The Monster Hunters

by Larry Correia

  Milo Anderson paced back and forth in front of the assembled Newbies. Today he was wearing a Violent Femmes T-shirt and his red beard had been braided into two separate forks, both seemingly long enough to rappel from. Occasionally he would stop before a Newbie, examine them critically, and then pause long enough to adjust some strap or buckle. He was the creator of the suit, as well as many of the other devices the Hunting teams used.

  Grant Jefferson watched us smugly in our discomfort. He was wearing his armor, which had been tailored to suit him better. Holly had said that he was dashingly handsome, and even she, being so very jaded and cynical about men because of her background, found him very charismatic and charming. She told me that it was easy to see why Grant and Julie had hooked up. He was young, smart, good-looking, knew how to talk to people, and everybody loved him. I still wanted to kick his ass.

  On Grant’s shoulder was a patch with the green smiley face with horns that was the unofficial company logo, which only Harbinger’s personal team wore. We had been told that the other teams made up their own logos. The only other team logo that I had seen here at the compound had been a fire-breathing warthog that Dorcas had engraved onto her plastic leg. Grant wore the smiley face with pride—apparently it was a real honor to end up on Harbinger’s team. I had learned that he had only been a Hunter since the business had reopened, but he had shown so much potential in training that he had been picked to fill a void on what was considered the best team.

  “You will learn to live in these suits for days at a time. This suit will save your life. This suit will become like a second skin to you.” Grant was lecturing us, gesturing at his own gear. Milo stopped in front of me with a scowl and adjusted the webbing around my torso. Apparently Milo had never had to make a suit for somebody as big as I am, and it had been a bit of a challenge to come up with Kevlar sheets for a sixty-two-inch chest.

  “Psst . . . Milo,” I whispered. “Since these are supposed to be like second skins, where’s yours?”

  “Screw that. It’s hot,” he answered.

  And he invented the darn thing. Testify, brother, I thought.

  “One time this suit saved my life. You can see right here where I was clawed by a golem. See, right there on the abdomen. Surely this would have been a mortal blow, but I was able to shrug it off and stay in the fight. I dispatched the monster and was able to rush to the aid of my team and save them from certain death,” Grant told us, lifting up the front of his armor so we could all see his sculpted abs. The man must do crunches in his sleep to look like that. Grant had been talking forever, and unlike the other instructors, did not have a drop of humility in his soul. I was about ten minutes from a heat stroke, and we were stuck suffering in the sun while our teacher blathered.

  Milo rolled his eyes and went back to adjusting straps. “Some golem. It was three feet tall,” he muttered under his breath so it was barely audible to just me, “ass.”

  The armor was a modular system that could be configured by the user depending on what kind of threat we were going to face. A thick layer of stab-proof Kevlar covered the vital organs. Though not much heavier than regular thick clothing, the sleeves and pant legs had the same fibers sewn into the fabric. There was a neck guard that could be raised to resemble a turtleneck to protect against bites. Most of the threats we would face would involve teeth or claws, so unlike regular body armor, ours was designed for that rather than for bullet resistance. Milo informed us that the torso was rated the same as a traditional level IIIA bulletproof vest, able to stop most pistol rounds. There were pouches on the front and back designed to hold ceramic plates that could stop rifle rounds if the threat warranted it, and if the user didn’t mind the extra weight. The system incorporated load-bearing gear and pouches for magazines, weapons, tools, medical kits, or whatever other useful things the Hunter might need.

  There were two different types of gloves that came with the suit. One was a basic shooting glove that offered a small amount of protection, but still allowed good dexterity. And the other was a heavy armored gauntlet for when you needed maximum protection and just had to wade in and crush some heads. The heavy units could be attached to the end of the sleeves. There were also two types of helmets. The first was simply a modified hockey helmet, good basically to keep you from banging yourself in the skull when blundering around in the dark. The second, an armored monstrosity that looked kind of like a motorcycle helmet with a full visor and face shield, could be attached to the neck guard. With the heavy gloves and big helmet, a suited Monster Hunter could become a chew toy for a pile of zombies and come out gnawed on, but unbitten. Unfortunately for me, Milo did not have a helmet that would fit my enormous head so he had special-ordered one. Hopefully nothing would try to eat me before then.

