Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  That was an excellent idea.

  Bia’s claws receded, but she let her hand linger on his thigh. Eventually the cameras would observe that demonstration. Let them. It would give the psychologists something to talk about.

  * * *

  Franks chugged down the dose. At least he could drink without it spilling out the side of his face now that they’d stretched some extra skin over the gash and stapled it down. The burning hit his stomach and then radiated out through his limbs, burning the discordant bits of flesh into one coherent whole. It was gag-inducing, but MHI’s version of the Elixir would do.

  “According to everything I know, I can’t figure out what this stuff is supposed to do.” Trip Jones’ dossier said that he had been a high school chemistry teacher before being recruited, so he at least knew enough not to totally ruin the mixture. “How is it?”

  “It tastes like swill,” Franks said, grimacing through clenched teeth.

  Jones bit off an angry response. None of the Hunters wanted Franks hiding here, but Jones especially seemed to dislike him. Some humans just had an instinctual sense about Franks’ true nature.

  The Elixir reached his new stomach. Sudden agony ripped through Franks. He dropped the empty cup, spilling bits of glowing fluid on the floor. Lightning radiated down his bones. He roared and slammed one fist through a sheet metal table. The Hunters all leapt back. The lightning began to subside. Franks held up the shaking, bloody hand and studied the bruising pattern of his knuckles. Capillaries and nerves were connecting. That orc did good work. He flexed his muscles. Better. “Get me another.”

  “Are you sure?” Milo Anderson asked.

  “I’m always sure.” Normally when the MCB needed to make that many repairs to him they would take their time and give him a tiny amount of Elixir through an IV drip. Overloading this much Elixir through his system could cause premature organ failure, but he had work to do, and Harbinger had imposed a very short timeline on him. Since he would more than likely die facing Kurst, he wasn’t too worried about the lifespan of his internal organs.

  Pitt hobbled into the Body Shack. “Hey, Franks. I—damn, somebody should have warned me he was naked. I knew you were built out of spare parts but I didn’t know some of them came from farm animals.”

  “Shut up,” Franks snapped. He was being held together by about a thousand stitches, so he really wasn’t in the mood for Pitt.

  “Nice tattoo though.”

  “I’ll remove it with a belt sander later.”

  “By the way, on that whole I owe you a kidney thing from that one time I accidentally shot you, duty fulfilled. You never specified it had to be one of mine. We’re square.”

  Franks was sorely tempted to burn this compound down when he left, and he probably would have if it wasn’t for that angel and his stupid prophecies. “What do you want, Pitt?”

  “We just intercepted a guy at the front gate, which is strange, because it isn’t like we get very many visitors out here; but even stranger, he said he’s looking for you.”

  No one knew he was coming here, not even Myers’ loyalists.

  “Yeah, the idea of you telling all your buddies that MHI is harboring public enemy number one through ten just fills me with all sorts of warm fuzzies, but Earl talked to him. He flashed some medallion and said God sent him to help you, says he’s from the holy order of saint somebody of the something. He made it sound like he’s a mystical Catholic ninja monk, but Earl said he’s all right.” The other Hunters nodded at that, as if Harbinger saying somebody was all right was a significant blessing. “Personally, that would strike me as kind of weird, except I’m talking to Frankenstein’s monster who was just dismantled by my werewolf boss before being put back together by our orc priestess, so what the hell do I know?”

  “Little of value.” Walking was extremely difficult because the new leg was not fully assimilated yet, but Franks limped toward the door anyway.

  “Hey, you can’t go out in front of the Newbies looking like hamburger,” Jones said.

  “Plus he’s buck-ass naked,” Pitt added. “I’ll get my emergency pants.”

  Franks knew where the Hunters stored their explosives. He could probably turn Cazador into a fireball visible from space. Stupid angel. “Bring him to me,” Franks ordered. Luckily the Hunters didn’t argue, because Franks really was entirely out of patience.

  By the time the Hunter from the Secret Guard of the Blessed Order of St. Hubert the Protector arrived, Franks had been given a pair of sweat pants and had managed to guzzle down another dose of Elixir.

