Use Enough Gun (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 3)

by Joshua Reynolds

  He looked on in horror as she changed before him, her hands already vicious claws, but now here arms thickened and the fabric of her dress stretched. Her whole body seemed to double in mass, bones crunched and cracked, her skin moved like ripples on water. He felt sickened as the middle of her face extended, the skin tore, oozing blood, dark brown fur sprouted and spread, covering her cheeks and forehead. The eyes became twin red pools, the mouth elongated and filled with serrated teeth. In a matter of seconds the red headed beauty was gone, and in its place stood a thing of nightmare.

  In some ways it resembled the creature D’Arcy had already fought and killed, a werebeast of some kind with a Mandrill’s head and wolf like body. Except this one was bigger, towering head and shoulders over him, its pink tongue licking over the long canine teeth at the front of its snout.

  D’Arcy did the only thing he could do—he turned and ran.

  He knew he stood little chance against the sheer size of the thing and he would soon be overpowered. His only hope was to get into a confined space and use the size of the beast against it. He bolted past as it clawed the air, lucky it didn’t take his head off. Dodging left, he headed down the alley that passed the door to his former accommodation and could hear the beast behind him. Breaking left and then right he moved into the warren of alleys that crossed the area, the building drew in. As he turned one corner into a small yard he ducked in through a door and slid out through a broken window, the beast was following, but losing ground…

  D’Arcy waited a moment and then popped out of a window that brought him behind it, with its back exposed, and most of its body lodged in a small doorway. D’Arcy launched into the air and brought his blade down with his full weight.

  He drove the blade home between its shoulder blades—the beast arched its back and howled in anger and pain. Trying to turn, it lashed out, but was pinned in the doorway. D’Arcy stabbed time after time, slicing open the beast’s side and neck. Blood was flowing freely from a dozen wounds and he doubted that even such a creature as this could sustain the damage without suffering something. The beast fell inside the room and D’Arcy followed it in. It lay half on its back and without thinking, he fell straight on it taking no heed of the shovel sized hands that slashed at him.

  His blade opened the beast from neck to navel, then up again as he slashed into its throat, cutting through to the bone. He could feel it weakening, but he was in a bad way as well, one eye swollen shut and the other blurred from blood. His arms, chest and stomach were a red ruin, his breath rasping in his dry throat. His thoughts snapped from the inventory of wounds he had received to find all was quiet and the beast lay quite still under him. He straddled it, his blade buried to the hilt in its heart. He tried to stand, but his legs were jelly and his head swam… He tried to steady himself, and when he off balance, the beast lashed out with its leg. It connected with D’Arcy’s chest, throwing him out through the door. He felt the crack as much as he heard it, and something deeper inside of him gave… His head swum from striking the doorframe, and his wince was short-lived as all faded to blackness.

  Jack

  The man was a bloodied mess and lay in the small courtyard unmoving; the pretty silver knife still in his hand, covered in gore from the fight. The creature laid half in and half out of the doorway, but it was not a creature anymore. It was the attractive red headed woman. The front of her dress a red ruin, her throat opened, blood bubbling through the tear.

  As he looked down at her she stirred, eyes fluttering but unable to focus. He stepped back, every instinct telling him to turn and run. As he moved, his heel kicked the man’s hand, knocking the blade free. He looked down at it, the fine ivory handle, blade gleaming, even through the gore. He looked back at the woman and knew what he had to do.

  Standing over her, her eyes moving under her lids, he was fascinated by the wound in her throat that slowly closed. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, and there was an instant flare of recognition and then understanding as he raised the blade and sliced it down across her throat, severing her head from her body, silencing her forever.

  He looked out into the courtyard at the still form of the man. He’d been brave and he’d fought valiantly, but he’d paid the ultimate price. It was the way of their kind.

  Jack slipped the silver blade into the woman’s belly, the grisly task taking only a moment. His master would be pleased with a womb that not barren.

