Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  They had underestimated Stricken. Over the centuries Franks had seen men like him come and go. They were always looking to control the uncontrollable, and they were always too clever for their own good. Such men inevitably ended up in positions of authority and their only goal in life was always to amass more. Franks had seen it happen in a dozen countries and he’d even seen glimmers of it here.

  Myers had seen it too. He’d thought of Stricken as a threat, but a political one, rather than a physical one. Stricken’s power-grabbing tactics in Las Vegas had put civilians and MCB personnel in needless danger, and Myers, despite being cold and calculating, was still a moral man, who would not tolerate such behavior. Myers had set out to prove Stricken was breaking the law, all the time unaware of how far Stricken had already gone. Myers had not seen this coming, but Franks should have.

  With no one to assign him mission parameters, Franks set his own. His primary target was Kurst and any others like him. If they were allowed to establish themselves here, he knew they would find a way for demons to descend on the world like a plague of locusts. Franks had entered a solemn pact to protect the mortal world from things like Kurst. Franks had broken one oath in his entire existence. He would never break another.

  His secondary target was Stricken and anyone in league with him. Stricken had to die for violating The Contract, for murdering Franks’ coworkers, and mostly because Franks thought he would really enjoy seeing the look on Stricken’s face when he choked the life out of him.

  Find one target, and he would find the other. In the meantime he was a fugitive. The men who should be his allies would be hunting him. Until they knew he was innocent, they would make reaching his targets very difficult. He would have to remedy that. The truth needed to get out. Myers believed in him, but they would be watching Myers. There were regular agents who would listen to his story, but they were lower ranking. Franks preferred to go right to the top.

  Enough time had passed for him to make his move. They would have had no choice but to expand the scope of their manhunt. They would get help from regular law enforcement but the MCB would be limited by how much information they could share, and the cops would push back by being uncommunicative and surly. The MCB had developed a culture of secrecy and mistrust, so their capable field agents would be spread thin. An attack on their headquarters, where their brothers were murdered, by one of their own? They’d prefer to keep this in the family. They wouldn’t want an outsider to pull the trigger on this one.

  He knew the regular human MCB agents’ thought processes well. He knew their strengths, their weaknesses, and exactly how they would react.

  It felt nice being on his own. It was rather liberating.

  * * *

  Doug Stark was extremely high on painkillers, so when Agent Franks sat down next to his hospital bed, his first thought was that he was hallucinating. Only Franks just sat there, staring at him in typical Franks fashion. You’d think that a hallucination would actually bother to do something interesting. Franks was dressed in hospital scrubs and Stark hadn’t even known that they made them that big. He was also wearing an ID badge that had a picture of a doctor that was obviously not Franks on it.

  “The docs said I’m going to be pooping in a bag for at least six months because of you, jerk.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  Stark’s voice was extremely raspy. “You’re not imaginary, are you?”

  “No.”

  Stark repeatedly pushed the call button.

  “No one is coming,” Franks stated.

  Stark gave up. He’d just gone through a few surgeries. He was in no condition to do anything useful. He didn’t even think he could shout loud enough to get help. “There was a man on the door. Where’s my guard?”

  “Good try. There were two.” Franks nodded at the bathroom. “In there.”

  “Did you . . . ?”

  “No.” Franks actually looked a little offended, like he had room to get offended, as if after killing a building full of agents, offing a couple more would hurt his reputation. “They’ll wake up.”

  Maybe it was all the drugs, but he couldn’t work up enough emotion to freak out about Franks showing up like the angel of death. “Are you here to finish what you started?”

  “I was framed.”

  “But I saw you.”

  “You saw what Stricken wanted you to see.”

  “Stricken?” The drugs were slowing his brain down, but that couldn’t be right. Stricken was his benefactor. They were political allies. Stricken had pulled strings so Stark could get this job. “Huh?”

  “Idiot.” Franks sighed. “There’s no time for this.” He stuck a Post-it note to Stark’s forehead. “Here.”