  He was an average-sized man, part Asian, part Caucasian, somewhere between thirty and fifty, and completely innocuous and forgettable. The only thing notable about him was the fact he didn’t seem in the least bit surprised to see Franks’ obviously sliced apart and stuck back together body. The man didn’t look very threatening, but looks could be deceiving, and Franks had dealt with this particular shady organization before.

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You’re a hard man to find, Franks.”

  “Leave us,” Franks ordered the MHI staff.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. It’s my shack,” Anderson protested, but Jones and Pitt dragged him from the room. “But I want to see what the mystical monk does.”

  Franks waited until the door was closed. “Show me,” he ordered.

  The man reached into his motorcycle jacket and lifted out a gold medallion. Franks didn’t need to look at it for long to feel that it was real, and if this man wasn’t ordained to be wearing it then it would have turned molten and burned through his skin. Franks nodded for him to continue.

  He put the medallion away. “I’m Michael Gutterres.” He talked like an American. He didn’t try to shake hands. That was good. Franks was tired of meaningless pleasantries. “You know who I’m with.”

  “Yes.” The Secret Guard had a nominal relationship with the Vatican, mostly for finances and recruiting, but they didn’t really answer to anyone there unless they felt like it. They mostly did their own thing, kept to themselves, and stayed out of mortal affairs. They existed for one reason and one reason only: to stomp on anything off The Plan. If it had snuck in from another world, the Secret Guard had a problem with it. In that respect, Franks had been uneasy allies with them for a very long time.

  “So you know why I’m here.”

  “To try to kill me if I’d broken The Deal.”

  “I like how you stuck the word try in there.” The Hunter had a confident smile. Franks wanted to wipe it off his face. “But yes, that’s fundamentally correct. From what I’ve gathered so far, there’s more going on than just what the MCB has let slip. A large number of the Fallen seem to be congregating here. From what I’ve seen, you still seem to be fighting against them. Is that correct?”

  Franks nodded. “The Deal is still on.”

  “Good. You’ll understand there’s no offense intended if I keep an eye on you long enough to make sure that’s true. When you struck your bargain, my order was the only organization around capable of dealing with you should you go back on your word. The head of our order made a solemn vow that we would deal with you, and though we’re a shadow of what we once were, we still honor our oaths. We’ve been monitoring you ever since.”

  “I know,” Franks said. He’d dealt with these self-righteous types before.

  “Mr. Harbinger was nice enough to let me in. Turns out he was tutored on how to master lycanthropy by one of our exiles in Cuba a long time ago.”

  “Santiago. Met him once.”

  “It’s easy to forget how long you’ve been around. Is there anybody you don’t know?” Gutterres asked, seeming genuinely curious. “Never mind, they warned me you weren’t big on talking. I believe you’re planning on destroying an infestation of greater demons. That’s sort of my thing, so I’d like to offer my help.”

  Franks snorted. “You and what army?”

  “No army. Just some highly trained professionals who are
deniable and expendable, and who’ve taken an oath to sacrifice their lives in righteous battle against the forces of evil. I can have two combat exorcists and a platoon of Swiss Guard on the ground anywhere in the eastern US within the next few hours. Will that do?”

  “It’s a start.”

  Luckily Franks knew where to get more.

  * * *

  The prepaid cell phone they’d picked up at 7-Eleven rang. MCB-agent-turned-wanted-fugitive Henry Archer stared at the phone for a few seconds, secretly hoping that it would quit making noise. The only person who had the number was Franks, who had sucked them along into his vortex of shit and ruined their lives, so part of him really hoped it was a wrong number, because if it was Franks then it was probably even more bad news.

  Grant Jefferson and Tom Strayhorn were also in the little seedy hotel room. It was the kind of hotel frequented by hookers, drug dealers, and the terminally cheap. The other two agents were staring at the phone as well, but nobody made a move. Being listed as co-conspirators to a wanted terrorist murderer had been especially hard on Grant, and he actually looked more physically worn down than Strayhorn, who at least had a good excuse for looking beat, what with the multiple gunshot wounds and field-expedient organ transplant.

