Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  “I’ll know when I find it.”

  He made his decision. “We stick together. You going in there will just put more attention on us.”

  “I can be low-key.”

  “Good-looking redheads can’t be low-key,” Putlack said.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  Mr. Flierl took out his phone. “It’s Stricken . . .” He answered it. “Yes, sir. I’m putting you on speaker.” He put the phone on the dash.

  “A security camera just caught someone who we think is Franks in the subway. We’re sending you directions now. It looks like there are some old tunnels sealed off down there. That’s how he’s moving around. I’ve got someone who can move his consciousness through power lines—”

  “Seriously?” Heather asked.

  Mr. Flierl turned around and whispered the words, “Will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “The things you don’t know about this operation could fill a book, Red. Some people might find your backwoods Yooper ignorance endearing, but I’m trying to give a briefing here, so zip it.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stricken.” Heather kept her voice pleasant, but stuck her hand over the seat and gave her middle finger to the phone. Putlack had to stifle a laugh. He might have been infected with some sort of murderous curse, but even he didn’t want Stricken mad at him.

  “Does the MCB know this yet?” Mr. Flierl asked.

  “No. We get first shot. I’ll notify them, but you’d better be done by then. Do not take him prisoner. I want the target eliminated. Don’t talk to him, don’t try to reason with him, don’t try to bring him in. Terminate him on sight. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Flierl picked up his phone. There was a map of the subway system on the screen. “Could you find an access point for Beth? She’s got Biggest and he needs a loading dock or a big doorway to not attract attention.”

  “My people will find one. Don’t screw this up, Colonel.”

  Mr. Flierl hit End Call. “Some days I really miss Kirk Conover,” he muttered, but Heather’s werewolf hearing still picked it up. “Let’s move, team.” He sounded rather apologetic as he got out of the Suburban. “There’s nothing as fun as searching for a killer underground.”

  They met at the back of the vehicle and Mr. Flierl distributed equipment. They needed to look inconspicuous on the street, so everything fit into backpacks. Their handler was six-foot-two and despite his age still had a muscular build, so he managed to hide a collapsible-stock, short-barreled AR-10 on a sling under a big coat. Hawxhurst was wearing sweat pants but he had a P90 stuck into a messenger bag. Heather thought that she liked to keep the gear relatively simple, with a boring old pump shotgun like she’d grown up using, but then she saw that Putlack’s armament consisted of nothing more than a heavy duty framing hammer.

  He stuck the handle down his jeans and covered the hammer’s head with his shirt, then saw her studying him. “I like to go hands on.”

  Putlack was a completely average-looking man, of average build, and average height. By all rational ways of looking at it, Franks would tear him apart. Heather got close and whispered. “You got the message about who we’re going after, right?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve made it through twenty-two months of this crappy gig.”

  “Since we might be getting into a fight together, what are you anyway?”

  Putlack seemed embarrassed. “It’s rare in America. You probably haven’t heard of it. I’m possessed by a Go Dokkaebi. Think of it as a Korean rage ghost. You?”

  “Werewolf. I’ve got claws, but that gets messy.” She patted the backpack with the folding stock, Mossberg 12-gauge in it. She had excellent self-control for a werewolf, but there was no reason to risk a transformation with people around. “This is easier.”

  “Yeah, but if I beat somebody to death with a hammer, it’ll keep the urges down . . . For a while.”

  One thing about STFU, her coworkers were always a little frightening and a little sad at the same time. Heather patted him on the shoulder. “I get it.”

  They set out down the sidewalk about as fast as they could without drawing attention to themselves. Mr. Flierl was in the lead, following the waypoints on his phone. Heather got up alongside of him. “Hey, I’ve got some concerns.”

