The Monster Hunters

by Larry Correia

  “Maybe.” Aino scratched his grizzled chin. “They looked for it, didn’t see nothing. Joe Buckley’s a good boy though, so you see any bears, stranger, you do us a favor and pop it dead.”

  The waiter came back with three beers. “I got a few rifles in my truck,” Earl responded, and few was an understatement. He took a bottle and tilted it toward the gentlemen. “And I’m a fair shot.”

  The waiter snorted derisively and blew the hair away from his eyes. “People like you put guns on our streets.”

  Earl looked at the teenager in disbelief. “And people like you put the fries on my plate.” He waved toward the kitchen dismissively. “So hop to it, boy.”

  The waiter stomped away. Aino gave him a big grin. That was a new record for Earl befriending a Finn. Apparently living in America took the edge off.

  Stark couldn’t believe his eyes, but who should be sitting there at the bar other than the head contractor scumbag himself, Earl Harbinger.

  The entire time he’d been eating his chicken-fried steak and talking with Agent Mosher, Stark had kept checking the test vial under the table. Once it turned blue, he’d told Mosher he needed to take a leak, and he’d gotten up with the plan of calling Briarwood to get their butts up here to make them all some cash. Seeing that pain-in-the-ass Harbinger joking and drinking with some old bastards floored him.

  MHI is here. Stark let loose with a long string of profanity under his breath. Those jerks would swoop in, kill the werewolves before Briarwood could, steal the PUFF bounty, and, worst of all, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn’t even pull jurisdiction and toss MHI out, because that required paperwork, and he sure as hell couldn’t justify that if his official story was that the test kit had come back negative.

  He hated Harbinger. Not only was he rich and successful beyond any public servant’s wildest imagination—the guy kept senators in his pocket like most people kept change—he was also a balls-out fighter. Rumor in the MCB was that Harbinger had actually kicked the snot out of several members of Director Myers’s strike team and gotten away with it. Which was another example of why Myers needed to be replaced. If Stark was running the show, there was no way that any MCB would ever be disrespected by a filthy werewolf.

  That was the crux of it. Harbinger was a werewolf, a disgusting, stinking lycanthrope, no better than the trash that Stark had devoted his life to destroying. All the Special Agents in Charge knew about him. Those yokels were unwittingly sitting there next to a vicious animal, and Stark wasn’t even allowed to do the sensible thing and go pump a silver bullet into the monster’s head. Non-PUFF applicable creatures were out of his jurisdiction unless they went off the reservation and were caught up to no good. Sure, the second somebody like Harbinger screwed up, MCB owned their ass, but in the meantime his hands were tied. Nobody in the MCB knew exactly why Harbinger was declared off-limits, but Stark was sure that it had something to do with Monster Hunter International throwing big bags of money at spineless politicians.

  He had to do something and quick. Harbinger would go to talk to the bitten deputy. That’s how he got his new recruits, after all: sweet-talking survivors. Being a werewolf, Harbinger would definitely recognize that the deputy was infected, probably smell it or something, and then MHI would get that bounty instead of him.

  Stark made it around the corner to where the bathrooms were without being seen. Luckily for him, the place still had a pay phone installed—good thing that all these backwoods types got bad cell reception—which meant that he didn’t have to use his government-issued cell to call Briarwood. You couldn’t be too careful in this business.

  The sultry European sex goddess picked up on the fourth ring. “Briarwood.”

  He cut right to the chase. “If your boys can get here in time, you’ve got two bounties. But they had better hurry. There’s been a complication. Some of your competitors are here.”

  “Competitors?”

  “The boys from Alabama, if you get who I mean. One bounty is at the hospital. He won’t turn until the full moon, but if you get him early, the blood test will justify the PUFF.” Stark neglected to mention that the place was crawling with cops. That was Briarwood’s problem. “The one that bit him is around here somewhere. How soon can you be on-site?”

  There was a long pause, like she was covering the phone and asking someone a question. “Our team is almost there.”

  Stark glanced at his watch and swore. It was going to be close. “Head straight for the hospital.” He slammed the phone back into the cradle.

