The Monster Hunter Files - eARC

by Larry Correia

  Ponchik was awake. He was reading something on a tablet, his long frame barely fitting on the bed. He shifted and the blanket slid from his left leg: it was purple and huge, an aftereffect of the venom I recognized from my own past encounter with the spider demon.

  I made my way over to him, feeling the damn ribs with every step I took.

  “I hope you feel better than you look,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Your injury…It’s my fault.”

  “What?” he asked.

  I told him everything. About the spiders residing in my head, about my failing at my first mission, even about STFU, though I’m sure Heather wouldn’t have been happy about that. But I had to tell someone, and Ponchik had saved my life at least twice at the Troll Factory.

  He listened intently to my story. “You can’t give up,” he said. “You must try to control your magic power. Use it to fight evil.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” I said.

  He pursed his lips. “Do you know what Ponchik means in Russian?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “It means ‘doughnut.’ I was soft and flabby kid.”

  I looked at his rock-solid biceps skeptically.

  “I was very depressed. No friends. Alcoholic parents who gave no support. I had to fight hard to change. Kept nickname after, as reminder.” Ponchik patted my shoulder. “We all have inner demons to fight. Even if yours is actual demon.” He smiled. “You can’t let demon win, Mike.”

  Despite all my doubts, despite my fears, I knew he was right.

  “Besides,” said Ponchik, “you are kid from New York and you got powers after you get bit by spider! Know what it makes you?”

  He was still laughing at his own joke when I limped back to my bed.

  For the first time in months, I slept through the night.

  This story is hard to confirm because it comes by way of an MCB leak. With those guys you can never tell if something is true or they’re just messing with you. —A.L.

  Keep Kaiju Weird

  Kim May

  Kumiko reached across her chest to the phone strapped on her left bicep and turned up the volume. She smiled and ran a bit faster, her favorite J-pop song blasting through her earbuds. This track had a very catchy dance beat that made it easier to keep pace up the steep hill.

  The PUFF exemption tag around her neck shrugged itself loose and began to bounce annoyingly with every step. Kumiko quickly tucked it back into her sports bra and hoped, rather than expected, it would stay there.

  Sweat trickled down her bare midriff, and her thighs ached as she rounded the third and final switchback on the narrow, tree-lined street. Kumiko was tempted to cheat a bit. A quick twitch of her five fox tails and she could soar effortlessly to the top. Of course, that would require removing the veil of invisibility around her tails, which would attract a lot of attention—attention that would threaten her PUFF exemption.

  Sometimes it sucked being a kitsune. Especially when bureaucracy knew how take the fun out of immortality.

  With a growl, Kumiko ran faster—past the houses and parked cars, past the other joggers, and finally past the firs that marked the end of her route. There, the road leveled and wound around the Rocky Butte viewpoint.

  The viewpoint proper rose from the center of the small plateau like a basalt layer cake. The bottom layer was a twelve-foot-high wall of rough-hewn stone. The top layer resembled a crown because of the electric lanterns and decorative stone railing. A radio tower stood in the middle, almost like a giant birthday candle. Jogging around the viewpoint reminded Kumiko of chasing her littermates around the base of the original Nagoya castle as a kit.

  Kumiko turned off her music and stretched on the side of the road. The sun beat down on her long black hair. It was uncomfortably warm at the summit, and the soft breeze didn’t provide much relief.

  She pulled out her earbuds, then shook her head to dispel the pinching cramp that set in whenever she wore them too long. It didn’t work this time. Instead of dissipating, the cramp was replaced by a rhythmic chink chink sound that aggravated her sensitive kitsune ears.

  That wasn’t a normal sound for this area. Kumiko looked around, perplexed. She didn’t see anything on this side of the butte that could have caused it, but it was definitely close.

  The breeze shifted, carrying with it the scent of sweaty men and stone dust. Someone was carving into the butte. Vandals again?

