The Monster Hunters

by Larry Correia

She laughed, and it was such a pretty laugh. I reluctantly handed her gun back. She reinserted the magazine, chambered a round, and then took the mag out to top it off with the extracted round she still had in her hand. She paused for a second and then tossed it to me. Reflexively I snatched it out of the air.

  Examining the cartridge, I noticed it was a strange design. The case was normal brass, but the bullet itself was different. It was shaped like an ordinary .45 bullet, except that it appeared to be a standard jacketed hollowpoint, with a shiny metallic ball filling the cavity. The two pieces appeared to be sealed together into a solid projectile.

  “What’s this?”

  “Contrary to the Lone Ranger, silver bullets really suck compared to good old-fashioned lead. Silver’s too hard, and it doesn’t fully engage the rifling. It’s lighter than lead, so you get really lightweight projectiles with lousy accuracy. It’s pretty useless except for one thing: it’s the only thing that will kill some of the stuff we face.”

  “Why is that, anyway?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows for sure, but we have some theories. Most popular is it is a violent reaction of evil creatures to the thirty pieces of silver that Judas was paid. The Vatican’s Hunter team says that it is because silver is a pure metal that represents goodness, while lead is a base metal of the earth. You get other weird ideas from Wiccans and mystics, but even science is stumped why silver works so much better on bona fide evil creatures. All we know is that it does. Lycanthropes can’t regenerate, and even vampires feel pain from silver.”

  “Looks like a Corbon Pow’r Ball.” That was a type of regular defensive ammunition that I had used a few times before. It used a ball stuck in a hollow cavity designed to squish back to force expansion of the bullet on impact, thereby increasing the severity of the wound.

  “Good call. That’s who we stole the idea from. The ball in front is pure silver. It penetrates well, and as the silver is forced back it expands the traditional lead slug around it. Usually the silver fragments off after a few inches and leaves a separate wound cavity. Best of both worlds. Still works like a regular bullet, shoots like a regular bullet, but enough silver to do a number on evil. We have them made for us specifically. They cost a fortune, so we only make them in .45 for pistols and subguns, and .308 for rifles. When we need lots of silver up close and fast, we use a modified silver double-aught buckshot.”

  “Now you’re talking my language.” I held up the bullet. “So I guess that’s what the Feds were going to shoot me with if I had been infected.”

  “Nope, they use a sintered metal. Silver powder encased in a polymer matrix. Neat stuff, but the company that makes it only sells to the government.” She caught the bullet when I tossed it back. She loaded it back in the magazine, inserted that back into her 1911 and reholstered without looking.

  “You really know your stuff.”

  “Thanks. I love my job . . . I really shouldn’t have another piece, but this stuff is great,” she said as she went for another slice of pizza. “I think you’ll fit right in at MHI. It really is a great thing that we do, and we’re a good company to work for.”

  “So about this ‘relationship’?” I used my fingers to make quotation marks. Julie rolled her eyes at me behind her glasses.

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “Isn’t that why you guys want to hire me?”

  “Tenacity good. Stalking bad.”

  “Okay, agreed, stalking bad. Especially when the stalkee is packing heat. So are you and Earl an item?”

  Julie snorted and started to choke on her pizza. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to laugh or not die. So I didn’t know if I should be in on the joke, or try to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

  “Earl? You’ve got to be kidding me. No. Oh no. Hell no. We’re related. This is a family business. Why would you even think that? Earl’s much older than me.”

  “He doesn’t look that old.”

  “Let’s just say that the man has aged well. Earl has been like a dad to me. He pretty much raised me and my brothers.” There was an audible trace of her Southern accent when she said that.

  “Why?”

  She thought about it for a moment, as if debating whether she should tell me or not, finally she shook her head in the negative.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” It was obvious it did matter, but it was a sensitive topic and none of my business. On that subject she seemed to be wound tight as a spring. “Just know that Earl is probably the greatest Hunter alive. If he tells you something, listen.”

