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

by Joshua Reynolds

  She judged that she could cut across the hillside, but it looked quite steep in places, and there were jagged rocks near to the top, whereas the area at the top of the steps seemed clear.

  It seemed there was only one path to reach the Siren. Caroline followed it, confident that if she was walking into a trap, she was doing so with her eyes wide open and her trigger finger ready.

  A cool breeze tousled her hair as she climbed, but she was back in the full glare of the sun, and she regretted leaving the water behind. She stumbled once but managed to keep her balance. She paused and looked back down the hill, surprised at how high she seemed to be. This wouldn’t be a good height to fall from.

  She raised her gaze and looked back towards the land in the distance; it looked even further away now, and seemed to be covered in a haze, giving it the appearance of an optical illusion. A passenger jet flew silently overhead, and she could see several ships in the sea nearby. Still she felt like she was alone here, as if she was no longer part of the same world as those people.

  She carried on climbing. Eventually she reached the brow of the hill and found herself almost immediately looking down the other side as the ground declined towards a naturally formed amphitheater.

  And there, in the center of the arena below, was a circle of ruined columns, some still stood tall and proud, whilst others leaned drastically, like subsided tombstones, most had fallen however, and lay forlornly on their sides.

  At the center of the stone circle was a large, flat rock, and upon the rock lay a figure. As near as Caroline could tell it was a woman. She wished she had binoculars, and she wished she had a better gun. The Type 56 was a powerful beast, but it was more of a close quarters’ weapon. The figure below was, technically, in range, but Caroline wouldn’t put money on being able to hit anything worth a damn from up here. She wished Laskaris had provided her with a sniper rifle. If he had she might well be able to take the Siren’s head clean off at this range—always assuming it was the Siren—but as things stood she had no option but to follow the path that led down into the idyllic looking pit below.

  The silence was ominous, and even her boots on stone didn’t seem to make a sound. The crooked steps were worn from age and use, and eventually gave way to flagstones as the ground leveled out.

  This was where she found the first body, little more than a skeleton, a few scraps of cloth clinging to the bones. Looking warily ahead she paused and dropped to her knees. The figure at the center of the amphitheater wasn’t moving, but she was clearly aware that Caroline was here, and seemed to be staring right at her.

  Caroline chanced looking down for a few seconds, but quickly raised her gaze. She’d half expected the Siren to move whilst she was looking away, and that she’d look up to find the monster standing over her.

  The creature was still lying on her rock, looking as relaxed as a sunbather by a pool. Caroline stood, clutched the rifle tight and began moving closer. She’d only had a few moments to examine the skeleton but she’d seen enough, seen the bite marks gnawed into the bleached bones.

  She passed more corpses, some in better shape than others, but most were missing limbs.

  The Siren was reclined on the rock as if it were a chaise-lounge, looking up at Caroline as she approached. She was naked, her skin a milky white as if she’d been hidden from the sun rather than lain out in its fullest gaze. Her hair was black, the tresses tumbling over her shoulders but not concealing her full, pendulant breasts in the slightest. Her legs were crossed, but Caroline still saw a wild tangle of pubic hair.

  She looked human. It was only when Caroline stared into the Siren’s eyes—as black as her hair it seemed—that she realized this wasn’t a person. The Siren had the eyes of an animal; alive, but not with intellect, not with sentience. Alive with instinct only…

  Well, not alive for much longer, thought Caroline as she put the rifle to her shoulder.

  The Siren smiled, and then on either side of her throat, just below her ears, flaps of skin drew back as other mouths opened. Caroline watched in fascination as air began to pass between these unnatural lips, the skin wafting in the breeze, and a moment later the song began, emanating from those secondary mouths.

  Again Caroline felt the power of it, something that went beyond a mere sound, something that seemed to coil itself around her bones, dig into her soul. The effect was more pronounced because she was closer, but though her hands began to tremble, she still retained control of them.

  The Siren opened its primary mouth wide, and any remaining notion that this was a human being was utterly dispelled. Caroline saw sharp, jagged teeth, broken and yellow, bits of meat still caught between them.

  Caroline smiled. “Sorry… Nice tune and all, but it only works on the boys.”

  She tucked the rifle in tight and prepared to fire, which was when she heard something shuffling behind her, and some deeply ingrained sixth sense screamed a warning.

  She spun on her heels, dropping the rifle to her hip as she went, and found herself facing a lumbering corpse that was staggering towards her, bony talons outstretched.

  She didn’t hesitate. She pulled the trigger and loosed a short, ragged burst into the thing. It staggered back but kept coming, and she quickly realized her mistake: what point was there in shooting through the torso of a thing that was practically a skeleton? She aimed higher and fired again.

  This time her bullets hit home in the dead man’s skull, the force of them shattering bone and literally punching his head from his shoulders.

  Still it kept coming, and suddenly she was aware of movement at the periphery of her vision on both sides, and she heard shuffling footfalls. It seemed the Siren’s song worked equally well on dead men.

  The headless corpse was almost on top of her. She dropped her aim and fired again, raking bullets across its legs, shattering the bones and causing the thing to drop to the floor. Once there, however, it continued to advance, bony fingers digging into the ground to haul itself forwards.

