by John Ringo
“On it!”
Two shamblers had gotten into the bar. One was down with its head blown off. The bartender had come up with a double-barrel and let go twice. He missed the second one. One of the critically wounded was being snacked on while the bartender was trying to reload with trembling hands and dropping shells all over the floor.
Drinks and tables were spilled everywhere. One guy was advancing on the shambler with a pool cue in his hand. In passing I wondered if he needed a job.
“Hoodoo Squad! Get out of the way! Move! Move!”
You know how sometimes you’ll read a story about SWAT entering a house and the people in the house say they didn’t hear SWAT identify themselves at all and SWAT said it was shouting as loud as it could? Both might be wrong. You see, when you’re in a combat situation, your hearing gets all fucked up. You literally might not hear your rounds, but hear a fucking pin drop across the room. Not everyone has that reaction but it’s common. And when you’re in it, you think you’re yelling but you’re not. So you have to train and train to really yell at the top of your lungs. Forget how it sounds. You’ll probably not even hear it. Just train yourself to yell as loud as you humanly can.
And you’ll still probably be speaking in inside voice.
I ran over and popped the shambler in the back of the head, right on the mastoid bone. Dropped. The guy with the pool cue looked at me as if to say: I had this, buddy.
I made a mental note to hand him a card.
“We need medics in here,” I radioed, checking to make sure we were clear.
BOOM!
My helmet, shoulder pad and neck-collar got most of it. But one round of number eight went between and hit me in the neck.
The bartender had gotten his shotgun reloaded.
“I’m hit,” I radioed, holding my hand over the wound. That put it in good position to key the mike. “Hand is hit.”
“You dumb mother—” Even that pissed off, Milo did not swear. He did, however, put his M-16 in the bartender’s face. “You…you…idiot!”
“Sorry,” the bartender said, dropping the shotgun and holding up his hands. “Sorry!”
“Milo,” I said, dropping to one knee. “Not now.”
I could talk. Trachea wasn’t hit. There was no carotid spray. But I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Veinular at a guess. There’s almost no place on the neck you can get shot and not die. I might have lucked out. Shit…more blood on my face, dripping on the ground. Where was that hit?
“I’m a nurse,” one of the patrons said, running over.
“First aid kit,” I said, choking a bit. I coughed up blood. Okay, trachea was hit. “Back. Belt.”
“I think it clipped the right, external, jugular,” she said, pulling out bandages.
“Back to see Doctor Einstat,” I choked. I was kneeling and feeling a little faint. I coughed blood again. “Trachea.”
“Try not to talk,” she said. “Lie down.”
“No,” I said. “Car.” I keyed the radio. “Need pick-up. Car. Hospital.”
“How bad?” Earl radioed.
I found it better to listen to the nurse and lay me down to sleep.
“Bad.” Milo radioed. “He’s hit in the neck.”
“We’re mostly clear,” Earl radioed. “Alvin, do pick up. You’re local. Nearest hosp…”
That’s about all I remember.
Pro-tip on this one:
When they deal with the supernatural, people tend to panic. Which is why MHI only accepts recruits who have dealt with it proactively. The bartender? The lady outside? They panicked. Guy with the pool cue? Wasn’t panicking but he was the only one in the bar who wasn’t. Decay did well in the crunch. But people like them, people like us, are rare.
I’ve seen cops panic and shoot a half a dozen civilians trying to hit one minor entity. Historically, soldiers, Marines, going back to some of the finest knights in history, have panicked when they deal with monsters.
So the pro tip is, the only people you can really trust are your team mates. If you have to enlist a local, fair game. If you have to you have to. But just because somebody can wave a gun around or even is a fair shot, that doesn’t mean they can handle combat, that especially doesn’t mean they can handle hoodoo.
* * *
I woke up in recovery at New Orleans General with an IV going in one arm, a unit of plasma going in the other and the comfortable feeling of being on morphine.
