Monster Hunter Memoirs: Sinners - eARC

by John Ringo

  “It’s Kristi’s turn to set the table,” James said, angrily.

  “If it is or it isn’t, it’s your turn now!” Mrs. Robinson said.

  While James was angrily throwing silverware on the table, Mister Robinson came home from his day shift and set down his lunch box. Every morning Mrs. Robinson packed his lunch box for work.

  Mrs. Robinson would not be packing that lunch box on the morrow.

  You see, Mrs. Robinson had a point in her disdain for James’ new set of high school friends. James hadn’t mentioned that they’d been going out to road-houses that were a bit lenient in regards to drinking laws. Nor that he’d gotten into a fight, just last week, with some crazy biker dude who had bitten him. He’d covered up the bite with a bandage and told his parents he’d gotten scratched at shop class.

  It had healed remarkably fast, anyway. It was barely a scratch. Hardly broke the skin.

  Mrs. Robinson didn’t like to dump on her husband when he just came in the door, but she was on her last nerve with James and a man’s problems—and James was fast becoming a man—were best solved by a man.

  “You have got to talk to that son of yours,” she said, turning the fried chicken in the pan. “He is out of control.”

  “I’ll talk to him, cher,” Mister Frank Robinson said, trying not to sigh.

  Ginger stopped turning chicken and got him a beer from the fridge.

  “You go sit down for now. Dinner’s in about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said, popping the can and taking a sip. “He’s just feeling his oats, cherie.”

  “There,” James said, stomping into the kitchen angrily. “The table is set!”

  “You do not use that tone with your mother, James,” Mister Robinson said. Clearly, Ginger wasn’t exaggerating. Teenage mood swings. He’d had them. Who didn’t? But a man learned to control them. “Apologize to your mother!”

  “The hell I will!” James shouted. “Is it that big of a deal I want to go out with my friends tonight?”

  “You want to go out ever again, you’re going to apologize to your mother,” Frank Robinson said, putting down the beer can.

  “Or what? What are you going to do? Get out your belt to teach me a lesson, old man?”

  “Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it?” Frank Robinson said, rolling up his sleeves. “I think we need to take this out back.”

  “Now, boys,” Mrs. Robinson said.

  “I don’t think we need to take this anywhere!” James roared and hit his father with both hands on his chest with all his might.

  Frank was picked up off his feet and thrown across the kitchen to impact painfully on the bar. He was briefly knocked out.

  “I’M NOT LISTENING TO YOU ANYMOOOAAARRRR!”

  James Robinson looked at his lengthening fingers as his bones started to crack and realign. He screamed in agony. “Oh, nooo!” It turned into a howl as his mouth started to lengthen. The pain was excruciating. “Mommmaaaaa! Mommmmaaaa!”

  “No, no, no, no,” Mrs. Robinson said, squatting down to look into her son’s eyes. They turned gold as she watched. “Not my baby. Please, God, not my little baby.”

  “Momma, what’s happening?” Kristina asked, running in the room. She’d been in her bedroom with her Walkman on but still heard the crash as her daddy hit the bar.

  “Ginger,” Mister Robinson said, standing up and and shaking his head. He saw what was happening to his son, and was the only one there who realized just how bad things were about to get. “You and Kristi, you go and get in the closet in the bedroom. Right now. You lock the door to the bedroom and you stay in the closet.”

  “Jimmy, no,” Mrs. Robinson begged.

  “You go right now, cher,” Mister Robinson said. “You and Kristina. You go. Go now!”

  He knew what was happening, had even seen it before for himself in his distant youth. There was no time for sadness or panic or denial. Mister Robinson was a bed-rock Louisiana American and that meant guns. And he knew it was probably going to be no use. But the monster that had, until a moment before, been his son was not going to get to his wife and child without some 12 gauge Double Ought in its belly. And it was not going to get to them until Frank Robinson was stone dead.

