Grits, Guns & Glory - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 2

by John G. Hartness

  I was at my truck by the time he quit bitching at me. “What is ‘it’ exactly, Skeeter? You never bothered to tell me what I’m coming to rescue your ass from.”

  “It’s a Bigfoot, Bubba. There’s a goddamn butt-naked Sasquatch on my front porch knocking on the door and hollerin’ for you. Now would you please get your ass over here before it decides to stop being polite and rips my door off the hinges?”

  I froze behind the wheel of the truck. I’d run into a Bigfoot about a year ago, and he solid whooped my ass. But once he got done beating my head in, he turned out to be a pretty reasonable dude. If it was the same monster, there was a chance we could avoid bloodshed. If not, there wasn’t a whole lot of doubt that blood was gonna spill. I was just worried it was all gonna be mine.

  *****

  I got to Skeeter’s house about ten minutes later, and sure enough, there was, as Skeeter so delicately put it, a butt-naked Sasquatch sitting on the rocking chair on Skeeter’s front porch. I got out of the truck and started toward the house slowly, one hand on Bertha and the other pointing at the Bigfoot. The monster stood up when I approached, holding up both hands like he was harmless. As harmless as an eight-foot tall hairy half-man covered in brown fur and swinging his kielbasa all over a front porch could look anyway.

  “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot your big hairy ass.”

  “I don’t think you will, Bubba. You tried that before, and it didn’t go so well.” So it was the same Bigfoot. That relaxed me a little bit, then another thought hit me and I stopped.

  “What are you doing here? When I last saw you, we had an agreement about me killing my old man and you staying hidden in the woods. I thought that sounded like a pretty good idea for everybody.”

  “Except it didn’t work out that way, did it? You didn’t get the job done, and now I need your help.”

  My Bluetooth chirped and I pushed the button. “Come on out, Skeeter. This dude ain’t gonna kill you. He just wanted to get my attention. Now he’s done it, but I ain’t sure he knows what to do with it.”

  Bigfoot sat back down on the rocking chair and said, “Oh, I know what to do with you, and your little friend. But I hate repeating myself, so why don’t we wait for the last member of our little party to show up?”

  “Huh?” It might not have been the most eloquent thing to ever come out of my mouth, but it was honest. “What in the hell are you talking about? I ain’t called nobody else.”

  “I did.” Skeeter opened his front door and stepped out, a Mossberg shotgun that probably weighed half what he did held on the Bigfoot. “I buzzed Amy the same time I called you. I didn’t talk to her. I just sent a distress signal.”

  “What, you didn’t think I could handle this hairy prick?” I asked, a little insulted.

  “You couldn’t last time,” Bigfoot said calmly from the chair. I looked back at Skeeter, a little annoyed that my best friend didn’t think I could take out one Sasquatch without help.

  “It wasn’t that, Bubba. I just thought you might not answer, it being Saturday and all.” He had a point. It was football season, and if Georgia had won, I probably woulda been too drunk to find the phone, much less fight a Bigfoot.

  I didn’t have to defend my honor and the bro-code sanctity of coming to the aid of a friend in need because just then a black Suburban roared to a stop beside my blue F-250 and Amy Hall vaulted to the ground. She was in all black tactical gear with her long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, a Glock in one hand and a SOG knife in the other. She looked like something out of La Femme Nikita, and the sight of her in full ass-kicking gear made my jeans a little tight in the crotch all of a sudden.

  “Where is it? I got here as fast as I could.” She was halfway to the porch before she realized that were all standing around in a fairly civilized fashion. That slowed her up a bit, and then she saw Bigfoot sitting on the porch like somebody’s hairy third cousin who showed up for the family reunion, ate all the white meat fried chicken, and then sat around like a king even though nobody really remembered what side of the family he was on or how exactly he was kin. Just for an example.

  Bigfoot stood up, not quite straight because of the porch roof, and nodded to Agent Amy. “Agent Hall, good of you to join us. May we go inside? I’m sure you’d all be more comfortable.” He made a grand gesture with one arm, and we all filed inside like it was an every Saturday kinda thing, being escorted into Skeeter’s living room by a Sasquatch with excellent manners.

