Monster Hunter Memoir: Saints

by Larry Correia

  “Well…” I couldn’t say that I had met one who wouldn’t take no for an answer while it was trying to break into a young woman’s home, and killed it with a grenade. “I’ve studied the field extensively.”

  “I don’t find that funny at all,” she snapped. “And I’d ask that you keep the ribaldness down.”

  There was one of two reasons she didn’t find them funny. One was she was a feminist, the other was that she was a victim, or at least knew one.

  “They’re not funny, actually,” I said. “Where loup-garou is a predator of flesh, the various sexual supernatural entities are predators of innocence. They feast, then leave their victims, by and large, alive and shattered. There’s a valid argument as to which is worse. The flip side is that if you really pay attention to the horrors in the world, you can either laugh or cry. And the oceans are made of the salt of human tears. In my case, I laugh. Human laughter, human music, human ingenuity in all of the stories we study have been the weapons by which humans have overcome the powers of the supernatural. I would add that in some cases heavy weapons are useful as well.”

  “I still don’t find them funny,” the young woman said.

  You should see one one time, I thought. It was pretty clear it was “feminist,” not victim.

  “So how do you kill one?” one of the male students asked.

  “It’s a myth,” I said quickly. “Obviously you can’t kill a myth. But from the myths, they’re pretty much invulnerable to most weapons but are vulnerable to fire. I’d generally suggest filling them full of rounds ’til they’ve stopped moving, then tossing a thermite grenade on them…if you’re writing a fiction novel or something.”

  “Writing a story” was generally what I used when someone asked a direct question that indicated they knew about the supernatural. That guy seemed to know about the supernatural or, given the number of English Literature majors in the class, was planning on writing a book.

  “However. Please, for reality’s sake, ensure that your character works with others and has some training. I hate books and movies where people think they can hunt supernatural entities on their own with very little training or equipment. Nobody in a single vampire movie, zombie movie or other horror movie I’ve seen who survived probably would have. Or at best they would have survived through sheer luck or someone else saving them. If you are planning on using this class to write a story, please ensure your monster hunter characters are properly trained, competent, armed and prepared. And we move on to incubi…”

  The portion where we discussed werewolves and similar mythology, lycanthropy in general…it was sort of tough for me to stay away from reality. MI4 wasn’t quite as jumpy as MCB, but I didn’t want to get kicked out of the country again.

  “Lycanthropes in human form are widely described as having very short tempers. When they lose their temper, like the Incredible Hulk, they change into full were-form. This can take some time for new lycanthropes, a couple of minutes is the general description, down to less than a minute for experienced werewolves. All of them must change at the full moon.”

  “The textbook says that is a relatively new popular conception which does not match historical—”

  “They’re wrong…Next question.”

  “Is there any given reason why?” Briscoe asked.

  I was starting to pick out the ones who were knowledgeable of the reality of the supernatural. Miss “I don’t think they’re funny” was a militant feminist like my mother. The kid who kept asking pointed questions, Leonard Briscoe—I got the feeling he knew this stuff was real. His questions were too directed.

  “From what I’ve gleaned from reading the myths, the moon exerts some type of force which is detectable by the lycanthrope. They literally can hear it or feel it. Some werewolves…excuse me, people claiming to be werewolves, have said it is a humming noise that’s always there, but gets stronger with the lunar cycle. When the hum reaches full peak, they’re unable to withstand the pressure to change. What it is or where it comes from remains a mystery.”

  “Mr. Gardenier?”

  It was a young woman. She hadn’t asked many questions but they’d all been…pointed.

  “Miss Heard?” I didn’t remember the names of most of the students—too many and why bother?—but I remembered hers.

  “Is there any way other than silver to kill a werewolf?” she asked quietly.

  “The myths describe pure silver as the most useful weapon. Has to be pure. Can’t be silver nitrate. At least according to the myths. In addition, if you put enough damage on them, they die. Cutting off their heads also works…According to myths. Obviously.”