  Caroline stepped back and turned, intending to shoot the Siren, hoping this would silence the song, but she was no longer there. Instead another corpse, this one still with some meat on it, though it was missing its left arm, was coming towards her, staring with empty eye sockets.

  She held down the trigger, emptying the gun into the center of the creature. Because there was more left of it her rounds had an effect, though it was only temporary. It was blasted off its feet and fell back, but almost immediately it began to clamber upright again.

  A shadow loomed over her and Caroline turned to find another corpse almost upon her, without hesitating she kept turning, thrusting out her shoulder to knock it to one side, even as she dashed past it. She was lucky, the thing had only one foot, and where its other leg touched the ground what was left of the anklebone didn’t give it nearly as much stability, so it tumbled away, giving her room to dash past.

  She had a bit of breathing room, but she knew respite was temporary. The amphitheater was filled with dead men walking and crawling after her. She’d be safer in a pit of rattlesnakes.

  She looked back towards the steps leading out of this hollow trap, and discovered several of the walking dead had already blocked it off.

  She looked at the grassy walls of the amphitheater. They were steep, but with luck she might be able to scramble up them, and she had the machete to dig in to help haul her up. She quickly ascertained the quickest, clearest route to the base of the incline and started running for it. Ditching the empty magazine as she went, she snatched the spare.

  She didn’t get chance to reload it as something took hold of her ankle and she fell forwards. The rifle and magazine went flying from her grasp, and she hit the ground hard. She heard bone snap and pain lanced through her left arm. With pain came the desire to escape it, but she fought against a wave of darkness that threatened to wash consciousness away, knowing that would mean death.

  Turning onto her back she forgot the rifle and drew the pistol. A skeletal han
d was gripping her ankle, its grasp tightening with each passing second; it was connected to a corpse with no legs that was dragging itself towards her. It took five bullets to sever the arm from the rest of the body, but soon she was able to get to her feet, the severed hand falling limply from her leg as she did so.

  A circle of dead men surrounded her now, and behind them stood the Siren, looking serene, like a character in a classical painting, her teeth hidden once more, though her secondary mouths were still open, and the song continued.

  Caroline turned on the spot, confirming that they were all around her. She stopped when she was facing the Siren again. She took a deep breath and holstered the Beretta. Then, awkwardly, she drew the machete from her left side. Bullets weren’t going to help her here, there was only one way she was getting out of here alive, and even then it was a hope as slender as a spider’s thread.

  She hefted the machete and smiled. With an exultant cry she charged the section of the circle of the dead between her and the Siren…

  Stephanos Laskaris had eaten well, and was now enjoying a glass of ouzo as he sat in his palatial dining room. On the table before him his plate was smeared red, a fork and steak knife resting there. He liked his meat rare and bloody, and Melina was a good cook.

  Yanni and Jayson sat by the open patio doors smoking, but Laskaris barely acknowledged their presence. They were here to protect him, not to entertain him. Tabitha, his granddaughter, was asleep upstairs, and Melina was in the master bedroom, awaiting his arrival.

  There was no one else in the house, and as he finished his ouzo he decided to enjoy a cigar before he retired to bed. Yanni and Jayson would clear the table, and ensure the house was secure before they took it in turns to watch through the night.

  He’d just slid a cigar from the box when a door slammed in the distance. A moment later he heard footsteps approaching. Yanni and Jayson stood and drew their weapons.

  At times like this he wished he carried a gun with him, he was just about to pick up the steak knife when a voice called out from the other end of the room.

  “It’s ok, boys, I’m unarmed.”

  He stood, but let his two bodyguards stand between him and the approaching figure. The Englishwoman.

  She moved awkwardly, and seemed to be limping. As she stepped into the light he saw the extent of her wounds. Every inch of flesh on show seemed covered in deep bloody scratches, and one eye was swollen almost shut. Her left arm was strapped to her chest by a sling made of rags, and she was indeed limping. In her right hand she carried a holdall, and she seemed to have been telling the truth about being unarmed. She wore the gun belt but there was no sign of the pistol or machete, nor the rifle.

  She was soaking wet, but had she succeeded?

  “I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  She shrugged; the act seemed to cause her pain because she winced. “I’ve drawn easier paychecks, that’s for sure,” she said. Her voice was raw.

  “But you succeeded in your task?” he asked, considering that whether she had or not was irrelevant. Either way she wouldn’t be leaving here tonight.

  “I did,” she said.

  Yanni and Jayson parted to let her pass. She shuffled towards the table and then threw the bag down upon it. It landed with a definitive thump, the object inside obviously of some weight.

  Warily, Laskaris unzipped it, noting that the fabric was heavily stained. Something seemed to be oozing out of the bottom onto the table—he hesitated before opening the bag, but only for a moment. He’d waited a long time for this…

  The Siren’s head was inside, blood still dripping from the ragged stump of her neck. Her mouth was open, showing vicious teeth, but her eyes were closed.

  “Do I get paid now?”

  Laskaris was grinning. “Yes, you get paid now. Yanni and Jayson will see you get what’s coming to you.”

