Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  “Hmmm . . .” Franks didn’t like that one bit. He could feel the man’s body heat, so he wasn’t a vampire, and he certainly didn’t fight with the disorganized savagery expected of a lycanthrope, but since he’d heard Strayhorn picking up the Colt Commando, this mystery could wait until the autopsy. Franks stepped to the side. “Shoot.”

  Strayhorn opened up. The Colt was still on full auto. The thirty-round magazine was only half full but he put almost all of those into his target’s upper chest before the last few climbed up and to the right to shatter the far windows. The attacker stumbled back as his torso erupted into bloody chunks, but he still wouldn’t fall over. Instead he crashed against a desk and used that to steady himself. Even with around a dozen gaping wounds, he snarled defiantly at Franks.

  “There’s more mags in the wall,” Franks said as he started toward the creature that had dared to trash his office. Apparently whatever it was did require blood pressure to continue operating, because the attack was slower this time, and Franks leaned back as a fist zipped past his chin. Franks slammed a massive hook into the side of the man’s skull. The impact reverberated across the room, but he still didn’t go down. Franks went to work on him, fists hammering like pistons, each impact hard enough to rupture organs. Blood flew from the bullet holes each time Franks hit him.

  The man closed, trying to stop the pummeling. He tried to lock up on Franks’ arms, and for several seconds they went back and forth, blocking and twisting, trying for a hold or enough leverage to break a limb. There were massive exit wounds in the man’s back. Blood was everywhere, which was making it difficult to get a good grip. The level of dedication was impressive, but when he clutched the man’s ear and ripped it off the side of his head, that finally broke his concentration. Franks knew from personal experience having an ear pulled off really messed with your balance, so he capitalized on the momentary weakness.

  Franks took hold of the man’s head and slammed it into the top of a desk. Wood splintered. Franks jerked his head up and slammed it down again and again and again. Blood and teeth flew, but the skull didn’t come apart like it should have. It had to be artificially hardened. The desk broke in half, but Franks still had a bloody handful of hair, so he pulled back hard, exposing the man’s neck, and then slugged him right in the throat hard enough to smash his trachea flat.

  That finally dropped him.

  Franks stood there, breathing heavily. He wasn’t used to having to work that hard to win a fight.

  There was another gunshot, only it hadn’t been aimed at him, but rather the nearest security camera. Sparks fell from the hole in the plastic shell. He turned to see the first gunman, his double, approaching down the center of the cubicle aisle. Franks picked up a nearby swivel chair and hurled it at him, but the double quickly dodged to the side. Strayhorn was coming out of Franks’ office, aiming the Colt, but their assailant fired first. Strayhorn gasped when the bullet slammed into him. He fell back into his office and disappeared.

  So much for keeping the rookie out of trouble.

  The false Franks reached up to the side of his head and removed a radio earpiece. “Now it’s just us.”

  There was no way he could cover the distance without getting shot, but Franks charged. He’d gladly absorb a few rounds for the chance to beat this imposter to death.

  Surprisingly, the double tossed the Glock aside and met Franks with open hands and a smile. The smile seemed very alien on Franks’ face.

  Picking up as much speed as possible, Franks lowered his shoulder and crashed into the fake, driving them both back, through one cube wall and then another, before crashing through the glass of the conference room, through the air, and finally hard against the floor. They were ugly face to matching ugly face, so Franks head-butted him in the nose. Normally that would have worked, but he might as well have slammed his forehead into a brick for all the good it did. Franks levered himself up, trying to pin the man’s arms beneath his knees so he could pound his face into hamburger with his fists.

  Only one arm slipped through, an open palm landed on Franks’ chest, and shoved. Franks found himself airborne, until his brief flight terminated with an awkward landing on top of the conference table. The table legs broke from his impact and the whole thing collapsed beneath him.

  The double was already back on his feet. Illusion magic shimmered around him, but then it broke, revealing a Caucasian male, with close-cropped blond hair, approximately early twenties, six foot four, and appearing to be an extremely fit two hundred and fifty pounds. After picking him up and throwing him through some walls Franks estimated his actual weight was much higher. Franks had never seen this person before.

