“Vaya con Dios, sir.” She placed the bottle at the head of his grave, propped up against the axe blade. She originally intended to come back with a proper headstone, but something about a giant axe for the grave marker seemed much more bad-ass: appropriate for Rutger Bronson.
She continued, though slurring as she went. “But hey, on the plus side, you went out like a total bad-ass. When you meet all the others before us, you can brag that you had the coolest death among them ... well, at least a contender. It’s not like this kind of creature was a regular occurrence or anything. Then, they be like, ‘Well, didn’t your pupil try to help?’ and you’ll be like, ‘Nah, bro … She was an incompetent shithead who just stood there like a damn idiot.’ And then they’ll be like, ‘Damn, son,’ and then you walk away from … them all, hangin’ yer head in shame ‘n’ shit.”
She paused, her face lowering to a pout. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Fiya didn’t notice, but she had begun to sway, as her whole face was burning numbness. Even her hands felt nothing. A tree was there to support her, and she leaned against it, still staring at Rutger’s mound. She saluted, or at least she thought she did. It was really more of a wobbly wave with two fingers. “Aye aye, sir.”
Soon her bottom was on the ground, her back against the tree, with both legs spread out, like a toddler.
Then Fiya closed her eyes.
When she came to, Fiya had the worst throbbing hangover she felt in her life, even worse than the time she raided Vegas on her twenty-first birthday and blacked out for two days. But then, her Vegas trip didn’t include getting battered and bruised in the process. She felt like two sledgehammers were repeatedly colliding on either side of her head, in perpetual motion while her neck was gripped in a vise. Her eyes felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets after taking a beating with a baseball bat. She couldn’t tell if the rest of her body was still numb from the booze or that it was so far beyond her pain threshold that her mind had cut off the signals for now.
The rain had stopped, and the ground was soggy. The downpour helped settle Rutger’s grave for her, and the Lagavulin bottle was still in place. The bottle filled with a few inches of rainwater, and a colorful flower arrangement completed it.
Fiya crinkled her eyebrows, trying to remember where she got the flowers, let alone that she even brought them in the first place.
A voice from somewhere behind her said, “Good, you’re awake.”
There was a stern clarity to the voice that she couldn’t place. It was placid, and each word enunciated as if well-rehearsed.
Her body ached as she twisted to look around the tree, confirming the numbness was now going away, and she found a slender man in a black suit with a tight cut of black hair and brown eyes looking down at her. His face had sharp angles, and his head seemed a little large for his slim proportions, but she wasn’t sure if that was just the leftover booze in her system playing tricks on her or what. His white button-down shirt under the black jacket, complete with the narrow black tie, made her think he stepped right off a Quentin Tarantino film set.
He smiled as he stuck out his hand. “I’m Wyatt, Wyatt Tootell. We’ve never met.”
Fiya took his hand. She thought he was just going to shake it and was surprised when he helped pull her up to her feet. Her eyes stayed on him, confused and curious.
“I was assigned to come out to you.”
“Assigned?” She croaked. If her mouth tasted as bad as she thought, she couldn’t imagine how bad it must be for someone smelling it. She had burped up a bit of vomit while passed out, and she could tell. Mouthwash was next on her agenda.
“Yes, see, you weren’t responding to our messages, so they sent me to come out and get you.” He paused for a moment, looking away toward Rutger’s grave. “You were pretty tough to find, too.”
She closed her eyes, fantasizing about hitting the man, right there in the middle of nowhere. This guy is representing the people who abandoned you. Hit him, and make sure they feel it. Then she forced the image out of her head and said, “So, you assholes did get my messages?” Her voice was hoarse, like old sandpaper.
“Every one of them, eventually, lumped in one message we received this morning. We’re still working on figuring out who blocked your signals. We traced your movements with the cell towers and found the school that the Bahtzuul cult used for a hideout. Paul DeMatto definitely sold us out, based on his phone records. Although he didn’t seem like the hacker type, there was evidence of him being there, including fingerprints, and his tracker seemed to spend a lot of time in the area before you showed up.”
“Tracker?” She wanted to also add the small detail Rutger gave her before confronting Bahtzuul: that there could be someone else involved. Could it be this guy? No, he’s not familiar. But still …
“The tracker in your weapon. You all have them.” He motioned toward the hilt of her broken sword attached to her back.
Fiya nodded, remembering being told about that a long time ago but since forgotten.
He continued. “All our manufactured weapons are trackable. They use the cell phone towers to help triangulate the location. Unfortunately, whoever jammed your cell signal also jammed your tracking device. I’ve actually known where you were for about five hours now, but before, we thought we lost you. That is, until we suddenly got your messages and a signal on the grid.”