  “So is your boyfriend a Hunter too?”

  “Yes he is, and if you ask me any more personal questions, I’m going to beat you to death with your own crutch.” She was only half joking, and in my current physical condition, she could probably do it without elevating her heartbeat.

  We finished the pizza as the afternoon slowly turned into evening. Julie gradually filled in the gaps in my knowledge about her company, though she was tight-lipped and uncomfortable talking about herself. I did learn more about this interesting woman as she talked about her work, because it was so obviously a big part of her. Julie had worked in this field since she was a child, and seemed to know it very well. As the daylight fled, she started to glance nervously toward the window. I did not ask why.

  She was a veritable encyclopedia of monster-related knowledge, and she even let slip the fact that she had earned a degree in ancient history and a master’s in archeology because it pertained so much to her life’s work.

  When I had asked why those particular fields, she explained that the battle did not start recently, and she left it at that. The open window kept drawing her attention. It was dark outside. Finally I could not help but ask, “So why are you so distracted? What’re you looking for?”

  Julie sighed, and brushed back her long dark hair, looking relieved. She yawned, stretched, and stood, adjusted her jacket and prepared to leave. She patted her gun to make sure it was properly holstered. “I’ve got to be going.”

  “Why?” I asked, puzzled by the sudden change.

  “You don’t realize what tonight is, do you?” she asked.

  “Thursday?” I answered helpfully as I grabbed my crutch and pulled myself out of my chair.

  “I wonder if we stole the right file, because for a genius you’re not real fast on the uptake.”

  I shrugged. I had no idea. She grabbed my arm and helped me stand up. Julie looked me in the eye, and I could see my reflection in her thick glasses. Her brown eyes were beautiful.

  “It’s been one month since you were attacked. The test came back negative, but they’re not always right.”

  She guided me as I hobbled over to the window. The full moon hung low and bright above the Dallas skyline. I realized now why she had stayed. Other than my still-sore leg and healing muscles, I felt fine. I wasn’t spouting any hair, at least not any more than my normal prodigious amount.

  “So it was a test?”

  “Nothing personal. We just had to make sure.”

  “Oh.” I could not think of anything to say. She had been prepared to kill me all along.

  We silently watched the sky. I realized that she was still holding my arm, standing close, and I could feel the warm, soft pressure of her body against mine. There together, in the light of the moon, just the slight tenseness of her hands on the muscles of my arm, I could feel her breath on my ear. It was a good moment. I wished that it could last forever. Unfortunately she was only holding me to help keep my pathetic crippled ass from falling down.

  Once she was sure that I was stable on my crutch she let go. She reached into her purse, produced a card and handed it over. The card had a set of directions, a very basic map, and a picture of a green happy face with horns.

  “We’re putting together a training class. It’s going to be brutally hard, because we only hire the best. Once you have had a chance to think about it, if you’re still interested, be at the location on that card in three weeks.” I put the card i
n my pocket.

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  “Good. Welcome to MHI.” She shook my hand in a professional manner.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll let myself out,” Julie said. She started to walk away, leaving me to watch the moon.

  Julie Shackleford made it a few steps, and then surprised me by turning around and coming back. I felt her full lips brush softly against my cheek in a brief kiss. Luckily the crutch was well grounded or I might have fallen headfirst out the window in shock.

  “You’re a sweet guy, Owen. Thanks for the nice dinner. See you in a few weeks.” Then she glided away.

  At least I waited for the confirmation of my front door closing before grinning like an idiot. It had been a good day after all. I had gotten some of my questions answered. I had found a new job, one that at least sounded interesting, even if it was a bit of a career change on the insane side. I had, in theory at least, a check for $50,000 in my pocket. And best of all, a pretty girl had kissed me on the cheek. Yes, it had been a great day indeed.

  I pulled the card and examined it. I was going to Alabama.

