Monster Hunter Legion

by Larry Correia

  By the time the gray smoke cleared, the fastest of the creatures had already swarmed in after the fleeing humans. The spine-flinging warriors continued inside after them.

  But I wasn’t alone . . . Now the claws around my hiding place were moving more slowly, methodically. These feet were smaller. The workers had arrived. Like four-foot-tall, yellow, bipedal grasshoppers, their joints clicked and popped as they moved, and as I watched, horrified, they began pulling a body from the wreckage to systematically rip apart. Every direction I could peer through the gap, there were more twisted legs, dozens of them.

  A grasshopper demon took hold of the limp arm resting on my back and began to tug. I was alone in the middle of them, but not helpless. I slowly moved one hand to Abomination’s grip. I’d take as many of them with me as possible.

  Please let Julie escape. That’s all I ask.

  There were demons everywhere.

  So this is how I die . . .

  “Not yet, Z. You don’t get off that easy.”

  My radio was off, but I’d heard the familiar voice as clear as day.

  It can’t be. He’s dead. Ray Shackleford killed him. I was fading in and out of reality. I was injured worse than I thought. Now I was hearing voices from my past.

  But . . . Was that Copenhagen chewing tobacco that I was smelling?

  “You’re not in the real world anymore, Z. You’ve all been shanghaied into a place between worlds. He’s killing you with things from your own pasts, things that are already dead and gone. Well, me and the other guys are sick of that shit, and here we can do something about it. This evil son of a bitch isn’t the only one that can cheat.”

  A demonic claw wrapped around my boot and I was pulled from underneath the body parts and concrete. The worker demon grabbed the back of my armor and flipped me over. The creature loomed over me. Its pack of eyes flickered back and forth and then it clicked hungrily as it realized I was alive. It leaned over to slice my face off with one of its jagged mouths.

  The demon’s face exploded, splattering me with hot bits. A figure stepped over me and kicked the headless corpse aside. The man knocked a second monster down with the stock of his rifle. Another monster ruptured in a shower of yellow bile. He worked a Marlin lever-action rifle and fired from the hip, disemboweling a third creature. He kept shooting and shooting and shooting, driving the demons back. Somehow the rifle never seemed to run out of ammo.

  He was wearing MHI-issued body armor, bandoleers of individual rounds of .45-70, and on his arm was a patch featuring a walrus with a banjo.

  It can’t be.

  I’d never seen these demons show fear before, but this Hunter scared them. Screeching and chattering in their incomprehensible language, the horde retreated. “That’s right, you bugs!” he bellowed after them. “Run back to your master and tell him he’s not the only one with friends at this party.”

  “But you’re dead,” I croaked.

  “Duh.” Sam Haven turned around and grinned at me from beneath his gigantic mustache. “But screw death. I’ve got shit to get done. Come on.”

  “Are you from my imagination?”

  “No. That’s stupid.” Sam snorted, reached down, grabbed my armored collar, and hoisted me as if I weighed nothing. “Can you walk?”

  It hurt like a son of a bitch. I’d wrenched one leg on the way down. My ankle felt like it had been sprained, same one the stupid rag monster had torn up earlier. I wasn’t going to win any races, but there wasn’t time to whine about it. “Yeah.”

  He pulled me along, through the ruined gardens, through the evil swirling fog, and away from the breached wall. “You’ve got no idea how much it sucks being in the spirit world watching my people get their asses kicked in the world of the living and not being able to do anything about it. We can’t see everything, but we can watch those that we’re close to a little. We’re still in this fight, we just haven’t been allowed to participate yet.”

  The red haze in my head had cleared a bit, enough to know that I wasn’t imagining this. I’d been rescued by a dead Monster Hunter. And judging from the gunfire in the gardens, he’d brought friends. “We?”

  “See for yourself.”

