“I like ’em a little warmer, but yeah, there was something about her. She must have been fine when she was alive.”
“Shit,” Banks said, springing to his feet. His tone had changed.
“What, man?” Maclvoy scrambled to stand, but found his leg was asleep.
“Mommy’s gone.”
Stunned, the two men stared at the bloody patch of snow, not ten feet away from where they had been sitting.
“Better tell the old man,” Maclvoy said, backing away from the fire.
Dirig’s tent sat empty.
“Aw, shit,” Banks said. “Now, where the hell did he go?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Inside the dark tent, Maclvoy spotted something. “Well, he couldn’t have gotten too far without his boots.” Maclvoy slung his rifle and snatched up Dirig’s enormous boots. They still had blood on them. “You don’t think something…got him, do you?”
“Dirig? King Swaggercock Werewolf Hunter? Doubt it.”
“What then?”
“He’s been leaving a trail with those giant shitkickers of his since we got out here.”
“Leading them to him.”
“Him? Try again, son. He ain’t here. It’s just us.”
“I guess we know what happened to the other assistants.”
Banks nodded. “Served up as dog food. We fucking bait.”
Somewhere a frozen branch snapped, startling both men. It could have easily been a thin bough cracking under the weight of so much ice and accumulated snow, but as Maclvoy and Banks stared at each other, they knew that it wasn’t.
Banks shouldered his shotgun and Maclvoy snapped the rifle’s safety to the “off” position. “Whatever comes out of the woods,” Maclvoy said, aiming at the treeline.
“Damn straight,” Banks said. “Damn straight.”
A limb bounced, dropping a soft mound of snow to the ground. It made to noise when it hit.
Banks tensed.
Beneath his breath, Maclvoy chanted, “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”
The boy could not have been older than ten. Shaking with cold and terror, he stumbled naked from the embrace of the black branches. Blood dripped from his face and hands. He managed an uncertain step and collapsed.
“Take this,” Maclvoy handed his rifle to Banks and hurried to the fallen child.
“Man, I don’t know…,” Banks said.
“The wolf attacked the family, dragged them off, he survived.” Maclvoy took his coat off and wrapped the boy with it as he lifted him up. “You got a first aid kit?”
“Fuck no, I don’t,” Banks said, dropping the weapons. He fumbled in the backpacks piled by the fire. “I shoot shit, I don’t bandage it.”
“This kid is going to bleed to death before you…”
“Here you go,” Banks said, holding up the first aid kit. White box, red cross.
“Not his blood…”
The boy sunk his teeth into Maclvoy’s arm. Maclvoy howled.
“Oh, shit,” Banks screamed, dropping the first aid kit and lunging for the guns.
The boy unfolded in muscle and bone, snout punching out of his face, canines piercing deeper into Maclvoy’s arm.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!” Maclvoy frantically pulled at his arm, trying to free it from the wolf’s maw. “Shoot it! Shoot it!”
Banks tried to aim, but the wolf twisted Maclvoy in between the two of them and began backing into the woods.”
Maclvoy clawed at the ground, trying to stop himself, but found only snow and frozen earth. “Shoot it!”
Banks fired, but at the last second something slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He grabbed the shotgun and managed to rack a shell in before a massive weight dropped on his back. He heard a cracking sound that might have been his ribs.
A growl shook Bank’s whole body.
Banks rammed the shotgun over his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
Falling away, the wolf howled.
Banks rolled over onto his back, pumping another shell, and fired into the stunned wolf’s face. “Fuck yeah! Silver shot, bitch!”
He got to his feet, racking the shotgun. The werewolf lay sprawled on the ground. “Two of them, goddammit.” Banks rammed the shotgun into the wolf’s ear and pulled the trigger. He stumbled back, trying to catch his breath. Maclvoy. “Where you at, cracker?”
Maclvoy screamed, a distant muffled sound.
Banks raced into the woods, grabbing Maclvoy’s rifle as he went.
Dirig crouched in the dark woods just outside the clearing. He knew from past experience that if he remained still, he all but vanished. His breathing had slowed to the point where he doubted that even the wolves could hear him.
Barefoot, he moved into the clearing, and descended on the dead werewolf. It had not been a good kill. Messy. Banks had led his whole chance of survival boil down to what amounted to a coin toss. An older wolf would have bitten the back of his head open before he got his hands on the shotgun. This one was a puppy, at best.
Dirig scooped up the beast’s inside and slathered them on himself. Once, a long time ago, the smell had been ungodly, now though, Dirig hardly noticed. When he was covered, he drew his long silver knife from its sheathe and went into the woods the way Banks had gone.
Banks had begun to miss pavement in a real and meaningful way. He would have happily paid ten-grand for a streetlight as he bounded into the woods. He slung Maclvoy’s rifle in favor of his own shotgun. It took him precious seconds to find his flashlight, but as soon as he flicked it on, the wolf’s eyes sparkled at the end of the beam. Maclvoy’s steaming blood looked black on the blue-white snow.
Even as Banks took hurried aim, the wolf’s snout was buried in the bloody mess of Maclvoy’s shoulder. “Bitch!”