  Chapter 4

  The next three weeks had passed quickly. The PUFF check had, surprisingly enough, cleared. And with a bloated bank account, I had packed my bags, sold or given away most of my stuff, broken the lease on my apartment, and driven to the middle of nowhere, following the directions that Julie Shackleford had left me.

  Everything that I still owned was stuffed into the backseat and trunk of my rust-brown Chevy Caprice. All I had was a couple duffel bags with clothing, my laptop, a few other supplies, and about a dozen guns. There was no way I was parting with those. It was a good thing that a Caprice’s trunk is big enough to suit a Mafia don.

  Julie’s directions had been printed on a 3x5 card. Her parting instructions had been for me to meet at the location listed at a certain time and date. She had told me that food and lodging would be provided, but she had not given me any other details.

  I had driven straight through from Dallas to Alabama, thoughts of the absurdity of what I was doing nagging at me the entire time. welcome to the heart of dixie, the sign on the border had proclaimed. I stopped once in Montgomery to pick up a better map. According to the card’s directions the place I was driving to was nothing but an almost blank green spot on the map with only one road and one small dot for a town. Cazador, Alabama.

  It took another two hours from Montgomery to arrive in Cazador, but a good half of that was spent driving lost through the forest. The trees were dense and the underbrush was thick and still over the iron-red soil. The country around Cazador consisted of beautiful rolling hills interspersed with many streams and creeks.

  The town itself was really more of a village. There were a few small stores, a Baptist church directly across from a Church of Christ, and a scattering of houses. The buildings appeared old and weathered. An old sign near the road read simply cazador, alabama, population 682. A slightly newer sign beneath stated that guided tours of the catfish plant were available from noon until four. I’m sure that was a barrel of fun.

  I stopped for overpriced gas, a soda, and to scrape the bugs off of my windows at the only convenience store in town. A few locals made eye contact but nobody spoke to me. I overheard a toothless geezer murmuring to the cashier something about fresh meat. I didn’t care to guess if he was talking about me or the lunch menu.

  Following the final directions on the card, I had taken a small, barely paved road through some more hills and into even deeper woods. It branched and I kept to the west for another mile. I almost missed the gravel turnoff. My main indication that I had found the home of Monster Hunter International was a small sign painted with the letters mhi and a green smiley face. The smiley face had horns. As my car bounced slowly down the gravel road I took note of the many no trespassing and trespassers will be shot warnings.

  Finally I came to an open gate surrounded by high chain link and razor wire. Near the gate, a man sat in a folding chair under the shade of a large umbrella, relaxed and apparently listening to a big battery-powered radio. He waved lazily as I braked and rolled down my window.

  He was an interesting-looking fellow, weathered to the point that it was difficult to guess his age, a little shorter than average, with a shaved head, small wire-rimmed glasses over a blunt freckled nose, and a thick red beard that was absurdly long and pointy. The end had even been braided with a few decorative beads. He was wearing a Rush Tom Sawyer T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Birkenstock sandals. He looked kind of like a granola-eating environmentalist type, except for the worn M4 carbine hanging idly from a tactical sling draped over his shoulder. He was spitting the remains of sunflower seeds into a cup.

  “Hi. I’m looking for MHI,” I said.

  The man adjusted his glasses and looked at me, head tilted at a slightly strange angle as he smiled absently. Suddenly he clicked his tongue and pointed at me.

  “Big dude . . . Scar face. You must be that guy Earl found. Threw a werewolf out a window?”

  “That would be me.” I realized that the boom box was set to a talk radio station, and the subject was something to do with black helicopters and cattle mutilation. “Julie Shackleford offered me a job.”

  “She does that a lot. We’re a little shorthanded right now, but that’s a long story. Drive straight in, park in front of the biggest building. You’re a little early, but a few other Newbies are already here. The Boss said that he would say a few words to you guys, so just hang out.”

  “Newbie?”

  “New hire. Greenies. Monster bait. Organ donors. You know. It’s slang.”

  “Oh, okay . . . I’m Owen Pitt.” I stuck my hand out the window.