  To date Philip has had three Flash shorts accepted for The Daily Flash 2012, and a short story Groundhog Day, for The Trigger Reflex. Both titles were published, by Pill Hill Press, in 2011. He has just had another short story – Death Rides A Pale Horse – accepted by Wicked East Press for their Dead Rush anthology. Philip is 48, has a 21 year old daughter and lives in the Southwest of England with his wife, two step-sons and four cats.

  Dogpile

  Rob Pegler

  Isak and Carina had been sitting at the crossroads for forty minutes, but no cars had come by. It was still too early, this stretch of highway too remote. They’d been lucky to get a ride from the last town, with the fat woman in the pickup truck, but she’d only taken them as far east as the crossroads, then let them out when she’d turned south.

  Isak stared up the road until his eyes blurred, then turned to look at Carina. She was sitting on her backpack in the morning sun, long legs stretched in front of her, tying her blonde hair into a long braid. She looked up with her icy blue eyes, and tried not to smile.

  “We’ll get a ride,” Isak assured her.

  “Of course we will,” Carina smirked.

  “Don’t be like that.” Isak turned back to the road, and his eyes caught the glint of sunlight on glass. “Aha, see? Here’s a car now.”

  “If he stops,” Carina pointed out.

  Isak waggled a finger in her direction. “See, you have no faith. That’s your problem.”

  Walking to the edge of the road, he raised his arm and extended a thumb. The vehicle—a dusty old Dodge van, red in colour—began to slow down. Isak turned and flashed Carina a triumphant grin.

  The van pulled to a stop, kicking up dust and gravel, and the driver leaned over to peer through the passenger window. He looked about sixty-five, with a ragged beard and greasy, grey hair. He wore a dirty black t-shirt and a grim expression.

  “Morning,” he called, in a voice like old gravel. “Where you headed?”

  Isak looked at the man’s eyes—grey eyes, but as they caught the sunlight they almost looked…

  Behind him, he heard Carina standing up and pulling on her backpack. “Uh, the next town. Gnarlswood?”

  “Not a problem.” A smile played over the old man’s crooked mouth as he jerked his head towards the side door. “Jump in the back.”

  Carina was hurrying over as Isak grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. Almost immediately an unpleasant smell washed over him, like old meat. Pulling a face, he peered into the back of the vehicle. It was dark inside, but he could make out a shape…

  There was another man sitting in the back of the van, on the floor, half-hidden in the shadows. He was big—he would have been over six feet standing up—with a shaved head and angular tattoos covering his huge arms. As he looked up, Isak saw his eyes glint yellow in the gloom. Behind him, he heard Carina let out a soft gasp.

  Turning away from the door, Isak found the driver standing right beside him. “Something wrong?” the old man asked.

  Isak glanced at the big man in the back. “Actually, never mind,” he said. “We’ll wait for someone else.”

  The older man stared at him. “What?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Isak told him.

  The man’s eyebrows lifted. “My van not good enough for you, boy?”

  Isak took a step back.

  “Maybe my friend’s not good enough for you. That the problem?” The old man grinned through crooked yellow teeth. “Hear that, Samson? I don’t think he likes you.”

  Isak turned towards the door and the figure in the back moved,
the yellow eyes darting towards him. Something struck him under the chin, knocking the breath from him and spinning him around. He saw blood spray across the road at his feet, and it wasn’t until he tasted it in his mouth a moment later that he realized it was his. He heard the old man let out a rough chuckle.

  Isak couldn’t breathe. He dropped to his knees, barely feeling the gravel cutting into his skin. He felt himself toppling forward even as Carina tried to grab his shoulders, and the road spun up to hit him in the face. The slow realization that his throat had been torn out came a few seconds before he lost consciousness. The last clear thing he heard was Carina’s frantic scream as she was grabbed from behind, and dragged into the back of the van.

  Red was poring over his notes when Hugo came back from the bathroom. Sidestepping the waitress and pretending not to look down her top, he strode to the corner booth and dropped into the seat so heavily that the padding puffed up like a balloon. “Know what I read the other day?” he said, as if addressing the world in general.

  Red didn’t look up from his notebook. “Dunno,” he replied absently. “Was it in large print and small words?”