Limping toward Rutger’s grave, Fiya turned her back to Wyatt and massaged her temples. “Then, you must’ve gotten my last message?”
“We did, and we decline your resignation.”
She fought another pain spike as she glared at him. “You decline my resignation?”
“Yes. First, it isn’t a formal resignation, so it technically doesn’t count. Second, you’re very valuable to us, especially right now. On this half of the country, you officially rank as our most-experienced Hunter.” He kept his distance, well out of her arm's reach. He felt the anger steaming off her and knew it would be wise to stay back.
“What if I still quit?” The pain cycled back into her sockets as she asked that, even though she spoke softly. She had to close her eyes to dull it.
“We can double your pay and get you fixed up with the best health care on the planet … you know that. After this, you’ll be getting a huge raise, anyway: Not only did you stop that thing, you kept him from feeding on the millions who were trying to evacuate. That alone should warrant a huge raise.”
“Save the praise: He came back from the dead. That technicality made him easier to kill: I just had to get through his hide to a vital spot ... What are you doing about the outbreak?”
“We have other agents on their way, helping with the Seattle barricade as they get the residents out. Don’t worry, we’re not sending you there; that would just be cruel at this point, I think. I’m pretty sure you can use the rest.”
Fiya almost laughed. Almost. Her sides hurt from thinking about it.
“I’ve been in the area for a little bit now but didn’t want to disturb you since you seemed so peaceful.” He took another step closer and then thumbed toward the lake behind him. “I also took the liberty to bring your car out here. By the lake is as close as I could get it. It was a little bit of a pain bailing it out of the police compound, nor was it fun trying to talk them out of labeling Mr. Bronson here a serial killer: Did you know his pool is filled with dead ghouls?”
She shook her head but wasn’t surprised, either. Then she saw her wine-red Challenger in the distance and felt a little calmer. “The police took it?”
“They considered it evidence when Mr. Bronson’s cabin burned down.”
Wyatt took another step closer to Fiya, though still cautiously keeping a safe distance out of her reach. “Look, I wasn’t told to say this, but I’ll say it anyway: I’m sorry we didn’t respond sooner. I know we weren’t getting your messages until this morning, and all our focus was on what the media was reporting about Seattle. Still, I’m sorry; that was a shitty
pull of the short stick. It … sucks.”
He looked down at Rutger’s grave. “I’ve read up on him: bit of a shut-in but an excellent Hunter. I read he was supposed to have a meeting with officials about a new weapon? I haven’t told management about his passing, but thanks to the witnesses, they probably have an idea by now. We can give him a proper Immortuos Venandi memorial, if you’d like.”
A bird sang in the tree canopies, as if it were trying to give its own input.
Fiya thought for a moment, still trying to figure out what to make of this Wyatt Tootell. She did think he had a face that asked to be smacked: a pointy nose, sharp chin, small mouth, clueless eyes.
What else could she do? If she quit, she’d be on her own for cancer treatment. Still, if she stayed on, she’d have to deal with the anxiety of suspecting everyone around her of being a traitor.
Again, what else could she do? This life was all that she’d trained for; she liked doing it, and she knew, deep down, she was good at it … and when you’re good at something, never do it for free. Rent costs money, and good intentions don’t pay rent. And worse: there’s more fell creatures out there. A lot more.
She let out a long sigh and shook her head. “I need a break, first. A long one.”
“Of course. We’ll have you looked at soon so you can at least enjoy your vacation. If you need anything, I’m your new contact. I’ll be around.”
Dutifully, Fiya nodded again. She fell silent and stared at the grave. A grueling awkward silence passed between the two for what seemed like hours, as Wyatt wasn’t sure if he should leave her all alone and Fiya ignored he was even there. Before Wyatt could check his watch, she spoke without looking away from the grave. “I can go for a burger. With lots of pickles.”
The Graveslinger will return in
Wrath of the Worm Wraith
Acknowledgments
I wish to give special thanks to Randy Tootell, Seth Miller, Laura Bergman, Shane Neidigh, Meghan S. Johnson, James Buchanan (not the President), Alexander Michael Breeding, Elizabeth Krause, Tim Moser, Alexis Alvarez, and the biggest cheerleader, Allison Buckley. Also, a big thanks to the writing teachers that saw potential in me, even though I only focused on art stuff back then.
About the Author
Darren Lee Compton is a writer & illustrator who grew up absorbing 80’s Action and Horror, a lover of monsters and the heroes who hunt them. He grew up in a military family, moving from place to place, surviving a number of bullies, and graduated art school in Washington State. The spark of writing began as far back as middle school and simmered on the back burner as he focused on art for many years. He now resides in Southern California. When not writing, he can be found illustrating, chugging Dr. Pepper, noodling on guitar, playing tabletop RPG’s, or binging on horror movies.
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