The Monster Hunters

by Larry Correia

  I waited.

  “Be good to her. She deserves the best.” Then he walked away.

  Agent Myers was waiting for me on the other side of a desk. He had a file with my name on it sitting open in front of him. His fingers were steepled together and his elbows were resting on the desk. His cheap suit was wrinkled and I was willing to bet that he hadn’t gotten much sleep over the last few days. “Have a seat.”

  I pulled up a chair.

  He got right down to business. “The necromancer is dead. His plot to utilize the Arbmunep weapon, defeated. All of our intel indicates that the Condition is collapsing without him. There are a few splinter groups holding together, and one young woman claiming to be his successor—”

  “His daughter, Lucinda.”

  “Correct. But we will find her before she causes too much trouble, so don’t worry about that. I’m not too worried about a teenager with one hand and a shattered organization. That’s not why I called you in here.” He lifted the top page in my file. “In the last week, you’ve threatened one of my agents with lethal force, failed to cooperate in a federal investigation, lied to investigators, and hindered an ongoing operation. These are all very serious charges.”

  “I also killed one of your agents with a grenade launcher,” I pointed out, “which I think I should get bonus points for, and not to mention that Franks and I blew up the Dread Overlord itself.”

  “I’m aware of that, and Agent Franks will be reprimanded accordingly. He was not authorized to enter another universe or to attack an unknown entity. The Congressional Subcommittee has ruled it an act of self-defense, however, so Franks will not be terminated.”

  Did that mean fired or dismantled? “You know that’s absolute bullshit, right?”

  Myers, unfazed, continued. “Even more troubling is that it seems like you’ve been keeping secrets from me. I have evidence here that you have some sort of psychic powers and that somehow you are the only person in recorded history to have survived a zombie bite.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said with no inflection.

  “Indeed,” Myers said. “Because that would mean that your continued existence could prove to be an important national security issue.” I did not respond. If Myers wanted to just make me go away it was certainly within his power. “But I’m really doubting the accuracy of this report,” he said as he waved the paper.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because this same intel indicates that the Condition’s Shadow Lord was really a man named Martin Hood, who died quite some time ago. See, I happened to know Martin Hood, we were actually close friends, and I would hate to see his good name slandered.”

  I nodded. “And it would also call into question the judgment of the interim head of the Monster Control Bureau if it turned out that one of his oldest friends was really the leader of an evil death cult.” Myers was concerned about his association with Hood coming back to haunt him . . .

  Unless . . .

  Could Hood have also approached Myers about working together, like he had with Carlos? It was a definite possibility. They had been best friends. Had Myers known just what kind of craziness Hood had been dabbling in? Had he known about Hood’s father’s book? Had he known, but protected his friend anyway?

  I had to know. “Can I see that report?”

  Myers extended it to me and I reached out and touched his hand instead. It wasn’t so difficult to use the ability this time. After all, the memory was just sitting there, floated to the top by the pressure of Agent Myers’ buried guilt.

  Ray Shackleford was furious. His face was turning a shade of red that was normally reserved for when he was chainsawing a monster in half. He shoved the chubby Hunter against the wall, enraged. “Damn it, Marty! What the hell were you thinking? I told you not to screw around with this stuff anymore!”

  Ray was such a brute that Marty’s feet dangled a few inches off the floor and the big man didn’t even notice that he was holding him up. But the smaller Hunter was undaunted. “Don’t you get it? I figured it out! I’ve learned the language of the book. I’ve read the entire Skia Thanatou! I can control the dead. There’s no limit to what we can do now,” Hood gasped, trying to breathe past the meaty hands clamped around his throat. The wall of Shackleford family portraits was at his back. The family estate was packed with Hunters but we had this room to ourselves.

  “You were animating zombies, you idiot, and Carlos found out, and in the morning when Earl wakes up human, he’s going to know too.” Ray let go and Marty dropped, gasping. “I got you transferred so you would quit dinking around with the magic shit in the archives. You weren’t supposed to sneak the evilest book down there with you!”