  “It’s good to see that mortal existence hasn’t made you soft, brother. You always were formidable.”

  Even if the voice was new, the tone was not. “Kurst . . .”

  The demon prince gave him a nod. “I’ve finally found a way back . . . No thanks to you.”

  He had been hoping that the imp he’d questioned in California had been lying to mess with him. That was sort of their thing.

  “You betrayed us, Franks.”

  “We betrayed God.” Franks rolled off the table.

  “Yet here you are, being the good little slave. The mighty have fallen again. Did he hear your weeping in desolation and offer you pity? Foolish, brother. Do you really think they’ll let you back in after what you’ve done?”

  Franks picked up one of the broken table legs. The solid chunk of wood would make a decent club. Kurst had found himself a physical body, so now it was time to see just how durable that body was. “Enjoy life. It’ll be over soon.”

  * * *

  Monster Control Bureau Director Doug Stark had been called into headquarters for an emergency meeting, but it could wait until after he’d gotten something to wake himself up. Normally he’d go straight to his big office on the top floor and dispatch his secretary, but the problem with clandestine, middle-of-the-night emergency meetings was that there was no secretarial staff on hand to fetch his latte. The MCB building was busy 24/7, but most of that activity was in Media Control or SRT, and Admin worked civilized person hours. He could have sent one of his two bodyguards, but then he’d only have had one left actually guarding his body. So it was easier to just stop at the cafeteria on the way.

  Details were sparse so far, but there was supposed to be a conference call with the President and the joint chiefs in twenty minutes. Of course, those people all got to gather in the White House situation room, but since his bureau was the bastard redheaded stepchild of the federal government, Stark was supposed to offer his advice from MCB headquarters. The Washington SAC and some other senior men were on their way in. Apparently something else had happened in Vegas, though nobody around him was competent enough to tell him what he’d been dragged out of bed for.

  The cafeteria was quiet this time of night. There were only a handful of MCB staff sitting around plastic tables and their conversations awkwardly died off when they saw Stark and his bodyguards enter. He got several polite nods of greeting, but that was it. Stark knew he wasn’t a popular choice for director, but he was the boss, damn it. What did a man have to do to get a little respect around here?

  Myers had gotten respect from the rank and file. It just wasn’t fair. The official record had proclaimed Stark as the hero of Copper Lake, his getting the nod for directorship was a no-brainer. Stark was a rock star. Yet, if Myers had come into the cafeteria in the middle of the night, then he would have been welcomed with smiles and handshakes. So how come they had loved Myers, but didn’t like him? It was a mystery. The cappuccino machine was off, which was just another annoyance on a long list of annoyances. “Damn it, Bill. Get me a Dr Pepper,” he snapped at one of his bodyguards.

  Bill did as he was told. The other one stayed at Starks’ side. Maybe that was part of the problem . . . Myers had never had a security detail, but he’d only been acting director. Stark was important, so he rated guards, a driver, functi
onaries, and perks. That’s just how it was when you reached the pinnacle.

  No, he knew that the real problem was that Myers was sabotaging him. Very few people in the MCB were cleared to know about STFU, but enough people knew that something shadier than normal was afoot, and they suspected that their new director was working with the mysterious Task Force. Some would even go so far as to call him a puppet. It had to be Myers with his crazy conspiracy theories about Stricken and his bunch taking over the MCB . . . Myers was poisoning the well, saying that the only reason Stark had gotten the job was because Stricken had greased the skids. Hell, just today one of Myers’ people had screwed up Franks’ hearing just to embarrass him.

  The night shift didn’t rate real food, so Stark picked a bagel out of the plastic bin and a packet of cream cheese, which was when he spied Agent Radabaugh trying to slip from the room unnoticed. Radabaugh was one of Myers’ loyalists. It was too bad, since he had a reputation for being a solid man in the field. He’d love nothing more than to fire every agent who liked Myers better than him, but it was almost impossible to fire government employees, so Stark played it cool. “Hey, Greg. Hold on for a second.”

