I called in the cleaners from DEMON to come deal with the mess and the paperwork, then climbed into the truck and started down the mountain after Joe’s motorcycle. Just before the house fell out of sight in my rearview, I turned around and saw the phantom image of Aunt Marion beating the hell out of a ghostly Gerald McFadden all the way across the driveway.
Bad Moon Rising
A Bubba the Monster Hunter Short Story
By John G. Hartness
“Where is he? Where is the little sonofabitch?” I snarled as I paced my back deck.
“We don’t know, Bubba.” Agent Amy Hall, my girlfriend and field agent for DEMON, the Department of Extra-Dimensional, Mystical and Occult Nuisances said as she sat on the railing with a Blue Moon beer bottle next to her.
“Well, why the hell don’t you know? You’re the damn government, y’all are the kings of sticking your noses in where they don’t belong, why can’t you find one damn werewolf in the middle of the Georgia mountains?” I drained the last of my Bud and flung the bottle off the deck. It never hit the ground, I drew Bertha and exploded the bottle with extreme prejudice, just like what I wanted to do to my asshole little brother.
“Just calm down, Bubba, we’ll find him.” Amy said as she went into the house to recycle her bottle and bring us another round. She came back with a Blue Moon apiece for her and Skeeter, a Bud for me and a can of Coke for Uncle Father Joe.
I cocked an eyebrow at the priest, and he shrugged. “I’m driving, Bubba, and these mountain roads can get real windy after a couple drinks.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “The last damn thing I want to do is pick pieces of motorcycle and Catholic priest out of the trees.”
“We’re doing all we can to find Jason, Bubba. But the sad fact is that since he killed your Aunt Marion back in May, he’s been lying pretty low,” Amy said.
“That just means he’s planning something,” I grumbled.
“You’re probably right, God help me for saying so,” Skeeter said. “And I reckon it’s gonna be big. It’s been almost a year since y’all fought last time, and he’s been building an army ever since.”
“I know,” I replied. “I know he’s got a bunch of wolves, and a bunch of Sasquatch.”
“And there’s been an increase in vampire activity throughout the area lately, not to mention some of the less savory of the Fae.” Amy said.
“I hate vampires. And I ain’t all that keen on the Fae, either. They creep me out.”
“Yeah, all that ethereal beauty really gets to a guy,” Skeeter snorted a little through his beer.
“You just like it ‘cause all the fairy guys are homos.” I grumbled.
“I do like to refer to Faerie as a ‘target-rich’ environment, but they’re not all gay, Bubba.” Skeeter corrected me.
“They ain’t?”
“No, they’re just what you would call ‘heteroflexible.’”
“I don’t know that I’d ever use that word, Skeeter, but whatever.”
“They’re not human, so they aren’t as hung up on certain things as we are.”
“How in the hell did we get from my pain in the ass little brother to the mating habits of the Fae? Dammit, Skeeter, you need to get laid. All you ever talk about is sex.”
“You ain’t lying. But back to your asshole brother, a topic guaranteed to cool my libido. I’ve spent a little time lately on the Darknet, those places on the internet that Google pretends don’t exist? Well it sounds like something big is coming up, and it sounds like it’s going down somewhere near here. Well, Georgia at least.”
“Any idea what it is?” I asked.
“Not yet. Nobody seems to know. But there are a lot of vampires, weres of all flavor and dark magicians converging on Georgia Labor Day Weekend.” Skeeter said.
“Yeah, no shit, Skeeter. We call that DragonCon, and it happens in Atlanta every year.” I tipped back my beer and glared at my best friend and tech expert. “If you ain’t got nothing better than a metric shitload of weirdos landing in Georgia for Labor Day, then I reckon it’s time to replace you with a toaster.”
“Well that might be, smartass, but this convergence of weirdos looks like it’s happening in Athens, not Atlanta. And last time I checked, they hadn’t moved DragonCon.”
“Waitagoddamminit,” I said, barreling into the house and through the kitchen. I found what I was looking for stuck to the fridge with boob-shaped refrigerator magnets and grabbed it. I carried it back outside, flipping pages as I went.
