Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  “I’ve got the White House press corps eating out of my hand. I could tell them Las Vegas has been attacked by escaped circus monkeys and they’d run with it. That’ll be all.”

  Stricken rose from the chair and adjusted his suit, trying not to look smug. This was a temporary hitch. The decision had been made a long time ago. Fate had just required Stricken to guide everything to its inevitable conclusion.

  The President leaned back even further in his chair and put his feet up on the Resolute desk. It was a false show of confidence. Stricken knew it. The President might have known it too, but it didn’t matter, whatever made it easier to think he was really the one calling the shots. “I’ll have to think more about this Nemesis proposal of yours. Get me a proposal written up. What you’re talking about would be incredibly controversial. If it were to get out, heads would roll.”

  Stricken made his living using monsters as black ops weapons against all enemies, foreign, domestic, and unearthly. If the President knew half of what had been accomplished since Special Task Force Unicorn had been restarted he’d lose his mind. Stricken was one of the greatest keepers of secrets and lies who had ever lived, while this administration of petulant children and useless Ivy League college lecturers leaked like a sieve. Who the fuck are you to tell me how to do my job? “Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll see to it that my people use the utmost discretion.”

  He was escorted out of the White House. Stricken’s name would never show up on any visitor’s log. His job title was Special Advisor, but the most dogged of reporters would never be able to figure out what was special about him or who he advised. His Task Force didn’t formally exist, his budget was nebulous, and most importantly he had almost zero oversight. By government standards, Stricken was a ghost, though he thought that was a stupid comparison, since he had real ghosts working for him.

  He made a single, brief phone call on his ride to STFU’s secret headquarters. “We’re on.”

  Events were in motion. Franks would be dead soon enough.

  CHAPTER 3

  Every mortal being existed before. Long before this world came to be, there was a world of spirits. There’s a barrier between these two worlds. When humans are born they forget all that came before. I was never born. I do not have this problem. But as long as my spirit dwells in this body I am forced to use a human brain. It is as reliable as a lump of electrically charged fat and protein can be, but flesh can’t fully comprehend the world before. My memory of the before is imperfect.

  There was a great council. The Creator presented us with The Plan. There was a disagreement over The Plan. This disagreement led to a war. One third of us broke our oath and rebelled against the Creator.

  The fallen made war against the loyal. I was one of the most powerful, but my strength was not enough.

  We lost.

  The spirits that remained loyal would be born into the mortal world, progress, and eventually return. They were part of The Plan. The third of the host who rebelled were cast out, never to be born, never to have a mortal life or real bodies. Our leaders were cursed, and all who followed were condemned and cast out of the Creator’s presence.

  Now, Hell . . . That I remember well enough.

  11 Days Ago

  Washington, DC

  Franks lay on the floor of his apartment, staring at the ceiling.

  Since he worked with humans, he kept a human schedule. That meant activity during the day and sleep at night. It was a rather pointless schedule for a man who didn’t really sleep. It was one reason that he preferred to be on an op, because during an op working around the clock wasn’t seen as odd.

  Today would be a talky day. He hated that sort of thing. He hated talking. He hated the squishy, pathetic, government-appointed flesh bag overseers wasting his time arguing about regulations and picking apart the definition of words. Franks hated Washington. Of every human city, and he’d been to most of them, it was the worst. He’d rather have been in the slums of Mexico City strangling chupacabras with his bare hands. This city had been named after a true warrior, and Franks knew General Washington would be enraged if he could see the quality of human that dwelled here now. The general would probably run a few of them through with his sword.

  Basically, Franks really hated bureaucrats.

  At exactly four Franks got off the floor. Since he could see in the dark he didn’t bother turning on any lights. He had grown tired of being stared at in the MCB’s gym, so Franks had rented a basement apartment specifically so he could have a comprehensive weight set and not have it fall through the floor. He worked out for exactly forty-five minutes. One of his arms had taken a hit from the dragon in Las Vegas, so he kept his bench press to a mere seven hundred pounds so as to not stress it until the Elixir had time to properly re-form that bone.