  “And silver works in all myths, worldwide?” Briscoe asked. “What about pre-metal tribes? Do they have similar myths?”

  “No silver means beheading. Lots and lots of damage. Pretty much the most common method. Oh, and fire, of course.”

  “What about enough bullets?” Briscoe asked.

  “More like enough rocket launchers,” I said, grinning. “You can shoot them full of holes with a fifty-caliber, and they just keep on regenerating. According to the myths. If you…I mean, your character doesn’t have access to silver, you could have them run the lycanthrope over repeatedly with a steamroller. It would be a bit like a Wiley Coyote cartoon. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t regenerate from that.”

  “They have an incredible sense of smell. How do you keep them from finding you?” Miss Heard asked.

  That was an oddly specific question. “Wolfsbane is the traditional answer. All the supernatural entities with supernatural senses are equally vulnerable to something that affects those senses. If you’re writing a modern novel, you can use modern materials. Take your average werewolf. Wolfsbane will throw them off the scent. I’ve never tried it, but I’ve been told that pepper spray and tear gas really do a number on werewolves because they are so sensitive…theoretically. They also have sensitive hearing. I don’t know what a very strong stereo might do to them, but I suspect they don’t really like heavy metal,” I added with a smile. Based on Earl, they really hate it. “Any more questions?”

  “There are times you sound like you’re not actually talking about myths.”

  The questioner was one of the cuter girls in the class. I’d decided not to hit on girls in the class but she was a very cute little buxom redhead named Beverly that had me rethinking that. “Ginger,” as the Brits put it.

  “I’ve studied this stuff a lot,” I said, grinning deprecatingly. “Alas, it’s sometimes a bit too easy to believe it’s real when you delve into it enough. But I’m well grounded in the area. They’re just myths, miss. No more. And we’re out of time.”

  * * *

  I was packing up after class when Miss Heard walked up. I knew she had been wanting to ask questions after class for a while but was just too shy. So I kept focused on gathering my papers to keep from startling her.

  “Ran into a werewolf?” I asked quietly, when most of the class had left the room. There was enough noise to cover the question.

  “I’m not sure I…” she said fearfully, backing away.

  “The term is ‘read in.’ If you’ve had experience with the supernatural, there’s things you can talk about with other people who have. And things you can’t. That’s from a vampire claw.” I touched the scar on the side of my face.

  “Are you with Van Helsing?” she asked, eyes wide. “I thought they were only English.”

  “I’m here because I’m friends with some of them.” The class was mostly out but the sound was dying down. “That’s how I got into Oxford in the first place. But, no, I’m on sabbatical from MHI.”

  “MHI?”

  The rooms were designed to carry sound and when she said that, it carried. Briscoe’s head snapped around and he looked back with a tight expression. I shrugged at him and leaned over.

  “Can’t talk here. Come by during office hours. We’ll talk.”

  * * *

  Later that day I saw Briscoe as he was
walking through one of the quads and waved him over.

  “MI4?” I asked quietly.

  “Not sure what you’re asking.” Briscoe kept his face tight.

  “I was wondering. You seem to have a clue, but you don’t have the twitch reaction of someone who’s been a victim like Miss Heard. You look military. Since I’m currently in decent graces with MI4—so I don’t think you’ve been sent to shadow me—why the silver question? I know you know the other answers.”

  “More or less testing you.” Briscoe shrugged. “Your reputation precedes you. Both good and bad. But much of it is…”

  “Too impossible to believe? No kidding. I sometimes wonder how I survived some of the stuff. Or why.”

  “So…” Briscoe frowned. “The Forest Man. I was actually interested in that one. We sometimes get them here among immigrant communities. Personal experience, I take it.”

  “More or less how I described it,” I said. “Shot full of forty-five and dropped thermite on it. The entire incident was more ludicrous than scary. The thing was just…silly.”

  “You took it on solo?”