  When Stark came around the corner from the bathrooms, Harbinger, who didn’t seem surprised in the least, was staring right at him. Stark froze. From across the room, the Hunter actually had the nerve to raise his beer like he was giving Stark a toast. So much for getting out without being seen. Stark walked up to the bar to confront the obnoxious Hunter.

  Earl Harbinger didn’t look like anything special up close, just average. But there was something intimidating about the way he watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to eat you or not. But Stark was MCB, and MCB wasn’t easily intimidated, even by a werewolf.

  “Hey, Agent Stork. Been a long time,” Harbinger said, sounding friendly as could be. That redneck-confederate-illiterate-goat-molester-country-music accent made Stark even angrier.

  “Stark,” he corrected. “What’re you doing here, Harbinger?”

  “Vacation. These gentlemen were just telling me about the quality fishing they’ve got in these parts. Damn fine steaks here, by the way. You?”

  “Official business. And you better stay out of it.”

  Harbinger smiled. “I’d have to take a significant pay cut to make your business worth my time.”

  “Screw you,” he said automatically, but then Stark felt a brief touch of panic. Had Harbinger heard him talking to Briarwood? He paused, thinking it through; there was no way he could have, but it was still a sore spot for the agent. “Listen up, asshole. You want to—”

  “Whoa there,” interrupted one of the yokels. “What’s your problem?”

  “Shut your face, old-timer,” Stark snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Damn, Earl. Who’s this dickhead?” asked the other local.

  “Somebody who’s about to get his ass beat,” said the first old bastard in a thick accent. He got off his stool but only came up to about Stark’s neck. “You got a problem, fatso?”

  “Easy, Aino,” Harbinger said, putting one hand on the man’s arm. The guy had to be in his sixties, and he was ready to throw down at the perceived insult, but at least the grizzled old man returned to his seat, glaring the whole time. “Me and Stork here have met before. He’s just a little high-strung is all. . . . So, how’s life been since you were released as Franks’s jockstrap carrier?”

  Mosher had heard the raised voices and come over. The junior agent had no idea what was going on. Stark pointed one thick finger right between Harbinger’s eyes. “Funny guy, huh? Well, funny guy, one of these days you’ll screw up, and then we own you.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” Harbinger took a long, nonchalant drink. “And when that day comes, I’ll make sure that whatever I did was absolutely worth it.”

  Stark may have been angry, but he was smart enough to know that Harbinger was just goading him. Besides, slugging Harbinger’s drunk hillbilly friend in front of witnesses would probably cause him some trouble. “Come on, Mosher. Let’s get out of this dump. Remember, Harbinger, stay out of my way, or you’ll regret it.”

  “See ya’ round, Stork.”

  “Better keep walking,” said the one with the accent.

  Fists clenched, Stark made it back to the Suburban, Mosher asking him the whole time what that was all about. Stark was fuming, but the sudden cold air had helped clear his head. He’d made up his mind. “Get us back to the hospital,” he snapped. Briarwood better get here soon, because he’d shoot the deputy himself and deal with the paperwork before he gave MHI the satisfaction of stea
ling his money.

  Chapter 6

  Since I had been bitten, I had learned about the obvious physical changes. I was stronger, faster, more agile, though at that early stage I hadn’t realized just how much better I’d become. My hearing and sense of smell were more acute. I could see better at night. But the main difference was that I could heal at a phenomenal rate.

  It made sense. Since my body was now capable of completely breaking itself down and reforming into a new shape in a matter of minutes (it was minutes then; it is seconds now), reforming broken pieces of my anatomy was an excellent side effect. Though exhausting, injuries caused by anything other than silver mended themselves almost instantly. Though it wasn’t until I fought that luska that I really discovered what I was capable of.

  I grabbed the first tentacle hand as it snaked in close. The fingers had the consistency of a thick crab leg. I snapped one off and stabbed the luska with its own claw. For some reason I laughed as it tried to bite me in half, but I moved out of the way faster than the luska could react. It followed me up the beach, farther onto the sand, tentacles swinging like crazy past its big shark head, cracking like bullwhips. Each time a barb hit, it cut right through my skin. Regardless of how fast my skin knitted back together, it still hurt like a son of a bitch, every single time. But once I caught one of the big tentacles, I ripped it right off and beat the monster over the head with it.

