Matt Archer: Monster Hunter

by Kendra C. Highley

  That made me smile, and it felt good. Strength flooded through my arms and legs. I wiggled my fingers and toes. Everything was still in working order. My side ached, but not as bad as I would have thought, so I propped myself on my elbows. This time it didn’t wear me out as much. Someone had covered my stab wound, a long gash just under my right ribcage, with gauze and some kind of smelly paste.

  “Give me the phone. I’ll see if I can calm her down some.” He handed it to me. I cleared my throat and tried to sound cheerful. “Mamie, what’s up?”

  “You…you idiot!” That’s all I got before she burst into noisy sobs.

  “I’m fine. I just got a little scratched up.”

  “Scratched up? Matt!” she wailed. “I can’t do this anymore. We need to tell Mom!”

  “So Mom still doesn’t know?” How on earth had we gotten away with that? I’d been gone for days. Mom would never let me hang at Will’s that long.

  “Not yet. No thanks to the military’s flimsy cover story, though. Will and I had to improvise so she wouldn’t get suspicious,” she said with a sniffle.

  Improvise? “Where does Mom think I am?”

  “Aspen. I texted Mom on your phone, begging to go skiing with Will. Then he hacked Mrs. Cruessan’s email to send Mom a message saying it was okay for you to join them. Once she said yes, I took your ski bibs to Will’s, and he’s been hiding out at his place ever since to make sure he doesn’t run into anybody since he’s supposedly out of town. I send Mom texts from your phone every night, telling her about the trip, and I’ve been posting bogus pictures on your Facebook page.”

  “Is that how we’re going to explain the injuries? The ski trip?” I asked, impressed with her sneakiness.

  “Exactly. You’re supposed to be home from Aspen on Saturday, having taken a tumble down the mountain on Friday. Now, get better or I’ll kill you myself!” She sniffed once then hung up.

  “One tough cookie,” Johnson said. “Um hmm, wouldn’t want her on my case.”

  “No joke. How long have I been out?” I asked.

  “It’s Tuesday evening.”

  Two days? No wonder I needed to pee. “Please help me up, sir. I need to use the latrine. After that, I’d appreciate someone telling me what happened.”

  * * *

  Jorge insisted that we eat before we got down to business. As much as I wanted information, I almost cheered. Stab wound or not, I could’ve eaten raw Gator.

  I felt a ton better after eating. I was even able to get up and walk around on my own, as long as I didn’t go far. During my trip to la-la land, the team had moved to Jorge’s; the tents looked out of place around his hut. The hut itself was made of light-colored wood and straw, and was roundish, with a pointed roof. Jorge’s house was barely bigger than my bedroom, but the view made up for the lack of space.

  He lived on a cliff overlooking a swift stream running in the gorge below. Trees grew thick all around us, to the edge of the cliff, and tropical birds flew overhead in droves. The sunset, deep orange and pink, glowed through the vines, turning the whole sky rose-colored. Too bad Gators lived here—I’d consider moving, otherwise. It’d be nice to live someplace where I didn’t need a snow-blower.

  Jorge came to stand next to me. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  I still couldn’t get used to the way he talked—like an ivy-league college professor. “Your English is better than mine.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “You are fifteen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So young… I came home from the States before you were born, so I have been speaking English longer than you have, native tongue or not.”

  He put a finger on my cheek, turning my face this way and that. Jorge was so short, he had to reach up to do it. I had no clue what he was looking for, and he didn’t tell me.

  “We should talk,” was all he said before leaving me to stand alone.

  When it got dark, we gathered around a fire. Ramirez and Johnson sat to my left, Jorge to my right, with the rest of the team spread out in little groups around us. It was like being at camp. Except for the guns. I smothered a laugh when I remembered Ramirez saying they didn’t have time for fireside chats.

  “Before we get started,” Johnson said, his voice thick and more rumbling than usual, “I’d like to propose a moment of silence for the fallen, God rest their souls.”