  “It was my book to take,” Marty snapped. “It belonged to my father, and his father before him. You didn’t think it was such a bad idea when I used it back here and was making us millions in bounties!”

  Ray rubbed his face in his hands as he stomped away. “What are we going to do? Does Carlos know anybody else helped with your research?”

  “Of course not,” Marty snapped. “You think I’m stupid? Now lower your voice, or the whole house will know. I’ll handle this. I’ll tell Earl that it was all me. I’ll take the heat. What’s he going to do? Kill me?” Marty snorted.

  “Yes,” Ray snapped. “My dad and grandpa are a lot of things, especially old-fashioned, but they’ve got principles. They won’t tolerate a Hunter using dark magic. One of these days, I’ll be in charge, and that’ll change. We all know that this stuff can be harnessed for good, but until then, we were supposed to keep our mouths shut.”

  Marty’s fat face opened in a wide grin. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll handle this. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep a secret. Nobody ever has to know who helped me.”

  “Damn right,” Ray snarled, poking him in the chest. “We’re done tonight. In the morning, you’ll come clean and beg Earl for forgiveness. You’re going to take your lumps. Earl will probably fire you, but at least he won’t eat you, and it beats all of us going to prison, right, Myers?”

  “Agreed,” I said, speaking up for the first time. I hated myself for ever getting involved. It had been stupid, playing with evil for the greater good, and my best friend had taken it too far. We had been fools.

  But I did know how to keep a secret.

  Only a second had passed. I was getting better at this. I studied Myers’ face for a moment. He still looked like a community-college English professor, not like the interim leader of a top-secret government agency tasked with protecting the United States from all supernatural threats. He was an easy man to underestimate, but now I knew why he was so doggedly determined in his work. Myers was seeking atonement.

  “It would probably ruin your career if it also turned out that your best friend was animating zombies and studying the darkest of mysteries while you guys were hanging out. Some of the good congressmen might even get the crazy idea that you were somehow involved,” I said.

  Myers smiled nervously. “Yes, no need for the Subcommittee to even worry about such preposterous allegations. I think that it would be for the best if this erroneous report never saw the light of day, wouldn’t you?”

  “Martin Hood died in 1986. Werewolf accident,” I said.

  “And Owen Zastava Pitt is just an average man, with no magical gifts or anything absurd like that.” Myers nodded. “That seems fair enough.” He neatly stacked all of the papers, put them all back into the folder, and fed the entire thing into an industrial shredder next to the desk. We both waited for it to quit grinding. “Now that‘s behind us, I do sincerely hope that we never have to work together again. In fact, I damn well better never see your name come across my desk, ever again. You should just stick with normal monsters. It seems like every time I get a case that’s almost impossible to cover, it somehow involves you. No more world-altering events, time travel, portals to the Old Ones, or giant super trees. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, Agent Myers.” I stood
. “I can show myself out.”

  We held the funeral services three days later. The dirty but necessary work had been done immediately, so this part was only for the living, not the dead. During the attack on the compound we had lost a team lead, Adam Williams, and three Newbies: Drew Foster, William Tanner, and John Newton. We had lost Sam Roger Haven under the boughs of the Tree, and we were also honoring the sacrifice of Carlos Alhambra.

  Everyone had gathered.

  There was a small cemetery in the forest outside the compound and the place was packed. The only Hunters who were buried here were the ones who requested to be. Most were cremated and then sent back to their families with some sort of fabricated cover story. It was sad, but it was how we had to operate. There was only one person actually being buried here today, and that was Sam, because his only family had been his fellow Hunters. The casket was closed, as we had already cleanly removed his head. It was something that we all had to do eventually.

