The Monster Hunters

by Larry Correia

  She stared off into space, reunited once more with the memories of her fallen family and comrades. I did not speak.

  “Three-quarters of us were dead. And some who had been too close to that rift just walked away and never came back. Ninety-seven dead Hunters and forty dead guests and resort staff. Within a few days an executive order was issued and we were shut down. The Feds took my dad away. The news reported that an oil tanker had run aground and caught fire. I went to a lot of funerals.”

  “Julie. I don’t know what to say.”

  She put her head down and cried softly. I put my arm around her and waited for her to stop. She sobbed a few times as she was temporarily overcome with emotion.

  “I’m okay.” She raised her head, sniffed, but then pushed away and stood proudly. “And now you know about us. You know the whole story. And you know why I don’t give a shit if that son of a bitch who claims to be my father lives or dies. It would be better for a whole lot of people if his damned black heart quit beating, but if he lives, I think that Appleton is far too nice a place to hold him. If I had my way I would have left him in that rift. He’s caused too much pain. He isn’t my father. He’s nothing but a monster. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him be taken to help some other monster unleash that kind of terror on my world again.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” She stopped. “I loved my brother. I miss him still. And I lost friends, people I’ve known since I was a kid. I hold him responsible for this. So that’s why I’ve been acting the way I have. I’m sorry if I’ve been harsh, but I’ll kill him before I let him go free.”

  “If anything, I think you’ve shown remarkable restraint. Thanks for telling me the story.” She was an interesting woman to say the least. I was still curious. “What did you do next?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “After the company was shut down, until we started back up. What did you do?”

  “Well . . .” She sat back down next to me with a creak of plastic. I don’t think that she had expected to continue her story. “I went back to school. Finished up my degrees. I tried to be normal for a while.”

  “Normal?” I had been struggling with the concept myself, doubting myself, my choices, and my abilities. It was strange to hear Julie, super Monster Hunter Julie Shackleford, say the same thing. Strange, but comforting.

  “You know. Not a crazed monster killer. I didn’t fight evil. I didn’t do anything like that. I went to college. I went on dates. I got a job. I didn’t really need the money, but I wanted to be like everybody else. I started working on this house as a hobby. I painted.”

  “You paint?”

  “A little,” she answered sheepishly.

  “Can I see them?” I asked.

  “They’re not very good. Maybe another time.”

  “I bet they’re fine,” I assured her. “Another time then.”

  “Earl kept hunting. Only now he had to work out of the country and had to compete against established companies, with more assets and the backing of their respective governments. Milo and Sam and the others like them kept hunting freelance overseas. They would contact me, invite me to come work with them, but I always turned them down. I wanted to pretend that world never existed.”

  “I can see why.”

  “Grandpa got sick. The shock of what his son had done almost killed him. He actually came and lived here for a while with a nurse. You can imagine how well he did without Hunters to boss around. I tried to help him, but even he encouraged me to go work with Earl and the other survivors. I turned him down too, and I think it made him even sicker. I vowed that the family legacy was going to die with me. No more Shacklefords were going to hunt monsters ever again.”

  “So what happened?” I asked. I could not imagine having gone through the things that she had. It made me put my own family relationships in perspective. Nobody in my family had ever summoned any demons. At least as far as I was aware.

  “I was in school. Students started disappearing on campus. Young girls. The police said that it was a serial killer. The whole community was scared to death. But I knew what it really was. I could recognize the signs. I ignored it at first. It was somebody else’s problem. That world didn’t exist for me anymore. I was just a grad student working on my thesis. I pretended that it was just a normal human killer, and that the authorities would handle it.”

  “It didn’t work out, did it?”

  “It never does. . . . A friend of mine was next. Got nailed while coming out of the library late one night. They never found her head. She was a nice kid. Freshman, from a little town in Illinois if I remember right. That one was my fault, don’t try to disagree, you of all people understand, Owen. I tracked the vampires down. I found their lair. They were sloppy new creations. Weak, stupid and hungry. I went in alone, first time I’ve ever hunted solo. I spent the whole day staking and chopping. Going from one coffin or hole to the next. Finally I thought that I was going to run out of daylight before I had found them all, so I used some of those homemade Molotovs and burned the science building down. The killings stopped and the cops figured that their imaginary serial killer had moved on. Police never caught the arsonist.” She smiled weakly. “I finished my dissertation the next week, boarded up this house, and joined Earl and the others on a case in Uruguay. A few years later, we’re back in business. I’ve never looked back.”

  “Are you glad?”

  “What do you think?” She snorted. “I was deluding myself in school. Normal is an illusion. Normalcy doesn’t exist.” She gestured at the wall of paintings. “That is normal. These people are real. All that stuff I told you back at your apartment, when we were trying to recruit you. Yes. I do actually believe that. I believe in what we do. It’s more than just the job. It’s more than the PUFF check.”

  “It’s a calling,” I said.

  We sat in silence beneath the pictures. We had an understanding.

  “You have another brother?” I asked, pointing at the last picture. He looked more like Julie.