  I did what I always do when I first get to Skeeter’s house, ever since we were teenagers—I went to the fridge. Except nowadays I get a beer instead of a Coke. I grabbed a Bud for me, a Mike’s Hard Lemonade for Skeeter, a Stella for Amy, and then stopped. I realized I had no idea what kind of beer a Bigfoot drank. Or even if he drank beer. I immediately discarded that last bit because he seemed pretty civilized, so of course he drank beer. Then I remembered that I first met him in Virginia, so I grabbed another Bud and went back into the den. Agent Amy was sitting on the couch, her Glock on the table beside her in easy reach. Skeeter was in his favorite chair, a striped thing with a footstool that he called an ottoman. He got it at Ikea in Atlanta or some other froofy store and spent a small fortune getting it reupholstered after my pop and his werewolf pack tore up all his crap and peed all over everything last fall. Bigfoot was sitting in my usual spot in the rocker/recliner, so I passed out beers and sat down next to Amy, careful to keep enough space between my side and her elbow so I could get to Bertha in a hurry if I needed to.

  We sat there sipping beer and staring at each other for a good half a minute before I finally spoke up. “Well? What do you want?” I asked.

  Bigfoot had the good grace to at least pretend to be a little embarrassed. “You wouldn’t believe that I just came to visit?”

  “Across two states and a couple hundred miles? On foot? Nah, somehow I don’t buy it. You said something about needing my help. So spill it.” I leaned back and knocked off the rest of my beer in one long pull.

  Bigfoot matched me swallow for swallow and then passed me the empty. “You might want to go get another round. This is going to take a while.”

  Bigfoot’s Story

  First of all, call me Ishmael. Get it? I didn’t expect you to, but I had to hope. Anyway, my name is Brar’kan, and I’m the sheeran of all the Eastern Sasquatch. That’s similar to a crown prince in human terms, but it’s a little more complicated than that. My father is the leader of the gathered tribes, and provided I prove myself worthy, I will lead the tribes when he dies. But my role is also that of the protector, the guardian of our youth and our women. We are a nomadic people, and our lives have become very difficult since the arrival of the white man on our shores. We can no longer range freely through the forests, hunting at our leisure, and moving on when an area becomes short of game and food. Now we must hide deep in the woods and mountains, and we cannot roam as far afield as we once did.

  But we survive. We are few, and there are fewer of us born each generation. Once thousands of us roamed this land in peace with the animals and the brown men, but now maybe a hundred remain scattered from what you call South America all the way up to the tip of Canada, which we call The White Land.

  When last we met, I told you of The Messiah, who you called your father. Many of my tribe wished to follow him and rise up against the humans. My father and I did not want this, and there was much dissension in the tribe. They even cast me out and stripped me of my rank for my belief. But when I returned to them with news of the Monster Hunter who would kill The Messiah, my father was able to sway the mind of the tribe, and I was restored to my place as sheeran. We heard no more from The Messiah, and we assumed that you had kept your word. We moved on from that place to the swamplands near what you call Mobile, far from the mountains and far from The Messiah. We settled in and were happy.

  But all were not pleased with these events. One in particular, the Sasquatch who had taken my place as sheeran, was angry at my father’s decision, and a
t my return. His name is Clag’tin, and he is a mighty warrior, almost as mighty as I. He left our tribe to seek out The Messiah and join his cause. I paid him little heed because Bubba the Monster Hunter was going to kill The Messiah, so Clag’tin’s quest was in vain. I expected him to return weeks later, his tail tucked between his legs.

  No, we don’t really have tails, stop looking. I’m allowed to use metaphor. Unlike some in this room, I know what the word means.

  Clag’tin did indeed return to our tribe some weeks later, but he did not return in shame. He returned at the vanguard of a host of wolves and bears and trolls, with a huge werewolf walking beside him. This werewolf carried a sword and spoke with the tongue of a man, and he ordered my tribe to bend knee before him and swear loyalty. My father, a proud Sasquatch of one hundred twenty summers, snarled that he would die before he bent his knee before a dog.

  And he did. The Messiah lashed out with his sword faster than my eye could follow and struck my father’s head from his shoulders. He murdered our clan leader without the blink of an eye, and my people, instead of tearing this monster limb from limb, knelt before their new master.