  I was still blinking away someone else’s blood so it was hard to see clearly, but there were several men waiting ahead of us. Some were dressed in modern MHI armor, but a few were wearing armor that seemed more old-fashioned, and a few were even in the archaic high-necked leather suits that I’d seen Bubba Shackleford in. They seemed somehow blurry. The strong winds didn’t so much as muss their hair. I could have swore that it was Chuck Mead that gave me a small nod as we passed, but Chuck had died at DeSoya Caverns.

  “Terminate these insect assholes with extreme prejudice,” Sam ordered. “Be ready for him to throw anything at us. He will not let up. Keep the living safe as long as possible. They’re counting on us. Move out.” The ghostly figures faded away and were gone.

  Sam carried me around the corner, where there was a bit of shelter from the screaming wind, and set me down with my back against a low wall. He squatted next to me, looking remarkably good for a dead man. I rubbed the blood off of my face and realized with a shock that the blurriness of his features wasn’t due to crap in my eyes at all. Everything else in the world was sharp and focused, but the lines that made up Sam seemed to flicker. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Confused.”

  “I was asking about physically, but that’s understandable. Listen carefully, Z. You need to know that you aren’t in this alone. There’s a war coming, and it’s bigger than just the living, and it’s bigger than just the Earth. A lot of those that came before you still have skin in this game. There are legions of us. Legions. But until the war starts, there’s rules set that we have to follow, including not meddling with the living. Ah, but you know I’ve never been too good with authority.” He chuckled.

  I raised one shaking hand and pointed upwards questioningly.

  Sam nodded. “Pretty much. It’s mostly hands-off the living world for reasons I don’t get myself. Way over my pay grade. But this place isn’t in the living world right now. Nobody important has laid claim to this place except for scum that live here. So the rules are in sort of a gray area, which is how come some of us came here to help. We’re buying you some time, but this needs to be finished by the living. I’ve got a message from Mordechai that’ll help. Since the Old Ones messed with your head, you can read other people’s memories. Think of this as a download.”

  Sam reached out, put his palm on my forehead, and SNAP.

  It was like getting a stun gun to the brain. But when the white-hot electrical vise grip unlocked from my synapses, there was a gigantic pile of new memories in my head. I’d watched other people’s memories unfold before as a result of my connection to the Old Ones’ artifact, but never anything like this. It was quite literally an infodump, and I was surprised to see who it was from . . .

  CHAPTER 19

  He had been called many things since he’d died. He did not like being referred to as a ghost and preferred protector spirit, which seemed to him to have more dignity, though restless dead also had gravitas, but often had negative connotations. Usually the living that he had dealt with simply referred to him as the old man, since that was how he still tended to perceive himself, and thus how the living perceived him as a result. Regardless of what he was known as, the most common adjective applied to any of his titles by his superiors was usually stubborn.

  Come on, girl. Pick up your telephone . . . There is not much time. Pick up the telephone, girl!

  The girl in question was Holly Newcastle. The old man knew that she was the most suitable person available and time was of the essence. It was not often that he was allowed to interfere in the affairs of the living, but this was a prelude to the big war, one of his own flesh-and-blood descendants was in danger, and the Hunters could not afford to lose their champion.

  The old man knew Holly well. He had seen her grow and mature, fighting along
side the champion, always with conviction, never showing fear. But she wore a mask, crafted so well that even she thought it was real. On the inside there was still some of the old girl left. She had her own destiny yet to fulfill, but sadly, most of her choices would lead her to a dark end. Her road was a difficult one.

  She was dressed in a manner that would have been scandalous and completely unacceptable during the old man’s mortal time on earth, but was normal now. She had left the other Hunters with excuses of “partying” or such mortal nonsense, but that had only been at first. It had been an excuse, to the others, but mostly to herself. Squandering her money and poisoning her body were distractions from what was really on her mind. She had done that for a time, but there was something far more important that she had to tend to that she’d been avoiding, and this was the first time she had returned home since she had discovered the real world.