  “You can regenerate, the file says you’re even silver resistant somehow, and we can assume Franks will have silver, and you’re the fastest. I’ve been told you’ve got remarkable control for a werewolf, but if you change and you look like a threat to any of my people, I’ll put you down, understand?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You’ll be on point down there, at least until Beth can sneak the Biggest in. Franks could hit him with a howitzer and he’d still probably walk it off. As soon as we’re out of sight I want you to move fast. Follow Franks, but don’t try to engage until the rest of us catch up. Don’t underestimate Putlack. He’s savage even by your standards. Hawxhurst is more a support piece—”

  “My concerns aren’t tactical, so much as strategic.”

  “The big picture . . .” Mr. Flierl glanced around. Putlack and Hawxhurst were right behind them. “You mean, how we’re going in without MCB and Stricken is adamant that he wants Franks dead on sight is making your cop senses tingle.”

  Special Task Force Unicorn existed to do secretive dirty work. She had no love for the MCB, but they were being kept out of this for a reason, and the only reasons she could think of were all bad. “Pretty much.”

  He nodded. He had a good poker face, but she could tell he didn’t like it either. “We’ll talk later. Focus on the job at hand, Kerkonen.”

  “STFU was better back under Conover, wasn’t it?”

  “Times were simpler then.”

  “It’s his son’s fault I’m a werewolf.”

  “I know . . .”

  “You don’t trust Stricken either, do you?”

  “I said later, Kerkonen.”

  * * *

  Franks was on his way back to his hideout when he got the feeling that he was being watched. That was unexpected. He was in a seldom-used maintenance tunnel. There were no cameras here.

  Between the old Civil War-era passages, the secret tunnels dug by various Cold War-era organizations between different federal buildings, and the subway system, Washington had a large and confusing underground. It was nothing like the massive subterranean world beneath Manhattan. Franks had spent weeks at a time down there killing various monsters, but Washington’s was sufficiently large to disappear into. You just needed to know which doors to kick in, barricades to smash through, and be able to hold your breath long enough to make it through some of the flooded areas. Franks was extremely comfortable in dark places. He’d spent eons in the darkest place of all.

  Which was exactly how he knew he was being watched.

  Franks paused in the maintenance tunnel. If he continued on, they’d find the splintered boards where he’d broken through from the old powder storage chamber. They would find his stash. He had not dealt with obnoxious gnomes simply to lose all of his useful tools a few days later. He needed to figure out how he was being watched, neutralize it, gather his things, and then escape. If he was being monitored, he was probably being pursued.

  Instead of turning right at the next intersection to go back to his hideout, Franks went left, back toward the subway tunnels. The walls here were brick. It was humid and moist. Rats scurried ahead of his feet.

  It still felt like there were eyes on him. How are they watching me? He had taken every supernatural precaution possible. Beneath the hospital scrubs, he was wearing a necklace of various magical charms and wards designed to fend off every kind of scrying he could think of. He’d drawn symbols on his body with a Sharpie that would confuse any diviner. It could be something invisible . . . Franks paused to listen. There was the rumble of approaching trains, the whistle of air being pumped through vents, and the hum of high voltage electricity. Franks glanced up. There was an elec
trical conduit overhead. The pitch changed almost imperceptibly when Franks looked at it.

  Hmmm . . .

  Reaching up, he took hold of the conduit and ripped it out of the ceiling. The lights in the tunnel went out, but it didn’t go completely dark because here was a glowing ball of mist hanging in the air over his head. Franks had seen a will-o’-the-wisp before, but this one wasn’t a Fey spirit damned to wander the Earth. This one had clumsy human written all over it, somehow cursed by the Fey, only the curse hadn’t fully taken. “Beat it.”

  “Oh shit!” the glowing ball exclaimed with a man’s voice. “Franks spotted me.” It flickered and disappeared.

  Franks just shook his head. Even someone as experienced as he was could still run into new things once in a while. Fey liked to curse humans—they’d usually lose their bodies and their minds—but this one felt like it still had a body somewhere, and that somewhere was probably with STFU. He’d shaken his tail, but he’d had it long enough that trouble had to be vectoring in on him.