  Radabaugh paused. “Good evening, Director Stark.” He had a coffee cup in each hand.

  “Is one of those for Franks?”

  “Yes, sir.” The agent appeared to be very uncomfortable.

  “I should order you to spit in it.” Stark walked over to him. “Ha. I’m only kidding. So, babysitting Franks? I had to do that assignment once. It was like following a tornado around and having to clean up trailer parks. I bet you’re having a terrible time.”

  “I don’t mind.” Radabaugh looked like he wanted nothing more than to escape. The other people in the room were doing their best to appear disinterested in the conversation. “Somebody needs to do it.”

  “Of course. It’s all about duty.” Once he had the Bureau locked down tight and this Las Vegas thing was taken care of and Franks was gone, every man that had been loyal to Myers was getting their ass transferred to North Dakota, but until then Stark intended to be the friendliest director ever. “I’ve got to wonder, is Franks . . . upset? Is he worried? Nervous about tomorrow’s hearing maybe?”

  “Not that I can tell.” Radabaugh answered in the most noncommittal way possible. “He’s very private like that.”

  Oh well. He’d been hoping to hear otherwise. “Franks sure is a hard one to read, isn’t he?” Stark chuckled. “That’s hardly unusual. I do hope he enjoys his forced retirement. The Bureau will be better off without him.” Radabaugh didn’t even try to argue. That was probably smart. Stark noticed that his bodyguard was looking at the entrance. Stark turned and saw that Franks had come to the cafeteria. “Well, speak of the devil . . .”

  Franks looked odd. Stark couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. They’d served together, and Stark had looked at that ugly mug daily for nearly a year. Sure, it had been a different face sewn on back then, but no matter what flesh he was wearing, Franks was always the same sullen, morose bastard. Right now was different though. It was because Franks seemed . . . happy. Franks reached inside his suit as he walked toward them.

  “Stop right there.” The bodyguard stepped in front of Stark.

  Franks’ pistol came out in a flash and he fired a controlled pair into the bodyguard’s chest followed an instant later by a third round to the head, just in case he’d been wearing a vest. Stark yelped as blood hit him in the face. Surprised, Stark slipped and fell as Franks did the same thing to the other bodyguard standing by the soda machine.

  In less than two seconds Franks had just Mozambiqued both his bodyguards. It didn’t take too long to process that, because Stark had one hell of an instinct for self-preservation, with flight usually beating fight. He rolled over and crawled for cover. Radabaugh dove behind a table as Franks shot at him and the surprised MCB staff sitting there. Most of them died clueless.

  “Return fire!” Stark shouted as he scrambled behind a counter, not realizing that he’d just signed a memo banning guns from the facility. Luckily, that rule didn’t apply to the guy who’d given it, so Stark reached for the Glock 29 on his hip.

  But Franks had followed him. He walked around the counter and casually shot Stark in the right hand.

  Stark screamed.

  Franks pointed his pistol at Stark’s face.

  Terrified, Stark lifted his trembling hands. “Franks, please . . .” The gun shifted down. There was a flash and a roar of thunder. It was like a lightning bolt through his gut. Heat began to radiate through his body and out onto the floor. Stark watched incredulously as blood came pouring out the hole in his abdomen. “What the fuck, man?” he demanded, and then it really started to hurt.

  The slide was locked back on Franks’ pistol. He looked at it quizzically, as if surprised that he’d run out already. As Franks reached for a spare, he noticed Radabaugh was running toward the dead bodyguard’s gun. Franks went after him.

  Stark moaned. He couldn’t believe how painful this was. Franks had just gut-shot him! That asshole! He pushed his left hand onto the wound and tried to stop the bleeding. He knew that he needed to put direct pressure on the wound, but that just made it hurt even worse. His right hand had a hole through it, but he tried to fumble his pistol out anyway, while shouting, “Help! Help!” but his employees in the cafeteria were either dead, suffering from gunshot wounds of their own, or running.