  We had set up a little podium in front of the hole in the ground. Milo Anderson had been tasked with saying a few words. The little man looked terribly uncomfortable in front of the crowd, glancing nervously about the entire time. He had dressed up in his best purple suit and had carefully braided his beard.

  The orc tribe had buried their dead in their own private ceremony, but three solemn representatives had joined us. Skippy, Gretchen, and Edward held back, uncomfortable around so many humans, but feeling the need to acknowledge their connection to us, their adopted tribe. Their people had suffered because of their friendship with us, and I felt like it was my fault.

  Yet they didn’t see it that way. The orcs had welcomed me back as the hero who’d avenged their village. Gretchen had been impressed that I’d provided Julie the biggest wedding night offering ever, and she had warned my new bride that she was now obligated to provide me many strong warrior sons. Given how big an Old One was, Gretchen estimated three dozen sons would be sufficient.

  Every Hunter that wasn’t currently in the hospital was here, and even a few of those had managed to limp in.

  My family had stayed for this. They would be leaving this afternoon. They could have left sooner. The Condition was broken, their members scattered, their leader and their lord dead. But my father had insisted on being here for this. After all, he was a man who understood sacrifice.

  I still wouldn’t speak to him about his dream and I refused to take his letter. Yes, I was curious, but I’d be damned if my curiosity was going to kill him. Dad glanced down the line of Hunters directly at me. In his opinion I was being a coward by not reading his letter. That may be the case, but I felt like I actually understood him for the first time. He had been trying to do his best the whole time. Dad’s tough love had enabled me to survive, and as a result I’d found my calling in life and the woman I loved. My father had done his duty. I would do the same, and that meant keeping him around as long as possible.

  My brother had also stuck around and was standing next to Mom. His career was ruined. His left hand was still wrapped in a massive bandage. Cody had saved the fingers and after Mosh’s return they had been surgically reattached. The best he could hope for was a tiny fraction of the strength and dexterity he had once had. His days of being the best guitarist in the world were over. The Feds had publicly smeared him as the person responsible for the Buzzard Island incident. The official story now was a load of nonsense about special effects gone astray while under the haze of illegal drugs that had left a lot of people dead. It was utter crap, but somebody had to be blamed, and the flood of lawsuits was going to leave him bankrupt. He could maybe hope to someday play again, but Mosh was like me, and if you couldn’t be the best at something, why do it at all?

  Yet another life ruined because of me . . .

  But Pitts are flexible, he hid his bitterness behind an impassive mask, and besides, Mosh had seen the real world. He had approached me just this morning, curious about what it took to become a Hunter. He also said that if he joined, and that was a big if, he had dibs on Team Rock Star once he inevitably became the greatest Hunter alive. I had been glad to put in my recommendation to hire him.

  The Feds had felt the need to send representation for some reason. Maybe Myers understood that this whole thing was his fault, or maybe he just wanted to tweak us because he was such a petty man. Two agents had been sent to represent, and judging by who had been sent, I was assuming it was out of pettiness. Grant Jefferson looked painfully awkward in his expensive Italian suit. Grant actually would have made a good Pitt. If he couldn’t be the best, why bother? I had no doubt that he would be a very effective Fed, since being a lying, self-righteous bastard came naturally to him. He shifted nervously, as Hunters cast the occasional cold glance at him. But at the same time, he and Sam had been teammates. Maybe Grant hadn’t been ordered to come. Maybe he had volunteered. I would never know.

  Agent Franks was the other government representative. He was chewing gum. I was sure that he would much rather be somewhere else, killing something. I did not understand what made Franks tick. He had kept his word, though, and fulfilled his mission.

  The other Hunters listened to Milo patiently. He wasn’t the most eloquent of speakers, but he spoke for all of us. Grandpa Shackleford sat between his father, Raymond Shackleford the Second, whom we all knew as Earl Harbinger, and his grandson, Nate, who had a large cast on his leg. The Shacklefords had another person to mourn. One of their own turned to the other side had finally been set free. Raymond Shackleford the Third, or Boss as I called him, had cornered me the day I had gotten back. His only words had been, “Thank you for killing my son,” and he had been sincere. It had made me cry.