  “The first year in New Orleans most of the hunts were solo,” I said darkly. “It was a bad year. Lots of casualties. We were seriously outnumbered but fortunately not outgunned or outsmarted. If part of the reputation is I’ve done stupid things solo, that’s why. So you’re not keeping an eye on me. Can I ask why are you here?”

  “I was recruited to BSS Special Action Squad out of the Regiment,” When someone in this country said “The Regiment” that way, they meant 22nd Regiment. Special Air Service. Special Action was the Brit equivalent of SRT. “But I was a sergeant. No college. After my initial tour they suggested I get a degree, work towards becoming a regular agent. So here I am.”

  I looked around the quad. “Has to be a bit of a change.”

  “For you as well,” Briscoe said.

  “It’s tough,” I said. “But until the suit is finished, one way or the other, I can’t hunt in the US. I’m not currently interested in going over to one of the foreign companies. And I like academics. Also, honestly, I need the break.”

  “I can understand that…given that you’re the American with the biggest PUFF earnings of the last three years.”

  “Really?” I thought about it for a moment then frowned. “I wonder if that’s part of why MCB’s been so on my ass? That means I’ve had more encounters than anyone else. It makes sense they might suspect I’m arranging them.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny,” Briscoe said.

  “I’m not one of the bad guys. What’s the term? A hare that runs with the hounds? I know it happens. Not me. I just eat, live and breathe hunting monsters. And have ended up in places and times when there’s a lot of them and not many Hunters.”

  Briscoe contemplated me for a bit, then shrugged as well. “I’ll take that on a bit of faith. A bit. You don’t seem like the necromancer type.”

  “You met that many necromancers?”

  “Enough. The ones I really don’t trust are the ones who are deep into the mystical, even on our side. Necessary, but…”

  That made me think about Ray. Where I was becoming a walking encyclopedia of monsters, he was a walking encyclopedia of hoodoo. But Ray is as trustworthy as God. “Care to discuss it over a pint some time?”

  “Sure. But I know you Marine types. No holding hands.”

  “As long as you promise no PLFs off the bar,” I said. “I know you parachute types.”

  “Well,” Briscoe said, thinking about it, “I don’t know if I can promise…”

  * * *

  “It’s open,” I said to the knock. I had an office. It was a broom closet of an office but I had an office.

  Karissa Heard was a short mousy brunette who I was pretty sure was socially averse even before whatever happened to her. I was grading papers when she showed up. It was definitely the worst part of being a TA, but it was part of the job. And better than filling out PUFF paperwork.

  “I must say, I love your accent,” Karissa said, coming in and sitting down.

  “What accent?”

  “Your New Orleans accent.”

  “I don’t have a New Orleans accent.” I was confused. “Do I?”

  “It is quite pronounced.”

  “Think yer hearin’s that, dawlin’,” I said, then paused and listened to what I’d just said. “Ah-ight, may have a point. Been by couple years. Where y’at?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “‘Where y’at?’ is a, yes, New Orleans shorthand, meaning not your physical location but your psychological state.” I made sure I was using something resembling the Queen’s English. “What happened? I’m assuming you had a werewolf encounter. How are you coping with the experience? Where y’at? Start with what happened.”

  “My father turned into one,” Karissa said. “Just out of the blue. It was…”

  “Horrible.” I nodded. “The sudden realization that someone you know and love and trust has become a monster.”

  “You know about all this?” Karissa said. “Really?”

  I gave her the short version: “I’ve killed a bunch of them.”

  “How?”

  “Silver bullets in most cases, a few with a sword.” I rolled my chair back and pulled up my shirt, exposing the scars on my abdomen and chest. “That’s not just loup-garou, but quite a bit of it is loup-garou. So since you now have someone you can talk to about it…talk.” I leaned back and just waited.

  “It didn’t sink in at first,” Karissa said. “My mum…”

  “You ran and survived; your mum didn’t?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Karissa frowned. “There was an old coal store in the basement. Heavy iron. I used to hide in it when I played hide and seek with my cousins. I ran and hid. Mum…didn’t.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “You are a master of understatement, Mr. Gardenier.”