  “You going to answer that or what?” Grant asked as he picked up the remote control and muted the television.

  Normally Grant would jump at taking point and being the higher-ups’ go-to guy, but Archer suspected Grant was suffering from a little bit of depression. Throwing your entire career away and putting your life and freedom in jeopardy in a futile noble gesture to save your boss who was going to die anyway had that very understandable side effect. Archer wasn’t exactly feeling super optimistic himself. But Archer was sitting closer to the phone, so he picked it up. “Hello?”

  “I’m heading back.” Sure enough, it was Franks. “Get ready.”

  They were going to make a move. “Did you find that thing you needed?” Archer asked as he put Franks on speaker.

  “Yes. And I have help. Get more.”

  Archer’s background was in crypto-commo. Normally criminals and spies were purposefully vague over the phone to avoid using any keywords that would send up red flags to the monitoring software. For Franks, being cryptic was just normal conversation. “Uh . . . You mean . . . what?”

  “Get more.”

  “You’ve lost me there.”

  “Rule number two.”

  Archer wasn’t sure what that meant. The first thing that popped into his head was the MCB’s vaunted First Reason, but that was all about justifying their sometimes harsh methods. Except right now the only people who were intimidated were his agents. He wasn’t sure what rules Franks was talking about, but apparently Strayhorn did.

  “Got it,” the rookie said. “Any requests?”

  “Bring everything. Oh-seven hundred.” The call terminated.

  They’d discussed rallying points beforehand, so they knew where to go and now when to be there, but Archer had no clue what the other part was about. “What rule is he talking about?”

  “It’s something my dad used to say. He picked it up from his MHI days,” Strayhorn explained. “Rule number one of a gunfight, bring a gun. Rule number two of a gunfight, bring friends with guns.”

  “Friends . . . Like we’ve got so many to choose from. Franks wants us to bring the cavalry,” Grant muttered. “Apparently he’s not been watching the news. The whole world thinks we’re criminals. Nobody is going to help us. Myers gave me some names, but even then the MCB is more likely to shoot us on sight than send a tac team to help out.”

  The news was still playing in the background. MCB Media Control loved the twenty-four-hour news cycle, because a ratings-desperate media was an easily steered media, and Media Control was still flogging the Franks-as-terrorist-on-the-loose story. Only now, beneath the big picture of Franks, were four smaller photos showing the three of them and Dwayne Myers.

  “Not again . . .” Grant said.

  “What’re you complaining about? At least the picture they keep using of you looks like a movie star headshot.”

  “That’s because it is. They took it from my IMDB listing.”

  “Screw you, Grant! Being in one horror movie doesn’t make you that cool! They used an MCB academy photo for me. I’m standing there with a rifle, looking like Lee Harvey Oswald,” Archer snapped. “Oswald!”

  “Are you kidding? How do you think I feel? Look at me, Archer. I’m too pretty to go to prison.”

  The stress was really starting to get to them. “Shit . . . I’m a federal agent. You know what happens to Feds in prison?” Archer stood up and began to pace back and forth. “And I’m skinny. At least you lift weights. I’ll be the skinny, easily-wrestled-down former cop. It’s like all of the worst things to be in prison.”

  “Naw, you’d have to add child molester,” Grant said, but then he thought about it. “Knowing Stricken, being the spiteful bastard that he is, he’ll figure out some way to tack that on there too.”

  Dying while fighting monsters was way less terrifying than the idea of being framed and going to prison. Archer hated to admit it, but he was freaking out. He really didn’t want to be sold for cartons of cigarettes.

  “Guys, calm down,” Strayhorn urged. The rookie was propped up on one of the beds. Franks’ Elixir worked on him, but it didn’t seem to work nearly as fast. “Nobody’s going to prison. Stricken won’t risk us talking. If they take us alive, he’ll have us murdered as soon as we’re in custody.”

