Monster Hunter Legion

by Larry Correia

“Potato Tasting?” I guessed helpfully.

  “No. It’s—”

  “Platypus Tossing?”

  “Paranormal Tactical,” he corrected before I could come up with another.

  “Nope.” I shrugged. Armstrong seemed let down, but tried not to let it show. What did he expect? I was too busy battling the forces of evil to pay attention to every new competitor on the block. Julie took care of the marketing, I was the accountant. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Oh, it will.” He smiled that fake little smile again. “I’m sure we’ll have some teaming opportunities in the future.”

  I didn’t know this Armstrong character, but something about him simply rubbed me the wrong way. Plus, VanZant’s opinion was trusted, and if one of our team leads said that they were assholes, that was good enough for me. “You should leave me your card, you know, in case we’re too busy doing something big and important and a little case pops up that we don’t have time to pay attention to.” I can be a fairly rude person when I just don’t give a crap.

  “Well, MHI is established . . .” Armstrong said, meaning old. So that was how it was going to be. “But we’re the fastest growing Hunting company in the world. We’ve got experienced men, a solid business plan, financial backing, the best equipment, and top leadership.”

  “Nifty. I should buy some stock.”

  “Speaking of leadership, there’s a rumor going around about MHI’s.” The way he said that sounded particularly snide.

  “Oh?” I raised a single eyebrow. This conversation was cutting into my precious shrimp time. “What about our leadership?”

  “Word is that Earl Harbinger’s been off his game lately. I heard he disappeared for a few months, came back depressed and missing a finger. Rumor is that he had something to do with that incident up in Michigan. You know, that mine fire”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“that killed half a town in their sleep, or so the MCB said. I’d hate to think that was one of his cases that went bad.”

  Sure, Earl hadn’t been the same since Copper Lake, but that was none of Armstrong’s business. I didn’t know all the details about what had happened in Michigan, but I knew enough to know that Earl wasn’t off his game, he was angry. A government agency that he didn’t want to name had put his girlfriend into indentured servitude.

  “Maybe Harbinger’s thinking about hanging it up? That would be such a shame. A real loss for our whole industry.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass along your concern. Because, wow, if Earl Harbinger were to retire, who would men like you look to for inspiration?” I gave him a polite nod that I intended to say shove off, dirtbag. “See you at the conference.”

  “Tomorrow then. Looking forward to it. I’ve got work to do. You boys have a nice supper.” He went back to his table to say goodbye to his men. I swear half of them had to resist the urge to salute.

  “I hate him so much,” Gregorius said softly, but didn’t elaborate further.

  “Well, you do sorta look like Barry White,” Cooper told him. He flinched when Gregorius thumped him in the arm.

  Soon enough our conversations had picked back up, and if anything, were even louder than before. Milo called my cell to tell me that he would be here soon, and that he and some of the Newbies he’d picked up at the airport would be joining us for dinner. I’d met the crazy elf girl, Tanya, when she’d impersonated an elven tracker to tag along on one of our jobs. She and Edward had saved some kids that had blundered into a pocket dimension filled with telepathic fey monsters. She was the first elf MHI had ever hired, which I still wasn’t convinced was entirely a smart move, but Milo assured me that she would easily be able to pass for human in public. The other Newbie was named Jason Lacoco, a name I recognized as the Briarwood Hunter Earl had recruited during the Copper Lake incident, but who I hadn’t met yet. I told Milo I’d have the hostess pull up another table.

  By the time I put my phone away, Green was telling a very animated and inappropriate story, and using a cream puff for special effects purposes. Most of my group was laughing loudly at him. The PT men were all stoically chewing, glaring his way occasionally. Apparently the modern warrior code meant you weren’t supposed to carry on in such a manner in public.

  I was filling plate number three with nachos, potstickers, and mozzarella sticks when Nate came up beside me. He had been sitting at the far end of the table, so had missed my chat with the PT leader. “Hey, Z. I need your help with the black-shirt dudes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They keep eyeballing us.”

  “It’s because we’re so damned handsome, Nate. They just can’t help themselves.”