  There was no ornamentation anywhere in Franks’ apartment. The walls were still painted the same builder beige as when he’d moved in. There were no pictures, no mementos, and barely any furniture. Franks showered in his undecorated bathroom and then shoveled high protein food into his face in his undecorated kitchen. Pick any cabinet and the cans inside were in neat, orderly rows. Not a single can of peas mingled with the beans, because that would be unforgivable chaos.

  Franks turned on the closet light as he got dressed. His night vision didn’t allow for much color differentiation. Not that it mattered since his closet was divided between nearly identical black suits, white shirts, and tactical gear. He did have a lot of ties, but that was because a few of his human coworkers always felt compelled to include him on their gift-giving holidays, and ties were the only thing that made sense. Despite having dozens of ties, he always wore a cheap black clip on.

  Last were the holsters and weapons. Franks wore an Artoonian dual shoulder holster rig with an MCB-issued Glock 20 on each side. For most people, shoulder holsters were slower to draw from, but Franks wasn’t most people. They were harder to conceal, but Franks didn’t really care if anybody saw he was armed anyway. He had a compact Glock 29 in a G-Code holster on his belt. He kept six spare magazines of silver 10mm, three on each side of his belt, and a folding Emerson knife in both his right- and his lefthand pockets. Franks was ambidextrous, so it didn’t really matter which hand he killed you with.

  Today he would be grilled, questioned, prodded, and annoyed, but sadly, he would not be allowed to kill anyone, and since MCB’s security force whined about hand grenades inside headquarters, he left those in the closet.

  At 5:29 the doorbell rang, but Franks had already heard footfalls on the metal stairs and identified them as one of his agents. Franks opened the door and Grant Jefferson held out a giant paper container of overpriced coffee. “I got you some—” Franks rudely snatched the coffee from Grant’s hand. “Okay . . . It was hard to find the place. I didn’t think you’d live in such a bad part of town.”

  The neighborhood was filled with criminals. Franks didn’t care. Occasionally one of the gang members who hadn’t heard about Franks’ rep would start something, and it gave him an opportunity to hurt someone. The government frowned on him killing people without an excuse. “Rent’s cheap.”

  “Imagine that.” Grant glanced over at the graffiti on the walls of the stairwell. The agent didn’t realize that the spray-painted gang signs were a coded message left by the local scum, warning the other scum to not mess with Franks’ stuff, because when Franks got cranky it was bad for continued business, not to mention continued breathing. “You ready?”

  That was a stupid question. Franks was always ready.

  * * *

  The headquarters of the Monster Control Bureau were in an unremarkable office building in Washington, DC. The exterior was a boring ten-story beige concrete and black glass rectangle. The landscaping was designed to thwart car bombers, was purposefully ugly and extra forgettable. They were close enough to the Capitol for business, but not so close that anyone would think they were important. No tourist would ever waste their time taking a picture of this par
ticular building.

  The underground parking garage had no names on the reserved spaces, but Agent Franks parked his giant SUV across the closest two spaces to the elevator.

  “I think we’re in Director Stark’s space,” Jefferson said as he looked out the passenger side window, “and the one for visiting VIPs.”

  Franks put the armored Suburban in reverse, backed up a bit, then pulled forward at an angle so he could also encroach into a third space, which was reserved for the handicapped. Franks killed the engine. Better.

  “Uh . . . Okay then.”

  Jefferson wasn’t a bad choice for the assignment. He was a talented agent and one of Myers’ confidants, but he also had some weaknesses. He was cocky. Franks figured Jefferson had been overcompensating for some perceived shortcomings long before he’d been traumatized by vampires, and that experience hadn’t exactly improved his outlook. He tried to hide it, but he had a chip on his shoulder. His fellows didn’t completely trust Grant because he was by nature a political animal, the former acting director’s golden boy, and he’d been MHI. But that time at MHI also meant he was passable in a fight. If anything interesting happened, Jefferson would probably suffice, or at least not die badly. Franks might not have been able to grasp all the nuances, but he had plenty of experience judging humans, and they seldom surprised him.

