80 Proof Hex
D Michael Bartsch
Copyright © 2017 by D Michael Bartsch
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact [email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-1501093036
For Olivia,
Always
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to everyone who helped through this process, from reading early drafts to dealing with me texting questions at random hours of the night.
1
Nothing smells like Hellion blood. It’s the sulfurous stench of creatures fueled by all the hatred and malice that the Demon Lords of Hell could muster. It’s more than a just a smell. It’s almost like everything you’ve ever loved died and was left to rot in a truck stop toilet. It’s horrendous, and I’ve spent too much of my life covered in the stuff.
This particular time, the blood belonged to a Wendigo. The thing had eaten a couple of homeless guys and a thirteen-year-old girl in Reno, and I’d tracked the bastard for nearly a week, finally catching up to it just outside of Virginia City. I’d pumped four rounds of homemade shells into the thing before it had knocked me down and took off running.
I hadn’t seen more than a handful of people since I’d rolled into town an hour earlier, starting at the edge and following the blood trail. The whole town was the remnant of a long-dead mining boom, and thankfully it was damn near empty. It was one of those places with too much local history to ever truly die, but normal people wouldn’t be caught dead living there. In the dead of night, the only people left were getting shit faced in the local dives. Lucky bastards.
I ducked into the shadows between buildings as a small group of people emerged from a side street. It was a mixed group of men and women. One couple held hands; another walked arm and arm. The fifth wheel was a blonde that didn’t look like she deserved to be walking around unescorted, and I’m a brunette man. They all wore thick coats and most had beanies pulled down tight to cover their ears. I didn’t blame em. It was cold as shit, and everything was covered in frozen snow, dirty ice, or rock salt.
The row of buildings lining the broken asphalt of C street is pretty much the only part of Virginia City most people spend any time visiting. Just about every building is a shop, restaurant, or bar claiming to have more history than the next. The buildings still have timber walkways out front, the thick planks covering the old underground storage areas from when the place was built in the 1800s.
They were all laughing as they walked into Bucket of Blood Saloon. A drink sounded good. My mouth watered at the thought of scotch. I hadn’t had a drink in eight months. Well, eight months, six days, and fourteen hours to exact. Not that I’m counting or anything. Instead, I was out in the cold, covered in blood, and hunting a mutant elk with a fondness for human flesh.
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I needed to focus on the task at hand. I didn’t have time to rage about the shortfalls of forced sobriety. I’d lost the blood trail, and the damned thing could be lurking around any corner.
I stepped out of the deep shadows. The clouds had cleared up, and the moon was just about full and gave off plenty of light to see by. I swept open my long black trench coat and pulled out the Kel-Tec KSG 12 I had hidden beneath it. I hated the long trench coat for the way it made me look like a flasher, but my leather bomber jacket wasn’t great for concealing anything bigger than a few knives and a handgun. I wasn’t about to go up against a massive, man-eating Hellion with knives and a 1911. Besides, the trench coat was warm where the draft didn’t seep in, and at least it wasn’t a duster. No need to look like a complete fool.
I hugged the small shotgun to my shoulder and kept the muzzle low. The tac sling was loose against my body, leaving me free to tuck the whole thing beneath my jacket at a moments notice if I needed. Nevada has pretty liberal open carry laws, cause God bless America. Still, I try not to draw too much attention to myself.
I wriggled my fingers as I walked, careful to put my feet down slowly where it was icy. I wore a thin pair of Magpul gloves. They weren’t insulated, which sucked, but I couldn’t risk the loss of dexterity to put on a thicker pair of gloves. You can’t exactly reload or pull a trigger wearing mittens. The result was my fingers had basically gone numb. That wasn’t good either. I got a good cheek weld as I walked, the neoprene of the black balaclava I wore keeping any cold metal off my skin.
My footsteps made hollow thunks as I walked on the wooden planks. The sound of laughing brought me up short. I froze, ducking down and pushing against the front of the building, moving deeper into the shadows. Dressed all in black with my face covered, I was damn near invisible from any reasonable distance. I’d have to worry about someone smelling the Hellion blood before I had to worry about them seeing me.
I watched as a group of fifteen or so people came out of a side street onto the main road. I counted as many kids as adults. They were all talking in hushed tones, except for a few kids who were laughing and shrieking as they bounced around the group. They were repeatedly shushed by the adults. It didn’t seem to do a whole lot of good. I moved to glance at my watch. I couldn’t see a damn thing in the dark, and I didn’t want to illuminate it. It was late though. Decent parents should have put their kids to bed hours ago. What were these people thinking?
A large woman dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt that depicted a trio of wolves howling at the moon led the group. She raised her hand and stopped them outside one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street. It looked like the post office, but it was hard to see anything not directly in the moonlight.
The group stopped and gathered around the woman. I could hear them talking, but they were too far away to make much out. The only words I caught for certain were ghost and haunted. I groaned under my breath.
