Use Enough Gun (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 3)
Page 19
It was then I noticed the low hanging beam, an old piece of rotted wood just waiting to snap. I decided to give it a hand. The effort involved in raising my arm and taking aim was supremely painful, but the callous chuckling of the Daughter gave me the strength I needed and I got off two quick shots before the muscles in my arm gave out.
One or both of them hit the target, followed immediately by the sound of splintering wood and many pounds of dirt raining down on us all.
“No!” she yelled. “Goddam you, this wasn’t how it was supposed…”
I ran to the boy as she was covered in dirt and rocks. Her screaming lasted only a moment before she became part of a new mound. I had no idea if she was dead and no intention of waiting to see. Without another word, I grabbed the kid and embarked upon the arduous climb out of there and back to the surface.
Neither of us said a word during the ride back to my motel room. I’d decided we needed to keep on the move, so I was going to grab my stuff and check out. I couldn’t help looking at the kid; the “changeling” if that was the proper word, and being amazed by how much the world had turned. Here I was sharing my car and my crusade with one of the “monsters” I’d been trained to hunt and kill and I would have done anything to protect him from those who intended the same.
I had a lot of re-thinking to do.
“Sorry about your dad,” I said as we pulled away from the motel.
“It’s okay,” the boy said. “He wanted to go.”
I nodded, impressed with the kid’s maturity. “I think he also wanted me to keep you safe.”
He looked at me, all innocence. “Will you?”
I smiled. “With everything in me.”
He smiled, too, but it didn’t last long. “I have to tell you something.”
I motioned for him to go ahead, glancing in my rearview mirror at a truck that was a little too close to my back bumper. It pulled around us and kept going. I turned to look at the boy again and gasped.
“Sorry,” he said.
I looked at the small Asian child sitting in front of me, the one who’d appeared to me as God, and started laughing.
“Nice,” I said. “Very nice.”
The boy laughed, too, changing back to his pale, hairless, large-eyed self. “My name’s Aaron, by the way.”
I reached over and drew the kid to me, giving him a brief hug before letting go. “Aaron, you and me, we’re gonna save the world. But first, who wants ice cream?”
“Me!” he said.
I pulled into the first Dairy Queen I saw and we shared a normal moment before the storm started again, like it always does.
Christopher Nadeau is the author of Dreamers at Infinity’s Core through COM publishing as well as over two dozen published short stories in such august publications as The Horror Zine, Sci-Fi Short Story Magazine, Ghostlight Magazine and more anthologies than one could take out with the toss of a single hand grenade. He was interviewed as part of Suspense Radio’s up and coming authors program and collaborated on two machinima films with UK animator Celestial Elf called The Gift and The Deerhunter’s Tale, both of which can be viewed on YouTube. He received positive mentions from Ramsey Campbell for his short story Always Say Treat, which was compared to the works of Ray Bradbury and has received positive reviews from SFRevue and zombiecoffeepress. His novel Echoes of Infinity’s Core is slated for a 2013 release.
An active member of the Great lakes Association of Horror Writers, Chris resided in Southeastern Michigan with his wife Lorie and two petulant long-hair Chihuahuas that don’t think he’s onto them.
Jack
Philip Norris
September 8th 1888
He knew no one would react to a scream in the night; one scream, amongst hundreds. Myles D’Arcy bent over his grisly work, head tilted, listening, but then the woman groaned; his work here was not yet done.
The woman stirred—Annie he’d heard someone call her. Fresh blood seeped from the cut in her throat as, taking a deep breath, D’Arcy slashed her dress open and plunged the knife into her abdomen. She half sat up, a scream turning to a gasp in her throat. There was hate and a strange alien awareness in her eyes; her hands curled into claws as she barred her teeth. D’Arcy casually flicked the blade upward, slicing deep across the throat spraying blood across the cobbles, and she sighed and fell back silent. Looking around to make sure he was unobserved, he plunged the knife into her stomach again.