Heeeey, I thought, drowsily. I made it out. Morphine doesn’t make the hurt go away, it just makes you not care. Wheeeee…
I turned my head a bit. That was painful. I stopped and moved my eyes around instead. There was one of those tables for eating in a hospital bed in front of me. On it was a mug with “Iron Hand” on it.
Hey, better than on the shelf. And way better than “Oliver.”
Shelbye was napping in a chair in the room. I didn’t want to wake her. I was thinking I probably needed to go to the bathroom and then realized I was catheterized. Sweet. Unfortunately, I was also awake. I really just wanted to sleep. Or take a drink. Bad thing about morphine, bad dry mouth. And I could tell I’d been intubated. That causes the worst sore throat in the world.
“Urgh…” Shit, that hurt, too. Yep, trachea had been hit.
There was a straw sticking out of the cup. I reached up, winced and used my left hand, winced again, looked to see the bandages there. Shit. Looked down. There were bandages on my nose. What the hell?
Bartender had been on the left. A stray pellet had clipped my nose. I was officially out of arms with which to masturbate and had a chunk taken out of my nose bone.
Peeing was going to be a trial as well. I was afraid Remi would insist on helping. I didn’t know him well enough for him to touch me there.
And, shit, the girls had probably left the party already. Or, knowing my team mates, they’d dropped me at the hospital and gone back to continue. That’s what I’d have done. There’s a number you can call to see how someone is doing. I knew what they’d say in my case, “The patient is in critical but stable condition in ICU.” I think I was about four beds down from Ben.
No reason to sit around with long faces. Just call the damned number. Stop by from time to time, preferably with a bottle of Kentucky sipping hid in your belt. Bring some books assuming I could pick them up to read them. Maybe smuggle in some Sasson’s.
Pro-tip: The only three things you really need in recovery is decent food, something to read, and booze. You can’t and shouldn’t expect friends and family to stay by your bedside all day and all night. Maybe, maybe, if both arms are in a cast ’cause you can’t hold the book or the bottle and can’t feed yourself.
Okay, four things, but the fourth requires a very close personal friend or significant other.
Earl walked in about then and walked over to the bed. I gestured for something to write with.
He found a pen and pad and handed it to me, quizzically.
“Go party,” I wrote. “Beer warm.”
“We can hang out for a while, Hand,” Earl said, shaking his head. “Besides, you’ll be pleased to know there are half dressed and undressed girls scattered all over your house last anyone checked.”
“Score!” I wrote and grinned.
About then a nurse came in, took one look and went to get the doctor.
“Water?”
Earl lifted up the cup and I took a sip through the straw. Hey, my lips and mouth were still working. That was something. Legs, feet all seemed fine. Balls were still intact and that was the important part. Throat hurt like ever living hell. More than just the intubation. A young intern arrived.
I’d been shot in the throat. Thanks, Doc, I was there. Sort of noticed. The round had clipped my external jugular vein and trachea and lodged against my esophagus. It was in a difficult place and the surgeons had elected to leave it in place. It shouldn’t be a problem.
Which is why ever since I’ve had this weird feeling when I swallow food. No problem, just weird. Yes, t
o this day I have a round of buckshot in my neck. Not the only bit of metal, bone or whatever I’ve got in my body.
A vascular surgeon had repaired the vein, yes, it was Doctor Einstat, but it would need time to fully heal. I later had Doctor Einstat and other colleagues and family over to the house as well, bit more formal party, ’cause sucking up to your local surgeons is never a bad idea. A second round had slid under my shoulder pad and up along my back. That was a flesh wound. I may have aspirated some blood. That could cause secondary reactions.
You aspirate blood, you’re probably going to come down with a killer case of pneumonia. It’s probably killed as many people with throat or lung shots as direct effect. I was okay with that. I’m not suicidal or anything but I’m okay if I have to go to the Summerlands. Just wasn’t looking forward to the process. Tends to be really painful. Hopefully, though, I’d be fine. No signs so far. Breathing was clear. But I was sort of seriously dinged in both arms and the throat. I was pretty much out of action for a week or so.