  Julie came from solid stock. The wall of family portraits had confirmed my suspicions, but even if I hadn’t been able to recognize the very first Raymond Shackleford from his painting, seeing the generations of Shackleford Hunters here today would have clued me in. They all carried themselves with that same solid determination. The ghost who had sent me back had been Raymond “Bubba” Shackleford himself. The founder of MHI was still keeping an eye on things.

  Holly was torn up, taking Sam’s death hard. Trip put his arm around her and pulled her close, trying in vain to comfort her. The others looked away. They had been there for me. The threat had been against me specifically, but Hunters stood together. I was the least of them, but I knew that every single one of them would lay down their lives for me, and I would do the same for them. I loved them like family. Hell, they were family.

  I was in the front row, uncomfortable in a black suit and tie. The day was beautiful. The sky was clear. The spring air was clean. Birds were singing.

  Julie was at my side, wearing a black dress. She hadn’t spoken much since we had gotten home, and I knew that she was still in shock about the final death of her father. She had a lot on her mind. The marks on her neck and abdomen had not changed since that night, but they were an indication that something was happening. While Milo told stories, I reached out and took my wife’s hand. She gave me a nervous smile. Whatever was coming, we would face it together.

  When Milo was done, he stepped away from the podium. Earl Harbinger stood, and without a word, placed two patches on top of the casket, a happy face with horns and a walrus with a banjo. The few of us who had been asked, helped lower the casket into the earth.

  A baby began to cry. Milo moved to his wife, who was gently bouncing the squalling infant. Shawna Anderson had given birth the day after Milo had gotten back from New Zealand. It was a healthy baby girl.

  They named her Samantha.

  Epilogue

  The powerful demon crouched, unobserved, in the top branches of a distant tree, silently observing the Hunter’s funeral below. It remained perfectly still, claws sunk deep into the bark to provide a stable platform as the breeze caused the branches to sway. The creature’s third eye, etched deep into the plate of its skull, was able to clearly record the event for its distant master.

  The mewling of the human
infant caused the demon’s belly to rumble with hunger, but meat would have to wait. Today it would watch. Tomorrow it would kill.

  The four have gathered, the master projected his thoughts directly into the creature’s mind. Can you feel them?

  The demon scanned the crowd. It was said that four of these fleshlings had been to the Old Ones’ dimension and returned alive. That alone was remarkable, but three of them had actually destroyed an Overlord. That was impressive, even by the demon prince’s immortal standards.

  The first was easy to pick out. It was one of the fallen, cloaked in a suit of flesh, animated by the Elixir of Life. Unlike most of its kind, this one pretended to be a man, living as a human. But even then, the demon could see the aura of violence this particular fallen wore like a cloak. It could play at being a human, but it would never succeed.

  They call him Agent Franks now, the master confirmed. He went to the other side out of a sense of duty.

  That made no sense to the demon. The fallen had no duty, no allegiance. They were damned for eternity, regardless. They had nothing to lose, no stake in this war.

  And that’s why he is dangerous.

  The second was the werewolf.

  Harbinger entered the Old Ones’ world to save his grandson several years ago. The grandson was chosen to be the champion of man, but he was weak, manipulated by the necromancer, Hood. He fell to the vampire and has been replaced.

  The demon could tell this was no normal lycanthrope. He was ancient by mortal standards and no stranger to battle, having hunted down nearly every type of beast. Killing that one would be an honor.

  Many ghosts shared this forest. They too were watching. The demon was royalty amongst its kind, but the Hunters’ unquiet dead left it nervous. These spirits had picked their side in the upcoming war. Many of the dead would not ally with his master this time. A particularly angry ghost was circling the tree, trying to pick a fight. It ignored the spirit and concentrated on the master’s task.