“Fuck,” I said as I held out the fridge calendar to Amy.
She looked down at the date where my thumb rested. “Fuck,’ she agreed.
“What is it?” Skeeter asked. I held out the calendar. He looked at the circled date and sat back down. “Fuck,” he exhaled as he went down.
“I suppose this is the point at which you tell me the significance of the date, perhaps without the profanity?” Joe asked.
“Sorry, Father,” I said. “I know what Jason’s going after, and why he’s been bringing in baddies from all over the South to help him. He’s planning to hit me where it really hurts.”
“He’s attacking Wrestlemania? Wasn’t that in the spring?” Joe asked.
“That’s a good guess, but this is way worse. He’s going after my heart, Joe. He’s attacking the Dawgs.” I saw the confused look of Joe’s face and explained. “My brother is bringing an army of supernatural nastiness down on the University of Georgia football home opener. He’s going after my Bulldogs.”
*****
We got to Athens on Thursday afternoon for the Saturday afternoon game, and the city was already jammed with people. There were pregame festivities starting as early as Wednesday, but most of those were at frat houses, or small alumni get-togethers for just a couple hundred people. I didn’t figure Jason was gonna mess with anything less than the main event, so we took an extra day to prep weapons and make a supply run to Atlanta for some of the more specific things Joe needed.
Even among the crowds in all kinds of wild variations on Bulldog-themed vehicles, we made a little bit on a splash as we came rolling up. My new F-250 was black, with chrome everywhere and a custom grill with a skull right in the middle behind the cowcatcher. I had a little bit of a lift kit put on her, and a custom muffler that didn’t muffle much of anything. In other words, everybody heard me coming. The rack of KC lights on the roof of the truck concealed a 30mm machine gun mount that I really hoped I wouldn’t need this weekend, but I had it if I needed it. Joe’s Harley Softail was blue with a ton of polished chrome and brought plenty of thunder of its own. Tucked in his saddlebags were flasks of holy water, magazines of blessed bullets, and a fistful of ash wood stakes that might have once upon a time been baseball bats.
Skeeter brought up the rear in his mama’s minivan. When she passed, Skeeter spent all of one summer turning that van into a mobile command center, with all the tech of his home setup in a Chevy Astro conversion van with pictures of cats airbrushed on the sides. Skeeter’s mama was a wonderful woman, but as she got on in years, she went a little strange with her love for her pets. Skeeter had only ever taken Rolling Thunder, as he called the van, out one time before he realized that he put in a lot of tech, but zero armor plating or weapon systems, so he was kind of a sitting duck in it. He only brought it out this time because he’d replaced all the glass with bulletproof plexi, and equipped the grocery-getter with a set of run-flat tires.
We pulled up in front a small house a mile or so from campus, and before I even got out of the car the front door flew open and a couple of little tow-headed girls dashed out, waving their arms and screaming like there was no tomorrow. Of course, I reckon when you’re seven, there is no tomorrow. There’s probably a lesson to learn in there somewhere, but I ain’t a smart enough man to teach it!
“Uncle Bubba! Uncle Bubba!” The girls squealed as the barreled into me, knocking me into the side of my truck and pulling me down to my knees for hugs and kisses. I complied with a grin, then lo
oked up at Amy standing over us, one eyebrow crawling way north into her hairline.
“Uncle Bubba?”
“Yeah,” I said, ducking my head a little to try and hide the blush. “My old buddy—“
Just then said old buddy made his appearance, wheeling out the front door and down the ramp to meet us. Hank Russell was a hearty-looking Asian man in his early thirties, with a thin goatee and the barrel chest that comes from piloting a wheelchair for years. A grin split his freckled face, and he looked good, even if there were a few more grey hairs on his chin since the last time I saw him. I went over to him, a little girl hanging off each leg, and slapped hands and gave him a hug. “How you doing, brother?”
“I’m gonna have to add a motor to this thing to keep up with those two if they don’t stop growing,” he said, pointing at his twin daughters.