  For being so damn heavy, luskas are lightning quick. It finally caught up and overwhelmed me beneath its body, crushing me right into the sand. I can still smell the rotting fish. Dragging me out with a tentacle around my leg, it swung me around to its jaws and bit me. Teeth punctured halfway through my body, from my shoulders, through my ribs, through one lung, through my stomach, and cracked my pelvis in half. It shook me back and forth like a terrier with a rat until my spine broke. When I finally hung limp, it slithered back down the beach for the black water.

  Then I got really mad.

  That was back in the days before I’d learned how to hold off the change. Now I only change when I let the Hum take over, or on the full moon when I have no choice. Back then, if I was in enough pain or anger, I couldn’t help but change.

  The luska had just reached the crashing surf when it realized that the thing in its mouth had suddenly gotten a whole lot fiercer. My spine popped back together as every fiber of my body twisted toward a new shape. I reached up with one rapidly lengthening thumbnail and scratched one of that luska’s little red eyes in half. The jaws unlocked, and the teeth pulled free of my body.

  The next few minutes were blurry, but as I changed, I managed to reach down the luska’s throat to tear out great bloody chunks of meat. That disoriented it. I shoved its jaws apart until the bones broke. I ripped into it, spraying monster all over the beach. I bit and tore and clawed until the monster flopped and rolled away, trying to escape. So I grabbed on to one of the big tentacles and dragged the thing that was at least five times my size back up the sand. Confused and losing blood, it sprayed me with ink, but that just pissed me off more.

  The holes in my flesh sealed. The blood loss weakened me, but fury filled the gaps. The holes in the luska squirted red blood, and that just egged me on. The beast was terrified now, bellowing in pitches that human ears could never hear, warning the others of its kind to avoid this island.

  Finally I remember crouching on top of the mighty body, dripping black ink from my fur, claws sunk deep into blubber, as I howled at the moon in triumph. I ripped the creature apart, needing to feed, to replace the mass and energy that I’d just burned.

  Luska tastes kind of like ahi tuna, only chewier.

  * * *

  After Jo Ann had gotten the call from Agent Stark, Horst had told Lins to step on it. They were already speeding, but Horst wasn’t going to pass up a free shot at a werewolf.

  “I don’t know. The roads are getting nasty,” Lins said.

  The driver was right. The snow was getting heavier. But they were in a Cadillac Escalade with good tires, were almost there, and he wasn’t about to let those Alabama pricks come into his neck of the woods and start moving in on his business. Not that this part of the country was anything at all like the Chicago streets he was used to. All those trees made him uncomfortable. There was something wrong about all that land, just sitting there, completely unpaved.

  “Don’t be such a punk, Larry,” said Kelley from the backseat, where he had been loading magazines the entire time. By this point Horst wasn’t even sure how many mags he had stacked back there, but whatever kept the bearded brute distracted was fine by him, because he was hard to shut up once he got going. “Have faith, and put the hammer down.” Kelley was a strange combo, a devoutly religious hooligan criminal. Horst’s first clue was when he’d noted the many prison tattoos on Kelley’s thick arms were all biblical verses, but he had come highly recommend.

  “Jesus isn’t going to tow us out of a ditch, Robb.” Jo Ann was looking for a fight, as usual.

  “Zip it, cow.”

  Horst just held up his hand, indicating he wasn’t in the mood. They both shut up. Robb Kelley might have spent a lot of time breaking the knees of people who’d picked the wrong people to owe money to, but Horst knew that Jo Ann Schneider actually had more useful experience than anyone on the crew except for Horst himself. She had served the most time, run every con imaginable, probably offed the most people, and she was certainly fine in a voluptuous kind of way, which came in handy when working with the public.

