Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  Hands shaking, he put the gold-bead front sight on the leader’s back and pulled the trigger. Hit. The man lurched forward, crashing against one of the Nemesis things, but he didn’t fall. He had to be wearing a bulletproof vest. Fuck that. So Strayhorn cranked through the remaining rounds in the cylinder as fast as he could pull the double-action trigger. It was dark, raining, and confusing, but there was a flash of blood and something white—teeth maybe—flying through the air, and then the STFU operative collapsed.

  One of the Nemesis soldiers kept on shooting at the flashing police lights, but unfortunately the other one turned and looked right at them. Strayhorn aimed at him and squeezed the trigger. Click. He was empty. The soldier tilted his head, seemingly confused to see that they were still alive. For Strayhorn, the moment stretched into eternity. The enemy’s gun came up, pointed right at them.

  The bullet meant to finish him off skipped off the rock and buzzed across the river.

  The Nemesis soldier had stumbled when something had struck him in the chest. He turned, glaring downstream, but before he could raise his weapon against the new threat, a machine gun roared, chewing into his ceramic armor. Blood sprayed in the flashing lights. He went prone, trying to avoid the fire, but the machine gunner followed him down. The Nemesis soldier had to have been hit at least twenty more times before the machine gunner changed targets and started putting rounds into the other one’s back.

  Strayhorn couldn’t believe his eyes. Agent Franks was walking along the riverbank, hip-firing a huge black machine gun, a belt of gleaming brass dangling out the side. The belt got shorter as Franks got closer. He kept shifting the muzzle back and forth, ripping into the Nemesis soldiers.

  They were armored and incredibly tough, but they were taking too much damage. Both of them were up and moving quickly, putting distance between them. However both were concentrating on Franks now, which meant nothing was stopping the men from the road from engaging them—

  BOOM!

  And apparently the one in the trees had a .50 cal.

  It hit a Nemesis soldier in the back. The impact tore an exit hole the size of a cantaloupe from his ceramic chest plate. Blood sprayed for twenty feet as he went to his knees.

  Franks shifted the stream of tracers against the other, systematically ripping him to pieces. The soldier’s rifle was flung away as a bullet tore his fingers off. The last of the belt disappeared and the machine gun was quiet. The Nemesis soldier looked down at his mangled hand, but that didn’t stop him from drawing a combat knife with his other hand. He charged Franks.

  Swinging the machine gun like a great big club, Franks batted the soldier across the bank. He bounced off a tree with a resounding crack. Franks covered the distance in a flash, raised the machine gun, and smashed the soldier over the head. He raised it to hit him again, but Franks suddenly dropped the improvised club and took a step back, one hand instinctively flying to the new hole in his bicep.

  The other Nemesis soldier had drawn a pistol and shot Franks, but before he could get off a second round the heavy rifle in the trees roared again and the top of the soldier’s head flew into pieces.

  Franks went back to finish his damaged foe. The Nemesis soldier was pushing himself out of the broken tree trunk, when a big knife appeared in Franks’ hand, and he began systematically slashing and stabbing. It was a blur of motion, strike, cut, curving and twisting, and back to strike again. They moved away from the tree, the soldier striking, but his movements were becoming increasingly sluggish. Franks kept on slicing. It was an astounding display of brutality. Every time the soldier moved, Franks caught the limb and cut it open. Franks was dispassionate and methodical as he worked the soldier over, slicing through every exposed bit of flesh, until there was nothing left that hadn’t been perforated.

  The soldier tried to kick him, but Franks caught his foot with his injured arm, drove him back into the tree, then ran the blade all the way from the knee, up his inner thigh, and deep into his groin. Franks twisted the blade through the pelvis, ripped it out, and then used the soldier’s leg to hoist him up, spin him through the air, and then hurl his body against the rocks so hard that bones exploded.

  Holy shit . . .