Virginia City was a notorious ghost town. Rumors had grown during the mining boom, and once the Comstock had blown its load, anyone with enough sense to leave had bolted from the place. It was an old west town at heart though, and that meant ghost stories. In this day and age, it also meant ghost tours for people too stupid, curious, or drunk to see if there really are things that go bump in the night. Considering the average person was damn near useless when it comes to an actual encounter with something from the other side, too many morons actively go looking for it. Idiots.
Hell, maybe I should start a tour of my own. I could probably make a ton of money. Deckland’s Haunted Hellion Extravaganza.
I looked up and down the street again. Other than the tour, the place was deserted. The only places with any lights or people in them were bars. The small town had a surprising amount of local watering holes. I appreciated that in a place. Despite that, I
was starting to get annoyed. I was searching for what looked like a twelve-foot tall elk. If the thing were anywhere near any of the bars, I would hear screaming. Instead, I only heard what sounded like karaoke.
A breeze picked up, bringing a frigid chill with it. I shrugged further down into my coat, wishing I had real gloves on. I wiggled my toes, making sure I still could.
The first snow of the year and fallen earlier in the week. Dirty snow clumped in patches throughout the streets. The sun had melted most of it, but in the bitter cold of night, it had turned to black ice. The wooden walkways were fine. The streets were slicker than snot, and I’d nearly fallen on my ass getting out of the car.
“GROSS!”
I turned to the tour group across the street. One of the kids, a girl with a pink beanie, pigtails and a bright red puffy jacket, was shouting.
“Ricky you’re disgusting!”
“It wasn’t me!”
An adult went to intercede. Her voice was stern, carrying clearly through the crisp air.
“That’s enough! Both of you. I don’t want to hear another word.”
The heavyset woman leading the tour decided to take advantage of the situation, raising her voice to be heard over the woman yelling at the kids.
“Spirits are capable of manifesting physically in the form of smells and sounds. Look at the reader, see how it’s lighting up. There’s a strong electromagnetic presence here. That smell could be the result of an angry spirit. They’re probably upset that we are interfering with whatever they were doing tonight. Now, if you direct your attention to the tunnel below us, we may be able to see something. ”
I turned as soon as she said smell. I really hoped they were just smelling the aftermath of some kid’s fast food ridden dinner. Several kids ducked down, using their phones to shine light between the cracks in the walkway.
“WOW! Dad, there’s something down there.”
No one else had time to kneel down. A bestial howl pierced the night, echoing down the street in the underground walkway. The tour group scrambled into the street moments before there was an explosion of wooden timbers. Then, everyone started screaming.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
The Wendigo tore through the wood in a flurry of splinters and broken planks, pulling itself up to the street with one arm. The other arm ended a foot from the shoulder joint in a bloody stump. I’d shot the arm off of the bastard an hour earlier. I’d ended up with a few buckets worth of blood on me. I’d slipped when it pushed me, and the thing had taken off running.
Nearly twelve feet tall, the furry creature was covered in blood, a macabre cocktail of its own black ichor and the dried blood of its victims. They needed flesh to regenerate, and Wendigo are infamous of their taste for human skin.
It had a head that resembled some a psychopathic imagining of an elk. Huge fifteen point antlers sprouted out four feet in either direction. It had an elongated snout, and instead of grass chewing molars, it had sharpened fangs that peaked out of blood soaked lips. The brown fur was going grey in places. That put it at forty or fifty years old. Decades of feasting on human flesh in the shadows.
It hadn’t eaten in several days. That was evident by the loose fur that hung about its remaining arm and haunches. I could see the outline of ribs as it stepped into the moonlight, taking in ragged gasps of air. It had taken a lot of damage losing an arm, and it needed to eat to regenerate. The ghost tour was an all you can eat buffet for the nasty bastard.
I stood, walking out of the shadows, bringing the KSG up and sighting in on the thing as it clawed its way out of the tunnel and onto its feet.
“MOVE!” I bellowed.
No one listened. To be fair, some of the tour was running, but they’d already been running before I’d said anything. The rest of them stood motionless. Silent screams froze in their throats. They were scared to the point where fight or flight had gone out the window. Fear ran deep in the face of something from the Hell.
I was fifteen yards away, walking slowing through the street to keep my footing on the ice. I sighted in on the Hellion, which wasn’t hard to do. The damn thing was huge. I had the KSG loaded with custom-made twelve gauge rounds. The lead shot had been replaced with ceramic ball bearings. I’d soaked all of them in anointing oil before I’d loaded them in the shells. The oil was like acid to Hellions, and the porous ball bearings had soaked it in. The rounds were effective. It’s why I’d been able to take off the thing’s entire arm in one shot.
The problem was that the ceramic was lighter than lead. It fragmented and spread like a son of a bitch when fired. At fifteen yards, I couldn’t risk hitting any of the people who hadn’t figured out it was time to run.