  I did not kneel. What I did was much worse. I saw the look in Clag’tin’s eye as he scanned the gathered people and knew that he looked for me. I knew that I would not be given the chance to kneel, so I ran. I turned my back on my people, on my tribe, and I ran. I ran for three days through woods and fields before I found a monster that knew of you. After that I ran for a week or more before I found you here. And now I sit here before you, a coward seeking help he does not deserve from a man sworn to destroy his kind. I deserve nothing but death, but my tribe deserves freedom. Will you help me save them?

  *****

  I stood up, walked across Skeeter’s living room and looked out the picture window. Skeeter had a helluva view, I had to give him that. The Smoky Mountains spilled out in front of that big window like a postcard, and I stood there for a long time processing what Bigfoot had just told me. After a minute, I saw Agent Amy standing next to me in my reflection, and I reached out to take her hand in my gigantic mitt.

  I turned back to Bigfoot, finished off my beer, and gave him a long, level look. “What ain’t you telling me?”

  “I have told you everything of importance.”

  “Bullshit.” I walked into the kitchen and grabbed another beer. When I walked back into the room, Bigfoot was on his feet and Amy had her Glock pointed at his nose.

  “Put that down,” I said, pushing the barrel of the pistol down. She holstered her sidearm, and I stepped up to the monster. He towered over me, but right then I knew it didn’t matter which one of us was bigger, or which one of us was tougher, or smarter, or braver. All that mattered was that he thought I had a snowball’s chance in hell of kicking my brother’s ass and taking his tribe back. I didn’t, but that was beside the point. First I needed to know one thing.

  “Boy or girl?” I asked, looking up into his big brown eyes.

  There was a little bit of water there, making my reflection waver in his pupils. Crap. I hate it when I’m right.

  “A daughter. He has my mate and daughter. Please help me save them.” The eight foot tall monster sat down in Skeeter’s recliner so hard I was pretty sure we were taking another trip to the La-Z-Boy store if any of us were alive next week.

  “Quit boo-hooin’ and start drinkin’. We leave after tomorrow’s Mass. Might as well get drunk tonight.” I killed one more beer and then moved on to getting seriously shit-faced.

  “Why tomorrow?” Brar’kan asked. I was gonna have to get that boy a nickname pretty soon. Names with apostrophes in ‘em belong on Stargate, not my best friend’s living room.

  “Because that’s when Uncle Father Joe will be off work, and if we’re huntin’ the Messiah of yours—”

  “Who happens to be your asshole kid brother,” Skeeter cut in.

  “Who happens to be my asshole kid brother—” I agreed. “It wouldn’t hurt to have some higher firepower on our side to go along with all the guns and silver bullets in the back of Amy’s Suburban.”

  “How did you know I brought a truckload of ammo?” she asked.

  “I heard it spill when you slid in sideways like Dale Earnhardt on his way to a fistfight. Trust me, I’ve dumped enough ammo out in the back of a truck to know what it sounds like, even from outside. And you got a helluva mess to clean up, young lady.” I grinned at her. “But all that hardware might come in handy. Jason’s a tough bastard.”

  “I remember.” There was no answering grin on her face, and I knew she was remembering the last time we fought my kid brother. She’d airlifted me to a hospital in a black helicopter that belongs to a government agency that doesn’t exist, and I almost died in her arms. Then I almost died again in the arms of a succubus masquerading as a nurse, but that’s a whole different thing.

  “This time’ll be different. I promise.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “This time I’m not going to let him stab me.”

  “Good idea.” She waved an empty beer bottle at me and raised an eyebrow. I was halfway to the kitchen before I realized that she had me jumpin’ even before she said “frog.” I thought about that for a second, decided I didn’t mind the least little bit, and got an armload of beer out of the fridge.