  As soon as she thought it, Kumiko realized her assumption didn’t make sense. If it were vandals, why weren’t they spray-painting the stone? Carving was more work than any tagger would care to exert. There wasn’t a park service vehicle around so that ruled out site maintenance, too.

  Something about this didn’t feel right.

  Kumiko ducked into the tree line behind her. Blackberry brambles scraped her shins, and twigs snapped with every step. The second Kumiko was out of sight she dropped the veil and stripped. She placed her folded clothes and phone on top of her shoes under a large rhododendron.

  Then, with an instinctual inflection of will, Kumiko shifted into her fox form—her true form. Her silky white fur seemed to glow in the shade. She backtracked to the road, her dainty black paws moving silently through the underbrush.

  Kumiko sniffed the air. No humans, other than those she’d smelled earlier. Kumiko threw a veil around herself just in case, and leapt out of the trees, moving so fast her paws barely touched the ground. She jumped on top of the base layer and crept around the bend.

  Fifteen feet away, Kumiko found two men kneeling on the stone. One of them carved a strange symbol into the base of the top tier with a hammer and chisel. Kumiko’s ears twitched every time the chisel struck the stone. The other worked about three feet away from his partner. He held a piece of paper to the stone and used a piece of white chalk to outline a different symbol onto the rock. Both of the symbols were similar to Nordic runes but with jagged points that made every curve and line look like a claw mark.

  Pain emanated from the stone, sharp on Kumiko’s heightened awareness. The feeling wasn’t caused by the chisel cuts though. It came from the dark, otherworldly energy that gathered around the symbol itself. In fact, the longer she stared at the symbol, the more she felt as if someone watched her…

  Kumiko growled and bared her teeth at the other who spied from beyond.

  That’s my job, asshole, she mentally projected to it.

  A sensation of amusement was its only response.

  The carver suddenly fell back in fright, nearly dropping his tools. “Did you hear that?” he said.

  “For the hundredth time, no,” the sketcher replied. “I don’t care what you hear. He can’t come through until we perform the ceremony. Now get back to work. I want to be done before noon. It’s hot up here.”

  Kumiko retraced her steps, inspecting the butte. Three feet away she found another symbol. It looked different from those the men presently worked on, but it was clearly the same unearthly language. As she continued around, she found more, each emanating the same entity’s malevolent amusement.

  That made it official. It was time for Kumiko to make the call.

  She leapt down and dashed into the trees—faster than the human eye could perceive. Her fox form definitely had its advantages. Kumiko landed beside the rhododendron and shifted back to human form. Rather than dress, she grabbed her phone and pressed four on speed dial. The other side picked up on the first ring, but didn’t say anything in greeting.

  “Franks,” Kumiko said quietly. “How fast can you get to Portland, Oregon? Cultists are prepping a site for a summoning.”

  “Where?” the other side grumbled—a deep, almost inhuman bass.

  A newbie might have babbled a lot of useless details. Kumiko suspected this was one of the reasons why so many of Franks’ co-workers sported broken noses. Either that, or they weren’t smart enough to stay out of striking distance. She kept it simple and to the point.

  “Rocky Butte. It’s an exti
nct volcano.”

  “On our way.”

  * * *

  Seven hours later, Kumiko stood outside the Air National Guard installation at the Portland airport, waiting for Franks. He was an imposing wall of a man, almost as wide as he was tall, and made of raw sinew tougher than iron. When she saw him through the glass exit, she smoothed out the black pantsuit she’d changed into for formal business.

  Franks walked out, accompanied by a handsome human carrying a duffle bag with their gear. The human must have been the poor bastard assigned to be Franks’ latest partner.

  The smell hit Kumiko’s nose instantly. Too much Dolce and Gabbana, she thought. His black suit was of excellent quality, and judging by his cocky strut, he was proud of it, too. Any twenty-first-century American woman might have been impressed. Kumiko merely tsked in the back of her mind.

  “Armani?” she asked, just a touch tongue in cheek.

  “Lastrucci,” the human said, correcting her with a forced smile.

