The Monster Hunter Files - eARC

by Larry Correia

  “What kind of yahoos?” Alex asked. He was the intel/hacker/background part of YS, a nineteen-year-old kid who was scary smart when it came to intel.

  “People I used to know,” I assured. “I’m good. Stay home. Finish the security job.” I didn’t need their help. Last thing I wanted was for my human partners to get bit.

  “Names,” Eli, the elder Younger asked. Well, demanded.

  “No.”

  Their interest sharpened like blades on a whetstone. “Janie?” Eli asked carefully.

  I took a breath and let out the rage I had held down by force of will. “They killed a child.” My voice vibrated, anger stripping my throat raw. “Ate her.” I swallowed and managed a breath. Got myself and my emotions under control. “I’ve got a grindylow. We’ll be done before you could get here.”

  “Jane—”

  “Call with info if you get it.” I ended the call. I should never have mentioned yahoos. Now they’d be looking into my past. Into things that were none of their business. There were days when my big mouth still got me in trouble. I’d have to live with my slipup.

  Bean was sleeping on the pillow when I left the inn. I was curious if and how she’d catch up to me. Grindys weren’t magical but they often acted like it.

  I didn’t have enough weapons to deal with a pack, no matter what Beast thought, and I wasted a moment wishing I had the Benelli M4 and my silver-plated vamp-killers, but even without my gear, I had an ace in the hole. One of several guys who hand-packed my silver fléchette rounds lived on the French Broad between I-26 and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Old Bourbon had most anything for the right price. Old Bourbon wasn’t his real name. He lived off the grid, squatting in an old school bus that he’d somehow mounted on a deck on ten-foot-high pylons at the end of a winding mud trail that routinely washed away when the French Broad flooded. Somehow his bus survived. Maybe he tossed an anchor.

  Leaving Bitsa on the trail, I hiked in. Bourbon met me with the business end of a shotgun but we parted happy: Bourbon with a fistful of cash and me with two fairly well-balanced, silver-plated machetes and an ancient, bolt-action, Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun of indeterminate provenance but with excellent action. I also had a well-used leather spine rig and a pocketful of his hand-packed silver fléchette shells, which had been my main goal. I had wanted a pump shotgun, but because of hunting season, Bourbon was fresh out; the bolt was all he had left. It wasn’t enough gear to take down a pack, but I had the reek of the child’s decomposing body stuck in my memory and a craving for vengeance burning through me. And I had the .380. I could always throw it at the werewolf like they did in the movies.

  * * *

  The path to the impromptu trailer park hidden in the hills was even worse than the road to Old Bourbon’s place, and it looked like it hadn’t been driven on in ages. A mile in, trees were down across it, which is where I left Bitsa. The werewolves had marked their territory with piles of poo and the stink of werewolf urine. Classy. I figured they four-pawed it overland when they went in and out and, assuming they had any, left parked vehicles off another road somewhere. If I cared, I’d backtrack and find their parking area and access. I didn’t.

  I had changed boots before I left the inn, and the heavily modified combat-style boots were silent as I approached the clearing along a well-used wolf trail. Wood smoke blew on the breeze, mixed with the stink of rotting meat, unwashed human, and sewage. But nothing moved. By the sun, it was around ten a.m. but a front was blowing in promising snow, the winds currently from the west.

  I’d had a good image of the clearing from above before dawn, but I made a slow circumference, reconnoitering the three trailers, positioning each door, broken chairs, a bicycle in parts, a picnic table, the kind with benches built on. I learned where everything was and the fastest way around, over, and through. The smell said several wolves were here, the female and some males, two of them cubs. The eldest male needed to be taken out first. He was likely one I had missed a year past, and he’d be more experienced.

  Keeping the body of Trailer One between me and the clearing, I stepped over a squat metal drum that stank of kerosene, slid the shotgun into the sheath at my back and drew the machetes. There was a stinking puddle near the door where he had been using the ground for a toilet, but it was mostly dry. I hoped that was an indication that he was asleep. The door was long gone, making entry easy as I leaped up and landed lightly, but my weight depressed the rotting floor with a soft sigh.