“I’d put in at least a six-cylinder, bro. You ain’t keeping up with them on some four-banger.”
“True enough, Bubba. True enough. Now why don’t you introduce me to your friends. Girls, go inside and make some lemonade for Uncle Bubba and his friends, okay?” The girls squealed and ran inside, slamming the screen door behind them.
“Damn, Hank, they’re getting big,” I said. Hank rolled up the ramp onto his porch and we followed. I leaned against the rail at the side of the house, keeping a clear line of sight to the driveway. Joe grabbed a chair and turned it so his back was to the house and took a seat on the other side of Joe. Amy sat next to him, and Skeeter set a small black box with a screen on it down on the patio table and sat across from Hank.
“I’m the only one who will ever sit with my back to an entrance or driveway,” Skeeter said. “Everybody else is paranoid.”
“It ain’t paranoid if they really are out to get you,” I said.
“Bubba?” Amy Hall has an uncanny ability to put a whole paragraph into one word and a look. For example, in just saying my name in that tone she asked me if Hank was all right to know what we were about, and how freely we could talk in front of him.
“Hank’s good, babe. Hank Russell, meet Agent Amy Hall from DEMON, Father Joseph MacIntyre, and Skeeter Jones. Y’all, this is Hank Russell. We were roommates for a couple semesters in college before my life got weird. But he knows all about weird, don’t you, Hank?”
“Weird is kinda my thing. I’m a professor of Religion and Philosophy at the University, with a focus on Far Eastern Mysticism and Occult Studies.”
“So that means you believe in things that go bump in the night?” Amy asked.
“Agent, it means that I am one of the things that goes bump in the night.” He reached down and took off the blanket that covered his legs, showing that he didn’t actually have legs. Hank’s lower half was the body of snake, resplendent in green and gold scales. He slid forward out of the chair and held out his right hand to Amy, who was staring at where she expected to see legs and instead saw a think serpent’s body.
“What the holy hell are you?” She asked, backing up. “We don’t have any record of anything like you in our database.”
“Neither do I, and my database is way better,” Skeeter said.
Amy turned to Skeeter. “Why is your database better?” She asked.
”Because your database is made up of everything the United States government knows about supernatural creatures and phenomena.”
“Right, so why is yours better?”
“Because my database is made up everything everyone in the world knows about supernatural creatures and phenomena.”
“Point taken.” Amy crossed her arms over her chest and looked grumpy. She’s adorable when she’s grumpy. She’s frankly adorable no matter what.
“I’m a naga,” Hank said. “I’m part man, part snake, all adorable.”
“Until he molts on your rug,” I chimed in.
“That happened one time, and I was really drunk,” Hank protested. “Besides, I bought a new rug.”
“How have you managed to function in human society?” Amy asked. “I mean, I understand the wheelchair grants a certain level of invisibility, but this,” she gestured to his lower half. “Is something else entirely.”
“I have a couple of ways of getting around that,” Hank said. “First, and simplest, is I’m kinda made of magic, so I can cast illusions that I have legs. The illusions are enough to fool most humans, even if they bump into me. And for limited periods of time I can actually manifest legs, although it’s painful and time-consuming and involves much molting. I’ll do it to walk my girls down the aisle, but that’s about all.”
“Yeah, about the girls…” Joe said.
“They’re human. My wife and I adopted them as infants.” Hank’s face got sober and I watched the emotion flicker across his eyes. “When she was killed in a car accident, the girls were five. I explained to them that Daddy was different from most people, that he had snake legs, and it was his secret identity, like Spider-Man, and they needed to help me keep my secret. So far, so good.”
“Hank and I have been through a lot, and he’s volunteered to keep his ear to the ground in the supernatural world of Athens for me, trying to figure out what Jason has planned,” I said.
“But so far I’ve been useless. None of my local contacts have heard from Jason, and none of my regional contacts from the Dark Fae or nastier creatures are saying anything. Whatever he’s doing, we’re going to have to figure it out on our own.”