  “Nate,” she laughed. “He wants to kill monsters so bad he can taste it.”

  “Where’s he at now?”

  “Seattle. He went through the last class of Newbies. He’s doing okay from what I hear. I made sure that he’s with a great team who’ll keep him alive long enough that his enthusiasm gets tempered with experience. He’s nineteen. You’ll like him. He’s just insane enough to be entertaining . . .” She put her hand on my knee. I could not tell if she had done it on purpose or if she had done it without thinking. Either one was fine with me. “Well, that’s pretty much the tour. Sorry I got all blubbery and emotional on you.”

  “Julie. If you didn’t get emotional about that, then you wouldn’t be human. Thanks for the tour. I can tell you love this house.”

  “I can’t say why, but I do. One of these days I’m going to get it all fixed up. I could probably hire professionals to do it and just get it over with, but that doesn’t seem right. There are a lot of memories here . . .” She suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait a second, I’ve got something for you.” She jumped up, and walked quickly to the door. “I’ll be back in a minute, I’ve just got to find it.”

  I sat on the plastic covered couch and waited. After a few minutes I grew restless and decided to check out the portraits more closely. The Shacklefords were one interesting group—heroes, villains and everything in between. I stood close to the wall and examined the intricate paintings. Julie’s grandfather had been a handsome man before he had lost his eye and been so disfigured. I could see the resemblance to his son, and they both looked slightly like Earl Harbinger. I was not exactly sure how he was related, but there was no picture of him on the wall, and there were no Harbingers listed at all. Looking at the other pictures, I decided that Julie was very lucky that she took after her mother. Besides the lack of glasses and the slightly outdated hairstyle, they could have been the same person. I would imagine that a historian would be able to com
pile quite the entertaining book about this family. Of course the government would probably end up sending somebody like Agent Franks to the author’s home to shoot him in the brain.

  The one blank spot on the wall was interesting, but I did not dwell on it for long. Even an auditor’s curiosity only runs so deep when there are other matters at hand.

  Julie returned with a dust-covered wooden case. “Found it.” She sat it on the tarped-over table and opened the metal clasps. “Now you are going to appreciate this, Mr. Gun Nut.” She opened the box with a flourish. Inside the molded case were two pistols. One was big, and the other small, a matched pair, down to the finishes. “Go ahead. Check them out.”

  The guns were custom. STI frames, the full-size had an extended, threaded barrel, and was complete with a rail for a mounted light. The smaller one was a custom-chopped version, cut down in every possible dimension for concealment. For a competition nut like myself, these pistols were the kind of thing that I dreamed about. Normal men had pornography. I had gun magazines. They were beautiful.

  “Twenty-eleven frame, fourteen rounds of .45 in the big one, twenty with the extended mags. Ten in the little one, but it can take the full-size mags, they just hang out a bit. I worked them over so they’re reliable with our silver bullets. Match barrels, these are scary accurate. But clearances are loose enough that these should be able to get really gunked up and still work fine,” she told me proudly. I pulled back the slide to check the chamber, and it glided as smoothly as silk. I checked the trigger. The hammer fell with a snap. It was possibly the nicest trigger I had ever felt on any weapon, ever.

  “These were made for somebody with mutant hands, notice even the long trigger. Extended safeties for shooting high thumb; beaver tail, small mag release so big-handed shooters don’t release them by accident; you guys don’t need to shift your grip to change mags anyway.”

  “Sweet. Did you do these yourself?”

  “They were an old project.”

  I gently put the guns back in the box. “They’re beautiful. Much nicer than my old one. I’ve gone through quite a few guns this week.”

  She closed the box, snapped the clasps closed, and shoved it over toward me. I looked at it in confusion for a moment.

  “You’d better be more careful with these then. Lose them and I’ll kill you.”

  “But, but . . . you’re just giving these to me?” I asked. “Why?”

  “I have these lying around the house. They don’t fit me at all. Some Hunter with ham fists needs to put them to good use, and you currently don’t have a pistol at all. My little brother won’t use them. He’s a Glock nut. The poor deluded bastard. Plus the way these things shoot, they need to be in the hands of a real pistolero. You’ll have to do.” She smiled. “Consider it my way of saying thank you for saving my life.”

  “Thanks,” I said. It was the nicest gift that anyone had ever given me.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” she said, sounding almost sheepish. “I need to take care of some things.”

  “Thanks,” was all that I could think of to say.

  “Don’t mention it.” She winked at me and walked away.

  I watched her leave the room before opening the case and examining the fine weapons again. I did not want to look like a total dweeb in front of her, but for me, Christmas had come real early. Grinning like an idiot, I field-stripped and checked the guns. The case even came with a cleaning kit. I lubed the guns, and did several practice draws, adjusting my grip each time, until the sights snapped unconsciously into place. Finally I forced myself to put them down. I needed to take over for Trip on the perimeter. It was my turn to stand guard.

  I noticed something as I started to shut the case. The foam in the top half had come slightly undone. Between the foam and the wood was an envelope. The envelope was blank, but it contained a small handwritten note.

