Monster Hunter Bloodlines

by Larry Correia

  On the Harbinger scale—which consisted of ranking all rival Hunting organizations from Asshole to Alright—he had declared them alright. Only I knew that Earl had a soft spot for the Catholics because it had been a former member of the Secret Guard who had helped him learn how to deal with his lycanthropy, so he was probably a little biased.

  The real question was, what was one of the Secret Guard doing here? Surely it couldn’t be coincidence. You don’t accidentally run into other Hunters in random scum holes in a big city neither of you live in. Hunters just aren’t that common. I didn’t think he had noticed me yet, so I tried to slouch down on my stool to look smaller. There was a mirror behind the bar, so I used that to keep an eye on him, rather than directly staring like a moron.

  I got out my phone and texted Earl about who was here, then watched and waited. The Hunter’s expression remained neutral. He really didn’t seem that into the music either, despite them being pretty talented for a cover band. He idly checked his watch. A minute later he checked it again. He was waiting for someone and they were late. I got the feeling he was annoyed but trying not to show it. Could he be waiting for Sonya? There was a racing jacket over the back of his chair and a long canvas pack at his feet. I really wanted to know what was in the bag. If it was a stack of money, then maybe the Catholics had hired her to steal the Ward for them? If it was weapons or explosives, maybe he was here hunting her too? Either way meant I’d be getting involved.

  I should have brought backup. And that thought made me realize that he might have backup too . . . but I had no idea what any of their other Hunters looked like. For all I knew half these rednecks might actually be able to speak Latin . . . wait . . . did the Catholic Church still speak Latin? Italian. Whatever.

  The band took a break, and the Hunter appeared relieved that the replacement filler music over the sound system was a little quieter. Apparently, he wasn’t into metal. His playlist was probably all Gregorian chanting or something.

  I thought about trying to take the Hunter’s picture, but he seemed way too alert for me to pull that off without getting spotted. Only it turned out it didn’t matter, because Earl knew who I was talking about. His reply text told me to hold on, he was on his way. And also, no matter what, for me to not pick a fight with Gutterres—so that was his name—and Earl put three exclamation points after that order. Which I took to mean that Gutterres was probably a badass. Which reminded me that even though the Blessed Order of Saint Hubert were alright, they also had a reputation for being a bunch of trigger-happy holy warriors who always thought God was on their side . . . We really needed to change the Harbinger Scale from a thumbs-up or -down to a system with more range to allow for some nuance. Catholic Hunters, usually pretty chill, but will cap you without hesitation if you get in their way. Three stars!

  Ten minutes later the band came back from their smoke break. For the band’s protection, there was a chain-link fence between them and the dance floor, because crowds like this often consider throwing bottles a form of constructive criticism. After a brief setup, they launched into another song, one I didn’t recognize, but the soft opening was catchy. When the singing began, I realized that they had added a new member. They hadn’t had a female vocalist before.

  I looked toward the stage. Despite the nose ring, the singer was pretty, in a grungy tank top and sleeve tats sort of way . . . and, wow, she had a great voice. It was so songbird clean that it seemed glaringly out of place in a crap-sack establishment like this. Her voice was so good it transcended the awful speakers. It was like rose petals and a beautiful sunset in soundwave form. All the assembled scumbags and tough guys stopped to stare. She had them downright hypnotized. From the looks on their faces, half of them fell in love with her right there. The women were either jealous, or kind of into her too.

  Then out of nowhere the band started to shred, and the singer dropped into a snarling growl that was deeper than I could have achieved on my best day. She shifted gears so fast it came out of nowhere. Beauty died and this was all diesel fumes and primal anger. It was pure distilled rage and the discontent of a generation. A hundred people automatically started banging their heads. That voice would have been more appropriate coming out of the bearded mammoth working the door than the tiny girl who had started furiously jumping up and down with the microphone.

  Then she flipped back effortlessly to smooth and melodic, and instantly had the crowd swaying along to a tragic love story. She was dragging the audience with her, whether they wanted to or not.

  Except for Gutterres. Because when I looked back over at him, he’d lost the neutral expression, and was openly annoyed. When the singer looked toward his back corner, he lifted his arm and tapped his wristwatch, as if saying we had an appointment.

  Only the singer grinned at him, did a sassy little twirl, threw the horns, and went back to the gravel roar chorus that was so low it made Skippy sound high-pitched. The lyrics were about burning churches and looting villages.

  I had never heard a human being with that much range before . . . which made sense, because she was only half human. Even though I knew what I was looking for, she had temporarily clouded my judgment and sucked me along in her musical maelstrom. The singer was the right size, age, attitude, and the secret Vatican dude was obviously ticked off that she was screwing around and showing off rather than talking to him.

  I got out my phone and sent Earl another text. Sonya is here.

  The bartender came up to me. “From the way you’re gawking, I guess you haven’t heard Debbie sing before.”

  Debbie? “Yeah. First time. She rocks. Does she play here often?”

  “Not really. She comes and goes as the mood strikes her. The regulars love when she shows up though.”

  “Yeah, I can see why.”

