Two hundred . . .
Malko Varnke walked into the chosen clearing.
Bailoch placed the pad of his finger on the trigger. Half a pound of pressure was all it would take.
The crosshairs were no longer on the man but above and ahead of him. It took time for a bullet to travel through the air, so you had to lead the target, allowing the bullet to intersect with it. Bailoch automatically and instinctually adjusted for the wind and elevation as Silence’s muzzle tracked just ahead of Varnke’s path.
One ninety . . .
Malko Varnke froze in place.
Bailoch did the same.
At this range, the Kossite’s frown was clearly visible through the seven-power magnification. Somehow he knew something was wrong. A sound, a smell—it didn’t matter. Something was off, and that meant danger. Varnke turned, lips moving, and there was a shimmer in the glass of the scope as glowing runes formed around the arcanist’s hand.
Bailoch pulled the trigger. All the snow in the clearing exploded upward.
Silence made no sound, but the recoil still thumped his shoulder, and the scope lifted. A wall of icy wind crashed down the canyon, blowing snow and dirt everywhere and obscuring his target. Cursed magic! Bailoch calmly broke open the action and began extracting the ashen paper debris. He shoved another round into the chamber and closed the breach. Now, where are you?
The wind died off and most of the snow fell back to the ground. There was no sign of Varnke.
Now came the tricky part. If he’d run, Bailoch would have a shot, which meant Varnke wouldn’t run—he’d take cover. If he’d taken cover, he’d have his own rifle out, and he’d be searching for his attacker. The first one to bolt would be seen and would die.
Careful to move only his eyes, Bailoch searched the pass. If he were a Kossite with ice magic, where would he go?
The shimmering of magic runes drew his attention. Not in the open—Varnke was far too clever for that—but Bailoch caught the reflection in a sheet of ice hanging from the cliff above. He tracked it back and found the rocks Varnke was hiding behind. Damn. He didn’t have a shot, and the Kossite was casting a spell.
Energy crackled in the air. Suddenly the world turned white, and an unbelievable cold struck his flesh. It was as if he’d been plunged into the heart of a blizzard that was trying to rip the life right out of his body. He needed a new angle to get a shot around those rocks. There was no time for hesitation. His body didn’t want to respond, but Bailoch leapt up and staggered through the hammering wind. Despite the magical attack, he felt calm. He would either die or he would win. Fretting about it seemed pointless. His hiding place was elevated, but a good sniper always had an escape route, and he forced himself toward the side of the bluff.
It was a ten-foot drop, and he hit hard and rolled through the snow, careful not to let his precious Silence strike the ground.
The compact blizzard above him tore his hiding spot to bits. Gasping for breath, he realized it was clear here, and that meant Varnke had a shot. Bailoch scrambled for cover. The Kossite’s rifle bullet tore bark from a nearby tree and pelted him with splinters, but then Bailoch was running through the trees.
The lingering magical cold made thinking difficult, but he knew Varnke would have moved too, and now he’d be looking for another shot, because that’s what Bailoch would do in his situation. He went low, hugging the ground, crawling through the dead underbrush. Bailoch pulled up alongside a thick tree and scanned, but Varnke was already hiding as well.
He’d left his glove in the blizzard. His right hand was bright pink and quivering uncontrollably. Dealing with frostbite could wait, though. He had a sorcerer to kill. When Varnke didn’t get a shot, he’d use more magic to flush out his quarry. That meant time was on Varnke’s side.
Bailoch had to push him, get the Kossite to reveal himself . . . and he had to do it fast.
He sank back down, deeper behind cover, and shrugged out of the heavy bearskin. Now the cold really hit, but if this worked, he’d be able to put it back on in a moment, and if it didn’t—well, either way he wouldn’t be cold for long.
He found a sturdy stick, placed the fur over it, and then shoved it past the side of the tree. A second later the Kossite spotted the movement of the fur and fired. The bullet pierced the skin. Bailoch spotted the flash and the smoke before he heard the gunshot. He moved the stick, letting the coat sway, and then hurled it out of the trees and down the cliff side.