  Dear Ray,

  I hope you like these. After that luska ate your other guns, I thought I would do something nice for you. I built these up just the way you like them. Milo’s been teaching me everything he knows about gunsmithing, and I think that these have come out really good.

  Dad’s doing better. He’s been really excited, looking forward to the 100th anniversary party. Should be a blast. Nate’s bummed he can’t come. Earl is doing good. Piper Cavanaugh has been dying to talk to you. I think she has a crush on you. She’s cute. You two should hook up. See you at the party.

  I love you, Bro. Hope you like the guns.

  Julie

  12/2/95

  I carefully refolded the note, placed it in its envelope, and put it back in the case.

  Trip was waiting for me on the porch. We were not taking any chances, and were taking turns with one heavily armed and armored Hunter outside to watch the skies for more gargoyles. Of course all of us were wearing our radios, and the person patrolling the outside checked in constantly. If there had been more of us available, we would have worked in pairs and had a better rotation, but as it was, there were only the four of us on our little baby-sitting detail.

  “Holly is watching the video feeds. Julie has one heck of a system installed here. Don’t go more than twenty yards from the building or you’ll probably activate a sensor. Check in with her every few minutes.” He handed me the RPG. If anything suspicious landed on the property, we weren’t going to screw around. The huge rocket-propelled grenade would take out an armored vehicle, so a gargoyle would not be a significant problem. “You learned how to use one of these, right?”

  “Dude . . . please.” I patted the lethal tube gently. If third-world goat herders could figure out an RPG, I wasn’t worried. Even though I had not shot one yet, Milo had trained us in their basic use. I was looking forward to firing one. And if the target happened to be a ten-foot-tall, animated chunk of rock, that was fine by me.

  “Never mind. I forgot I was talking to the combat accountant. I haven’t seen anything except for bugs and a cottonmouth.”

  “Like the killer snake cottonmouth?” I asked, glancing nervously at the ground.

  “Yeah, but it was just a baby. You should have seen the ones we grow in Florida. They climb trees, and drop on you. When you’re on the river fishing, they will swim out to your boat and climb in. Mean little bastards,” he told me this with a straight enough face that I was not quite sure if he was making it up or not. “Anyway, if you need me, I’ll be on the radio.”

  “Okay.” He started to walk away. I stopped him. “Hey, Trip, one last thing . . . Thanks for coming out here to help me and Julie,” I told him. “I appreciate it.”

  “Dude, don’t worry about it. Harbinger needed somebody not very important to the Feds, is all.”

  “Still. Thanks,” I said. He shrugged and went back into the house. The screen door clattered behind him. I shifted the RPG to one shoulder and started my patrol.

  The afternoon air was thick with humidity, and moisture gleamed on the surrounding foliage. The once-cleared farmland that had surrounded the plantation had been retaken by swift-growing plants, including the evil nemesis of all that was good in the plant world—kudzu. It was stiflingly hot in my armor, and sweat ran freely down my back. I had left my hockey helmet behind in favor of a simple ball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes. I sipped constantly from my CamelBak. Big guys dehydrate fast in the summer.

  I did not see anything of note as I passed the time. Holly checked in every few minutes to make sure that nothing was trying to kill me, besides the bloodthirsty clouds of gnats of course. So far I liked the South. I liked the people and their attitude, but I sure could do without all of the damned gnats, mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks and other things interested in eating me.

  As I approached the remains of the old slave quarters, I noticed one solid piece of construction not destroyed down to its foundations. It was a tiny building, slightly lopsided from settling over time, probably only ten feet across, but constructed out of thick-mortared stones. There was a very heavy door, but it was hanging open on massiv
e rusty hinges. I debated it briefly, but decided to take a look inside the old relic.

  It must have been some sort of prison cell for the slaves so long ago. The interior of the room was empty, but the few small windows were blocked with thick steel bars set deep into the stones. Thin shafts of light pierced the gloom, but not nearly enough to see by. The inside of the door was banded with iron slats, and the door itself was constructed of ancient pieces of wood, almost big enough to serve as railroad ties. It was a construction far heavier than possibly needed to keep anyone from escaping. There was a latch on the doorframe where a big crossbeam could be set to keep the door closed, probably held in place by a long-since-missing chain and padlock. The air was stale and damp with mildew.

  I entered the cell. It was dark. I blinked a few times, but my eyes were adjusted to the summer sunlight outside. Raising Abomination slightly from its tac sling, I activated the powerful weapon-mounted flashlight. The room was instantly flooded in brightness. Much better. The texture of the stone walls was strange. It took me a moment to understand exactly what it was that I was looking at.

  Scratches. Tens of thousands of scratches. Some sort of hard and sharp implement had scratched every reachable surface. The only clear spots on the walls were more than ten feet high, but even then there were a few marks above that where the creator must have gotten a running start. I looked down. Even the floor was torn with a patchwork of deep marks. The marks were deep, as if struck into the rock with great force.