  “Collette?” He sounded half asleep. Maybe he’d fall back asleep if I stayed silent. Sadly, the wind changed and wolf noises decreed that luck wasn’t with me. A low rumble filled the trailer, reverberating off the mildewed walls. I heard the distinctive sound of bones breaking, reshaping.

  I dashed in, leaped over a broken recliner, bounded across a mattress on the floor, and down the narrow hallway. He was the fastest shifter I had ever seen, already mostly wolf when my machete came down across him, cutting deep into his right shoulder, an inch off from the perfect strike point. The machete had more heft than a vamp-killer, and less balance. And a less-honed edge. The blade stopped before hitting the cervical spine, avulsing the dozens of neck and upper shoulder muscles. The trapezius and the sternocleidomastoids peeled back like the skin of a fruit. The werewolf screamed, a strangled dog cry. I whipped the machete out of the mess of muscle, blood pulsing as the blade tore through the carotid.

  I cut down with the other machete, using more muscle than I usually needed, but this time hitting the exact spot at the proper angle. The swing carried down, momentum burying the blade in the spinal processes. The wolf went silent. Too late. One full backswing downstroke and his head was on the floor.

  He was a bloody mess of flesh, bone, and fur, still wearing the flannel pajama bottoms he’d slept in as a human. I spun, blades out, throwing a circular spatter pattern across the walls. The missed initial cut had cost me, and I heard howls from across the compound. I wiped the machetes on the bare mattress and slid them into the unfamiliar sheaths at my thighs. Losing precious time. I pulled the shotgun. Stalked through the mess and filth and leaped to the ground. I raised the gun, drawing on Beast’s strength. I wasn’t a shooter, I preferred blades for my work, but a mantra taught me by a sensei I had studied with had been, “The right tool at the right time.”

  A reddish blur flew through the air at me. Time did that little slow-dance effect and I focused on his open maw, black lips snarling, two-inch fangs, razor sharp on the inside edge. I raised the shotgun. Fired point-blank into his open mouth. I could almost see the silver fléchette shot as it flew. I worked the bolt, the cartridge spinning to the side. Thrust another shell into place for firing. Worked the bolt, reloading and firing twice more, until his torso was bloody meat and silver.

  To the side, Bean was in a gory, furious fight with another reddish wolf, yowling and growling that I could hear over my concussion deafness. Bean’s abnormally long canines latched under his jaw, claws slashing his throat. The were couldn’t get to her, even with the odd joints that gave him further reach than real wolves. Bean shredded his throat to the spine before he rolled over, dead.

  I got a glimpse of two black-furred wolf forms taking off into the woods. I swore softly, breathing heavy. There was nothing left to kill. I had let two get away. Worse, Bean was injured. Her blood was an emerald green, darker than her fur. She mewled piteously and I lifted her gently into my gear bag, relieved to see flesh knitting about a thousand times faster than a human’s. “You do not have permission to die on me,” I said. She glared at me, catlike, before closing her eyes.

  In my world, the only true-dead paranormal is one without a head, so I took all the heads.

  I took photos of the heads and dead wolves for proof of payment, sent them to YS for processing, and pulled the bodies into the smoking fire pit. I doused them with kerosene from the drum in back and they burst into spectacular green and yellow flames. I took more photos as they burned.

  Over the reek of burning were, I s
melled something else. And heard a faint whimper as my hearing returned.

  I entered Trailer Two, which was trashed but empty. It had been used as a den and mating nest by the bitch. In Trailer Three, I found two teenagers—juvenile werewolves—chained to the floor, raving, psychotic, forever insane. My heart plummeted. I don’t kill kids. No matter what. But I knew the wolves had to be put down. I opened my official cell phone, the one my boss could track me on, and spun the contact list to the N’s. There it was in all its never-deleted glory. I debated for a whole thirty seconds, then dialed the number.

  “Nomad.”

  “There was a pack. I got three.” My breath stopped. I forced myself to go on. “Leaving two teens chained in a trailer at this GPS. They’re all yours.” I disconnected, texted him my GPS, resettled my gear, downed a bottle of water, and headed into the woods. I didn’t answer his call-back.

  * * *

  I followed their trail to the watering hole on the branch of McKinney Creek, and then downstream to the creek itself. The McKinney roared, clear and greened by the season, full of snowmelt and downed trees. It splashed almost playfully, but temps and underwater strainers could be deadly. The wolves had swum across and muddied the far bank.