I resolved at this rate I needed to chat up a nice pretty nurse, as soon as I could chat, and not a “professional cheerleader.” Paramedic, maybe, like Becca-Anne in Seattle. Somebody to help me pee not Remi and take care of other needs.
Shelbye had woken up, looking wasted and drawn. I pointed at my note to Earl. She shook her head and laughed.
“Gotta know when the party’s over, Chad,” Shelbye said.
“Never,” I wrote. “Good. Need sleep. Pickup tomorrow. Go party.”
“Will do, Romeo,” Shelbye said. “See you in the morning.”
I should have had a walking hangover but IVs are great for those. Mental memo. Pick up some more IVs. One way t’other I was gonna need them.
I went back to sleep.
* * *
Earl put me out front as a dire warning to the recruits.
The MHI ad had duly been dropped into the New Orleans Truth Teller. Along with it were lurid stories of the events of the full moon, both real and false. It was not true that a meteor had hit the 17th Street Canal levee causing massive flooding in Lakeview. Rescue operations were not still ongoing. Nor had a monstrous creature torn down the Pontchartrain Expressway during morning rush hour. But there was a very good, if blurry, Polaroid photo of the flesh golem, blown all over the street, with me standing there, face too blurry to recognize, holding a LAW tube. I’ve got a better 8x10 framed on my wall. That was taken by Bob with an FBI Nikon.
I’d made the front page again. Katie, of course, made the next one with the sobek.
Below the fold were memorials to both the lost members of hoodoo squad. They continued, with terrible misspellings and horrible grammar, on page three. There were lists of deeds, both real and false. Greg had never singlehandedly strangled a giant snake in Lake Pontchartrain. At least I was pretty sure he hadn’t. Jonathan was not famous for stopping the infamous Black Witch of Allemands. I was pretty sure. Neither was named directly although they were referenced by previous famous exploits and the first letter of the first name.
More of the actual stories, in many cases damned near standard journalism, were in the interior. There was the story of how Jonathan bought it although he was “torn to pieces by a horde of loup garou while saving a busload of children” not shot in the head by Agent Marine in the hospital.
And on the back page, terribly printed, was our full page ad.
There was a cartoonish picture of a vampire, complete with opera cape, something bought from a costume store, and fangs out. The fangs were clearly Halloween false teeth. What I loved was that it was Agent Buchanan in the photo. I asked Higgins about it later and they’d first drawn straws then argued if the short straw meant they lost or won. Never mind.
Hoodoo Squad was hiring. Training would be at a top secret location in a jungle in South America. Only the best need apply. Training was intense as any commando school. Initial work would be with roving bands of elite hunters, working in far climes. Those that passed those tests would be returned to New Orleans to join the Hoodoo Squad.
“Are you tough enough to face the hoodoo?”
* * *
I wasn’t the interviewer. I was the guy who was supposed to drive off the scaredy cats. The interviews were being handled by Trevor while Earl’s team answered calls. Shelbye and Alvin were out showing them around and “liaisoning” with locals.
Shelbye as a liaison. The mind boggles.
The kid was young and nervous. He was looking at a guy behind a desk who had both arms in slings, a bandage across his nose, two black eyes, and bandages on his neck like he’d been bitten by a vampire.
“Experience?” I croaked.
“I done kilt a zombie, Mister Hoodoo,” the kid said. “Up Bayou Road. Couple month ago. Come after my momma.”
“What did you use?”
“Baseball bat.”
That took either guts or stupidity. Could go either way.
I looked at his application form. He’d managed to almost spell his name right. Maybe. If that was his name. I looked at the list supplied by the MCB. “Norbert LeClerc?” I croaked as best I could. R’s were hard. It was spelled “Noboot Laklurk.” I think. Handwriting was not the kid’s métier.
“Yes, sir, Mister Hoodoo.”
Recruit or not, the MCB had also helpfully supplied whether PUFF had been paid on the kill. It hadn’t.
“President of the company is missing an eye and a hand,” I said. “We just had two kilt. One more might not make it. I look like this. You really want this job?”
“Yes, sir,” the kid said, sincerely.
“Why?” I asked.
“Do it pay?”