Varnke reloaded as he came around a boulder at the base of the cliff, runes of magical power swirling about his body, ready to finish his wounded attacker, unaware he was chasing an empty fur.
He realized his mistake as Silence’s muzzle poked past the tree.
He’d prepared a defensive spell, and snow and wind exploded outward again, strong enough to deflect a bullet. He wasn’t about to fall for the same trick twice.
The crosshairs danced across the icy sheets at the top of the cliff, far above Varnke’s head. Over two days Bailoch had memorized every nuance of the surface. The sniper picked out an icicle, big enough to cause a shower of debris but thin enough to be broken by a single heavy round. His heart hammered, but he felt only cold so deep it burned. His breath shot out in painful clouds of steam. He was in an awkward improvised position.
It would have been an extremely difficult shot on a nice day in the sun.
The bullet wants to hit the target. That is its destiny. It’s the shooter’s weakness that stands in its way.
Kell Bailoch was a consummate professional, and he wasn’t about to thwart the destiny of a bullet.
Adjust for distance. Compensate for wind. The crosshairs shook across the surface of the icicle. Hold over. Exhale. Squeeze.
Silence made no noise as the recoil thumped his shoulder.
CRACK.
The icicle broke free and spun downward into a suspended sheet of ice. It shattered, taking snow and rocks with it, and that all fell in an ever-growing cascade of destruction.
Malko Varnke’s ice storm died off, just in time for him to look up into the rushing thunder.
The young, reluctant leader of a kayazy faction poured him one last drink.
He’d had too much, but the fire was nice, the room was warm, the chair was comfortable, and it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the company of a beautiful young woman.
“Is that all there is to it then, Bailoch? Survival? Money? Power? Is that all there is in life?” Sivasha was a little drunk herself. “We do a job that makes us important and vital, and maybe we’re good enough at it that we get to live longer. Is that it? You kill people, over and over and over. You’ve assassinated generals, and politicians, and priests—so many, for so long . . .”
“It’s what I do.”
“But why? I’m stuck. You’re not. One job, that much gold, you could walk away, be a farmer or a gunsmith or something. You could choose another path. Why this one?”
That was a good question.
Malko Varnke had been struck by the rockslide. His legs were crushed. He was bleeding from a gash in his head that had opened clear to his skull. His beard was soaked red and he was coughing blood.
The sniper limped up to the fallen man. He’d retrieved his coat and had Silence cradled in his arms. This job was almost done.
The Kossite looked up, confused when he didn’t recognize the man who had ended his life. “Why you?”
Kell Bailoch brought up Silence to finish the job. “Because I’m the best.”
BUBBA SHACKLEFORD’S PROFESSIONAL MONSTER KILLERS
This story originally appeared in the weird west anthology, Straight out of Tombstone, edited by David Boop, published by Baen Books. It is set in my Monster Hunter International universe, and is the first full story I’ve written about the legendary founder of Monster Hunter International, Bubba Shackleford. The character Mohtahe Okohke was originally created by George Hill. The character of Hannah Stone was created by Hinkley Correia.
BUBBA SHACKLEFORD go
t off the train in Wyoming, eager to find some cannibals to shoot. He loved his job.
The town was bigger than he’d expected. With the hardscrabble frontier behind them, Cheyenne had turned into another bustling center of American commerce. The platform was crowded with folks coming and going, giving the place an industrious feel. It took a hardy people, tough as nails, to civilize this rugged a land, but they’d still be scared to death if they knew what manner of evil was breathing down their necks.
Then Bubba noticed the signs. Weary eyes from staying up all night keeping watch. Nervous glances sent in the direction of every stranger. No children running about. And an unusual number of cheap wooden coffins stacked in front of the undertaker’s. Yes, sir, Cheyenne had itself a monster problem.
