Monster Hunter Bloodlines - eARC

by Larry Correia

  We ended up face to scaly face. Its breath was hot and stank like roadkill. A forked tongue flicked out and hit me in the eye. I twisted my head back as those nasty teeth snapped shut half an inch from my cheek. So then I head-butted the fucker right in the snout. The yellow eyes blinked in surprise.

  Then I threw a knee into its side and shoved off far enough to give me time to go for the fixed blade on my belt. I let go of its wrist, yanked out the little knife and went to stabbing.

  It swung its claws at me, but it hadn’t seen the knife yet. I cut it across the bicep, through the robes, and deep into the muscle. Reptoid blood is so dark it’s almost purple, and I proceeded to paint the walls with it. The other arm came around, nearly tagged me, but I pushed back in right behind the attack, went up and over its defenses, and stabbed it in the side of the neck. The reptoid’s hands flew reflexively toward the wound, so I kicked it in the chest.

  It flew back and cracked its head against the toilet, hard. That must have brained it, because it let go of its squirting neck, and sank slowly to the floor, bleeding out.

  I stood there for a second, breathing heavily. I picked up my pistol and aimed it at the downed reptoid, but I was pretty sure it was done for. Then I realized my right arm was bleeding like crazy. Reptoids lived in sewers, so their claws had to be really unsanitary, so I went over and stuck my arm into the sink geyser. I winced as the spray turned pink. I could already tell that was going to need stiches.

  I keyed my radio. “This is Pitt. I got attacked by a reptoid at the site where the tracker is. I’m injured but I don’t think it’s that bad.” The cut hurt like a son of a bitch, but it hadn’t hit any major veins or arteries. I’d get medical attention after we got that Ward Stone. Direct pressure would work for now. I looked around for paper towels to shove in the gash, but of course the bathroom only had one of those stupid air blowers. So I helped myself to a roll of toilet paper.

  The bathroom door opened. I really hoped it was my fellow Hunters, and not more reptoids. A giant, hulking figure strolled into the room.

  Only it was worse than reptoids.

  “Franks,” I muttered.

  “Pitt.” He didn’t seem surprised to see me or the destruction. The legendary MCB agent was wearing his usual cheap suit and clip-on tie, so muscular and intimidating that he made me look downright cuddly in comparison.

  It had been a while since I’d seen my favorite made-out-of-spare-parts federal problem solver and all-around killing machine. “Is that a new nose?”

  “Yeah . . . ” He took off his sunglasses, revealing his beady little eyes that had probably been scooped out of a death row inmate’s head. “You like it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” Then Franks looked down at the dead reptoid and frowned. “I was gonna take it prisoner.”

  “Then you should have got here sooner. It didn’t give me a lot of choice in the matter. But on the bright side, PUFF on these assholes is like fifty grand a head.” I discreetly keyed my radio so that everybody else would know who had shown up, and that I was probably going to be indisposed for the rest of the chase, because our working relationship with the MCB was contentious at best, and Franks was seldom what could be described as helpful. “What are you doing here, Agent Franks?”

  Earl’s voice was in my ear. “Z’s out. Somebody call the lawyer.”

  But Franks didn’t respond to my question. He just went over to the downed monster and thumped it with his shoe. The robe fell open, revealing that the thing was wearing a bulletproof vest beneath. My bullets were mushroomed against it. No wonder it hadn’t gone down when I’d shot it. I hated when monsters took advantage of modern technology.

  Speaking of which . . . I went to retrieve the creature’s phone, but Franks beat me to it. He snatched it up, glared at me suspiciously. Then he checked the blinking dot on the screen, then looked at the bag, which had ended up on the floor during the struggle. Franks went over, rifled through the pack, and then pulled a little electronic gizmo out of one of the pockets. That must have been the bug.

  “Whoever stole this assaulted my men.”

  “I saw that. I don’t know who she was.”

  “What was Stricken buying?” Franks demanded.