  It takes a new werewolf a fair amount of time to change. Enough time for Mr. Robinson to go to the spare room, take down his already loaded pump shotgun, grab a bag with some shells in it from his last hunting trip, and walk back out into the hallway.

  The hallway led from the kitchen and living room to the bedrooms. Ginger by now would be in the closet of the bedroom they’d shared for fifteen years. The bedroom where they’d made little Kristina, his pride and joy. Her twenty gauge was in there. He’d heard that even if you didn’t have silver, sometimes you could put enough hurtin’ on a loup garou to put it down. If not, maybe Ginger could finish the job. If she could kill her own son.

  He knew it wasn’t his baby anymore. It wasn’t the boy he’d taught to fish, to catch a football, it wasn’t the boy he’d taught how to be a man.

  It was a monster and if he didn’t stop it, it was going to kill his wife and daughter.

  He took his stand as the loup garou slunk around the corner, yellow eyes glowing…

  * * *

  My cellular car phone rang as the final sliver of the moon cleared the waters of the lake.

  I had two, now. Turned out there was a radio-phone company in New Orleans that even used the same system as the one I’d gotten installed in Seattle. It had more range than the newer cellphone I’d also had installed but was less clear in the city. So I had two.

  “Where you at?” Trevor asked.

  “Breakwater Park,” I said.

  “Possible loup garou in Metairie,” Trevor said. “1512 Houma Boulevard.”

  “On it.”

  While Honeybear was in the shop, I’d had a couple of installs done. I now had a siren and a dash light. The dash light was a powerful strobe, with, yes, a purple, more violet, cover. I thought it being violet was both useful and appropriate. So I now had a purple emergency light to signify that, no, I wasn’t a cop or a volunteer fire-fighter.

  I was hoodoo squad. And you’d best get out my way.

  Special Agent in Charge Castro hadn’t cared, because getting to the incidents faster meant there was a lower body count for him to cover up. I cranked up Honeybear and peeled out. I damned near hit one of those couples holding hands as I did.

  “Sorry,” I yelled.

  I don’t think they heard me.

  I got lost twice.

  CHAPTER 7

  Holding Out for a Hero

  I knew I was there when I saw the blue lights.

  “Finally,” I muttered. It had only taken about ten minutes but that was five minutes longer than it should have taken. But this fricking town was a fricking maze of canals and if you didn’t know where the bridges were…

  “Took you long enough,” the Metairie PD officer said as I pulled up next to his car. He’d cracked the window but only when I was right alongside. “Just you?”

  “So far. I caught on the scanner we got another one down in Ninth Ward and I doubt that’s the last. Where is it?”

  “Right up the road was where it was last seen,” the officer said. “I see so much as a dog I’m taking off.”

  “Got it.”

  I drove down the street, slowly, until I got to 1512 Houma Boulevard. It was a pleasant ranch style house, single story. Bars on the windows which wasn’t universal in Metairie but was common. Well kept yard. Bit of a pull-around in the front. I pulled into the driveway and got out.

  “Any werewolves around?” I asked.

  There was a crashing from inside the house. That answered that question. One of the front windows smashed and a furry paw extended out. There was a deep, bass, snarl.

  “Hey, doggy,” I said, calmly. I turned on the Mini-mag on my Uzi, walked over to the window and looked in. The werewolf took a running start and slammed into the bars, shaking bit
s of mortar out of the connecting rods. It had blood all over its muzzle.

  I set the selector switch on semi, laid the sight on the beast’s forehead and put one silver bullet into its brain.

  The loup garou flopped over on its side and stopped.

  Game, set, match.

  I walked down to the road and waved my other Maglite at the patrol car. It crept forward, cautiously.

  “I got it. It was still in the house.”

  “You sure?” the cop said.

  “Well, I got a loup garou. Is there another one around?”

  “Not that’s been reported round here. Kenner just reported there’s one running around at the airport. Down on the runways and stuff.”

  “Joy,” I said. “Call the coroners. And I need to figure out how to get into this house. Without using explosives, that is.”