This was his company’s first monster killing contract in the West, and the furthest he’d ever been from home. He was a Southern man, born and bred, so he didn’t care for the way the air here was dry and sharp enough to make his nose bleed, or the way everything as far as the eye could see was so unrelentingly brown. It was March, and there was still dirty snow piled in the shade. Wyoming struck him as a harsh and unforgiving land, nothing like his blessed green home in Alabama. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to live in such a godforsaken waste.
“Wyoming sure is pretty!” Mortimer McKillington exclaimed as he lumbered down the train’s metal steps.
“You say so, Skirmish.” He’d hired the big Irish strongman because he’d figured anyone tough enough to be a New York bare-knuckle-fighting champ might be hard enough to be a good monster hunter. He was, and then some. Over the last year, Skirmish—as his friends called the freckled giant—had proven not only to be good with monster killing, but also an obnoxiously optimistic traveling companion.
“I do.” Skirmish took a deep breath, expanding his barrel chest. “Ah, smell that fresh air.”
It smelled like horseshit and coal smoke to Bubba. “Have the boys unload the animals and wagons. I’ll look for our client.”
“Cheer up, boss. This is an adventure.”
“I’ll be cheery once we put these man-eating bastards in the ground.”
“And we get paid.”
“And we get paid.” Because battling the forces of evil was rewarding and all, but on its own paid for shit. Now, having a big company like the Union Pacific give them a sack full of gold coin to kill the monsters damaging their tracks? That was much nicer.
He didn’t have to search for long, because his new clients immediately sought him out. They’d known which train he was on, and Bubba Shackleford did tend to stand out in a crowd. They must have been given his description, which was usually some variation of tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist, long mustache, probably looks like he’s ready to shoot somebody. The words short-tempered and pragmatic often made it in there too, but Bubba didn’t mind. Establishing a proper reputation went a long way in the monster killing business.
Two men were pushing through the crowd, heading his way, one fat, one thin, both in tailored suits remarkably free of grime. The round fellow in the bowler hat had the look of a businessman. He pegged the one that looked like a tubercular rat as a government man. They all tended to have that same disapproving air about them.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you the monster killer, Bubba Shackleford?” the plump one asked. Before Bubba could so much as nod, he was already getting his hand vigorously shaken. The businessman’s hand was very soft. “I can’t believe an actual monster killer, here!”
“Keep it down about the monster business, Reginald,” the thin one hissed as he glanced around.
“I’m Reginald Landon of the Union Pacific. Welcome to Wyoming, Mr. Shackleford. We’re so glad you made it on time! This is Mr. Percival from the governor’s office.”
Whenever a hunter got this warm of a welcome in civilized society, it meant things had gotten desperate. “From your harried demeanor, gentlemen, I assume there’s been another event since our last telegram?”
The company man gave him a grave nod. “People have been disappearing after dark. They hit one of our depots west of town last night. Four men dead, ripped limb from limb, and their flesh consumed by the ice-hearted beasts.”
“Perhaps we should retire to someplace more private to discuss the matter,” Mr. Percival stated, as he watched Bubba’s men unloading crates of ammunition from the train. “Washington was very specific that this needs to be dealt with discreetly.”
“Discretion is the general rule for this sort of affair,” Bubba agreed.
The McKinley administration was adamant that monster problems be kept from the general public’s knowledge. Good thing too, because otherwise the quiet handlers of said problems, such as himself, would be out of business.
“The Army sent a patrol from Fort Russell in reprisal, but the soldiers never returned.” Landon looked around at the crowd, then leaned in conspiratorially, presumably so as to not cause a panic. “The Indians are saying the poison woman has come back from the dead to curse us. This is the handiwork of Plague of Crows.”
He’d heard that name. A legendary evil back from the grave? Bubba pondered on that new fact for a moment. “Gentlemen, we may need to revisit the amount of my fee.”