  Kumiko suspected Franks’ partner wasn’t happy about being caught wearing something just shy of top of the line.

  “You must be the informant,” the human said.

  Kumiko nodded.

  “Thank you for your help,” Franks’ partner continued. “We’ll take over from here.”

  “She’s coming with us,” Franks announced, deadpan. The partner’s steps faltered.

  Kumiko didn’t bother to hide her grin. “I’ll brief you on the way.”

  She led them to where she’d parked at the back of the lot. There weren’t very many cars back here, and the partner automatically gravitated to the largest: a black Dodge Ram Quad Cab. He was visibly shocked when—instead—she keylessly unlocked the doors to her cobalt Scion FR-S.

  “Uh…we are not going to fit,” the human said dubiously.

  “It’s bigger than you think,” Kumiko replied in all honesty.

  “But—”

  “Shut up, Grant,” Franks said.

  Kumiko opened the door with a flourish and watched as the human—Grant—peered in, then rubbed his eyes, and peered in again. From the outside, the car looked no different than it had when it left the factory. However, once she opened the door, the substantially expanded interior was clearly visible.

  “How can it be bigger on the inside?” Grant asked.

  “She’s a kitsune,” Franks said as he pushed Grant into the car.

  “We’re very good at warping space,” she said.

  Grant fell into the back seat. Franks sat in the passenger seat, and stretched his legs. Since Grant was aware of her true nature now, Kumiko dropped the veil—and casually jumped over the car, her now-visible tails flared around the vehicle. She glided into the driver’s seat and closed the door. In the rearview mirror, Grant’s jaw dropped.

  Franks watched out of the corner of his eye as she arranged her tails on the back seat, next to Grant.

  “Still can’t shift into a form without tails?” Franks asked.

  “No. Most don’t gain that ability until they’re six hundred.”

  “Six hundred…what? Years?” Grant sputtered.

  “I know,” Kumiko said, mock pouting. “It’s unfair for a five-hundred-and-thirty-seven-year-old to look thirty.” She turned over the engine and sped into traffic. “It’s the curse of being Japanese. I won’t look my age until I’m a thousand.”

  Kumiko stayed on the side streets. There was no way they’d get there in time if she took the freeway. Not in rush hour traffic, anyway.

  “I spent the day following the cultists I told you about,” Kumiko said as she whipped the car around a slowpoke Prius. “They reported to their leader at Demonicon, a demon-themed convention being held downtown.”

  Grant leaned forward. “And the fact that there was a demon-themed convention planned this weekend wasn’t enough of a reason to call us?”

  “This is Portland,” Kumiko said, as if that were explanation enough.

  The stale yellow light that Kumiko hoped would last two seconds longer changed to red. She floored the gas and blasted through the intersection, nearly missing a cyclist.

  “There’s always something demon-themed going on,” Kumiko said. “Three months ago it was CthulhuCon, before that it was some horror writers’ conference, and before that it was the Lovecraft film festival…the people here like weird shit, but they’re usually harmless.”

  “Damn hippies.” Franks interjected.

  Kumiko nodded. “The local Wiccan community usually prevents dangerous groups from entering the city. I don’t know how this cult slipped past.”

  Kumiko turned onto a quiet neighborhood street and floored it. She ignored the angry granny on the corner waving a KIDS AT PLAY sign. There was very little traffic here, and no signals to slow them down. Besides, depending on how the next hour went, there might not be a neighborhood left to play in.

  “I still don’t know who they plan to bring through,” Kumiko continued. “I did sense them at the site. They’re powerful and have a chip bigger than you on their shoulder.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down,” Franks grumbled.

  Kumiko figured he’d say that. “They’ve also stolen pages from a convention guest artist’s sketchbook to turn into a corporeal vessel.”

  Franks turned to her. “Who?”

  “It was Paul Komoda’s sketchbook.”

  “Fuck,” Franks said.

  Grant leaned forward again. “Why fuck??”

