog’s big brown, doe eyes, pleading.
Dr. Jim Patterson leaned back in his leather armchair, reading an email on his laptop. It was late in the day. Unusual time for the paper’s delivery, but then, that was one of the many oddities that came with living out in the woods.
He met his dog’s gaze with a slight nod. “Go on, Caliburn, you can go get the paper if you like.”
Caliburn made an appreciative bark, scrambled to his feet, and ran off through the large doggie door, and outside.
Patterson laughed. He was always amazed by how such a seemingly intelligent creature could achieve so much pleasure out of collecting a damned newspaper.
Caliburn returned thirty seconds later, obediently delivering it to his feet.
He patted the dog beneath his chin. “Thanks, Caliburn.”
His tail started to wag happily at the praise. Caliburn nudged the newspaper again, as though encouraging him to open it.
Patterson finished what he was doing on his laptop, closed it, and put it aside. The golden retriever was staring at him.
He smiled. “What?”
Caliburn barked once and nudged the newspaper again.
“Really?” he asked. “You want me to read it to you now?”
Caliburn wagged his entire body — if such a thing could be done — and made another short bark. It was playful, like any other dog might do while trying to encourage his master to play fetch.
Patterson nodded, and ran his right hand through Caliburn’s thick, straw colored mane. “Okay, okay… I’ll read to you. But just the prime news.”
The dog placed a single paw on his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on him in a piercing, albeit adorable, gaze.
Patterson broke. “All right, maybe a couple classifieds and that’s it.”
Caliburn nudged him with his cold wet nose in appreciation. Patterson pulled his arm back, looking at the mixture of dog slobber and who knows what, he had left. “All right, all right. Enough of that. I said I’ll read you the damned paper.”
Patterson opened the Tillamook Headlight Herald.
It was a locally run community-based newspaper, with a subscription of just 7,486. It was delivered once a week and for reasons he would never understand, his dog liked to listen to the classifieds.
Patterson removed the rubber band and opened the front page. There was a picture of a family and the tease of a good news story of the family, who had set up a self-sufficient community capable of going off the grid.
Jim smiled. It wasn’t that hard to do, live off the grid. Unfortunately, it just cost more money to set up and was generally less sustainable, less environmentally friendly than working with society as a whole entity. He smiled and turned the page of his newspaper.
The sight of the next page turned his blood to ice.
Color quickly drained from his face as he stared at the picture on the second page. Caliburn started to bark wildly. His entire body went taut and the hair on his back pointed upward.
Patterson dropped the paper on the floor, recoiling his hand as though it was poison — but his eyes remained locked on the picture.
It was an image of Cannon Beach, Oregon. The photo was taken in the early morning, with a thick fog of sea mist rising eerily over Haystack Rock, the distinctive 235-foot high sea-stack, and its surrounding smaller intertidal rocks known as The Needles.
Positioned at the forefront of the image was a shipwreck.
The boat was heavily encrusted with barnacles, but the remains of a boom-arm, typical of trawling vessels, was still present.
On the bottom right hand corner, the Tillamook Headlight Herald had enlarged an image of a brass fitting, on which appeared to be the vessel’s name.
Jim’s eyes narrowed as he read it out loud.
Hoshi Maru
Dr. Patterson patted his dog’s thick, golden mane, reassuringly.
“It’s going to be all right, Caliburn.”
He barked and nudged him.
Jim took his dog into his arms and cradled him. “It’s all right old boy. Nothing could have survived that hit. Excalibur’s dead.”
When his dog had settled, he stood up.
It was impossible to think that Excalibur could have escaped, but now he knew with certainty that he had survived.
He locked the cabin’s only door and went to retrieve his shotgun.
Chapter Three
Dr. Jim Patterson opened the safe and removed the Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun. The Italian semi-automatic shotgun was designed for the military, the ultimate hunting weapon, capable of taking out the world’s most deadly animal — humans.
He loaded a single 2.75-inch shell into the chamber and then attached a magazine carrying another seven rounds. It was a military version, designed to work with the weapon’s gas-operated rotating bolt, to fire each round in rapid succession.
Under normal circumstances, nothing was going to be getting up after being struck by the first round, but this was anything but an ordinary circumstance. If he was even given the chance to spot Excalibur, it might just take every shot he had to drop the monster.
That was, assuming that he could be killed.
Jim considered that for a moment. Seven or eight years ago, he doubted any projectile could kill him, but after all this time, there might just be a chance that Excalibur had been weakened. He would be far from defenseless, but there was no doubt about it, he needed the same thing the ancient relic of his namesake required to go on.
That’s why Excalibur would come for him.
The monster needed him. It wanted revenge. And it would have it, that was for sure. Nothing Jim could do about that. It was like an infantry soldier armed with a knife going up against a Sherman Tank. There was no question regarding the inevitable outcome. But first, Excalibur needed information that only he could deliver.
Dr. Patterson felt the thrum of his heart pounding in his chest, and mentally chided himself for not taking better precautions with the information. It was vanity, nothing more, that had allowed him to keep possession of his lifetime’s work. After all, it was his life that he had traded to locate the truth. But now, how many other lives would suffer as a result of that act of narcissism?
In front of him, Caliburn tilted his nose upward as though picking up a new scent. The dog bared its teeth and gave a low, guttural snarl.
Jim’s eyes flashed with fear. “Excalibur’s here already?”
Caliburn let out a couple sharp barks in reply.
The dog’s growl suddenly snapped him out of his thoughts regarding the faults of his past. Instead, it sharpened his focus on the future, and what must be done.
He turned to his laptop and removed the single secure USB flash drive. It was shaped like a dog’s tag and had Caliburn’s name engraved on it.
“Come here, Caliburn.”
The golden retriever approached him with his head low, his eyes somber, as though they both knew there was only one outcome available.
The dog whined softly.
Jim stroked his back and behind his ears soothingly. “It’s all right, Caliburn. I’ve had a good life. Better than most, and far better than I could have asked for or expected.”
Caliburn barked. There was no doubting its meaning. The dog wasn’t going to listen to him give up. Excalibur wasn’t inside the log cabin yet. There was still time. There was always a chance while there was still life.
But Dr. Patterson knew that was a flawed argument. He was merely on borrowed time. There was no way he could hide, outrun, or defeat Excalibur. His death was as much a certainty as that of an inmate on death row. The question was, what could he do with the few minutes he had left to change the outcome of the future?