  *****

  I didn’t make it to Sunday school the next morning, but Amy, Skeeter and I were sitting on the front row of the Catholic Church when Uncle Father Joe walked down the aisle for Mass. His eyes widened when he saw us, and he gave me a little nod. After Mass, we stayed right where we were until Joe finished greeting his parishioners and came back in. Joe was Skeeter’s uncle, the priest of the local Catholic Church, and our liaison to the Church leadership in the US. Usually we took assignments from Joe for what to hunt down and kill. This was a little bit of role reversal, and I could tell from the worry line between Joe’s eyebrows that he didn’t like it. There was a touch of gray in his hair that hadn’t been there six months ago, but I reckon being kidnapped by a psychotic werewolf would do that to a body.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, stripping out of his robe. I covered Amy’s eyes and she elbowed me in the ribs. She was right; Joe was fully dressed under his robes, down to a paddle holster on his right hip with what looked like a 1911 in it.

  “You expecting trouble at the offering plate, Padre?” I asked, giving an eyeball to the sidearm.

  “There’s been an incident or two in town over the past year or so,” Joe said. “There’s a twelve-gauge behind the pulpit loaded with silver shot and all the ushers are packing revolvers with silver loads and stakes, just in case your brother expands his flock to include vampires.”

  “I thought vampires couldn’t come onto holy ground,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I was more disturbed or relieved at the fact that Joe had turned the church into an armed compound, but I let the Waco jokes alone.

  “I thought werewolves couldn’t fight in their half-transformed state, but it seems that where Jason is concerned, all bets are off. I figured better safe than sorry.” He had a point, but if Jase added vamps to his little army of furballs, I was gonna have serious trouble. Weres are bad, but they at least act like people or animals, depending on what shape they’re in. Vamps are mean, nasty, fast, and smart. They think like humans, only humans out of a Jack Ketchum novel, and that’s some seriously scary shit right there.

  “Now what’s going on?” Joe asked.

  “Better to just show you,” I said. I walked over to the side door of the church and pushed it open. Brar’kan ducked through the door into the church, and I heard Joe breathe in sharply behind me.

  “It’s cool,” I said. “This is Bart. He’s a Bigfoot—”

  “Sasquatch. And my name is Brar’kan,” he corrected me.

  “It’s hard to pronounce. So you’re Bart. Or Barry. Think of it like a nickname.” I turned back to look at Joe. “Barry here needs help. Jason killed his pop, the clan leader, and took over his cl
an. Barry wants ‘em back. Especially his wife and kid.”

  Joe’s eyes were big. “There’s more than one Bigfoot?”

  “Sasquatch,” Barry corrected, a little more gently this time in deference to the collar.

  “Sasquatch,” Joe repeated. “There’s more than one of you? And you travel in clans? And you breed?”

  “Of course we breed. You don’t think we’d mate with humans do you? You have practically no hair. That would be disgusting, all that flesh sliding around and slapping together. How sweaty.” Barry shuddered a little at the thought.

  “Some of us like all that flesh sliding around, pal. But that’s not the point,” I added quickly as Amy shot me a look that said keep your mouth shut you jackass, we’re in a church. “The point is that we gotta go after Jason and get Barry’s wife and kid back. Since it’s kinda my fault that this all happened in the first place.”

  “How do you figure it’s your fault, Bubba? I mean, I’m cool to blame you for just about everything bad and stupid that’s ever happened in my life, but even I can’t put this one off on you,” Skeeter said.

  “It’s my fault because I promised Barry I’d kill Jason and I didn’t get the job done. So now it’s time to finish what I started. I can’t do it alone, so I need y’all to help me.”

  That hung in the air of the church mixing with the incense and smell of cheap red wine until Joe nodded. “Let’s go. My bike is behind the church. I’ll meet you around front.”

  He pulled his Harley around front, and I noticed that he had made a couple of modifications to the bike since the last time I’d seen it. Most notably the Mossberg shotgun in a sling beside the gas tank and a windscreen with a cutout to shoot through. I didn’t say a word, since my truck had a few after-market accessories that Homeland Security wouldn’t be too thrilled with, and we won’t even talk about what was under the back seat. Barry slid into the passenger seat and Amy hopped in behind me while Skeeter headed home. He’d finally learned how to shoot without too much fear of him shooting off his own toes, but I still didn’t want to be in the same zip code as him and a firearm. He was much more use to use at home on the computer, running technical interference with the local constabulary and researching whatever we were getting ourselves into.