  “Hey.” It covered one of his eyes. All he could see was neon pink. It was rather degrading.

  Franks stood up. “Pass that on.”

  “You could have just sent me a text or something. Jeez, man.” Wow. I really am stoned. “What’s the deal?”

  “I got in here but you’re still alive. That should prove something. Call off your dogs. I’ve got work to do.” Franks opened the hospital room door, glanced quickly in each direction, and then stepped out without saying another word.

  Stark reached for the Post-it but realized his right hand was in a gigantic cast when he smacked himself in the face with it. He finally got the note with the hand that didn’t have a bullet hole through it. He tried to read it through blurry eyes that didn’t want to focus. Franks had very small, very dense handwriting. Stark really didn’t know what to expect . . . Judging by Franks’ denial, probably not a confession, that was for sure. It took a minute for him to focus enough to make out the message.

  “Oh hell . . . Nurse! Nurse!” It really hurt to yell, but even in his drug addled haze, Stark knew that things had just gotten even crazier. “Somebody! Help!”

  Franks’ note was a declaration of war.

  * * *

  Infiltration was not his specialty. Franks was too big for stealth. He stuck out in crowds. His disguise consisted of some clothing that seemed too much like pajamas and a hat that was basically a colorful hairnet. He thought doctors dressed stupidly. However, he had learned over the years that if you acted like you belonged somewhere, then most people wouldn’t question your presence. Those that did question your presence, you simply rendered them unconscious and shoved them into a closet. He’d only had to do that to four people so far, so by Franks’ standards his visit to the hospital had been rather successful, but Stark would raise the alarm and the place would be swarming with MCB in a matter of minutes.

  He would have made it out without further incident if he hadn’t heard a familiar voice down the hall. Slouching so he didn’t appear to be so tall, Franks moved up to the corner and peeked around. Grant Jefferson was having a heated conversation with a nurse. Archer was there as well. The two of them were some of Myers’ favorites, so they might be of use. The argument ended as the nurse stormed off, loudly cursing them.

  “Yeah, well thanks for all the help, lady,” Jefferson snapped back. “Not.”

  “The government appreciates your time, ma’am,” Archer added, far more politely.

  They walked toward the elevator. Franks followed. He intercepted them just as the door was opening. Jefferson turned, surprised, and began to say something, but Franks just put a big hand on each of them and shoved them inside the elevator. “Keep going.”

  “Shit!” Archer exclaimed as he realized what was happening. “Agent Franks!”

  There was a dangerously awkward silence. He eyed the two men. Both were shocked to see him. He didn’t know if they were still on his side or not, but neither of them was stupid enough to go for their weapons if they weren’t. Fighting with Franks inside the closed confines of an elevator would not have a very high success rate. It would be safer to wrestle a bear. Franks pushed the button for the first level of the parking garage. The door closed behind him.

  They would have been seen on camera together
. He spotted the security camera and made sure it wasn’t at an angle that could read his lips. “Place your hands on your firearms, but do not draw. Act like you want to take me into custody.” They did as they were told. There probably wasn’t a microphone in the elevator. “Act scared.”

  “I’m not acting!” Archer exclaimed.

  “I’m innocent,” Franks stated as the elevator started down. Innocent was a relative term.

  “We suspected that,” Jefferson said. “There are some discrepancies in the evidence.”

  “I need you to prove it,” Franks ordered.

  “Working on it,” Archer said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Strayhorn is missing. He disappeared out of ICU,” Jefferson explained. “Nobody was seen coming in, but he wasn’t in any shape to walk out.”

  Franks scowled. The rookie had been there. He could clear him. “Unicorn . . .”

  “They probably picked him up. We can assume he’s dead. Look, sir, I don’t really want to be charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive here. We still need to take you in,” Jefferson said.

  The agent appeared ready to pull. Good. He’d trained them well. “Do you really think you could?”

  “Not really.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “The whole MCB is looking for you. If you come in you’ll be under guard while we figure this out.”