  Franks got out and didn’t wait to see if Jefferson was following him. Myers had them working in shifts so that he’d always have at least one handler nearby. Normally Franks would only have a single partner, usually an experienced agent of his choosing. His partner would handle all of the messy business that Franks wasn’t suited for, like anything that required empathy. However, this was an abnormal situation, so Myers obviously felt he needed a support team. Jefferson, Archer, and Radabaugh were experienced combatants and were skilled at running interference. Strayhorn was an unknown, but Radabaugh was his training officer, so he would tag along when it was his turn. Franks didn’t know why Myers had stuck him with a rookie, but he would either succeed or he would fail. If he was lucky failure would occur in the bureaucratic arena rather than in combat. Either way, the outcome wasn’t Franks’ problem.

  Most of the federal agencies around the city had fancy lobbies with useless decorations and expensive statues, all paid for by tax money that could be better used for important things, like weapons or training. The MCB building’s lobby was as plain and small as possible. It was because of the secret nature of their duty, but Franks appreciated it nonetheless. He wasn’t one for flash. The security checkpoint was manned by a fat old man who looked like a typical rent-a-cop. His name tag identified him as Terry. There were a couple of video monitors and a clipboard to sign in. There was nothing special enough to get anyone who blundered inside curious about the nature of this particular office building.

  “Welcome back, Agent Franks,” Terry said. The guard was old now, but Franks remembered when Terry had been a young agent, crippled in the line of duty almost thirty years ago. He was one of the hundreds who had been hurt serving with Franks. “You’re looking well, sir.”

  The pleasantry was useless, as Franks had gone through a dozen different faces since the two of them had first met, but ritual greetings made humans more comfortable. “You’ve gotten fat.”

  “Ouch.” He patted his gut. “It isn’t like nightshift desk jockeys have to do PT.” Terry wasn’t completely for show, as there was a SCAR battle rifle hidden under the security desk, but the real security was inside. They were being observed. A red light flashed on the desk. “You’re clear to enter.”

  He and Jefferson went into one of the elevators. It looked like any other elevator, but dozens of hidden cameras were studying them in every spectrum, including ultraviolet and infrared. If a visitor was running a temperature, they’d know. If they were too cold, the chamber would be flooded with powdered silver right before it was filled with fire. Body scanners bombarded them with low levels of radiation to see through their skin. Franks didn’t mind. If he got a tumor he’d just replace that part. The regular agents made it a habit not to leave and reenter headquarters more often than necessary. They ate lunch at their desks or in the cafeteria.

  There was even a scale in the floor to make sure they were massing correctly. There were all sorts of interesting creatures that would have loved to sneak into MCB headquarters. A voice came out of nowhere. “You’ve put on a few pounds since your last visit, Agent Jefferson.”

  “You get stuck working a trade show in Vegas and see what happens.” Jefferson stuck his head in a corner. “Grant Donald Jefferson. Agent five-two-two-niner-three.” There was a chime of recognition.

  Franks put his eye against another hidden scanner in the wall. The retinal scan matched the last eyeball on record. Keeping his various part swaps updated in the database was a pain. “Franks. One.” The voiceprint matched and a green light activated on the back wall. The fake paneling slid aside, revealing a metal door. It took a minute for it to roll aside like a heavy steel gear.

  “I was told all this security is relatively new, implemented right before I joined the Bureau.” Jefferson was still trying to make awkward conversation. “I heard they had to extensively remodel the building after a cinder beast snuck in and burned a chunk of it down.”

  “Classified.”

  “I heard you were the one that killed it.”