  “You say so, but they seem angry.”

  I looked over as Green downed another beer, belched loudly, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Trip seemed distressed and everyone else was amused. Trip, ever the voice of reason, seemed to be trying to get Green to quiet down. VanZant’s seat was empty. He’d probably gone to the bathroom and left our drunken vice cop momentarily unsupervised. A few of the PT consultants were looking fairly belligerent at this point. “Is Green trying to pick a fight?”

  Nate sighed. “He’s still mad about a job his team did all the dangerous work for, but PT swooped in and claimed the PUFF at the last minute. Green was personally out twenty grand and one of their team almost got drowned by a giant squid in the process.”

  “So you don’t need my help with Pontoon Tactical, or whatever their name is, you need help controlling some of our men. Look, why don’t you go tell Green to chill out? You are a Shackleford. This is your family’s company.” I know Earl was expecting a lot from Nate, as he was the one expected to carry on the Shackleford family name. That was a lot of pressure, especially since his big sister pretty much ran the nuts and bolts of the operation already. Nate was tough and enthusiastic, but still trying to figure out his place in the company. The tall young man looked sheepishly at his shoes. “But you won’t . . . Because you don’t want to come off as the boss’s grandson and annoying wet blanket on everyone’s good time . . .”

  “Reverse nepotism is a hell of a thing. I’m still low man on the totem pole. I say anything and I’ll just come off as a whiner trying to throw Julie’s weight around.”

  “If you imply Julie is heavy, she will shoot you.” I knew that wasn’t what he meant. Besides, Julie was in great shape. My wife was a 5'11" Amazon warrior southern belle art-chick sniper. “And you know she doesn’t miss much.”

  “You know what I mean,” Nate pleaded.

  “Ask Holly. Nobody will mess with her.”

  “Are you kidding? I think she finds the whole thing amusing. Please, Z, I don’t know all these guys very well, but they respect you.”

  “I’m no team leader.” Some of us had headquarters duties above and beyond being on Hunter teams, but as far as the actual MHI org chart went, I was only the finance manager. Which put me at about the same level as our receptionist, only Dorcas had been around longer and was scarier.

  “You’re also the God Slayer.”

  Valid point. Travelling to another dimension and blowing up a Great Old One did earn you some cool points with this bunch. “Leadership sucks sometimes, Nate. You’re going to have to get used to it.” His older sister would have simply kicked everyone into line, but the youngest Shackleford hadn’t found his groove yet. He’d been a Hunter longer than I had, but it was tough to grow up in the shadow of legends. “All right, fine. Just let me grab some more fish sticks.”

  By the time I’d plopped back down in my seat, I could tell that Green had clearly egged the two nearest PT Hunters on to the point that they were itching for a confrontation. The man certainly had a gift. I could sense there was ugly in the air. Normally that wouldn’t bother me too much, but we were supposed to be professionals, we were outnumbered, and I was pretty sure that I recognized one of the PT men from watching Ultimate Fighting on TV.

  “Z, that one dude ke
eps looking at me!” Green exclaimed, voice slurred. “He must think I’m sexy!” Then he looked over at the Ultimate Fighter and licked a cream puff suggestively.

  The Ultimate Fighter got up quickly, and Green, being stupidly fearless at this point, did too. Trip intercepted Green, and one of the PT Hunters grabbed the Ultimate Fighter’s arm. I, and my tray of goodies, stepped between the two sides as I tried to play peacemaker. “Whoa! Easy, man.”

  The Ultimate Fighter bumped me and I got Thai peanut sauce on my shirt, and most of my food landed on the floor. It says something about how much I’ve matured over the last couple of years that I didn’t knock him the hell out for wasting such precious cargo. About half of the PT Hunters got up quickly. On my side the Haights and Gregorius jumped up, looking eager, while the rest of my side had that inevitable resigned look of I’d better help my idiot friends on their faces. Say what you will about Hunters, they always have your back. “Everybody, relax. No harm meant. My friend’s just had a few too many.”

  Trip dragged the sputtering Green back into his chair. Luckily, Trip was the stronger of the two.