  Franks shook his head. Stricken would have plans for that. If he was captured, he’d be neutralized. Franks wasn’t a hundred percent certain he could trust these agents, but they were his best bet to contact the one man he knew he could trust. “Get a message to Myers. Tell him to slip his tail and meet me at the place we captured Juan.” That was vague enough that even if they talked, only Myers would know what it meant. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” Archer answered. “When?”

  “He’ll know. Now the hard part.”

  “What?”

  “My escape must look convincing.”

  “Aw man . . .” Archer whined. He glanced at the security camera, then back at Franks. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

  “Just not in the face,” Jefferson pleaded.

  They were almost at the parking garage level. Franks nodded.

  Both agents drew their guns. They were quick, but even if they’d been trying their best it wouldn’t have mattered in the least. He lunged forward, slamming a hand into Jefferson’s chest and shoulder-checking Archer. They crashed into the wall and the whole elevator shook violently. Archer sank to the floor gasping for breath in a very realistic manner. Jefferson tried to bring up his gun but Franks swatted it from his hand. Jefferson immediately came back with a quick overhand right. He had to hand it to the youngster, either he was putting on an excellent show or he was really fighting for his life, not that there was any possibility of it changing the outcome either way. Franks simply caught his fist, wrenched it to the side, put Jefferson into an arm bar, and drove him into the floor.

  Jefferson tried to move so Franks twisted a bit and the agent gasped in pain. Archer was trying to say something, but it turned out that Franks had actually knocked the wind out of him, and it came out as a pathetic wheeze. Franks let go of Jefferson’s arm and picked up both of their pistols. He’d drop them outside. He had plenty of weapons in the stash, and besides, time spent requisitioning new sidearms was time they could better spend clearing his name.

  He kept his head down so the camera wouldn’t see. “Speak with Myers ASAP. Don’t get caught.” The elevator opened. There were two men standing there, waiting for the car up. Franks didn’t recognize either of them, but they had the look of Feds, and when they saw Archer and Jefferson on the floor, their startled reactions and frantic reaching indicated that they were armed as well. Franks never had the chance to find out for sure, as he instantly kicked one in the groin, and slammed a pistol upside the other one’s head, dropping them both. Franks stepped over the unknown Feds, tossed the pistols under a minivan, and walked away.

  That went well.

  Compared to most of Franks’ operations, his visit to the hospital had been rather discreet.

  * * *

  After two days of fruitless searching, Heather Kerkonen was frustrated, but compared to most of the crazy things she’d been doing since being coerced into working for STFU, this assignment felt almost like normal police work. There were no portals to other dimensions, no terrorists playing with necromancy, no shape-shifting Chinese spies stealing military secrets; they were just looking for a fugitive. Sure, he was a three-hundred-year-old killer flesh golem, but he was still a fugitive. All things considered, that was relatively normal.

  Since their quarry was smart, he’d blocked most of their supernatural efforts. Franks had to be wearing wolfsbayne. She’d tried following his trail, but she’d lost it in a really rundown neighborhood. A little bit of wolfsbayne worn on a person was enough to mask their scent from a werewolf. The stuff really messed with her senses and made it hard to get a fix. She’d spent a lot of time driving around the city with the window down and she’d found plenty of places where Franks had been—since this was his home base—but she couldn’t pin down where he was now.

  She wasn’t the only supernatural asset he’d thwarted. Stricken had brought in a magical tracker, some elf from the Ozarks, but he hadn’t had any luck either. A Haitian diviner thought that maybe Franks was still in the city, but wherever he was hiding had been somehow warded against magic. None of this came as a surprise. Franks had been taking care of supernatural problems for the government since it had been founded. He’d been the MCB’s first field agent. He knew every trick in the book when it came to finding monsters, which meant he also knew every single countermeasure.

  Despite those setbacks, Heather didn’t mind too much. Finding a fugitive by using the supernatural seemed like cheating. Where was the fun in that? They’d find this guy the old-fashioned way. She just hoped they’d do it before he killed anybody else. He’d just been spotted, so now they were going to catch him, just like they would any other criminal.