* * *
The guy was medium height, “big boned,” okay, fat, brown hair and big bushy beard wearing camouflage BDU pants and a brown beret with an SAS flash. He had on a badly printed T-shirt that read “Elysian Field Hoo-doo Squad.”
“Experience?” I asked.
“I’ve been fighting the supernatural for years,” the guy said, angrily. “Tired of catching shit about it from the man! If I have to join some special interest group to get some recognition, I guess I’ll just have to cop to the man!”
I looked at his application. Neat hand-writing. Could spell. Name Jon Glenn.
I looked at the MCB list.
Holy shit.
I started doing some calculations.
“You’ve been doing this for free?” I asked. Croaked.
“Someone needs to! The supernatural is out of control in New Orleans! It’s just getting worse every year! The damned government won’t do anything about it! Corrupt politicians and special interests keep us from defending ourselves! We have a right to keep and bear—”
I tuned him out and pulled out the basic PUFF table to check a couple of things. The guy was telling the truth. The first kill was three years ago, five shamblers. That had continued. All single hunts as far as I could tell. Based on back PUFF the guy was sitting on a quarter of a million dollars. Also noted “extremely hostile to authority.” Yuh think?
He looked like a poser wannabe. Looks could be deceiving. We could use that kind of can do attitude.
“When can you start?” I croaked.
* * *
“Is sir in?” Remi asked.
I was in the hot tub with both arms propped up. I could kind of use my left one to lift a can of beer with a straw in it up to my lips.
I’d had a long day of popping pain-killers while croaking to recruits.
“Is it work?” I rasped.
“It is one of the ladies from the party, sir,” Remi said. “A Miss Points I believe you called her.”
“I am in.” Like Flint, I hoped.
“Oh, Chad,” Points said, leaning over the hot tub and carefully putting her arms around me. “When I heard you were hurt, I was so worried!”
I thought about all my smooth lines. My throat hurt.
“I always use protection,” I croaked. “You’re on top. Take off your clothes and get in the t
ub.”
Turns out she really liked the strong, silent, type.
CHAPTER 17
Cool Change
I was spending most of my time at the house, recovering. That gave me time for other stuff. My stored shit came in from Seattle and I could finally start to fill up some missing items in the house. I hadn’t realized how many katanas and 1911s I owned. I might need a twelve step program there. There were enough guns in the shipment that I could put at least one in every room. They weren’t perfect choices, though. Damn, I was going to have to buy more guns. Problems, problems, problems. Speaking of which.
I gently explained to Points that I wasn’t a one girl kind of guy and my rationalizations for that. When that didn’t work I slept with one of her friends from the party and the message got across. I hate doing that sort of thing but since she knew where I lived I had to do something. She still “forgave” me but the relationship cooled slightly. That was okay, there were plenty of girls who liked knowing a Mister Hoodoo Squad.
Thing is…How to explain.
People, especially women, say that women are more complicated than men. A bit perhaps but not as much as many people, mostly women, think.
Men in terms of reproductive needs tend to be driven by things which most people call shallow. Is a girl hot? I want to bang her. “Men only want one thing.” Not true. More like a sliding scale. Depends on what’s going on. In the middle of a firefight, what men mostly want is to survive and kill the enemy. At a pick-up bar? Yeah, the scale has expanded the screw portion and reduced the fight portion. Generally. Depends on the guy. There is also “eat,” “drink,” “read a book,” “study monsters,” “build a boat,” “go fishing,” “play computer games,” whatever. Guys do want more than one thing. I’ve seen nerds pass up opportunities to get laid to play D&D. I think they’re nuts, but it’s proof that guys want more than one thing. Just depends on the circumstances. But back to why “hot” is not “shallow.”
Though it tends to be culturally adjusted, “hot” also tends to describe certain physical criteria. And those physical criteria, in turn, tend to be “a woman who is likely to produce good babies and survive.” That wasn’t guaranteed evolutionarily. Lots of women died in childbirth prior to the invention of modern medicine. Having one that would probably survive the experience was a good thing.