  From upstream, water thundered, likely through a micro canyon. I hoisted the unfamiliar gear higher and trekked up. The crossing at the micro canyon wasn’t much better, except for a leaning pine hanging on by a tangle of roots. I drew on my skinwalker energies and finished the job that some recent storm had started, pushed my bridge over, where it bounced on the far shore. I’m stronger than I look.

  * * *

  High on the ridge, I followed the wolf scent and tracks in the snow, a hard up-and-downhill hike. I heard it before I smelled it. Bikes. Lots of bikes. Roaring along 151. The bitch had circled back to the highway adored by bikers. Sandra Doherty had said she heard trucks. But…maybe motorcycles? And the meat smell meant a biker grill. Collette had two dens.

  Half a mile down the road I found tracks of wolves, barefoot humans, boot tracks, and bike tracks. I checked the sat-maps and texted both my YS partners and, more reluctantly, Nomad. “Pig-It-Your-Way, three miles from my twenty. Bitch is on a bike.” Then I made the trek back to Bitsa. Temps dropped and it started to snow. Nothing was ever easy.

  * * *

  I wheeled from snow-covered mud trail to snow-covered asphalt. It was past sunset and I was starving. No surprise there. Some of the best chow in the world—or at least the most acid-inducing—could be found at biker bars, so I pulled in at Pig-It-Your-Way and killed the engine about fifty feet from the door. I smelled gas, oil, and that heated distinctive scent of big Harley. There were eighteen bikes in the lot and a dozen trucks. Country music blasted through the walls. The picture window was full of neon beer signs. Grease, beef, and spicy wings laced the air, the best perfume God ever created.

  Somewhere under the mélange was the stink of werewolves. They had been here days ago, maybe weeks ago, but they weren’t here now. This wasn’t the den. Disappointment threaded through me.

  I unhelmeted and made my way inside, where I stepped quickly to the side of the door burger menu, beer on tap, neon beer signs, all kinds of bikers and biker chicks, from the discreetly armed, upper management Hell’s Angels at the back booth, to the weekend riders at the opposing corner. There was no bouncer, but the interest of the bartender was predatory, and I had a feeling he kept lots of pretties back there. He was tall, had prison tats mixed with some really good ink. Black hair, long and greasy, acne, knobby knuckles.

  I gave him a steady stare and a nod that told him I’d be starting no problems, acknowledging his dominant position. He relaxed and nodded back before I took a two-person booth that would place my back to the bar and me facing the door. I gave my order to the barmaid, made a trip to the Ladies, positioned the shotgun on the bench beside me, and waited for my meal as bikers roared up and the joint filled with Friday night partygoers. The food was every bit as delish as I expected, and I was wiping my greasy hands when the door opened and the stink of were and something chemical-based, like battery acid mixed with drain cleaner and antifreeze swirled inside. I pulled the shotgun across my legs, but with the place full, there was no clear shot. Collateral damage. Polite phrase for dead and mangled humans. Bitten humans who might have to be put down. Crap.

  The bitch walked in, movements limber, wearing high-end biker boots, black leathers, and scarlet lipstick. She was tiny, sharp-featured, and crazy-eyed, with wind-tousled dark hair. I could take her in my sleep. Except that she was followed by three huge werewolf males, armed to the teeth. Too much potential collateral damage. I needed to get this outside. Fast.

  Behind them stepped Ben, Laden, and Nomad, dressed in high-tech MHI armor, visible through open coats. Relief flashed through me. Laden spotted me and his eyebrows went up a millimeter or so. Laden was a minimalist, like other former military I know, buzz cut and the bluest eyes on the face of the earth. I winked at him and glanced out the picture window to the parking lot. He nodded.

  The wolves-in-human-form caught my scent and all four stopped, sniffing the air. I don’t smell human. The pack turned slowly toward me. Too late to get this fight outside, so I had to end it fast. I grinned at her, showing teeth, and laughed, giving MHI time to get into position.

  The MHI Hunters moved into a semicircle around the males, but out of my line of fire. I stood up, slammed a machete onto the table with a loud thwhack, braced the shotgun, and aimed it at the bitch. Seemed like I had lied to the bartender.