  I tried to defuse the situation. “I’ve seen you on TV, right? Light heavyweight. You were great. I love that stuff—”

  “Keep your idiot on a leash,” Ultimate Fighter snarled as he was guided to his seat. “Uncivilized Alabama rednecks.”

  I thought that Green was a Californian, but saying so probably wouldn’t have helped matters. In fact, I think Nate was the only native Alabaman at the table, and he was well spoken and wearing a tie. I sat down. “Green, you dumbass. Chill the hell out already or I swear I’ll break another one of your bones.”

  “Sorry, Z. It isn’t my fault they’re such jackasses. I was just telling everybody about how PT is a bunch of no-good, backstabbing, lying cheats, and Armstrong is a thieving sack of—”

  “Dude, use your inside voice,” Trip suggested as he studied the table of muscle and testosterone growling at us. “I don’t want to get beat up.”

  Green giggled. “I’m not worried. We got Z. Just hide behind him. That was my plan. He’s huge.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “I’ll remember that when I’m getting my teeth kicked in.”

  A server came by, and I quickly apologized for the mess and slipped her a twenty. Luckily nobody had called security, and it looked like everything was going to be cool. VanZant got back, saw that some of the staff was cleaning up my spillage and everyone looked tense, and asked what he’d missed. I jerked a thumb at Green. “I think he needs to sleep it off.”

  VanZant shook his head sadly. “He gets spun up sometimes. I’ve got him. Come on, man. Why don’t you go splash some water on your face or something.” He dragged Green up by his collar.

  “But I didn’t finish my creampuffs!”

  “My apologies, Z. He is a really good Hunter when he’s sober.”

  Crisis averted, I went back for replacement food as VanZant led our most inebriated Hunter away. I caught sight of a small man with a gigantic red beard waving at me from the entrance, and so I pointed Milo in the direction of our table. The last of the MHI dinner party had arrived.

  Plate partially reloaded, I was preoccupied with using tongs to pick up some crab legs when somebody bumped into my arm. Another solid fellow had been reaching under the sneeze guard at the same time. “Pardon me,” he said politely.

  “Sorry about that,” I answered as I moved a bit to the side. “Didn’t see you. Easily distracted by crab legs, you know.”

  “Thanks.” He scooped up several pounds of crustacean and dumped them onto his plate. Crouched, he still barely fit under the sneeze guard. He straightened his back and towered over me. I’m 6'5", was wearing thick-soled combat boots, and he still had me beat by a few inches.

  “If you’ve seen that show about how hard these are to catch, that just makes them taste even better . . .” I trailed off. The man seemed strangely familiar. Probably thirty, he was thickset, with biceps like hams stuffed under his black T-shirt. His enormous head was stubbly with short, dark hair, and there was a crease running down the middle where he’d had a severe skull injury or maybe brain surgery. Beady eyes narrowed as he got a better look at me. One of his eyes wasn’t pointing in quite the same direction as the other one. A look of confusion crossed his wide, flat face.

  Where did I know this man from?

  Of course I hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d aged. After all, it had been several years, and he hadn’t had that scar on his head nor the bad eye. Plus the last time I’d seen him I’d been kneeling on his chest and dropping elbows against his bloody and unconscious face until his eye had popped out and his skull had broken in half.

  “You!” we exclaimed at the same time.

  His tray hit the floor with a clatter. The other patrons around the seafood area were suddenly quiet. The giant’s mouth turned into a snarl and his hands curled into a fist. “Son of a bitch!”

  The final illegal, underground money fight I’d ever participated in had been against this monster. All I’d known going in was that he was a killer, a prison-hardened, brutal machine of a fighter, and then he’d beaten the living hell out of me until I’d finally taken him down, lost control, and nearly beaten him to death. I’d never even known his name.

  I took a step back. He was right to be mad. I’d lost it. It was the worst thing I’d ever done. “It was an ac—”

  “Accident?” Veins were popping out in his neck. “I was out, and you didn’t stop hitting me until they dragged you off! You put out my eye!”

  “Sorry.” Man, that sounded pathetic.