  So the MCB hadn’t known what the deal they’d been staking out had been for after all. Since MHI really wanted that device, I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell the government so they could just seize it and stick it in some crate in a giant dusty warehouse next to the Ark of the Covenant.

  “Did you catch Stricken?” Of course, he didn’t give me an answer. That didn’t even rate his usual cursory response of classified. “Is this the part where you can’t tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys and waste a bunch of time messing with us instead of them?”

  Franks just glared at me because he was the living embodiment of unhelpful grumpiness.

  “Fine. We got a tip the auction was some dark magic cult stuff. You know, the usual.”

  Franks—who had always been super good at telling when I was lying—cracked his knuckles.

  “So this is where you say let’s do this the hard way and beat it out of me? Just like old times . . . Just kidding!” I held up my hands in surrender. I’d just gotten my ass kicked by a lizard man. I really wasn’t in the mood to catch a beating from Agent Franks, but who am I to spoil our traditions? “I’ll cooperate. But before you arrest me, can I at least get some medical attention here?”

  “No.” Franks gestured for the door. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Some of Agent Franks’ little Fed minions had arrived to clean up the dead reptoid and spin a cover story to the cops and news. Other agents had cuffed my hands behind my back, patted me down, taken my weapons, phone, radio, wallet, and keys and put them into a plastic Ziplock bag, poured some iodine and slapped a bandage on my arm. Then they’d locked me in the back of a black government SUV, where I’d waited, with the windows up and no air conditioning, for about twenty miserable, hot minutes until Franks had come back.

  When he got into the SUV, he looked grumpy, but he always looked grumpy, so I couldn’t really tell what was going on. “I haven’t seen you in forever, and this is the greeting I get? Are these handcuffs really necessary?”

  “Policy.”

  “Am I being detained?”

  Franks didn’t bother to state the obvious. He started the engine.

  “What for? I haven’t done anything wrong. We were just doing our jobs. Can I at least have the Cookie Monster head back as a souvenir? I paid an absurd amount of money for that.”

  “Shut up.”

  Franks seemed angrier than usual. We drove in silence for a while. Thankfully, Franks turned the air conditioner on but I was still pretty miserable. I think I might have pulled a muscle in my back when the reptoid had slammed me into the wall. But even in my discomfort, the longer we drove, the more sure of it I became: Franks really was seething about something. It said a lot about our relationship that I could tell the difference between regular angry Franks and extra angry Franks. But what could be infuriating him this time? There was one thing sure to piss him off.

  “Please tell me you guys didn’t let Stricken get away?”

  “Classified.”

  I laughed at him. “You dumbasses! Are you serious? There were like a hundred of you there. You’re the friggin’ MCB. You’ve got satellites and shit! How could you lose an albino scarecrow?”

  Franks didn’t say anything, but his meathook fists were squeezing the steering wheel so tight I could hear the plastic creak.

  “Come on, Franks, after everything we’ve been through together you can level with me. I mean, seriously, we blew up a squid god together. That’s pretty hard core for a team-building exercise. Way better than a ropes course. And remember that time you had a falling out with the government and they put the biggest PUFF bounty ever on your head, and I specifically said nope, MHI’s not touching that.”

  “Because I
would’ve killed you all.”

  “Maybe.” He had done a real number on Grimm Berlin and Paranormal Tactical during his vigilante rampage though. “But then we stitched your happy ass back together after you got ripped to shreds. Hell, we’re practically friends.”

  Franks grunted.

  “You know how I can tell you like me? You haven’t even punched me once yet today. Admit it, we’re like BFFs.”

  Either that was way more persuasive than I thought, or Franks was just annoyed and needed to vent, because he relented and actually used his words. “Stricken’s in custody but I’m not allowed to kill him.”

  “That’s got to be really frustrating for you.” If there was ever anyone in dire need of extra-judicial killing, it was Stricken. Word on the street was that he had caused the government so much consternation that if they had dropped a Hellfire missile on downtown Atlanta to pop the guy, none of us Hunters would have blinked an eye. “How come?”

  “Orders.”