Even though it was barely dawn the streets of Whitechapel were busy. D’Arcy strode with a purpose, his thick cloak pulled tight around him, a satchel clutched tight to his chest. Standing head and shoulders above most everyone he passed, he cut an imposing figure. Straight black hair fell to his shoulders beneath his top hat, face and hands white, deathly white and his eyes nothing but twin black pools. His appearance always brought a reaction, a gasp, a fearful stare—and once a swooning Duchess.
As bells chimed he heard the squealing of distant whistles, people stopped and looked about, questions filling their eyes and mouths. D’Arcy kept straight ahead, taking no heed of the noise. The alley mouth appeared in front and he turned down it, the dank smell of piss and waste filled his nostrils. Halfway down, a smaller alley broke right and ended at a heavy wooden door. As he reached it, he produced a large metal key, stopped to check he was alone, and went in.
Moses Bryce lay on the bed unmoving, his head half lost in the plumb feather pillows. As D’Arcy dropped the satchel beside him and began taking his cloak off, Bryce opened his eyes; they were completely white with no pupils.
“Breakfast?”
D’Arcy smiled, his eyes darting to the satchel.
“If you like. Might need a touch of seasoning…”
Bryce sat forward, bald with skin as pale as D’Arcy’s but covered in blotches and dry flaking skin. He reached out with one hand and finding the satchel, flipped it open and wrinkled his nose. Without hesitation he plunged his hand inside and pulled out the uterus D’Arcy had removed from the woman earlier.
“Nice.” Bryce closed his eyes, D’Arcy could see them darting about under the lids like they were looking for something, his face twisted into a grimace. “And totally barren.” He dropped it back into the satchel and fell back against the pillow.
“Barren?” There was a flash of anger in D’Arcy’s eyes; he threw the cloak on the floor. “You mean I butchered another innocent for no reason?” Bryce shook his head.
“Not an innocent, not this time.” His face still contorted, his tongue darted out, licking his dry lips. “She was tainted—I can taste the filth within her.”
D’Arcy stripped off his shirt; the front covered in blood, and threw it on the fire; then walked to the basin and poured water from the jug.
“We must press on. I can feel it is near.”
“Near?” D’Arcy washed his face and turned to look at Bryce. “You’ve been telling me we were near for weeks. And what do we have to show for it? A dead innocent and a barren drone.”
“We cannot give up.” Bryce opened his eyes, tilted his head in D’Arcy’s direction. “Not now, not when we are this close.”
“We…we? I don’t remember seeing you out there up to your elbows in someone’s guts.” He went to a chest of drawers in the corner and pulled out a clean shirt. “I need you to be sure the next time, no uncertainties. Even in Whitechapel the Police will get suspicious should too many whores turn up dead.”
September 30th 1888
Bryce may have insisted they were close, but it had still taken him over three weeks to track another scent. It was the last day of September and as D’Arcy listened to the bells peeling midnight, he’d turned onto the street. Up ahead he saw the two girls he’d been trailing for the better part of an hour—both had been plying their trade along Dorset Street until eleven and then he’d lost them for a time. He’d seen one, the woman he’d heard called Cathy, coming out of an alley adjusting her skirts. Just after her, the other one followed and both walked off arm-in-arm, laughing.
Halfway down the street was one of the many common lodging houses in the area. Three floors, with a sagging roof, the whole building looked in danger of toppling into the street. There was a single door left open; in a place like Whitechapel, it was very rare to find a locked door as no one had anything of worth to steal. The two women hugged and parted company. The one called Cathy went inside while the other headed further down the street where a man was stood waiting in the shadows. D’Arcy cursed again; he had hoped they would both go into the house, and being confined, would have been easier to handle. Keeping to the shadows himself he watched as the second woman sided up to the man and began running her hand up and down his arm. The man looked up and down the street and turned, she followed, and they went a few yards before turning down an alley.
