Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  The others looked over at him, blinking stupidly with their big cow eyes, too surprised and dimwitted to process that their doom was suddenly upon them.

  Twenty seconds later every human in the medical wing was dead.

  The Gift was even better than expected.

  Prepare to intercept Franks.

  CHAPTER 17

  Virginia Colony, 1775

  Explosive shells fell across the forest, sending up geysers of dirt and debris as Franks crashed through the trees and right into a group of retreating rebels. He fired both of his pistols, blasting heavy lead balls through two of the colonials, dropped the smoking weapons and pulled two more pistols from his belt.

  “It’s the Hessians’ monster!” one of them shouted. “Protect the general!”

  Franks shot that one through the heart. Then he killed another rifleman, threw his spent pistols down, and drew his sword. Franks stepped through the gun smoke and charged the remaining rebels. They met him with steel and lead. They fought hard, and Franks respected that, but he fought harder. So they died.

  He kept moving as they continued shooting at him, slicing and cleaving his way through their ranks. He was struck by ball and shot, but it wasn’t enough to slow his relentless advance. A few ran, but most stood and fought. Franks dispatched those one by one. As brave as they were, no mortal could match Franks. The rebels broke before him and ran for their lives.

  A mortar shell landed between him his prey, so Franks had to wait a moment for the smoke to settle. When it did, waiting before him was a tall man on a white horse. The Virginian pointed his sword at Franks’ breast and shouted a command to try and rally his men, except the soldiers who’d faced Franks once didn’t dare come back. They ran, but their officer didn’t. The Virginian could have escaped. Even as fast as Franks was, he’d been shot enough times today that he would not be able to chase down a horse, but instead the officer urged his horse forward, engaging Franks himself so that his men could retreat.

  Franks knew this man. This was the new general they spoke of. This was the military leader of the entire rebellion. Even the battle-hardened Hessians acknowledged the skills displayed thus far by the one called Washington made him a worthy adversary. Franks would kill this man and be back in camp in time for supper.

  The great white horse surged forward. Its eyes were wide and it was blowing snot from its nostrils. Animals knew to fear him, but the general forced it on anyway.

  Franks punched the horse in the face and knocked it unconscious.

  Washington was thrown hard into the snow, but he kept hold of his sword, and immediately struggled to his feet. To his credit, he lunged and tried to run Franks through, but Franks had spent the prior decades fighting the most physically capable, experienced combatants in the mortal world and dispatching every Hell-spawned beast he could find, so this wasn’t even a challenge. Franks effortlessly struck the blade aside. Washington slashed at him. Franks simply stepped inside the blow and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest. He hit the frozen ground hard.

  Franks stepped on the Virginian’s sword, pinning it to the earth.

  General Washington was staring defiantly at him. “Finish me then, you Hessian devil,” he declared with defiant courage. “My cause remains just.”

  Franks lifted his sword and prepared to take his trophy. He’d bring the general’s head back in a sack. That would make his Hessian brethren happy. The blade hummed through the air.

  No.

  He stopped the blade just as it touched Washington’s throat. Franks had heard a voice inside his head. It was as clear and piercing as a church bell. He had not heard that voice for a very long time.

  The Plan requires that this man lives. The Deal requires that you serve him.

  Franks looked down the length of his sword, to where a single drop of blood was rolling down the steel from the small slice on the general’s neck. “Him?” he growled, but he pulled the sword back. It was pointless to argue with an angel. “So be it.” Franks stepped aside, wiped his blade on a dead man’s uniform, and then sheathed his sword.

  “What are you doing?” Washington demanded.

  “Sparing you.”

  The general was staring, incredulous, first at the many grievous but ignored wounds on Franks’ body, and then at the dozen dead and dying soldiers Franks had placed into the snow in the space of a few breaths. “What manner of foul monster are you?”

  “Apparently I am to be your monster,” Franks stated.

  Then the cannonball hit Franks in the torso and blew him apart.