  “You ruined my life!” And with a roar, the giant charged.

  I lifted the metal serving tray like a shield just in time for his fist to bend it in half. The tray went flying and a waitress screamed. Dodging back, I thumped hard into the table with the ice swan. An instinctive duck kept my head attached to my body as the giant threw a massive left hook that decapitated the swan. Then he lowered his shoulder and rammed into me, taking us both onto the table. The ice swan toppled, hit the floor, and exploded, sending bits everywhere. The table collapsed beneath us and we went rolling off in separate directions.

  There were a few seconds of shocked silence, and then fight-or-flight kicked in for everyone in the buffet. For the regular people, it was flight from the two very large men crashing about. Sadly, flight wasn’t the normal first reaction for a Hunter. There was a battle cry from near the exit. “That PT guy hit Z!” Green shouted as he shoved his way through the people. The man who had attacked me was wearing a black shirt . . . Green sprinted across the restaurant yelling, “Fight! Fight!” Then he dove and tackled a random PT employee who was getting a piece of pie from the desert bar.

  “No! It’s not them.” I got up, but the giant was already coming my way again, and then I was too busy protecting my vital organs from his sledgehammer fists to communicate.

  The occupants of the MHI table had all stood up to see what was going on, and so had the Paranormal Tactical crew. The two sides looked at each other for just a moment . . . and then it was on. The last thing I saw was one of the Haight brothers clubbing a PT Hunter in the jaw, because then I had to concentrate on my own problems.

  The giant was coming my way, hands up and loose, protecting his face. Even enraged, he was moving like a pro. The last time we’d squared off had been a close one. This was the toughest human being I’d ever fought, at least now that I knew Franks didn’t count as human.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” I warned.

  “Should’a thought of that before you tried to murder me.”

  He came in quick, but this wasn’t a ring, and I wasn’t fighting fair. I kicked a chunk of ice and he instinctively flinched aside as it zipped past him. I yanked a cloth off a table and threw it over his head like a net. I’d like to say that I did it dramatically and all the plates and pitchers stayed in place, but they didn’t, and most of them shattered on the ground. Temporarily entangled in the tablec
loth, he couldn’t defend himself very well, so I charged in swinging. I slugged him twice in the stomach, and when his hands went down, I reached up and tagged him with a shot to the mouth.

  But then he threw the tablecloth back over me, and I think it was an elbow that got me in the side of the head. I was seeing stars when he slung me around and put me into the meat area. Ham broke my fall. The meat-slicing buffet employees ran for their lives. Getting up, I hurled a pot roast at the giant and he smacked it across the room.

  We clashed. There wasn’t any finesse at all; it was just a slug fest. We went back and forth, trading blows. Too busy trying to protect my face, I got hit in the ribs, which sucked, and then he nailed me in the stomach, which really sucked, and suddenly I was regretting the several pounds of food I’d just consumed. His shoe landed on a piece of ice, and as he slid off balance, I snap kicked him hard in the thigh of his grounded leg.

  He went to his hands and knees. “Stay down!” I ordered.

  The restaurant patrons were evacuating. Green had someone in a choke hold and another PT man on his back. I’d forgotten that VanZant had used to be a champion welterweight, and he was knocking the snot out of a PT man twice his size. The Haights seemed to be having a jolly time, until one of them got hit with a chair. Gregorius was wrestling a PT Hunter next to the soda machines. Ultimate Fighter had Cooper in an arm bar. Albert, despite the cane and leg brace, was a shockingly tenacious fighter, and he was facing two PT Hunters at once, which apparently Trip didn’t think was very sporting, because he slammed one of them through a corner booth. Even Holly had gotten into it. A PT man hesitated, not wanting to strike a girl, until she groin-kicked him like she was punting a football.

  Turning back to the giant, I didn’t see that my opponent’s hands had landed on another serving tray, which he promptly swung and clipped me in the temple. That one rocked my world. I landed flat on my back. The giant came over to stomp me, but Nate body-checked him into the soft-serve ice-cream machine. Too bad the Shacklefords were from Alabama, because the kid showed a lot of promise as a hockey player.