  Franks kept moving. Sound carried differently underground. He heard several fast impacts, probably shoes on a metal grate. Someone was running, and they were getting closer.

  His first inclination was to stand and fight whatever it was they’d sent after him, but that would accomplish nothing here. He had to think about the mission, and dying here would not stop Nemesis. He’d sent his ultimatum to the government. Now he needed to reach Myers. The trains were louder than before and he could feel the change in air pressure as they passed. There was a door at the end of the maintenance corridor. Franks kicked it open.

  There were a few lights on, revealing a large chamber that was under construction. The area was filled with scaffolding and ladders. A sign on the wall said that the work area for the new subway stop was temporarily closed due to metro transit funding issues. There were other maintenance doors along the wall but those could be dead ends. There were stairs up to the street. The gate was chained shut but it was nothing he couldn’t tear open. Franks went to the edge of the platform. He could either go up to the surface where there were probably sniper teams positioned on the rooftops, hop down and follow the tracks and still have to contend with his pursuers, or simply deal with whatever was coming after him and go back the way he’d come.

  When he thought of it that way . . .

  Franks had used an elastic bellyband to secure a Glock to his torso. He pulled it out and started back the way he’d come. The footsteps had died off. His pursuer was moving very silently now, trying to follow him. He aimed the 10mm at the broken maintenance door and waited. The footsteps stopped. Whoever it was must have sensed that he was ready. Whoever was chasing him had skill.

  “I just want to talk, Agent Franks.”

  It was a woman. Curious. “Talk.”

  “Look, I don’t have much time. I’ve got help on the way.”

  “Unicorn?”

  “Stricken has ordered us to kill you.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I know there’s more to the story. Did you shoot all those people and blow up the MCB building??”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “Then who did?”

  If she was loyal to Stricken, she would have come in shooting, so this could be another potential ally. Or maybe she was only stalling until her backup got here. “Stricken’s men.”

  There was a long pause as she mulled that over. “You got any proof?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Does one of them have blood that smells like bubblegum and spider webs?”

  “Ask your boss.”

  “If you go upstairs and turn yourself in, we won’t be able to stop you. You can tell your story to the MCB and get this sorted out. If you try to get away we’ll have to chase you down. If you fight, we’ll have to fight back.” She risked a peek around the corner and then quickly pulled back. The woman had long red hair. “Don’t make us do this.”

  Franks had read the file on the Copper Lake incident and the ensuing investigation. He’d suspected she had survived, and that had been confirmed when he’d seen a red werewolf join in the fight against the Nachtmar. “I know who you are.”

  “Then you know I can take you if I have to.”

  Franks snorted. Werewolves were so cocky. There was only one werewolf in the world Franks figured would make for a good challenge. “How’s your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t really know. I only talked to him for a minute in Las Vegas. I’ve been kind of busy being an indentured servant to a tyrant. Listen, Franks, I don’t want to kill you, but I won’t let you hurt my team. They’re just people who want their PUFF exemptions so they don’t have to live in fear anymore. If you’re still here when they arrive, they will take you out. This is your last chance to turn yourself in.”

  He could hear more footfalls. The werewolf was telling the truth. As satisfying as it would be to put Unicorn in its place and eliminate some of Stricken’s assets, his primary mission came first. He’d go up, but not to turn himself in. “Stricken has restarted Project Nemesis,” Franks said as he started for the stairs. “It must be stopped.” He paused at the gate. The chain was vibrating . . . And it wasn’t from an approaching train. Something huge was coming.

  “Crap. Beth is sending down the Biggest. Get out of here!”

  So much for going up.

  Franks went toward the next maintenance door. From the noises, the red werewolf’s backup was here. He put a round into the wall to make them keep their heads down as he ran for it. Engaging all of them in the open would be stupid. He needed to funnel them down so he could deal with a controllable number at a time.

  His hand touched the doorknob. It was covered in ice.