D’Arcy was uncertain what to do, should he go after them and save the man, or should he deal with the one in the house first. He cursed Bryce; his readings were always so vague, if only he’d seen which of them he thought the host was. He knew they were both to be dealt with, but the host was the important one. He had to find her before she spawned. Making a decision he headed for the door and into the darkness—he doubted the other had taken the man to be feasted on as both had recently eaten. The air inside was rank, a mix of stale sweat, rotting food, and too many people crammed into too small a space. Trying to breathe through his mouth D’Arcy stumbled down a hallway in near pitch black. He kicked something soft along the way and heard a grunt; a bottle fell to the floor. At the end of the hallway a flight of stairs went up, and for some reason he assumed she had gone up, the three doors that led off the hall were open. But he’d heard no sounds from within and he’d assumed if she had entered one of them she would have made herself known when he passed.
Taking the stairs two at a time he stopped on the landing and listened. He could hear the sounds of snoring from one room, retching from another. Along the hall the rhythmic grunting of sex mingled with sobbing, and at the end of the landing another flight of steps went up. As he looked he caught a glow of light fading; someone was going up, carrying a candle or lantern. Hurrying down the hallway he stopped at the foot of the stairs and starred up into blackness.
He did wonder for a moment that this could be a trap—these flop houses only had the one entrance, and the further he went in, the further from it he got. Looking back along the hall he considered his options, leave now and go after the other? Or press on? From above a floorboard creaked and he heard a muffled laugh. His skin crawled; it was not a laugh that came from a human throat. Taking the steps two at a time again he reached the third floor landing to be met by a sight he knew to be impossible. In front of him were three doors, between two was another flight of stairs.
The light that came down from above flickered; like sunlight seen through water. As impossible as he knew it must be, the woman had gone up to a floor that did not exist on the outside of the building. D’Arcy reached inside his coat and pulled out his revolver, checked the cylinder and taking hold of the railing started up slowly, stopping on each step to listen. As he neared the top the light grew brighter and he came to a doorway that was ajar.
Topping the last step he listened at the door; inside he could hear a whispering, soft voices talking in a tongue he did not understand and seemingly coming from a great distance away. Gripping the revolver tight he put his hand on the door, the wood cold, near freezing. Pushing hard he lunged into the room—the light momentarily blinded him, but when his eyes cleared he was standing on a street. The woman called Cathy whirled round and a bestial snarl escaped her mouth. Without thinking D’Arcy brought his revolver up and fired twice, hitting her full in the chest driving her back onto the ground.
Darting forward he discarded the gun and reached inside his coat for the knife. As he reached her, she lashed out with a foot and took his own feet out from under him. If he hadn’t spent his life in just this sort of pursuit, it probably would have been the end of him. As it was D’Arcy was agile beyond most men, as even as his balance was taken away he twisted in the air and came down on all fours. Swiveling toward the woman, he saw she was already up and preparing to attack…
Her face was twisted in an animal snarl, the skin undulating like something was moving underneath. Her eyes were red coals and bored into him—as she advanced her arms lengthened and became bulky, her fingers curled into talons. D’Arcy regained his feet and retrieved a second knife from his coat, the solid silver a dull glow in the gaslight. She took one look at the blades and hissed at him. In the space of a few seconds she doubled her body mass. Her dress was bulging at the seams, her face now animal, her eyes cat-like such as those in a Mandrill’s face. D’Arcy felt a cold shiver go through him—pure evil looked out at him from those eyes, the same eyes as the last woman. Bryce hadn’t seen that in his Scrying.