  * * *

  There was a loud banging on Heather’s cell door. She sat up on the cot. “What?”

  “We need to talk,” Stricken shouted from the other side of the door.

  She glanced around the windowless, eight-by-eight room. Even though the only items in the featureless place were a military surplus cot, a toilet, and a sink, she figured there had to be a camera somewhere. If she knew where it was, she would have given it the finger. “Screw you.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Kerkonen.”

  He was such a smug bastard. “I’ve already told your people everything. Go away.”

  The slit they used to shove her food through opened in the bottom of the door. Now he didn’t have to shout. “That was all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Getting waterboarded all day isn’t a misunderstanding.” She had no idea how long she’d been in here, or what was going to happen to her when she got out, but she knew it couldn’t possibly be good. At this point she figured the most likely outcome would be that they’d flood the cell with whatever lycanthrope knockout gas Stricken had used last time, then come in and pop her. With nothing better to do in between torture sessions, she’d practiced holding her breath. If she was lucky, they’d be stupid enough to open the door while she was still awake and she’d make a break for it.

  “You brought that on yourself. I think of the Task Force like a family, and all good families have rules. You broke my rules, so you were punished. That’s all water under the bridge now.”

  She’d already tested the door. It was rock solid, even to somebody werewolf strong. It was really too bad, because if there was one last thing she’d like to accomplish before leaving this world, it would be to kill Stricken . . . Okay, if she was being honest with herself and she could only have one last wish, it would be to see Earl again, but she’d always been something of a romantic. Biting Stricken’s face off would be a close number two on the list.

  “Did you just come to gloat before you murder me, or do you have an actual point, Pinky?”

  “Now that’s just hurtful. I’m not even genetically an albino. I have a medical condition I received while serving my country, so I find your hateful remarks about my appearance incredibly insensitive.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Naw, I’m just messing with you, Kerkonen. I’ve come to offer you a deal. This is a limited time offer, so listen very carefully. You crossed some lines and poked around in classified Task Force business, which is all the justification I need to toss you in the incinerator, but I’m feeling merciful, and well, frankly, I’ve had a bit of a problem arise that requires your talents. If you help me out with this problem, your sins will be forgiven. I’m merciful like that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It is a rather big problem . . . Tell you what, you help me out with this, and not only are we square, but I will commute the rest of your sentence. All those months you have left? Gone. Do this for me, and as soon as we’re out of here, you’re PUFF exempt. You have my word.”

  Stricken’s word wasn’t worth much, but if it got the door open, then it might be worth the risk. “What’s this problem of yours?”

  “Have you ever seen Spartacus?”

  “The old movie? Sure.”

  “You know that part where Kirk Douglas and the slaves get all uppity and start stabbing all the Romans? It turns out that scene isn’t so great from the Romans’ po
int of view. We’ve got an uprising on our hands.”

  “Are you telling me . . .” Heather laughed. “Wait, your precious Nemesis things have gone nuts?”

  “That’s an understatement. Somehow they’ve circumvented their implanted kill switch. The only part of the facility that hasn’t been taken over yet is this section.”

  She’d seen a lot of guards on her way into Stricken’s secret headquarters. “Have your guys take care of it.”

  “I would, except it looks like most of them are already dead. Nemesis slaughtered everyone in a matter of minutes.”

  “You must be very proud.” She tested the air for the scent of blood. Normally she could pick that up quickly, but her senses were still recovering from the drug Stricken had hit her with, so everything was kind of fuzzy and indistinct.

  “They’ve seized the control room and are jamming our comms out, so I can’t get help. I’d say the worst part of all this is the feeling of betrayal, but I’m betting the part where they break in here and beat us to death might be worse.”

  Stricken was a slippery bastard and he had some weird tricks up his sleeve. Before the drug had knocked her out, she remembered taking a swing at him, only he’d not been there by the time her claws arrived, and nobody was that fast without some sort of supernatural assistance. The man was also a spymaster, so there was no way he was getting cornered this easily. “I know a rat like you wouldn’t hang out in an underground bunker without having some sort of escape route planned.”