  The place fell dead silent and I said, my words ringing, “Hey bitch. I killed a few of your old men today. Now it’s your turn.” She screamed and launched herself at me. Time did that odd slow-down thing it did in battle. With all the time in the world, I bent my knees to take the hit. Adjusted the weapon up, left-handed, to cover the males, just in case. Lifted the machete to counter her lunge.

  Clawed hands reached out, grabbing the barrel. Her teeth elongated, fur on her face and hands. I let her grip the weapon and start the torque that intended to take the shotgun from my hand. Bringing up the machete in my right, slightly curved point slanting toward her twisted torso. Dropped my left shoulder and swept outward with the barrel, opening up her reach, exposing her belly. Stealing her balance.

  The machete entered just below her breastbone. Slightly to the right. Cut deep. Rotation and angle pulled the blade. Through her body, hard left. Blood spattered over my arm. Across the bar. Distantly, I heard screams. The pop-pop-pop of small arms. The boom of something bigger. Her torso twisted. Hit my left arm. Pushing the shotgun. I let it. Put muscle behind the cut. Severed the descending aorta in a release of pressure. Blood in a gush. The blade snagged on tendons in left hip and thigh before they gave way. Her rotation yanked the machete from my bloodied grip. She landed hard and rolled, guts spilling.

  I thought about shooting, but drew the remaining machete. Glanced at the others.

  Ben was taking off a wolf’s head.

  Laden was shoving another’s head through the jukebox, glass shattering.

  Nomad was down, wolf fangs latched tight on his right arm. Buried in Dyneema or Zylon. I could smell the stuff. A fourth had joined the fray and ripped at Nomad’s booted foot. A green blur flew through the air. Landed on the wolf on Nomad’s arm. Steel claws slicing deep. Bean attack. I laughed, an unexpected sound in the chaos. Raised the machete. The bitch’s belly was already trying to knit. Her face and body were mostly werewolf—fangs, claws, and oversized jaws.

  Drawing on Beast’s strength and speed, I brought the blade down. Hitting her just below the mandible. Severing carotid and jugular. Blood erupted, under pressure. I cut again. And again. Her head rolled over to the floor, tongue hanging out.

  I smelled smoke. The flames of a grease fire roiled from the kitchen. Dead wolves. Laden and Ben were cutting the jukebox wolf into pieces. Bean was gone. Nomad was bleeding badly. Out cold. Dang it. The rest of the bar had emptied.

  I gathered
my weapons, took a quick burst of pics across the bar scene. Bent and lifted Nomad into a fireman’s carry. I left the bar, Laden and Ben behind me.

  “You got pics of the wolves?” Laden asked, his voice as casual as if we were discussing roses at a garden party.

  “I got ’em,” I said, not quite as easy. “You got bandages?”

  “You’re the girl. Got sanitary napkins?” Ben asked.

  I sighed. I had forgotten the crudity of some MHI. “No, but I saw some in the Ladies. Back in a sec.” I dumped the weapons and Nomad onto him and raced into the smoke, which had filled the bar. I beat open the vending machine in the Ladies and stuck a variety of absorbent materials down my shirt. Smoke curled in under the door.

  I heard a frightened cry. Spotted a small handle with a lock, hinges. Trap door.

  Adrenaline pumping, I wrenched open the door, the small lock flying. Two children were in the cramped space. Tears and mucous on their faces. I didn’t ask. I just reached in and took an arm in each hand. Hauled them up against me.

  Coughed my way outside.

  MHI were behind a rusted U-Haul that hadn’t been there earlier, taking cover, applying pressure to Nomad’s wounds. They stared at the children and me, open-mouthed. I remembered the chemical smell on the werewolves and Sandra Doherty’s testimony. “The U-Haul smells like a mobile meth lab,” I said.

  The men looked from me to the U-Haul. There was something odd in their expressions, and Ben said, “That stuff flammable?”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  From out front, engines roared, Harleys, at least ten bikes, heading in. I figured the bikers, who had vamoosed, were on the way back with reinforcements. Not good. But then, nothing had ever been easy around Nomad. He was my own personal Murphy’s Law.