  I rummaged in my trunk for a bit and pulled the Halligan tool and axe out.

  “I really will need a hand with this,” I said. “It’s okay. It daid.”

  Between the cop and myself we managed to get the door hammered open. It was very seriously attached. At one point I wondered if I was going to have to get out the C4. But we got it open.

  The Metairie PD officer immediately bolted back to his car with the statement he wasn’t going in until it was clear.

  One dead in the living room. That was the loup garou. Young male, probably the son. One dead in the hallway. Male. Torn to ribbons. Shotgun by his side, empty. Shells spilled out of a slung shell bag he never managed to access based on the number on the ground.

  Bedroom door torn open. Closet door torn open. Two dead in the closet. Females. One shotgun. No shells on the ground, no powder smell, appeared unused.

  Notes: 1512 Houma Boulevard. Loup Garou. Three victims. # U-148-239-J Receipt.

  Mrs. Robinson would never make that packed lunch again. Because there was no one to make it. And no one to eat it.

  * * *

  Ever tried to find a werewolf somewhere out on the tarmac at an airport?

  “Last we got a report, it was over by Gate C-6.”

  The speaker was Security Manager Randolph Everette, fiftyish, heavy-set, nice suit. Definitely a boro-crat.

  I was the first member of MHI to arrive. Mister Everette did not appreciate the time it had taken me to respond. Louis B. Armstrong International Airport had a Contract. We were very close to being in violation of said contract.

  My excuse that I had already dealt with one werewolf this night was not well received. He seemed to feel I should have left that one to chow on common citizens rather than allow the Louis B. Armstrong airport to be shut down.

  I suppose he sort of had a point.

  According to witnesses, the problem had been one of their traffic directors. Which explained why there was a 707 sort of half parked over at Gate C-2. It had, in fact, damned near run over another plane following the directions of a wand waver who all of a sudden fell to the ground and started writhing. The plane had turned to avoid running over him and nearly hit a DC-10. Fortunately, from the MCB’s perspective, the pilots and passengers did not see the wand waver shred his clothes and turn into a werewolf. Some of the passengers on the DC-10 sort of caught a glimpse of something but they weren’t sure what. They’d been concentrating on, you know, the other plane trying to hit them.

  The 707 was now stuck on the tarmac. And incoming flights were shut down until the tarmac was cleared. Everyone who could be unloaded, safely, from the planes had been. But they were all waiting on their baggage since the baggage crews weren’t allowed outside until the problem was cleared. And planes were sitting, stacked up, on the taxiways since there were no Follow-Me trucks running and no wand wavers. Not to mention in the air. Planes short on fuel were having to divert to nearby airfields including the airbase across the river. Every entrance had been shut down.

  There had been reports from other planes stuck at various points of “some sort of big dog” running around on the tarmac.

  “We need to get this under control, fast,” Agent Buchanan said. I still had him mentally pegged as Agent Three. “This isn’t your normal New Orleans hoodoo. We’re talking about a lot of uninitiated observers. Class Four event.”

  “I’m going to need to bring Honeybear onto the tarmac,” I said.

  “Honeybear?” Everette asked.

  “His car,” Buchanan said.

  “No way,” Everette said. “We cannot allow a civilian vehicle with an untrained driver onto the tarmac. It’s unsafe.”

  “There won’t be an untrained driver,” I said. “If you want this fixed, you’re driving. I have not a clue how to get to Gate C whatever.”

  “Uh…” Everette said, his mouth open.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Buchanan said.

  * * *

  In the end it wasn’t Mr. Everette who drove Honeybear but one of the senior airport cops, Lieutenant Roy Gray. He had the look of a professional.

  “Been doing this long?” I asked.

  “Fifteen years,” Gray said as he pulled Honeybear around the side of one of the terminals. “Ever since I got out of the Corps.”

  “Parris or Pendleton?” I asked.

  “Please,” he said. “Do I look like a Hollywood Marine?”