  That kind of sudden drop in temperature usually meant something supernatural was collecting energy from the air in order to manifest. A human would have been flooded with an instinctual overwhelming feeling of terror. Franks just let out an annoyed cloud of steam. That was one of the problems when dealing with STFU. They were full of surprises.

  Wailing assaulted his ears. Ghostly apparitions rose through the floor all around him. Their desperation gave them semisolid form. The glowing specters were tormented, screaming, grasping at him with their life-draining claws. Scratches formed on his skin. They were nothing more than wilted and twisted versions of the mortals they’d once been, their spirits trapped on this plane because of some unresolved hurt.

  Normally spirits avoided him, but something was driving them to attack. There were dozens of ghosts, surrounding him on all sides in a deathly embrace. Franks was engulfed in the illuminated fog. On their own, ghosts were weak, but this many bitter spirits together had enough malice stored up to rip the warmth from a mortal body like a swarm of piranhas stripping flesh. Spectral claws latched onto his spirit and tried to tear it away. He could feel their thoughts inside his head. They’d been murdered slaves, workers trapped in a cave-in, lost children, murdered prostitutes, but now they were nothing more than fragments, jealous of the living. They wanted him to be as miserable as they were.

  They had no idea. . . .

  “Fuck off.” Franks growled. He opened his mind and let the ghosts in.

  All it took was one instant of them seeing what real torment was like, and they fled screaming back into the dark. The creature that had stirred them up had nothing that could scare them like Franks did. The ghosts retreated. The fog fell to the floor and rolled away, leaving him alone. “Pussies.” Franks kicked the frozen door open.

  A man with no eyes tried to hit him with a hammer.

  Franks dodged to the side as the hammer took a chunk out of the wall. The creature looked like a man, but where his eyes should have been, there were only gaping black pits. It came after him, roaring a battle cry.

  Franks casually lifted the Glock and put a third black hole into the thing’s forehead.

  By the time the monster with the hammer had fallen, he was taking fire from the werewolf’s position. Franks ducked behind a stack of lumber
as buckshot tore into the wood. She was joined by two more shooters, one of whom had a battle rifle. Franks was pelted with splinters as the heavier bullets penetrated his cover.

  Franks popped up, returning fire as he moved deeper into the construction site. A short man in sweat pants came out from around a corner, sending a wild full-auto burst from a subgun his way. Franks put a controlled pair into his chest and dropped him. The fleeing ghosts let out a chorus of wails. That must have been the thing stirring them up. Served him right.

  He reached a pillar that looked like it would provide some decent cover. The tile next to his head shattered just as he reached it. The one with the rifle was fast. He caught a flash of red hair as the werewolf moved to flank him, but the rifleman was covering her too well for Franks to risk a shot.

  However, Franks had been around a very long time. There had been so many gunfights in his life that he couldn’t remember them all. He’d started out when forming ranks and volley-firing muskets were still in fashion. He’d participated in gunfights practically since man had invented the concept. Gunfights were all about angles. It was simple really. He needed to be where his opponents’ bullets weren’t going to be, while simultaneously maneuvering himself into the best position to put his bullets into them first. It only took a second to analyze the layout of the room and every possible avenue of approach. Then Franks slowly walked backwards, keeping the pillar between him and the rifleman, pistol trained on where the werewolf would appear. Franks was as dispassionate about this sort of thing as a plumber unclogging a drain.

  “Stop, Kerkonen!” the rifleman shouted. He understood what Franks was doing.

  It was too late. The werewolf was young and impatient. She came out, shotgun shouldered, putting herself right into Franks’ sight picture. He had her dead to rights, but rather than kill her, instead he shot her in the right arm, shifted, then the left arm. She lost the shotgun and fell, screaming in pain. He hadn’t gone through all that effort having a conversation just to kill the person he’d conveyed valuable information to. Earl Harbinger was probably going to be upset that Franks had shot his girlfriend. Screw that guy. Franks used the opportunity to retreat further into the subway station, where hanging tarps provided him more concealment.