  “Oooooh, that’s gold.” Hugo sneered, miming a “rimshot” motion with his big calloused hands. “Write that shit down, Redford. No, listen…” He shuffled around a little further into the booth, grabbing a sugar packet from the table. “There’s this kind of vampire, they thought they were extinct, but now they think there’s still some left. They walk around like people all day, but at night the head, like, pops off and flies around by itself. Eating babies.”

  Red still didn’t look up, but raised a dubious eyebrow. “Really.”

  “Yup. Head…” Hugo wrapped his hands around his throat and made a smacking sound with his lips. “…off. And it eats babies.” He shook the sugar packet and tore one end off.

  Red turned a page, reaching for the pen in the side pocket of his jeans. “It does, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Hugo upended the packet into his mouth and started chewing the sugar. “And dogs, I think.”

  “Well.” Red scratched his sparsely-bearded chin, scribbling a fresh note on a page already criss-crossed with writing. “You should try to catch one. You’ll be famous.”

  “I will,” Hugo grinned, tossing the sugar packet onto the table. “I will catch one and I will kill it, and I’ll be famous, and you can kiss my ass.” He leaned back and glanced towards the counter. “Did you order already?”

  “Uh-huh.” Red gave a distracted nod. “I ordered your black coffee with the four sugars, because we all know you need that. And I got you the, uh, eggs benedict.”

  Hugo grimaced. “Fuck man, I wanted pancakes.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame, because you’re having eggs benedict.” Red flipped another page. “You like eggs.”

  “Eggs I like. I don’t like that stuff they put all over it. The sauce.”

  “Hollandaise.”

  “Yeah, I hate that shit.” Grabbing another sugar packet, Hugo looked around. “Where’s Nash?”

  “Outside. Making a phone call.”

  “Who’s he calling?”

  “Ask Nash.”

  “I will.” Hugo tore the second sugar packet open. “I will ask Nash.” He looked over at the counter again. “What’d he order?”

  James Nash came inside ten minutes later, slipping his cell phone back into the pocket of his slacks. He was an older man than the other two, in his mid-thirties, just beginning to grow a paunch on his solid frame. He returned to the booth to find Hugo tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on brown toast, and Red sipping his second latte. A slowly-cooling plate of eggs benedict had been placed invitingly in front of Nash’s seat. Giving Hugo a look, he slipped his jacket off and sat down.

  “Who’d you call?” Hugo asked through a mouthful of bacon.

  Nash raised his hand for the waitress. “Mel.”

  “Roseburg Mel?”

  “Roseburg Mel,” Nash confirmed. “Just checking leads on our… on the job.”

  “Still good?” Red asked, pushing his notes aside.

  “Far as she knows. She talked to Weir, who heard from his contacts in Sundry City. The lycanthrope activity’s been very…active over there, and word is Samson Clint’s officially in exile.”

  “Who heard from who said what?” Hugo grinned. “What are we, in high school?”

  “I think you are. Shut up and eat my eggs.”

  Red half-turned in his seat. “Samson Clint. We’re sure about this?”

  “Savage Sam himself.” Nash smiled, holding out his cup for the waitress as she approached with the coffee pot. “Most powerful Alpha this end of the continent, or he was until recently. He’s lost his hunting ground, his pack and most of his friends, and he’s running like a scalded dog, if you’ll pardon the expression. And Mel says that Weir says he’s running this way.”

  “Who chased him out? Another Alpha?”

  “Nope.” Nash sipped his coffee. “As the story goes, it was Samson’s bitch. Turned his wolves against him and usurped the big chair. Sheila something.”

  “Women,” Hugo offered, stuffing scrambled eggs into his mouth.

  “No, no, that makes no sense,” Red frowned. “Purebreed werewolves, they mate for life. Their animal side makes ‘em—”

  “Well, apparently Shiela’s very progressive,” Nash said with a snort. “Probably shaves her armpits and all. Anyway, the point is Samson’s on the run, barely protected, and he’s in our neck of the woods.”