  The street around the hospital was swarming with Feds. Mr. Flierl parked Franks’ MCB Suburban on the street half a block away so they could watch the commotion. “You guys getting anything?” The three members of the team who could pass for human were in the Suburban. Beth had their heavy artillery and some human shooters in an unmarked panel van a few blocks away. “He was here only fifteen minutes ago, so he’s got to be close.”

  Heather rolled her window down. There it was again, that annoying wolfsbayne smell confusing everything. “I’ve got nothing, Mr. Flierl.” Heather might have called his wife by her first name, but the husband got the “mister” treatment. He may have been a lot more polite than her last STFU handler, but the male half of the Flierl team was a career military man and all business on the job.

  “Putlack?”

  “Me either.” Michael Putlack was riding shotgun. All she knew about Putlack was that he was like her, an unlucky human with a monstrous curse just here long enough to earn a PUFF exemption. She didn’t know what his deal was, only that he’d picked up something nasty while teaching English in Korea, and every time she’d seen him he was wearing sunglasses to hide his eyes. “Why didn’t the MCB put a tracking chip in Franks like they did with me?”

  “He’s not like you. He’s already PUFF exempt. He was there willingly. I heard they tried to sneak one in once though. He dug it out with a knife. Then he force-fed it to the doctor who put it in him. How about you, Hawxhurst?”

  Hawxhurst was sitting behind the driver. All Heather knew about James Hawxhurst was that Beth called him a lifer, which was ironic, since Heather wasn’t sure he was completely alive. He was one of the few at STFU who had already earned his PUFF exemption a long time ago, and he carried the coin to prove it, but he had no desire to go back to the normal world, so he remained working for STFU. Heather didn’t know what he was, only that he smelled neither alive, nor dead, more . . . in between. Hawxhurst shrugged.

  Mr. Fl
ierl had been watching him in the rearview mirror. “So ghosts can’t see Franks?”

  “The dead avoid Franks. He frightens them.”

  Heather was incredulous. “You can talk to actual ghosts?”

  “Only the bitter ones with unfinished business. Happy people tend to move along.” Hawxhurst was an overweight, short, mild-looking individual who reminded her a little bit of her high school driver’s ed instructor, but he possessed a very unnerving grin and he seemed to look right through you. “Your grandfather was a harsh man. He thought your father was a quitter. It was disappointing the way he committed suicide like that. Koschei the Deathless’s burden was too much for your dad. He couldn’t handle the weight of the family curse, but old Aksel likes you. You’re tougher than your father ever was.”

  An involuntary shiver went up her spine. “Not another word about my family.”

  Hawxhurst shrugged again. “Suit yourself.”

  Three hundred and seventy days, Heather told herself. She could handle weird shit for three hundred and seventy more days.

  “What’s the plan?” Putlack asked.

  “We wait here for orders,” Mr. Flierl said. “It’s hard to be an official part of the investigation when you don’t exist.”

  “I can go in and look around,” Heather offered. One of the fake IDs she’d been issued was on file with the MCB as a consultant. It had already enabled her to do a walk-through of the original crime scene. “I’d like to talk to the MCB guys he beat up.”

  “Why?” Mr. Flierl asked.

  “Clues. Evidence. The usual.” Because something about this case isn’t right. She’d overheard MCB at the first scene talking about a few things pieces of evidence not making sense, and her nose had picked up the strange scent of an unfamiliar creature that smelled like bubblegum and spider webs, and it had bled green.

  “We’re not building a court case. We’re just supposed to catch him,” Hawxhurst said.

  Their handler wasn’t convinced. “What do you expect to find, specifically?”

  She didn’t know these people that well. Voicing her opinion of Stricken might just get her into more trouble. Stricken had been warning the MCB about Franks’ nature for years. All golems degraded over time, so Franks had been a ticking bomb. That was supposedly why he was taking this so personally and had devoted so many Task Force resources to the manhunt. Mr. Flierl had adjusted the mirror and she could see his unreadable eyes in it, watching her.