  The armor had lots of extras designed just for the people in our peculiar business. A CO2 cartridge was carried in the shoulder harness. In case of emergency it could be activated and the harness would inflate. Handy if you got dumped into deep water, because it was difficult to swim while strapped with piles of gear. My understanding was that Sam, our former SEAL, had insisted on that device. Each suit also had a GPS unit for navigation, which occasionally came in handy to locate a Hunter’s body when the bad guys won.

  The armor could be ordered in whatever color you wanted, as long as it was black, olive drab, or coyote brown. There was not a lot of use for festive colors in monster hunting, nor were there a lot of suppliers of heavyweight military-strength Cordura in any other colors. I had gone with brown. Grant had gone with black. He probably thought it made him look tough. I thought he looked kind of like a silly version of Darth Vader. I took comfort in the fact that he had to be cooking in the sun right about now, though the bastard did not even give me the satisfaction of looking uncomfortable.

  “Pay attention,” Grant snapped at me. Milo rolled his eyes again. I snickered. Grant stormed toward us like a bulldog.

  “Pitt. I don’t like your attitude.”

  “Trust me, Grant. It’s mutual,” I snapped back.

  “What did you say?” He poked me in the chest with his trigger finger. I couldn’t feel a thing through the armor, but that did not change the fact that I did not like getting poked. It was hot, I was tired, and frankly in no mood to put up with any nonsense. Milo wisely moved aside.

  “I said it’s mutual. Meaning I don’t like your attitude either.”

  “I’m trying to teach you Newbies how to stay alive.”

  “Then teach. All I’m hearing is stories about how great you are. I came here to learn how to kill stuff, not to join your fan club.”

  He stabbed me again. “I’m a pro. You need to shut your stupid Newbie mouth. You think you know so much. I saw that video. You got lucky with that werewolf, and now you think you’re hot shit.”

  “You had best take that hand off of me,” I said. The rest of the class was gradually spreading out around us. The group could sense trouble brewing and were ready for some entertainment. Apparently I was not the only one in a foul mood.

  “Or what?” And he poked harder. It was really kind of a useless gesture considering the armor could stop a battle-ax. With years of experience bouncing rowdy people from bars, I had a good sense of when somebody was itching for trouble, and Grant was itching bad.

  “I’ll take it off and feed it to you.” I smiled at him and winked. That really seemed to anger him. Grant’s movie-star face turned bright red. He was as tall as I was, but not nearly as big or as strong. I had no doubt that I could beat him mercilessly.

  “I could have you kicked out of here like that.” He took his hand away long enough to snap his fingers, then he went back to poking me.

  “For what?” asked Milo, arms folded, studying the other instructor. Milo was by far the senior in experience, and in the amount of respect he received from the trainees. That was easy though, Milo Anderson was a likable guy. Grant on the other hand . . .

  “Insubordination,” Grant hissed. “One word to the Boss about y
our attitude and you’re gone.”

  “If I’m going to get kicked out, believe me, I’m going to have some fun doing it.” I felt my body tense as the adrenaline began to flow. If Grant wanted a piece of me, I was prepared to give that preppie piece of trash what he wanted.

  “Grant.” Milo spoke quietly. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re picking a fight with somebody who outweighs you by a hundred pounds of muscle. Insubordination, my butt. You say anything to the Boss and my side of the story will be that you were trying to commit suicide by accountant.”

  “I could take him,” the junior instructor stated coldly. “He isn’t as tough as everybody thinks.”

  “Grant, I could kick your ass. Pitt would make you his bitch.”