  Strayhorn crawled to his father’s side. He put his ear to Myers’ lips. He was barely breathing. “Come on, Dad. Stay with me.”

  Two men were running down the bank—Jefferson and Archer. “Myers, is that you?”

  “He’s over here.” Strayhorn tried to yell, but found that he could barely raise his voice. The pain in his side had been replaced with a cold, tingling sensation. Consciousness was fading. He’d been hit worse than he thought. He’d died before though . . . He could come back. Dwayne Myers couldn’t.

  Franks had dragged the crippled Nemesis soldier over and dropped him on top of the one missing most of his head. He went to Myers and Strayhorn, grabbed both of their collars and pulled them the rest of the way out of the river. “Status?”

  “Bad,” Strayhorn gasped. Then he coughed and blood shot from his mouth.

  Franks looked at his side. “Gunshot wound. Severe fragmentation. Bubbles . . . Lungs are perforated.” He put one big hand on Strayhorn’s ribs, and Strayhorn was surprised how gentle it was, or maybe it just seemed that way because he was going into shock. Franks frowned. “Blood color . . . Liver hit. That will be fatal.”

  “You suck at delivering bad news.”

  “I’m sorry.” Franks moved over and knelt next to Myers and took his pulse.

  “Dad told me you were never sorry about anything.”

  Franks bowed his head. “He was mistaken.”

  * * *

  He’d been too late. Franks had seen thousands of mortals die. He knew the signs too well. Myers was fading. There was nothing that could be done at this point.

  Myers cracked his eyes open. “Franks?”

  “I am here.”

  “How’s Tom?”

  Even at a time like this, Franks didn’t even think to lie to comfort him. “Dying.”

  “He’ll get over it . . . He takes after his real father that way.”

  Huh? Before he could ask for clarification, the other two agents had reached them. “Archer.” Franks nodded toward the mutilated bodies of the Nemesis creations. The demon spirits had latched on and were refusing to let go. Their redundant systems were keeping them alive. “They’ll heal soon. Burn them.”

  “Yes, sir.” It didn’t matter that Franks was technically a fugitive, had been relabeled as a monster, and was the most wanted man in the world—when he gave an order MCB agents followed it. Archer ran back toward their car to get an incendiary.

  Like the demons, Myers was only hanging on by sheer willpower. “Grant . . .” Myers whispered.

  “I’m here, Director.” He knelt next to him.

  “You remind me of myself.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I was a dick at that age too . . . Now go help Tom.”

  Jefferson looked to Franks. It wouldn’t do any good, but most humans did not like to die alone. Franks nodded. Jefferson went to help the rookie.

  “I will avenge you,” Franks said. He did not really know how to comfort anyone.

  “Finish this, Franks, but don’t tear the whole country down to do it. Promise me that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A hand tapped his shoulder. Franks thought about tearing it off, but these agents had been loyal enough to Dwayne Myers to come here, so he let it go. “What?”

  Jefferson sounded very hesitant. “I’m sorry, Agent Franks, but you need to see this.”

  Surprisingly, Strayhorn was sitting up. He had a glazed look on his face and a small bottle in his hand. A single drop of liquid was rolling down the side of the bottle. It was glowing. The drop sizzled when it hit Strayhorn’s fingers.

  “The Elixir of Life,” Franks stated.

  “He had some on him. He just drank the whole thing,” Jefferson said. “I didn’t know.”

  The rookie had just c
ommitted suicide. It would speed up his inevitable end, but he’d picked the most painful way possible to do it. The government’s best scientists had never gotten the mixture to work on any mortal-born being without the Elixir’s forced purification ripping their imperfect bodies to pieces. Strayhorn should have just asked Franks to put him out of his misery and been done with it. Shooting him in the head would have saved them all time.

  All the other human test subjects from over the years would have been vomiting blood by now. Strayhorn dropped the empty bottle and it rolled into the river. The expected convulsions were not starting. He struggled to his feet, and stood there, wobbling. The rookie’s blood-soaked shirt was hanging open. All the capillaries around the bullet hole were glowing blue.