  Radabaugh reached the bodyguard’s piece, but Franks was on him before he could lift it. Franks stomped on his hand. He had to hand it to the agent; rather than cry about it, Radabaugh wrapped his arm around Franks’ knees, and drove his shoulder against his legs, trying to lever him off-balance. It was a classic takedown move. Radabaugh should have known that would have been impossible against Franks’ mass planted on those tree-trunk legs.

  But then Franks toppled, and Radabaugh was trying to wrestle him. It had to have been the shock and the sudden loss in blood pressure, but for a second there, it looked like Radabaugh was fighting a woman who had to be half Franks’ size, but he blinked and it was just Franks again.

  Stark gave up on his throbbing right hand. His fingers were hanging like dead fish. He reached across his body with his left and got the Glock free. It hurt so bad he could barely think. MCB rounds were compressed powdered silver, and they fragmented like a bitch in soft tissue. He was probably going to die and it was going to hurt, and it was Franks’ fault.

  Two other agents besides Radabaugh had dog-piled on top of Franks, and all three of them were striking him and trying to hold him down. But Franks just got up anyway, dragging the hapless men with him. Stark raised his pistol in his off hand, but he was shaking so badly, he didn’t have a shot with all of his men hanging off Franks’ body.

  One agent crashed through a table, hit so hard and fast that Stark couldn’t even tell what had happened. Franks saw Stark aiming at him, and the cunning bastard grabbed hold of the other agent, picked him up, lifted him effortlessly overhead, and threw him at Stark. The man screamed as he sailed across the room. Stark barely had time to raise his hands to protect himself from the impact.

  He must have blacked out for a moment. His head had bounced off the floor pretty hard. He couldn’t move. The MCB agent was lying on top of him, not breathing. Stark didn’t know where his gun was.

  Radabaugh was still trying to fight Franks hand to hand. He was the MCB’s reigning martial arts champion. He was a Strike Team commando and one of the toughest men in the Bureau. Radabaugh could tangle with damn near any mortal human being in the world and have a fighting chance of coming out ahead.

  He only lived for another twenty seconds.

  There was something wrong with Stark’s eyes. Franks seemed too small, and also a whole lot faster than he used to be. Radabaugh threw a series of punches, but Franks brushed them aside effortlessly. One hand flew out, grabbed Radabaugh by the throat. The agent thrashed and turned red in the face, trying a wristlock to break the hold, but to no
avail. Franks twisted and with a sickening crack snapped his neck.

  Stark tried to push the dead man’s weight off of his chest, but he was too weak.

  Franks dropped Radabaugh’s limp form, walked to the bodyguard’s pistol and picked it up. He began methodically putting bullets into each of the wounded.

  Last of all, he aimed the gun at Stark’s face.

  “No. Please!” He squeezed his eyes shut tight. “I don’t want to die! Not like this! Please!”

  Several seconds passed. There was no boom. No tunnel of light, or whatever was supposed to happen. As far as he knew, he was still alive. Stark opened his eyes. The cafeteria was filled with dead bodies and Franks was gone.

  CHAPTER 5

  Disembodied spirits escape the Void however they can. Sometimes there are cracks where another world collided with our prison. There are other things out there, alien gods willing to cut deals. We would trade our services for freedom. Then the Fallen come to the mortal world and make trouble. When you make a hole, spirits will escape through it until it is plugged.

  When any of us show up in this world, they called us demons or fallen angels. Those names will do. Without bodies we can’t accomplish much. Even the strongest amongst us couldn’t do much except harass mortals who couldn’t even remember us. They are always there, whispering, encouraging evil.

  I was never one for whispering.

  I hated the Fallen who could not admit that they had been wrong. Most disembodied are weak and easy to banish back to Hell. Some are more persistent. They desire to be real more than anything. The jealous will do anything to possess a body of their own.

  There’s always some dumb mortal who’ll listen to the whispers and open the door to let them in. But human bodies were never intended to hold the Fallen. They must compete against a mortal spirit that was tethered there first. Unless their soul is completely rotten, mortals will begin to fight back eventually, so demons are relatively easy to banish back to the dark.

  What demons really want is a body of their own. If you leave a perfectly good body around empty then something will come and live in it.