  That took the wind out of Grant’s sails. I could see the realization dawn in his blue eyes, the realization that I could probably turn him into pulp. I just kept smiling, still prepared to mess up his pretty face and give him the opportunity to digest some of his perfectly white teeth. He had already pushed too far, though. He could not back off now without looking bad. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear.

  “Stay away from Julie, you son of a bitch. I’ve seen you looking at her.” I was surprised. So that was what this was all about. I had barely even seen her since training had started.

  “Bite me,” I replied.

  “Enough!” Milo shouted. “Class is over. It’s too hot and everybody’s tempers are short. You’ve been working hard. Go grab some lunch.”

  Grant stepped back and glared at the little man. Milo met his gaze evenly. I think that my nemesis quickly realized that the other instructor had just given him a window of opportunity to back out of his potential beating and not look like a wimp in front of the others. Grant Jefferson may have been a prick, but he was no dummy.

  “Fine. Class dismissed,” Grant sneered. “I’ll be seeing you around, Pitt.” He spun on his polished boots and haughtily strode away.

  “Looking forward to it,” I rumbled under my breath as the group began to disperse. Milo shouted for all of us to turn our suits in to his workshop for adjustments before we left the compound for our weekend off. There were some relieved sighs as the Newbies unceremoniously began to remove their armor. I stomped away to avoid speaking to anybody.

  Not that it did me much good. One person followed me. Trip patted me on my armored shoulder to get my attention. “Have I ever told you how much I respect your professionalism and restraint?”

  “Some people just need a good beating.”

  “I agree. The man’s a jerk. But last night I talked you out of quitting, so I don’t want to see you get fired today,” Trip said as we started toward the cafeteria, new suits creaking. Hopefully they would break in and soften up. My friend continued speaking as if I was one of his former ignorant teenage students. “You know why he hates you, right?”

  I had spoken about my infatuation with Julie Shackleford to Trip. He was my roommate after all. “I suppose I do.”

  “Well, then, you would be wrong.”

  “Huh?”

  “You think it’s because of the girl. Grant probably thinks it’s because of the girl too. That’s because you’re both idiots.”

  “Gee, thanks, Trip.” We continued walking slowly, talking quietly so the others wouldn’t hear our conversation. “Well, if it isn’t because of her, what’s his problem?”

  “You’re his problem. I’ve seen this before. Grant is the golden boy. He came in here last year and tore stuff up. He’s the best at everything. Even the big dogs took him under their wing. I bet he has won at everything he’s ever tried. You come along, and you’re naturally better than him at some things, so immediately he doesn’t like you. It is all about pride, my friend, and Grant is stuffed so full of it it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst.”

  “Okay, I can see that.”

  “And you do keep staring at his woman like a slobbering moron.”

  “Slobbering?” That hurt.

  “And you’re a smart ass who can’t help but show him up every chance that you get.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And you can’t handle losing just as bad as him. You’re both torn up with pride, and like the Bible says, pride is the sin that will drag you down faster than anything else.”

  “Where does it say that?”

  “Luke chapter . . . something or other. Well, that’s what my mom said about it anyway.”

  “Thanks, Pastor Jones. I’ll be sure to keep my pride and my slobbering in check from now on.” I laughed. He was not that much older than I was, but somewhere along the line Trip had gained a lot more wisdom than I had.

  “That’s Father Reverend Elder Jones to you . . . heathen. Now let’s get some lunch. We got the whole weekend off, and we’re going to need our energy. I’ve got an auntie who lives in Wetumpka, up past Montgomery, and we’re gonna have us a party. Have you ever had chitlins? Bona fide Southern delicacy.”

  “Can’t say that I have. What the hell’s a chitlin?” The way he said it, I didn’t know if chitlins were a delicacy or a form of torture. Probably could go either way, depending on your perspective.

  “Then you’re going to have yourself one hell of a weekend, Z.”

