“We don’t usually loan out our Hunters,” said Harbinger, “but for you I’m willing to make an exception.” He smiled at Heather warmly. “So long as you promise to take real good care of ’em.”
An international mission sounded splendid, especially in light of what I’d been expecting to happen. It seemed Harbinger didn’t know that I choked after all. I felt a strange mixture of relief and shame for getting rewarded with a cool assignment despite my screw-up. I wondered who else was going. Would I get the chance to work with Owen Pitt, or Holly Newcastle, or someone equally cool from Team Harbinger? But those guys weren’t IT experts. In which case…
“Is Melvin coming, too?”
Harbinger frowned. “Son, you don’t send a troll to a troll revolt. He might think it’s a party.”
* * *
Instead of Melvin, Harbinger assigned my buddy Carl to round out the team. Carl’s computer skills were limited to playing Candy Crush and losing, but he was interested in joining one of the international teams, and I guess Harbinger didn’t mind sending two Newbies on such a training-wheels mission.
After nearly a day spent in planes, trains and automobiles, we arrived at the Russian Hunters’ headquarters, somewhere on the outskirts of Moscow. It looked like the private dacha of some Communist big shot, fallen into disrepair in the decades since perestroika but fixed up recently. You could see the fresh patches of paint and concrete in places. It was large and offered as much privacy as any estate this close to Russia’s capitol might provide.
Heather headed off to meet with the Russian Hunters’ boss, some man named Krasnov, while Carl and I were ushered into the cafeteria for some refreshments. There were several Hunters in the room, gregarious and loud; they were just like our guys back in Alabama.
Carl and I grabbed some bread and cold cuts from the cornucopia of food. Seriously, the tables were groaning with the weight of deli meats, potato, herring, and other dishes, not to mention vodka and beer. Owen and some of the others would have had a field day; their Vegas buffet exploits were legendary.
The Russians kept stealing glances at us, but none approached.
“They probably ain’t never seen a black Jew before.” Carl waved his sandwich at me. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he fit right in with the local crew. “Or maybe they’re stunned by my good looks and winning personality.”
The largest of the Russians broke from the group and made his way toward us. He was nearly seven feet tall and made of solid muscle; basically Ivan Drago’s big brother. He grinned. “We see vampyr, goblin, and kikimora every other week,” he said in heavily accented English. “After this, different skin color is not big deal, da?”
I smiled politely while Carl laughed uproariously. The Russian extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Sergey. But you call me Ponchik. Everyone else does.”
“Mike,” I said. “And that’s Carl.”
“Hey, is that ChronoRex 500?” He pointed at my smartwatch, the latest and greatest on the market.
Turned out, Ponchik was almost as much of a gadgethead as me. Our conversation quickly descended into technobabble, prompting Carl to flee and try his luck with Hunters whose foreign language was Cyrillic rather than Nerd.
We chatted for hours. The spiders in my mind scratched less loudly. I felt welcomed and my anxiety remained in check. I told Ponchik stories about my time on the pro gaming circuit and he educated me on the history of monster hunting in Russia.
Back in the Soviet days, it was a government-controlled thing. The Commies brutally exterminated anything that wasn’t human. When the USSR collapsed, Russia still had its version of the MCB, but all sorts of private outfits—cooperatives, as Ponchik called them—sprouted to fill the void. The current government attitude toward monsters wasn’t quite as extreme. They were happy to employ the agreeable ones, or look the other way when corporations who paid the bribes did the same.
“We knew about Troll Factory for years,” said Ponchik.
“The troll factory?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Not real factory. Is just what we call it. Big, boring office. They use trolls for corporate spying, propaganda, to write bad reviews of competitor products on internet, stuff like this. But we, how you say, had bigger fish to cook. Trolls behave, not kill anyone, so we don’t bother. Now they misbehave, we go to work; it will be piece of pie to defeat them.” For a guy without an ounce of fat on him, Ponchik sure seemed fond of slightly askew food metaphors.