  Surprisingly, that actually helped Archer calm himself. “Thanks, Rook.” Archer took a deep breath and sat back down. “Okay, so what do we do now?”

  “We help Franks and we fight,” Grant said. “Or we run.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Strayhorn shouted. “They killed my—”

  “Keep it down. The walls are thin. I didn’t say we were going to run, I was just listing the options. I know they killed Myers. We were there.” They’d followed Myers and rushed in when they’d heard the call for help. “We’re in trouble only because we chose to be there.”

  “Sorry,” Strayhorn said. “I know he asked a lot of you two.”

  “But we did it, and we’d do it again,” Archer told him. “Dwayne Myers was the best leader the MCB has ever had. Of course we did what he asked us. In an outfit built on telling lies, he was the one man every last one of us trusted.”

  “That’s it!” Grant exclaimed. “That’s how we’re going to get help.”

  “Huh?”

  “The names Myers gave me, he wouldn’t have told me about those agents being solid if he didn’t know for sure. Myers had to expect this level of heat. Hear me out. Franks must have some sort of op planned. If it was something less, Franks would just tackle it himself. That means he’s either taking a shot at Stricken or those Nemesis things,” Grant mused. “Probably them, because if we can prove what they are, that’s justifiable. It can’t be Stricken himself. Franks couldn’t possibly expect us to get a bunch of other sworn agents to go outside the law like that.”

  Archer and Strayhorn exchanged a nervous glance. When it came to the idea of Franks staying in the lines, there was a lot of wishful thinking attached.

  “So it has to be Nemesis. We’ve seen these things in action. They’re tough as nails . . . We need every man we can get.” Grant slammed his fist into his palm. He was beginning to look motivated. At least focusing on solutions seemed to help shake Grant from his funk. “We need the Strike Team.”

  Archer figured Grant had what it took to be a really good leader, provided he could just keep his head out of his ass long enough to get the hang of it. “That’s wonderful, but how the hell are we going to get the people tasked with hunting us down, to stop long enough to help us take out their superior’s pet project?”

  “I’m going to try something crazy by MCB standards. I’m going to use the truth . . .” Grant had a malicious gleam in his eye. “Kind of.”

  CHAPTER 16
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  Battenberg, Landgraviate of Hesse-Darmstadt,

  Holy Roman Empire, 1740

  He could hear the soldiers stealthily moving around outside the barn. Occasionally he caught glimpses of them through the knotholes and gaps. They were attempting to sneak up on him. They were good, but they weren’t that good. If it hadn’t been raining, they probably would have set the barn on fire to flush him out. As it was, it was either risk a direct confrontation, or wait him out. Either way worked for him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had nothing better to do, so he went back to sharpening his sword and waiting for the next batch of heroic humans to try to slay him.

  This batch had been chasing him for weeks. They were remarkably dedicated. Franks didn’t mind the running and the fighting and the hiding. It kept him occupied until the next otherworldly invader turned up and needed to be dispatched.

  Being a hideous monster, and having dealt with humans for several years now, he expected many different methods of attack, but a polite knock on the door was not one of them. Curious, he took up his sword, leapt down from the loft, and went to the door.

  It took a moment to find the words. He had not spoken to anyone in a long time. “What do you want?” he growled.

  “I come to parley.” The human on the other side shouted through the wood. “I wish to speak with the monster of Castle Frankenstein.”

  He was not used to that. Most of his interactions with humanity consisted of them running at the sight of him, or the braver ones shooting at him. “Leave me be.”

  “I have been told that you can reason as a man, so let us speak as men, face to face, under a flag of truce. As long as you do not attempt to harm me, my men shall not fire the cannons they have aimed at this place.”

  He hadn’t known they’d brought cannons. He opened the barn door to tower over the seemingly fearless mortal on the side. “What do you want?”

  “My, you certainly are ugly in person, but not nearly so hideous as the legends make you out to be. I am Lieutenant Colonel Kugler.” He removed his hat and bowed. “What shall I call you?”