  Chapter 6

  I was dreaming. I found myself in the same field as I’d been in during the strange dream that I had experienced in the hospital. Once again, the crop was lush and green, and my feet were bare. The air was cool and fresh, so I definitely was not in Alabama. The sky was darker and thick black rain clouds were collecting on the horizon. It looked like it was going to be a terrible storm.

  The Old Man was there also. This time he was sitting on a small grassy mound. His hair was still wild and white, his cane sat on the ground next to him, and he was absently polishing his small round glasses on a white handkerchief.

  “Hello, Boy. Welcome again here.” His accent was still thick, reminding me somewhat of my grandparents on my mom’s side of the family. A deep Eastern European sound, but not from any of the languages that I spoke.

  “What am I doing here?” I asked, sitting down on the grass next to him. We watched the storm front approach. The wind was beginning to pick up and the crop was waving under the onslaught. “I thought you said that we wouldn’t meet again unless I did something stupid and got killed.”

  “I was wrong. I new at this too,” he answered. “Is closer now. So I help more easy.”

  “What is closer now?”

  “You will see. It comes.” He pointed at the storm roiling across the distant landscape.

  “What comes?”

  “The storm. I show you when can. I help you if can.”

  “Help me with what?” This was a confusing dream, not helped at all by my host’s mangled English.

  “The evil comes. The Cursed One brings. You will stop, if can. If not, time will die.” He stated it as if that cryptic information was a simple fact.

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you. I am friend. I here to help.” He spit on his glasses and continued to polish them. I noticed that he wore a small Star of David around his neck. His clothes were old and simple, and appeared to be sewn by hand.

  “What’s your name?”

  “No one ask that for long time.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question,” I replied.

  “My name not matter now, boy. I am just Old Man.”

  He held up the glasses and examined them, nodding in satisfaction before placing them on his face. “Is good. Help me up, please.” I stood, and then lent him a hand as he slowly rose to his feet. I retrieved his cane and handed it over. The polished wood was surprisingly heavy and dense.

  As I looked up I realized that somehow the storm had drawn impossibly close. The blue sky was blotted out and the wall that was approaching was a swirling mass of darkness, clouds, and lightning. The sky had taken on a green halo and I could feel the energy crackling through the ground. The crop was lying down or being torn
out of the soil as powerful gusts struck us.

  “We go now. I show you what I can. I need your help.”

  “Okay,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.

  “You help me. I help you. No can promise it will work, but I will try.” He grasped my wrist. His cold hands were frail and arthritic.

  He adjusted his glasses and watched with hard eyes as the storm approached. It was moving across the land like a tidal wave now, closing on us with what seemed like malevolent intent. As it grew closer I could see that there were shapes in the clouds—warriors, monsters, death, plague, famine, suffering, pestilence and war. My pleasant dream was changing into a nightmare. The roar of wind and crashing of thunder and wails of something else washed over us. The wall of black hit us, and we were swiftly engulfed.

  Still dreaming. Only now, I was somehow above the MHI compound. I had no body, but somehow I could see, and not only that, I could see everything. Walls meant nothing to me. Maybe seeing wasn’t the right term. I was aware of everything. I was not limited by the information that my eyes could register or that my brain could process. I found my body sleeping peacefully in the barracks. Trip, in the bunk above, was reading some pulp fantasy novel as he did every night. The man was a fantasy book addict.

  The rest of my fellow trainees were sleeping or pretending to. In the women’s barracks I was not surprised to learn that Holly Newcastle slept in the nude. As interesting as that sight was, I moved on. I was no Peeping Tom, or in this case a peeping ghost.

  The office/fortress was totally open to me now. It was much larger than any of us had realized, with a huge underground level that was a complete secret to the trainees. In the dark corners I glimpsed that not all of the other employees were human. What a strange dream. On the top floor our instructors were holding a meeting around a huge table. Julie, Harbinger, Sam, Milo, and Grant were arguing about something. I focused in on that, and somehow my presence joined them in the room. Movements were cloudy, and the voices were indistinct and muffled because of all of the other sensations I was receiving without my normal faculties.