  Heads bowed all around the campfire and tears stung my eyes. Borden didn’t deserved to die the way he had. Neither did Moreno or McAndrew. No one did. Anger started to burn through my veins. I’d hold onto the anger. It’d keep me focused, give me strength.

  Ramirez cleared his throat. “Jorge, you find some Gators out there?”

  “Yes—three. And I finished them,” Jorge said, with a hard smile. “The creatures that got away Sunday night are the last.”

  Did that mean the big Gator was still out there? I drew my knees to my chest with a shudder. “What happened after I got captured?”

  “Well, we saw a flash of light and ran your direction,” Ramirez said. “Jorge had slit one of the Gators’ throats. The rest were fleeing.”

  I stared at the little man. While Jorge couldn’t have been more than five-two, there wasn’t a more powerful person around. Not even Johnson. I could just tell. Something about the glint in his dark eyes, maybe. The intelligence mixed with magical powers…good thing this guy was on our side.

  “We bagged one more. Based on the kill count this week, we have three on the run,” Ramirez added.

  Three left. Who wanted to bet the big Gator was one of them? I tuned Ramirez out for a second, wondering if it was hunting for me. It’s laugh had haunted my nightmares while I was unconscious. Was it still laughing?

  When I came back to earth, Ramirez was talking about me.

  “…as much damage to your side as we originally thought—tore into the muscle layer, but didn’t puncture any organs. It was bad enough, though.” Ramirez rubbed his eyes. “Murphy had a hard time getting you stable. You’d lost a lot of blood by then.”

  “What about Patterson and Toldan. Will they be okay?” I asked, the image of Patterson’s bleeding chest seared onto my brain.

  “Yeah, man, they’ll be okay,” Johnson said. “Patterson needed about eighty stitches and three units of O positive, but he’ll make it just fine.” He paused, darting a look at Ramirez. “Toldan lost an eye.”

  “So three KIA, two others wounded, and you got slashed open,” Ramirez added. “Gators did a lot of damage.”

  “Gators? No, I stabbed myself when I fell.” I pulled my clean t-shirt away from the sticky paste that had worked past the gauze. The goo smelled like rotten plums. Might have been, for all I knew. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

  “The knife?” Ramirez sounded surprised. “We thought a Gator wounded you.”

  “Matt, you probably just don’t remember right…if you’d fallen on your knife, it would have laid you open like a gutted fish,” Johnson said, his voice soothing, as if I was still out of it.

  Jorge chuckled. “No, I’m sure he remembers right.”

  Like they’d planned it, the entire team turned in unison to stare at me.

  “What…what are you talking about?” My knife, sheathed and sitting on the dirt in front of me, hummed in response.

  “The knives protect us when they can. I accidentally slid my finger along the blades a few times when forging them, and never cut or burned myself.” Jorge scooted closer to me, a strange smile on his face. “But yours reacts when you aren’t touching it. I’ve not seen that before.”

  “You haven’t?” I squeaked.

  “No,” Jorge said, looking me over like I was an interesting lab specimen. “Of the five knives, yours is the only one that reacts to its wielder without physical contact. Your spirit-bond with your blade is unique. Impressive.”

  “Wait, spirit-bond?” I blurted out. Ramirez and I exchanged freaked glances.

  “Yes, it’s time you knew exactly what all of you have been chosen for,” Jorge answe
red. “The knives are alive.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “What do you mean, alive?” I asked, trying to keep the panic I felt out of my voice. I didn’t want to look like a pansy in front of the Green Berets.

  Ramirez nodded fast. “Yeah, what do you mean? Magic, sure. But this is the first I’m hearing about spirits.”

  Jorge laughed. “I had a hard enough time convincing your Army that you needed the knives in the first place. Do you honestly think a group of soldiers would have trusted a weapon that could think for itself?”

  “Man has a point,” Johnson muttered.

  “My ancestors have been trying to forge these blades for centuries, based on the vision one of our elders saw of the coming dark war. The elder saw the knives as well, as the weapons necessary to our survival, so my people set out to create them.” Jorge said, settling cross-legged closer to the fire. “From father to son, my family has been trying to make these blades since that time.”