* * *
We entered the Troll Factory at dawn. Heather, Carl, and I followed a team of twelve Russian Hunters armed to the teeth. The factory was a four-story office building, drab and gray and so ordinary it might as well have been in Jersey.
Heather had expressed some concern about going in light, but the Russians all seemed as confident as Ponchik. “It’s only a few trolls,” said their leader Oleg. “What we’ve got here is overkill.”
He was wrong.
The trolls waited until we got past the foyer and ventured deeper into the bowels of the building. We hoped to surprise them—instead, they ambushed us. They attacked en masse, at least two dozen of them pouring out of offices and down staircases. Eight-foot-tall green humanoids with unnaturally long limbs, they were a terrifying sight.
We retreated through a maze of cubicles and corridors, cramped spaces preventing the Hunters from taking full advantage of their guns. The Russians left at least two mauled bodies behind. A door burst open and a troll came at me with a nasty club that had large nails embedded at its business end, creating a makeshift morning star. I moved to duck but he was too fast. Just as the club was about to brain me, someone yanked me backward. The club missed my head by inches and its nails bit into the gray sheetrock of the wall. As I landed ungracefully on my ass, I saw Ponchik tackle the green bastard before he could recover his balance. The Russian landed on top of the troll and drove a big, mean-looking knife through his misshapen head.
He got up and turned to me, bits of the troll’s brain on his blade. “Something wrong here.”
“No shit,” I said. “There are a lot more than a few trolls.”
“Yes.” Ponchik moved fast and half-dragged me along as he spoke. “But also trolls act strange. Fearless. They swarm, not care if first ones get shot.”
Come to think of it, they seemed to act just like the zombies from the other day: trying to overwhelm us with numbers, not caring for their individual safety. I thought trolls were supposed to be smart. But then, we also expected there to be only a few of them. There must’ve been a lot of vacant real estate under Russia’s bridges.
We turned the corner and came face to face with four more of the damn things.
“Blin!” Ponchik cursed. He shoved me back in the direction we’d come from. “Run.”
But I wasn’t going to abandon him. I wasn’t going to freeze up again, not this time. I pulled my pistol, aiming to get at least a few shots in before Ponchik, who rushed ahead like a cartoon character attacking a much larger force all by himself, closed the gap. But before I raised the gun, one of the trolls threw something baseball-sized at my head with a speed and accuracy that would make Cy Young jealous.
It felt like I’d just been punched by Muhammad Ali wearing metal gloves. Then the world went black.
* * *
I woke up with the mother of all headaches—and anyone who thinks that’s just a cliché hasn’t been knocked unconscious by a hit to the head. I was lying in the corridor, right next to my gun and the broken remnants of a plaster paperweight, which must’ve been what the troll got me with. It was quiet; no sounds of fighting and gunfire.
I groaned and pulled myself up. There was a pair of dead trolls. No sign of Ponchik or the other two, though cracked sheetrock and blood splatter on the drop ceiling suggested they’d taken the battle farther down the corridor.
Nauseous and in pain, I checked my watch. I’d been out for nearly an hour, which didn’t bode well; contrary to what they show in the movies, most knockouts last se
conds, or minutes at most. I figured the surviving Hunters must’ve retreated. If so, they’d be back soon with reinforcements. I had to decide which was safer: to try and sneak out of the building or to find a hiding spot and wait for the cavalry. I settled on the latter and made for the office door farthest down the dead-end corridor. My ears were ringing, which is why I didn’t realize it was occupied.
I opened the door and five pairs of yellow troll eyes zeroed in on me. They sat at computer desks separated by cubiclelike dividers. On their screens were images burned into my retina over the years of competitive gaming: the Dust2 map. The trolls were playing Counter-Strike.
There was no way I could outrun them, and I sure as hell couldn’t outfight them. So I did the only thing I could think of that stood a chance of me not ending up as troll chow. I pointed at a vacant computer and issued a challenge no true gamer could resist. “Wanna scrim?”