  He smiled until the Siren’s eyes flicked open, and his grin faded. The mouths below her ears opened and her song began… He had just a moment before the spell took hold, time enough to turn and look at Caroline and see that she was smiling. “Wha…” he began, but couldn’t finish the word. His body no longer his own, he was paralyzed. Able to see, to breathe, but that was all.

  Yanni and Jayson were similarly mesmerized. Caroline on the other hand was not. As he watched, she walked over to his bodyguards and took their guns. Yanni’s Beretta she slipped into her holster, Jayson’s she used to shoot each man three times; once in each knee, then a shot to the groin.

  Both fell to the ground, but they didn’t scream, such was the power of the Siren, though the agony must have been excruciating.

  Someone upstairs did scream, upon hearing the gunshots. A woman, or maybe a girl…

  Caroline seemed unconcerned. She dumped the magazine from the pistol then tossed the gun through the patio doors, into the night. Then she walked over to Laskaris.

  He tried to move, tried to will himself to act, to curse her at the least. But he couldn’t even spit in her face.

  “Interesting isn’t it?” she said now gesturing towards the Siren’s severed head. He of course couldn’t look.

  “She has no lungs anymore, so how is she making that sound? I guess we’re dealing with a creature beyond nature here; we are talking about a monster after all. Just like me. See that was your mistake, you talked about choosing the right weapon for the hunt, but I was a bad choice, you should never use a weapon you can’t control. And of course you forgot something else; as pissed off as she is at me for taking her head, when all’s said and done, girls always stick together.”

  And she moved out of view, he heard her walk behind him, heard the sound of his plate shifting. When she reappeared she was holding the steak knife in her hand. She was smiling and her one good eye twinkled. “Right then,” she said. “Where shall we start?”

  Paul Starkey is in his early forties and lives in Nottingham in England. He’s been writing for over ten years and has had many short stories published. He’s currently working on his 4th novel and blogs at http://werewolvesonthemoon.wordpress.com/.

  Skin and Bone

  Jonathan Templar

  This was Garry’s eighth motel room in a fortnight, and they had all begun to blur into one. Shut the curtains, turn down the lights and he could be anywhere…

  And that was always the first thing he did when stepped foot into these forlorn places—he shut the curtains and shut out the world outside. Garry had made himself as inconspicuous as possible, ensuring that there was nothing memorable about his appearance…nothing that anyone would recall if they were later questioned about the man who’d spent a couple of days up in room 12.

  “Just a normal guy, you know?”

  The desk attendant had the kind of dull eyes that had seen far too much to care; Garry could have had danced past him wearing a tutu and that guy still wouldn’t have picked him out of a line up.

  He sat on the bed in the small lonely room and switched on the TV, keeping the sound low as he flicked through the channels until he found the local news. Then he started to listen.

  It was the fourth story in when Garry felt that tingle of surprise mixed with dread and anticipation. The anchor began to tell a familiar tale…

  “Authorities have named the man as Lee Walker, a local business owner and father of two. As of yet, no details have been released about the nature of the attack on Mr. Walker, but witnesses at the scene have reported that the body appeared to have suffered extensive mutilation.”

  Garry knew exactly what kind of mutilation.

  Poor Lee Walker would have been skinned. What had been left on the floor when the demon had finished would have been slick and wet, and whoever found it would have had a few merciful seconds when they couldn’t quite work out what it was or where the rank, spoiled-meat smell came from.

  Then, slowly, they would begin to understand and their world would come crashing down around them. They would never be able to un-see that mess on the floor that use
d to be a man. It would haunt them every time they closed their eyes, for the rest of their now shattered existence.

  Garry knew this all too well because that was what had happened when he’d found Carol.

  An old photo of Lee Walker came up on the TV screen.

  Just a normal guy, you know?

  Garry stared at it, took in every detail of the man’s ordinary, smiling face, etched it into his mind so that he would know exactly who it was he was now hunting.

  Whose skin the thing would be wearing.

  They hadn’t yet mentioned any link to this murder and the last one in Trenton, and they hadn’t mentioned Garry or Luke, which was good. Perhaps they weren’t even looking for him anymore. That meant that he was free to hunt the demon without having to look over his shoulder for every patrol car that might pass by. He could hunt without being hunted.

  “Police are asking anyone with information about the murder to contact them at the Central Baltimore office.”

  Garry switched it off. He knew everything there was to know about the murder, and he knew that the police were unlikely to welcome any of the information he could share with them.

  He went to his pack and took out the dagger. It appeared to be spotted with rust until you got up close. Then you would see what that rust really was.

  Six Weeks Before…

  Luke had sworn that this guy was the real deal. He called himself a shaman, advertising as such in those corners of the web where people called themselves all sorts of fucked up things.

  He wore a lot of leather. A coat down to his ankles, a waistcoat that matched, boots that were tipped with silver and climbed up to his knees. There were too many studs in his ears, lobes stretched so much they’d look more at home on an elephant. There were tattoos spreading up from his collar, around his neck and toward his face as if they were an infection of dirty ink.

  It was all a bit much—like he had copied it from someone who could actually pull the look off. He couldn’t.