  The song was done. The crowd went nuts. Sonya soaked up the cheers for a moment, then yelled into the mic, “Thank you, Perdition’s Abyss! I love you too! Now this next one is an all-new composition I like to call ‘Contract Renegotiation’!”

  Sonya’s little garage band immediately launched into another song. I recognized the tune, because they had stolen this one from Cabbage Point Killing Machine too, but she’d replaced Mosh’s lyrics.

  I did what you asked,

  I took up the task.

  But there’s a bounty on my head,

  Vengeful lizards want me dead!

  “Time to pay up, bible thumpers!” she screamed. “Pass that collection plate one more time!” Then she switched to the super-rumble beast voice for the chorus while looking directly at Gutterres.

  You know the deal,

  You gotta pay me to steal.

  I didn’t want this much trouble,

  It’s gonna cost you double!

  She could certainly sing, but her songwriting abilities were unimaginative crap. I remember Mosh scribbling better lyrics on the back of homework assignments when he was fifteen and going through his emo phase. Yet Sonya repeated the chorus and the audience was so enamored with her, they started singing along, informing the hapless Secret Guardsman that she wanted more money.

  Gutterres folded his arms and scoffed. I’d not noticed he was wearing an earpiece before, but he began talking to someone, probably to ask for more money. Being MHI’s accountant, I’d been at the other end of the line in a few conversations like that over the years. Whoever he was talking to must have balked because Gutterres began arguing with them. I really hoped the Church’s accountant stuck to their guns and told her no deal, because whatever they wanted the Ward for, MHI needed it more.

  One last warning,

  Or you’ll be mourning,

  You fuck around with me,

  I’ll toss it in the sea!

  Gutterres passed that message on, and his handlers must have decided negotiating with terrorists would be okay this time. As Sonya wrapped up her song, Gutterres gave her the OK sign. The deal was approved. Sonya would get her money and the Secret Guard would get the Ward Stone.

 
; Except that’s when the monster arrived.

  CHAPTER 7

  I knew something was terribly wrong even before I saw the creature.

  There are certain types of supernatural beings that can suck the warmth right out of a room, as if their taking action in our world requires stealing energy from their surroundings. I had felt that effect with soulless abominations before, usually different types of undead. When a master vamp gets really charged up it feels like you got shoved into a walk-in freezer.

  This was like that, but worse.

  It had been uncomfortably warm and muggy inside the bar. The old air-conditioning unit just couldn’t keep up with this many bodies. Then out of nowhere it felt like I’d been dunked in ice water.

  It wasn’t just the sudden cold. It was the unnatural stillness. The bar went from super loud to unnaturally muted in an instant. All the other patrons were still shouting or cheering for Sonya—I could see their lips moving—except what had been a roar dropped to a whisper. Clapping hands and stomping boots were muffled thumps.

  I glanced toward the front window. It was so dirty it would have been hard to see through during daytime. At night, looking out into a parking lot where most of the lights were burned out, I could only see shadows and shapes. Yet something weird was moving behind the line of Harleys. I thought it was another bike, but it was too tall, and the shape was spikey, and vaguely . . . organic? It stopped. The rider dismounted. When his feet touched the Earth the already weak lights in the bar flickered, and when they came back the place seemed even dimmer. All the hair on my arms stood up.

  “Oh, hell.” I hurried and typed another text to send to my team. Unknown monster incoming. The message failed to send. It said I had no connection. I hit retry, then shoved it back in my pocket and moved my hand to the pistol under my shirt.

  The bar patrons didn’t seem to realize what was going on yet. For some reason they didn’t feel the change in temperature, sound, or pressure, but Gutterres must have been as tuned in as I was, because he got up and moved quickly toward the stage, where Sonya was so caught up in her performance and gleefully fleecing the Catholics out of more money that she seemed oblivious to the impending doom.

  The thing walked through the front door.

  It was man-sized and man-shaped, dressed in a long, duster-style coat and a really tall, wide-brimmed hat, like something the pilgrims would wear. Beyond that it was hard to tell many details from where I was sitting because the thing was pitch-black and obscured by the ghostly fog that rolled in with it.

  The big bouncer was the first normal person who saw the newcomer. He spoke. Of course I couldn’t hear it, but if I had to guess it was something along the lines of Hey, buddy, wrong part of town for the costume. The con’s that direction.

  Only then an eerie light ignited around the shadowy being as it slowly raised its gloved hands. Then two massive black hounds sprang into existence beneath its palms. The dogs were sleek, powerfully built, and dark as night except for their unnaturally white fangs.

  The gigantic, experienced, ass-kicking bouncer dude took one look at that obviously supernatural display and must have had the good sense to decide this dump didn’t pay him nearly enough to deal with that kind of bullshit, because he hopped off his stool and ran for the back.

  Personally, I get paid a lot more than that bouncer, so I’d be sticking around. I pulled my .45, kept it low at my side, and started walking toward the monster. There were too many people in the way for me to blast it yet.