  Hugo looked up with a slight frown. “Purebreed? That what you call ‘em?”

  Red sighed. “Jesus Christ, do you ever do any research?” He held up his notebook. “I make these notes for a reason. Yeah, purebreed. As in ‘born a werewolf’. How long have you been hunting, anyway?”

  “Are you fuckwits listening?” Nash snapped. “The biggest big dog in the territory’s dropping right into our laps, and he’s wide open. I’ve been hunting for eight years, and I’m getting a little tired of flushing out starving mongrels and scavenger vamps in old ladies’ basements. It’s time we went after some big game.”

  “Yeah, but Savage Sam…that’s pretty big.” Red picked up his cup. “Even on the run, they say he’s a fuckin’ monster.” He reflected on this as he sipped his coffee. “You know. Comparatively speaking.”

  Hugo belched. “Pussy.”

  “He’s alone, or as good as,” Nash insisted. “Weir said he’s got one other wolf with him. His old Beta, name of Moses, and he’s a cripple. We can catch ’em with their pants down and their fur shed, and then we get to be the guys who killed Savage Sam. It only takes one silver bullet to get the job done.”

  “Hence the term ‘silver bullet’,” Hugo put in.

  Red spared him a glare. “So where is he?”

  “Well, I made another call,” said Nash. “You know that librarian in Gnarlswood?”

  Hugo looked up. “With the teeth?”

  “No, the other one. She’s been hearing things the last day or two, and she thinks Samson’s arriving in the area sometime this morning. There’s a farmhouse…” He pulled a ragged and dog-eared road map from his pocket, unfolding it on the table. “Uh, here it is. ‘Bout nine miles on the other side of town. Been used as a bolthole before, so it could be our best bet. I say we go up there today and check it out.” Nash drained his cup. “You in or what?”

  The house had seen better days. It was big, and old, and abandoned—a rambling two-storey farmhouse left over from the region’s somewhat shady colonial past, squatting on the crest of a low hill north of the highway. Most of the boards from which it was built were rotten, and half the tiles had fallen from the sagging roof. Some windows still had glass; others were boarded over, or left empty and dark. A porch ran around three sides of the house, parts of the railing knocked out like broken teeth. If there had ever been paint on the walls, there was none now.

  “Shit, man.” Hugo sucked his teeth. “Fuckin’ werewolves’ll live anywhere.”<
br />
  “You would too, if you were trespassing on this stretch of road.” Red shifted around, adjusting the hunting rifle slung next to his backpack. “We’re inside of Snarl’s territory, or near enough. If Samson’s hiding out here, he’s got some big hairy balls.”

  Hugo scratched his unshaven chin with the front sight of his shotgun. “They would be hairy, I guess.”

  “Will you two shut the fuck up?” Nash lowered his binoculars and hunkered down beside the tree. “Can’t see any movement. If he’s in there, he’s not up to much.”

  He sat for a moment, examining the house. They were at the edge of the woods that surrounded the old farm to the south and west, having hiked up from the highway. It had been sunny all morning, but now it was late afternoon and the sky was covered over by a sheet of darkening cloud. The house stood about sixty metres from the treeline, with no cover in between.

  “Seriously, though,” murmured Red. “Should we be worried about Snarl? If he hears there’s a rogue Alpha camped on his turf, he—”

  “Forget about Snarl,” Nash interrupted. “Snarl’s back in town, probably sandwiched between two skanky she-wolves, worrying about running his dirty little empire. His pack don’t even roam this far out any more. You just keep your mind on what we’re here for.”

  Leaning forward, he peered along the treeline. A hundred metres to their right loomed the ramshackle shape of a barn, even older than the house. “Red,” said Nash, pointing in that direction. “Cut around through the trees, see if you can get inside that barn. Maybe you can get up in the loft and cover us with the Remington.” He motioned towards the house. “Let us know when you’re in position, me and Hugo can make a straight run for the back door. We’ll go room by room from there.”

  Red hesitated. “Kinda running into this, aren’t we? We don’t even know if he’s in there…”