  So she had paid a cab driver to take her far to the outskirts of the city, to a rusting industrial area. It was the sort of place where only the most unsavory ruffians would be found, but Holly was not afraid of the human kind of monster. She was here to confront her memories of the other kind.

  It had not been difficult to find, because a place where such evil and horror occurred was always visible to a spirit’s eyes. Even long after the evil had taken place, it would still glow like a hot coal. The ruin had once been a factory of some kind. The police had put a chain and a padlock on the door. So Holly had smashed out a window with an old board and crawled inside, ripping her dress in the process, but not caring.

  The old man had found her deep inside, sitting at the edge of a hole in the ground. The hole was not so big, but big enough to hold many captives, and deep enough to keep them from crawling out. It was a horrible thing, this pit. Vampires were vile beasts, and the things they did to survive were terrifying to comprehend. The old man had survived much in his mortal life, but even he had a hard time understanding what it would be like to be kept as a prisoner and used as food. She had become strong to protect the others, and eventually herself. All of the other captives had broken and then died.

  Yet, Holly had survived the pit. And that had made her strong.

  While the others had wilted and died and come back and died again, Holly’s determination had grown, until she’d used her cunning to kill a vampire and then go for help. Hunters had come and eradicated the rest of the nest, and Holly had found her destiny. The girl had two sides, one made of anger, and one made of love. Anything that provoked the anger or endangered that which she loved was doomed. The old man approved.

  She had come back to the site of her horror. The old man wondered if the hole seemed smaller to her now. Did it seem insignificant? Compared to the other things that she had faced without flinching, it must seem insignificant, this dark place. But then again, it must not, because she had sat next to the edge of the pit for hours, always remembering, hating the vampires that had taken her, sometimes crying, occasionally talking to herself, or perhaps to the ones that had died around her. The old man could have saved her the time. Those spirits had moved on. They were not restless, like him.

  Holly was strong, stronger even than she or any of her friends realized. Coming back and facing again the test that had made her a Hunter would hone that commitment. She was an ideal choice for this task.

  The only problem was that she wouldn’t heed his words. Your friends need you! He was practically shouting. Even with all of the excess magical energy leaking into the city from the rift, she wouldn’t hear his voice. Why will you not listen to me?

  Because there aren’t very many living that can hear us good, his companion told him. The champion’s in tune with the dead. Most folks ain’t.

  Then we need another alive person to serve as messenger. And that gave the old man an idea. The champion came from a special bloodline, prepared and honed over generations to fulfill a prophecy. That particular challenge had been won, but then he’d been drafted for another. There were no more prophecies, and fate would be determined by mortal choices. But the champion was not the sole inheritor of that prepared bloodline. Come, my friend. New strategy I have. Not a Hunter, but I know a man who will hear us.

  I hope this works, Mordechai.

  The spirits left in search of another. Holly, exhausted and emotionally spent, had finally had enough and decided to leave the warehouse. She contemplated setting the place on fire and burning it to the ground, but her conscience wouldn’t let her, on the off chance there were some bums sleeping in the neighboring buildings. As Holly made her way back into the light, she checked her messages and found one from Owen Zastava Pitt.

  * * *

  David “Mosh” Pitt woke up on his hotel room floor with an agonizing headache. He was no stranger to hangovers, but this one was particularly epic.

  After Owen had sucker-punched him and stormed out, Mosh had finished off the contents of one of the bottles he’d found on his table. He wasn’t even particularly sure what brand the nasty concoction was. It could have been jet fuel for all he cared at that point, and since he hadn’t made it to his bed, it might actually have been. He couldn’t tell what time it was. His watch was missing and the alarm clock was blinking 12:00 over and over again. “Where’s my watch? Oh yeah, that one groupie stole it from me last week . . . Stupid chick. That Rolex was totally fake . . .” He’d had to sell the real one. Besides, he didn’t need a watch. The light coming around the curtain hurt his eyes enough to tell him that it was in the afternoon, so close enough. He just needed to be coherent enough to play some half-hearted crap before eight P.M.