  “It’s taken this long?” I asked. Talk about being patient.

  “It has,” he answered. “We knew how to craft them in the ancient way, with gold and copper and special spells. But there was always something missing; the metal would not hold power. Not until I discovered how to bind the spirits of light to the blades. University education goes a long way.” He grunted out a laugh. “Chemistry and the occult, you see? Old and new…science and the mystical. Fusion, yes? That’s what was missing.”

  “So you went to Yale…to make your magic better?” Johnson asked, looking at Jorge in disbelief. “Don’t know that I’ve ever heard that one before.”

  Jorge laughed outright at that. “Indeed. And it worked. Of course, I did blow out half the windows in the lab the night I solved the problem. The result was a bit more explosive than I imagined. But it still worked.”

  I stared at my knife. Yeah, it had definitely worked. Dozens of dead monsters agreed. “Is that when you came home?”

  “Yes,” Jorge said. “My family has served these people for generations, and now I had the right tools. This is where I’m needed. The light told me as much, and I trust its counsel most of the time.”

  “So, the spirits…they talk to you?” Ramirez asked.

  “Of course. They talk to you, too, Major. You just haven’t learned to listen,” Jorge said. “They are a part of each of us.”

  I shivered. I’d been carrying a spirit around in my backpack. One that talked to me. A lot of puzzle pieces were falling into place now.

  Jorge went on. “That’s why the knife didn’t kill Matt when he fell on the blade. The spirits protected him. Dulled the edge, maybe.”

  “I always wondered why I never had to sharpen my knife. The spirits must be maintaining the blades,” Ramirez said.

  “Wait—maybe that explains something else then, too,” Johnson said, pointing at me. “Matt looks like he got stretched by a taffy machine since I saw him last fall. Major Tannen said the kid shot up half a foot in just a few months. Can the spirits change people?”

  Jorge looked thoughtful. “It’s possible. In fact, in the boy’s case, I’d say it’s likely.”

  I controlled the urge to chuckle in hysteria, because I’d figured that out weeks ago.

  “I’m a wielder and they haven’t changed me physically,” Ramirez said, giving me a strange look. “Why would they mess with Archer?”

  “My guess?” Jorge said. “The spirits saw a need to push him to adult fighting strength as quickly as possible to level the playing field for all five wielders. I don’t think they are pushing him beyond the natural order—making him taller than he would have been, for example—but are simply speeding up his normal growth.”

  “I still don’t get why they picked me in the first place. Wouldn’t it have been easier to stick with my Uncle Mike?” I asked.

  “Did you notice the Gators seemed to recognize you?” Jorge asked, raising an eyebrow. “When I came to save you the other night, I overheard them talking. They knew who you were.”

  Ramirez’s jaw dropped. “They what?”

  “Oh, yes, Major,” he said. “The Gators are quite afraid of Matt. One told the others to be careful because ‘El muchacho es muy peligroso’—the boy’s dangerous.”

  Icy sludge filled my gut. It was true then; the Gators knew me. “But how did they find out about me? I’ve only been here a few days.”

  “We’re talking about supernatural beings, Matt. The regular communication channels don’t exactly apply.” Jorge’s smile was kind and amused. “But you do appear very closely bound to your blade’s spirit. It gives you an edge, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “You’re also one hell of a fighter,” Johnson added.

  “Yes, you are,” Jorge said. “The spirits compliment your natural abilities, turning you into a skilled weapon. I imagine this is why they chose you. If that is true, then you are very dangerous to the other side. And the dark spirits know it.”

  The icy sludge formed into a ball and my gut ached. “But what’s so special about me? If the spirits can change people, why not pick someone stronger and faster to begin with and turn him into Superman or something?”

  “You’re marked by blood,” Jorge said. “All five of the wielders are. Our forefathers possessed great strength and courage. The knives recognized that strength in us.” He stood, pacing about the fire. “But, in your case, I believe there’s more. You are marked by name as well.”

  A sharp zap, like a shock, hit my heart as I got what he meant. Archer. Except for blue eyes, my last name was the only thing my dad had ever given me. Archer was a soldier’s name. A hunter’s name.