The trolls said nothing, but they didn’t attack, either. I moved toward the PC, taking care not to make any sudden moves, and powered it on.
They were good, like way better than an average player. But not as good as a pro gamer who supported himself through college by competing on e-sport tournament circuits. Mike Cantor stood no chance against five trolls, but Black Neo could dispatch their avatars in-game all day long, despite suffering from a concussion.
We played a bunch of quick three-on-three matches, with me leading my team to victory almost every time. Two of the trolls cheered and laughed while the other three became progressively more salty. I made sure to reshuffle the teams after a while to keep everyone happy.
The trolls were dedicated gamers. Under better circumstances, playing with them might’ve been fun. They chugged energy drinks and munched potato chips, and acted pretty much like every human gamer I ever met. It was hard to reconcile this behavior with the murderous rage I’d witnessed earlier. I stole a glance at my watch, uncertain as to what the trolls would do to me when the Hunters returned.
Soon, I got to find out. Before I could figure a way out of that mess, gunfire erupted outside. The trolls sat up straight. Their demeanor and body language changed as though evil new souls inhabited each body. They were suddenly menacing and scary as hell. And they studied me, almost as though they were surprised I was there.
Two of them grabbed me, disarmed me, and dragged me out of the room.
* * *
The trolls brought me into a security office in the basement. There were monitors hung up on the wall, showing dozens of camera feeds from inside and outside the building. And in the chair watching them sat…something.
The swivel chair turned and I was face to face with a demon. I may not have been MHI’s best trainee when it came to shooting at things, but I’d hit the books hard. I recognized what he was from a picture in the training manual: a man-sized, scruffy-looking bearded creep with reddish, blotchy skin and two small protrusions for horns. He might’ve passed for an especially ugly satyr but he didn’t have goat legs and he sure as hell wasn’t jolly. Also, he smelled like vomit. He was a bies—a rare Russian demon with mind-control powers.
So that was why the trolls behaved so strangely! An average bies could enthrall one or two people at a time. This one must’ve been crazy powerful to control an entire army of trolls.
The bies studied me intently. “Interesting,” he said. He didn’t speak out loud; instead I heard his creepy, raspy voice inside my head. “Your mind won’t obey me.” He leaned forward. “Your mind has been touched by another.”
The spiders inside my mind scurried and scuttled like no one’s business. Only a few months after learning about the supernatural and I’m facing my second rare kind of demon. Must just be lucky, I guess. What’s more, they seem to have a mutual admiration society going. I tried to come up with something brave and defiant to say to mask my overwhelming fear.
“It was touched by your mother,” I said. Yeah, it was mega lame. I challenge you to do better, under the circumstances.
The bies ignored my attempted burn. “No matter,” he said. “Your friends will make better slaves. Especially the werewolf.”
Before I could ask “What werewolf?” the trolls tossed me into a corner and proceeded to beat the crap out of me.
Another troll played with the controls of the security system, and the biggest screen displayed an image of Heather and Carl and several Russians in the lobby. I could see them watching a monitor there, which showed the two trolls taking out their frustrations on me. Then their screen displayed the floor map of the basement level, with the security office highlighted in red.
Surely, the Hunters would know I was bait. But they didn’t know about the bies. Best as I recalled from the manual, a bies needed to be in close proximity to enthrall someone, but then it could control them from a greater distance afterward. My would-be rescuers had no idea of the danger awaiting them, and there was nothing I could do but watch. At least the trolls ceased hitting me once the Hunters got the message and moved on from the monitor.
The security feeds showed forty or more Russian Hunters entering the building and methodically clearing it, room by room. Meanwhile, a smaller team fought its way toward the basement. The trolls didn’t make it easy on them, probably so the trap would look less suspicious.
I watched as Heather transformed, her bones twisting, thick reddish fur covering her skin. In moments she was a wolf and her fangs ripped troll flesh like it was cotton candy. I had no idea she was a werewolf, and I wondered if Harbinger knew. But he trusted her and that was good enough for me.