Whenever some foul abomination started eating folks, the common response was to gather up a bunch of brave men to track the beast down. That often worked, but killing monsters was dangerous work and too many of those brave men didn’t come home. A vigilante mob could usually get the job done, but often at a terrible cost. That was how Bubba Shackleford had first been exposed to the supernatural, and it was only through luck and pluck that it hadn’t culminated in a massacre.
The more civilized a place was, the more likely monsters became the law’s problem to deal with. Only there was a heap of difference between dispensing justice to some run-of-the-mill murdering outlaw and something like a foul nosferatus, or a flying murderer bat, or a tentacle bear. There were a handful of sheriffs and marshals of his acquaintance who were worth a damn against the hell-spawn forces of evil, but most were sadly lacking.
The Army? They had the bravery and the guns, but they were the most hidebound and hamstrung bunch of all. Every monster was different, and if you wanted to beat them, you needed to learn fast and adapt faster. Soldiers were always useful, but best when led by an officer with the wit to grasp the inconceivable, and the freedom to get the job done. Good luck with that!
The first time Bubba had killed a monster, he’d made a bit of a name for himself and, strangely enough, job offers had begun to arrive. It turned out there was always some critter causing trouble somewhere. The work suited him, not to mention it was far better money than farming. It was a fine job, provided you didn’t mind extreme violence, physical discomfort, and the constant looming threat of death. Those early years had been more miss than hit, but he’d survived while the things he was chasing usually didn’t.
In time he had joined forces with other men uniquely suited to the monster killing arts. Bubba had never aspired to leadership, but they all looked to him for guidance. Until one day he’d found himself the official boss and owner of a real company.
It was purely by accident that Bubba Shackleford’s Professional Monster Killers had become the most successful—albeit possibly only—company of its kind. His operation was above the rest because of knowledge, dedication, and preparation, but above all else, it was because they possessed an adaptability of the mind. The supernatural could neither surprise nor confound them. They could not be shaken.
Their attention was undivided.
Killing was their business.
Rooms had been provided at a hotel near the station, but most of his men were at the local saloons, and would probably drag themselves in sometime before dawn. There would be drinking, gambling, whoring, and possibly some fighting, but hopefully no hanging offenses committed because he couldn’t spare the manpower.
Bubba Shackleford sat alone at the hotel bar, in fro
nt of the same glass of whiskey that had been sitting untouched for the last hour. In his hands were the telegrams that had been waiting for him at the Western Union office. They were all from his secret weapon, the Scholar.
He still didn’t know the Scholar’s identity, just where to send messages to reach him. Hell, the name Scholar had come about because the only signature on the letters he had received had been the letter S, and the name fit. The notes had arrived shortly after Bubba’s reputation as a monster killer had spread among those in the know. Whoever S was, he wanted to keep his identity secret, and he seemed to know damn near everything there was to know about certain kinds of monsters. Bubba figured that S was probably an employee of the government who would be jailed if word got out he was telling secrets. One of McKinley’s agents had confided in him that the reason they kept monsters secret was something about how the more folks believed, the stronger monsters got. Bubba didn’t know about that. It sounded like horseshit to him, but as long as the government contracts paid on time, he didn’t care.
Repeatedly he had tried to pay for the information provided, but Scholar would have none of it. His reasons for helping remained his own. Regardless of his mysterious motivations, Scholar was right more often than not, and some of his clues had proven vitally helpful in the past.
The first telegram had been sent a couple of days into their train ride.
DESCRIPTION MATCHES INDIAN LEGEND OF CHENOO ONCE HUMAN CURSED HEART SLOWLY TURNS TO ICE CAUSING MADNESS CANNIBALISM AND MUTATION WILL RESEARCH AND REPORT -S
Chenoo was a new term for him, but Bubba wasn’t familiar with the legends of this region. He’d need to remedy that. There was nothing quite as unpleasant as coming across a new beastie and having it suddenly squirt flaming blood out its eyes at you, or discover that bullets just bounced off its hide. Though Scholar seemed to know a lot, many critters still remained complete unknowns.
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