The wolf darted out of the beam and disappeared into the base of a thirty-foot pine. Banks fired at the thing, but he doubted that he hit anything. Smoking pine needles and snow sparkled in the harsh beam of light.
“You can’t shoot shit,” Maclvoy said, struggling to speak around a bubbling mouthful of blood.
“I got one dog-face already. How many you got?”
Maclvoy made a weak gesture toward where the wolf had vanished. “I almost had him before you scared him off.”
“Well, shit,” Banks said, trying to get his arm under Maclvoy’s armpit. “I can come back later if you’re busy.”
Maclvoy’s chuckled cracked into a sob. “Fucking kid ate my arm.”
“Hope that wasn’t your pleasuring hand.”
Maclvoy tried to laugh, but could only cough. “Two dogs?”
“Yeah, two little ones, Dick and Jane, must be the kids.”
“Oh, shit,” Maclvoy said. “Two kids.”
“What?”
“That family…”
“Shit, shit, shit. That family wasn’t victims…”
“No.”
“We got to get gone,” Banks said, heading back toward the campfire. He knew it wasn’t the smartest idea, but his mind was blank and it seemed better than standing in the dark waiting to die. It was a full day’s hike from where they’d started and there was no way Banks could drag Maclvoy that far and fight off a family, a pack, a whole fucking pack, of werewolves.
“Son-of-a-bitch, Dirig,” Maclvoy said.
“Gonna cut off his head and shit down his neck.”
Banks and Maclvoy broke through to the campsite. “Can’t go on,” Maclvoy said.
Banks stopped. “C’mon, you gotta take my sister out.”
Maclvoy laughed. “She look like you?”
Banks gently lowered him to the ground. “Nowhere near as pretty as me.”
“Poor girl.”
Banks had never seen so much blood come out of one body. Maclvoy looked almost transparent. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Run like hell, man.” Maclvoy then convulsed and died badly.
“Aw, hell naw,” Banks said, struggling to his feet. He wiped snot off his face with the sleeve of
his coat. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
Banks took Maclvoy’s rifle, slung it over his neck so that he could fire it with one hand and held the shotgun in the other. The kickback would probably knock him on his ass. Didn’t matter. Banks took three steps before the first wolf appeared at the edge of the camp. Even on all fours, it still towered over him.
Banks tensed his fingers on the triggers. Another wolf appeared at his periphery. This one was impossibly taller.
Clouds of his frozen breath came out so fast that his head looked like it might be on fire.
Behind him, he could hear the softer footfalls of the smaller wolf, the boy.
The largest wolf sniffed at the remains of Bank’s first kill. The wolf growled, rumbling the ground.
“Sorry, yo, but that bitch had to be put down.”
The wolves rushed him, canines bared.
Screaming, Banks pulled both triggers.
Dirig crouched just beyond the edge of the clearing and watched Banks die. When the wolves began to feed, when their muzzles were so buried inside Bank’s body cavity that there eyes were partially covered with meat, Dirig casually stepped up to them, drew both pistols and put silver bullets into their brains.
The carcasses flopped to the ground.
Dirig turned slowly and locked eyes with the the younger wolf, the boy. Dirig holstered his two pistols and slowly unsheathed his silver knife.
The young werewolf bolted.
After a few seconds, Dirig followed.
Dirig tracked the boy until the sky in the East began to lighten. He found the boy curled up and shivering in the fetal position. Young werewolves sometimes struggled to keep their bestial forms. He nearly passed the boy, concealed as he was by the nearly knee-high snow. Dirig lifted the boy by the scruff of the neck and carried him back to the camp. He wrapped him in a wool Army blanket and set him by the fire. “Hungry?”
The boy could not meet his eyes. He shook his head once.
“No,” Dirig said, sitting on a stone by the dying fire. He glance at Maclvoy’s half-devoured corpse, a bloody heap on the edge of the wood line. “Guess you wouldn’t be, would ya?”
“What now?” The boy wiped at the dried blood that painted a five o’clock shadow on his prepubescent face.
Dirig removed one of his large pistols and cocked back the hammer. He rested the big gun on his leg. He squinted at the boy in the morning’s gray half-light. “I suppose we’ll wait.”
The boy’s eyes dropped to the ground. “For what?”
“The messenger,” Dirig said. “We’ll wait right here for the wolf to return.”
Alpha
Marc Sorondo
Aedan stood at the back corner of the room, watching the old man lead a class of seven.
The seven students were in a deep stance. one held for quite some time, while the old man spoke. Their legs quivered and beads of sweat rolled down their faces.
The old man held a sword in his good hand while guiding the blade with the ragged stump that had once been the other.
“You must develop your chi so that you can channel it into your weapon when necessary, or focus it all into a single point of your body to prevent or heal from injury…”
The students didn’t seem to be paying attention. Their eyes were focused straight ahead, unblinking in spite of the sweat dripping into them.
They didn’t seem to be paying attention, but Aedan knew that they experienced the old man’s words in a way most people couldn’t even imagine.
Aedan bowed to the old man.
Although he hadn’t been looking in Aedan’s direction, the old man nodded almost imperceptibly and bowed in return.