  “Probationary Agent Strayhorn. Reporting for duty.” He was incoherent from the blood loss. Even on Franks, the Elixir needed time to work.

  “How?” Franks asked suspiciously as he reached for his Glock.

  Myers touched Franks’ arm. “Turns out . . . your descendants can use the Elixir.”

  Franks didn’t have descendants. “Impossible.”

  “It’s true,” Myers whispered.

  Strayhorn stumbled over and fell next to Myers. “I tried, Dad. I’m sorry.” He put his head down on Myers’ chest and began to sob.

  Franks couldn’t tell if it was tears or rain that was rolling from Myers’ eyes. “Can I do—”

  “It’s in your hands now, Franks. All of it. The mission . . . Our safety . . . I’ve made mistakes. So many mistakes . . . But I tried my best. I always did my . . .”

  Myers trailed off.

  Franks stayed there, kneeling in the rain. Dwayne Myers was dead.

  I have failed.

  The mortal world would never understand what a valuable defender they had just lost. Even mortals on the same side of this war could never know all that he had sacrificed to protect his country. Myers was one of the only humans he’d ever known who had the guts to do what was necessary.

  There was a sudden flash of heat as the bodies of the Nemesis soldiers were engulfed in flames. Only Franks could hear the piteous wails of the demons being cast back to Hell. It was a stark contrast to how Myers’ spirit had gone peacefully to his reward. The emotion hit him then, a sense of loss so profound that it was physical. He roared at the universe, and then slammed his fist into the rock so hard that his bones cracked the stone. His incoherent bellow slowly died off.

  I have failed you.

  Franks looked at his shaking fist and the blood leaking out around rock shards embedded in his skin. The word HATE had been tattooed on his knuckles by the arm’s last owner. The word was so faded now it was almost invisible. The mortal flesh was weak and temporary. The eternal was unyielding. He had failed Myers. He would not fail their mission. He would not fail his part of The Deal. The muscle tremor passed. Hands steady, Franks reached down and gently closed Myers’ eyelids.

  “Good-bye, my friend.”

  Franks stood up. There was still work to do and people and demons in dire need of killing. Stricken would pay for this. Anyone allied with Stricken would pay for this.

  Jefferson seemed to be shell-shocked. Archer was waiting there with an empty gas can in hand, staring at Myers’ body. Strayhorn got to his feet, swaying, appearing that he might collapse at any time. Could I have a son? That was not part of The Deal, but he would ponder on that later. Right now, the agents looked as lost as Franks felt.

  The rain kept on falling. The four of them were in a circle around their fallen leader. Lightning cracked across the sky.

  They looked to Franks for guidance.

  “What do we do now?” Archer asked.

  “Fucking kill everything.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I spent years in that dungeon. Our conversations grew better over time. They had to, or I would have murdered him in frustration. Unlike the humans, my memory of the before had not been wiped entirely, only damaged. It did not take long for me to understand how to act human. My spirit had spent years observing them. I secretly had a head start.

  It was Father who taught me how to speak. It took time for the language centers of my once-dead brain to begin working again. He talked a lot. I mostly listened. Even then I wasn’t much for talking. Humans talk too much. It’s like you never shut up.

  He taught me to read. Every day he would bring me more books, theology, philosophy, and history. I would read them by the light of a torch. Father had a great library by the standards of the day. I read it all. I did not like poetry. Poetry is stupid. You must have to be born to appreciate that stuff.

  He continued to improve his creation. Using a modern term, we worked the bugs out. The scientists of that day employed legions of body snatchers and grave robbers. As better raw materials came in, Father replaced my more obviously flawed parts. He would operate without anesthesia, trusting in the tightening of the chains to hold me down as he sawed my limbs off or the Elixir burned me pure. I would advise him when things felt correct. My understanding of correct was limited to what hurt and how much.