  When the thing lifted its head, the eyes were points of blue fire in the shadows beneath its hat. The sound of the bar was still muted like my ears were filled with slush, but I could hear the monster’s instructions to his hell hounds, perfectly clear, as he pointed toward the stage. “Time to hunt.” When he gave that order, both of the shadowy dog things’ eyes began to glow with the same blue as well.

  The hounds launched themselves through the crowd, and since each of them had to be well over a hundred and fifty pounds, they plowed right through. Customers yelped in surprise as they got shoved aside or knocked over. A woman fell off her dancing table. They were heading directly for the stage.

  Except then, one of the locals made the mistake of kicking one of the demon dogs. I think it was just a surprised reflex, but he placed a steel-toed work boot right into its mastiff snout. The monster dog’s head snapped around, but when it came back, it was snarling, fangs bared. It bit the man’s ankle, pulled his leg out from under him, and then began savaging him, flinging the poor guy back and forth like he was a chew toy.

  The dogs had been given clear instructions, but apparently they were easily distracted, because as soon as the other one smelled blood, it went nuts too and bit a nearby waitress.

  For a split second, through all those moving bodies, I had a clean shot on the dog that was biting the man’s leg. The victim was being dragged around in a circle, arms flailing, but I punched the gun out, focused on the front sight, and the spinning dog behind it, and tried to time my trigger pull in order to not shoot the poor dude I was trying to save.

  The silver hollowpoint went right through the dog’s head.

  The whole animal exploded in smoke and blue sparks.

  The bar erupted in chaos.

  Hunters learn a lot about how to deal with the public. Legally, we’re required to keep this stuff as secret and low key as possible. However, there are times when we have to act in the open, which means doing it as quickly and decisively as possible, because regular people tend to panic, get hurt, and generally make things worse. Only this wasn’t the usual freak out and run and get eaten type crowd. This was the smash you over head with a pool cue and put boot to dog type establishment. And these guys did not take kindly to a hell hound trying to eat the girl who brings out their beers and onion rings. The nearest bikers started beating the hell out of the beast who was mauling the waitress. All the tough guys who had been sitting stood up to see what the ruckus was about. Knives were flipped open. Guns were pulled.

  As far as these normies could tell, this wasn’t a monster, it was a lunatic in a big hat who’d interrupted their evening with a fog machine, blue glow sticks, and a pack of fighting dogs.

  When the monster saw the whole bar was ready to throw down, it said, “You were not to be my prey tonight, fleshlings. I am here to judge the thief. Step aside.”

  “Who the fuck you think you is?” somebody shouted back.

  The monster lifted its hand again. The fog swirled beneath its palm, congealed, became solid, and the dog I’d just killed, re-formed, alive and whole by his side. The beast snarled directly at me, obviously annoyed that I’d just killed it.

  “If it be battle you seek, then it is battle you shall receive,” the monster said. Then it sprang forward, moving crazy fast, and swatted a biker across the face. He went flying. It grabbed another unlucky bastard by the neck and hurled him ten feet straight up, into, and partially through the ceiling tiles.

  Everybody there started at the unnatural monstrosity that had just planted one of their friends headfirst through the roof. “What the shit, man?” one of them shouted as we were all drenched in years of accumulated ceiling dust, because even in a place this seedy, there are certain rules, one being that it’s never cool to violate the laws of physics.

  Then it drew a sword.

  When three feet of blue glowing pirate cutlass came out, I think every other armed individual in this place had the same thought that I did, which was screw that. Guns rose. Of course most of these guys had guns. This was Georgia after all.

  I shot first. At least half a dozen others joined in. Plenty of rounds missed and put holes in the walls, but a lot more hit. The guy standing next to me whipped out a Yeet Cannon and shouted, “Let’s dance, homie!” as he held the gun sideways and dumped the whole mag in the monster’s general direction.

  The thing jerked and twitched as it was riddled with bullets. It bled sparks. I nailed it repeatedly where the brain should be. The body s
eemed to break apart, into shards of black and blue, before collapsing into the fog.

  My ears were ringing. At some point the automatic sound system had turned back on and started playing Rob Zombie’s “Lords of Salem.” It appeared the monster had vanished. I hadn’t seen where the shadow hounds had gone.

  “Damn it, Jack! Why’d you let that freak with the dogs in here?” the bartender shouted for her missing bouncer. “You know the cops shut us down for a week every time we have a homicide!”

  I retained my partially spent mag, reloaded with a new one from my belt, and then walked toward where the monster had dropped. There was a vortex of fog swirling a foot off the ground with a pale glow coming from the center of it. As I watched, the monster slowly rose from the mist. And I don’t mean it stood, I mean it floated up through the floor.

  The wide-brimmed hat tilted back, allowing me to stare into the horror that was its face. There was no skin. Instead of flesh and bone it looked like barbed wire had been twisted into a sort of human form to make a cage that barely contained the cold fire burning within.

  “Amusing.”

  As it said that, whatever warmth had been lingering in my body fled. I cranked off two rounds into its chest, but then had to dive to the side as the sword whistled past my head. The monster followed. One palm shot out and struck me in the ribs. It was like getting hit with an ice-cold hammer, and I flipped backwards over a table.