  It had destroyed two whole floors of headquarters before Franks had caught up. It had given him third degree burns on much of his body and ruined one of his lungs before he’d twisted its flaming head clean off. However, the remodeling afterwards had given him the opportunity to secretly add a few things to the building to satisfy his paranoia. “Classified.”

  “Bet that was wild . . .” Jefferson took a drink of his coffee. Humans were so annoying, with their need to communicate. Luckily for him the secret door was open. On the other side four armed men were waiting to greet them.

  “Good morning, Agent Franks, Agent Jefferson.” The senior man seemed extremely nervous. “I’ve been asked to have you both disarm.”

  Franks raised an eyebrow.

  The four guards took an unconscious step back. The first swallowed hard. “I’m really sorry, sir. Director Stark just implemented a new policy. No weapons in headquarters beyond the first level. Only the designated security team is allowed to carry weapons upstairs.”

  That was new. It was stupid and it totally missed the point of defense in depth, but Stark was an idiot. “Hmmm . . .”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m really, really sorry, and this is nothing personal, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way and—”

  “Locker?” A couple of the men quickly pointed, just glad that Franks was mad at Stark instead of them. He went over, opened one of the lockers and began shoving Glocks and magazines inside.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Edged weapons and explosives too. The Director’s memo was very specific. Nothing deadly.”

  “Should I cut my hands off?”

  “That wasn’t on the memo.”

  Franks glowered at him. The agent gave an involuntary shiver, but Franks went back and tossed the folding knives inside as well. This had to be related to his choking Stark unconscious in Vegas, like disarming Franks would make any difference if he really felt like murdering someone. Bullets just meant he didn’t have to chase them down first. He slammed the door shut and took the key. Jefferson had brought fewer guns, so was already disarmed and waiting.

  Now Franks was really in a foul mood.

  * * *

  The MCB memorial for those who had fallen in the line of duty took up a lot of space on the first floor. It was a marble fountain, and it was really the only thing vaguely ornamental in the whole building. The badge of every agent who had been killed in action since their founding was inset into the base of the fountain, and they were shiny under an inch of clear running water. There were a lot of badges.

  As expected, their rookie was here, standing at the rail and staring into the water.r />
  “What’s up, Strayhorn?”

  The rookie jumped. He hadn’t heard Archer coming. “Just reading names. Do you guys need me for something?”

  “Nope. I was coming back from a smoke break and realized that if I do any more reports right now my eyes are going to start to bleed.” He stood next to Strayhorn and looked over the badges. Archer hadn’t been in the Bureau for very long, but it was sobering how many of those shiny badges he’d known as living and breathing men and women. “I figured you’d be here.”

  “How come?”

  “The first time a new guy comes to headquarters, they always gravitate right to this spot. Can’t help themselves. They’ve seen the stats, read the histories in the academy, but they need to see the names to put it into perspective. I know I did.”

  “That’s a lot of badges . . .” Strayhorn trailed off.

  “Sure, it’s dangerous, but we’ve been around since 1902.” Archer didn’t want to point out that he’d seen the statistical analysis, and their casualty rate was higher now than it had ever been. Things were really picking up out there, but there was no need to depress the new guy already. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somebody needs to give the rookie a tour, and your training officer is a trigger puller. He probably doesn’t even know where half the cool stuff is.” Archer walked back toward the elevator and the rookie followed. “What’s the MCB’s mission, and the First Reason for that mission?”

  “Is this a test?”

  “Humor me.”

  Strayhorn quoted from his training. “The MCB’s primary mission is to keep the existence of monsters and the supernatural a secret. The First Reason is the more people who believe in the Old Ones, the more powerful they become.”

  “Correct. You might think it sounds a little crazy right now, or you might be having some doubts about our mission or our tactics, I know I was when I was in your shoes, but believe me, the first time you see a monster tree the size of this building rampaging across the countryside sucking all the light and happiness out of the world, you’ll be all in favor of doing some crazy shit too. The Bureau has four main departments to achieve our goals . . .”