  Father openly wept after seeing the new face that he had stretched over my skull. His creation was no longer quite such a hideous fiend. As I looked upon my reflection in the mirror I decided that I could finally pass for a human . . . At least an ugly one. If the light was bad.

  I never told Father the truth about what I really was. It was better that way. He was able to live out the rest of his days unaware what he had let into the world. I was not burned at the stake. Everybody was content.

  Until the Hunters came.

  2 Days Ago

  Michael Gutterres stopped his new motorcycle outside the industrial park’s fence and watched the activity. The Feds were out in force.

  After his flight had landed at Dulles, he’d had a taxi take him to a bike dealership. It was nice having a credit card with no limit, even though whenever he turned in his receipts he always got a lecture about how their order was funded by the donations of widows and orphans. So he’d treated himself to a Ducati 1199 Panigale. It was much nicer than the piece of crap he’d used in China, and would be worth the lecture on fiscal responsibility.

  The nearby property was swarming with suits and blue wind-breakers. Most of those had to be MCB. He’d listened to the news on the way over. They were reporting that the abandoned shipyard had been used for a military training exercise, but a helicopter had crashed and started a fire. It was a typical MCB cover story, and nothing compared to their recent work in Las Vegas. It was hardly convincing. This had Franks written all over it.

  “This is Gutterres. I’m at the scene. I’m going to see if I can pick up the trail.”

  “Confirmed. Once again, we would prefer to not make our presence in this endeavor known, Michael,” said the ever helpful voice in his radio.

  “Duly noted, Father.” He took his helmet off so he wouldn’t have to listen to any more useless advice. They always asked the locals to support him. His assigned clerical support could be helpful at times, but usually they were just annoying. This one in particular seemed more worried about avoiding scandals. Gutterres didn’t care about politics; he was in this to protect the innocent from the forces of evil.

  The Secret Guard of the Blessed Order of St. Hubert the Protector was the oldest Monster Hunting organization in the world. Their best historians believed that the patron saint of Hunters had gotten his start freeing the Merovingian countryside of werewolves in 682 AD. Their official charter dated back to the twelfth century. Even most of the other Monster Hunters in the world had never heard of them. There weren’t that many of them left, their occasional heavy lifting was done by the Swiss Guard, and it was rare that one of them ended up working in America. The Secret Guard tended to work in the places that the rest of the civilized world ignored or forgot, but the less fortunate needed protection just as much as the wealthy.

  However, this was Franks they were talking about, who was a very special case, which meant the Vatican’s
best problem solver got to return to his home country.

  This was as close as he was going to get to last night’s fight without being spotted by the MCB, so it would have to do. He pulled the holy relic out of his coat. A regular St. Hubert’s Key was simply a metal bar that could be heated up and used to cauterize wounds, usually as a treatment for rabies in the days before germ theory. This one was special. This one was the first Key, forged by Hubertus himself, and it had been used to cauterize bites from things a whole lot worse than rabid dogs. It was said that the legendary Bartolomeu Zarco Cabral had driven this very Key through Baal’s eye at the battle of Cordoba, but he figured that was just the archivists messing with the new guys so they wouldn’t lose any of the sacred relics they signed out of the vaults.

  He extended his hand, palm up, letting the iron bar rest there. The early Hunters had been forced to deal with all the same horrors they still faced today, only those poor bastards hadn’t had access to good explosives or modern firearms. They’d had to improvise, adapt, and survive. The Key was a leftover from those days, but it was still pretty handy for things like this.

  The bar slowly turned. The porous old metal grated across his skin. Normally it would pick a direction and stay there, pointing toward an unholy being the same way a compass would point at magnetic north, but here, the Key was being tugged in a few different directions. He was used to minor things like imps or lesser demons screwing things up, but these pulls were all strong, so strong that they could be confused for Franks.