  “Orders for what? Why would the government possibly want that sneaky bastard taken alive?”

  “Classified.”

  I groaned. Now he was just leaving me hanging out of spite. “Considering your history, I’m surprised you didn’t just ignore orders and waste him anyway.”

  “Things have changed,” Franks said.

  “What? You’re turning over a new leaf? This is a kinder, gentler MCB?”

  But he didn’t elaborate. Whatever had changed, it had to be one heck of a motivator to keep Franks from simply offing somebody he really didn’t like.

  The rest of the ride was done in silence. Franks feeling bitter that he couldn’t just snap Stricken’s scrawny neck, and me wondering why the federal agency that had zero compunction about killing uppity witnesses who talked too much about monsters existing, was keeping that two-timing scumbag alive. But knowing Stricken, he had dirt on everybody important. He was like a supernatural J. Edgar Hoover, only without the cross-dressing.

  Our destination was a very unremarkable building. The Atlanta MCB office had no signs. There was nothing to indicate it was even a federal building except for the uniformed security guards manning the gate to the underground parking garage. But the MCB was so small that their local office wasn’t even taking up the whole building, just the bottom floor. None of us Hunters actually knew how much staff the MCB had, but I bet the small army of MCB we’d seen earlier must have come in from other offices to help. We drove down a couple levels and parked by an elevator that had a few more guards posted. Amusingly enough, Grant’s undercover taco truck was parked there too. I couldn’t wait to ask Grant about his exciting new career path.

  Franks got out, then opened my door and roughly dragged me out by the arm. Thankfully it was my uninjured one, not that Franks would’ve cared. One of the guards at the door immediately reported, “The others have already arrived, Agent Franks. They’re waiting for you in the briefing room.”

  I didn’t know who others entailed, but now I was curious. Franks hadn’t harassed me further about what had been in the backpack, and I had no idea what he’d dragged me here for. That sort of confusion was normal when dealing with the notoriously taciturn agent.

  From the reaction we got when we walked in, Franks was like a celebrity to these agents. It was Agent Franks the man, myth, and legend. The local Feds stared at Franks like he was some kind of rock star. A few even looked like they wanted to throw their panties on stage.

  Despite being a field office of a top-secret government agency dedicated to keeping the existence of the supernatural secret from the world, the interior looked like any other generic law enforcement office, with cubicles, desks, computers, potted plants, and bulletin boards. The main difference was that most of the pics on their Most Wanted wall weren’t human. Ten through six were an assortment of charming types I’d never had the pleasure of meeting: some kind of succubus demon woman who was strangely attractive even with the horns and fangs, a west coast gnome who had to be pretty freaking hard core for a gnome to make the list, a necromancer, a mad scientist, and a scruffy-looking werewolf. Lucinda Hood would surely be disappointed to know she’d been bumped clear back to number five, but the Condition had been relatively quiet for the last year. Number four appeared to be a very surly-looking bullman. The vampire Susan Shackleford would probably be proud to know she’d made the list at number three. Second was some kind of translucent tentacle monster I’d never seen before. And of course, supernatural enemy number one with a bullet was Stricken.

  In celebration, somebody had recently drawn a big X across Stricken’s face with a Sharpie.

  “You know Asag should be the top priority on that list. Right, Franks?”

  “I don’t set policy.” I took that as a yes. Then he shoved me down a hallway.

  I couldn’t bag on the MCB’s list too much since Asag was usually incorporeal, and I’d killed the last body he had been inhabiting. Nobody knew what poor sucker he was currently wearing as a meat suit, so what picture would they put up? A blank sheet of paper? A question mark? He was the immortal embodiment of chaos, dedicated to dismantling reality. It was kind of hard to sum that up on a bulletin board.

  Grant Jefferson was waiting outside the door labeled conference room, still dressed as the tacomeister, though he’d ditched the hair net, glasses, and apron. It turned out the beard was real. It actually looked good on him, not that I would tell him that. Dude already had a big enough ego as it was.