  “Milo Ivan Anderson. Jack of all trades, master of a couple. Call me Milo. If you live long enough I’m the guy that gets to teach you how all of the cool stuff works.” He shook my hand and grinned. His beard stretched halfway to his shorts. “See you around.”

  I parked in the lot that Milo pointed out, locked the doors out of habit, and checked out the surroundings. The MHI property could probably best be described as a compound. The main building appeared to be the only permanent structure, being constructed of heavy red brick and steel. It was an office building, but with narrow windows, obviously thick walls, and iron bars. It looked like it could pass muster as a fortress if the need arose. I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been a big pot, full of boiling oil, just out of sight on the wide, flat roof. As I entered I realized that the main doors opened into a small room that funneled down to a smaller set of doors. Suspended overhead was what appeared to be a heavy portcullis that could be dropped to seal the secondary doors. Very interesting.

  An older lady was seated behind a massive reception desk. She smiled at me as I approached. At least the staff here was friendly. She had to be in her sixties and looked plump and cheerful. She was wearing a matronly purple knit sweater, but the large-frame revolver in her shoulder holster was printing pretty badly through the fabric.

  “Hello, dear. You must be here for the orientation,” she said.

  “Yes. My name’s Owen Pitt.”

  “Oh, I recognize you. You’re the one that kicked that werewolf’s ass. That was some mighty fine brawling, sonny.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

  “No, thank you. Earl showed us all that video. It was right entertaining. I hate werewolves. Used to hunt the sons a bitches once my own self. Used to could do a fair job in my day, till one of the bastards took my leg. This one here is plastic.” She knocked on her plastic leg for effect. It made a hollow noise. “My old one was made out of wood, but it would swell up when it got humid. I reckon it does get mighty wet in these parts. No place at all for a wood leg. Could be worse. Old Leroy had himself a wood eye. Painted it brown, same color as the other. Summer time roll around, damn thing would swell till it would get stuck pointing in one direction. Poor old Leroy. He was a good one. Oh well, sign in here.”

  My signa
ture was quick and sloppy on the clipboard. As an accountant you have to sign your name a lot. You try to keep a pretty signature when you have to sign it a couple hundred times a day. There were at least twenty names ahead of mine.

  “My name’s Dorcas. Some kids nowadays snicker at that name. But my ma said that it was a right fine biblical name, and it has suited me for close to seventy years. Any punk kids make fun of my name, I’ll put my plastic foot in their ass. Got that, boy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” That was my instinctive response to crotchety old ladies. Especially former Monster Hunters strapped with what appeared to be a .44 magnum.

  “Good, go down the hall. Double door on the right. That’s the cafeteria and meeting hall. Now scat. I got business to conduct.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I hurried away so Dorcas could continue her game of solitaire on the computer.

  As I strolled in the direction the receptionist had indicated, something caught my eye. I paused in front of a wall of small silver plaques. There had to be at least four hundred of them and they took up quite a bit of space. Not all of them had pictures, but all had a name, a birth date, and a death date. The oldest plaques mostly lacked photos, and the birth dates started clear back in the 1850s. It was a wall of remembrance for fallen comrades. There was an inscription in Latin carved into a large polished board at the top of the wall. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.

  Being an auditor by trade I could not help but notice the curious fact that almost a hundred of the newest memorials shared the same death date: December 15, 1995.

  Whatever had happened on that date must have been a black day for the Hunters.

  Also strange, there was a span going forward from that day, with no new death dates until a few in the current year. The six-year gap was conspicuous by its absence.

  A group was waiting in the cafeteria. There were a few small pockets of conversation, but mostly they had pulled up chairs by themselves and were waiting nervously. Not being one for socializing, I grabbed a metal folding chair and took up residence in the back of the room. The fellow to my right was snoring loudly. To my left was a young Asian man, warily watching the others. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Albert Lee. When I asked him how he had ended up here he muttered something about spiders. Big spiders.