  “Already checked, and somehow the prototypes knew about it. They’re sitting on the exit already. That’s what I need you for. What do you say, Kerkonen? You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Don’t do it for me, do it for my few other employees who are still alive.”

  “Your employees waterboarded me!”

  “Sure. Keep living in the past. Way to be a bitch, Kerkonen. . . . Help me out. You’ve got to admit those PUFF exemption tags are pretty shiny. You know you want one.”

  Heather put her hands behind her head and stretched out on her cot. It was so small her feet and ankles hung off the end. “You know, Stricken, your slave rebellion sounds like a personal problem. I think I’m just going to let you guys work this out for yourselves, while I relax here in my comfy accommodations, enjoying the absurdity of your predicament.”

  There was a long pause on the other side of the door. “I hate to break it to you, Red, but your door locks from this side, and Nemesis has been killing the shit out of my guys. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they aren’t leaving any witnesses. I’m slipping out of here one way or another, and you can either come with me and increase my odds of success, or you can stay in here and wait for Nemesis to show up and play shoot the wolf in the barrel.”

  Now that was a good point.

  “Damn it.” Heather got off the cot, went to the door, and banged her fist against it. “Okay. You’ve got a deal. Let me out.”

  “Before I open this door, let me just clarify some ground rules before you get all enraged and werewolfy on me. I’m a lot of things, but I’m a survivor first and foremost. I’ve got more of that neurotoxin that’ll wipe you right out if you try anything stupid. And if you think about just running off, you’re not making it out of here without me. The escape tunnel ends at a hatch that makes this cell door look like tinfoil and it opens with a code only I know. Without that, you’ve got to make your way through a bunch of very powerful, and suddenly inexplicably pissed-off supersoldiers, any one of whom is tougher than the seventeen-hundreds model that kicked your ass. Comprende?”

  “Sure.” Once they were safely outside of this place, Heather planned on revisiting that deal.

  “Hang on. Nemesis is controlling the autolocks. I need to find the keys.”

  She could hear Stricken walking away. Heather would have gathered up her things, but she was barefoot and had been left with nothing but a tank top and a pair of bike shorts. But since she was a werewolf, clothing never lasted too long in a fight anyway.

  The footsteps returned. There was the metallic jangle of a key ring. The heavy door opened.

  Heather stepped out. Stricken was right in front of her, wearing an annoying smile, his shades, and an obnoxious white suit. “Where are you headed, Fantasy Island?”

  “This way,” Stricken jerked his head down the hall. There were several other cells. A few of the doors were open. He turned his back on her and started walking. She was tempted to just flay him open clear to the spine, but he must have been feeling pretty confident because he didn’t even bother to look back.

  Heather’s sense of smell was still suffering, but she was starting to pick up traces of blood on the recirculated air coming through the vents. Stricken had at least been telling her some truth. A lot of people had just died here. There was another scent though, a familiar one, and it took her a moment to place it.

  Bubblegum and spider webs.

  At the end of the hall was another door. Armed guards were waiting for them. The men were terrified. “Mr. Stricken, we’ve been watching the security feeds. A few of the Nemesis assets are right outside the door. The First Prototype wants to speak with you.”

  “Who’s that?” Heather asked.

  “Our Spartacus, I suspect,” Stricken answered as he pushed past the guards into an open area. There were a dozen people clustered there, nervously watching a large metal blast door. A few looked like security types, but most of them appeared to be regular office workers. A couple of those were having panic attacks. “I’m afraid some people simply can’t handle watching live video of their coworkers being brutalized. Renfroe, can you see if First brought any explosives?”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” said a thin man who was standing by the door. His eyes were closed, and he had an intense look of concentration on his face. He’d put his hand on the wall and there was a white glow seeping around his fingers. That meant he was probably another volunteer.

  “Then he’s not getting in here until he does,” Stricken said. “That’s a relief.”