“Hank has also volunteered his house as our base of operations as he takes the girls somewhere far from here for the next few days. That gives us a place close to campus to work, and gets him and the girls out of harm’s way.” I said. “So let’s start unloading our stuff while Hank gets his stuff loaded into his van.
“Yeah, about that…” Hank said.
“What about that?” I asked.
“I’m not going.”
“What do you mean you’re not going?” I cocked my head to one side, looking at Hank like a Labrador trying to figure out a combination lock.
“I mean, Sandy’s sister Patricia is coming to get the girls, and I’m staying here to help you fight.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Not.”
“Am.”
“Not.”
“Am.”
“Boys!” Amy stepped between us before I decked my half-snake buddy in the wheelchair, which probably would send me to some special section of seating in Hell. “Cut that shit out. Bubba, Hank is a grown man. Or Snake-man, or whatever. You don’t get to make decisions for him.” Hank nodded, a smug grin on his face. I almost warned him what was coming, but decided he deserved it. So when Amy whirled on him, I plastered my own smug grin in place.
“And you, Hank, are an inconsiderate jackass! You adopt a pair of twin girls, they lose their mother, and then you risk your life in a fight that’s not your own? Parent of the Year, you are not! But we need the firepower, so you get to stay.”
“Like you were going to stop me?” Hank asked.
“Don’t underestimate the resources of the United States government, pal. I have toys even Skeeter can’t pronounce. So get your daughters to safety, because we need to head into town tonight and see what we can find out about Jason’s plans.”
“Fine,” Hank said. “Patricia will be here in a few minutes to get the girls, then I’ll go molt myself a pair of legs and we can go see what we can find out about your asshole brother’s plans. Make yourselves at home while I take of some business.”
We did just that, with me planting myself in Hank’s recliner and drinking his beer until a couple hours later he walked out of his bedroom pulling at the crotch of his jeans.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” I asked. “You got jock itch or something?”
“Think about it for a minute, Bubba. My anatomy is usually a little different. I’m just trying to get everything arranged right. It’s been a long time since I grew legs, after all.”
“Oh, ‘cause snakes don’
t have balls. I get it. We gotta get you some of those Duluth Trading Company jeans, man. They’re like a nice hotel - plenty of ballroom.” I laughed at my own joke, but as usual, I was the only one in the room with any damn sense of humor.
“One - snakes have balls. We just don’t typically keep them dangling outside out bodies for the entire world to take a shot at. Or laugh at, as the case may be. Two - how about we just save the world, and I won’t have to worry about growing legs again to save it?” Jake growled, tugging at his newly-discovered nuts.
“Sounds like a plan. Let’s go downtown and see what kind of trouble we can get into.” I headed toward the truck.
“I’m going to let you guys handle the roughhousing tonight,” Amy said. “I’ll stay here and help Skeeter get the command center set up while you go shake down the seedy underbelly of Athens.”
“I suppose that means that I’m the one drafted to be the moral compass of the group,” Joe said, opening his Harley’s saddlebags and slipping a Ruger LC9 in a paddle holster at the small of his back, then throwing on a loud blue Hawaiian shirt to cover the gun.
“You’re the one that signed up for the collar, Padre,” I said. I checked Bertha in her holster, made sure I had two more magazines for the Desert Eagle under my other arm, and put on a long-sleeve black dress shirt open over my Cactus Jack T-shirt.
“Did I miss a memo? Should we stop to buy me a gun before we head into town?” Hank asked.
“Can you still military press a ton and a half? Are you still functionally bulletproof? Can you still spit venom that eats right through a man’s face?” I asked. Hank nodded at all three. “Then I think you’re okay without a gun. But if you want a knife or two, there’s some in the glove box.”
Downtown Athens on a Thursday night is just like every other college town getting ready for the weekend. Except busier. And louder. And more crowded. And with better music. And prettier college girls. Walking down Broad and Pulaski, checking out the coeds in their short-shorts and tank tops made me long for the days when I was young and able to chase girls, not things that wanted to rip girls limb from limb. I let out a sigh.
Grits, Guns & Glory - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 2 Page 33