  “Owen.” He gave me a nod. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a respectful one, more like, ugh, this asshole again.

  “Hey, Grant.” I resisted my reflexive knee-jerk desire to be insulting to him, because when I’d been stuck in the Nightmare Realm and my family had been in danger, he had tried to help Julie get our son back. That sort of thing balanced a lot of scales. “Been a while.”

  “Yeah. How’s the family?”

  “Good. Julie’s holding down the fort in Alabama. Ray’s growing fast. He’s a smart and healthy kid.”

  “Good for you, guys.” He almost sounded sincere about that. “And the gang?”

  “Milo just had twins.”

  “That’s those Mormons for you.” Grant laughed.

  “How’s Archer? Is he around?”

  Franks grew impatient at the annoying humans talking about our annoying human relationships. “Nobody cares.” He opened the conference room door and roughly pushed me through. Grant followed us in.

  There were four people already seated around the long wooden table, three of whom I didn’t know. I recognized the last one though. As an attractive, athletic, redhead, she was hard to miss. I grinned when I saw my second favorite werewolf. “Heather!”

  “Why the hell is he handcuffed, Franks?” Heather Kerkonen demanded. “This was supposed to be a voluntary invitation.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “This was easier.” Franks shrugged, took out his keys, and unlocked my cuffs.

  “And look at his arm!” Heather gestured angrily toward the sloppy bandage and the bloodstains all over my shirt. “He needs medical attention. Is the concept of civil liberties completely alien to you?”

  I could answer that one for Franks. “I don’t think he’s familiar with those, no.”

  “I was there when they wrote the Bill of Rights,” Franks muttered.

  “But did you pay attention to what was in it?”

  He shrugged.

  I rubbed the circulation back into my wrists. It was weird seeing Heather here. She’d served her time, earned her PUFF exemption—which meant that she was one of the only werewolves in the country not legal to kill on sight—but then she’d surprised everybody by deciding to stay on with Special Task Force Unicorn voluntarily to help the other unfortunate monsters who were stuck there.

  “Earl didn’t mention you were in town.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Ah . . . ” I avoided that minefield. Earl was not exactly enamored with his girlfriend’s employers. �
��Are you here on official business?”

  “I’m working.” Heather left it at that. It wasn’t good to talk about her ultra-top-secret job in polite company. Instead she introduced me to the other people around the table. “This is Owen from Monster Hunter International.” Then she nodded at the suit sitting at the head of the table. “This is Director Cueto of the MCB.”

  He had a shaved head, a goatee, and looked a lot more like a trigger puller than the expected paper pusher. I remember hearing that he used to be the MCB’s elite strike team commander, so that made sense. “Yeah, I’ve read up on this one. The name Owen Zastava Pitt seems to show up in a lot of the really annoying reports that land on my desk.”

  Even if it wasn’t meant that way, I took that as a compliment. “Great.”

  Heather gestured toward the fifty-something woman seated next to her. She struck me as dignified and professional. “This is . . . ”

  “You can call me Beth.” She gave me a wry smile. “Just Beth.”

  “So what secret government outfit are you with, just Beth?” I asked.

  “Heather works for me. You’re smart enough to figure out the rest.”

  Oh shit. This must be the woman who had replaced Stricken as the head of Special Task Force Unicorn. This was the leader of the organization who used Santa’s naughty list as a recruitment tool. Monsters who served on her black ops kill squad could eventually become exempt from PUFF bounties and live like normal citizens, and she was the ultimate arbiter of whether those monsters earned that exemption or not. This was the lady who got shit done. The MCB sort of colored in the lines, but from what I’d seen, STFU did pretty much whatever it felt like, all while everybody else pretended they didn’t exist.

  I’ll be honest. Knowing all that, Beth made me kind of nervous.

  “Oh, relax, Mr. Pitt. I’m not my predecessor.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t play mind games like he did. If I want someone dead, they die.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. No reason to drag it out.” Beth gestured at an empty seat. “Now sit. There’s matters of national security to discuss and we’re on a timeline.”