Baring its fangs the creature leapt forward, sweeping one massive clawed hand at his head. D’Arcy sidestepped and slashed sideways; the creature howled in pain and anger as smoky tendrils drifted from the wounds left by silver blades. The beast moved awkwardly and he rounded on it, stabbing down with his left hand and plunging the knife into it back. It arched in pain, letting out another howl and slashed backhand as it spun, catching D’Arcy across the chest. He gasped in pain, his chest on fire and coat and shirt already reddening with his blood. He circled backward; it wouldn’t pay to take another hit from those claws. The creature was equally wary, there was blood coming from its midsection, the dress tore from breast to crotch. Looking for an opening D’Arcy wondered what manner of beast he faced, at first Bryce had supposed a werewolf pack; but this was some kind of werebeast he’d never heard of… Many creatures could transform, but none that resembled a Mandrill. D’Arcy suspected this was an older kind of creature, one he—or anyone else in his line of work—had never encountered. He also considered the house with four floors and doorways that led elsewhere. Magic he was accustomed to—he worked with Bryce. But changelings that used magic, that was new.
With another howl the creature lunged; D’Arcy stepped forward and dropped to his knees thrusting one knife upward, piercing the thing’s chest, and slashing with the other. The creature howled and its full weight fell across him. It shuddered for a long moment, and then went still. Pushing upwards he moved its weight and scrambled to his feet. In the light of the gas lamp it was a woman again, a woman called Cathy. Her dress was torn sideways and lengthways, blood pooled beneath her and her throat was open, a gaping red maw smiling up at him. Looking up and down the street D’Arcy quickly knelt next to her, ripped what was left of the dress and rammed his knife in just below her breasts, slicing downwards, he opened her up. Taking another look around, he then bent to his grisly task.
“A Mandrill you say?” Bryce was propped up in bed, one hand delved into D’Arcy’s satchel. He pulled out the innards of the woman called Cathy, and sniffed. “Barren.”
D’Arcy threw his coat down, his shirt a tattered mess; he prodded at the exposed skin of his chest gingerly.
“You’re becoming unreliable Bryce. You said…”
“The art of Scrying is not perfect. It is like looking through a London fog; everything is distorted.” He looked in the satchel a frown on his face, his hand feeling around inside. “I may be a Druid, but I’m not Merlin; be thankful for that, he’s a cantankerous bastard and would have little time for your attitude.” He closed the bag and looked in D’Arcy’s direction. “Shouldn’t there be a second womb?”
D’Arcy shook his head as he stripped his shirt off, taking in a sharp breath as the pieces caught in his torn flesh pulled free.
“You mean you missed the other one?” Even though he was blind, Bryce seemed to see
somehow.
“Oh she’s dead, just not by my hand.” He dropped the shirt into the fire and walked over to the bowl and poured water in. “It took me nearly an hour to get back to Berner Street, by then the other had been found, dead in an alley; throat cut.”
“And you couldn’t…?”
“There was a crowd and the Police were already there.”
Bryce sat back against his pillows his face a mask of concentration.
“I know of no others working London right now. Do you think it was a lucky kill, caught the beast off guard?”
D’Arcy splashed water on his chest, hissed through his teeth and grabbed hold of the dresser his eyes shut in pain.
“From what I saw her throat was cut, a neat job. It didn’t look like a frantic lucky kill.”
“Interesting…”
D’Arcy dabbed at his chest and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked at the uterus he’d taken from the corpse.
“What was that I killed?”
“No idea. Obviously some sort of werebeast, but not one that I know of. We do know it’s a breeding pack.” He indicated the bloody mess. “Maybe what you’ve already killed were guardians of some sort, set to protect what we are seeking. Thing is, it’s still out there, and now…” A wicked smile creased his face. “It’s unprotected.”
October 1st 1888
D’Arcy hit the streets early, he didn’t feel like it; he’d woken stiff and feeling sick. The wounds on his chest had swollen and turned pussy. Bryce had smeared some foul smelling grease on them the night before—just in case—but it didn’t seem to have done much. Despite the discomfort he’d dressed for the streets in well-worn trousers and coat, topped with a battered flat cap. He was looking for any information he could find about the previous nights killing. The Gin houses were full of talk of the women killed; some said they’d deserved it, others that they’d been loyal friends. He spoke to one man who claimed to have seen Liz—the other woman—with a man about an hour before she’d been found. D’Arcy remembered the shadowy figure he’d seen talking with her, was he the killer?