  “Your knife was the last I made. The best,” Jorge said. “I thought it would choose to stay with me, but it didn’t. It left with your uncle, then found you.” He knelt next to me. “You’re destined to fight, Mr. Archer. What else all this means, I cannot say. I simply don’t know, not yet. But you are one of the wielders. A warrior against dark spirits.”

  None of this information did much to cheer me up, because if what Jorge said was true, I had no future. Only a mission. To save humankind from demons, terrors, and evil creatures bent on our destruction. Armed only with a knife.

  “Blood and light,” I said, feeling numb.

  Jorge sucked in a surprised breath. “Yes. Your blood. The spirit’s light.”

  The knife’s handle flashed blue, as if to tell me I’d finally worked out a secret it had been trying to share. I picked it up. Like always, something about the blade’s weight steadied my nerves. An entire team of Green Berets had my back. Will and Mamie were with me, and now Ella was, too. With that kind of help, maybe I could tackle this quest thing.

  “Yeah,” I murmured to my knife, “you and I have work to do.”

  * * *

  Jorge gave me some tea that tasted like stewed tree bark. It made me sleepy, and I went to bed early. I dreamed about normal things. Ella in a pink bikini. An otter riding a unicycle. No monsters. I woke up feeling more rested than I had for a long time.

  When I staggered out of the tent, looking for breakfast, I found Jorge standing at the edge of his cliff, watching the sun come up over the trees. Murphy had guard duty. He walked the perimeter of camp, his automatic at the ready. Everyone else was crashed out.

  “Buenos Diaz,” Jorge said. “Sleep well?”

  I nodded. “No clue what was in that tea, but I slept great.”

  “I imagine you did,” Jorge said, smiling. “Strong stuff, but I wanted you feeling rested. We hunt tonight.”

  Hunt? I’d been stabbed and dragged through the jungle a few days ago, and he wanted me to hunt? I leaned against a tree trunk, rubbing the sore spot on my rib cage. “You think I’m well enough?”

  “I don’t know.” Jorge sighed. “The fact that you’re so young grieves me. It’s quite a burden, being a wielder.”

  That comment caught me off-guard after all of his “you’ve been chosen” crap the night before. He sounded like Mike did early on, and I was tire
d of people saying I was just a kid.

  “I can handle it,” I said.

  “Then you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you?” Jorge gave me a sidelong glance and his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

  Oh, yeah, I’d walked right into that one. Reverse psychology…hard to believe I fell for it.

  “Guess I did.”

  “But,” Jorge said, serious now, “it doesn’t matter if you are ready or not. The knives choose our path—not us.”

  The truth could be a kick in the pants sometimes. Because Jorge was right; the job couldn’t wait, not this time. I didn’t have the luxury of healing up first. Maybe I never would again.

  “I’m ready just the same,” I said.

  “I know,” Jorge said. When he looked at me, I could see that he meant it. “We didn’t finish part of our conversation last night. About why I came home, despite the culture shock.”

  “You said you were needed in Peru—that your family had always served here,” I said.

  “True, but I could have ignored the need. I made a life in the States. I became used to modern conveniences and it was hard to give that up. But I did.” Jorge stared at the valley below us and we watched a flock of birds take flight against the brightness of the rising sun. “I came back because I have a duty. And duty isn’t a choice for those of us who seek to be good men. Remember that.”

  Jorge was just full of sunshine this morning. Still, what he said stuck in my head. I didn’t want to be like my dad. I wouldn’t run out on my responsibilities because it was easier.

  “I’ll remember,” I said.

  He clamped a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Spend the day resting. We’ll meet just before dusk.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sitting in the middle of Jorge’s hut, getting painted with mud by the light of a camping lantern, wasn’t how I thought the hunting party would start.

  “Um, Jorge, are you sure this is gonna work?” I asked.

  He put the finishing touches on a symbol on my right shoulder in the thick, gloppy mud. “These symbols offer protection against evil. Considering how well the knives work, maybe you ought to trust me. What do you have to lose?”