  I passed her a tissue.”When I first got into this, I had a very good friend, Jesse. We hunted together for nearly a year. Monsters, girls, fun, what have you. We were like brothers. Then he was bitten by a giant spider. He faced weeks of agony as the poison slowly ate his flesh away, starting with his belly where he was bitten, or someone could give him grace. I blew my best friend’s brains all over my lap. I’ve died, gone to heaven, and been sent back, been the only survivor of my team, seen a bunch of my friends go to the Green Lands. The sole redeeming feature of the knowledge of the supernatural is the equal and equivalent knowledge that life is everlasting. That your parents are, unquestionably, in a better place. That, absent using the knowledge you gain to go to the Dark, you will see them someday.”

  “That doesn’t bring them back,” Karissa said. “That doesn’t make up for all the time we lost. That doesn’t…”

  “Doesn’t bring them back,” I said. “Don’t. If that’s what you’re taking these courses for, don’t try it. Not as ghosts, not as revenants. That’s one of those go/no-go lines. Both legally and morally.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “You could never talk about what happened. Did you?”

  Karissa looked down again. “I ended up in an institution.”

  “Did they manage to convince you werewolves didn’t exist?”

  “Nearly. When I got out, I got sort of obsessive about studying the supernatural. That’s when I started to really wonder. There was so much about it and it was all so similar.”

  “Gotta love how we manage to file all that away as ‘myth,’” I said drily.

  “I don’t understand why they don’t make it public!” Karissa said angrily. “I spent years in institutions being told that my father had just gone mad! They slandered my father’s memory and my own life! For what?”

  “I was beaten to within an inch of my life by agents of my own government for what they felt was a good cause. Their First Reason I agree with. I rather disagree with the beating. The an
swer to ‘why,’ you’ll have to be cleared for and take master’s-level courses. That lays it out. You have to know and understand what is really out there, much worse than mere lycanthropes. Was it necessary for them to make your life such a nightmare? I personally think governments should set up institutions specifically for survivors who have a hard time coping with the sudden reality of the horror. Places where the mantra is ‘yes, the horror exists but the secrecy is necessary.’”

  “Is it?” Karissa asked angrily. “Is it really necessary?”

  “Have you ever looked at the death rate from violence in New Orleans?”

  “Not really,” Karissa said, puzzled. “I understand the whole of the United States is, sorry, very filled with violence. Especially gun violence.”

  “Heh.” I shook my head. “Gotta love how the supernatural cover-ups feed right into the gun-grabbers’ hands. At least two thirds of the reported violent deaths in New Orleans are due to the supernatural. Your story is repeated every month in New Orleans, in a city far smaller in population than the London metropolitan area.”

  “That is…” she said, frowning. “I’m not sure what that has to do with my experiences.”

  “Besides the fact that I’ve had this conversation many times?” I said. “Actually, not as many as I’d like. Most people in that situation do not survive. All those murders and suicides you read about? A lot of them are from the supernatural. One of the reasons it is so out of control in New Orleans is the knowledge that it exists. But the death rate in New Orleans is nothing compared to what could happen if MI4 and the ever-be-damned MCB didn’t squash the truth.”

  “I’d rather fight it,” Karissa said. “I think.”

  “If you have any question about whether you want to fight it, you don’t want to. Don’t take this the wrong way. You’re a very nice young lady. Nice and Monster Hunting are generally contraindicted.”

  “You’re a nice fellow,” Karissa said, smiling.

  “Not even close. You, on the other hand, are a very nice young lady. Kind, generous and, face it, just a tad bookish as opposed to ‘me kill monsters good.’ Smart as well. And there is a need for that in this industry. So if you would like to help, that’s my suggestion. Learn first. Find a specialty within the field, work to back up the fighters. We need people like you.”