  Loco was in the front passenger seat, staring quietly out the window as usual. As talkative as Kelley was, Loco was quiet. They didn’t call him Loco because he was crazy, though Horst thought he might be, at least a little. Loco was just short for Lococo. Jason Lococo was huge, ugly, with a shaved head and one glass eye that never pointed in quite the same direction as the other. The giant also bench-pressed close to five hundred pounds and had served five years of hard time for killing someone by accident. He’d punched the dude once. The reason Horst had hired him was pretty obvious.

  “Hey, it’s slick,” Lins insisted. “I’m doing my best.”

  He didn’t have time for this. Lawrence J. Lins, or Larry to his friends, was the oldest man on the Briarwood team and had been a major hitter for some gangs out of Cleveland. His uncle had also recommended Lins because of his reputation. He looked like a gray-haired biker, no-nonsense-take-care-of business type, and was not the sort to get jumpy just because they were facing something supernatural.

  Horst hadn’t been at MHI very long, but long enough to see that the kind of people they recruited were too soft for this kind of business. Sure, they’d survived a monster attack, and got all high and mighty, but they weren’t nearly as bad as they thought they were. MHI’s Hunters were just regular Joes pretending to be heroes. After monsters ate the wannabes, they were left with a decent-enough crew as far as he could tell, but the core of MHI was still soft. Instead, Horst had surrounded himself with hard cases. This bunch would kill anything without hesitation. He was the only one on the team without a record, and that was only because he was smart enough not to get caught.

  But right now Lin’s caution was going to cost Briarwood a bunch of money, so it was time to take charge. Horst’s response was cold. “Listen. This is our shot at the big time. Killing a werewolf gives us money, a name, and a line of clients a mile long. I told you about those people I used to work for. They own fucking helicopters. Helicopters! That’s the kind of scratch I’m talking about. You want to go back to knocking over liquor stores?”

  “No. I’m done with that,” Lins said.

  “Then quit being a bitch and drive faster,” Horst ordered.

  Lins just grunted and gave it more gas. Horst prided himself on his management skills.

  The hospital was one of the newer buildings in Copper Lake. It wasn’t the biggest in the region, but it was a decently capable, bland, two-story concrete square, and it served all major needs of the many small towns in the rural area. They’d
decided that Buckley had been too injured to risk transporting him to the bigger facility in Houghton until he’d stabilized, which everyone doubted would actually happen. Then Buckley had surprised everyone by not dying. Word around the office was that Dr. Glenn had been speechless when he’d seen how well Buckley was doing. Heather figured that the initial severity of his injuries must have been exaggerated.

  Heather decided to poke her head in for a visit. Buckley was single, no girlfriend, no close family. They had actually eaten Thanksgiving dinner together just a few days ago in the station’s break room. As usual, the unattached had volunteered to work on the holiday so their coworkers could be with their families. He was an affable guy, but kind of a loner. Heather had always liked him. He was a straight shooter, friendly to everyone, and an all-around good guy you could count on in a tough situation. It broke her heart to come here.

  There was a waiting area for friends and family on the second floor. Heather knew it all too well. She’d slept many nights on that couch right there. Her mom had died here, sick but never alone. Then her grandpa had spent his last days here after his stroke. Shortly after that her dad had ended up here. She’d gotten to know this particular couch during all their stays. Yep, she and that couch were old friends.

  It was late, and there was no one else in the waiting room. The nurse on staff recognized Heather and waved her through to go straight to Buckley’s room. Sure, it was after normal visiting hours, but small towns could appreciate when rules needed to be applied and when they needed to be overlooked. Buckley had gone through another surgery this morning, and normally they wouldn’t have let anybody other than immediate family stay with him, but they were making an exception for the sheriff’s department.

  Buckley was lying there, covered in bandages, looking terrible. His normally handsome face seemed sunken, and his broken skull was wreathed in white. His torso was covered, but one arm was wrapped in a giant bundle where they’d tried to piece his hand back together. There were flowers everywhere. The people of Copper Lake loved Joe and had tried to show their support the best way they could. Heather had debated picking up some flowers but had decided that it seemed kind of silly. It wasn’t like Joe was the kind who appreciated flowers. Anything else at this point would have just been a waste. They would all be wilted and dead by the time he woke up anyway.