  Heather looked at the glowing man. “What’s his deal?”

  “One of your fellow travelers on the long hard road toward PUFF exemption. As for what he is? An object lesson to never piss off the Fey . . .” Stricken raised his voice. “Okay, everyone, listen up. This situation is completely under control.”

  “No, it isn’t! We’re all going to die! We’re all going to die and it’s your fault!” shrieked a disheveled man with the polo-shirted business casual look of an office dweeb. “You played God and we’re all going to pay for it!”

  “Heather, this is Eric. He’s one of my intel analysts. Take it easy, Eric. Panicking isn’t going to help anyone. Just calm down.”

  The man had started crying. “I swear, if we get out of here, I’m going to tell the Subcommittee everythin—”

  CRACK!

  A red hole appeared in Eric’s forehead. Blood hit the wall behind him and the body hit the carpet. Stricken had a small pistol extended in one hand. She’d been watching the victim, but Stricken had moved so fast Heather hadn’t even caught the draw. “I said calm down.”

  Except for some weeping, the room was silent.

  “Nobody likes a snitch,” Stricken explained as he put the pistol back into the holster on his belt and then covered it with his suit. “Where’s the intercom?” A few people pointed at the secretary’s desk. Stricken went over and pushed the button. “Hey, First. Do you mind if I ask what you think you’re doing out there?”

  The voice that came back through the speakers sounded very angry. “That is not my name!”

  “Yeah, got it. Whatever. I’m ordering you to stand down now. All of you need to go back to your rooms.”

  “You are a fool, Stricken.”

  Heather had to agree with the test-tube monster on that one.

  “You do not yet comprehend what you have unleashed upon your world. I am Kurst. That is the title placed upon me by the World Maker when I led the Son of the Morning’s armi
es into battle in the war before time began. I am Kurst, who stood at the left hand of Lucifer. I am Kurst, who was cast into Hell for my rebellion, where I dwelled until you provided me with this body. I am Kurst, who will grind your bones into dust and reign with fire and blood over your pathetic mortal world. I am Kurst, and my war has never ended.”

  Stricken let go of the intercom button. “Well . . . shit . . .”

  Heather looked around at the others. They all seemed as perplexed by that as she was. Things had just taken a turn for the weird.

  “I would deal with you myself, but Franks has arrived earlier than expected. Farewell, Stricken. I leave you to my brethren.”

  “Kurst is leaving. Two others are staying,” Renfroe shouted. “They’re trying the door.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” one of the guards tried to assure everyone. “This place was built to survive nuclear war. Without breaching charges or a cutting torch they’re not going to do—”

  WHAM. A fist-sized bulge appeared in the thick metal. Someone screamed. WHAM. Another fist struck. Welds broke. Incredibly strong blows kept landing. The hatch groaned in protest as the metal deformed.

  “They’re not supposed to be that strong,” Stricken muttered.

  Heather didn’t want to stick around to find out what happened once they punched through the hatch. “About that escape tunnel . . .”

  “There’s one of them camped at the other end of it,” Renfroe warned.

  “That beats two of them in here,” Heather snapped.

  Stricken walked to the side, opened a hidden panel, and pushed a few buttons. There was a loud click and a seam appeared in the wall. Stricken swung the secret door open to reveal a narrow concrete shaft leading up into the darkness. Ladder rungs were sunk into the sides. “Time to go, people. After you, Kerkonen.”

  * * *

  It was early in the afternoon. The day was bright but the air was cool as Franks rode on the running boards of an armored Suburban. He savored the feeling of speed and the rush of air over his new skin in the few seconds before they crashed through the chain link fence of the STFU base. The SUV bounced across the rough field at over fifty miles an hour, abusing their shocks, while hurtling toward the biggest hangar. His tie was whipping around in the wind. Franks’ new hands were not yet properly callused, and they ached from holding onto the roof handles. The other MCB vehicles veered off behind them, each element heading toward a different building.