  “Well,” Kumiko said with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “when a bird and a bee love each other very much—”

  “Ha ha,” Grant huffed indignantly and leaned as far away from her as he could. Somehow he managed to be both handsome and petulant at the same time. Now that’s a God-given gift, Kumiko thought.

  Kumiko answered Grant’s valid question. “Paul draws and sculpts really detailed demons and monsters.”

  Kumiko parked by a church at the bottom of the hill.

  “We’re still a mile away from the site,” she said.

  Grant leaned forward. “You can’t get us any closer?”

  “Are you going to replace my car if it gets trashed in the fight?”

  He flashed Kumiko a smile that had probably moistened many seats. “Well, I can give you a ride…”

  Kumiko rolled her eyes and gave Franks a pleading look. He shrugged. In the blink of an eye, Kumiko created a realistic illusion of herself twisted around in her seat, holding a gun three inches from Grant’s face. For added effect Kumiko threw in the twined scents of blued steel and fresh CLP.

  “Get this through your head now,” Kumiko said, “I am not some hot thing you can woo while reloading. All those pick-up lines and kinky positions flitting through your mind? I tired of them before your ancestors sailed to this country.”

  “You can’t threaten me!” Grant sputtered. “You’ll lose your exemption for that!”

  Kumiko released the illusion, showing that she still faced forward in the driver’s seat, no firearm in sight. “How could I have threatened you? I haven’t moved.”

  Kumiko and Franks got out of the car. While they waited for Grant to make up his mind about whether he trusted her or not, she opened the trunk and pulled out a long bundle in a lavender silk bag with a drawstring at the top. Franks raised his eyebrow when he saw it. She untied the string and slid out a katana with a black lacquered wood scabbard, and a leaf-green silk cord wrapped around the handle.

  Franks nodded in acknowledgement: not to her, but to the sword. It startled her that he not only recognized the Honjo Masamune, but greeted the holy blade as an…actually, she wasn’t sure. As an equal? An old friend?

  Grant, who decided to join the party after, stepped out of the car carrying the duffle and pulled out a heavy load-bearing vest with bulletproof plating. Both men were already armed with the federal-issue sidearms they’d brought with them. The vest, however, had small demo charges, aka “MCB Specials,” strapped to it. The charges were often used to blow heavy doors or alt
ars, so they’d work well on the symbols. Grant strapped on the vest and made sure his Glock had a full mag.

  Kumiko wrapped her free arm around Grant’s waist, flared her tails, and leapt forward, propelling them up the hill as fast as any sprinter. Beside her, Franks ran at the same pace. When they reached the top, Franks wasn’t even winded, but Grant looked a touch pale as she deposited him on the pavement.

  Smoke rose from the viewpoint, and Kumiko could faintly hear chanting. The symbols around the summit glowed dark violet and pulsed like a heart beating. Chikushou! They’ve already started!

  Kumiko closed her eyes and gathered as much energy from the earth as she could. There wasn’t much in this place. Not the kind she needed anyway. She focused what she could gather into a sphere that vibrated and pulsed on the tip of the Honjo’s scabbard. Kumiko then took a deep breath and channeled that energy into a thick veil.

  With a flick of her wrist, the hazy veil streaked out. It followed the tree line around the summit and back to her again. The completed veil was only twenty feet high, with no ceiling, but that would be enough.

  Kumiko had to take a knee to catch her breath. The effort it took to project the veil caused her human form to slip a little. Twin sets of fox fangs protruded from her mouth, and her eyes had changed from normal human brown to glowing amber. Franks paid her no mind.

  Grant, however, had his Glock pointed at her. Kumiko could almost feel the red dot on her head, as seen through Grant’s scope-tunneled point of view.

  “That veil will prevent the neighbors from seeing or hearing anything,” she explained.

  Grant lowered his Glock. “You should have warned me.”

  Kumiko sensed Grant was speaking to Franks, as well as herself.

  “I didn’t need to,” Kumiko said, inclining her head toward Franks’ back. “He trusts me. That should have been enough.”