  “One of the MCB is,” I said. I was keeping an eye out for anything doglike. People were looking out their windows, clearly wondering why a 1976 Cutlass with a flashing purple light was able to drive around the tarmac and they couldn’t.

  “Which explains why he is MCB,” Gray said. Apparently he had dealt with MCB before and was read in, which was why he got this job. “Parris, right?”

  “Do I look like a Hollywood Marine?” I asked.

  “With that haircut, you look like a boot.”

  I picked up my spot and rolled down my window. I was hit by a blast of muggy, JP4 scented, air. I had a sudden flashback to being on the deck of the carrier the helo landed on taking me out of Beirut. It threw me.

  “You okay?” Gray asked.

  “Flashback,” I said. I turned on the spot and shown it on where I thought I’d seen a dog. No luck.

  “Unit Four, report of possible canine, Gate D-12.”

  Another reason to bring one of the airport cops is they had local radios.

  “That’s on the other side of the other terminal,” Gray grumped. “When were you in?”

  “Eighty-one to eighty-four,” I said.

  “Three year tour?” he said. “I thought they’d done away with those.”

  “I got medically discharged after Beirut,” I said. “That was the flashback.”

  “Ah,” Gray replied. He’d sped up but not as fast as I would have liked.

  “There’s a super-charger under this hood, you know,” I said.

  “There’s grease and oil and jet-fuel like you wouldn’t believe on this tarmac,” Gray said. “I’m not going to either spin out or make a spark and start a fire.”

  “The airport is shut down until I find and kill this thing and we’ve got three other calls,” I said. “Please put the hammer down.”

  I could see the numbers up on the side of the buildings.

  “Unit four. Possible canine, D-8.”

  “Sound like it’s moving down one side of D?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Gray said.

  We were passing D-12. Based on the numbers, we were going to be approaching D-8 soon. I turned the spot back on but it was pointed the wrong way.

  I rolled my window all the way down, climbed out on the door and shined the spot over the car towards the terminal. I caught a flash of brown fur.

  It was headed our way.

  “Turn right and head for the hills,” I shouted to Gray. “Let’s get it away from the terminal. Hey, doggie! Over here! Nice fresh meat!”

  “This is not conducive to me making retirement!” Gray shouted, turning right and gunning it. Sure enough, we fish-tailed. “Do you really have to egg it on?”

  The werewolf was following us but we were ou
trunning it.

  “Slow down!”

  “Slow down, speed up! Make up your mind!”

  “Stop here!”

  I was nearly thrown clear as he hit the brakes, hard. I’d done some work on them before I left Seattle. Clearly it had paid off. We swerved, there really must have been some serious goop on the tarmac, then straightened out and stopped.

  I slid out of the window and walked to the rear of Honeybear. Loup garou, inbound.

  We’d stopped, unfortunately, right under another DC-10. I was in the lights from the windows and I knew people were looking out, wondering why a person in full tactical rig had just dropped out of a Cutlass.

  I’d taken a glance up. A few of them were kids. Parents always give kids the window seat.

  I waited until the loup garou was within fifteen yards and gave it a full burst from the Uzi.

  It skidded to a halt at my feet. Right in front of God and everybody. About six kids had just watched me shoot a poor little doggie.

  I walked over and put two rounds in its head just to make sure.

  Lights went away as parents quickly shut the shades and had to comfort their now traumatized children.

  Yes, I am the devil. Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. Fried preferably but boiled works with a little hot sauce.

  “Soon as we get the body cleared you’re reopened,” I said, tossing the Uzi through the window of Honeybear.

  “Did you do that on purpose?” Gray asked.

  Yeah, at the time I thought doing that werewolf right there was funny. Later, once I found out what I caused, I would regret it. But in the heat of the moment, I had made a bad call and someone else would end up paying for it.

  “Hey,” I said, opening up the cooler in the back seat, pulling out a Budweiser and popping the top, “you were the one that drove us right under a damned plane.” I took a long pull. Gotta stay hydrated.