The Wendigo roared into the night, a funnel cloud of steam racing through the air as it did. It lumbered forward, looking to snatch up something to eat. It still hadn’t seen me from what I could tell. I needed to do something to get its attention.
I cursed as I used my thumb to flip the KSG’s selector. The shotgun had two tubes beneath the barrel. It was the main reason I’d bought it. It allowed you to keep two separate types of ammo in the gun and switch between them as needed. It’s always good to have options when you are hunting Hellions.
Even with the selector switched over, I still had a round of ceramic shot in the chamber. I turned, firing into a pile of icy snow to my right. Chips of ice showered in an eruption of frozen snow. I racked the slide quickly, chambering a one-ounce slug. It wouldn’t do as much damage per shot against the beast as the oil-soaked ceramic, but I also didn’t have to worry about hitting anyone else. Besides, it would still get the damn thing’s attention.
The first gunshot snapped everyone out of their trance. People turned back and forth from me to the Wendigo. More of them started to run. Everyone but the little girl with the pink beanie and pigtails. Even her worthless excuse for a mother ran away, leaving the kid in the street. People these days.
The Wendigo saw me and screamed. It stepped forward and made to grab the kid. I had no doubt in my mind that it meant to take her back down into the tunnel and scurry off to some hole to eat and heal up. I couldn’t let that happen.
The kid was short, and I could aim high. I sighted on center mass and fired. The gun barked, and the round punched a hole through Wendigo’s chest. Ribs shattered and ripped a section of matted fur as the round struck. I racked another round, moving forward as I did. I fired two more times, each slug taking the thing high in the torso.
It tried to scream at me, but I’d hit it in the lungs. Instead of a roar, it managed to wheeze a puddle of blood onto the ground.
I kept moving forward, firing as I did. The Wendigo took a step back with each shot, moving closer to the hole it came out of.
I reached the little girl, firing again. She had her hands over her ears and was shrieking at the top of her lungs, a funnel of steam billowing out of her mouth. She screamed until her breath ran out, took a deep sobbing breath and started to wail again.
I racked the gun and pulled the trigger to a click. The tube was empty. I flipped the selector back to the tube filled with ceramic rounds. I reached out with my free hand and grabbed hold of the little girl. I shook her. I tried to be gentle, but if I’m being honest, her little head snapped back and forth, pigtails flopped around. I blame it on the adrenaline.
Her brain rebooted. She looked at me, screamed, and punched me in the crotch.
“AH!” I yelled.
She kept screaming, running off down the street. I still had ahold of her arm, and between the dick punch and her running away, I got pulled off balance. I stepped sideways on the ice. My foot slipped out from under me, and I collapsed to the ground in a heap on the icy street. The Wendigo saw me fall and used the opportunity to attack.
It’d had enough energy to heal its lungs apparently, cause it screamed out again, blood still spraying into the air as it did. I didn’t look. I didn’t think. I moved on instinct, rolling on the ground and flopping like a fish. I slid and s
lipped along the ice, trying to avoid getting smashed into jelly.
There was a jarring impact as the Hellion smashed a clawed fist into the asphalt a few inches from my head. A piece of ice broke off and clipped my ear. I felt hot blood leaking down the side of my head inside the balaclava. I kept rolling.
I stopped on my stomach. I popped up to my knees and oriented myself toward the Wendigo, racking the slide as I did. No time to sight, I pinned the buttstock to my hip and pulled the trigger. I was met with a click. I cursed, checking the gun. I’d accidentally flipped the selector back to the empty tube when I’d fallen and rolled around like an idiot. The Hellion was charging, roaring into the night. I thumbed the selector, racked, and pinned the gun to my body in one series of smooth motions. I let my body do what it knew it needed to.
Five feet away, the Wendigo reared up, remaining arm high in the air. Its bloody lips were curled back around sharp, yellow teeth that longed for my flesh. I pulled the trigger. A fist-sized hole appeared in the thing’s stomach. If a river of blood and steam hadn’t started cascading out of the wound, I was pretty sure that I would have been able to see straight through the thing. I pumped another round in the chamber, pushing off my heels and standing back up as I did.
I moved the gun up high on the Hellion and pulled the trigger again. More blood and fur flew into the air as the ceramic shot took it in the shoulder. It’s remaining arm dropped, attached by a thin strip of dissolving fur and tendons. It swung uselessly, dragging across the ground. I racked and fired, this time at its right leg. The shot took it just below the hip, disintegrating a large chunk of its upper thigh. The Wendigo screamed in pain with each shot and collapsed as it staggered and put weight on a leg that was hardly attached to its desecrated body.
It growled and shrieked in pain as it tried to push itself away. With only one working limb, it wriggled and writhed away from me so slowly it was almost sad. Almost.
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