  Staggering to the bathroom, Mosh discovered that he was still wearing one boot. He splashed some water on his face and took stock of the damage. His bottom lip was split and his front teeth hurt. His brother always could throw a mean punch. Mosh poked at the sore spot. “Damn it, Owen, you self-righteous asshole. I can’t believe you did that. Ah, that stings.” Talking to himself wasn’t a recent development. He had always done it, but usually only when he was lonely, not that he would admit it.

  Owen was such a jerk . . . It wasn’t enough to drag his business into everyone else’s business, but now he was into something that was going to endanger Dad? Not that Dad would care. He was psycho too. Hell, the whole family had problems. Mosh found himself staring back at his own bloodshot eyes. “Look at you. You used to be something. What happened to you?”

  “I do not know this answer. You should turn on the television set. Watch news.”

  Startled, Mosh spun around to see who had said that. He could’ve sworn that the voice had come from right behind him, but the bathroom was empty. Had the maid come in? Walking lopsided because his remaining boot had very thick soles, Mosh went into the suite to find that it too was empty. The security latch was still locked.

  “I’m losing it.” Mosh rubbed his face in his hands. He could’ve sworn he’d heard a man’s voice, like an old dude, with a thick accent, sort of Eastern Europe, kind of like Mom when she got excited, but way worse. He found a bottle of Tylenol in the kitchenette and popped four of them. “Can alcohol give you hallucinations? Is it a hallucination if you hear it?” Unlike many of his peers in the music business, Mosh didn’t mess around with drugs. He’d seen too many other musicians fry their brains, and he liked being the smart one too much.

  The drinking was just to help him sleep . . . Until things picked back up.

  “What is it with this family? None of them can listen to instructions!”

  Mosh leapt back and crashed into the refrigerator. “Who’s there?” There was no response. He had heard that clear as day. “If you’re messing with me, it isn’t funny.”

  Who would play a trick on him? His so-called friends had bought the government’s line. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with him. His name was mud. The only people that would have anything to do with him anymore weren’t the kind he wanted around. A bunch of sycophant groupies weren’t the best company, and he couldn’t even remember the names of th
e ones he’d found here in the mornings.

  “None of the Pitts can listen. Is simple request. Watch news program, dummy.”

  Mosh jumped. That had come from right behind him. Now he was really freaked out. “Okay, assholes. It’s on now.” He hobbled back to the bedroom and picked up the Glock 19 he kept on the bedside table. He wasn’t the family gun nut—that honor went to his brother—but he’d been raised by a fanatical survivalist, which meant that Mosh knew damn good and well how to take care of himself. After a death cult had kidnapped him, and a psychotic bitch had sawed his fingers off, Mosh was more than happy to shoot first and ask questions later. “You want trouble, you got trouble.” He came back around the corner with the 9mm in both hands. “You better get out of here. I’ve got a piece and I will shoot your ass dead. I mean it.”

  “This wreck is the best we can do?”

  “G’ah!” Mosh turned around and stabbed out the gun. That voice had come from a different man, deeper, with a slow southern drawl. His hands were shaking. His finger was on the trigger. But there was nobody there. “Stop that!”

  “Can make contact. Is same blood as champion. You have better idea?” the disembodied old man’s voice said. “Idiot boy. Turn on television.”

  “This place is haunted!” Mosh shouted.

  “Yes. Boo,” said the southerner. “I’m a haint. Now do what Mordechai said already. We’re burning daylight.”

  “Mordechai?” Owen’s imaginary friend? His brother had told him some crazy stories, only half of which he believed, and only then because he’d seen giant monsters and been teleported himself. When Owen had talked about ghosts and time travel, he’d wondered if his older brother had started licking toads. What was it Earl Harbinger had told him when he’d tried to cheer Mosh up, flexible minds? Like that helps when your whole life has just been ruined. “What do you want from me?”

  “I am messenger, appointed by one side in big war to help Hunters. You are only person I can reach in time to warn.”