Soon Heather burst into the room, followed by Carl, Ponchik, and two more Hunters. The bies stared at them and they froze as though someone clicked Pause. Then the Hunters stood at attention, like so many marionettes, and the werewolf sat, muscles playing under her fur, like a German shepherd awaiting its master’s command.
I tried to help, to do something, but I could barely move. It felt like they broke a few of my ribs during the beating. I coughed up some blood onto the carpet.
Then another Hunter, a woman in her thirties with a single long plait of blonde hair swept over her camo shirt, ran into the room. One of the enthralled Russians turned toward the newcomer and calmly shot her in the head.
I let everyone down, just like I let my Audrey down, and now I watched my friends become subjugated by this evil bastard. The mix of frustration, fear, pain, anger, and shame reached its pinnacle, and I screamed.
Then the terrifying spiders from my dreams were there, corporeal, each the size of a spaniel and rampaging in what had become a very crowded room.
The bies screamed as venomous fangs bit into his ruddy flesh. I counted at least seven spiders swarming over the demon’s body as he thrashed on the floor. The Hunters and the trolls looked as though they’d just woken up from deep sleep. They didn’t have time to gather their wits: once done with the bies, the spiders attacked them, indiscriminately and with ferocity.
“No,” I croaked. I didn’t know how I’d summoned the creatures, but when I willed them to stand down, to leave my friends alone, they ignored me.
Hunters and trolls fought together against the new threat. The spiders seemed to have lost their focus once they dispatched the bies, and while they attacked anything that moved, they were more manageable individually. One by one, they were all put down, but not before they managed to inject a troll and several of the Hunters with their venom.
After the fight ended, the werewolf transformed back into Heather, her eyes gradually losing the golden glow as her bones re-formed into human shape. Some of the Russians were polite enough to avert their eyes as Carl handed her his trench coat.
Last thing I remembered was Carl and Heather crouching over me and calling for a medic. Then I faded out, and I’m pretty sure it was for much longer than an hour that time.
* * *
I woke up in a large infirmary, my ribs sore and tightly bandaged. There were a dozen beds, half of them occupied. I recognized some of the Hunters from earlier.
Ponchik was one of them.
“How are you feeling?” Heather asked from the bedside chair, lowering the book she’d been reading. Carl was there, too, sitting on an empty bed. He rushed over.
“Kill me,” I whispered.
“What?” they said in unison.
“I summoned those spiders somehow, and I couldn’t control them. No telling when or how I’ll summon them again.”
“It’s admirable that you’re willing to sacrifice yourself,” said Heather, “but there’s a better way.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I work with MHI, but I work for a government agency that employs people with special powers, like me. We can help you learn to cope with your ability. To control it.”
I processed this new information.
“STFU,” Carl told me.
“I didn’t say anything.”
He smirked. “They’re called Special Task Force Unicorn. Not what I would name such an illustrious group, but there you have it.”
“We wanted access to some of the data stored at the Troll Factory,” said Heather. “But, given the current political climate, Russian authorities weren’t going to let a federal agent waltz in and take it. Working through MHI was…expedient.”
“Once you took down the demon and the trolls were freed from its control, they practically fell over themselves to give us everything we needed,” said Carl.
“A year ago I wouldn’t have suggested this, but STFU is under new management these days and it’s well on its way to becoming an organization it should have always been. I really think this would be a good fit for you. So, what do you say,” asked Heather. “Wanna work for Uncle Sam?”
My head felt very heavy. I wasn’t sure if I was feeling the scratching of the phantom spiders again, or if it was just the aftereffect of my injuries. “I need to think about this. And to rest.”
They let me be.
I closed my eyes and pondered my situation for a while. I’d failed so many times recently; I was barely qualified to be a Hunter, and now I was a walking disaster waiting to happen. Who was to say I’d succeed at gaining control over my scary power? How could I trust myself? How could I risk the safety of others? There were so many difficult questions…and so few answers.
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