Aedan turned and headed into the hallway. He went south, towards the faint sound of muffled gunfire.
He caught sight of himself in a mirror as he headed for the next room. Aedan had dark hair, a shade of brown that was almost black, but his eyes were the color of summer sky. He was struck by how much he looked like his father. Aedan had followed in his father’s footsteps in almost every way, and now he wished his father were still around, wished he could speak to him in private and be sure he was making the old man proud. He knew he could go to a medium, but neither he nor his father would speak freely with someone else around.
He reached the door to the range and stepped inside. Three men were lined up with their rifles at the ready.
A man stood behind them. His rigid posture, short hair, and tone of voice gave him the air of a military man.
“You must find a balance between extreme focus and the widest panorama of your peripheral. You must see everything, but focus on the target…”
A series of targets sprang up, some of which were red while others were green. Gunfire erupted from the line of shooters. In a matter of seconds, the red targets had all been shot down while all of the green ones remained.
“You must take in every detail while basing your decisions only on those details that matter most. Your brain is the finest computer in existence, but you’ve got to program it to operate correctly…”
Another series of targets popped up. These were all red, but some were circular while others were octagonal. Another burst of gunfire took out all of the circular targets while ignoring the octagonal ones.
Aedan turned to the man standing in back and snapped a salute.
The man responded in kind.
Aedan turned and left.
He made his way further south. As he passed an opened door, he heard a familiar voice. He stopped and entered a classroom.
The room contained four rows of five desks. A boy sat in each one. Judging by the size of the boys, Aedan guessed they were between twelve and fourteen years old. At the front of the room, a white-haired priest read from an old, hardcover copy of Lord of the Flies.
“Fancy thinking the beast was something you could hunt and kill!” he read in a voice a bit more raspy and malicious than his own.
“It is,” Aedan interrupted.
The priest snapped the book shut, looked up at Aedan, and smiled. “While its physical manifestations may be vulnerable to attack, at its core, the essence of evil is eternal and intangible.”
There was a moment of silence in which the two men smiled at each other.
Then the priest turned to his pupils and said, “Gentlemen, you are in the presence of arguably the greatest living hunter in the world. It is my pleasure to introduce Mr. Aedan Halloway.”
Some of the boys gasped. All of them stared.
“Laying it on a bit thick, Father,” Aedan said.
“Here for business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure? What’s that?” Aedan said.
The priest laughed. “I guess I should have known.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” Aedan turned to address the students. “Don’t underestimate the huge importance of your brain if you want to be a hunter. You can learn a lot from Father Stephen.”
“It’s good to see you, Aeden.”
“You too, Father.” Aedan turned and left. He had an appointment with the head of the Ecumenicals, and it was best to be on time.
To the Ecumenicals, all roads did not lead to God. Instead there was only one road, and it led to good on one end and evil on the other. Every system drove in its own lane, but they all essentially took the same route.
The Ecumenicals were founded on the belief that there was ultimately a source of good in the universe as well as a source of evil. Though different systems used different stories to explain it all and different rituals to deal with it, they all sought to commune with a single entity.
Good and evil were at war. The two forces were fundamentally opposed to each other; they had warred forever and would do so until long after the end of time.
There were those who fought the battle on a spiritual level: exorcists, mediums, and witch doctors who used prayer, ritual, and incantation to fight the powers of darkness.
Aedan respected those people and their methods, but had found that it simpl
y wasn’t him. He was meant for violence. He often felt as if his body had been made for that very purpose. He didn’t believe in destiny, but if he did, he’d believe that he was destined to be a warrior.
He’d been trained in martial arts from all over the world; learned from monks, ninjas, soldiers, and spies; and was deadly with guns, knives, swords, staffs, axes, throwing stars, explosives, and his bare hands.
Aedan’s idea of going unarmed involved carrying a pair of brass knuckles, three throwing stars, a telescopic baton, a butterfly knife, and a Glock 9mm.
At thirty-four, Aedan was old to be an active hunter. Most died before they hit thirty. Those who didn’t usually retired from fieldwork at about that age. Surviving that long meant that the hunter’s body had gone through Hell for somewhere around ten years. By thirty most hunters felt old and sore, used-up and more than willing to take jobs teaching, building custom weapons, or administrating within the Ecumenicals.
Aedan was a rare breed. He’d fight until he died.
The head of the Ecumenicals was ancient. He sat behind a massive mahogany desk with a marble slab set into the top. He was like a statue carved in intricate detail from a hunk of granite. Though he now looked frail and though he smiled slightly at Aedan as the younger man entered, it was impossible to forget that the old man had been one of the oldest active hunters in the history of the organization.
Maxwell Caulfield had only retired from hunting at fifty. Thirty years later and sixty pounds lighter, Caulfield’s eyes were still predatory. His hands were swollen and arthritic and covered with scars. A ring of scar tissue circumscribed his throat just above the collar of his sweater.
Aedan bowed as he entered and said, “Dr. Caulfield.”
Caulfield nodded and motioned for Aedan to sit in a leather chair in front of the huge desk.
“I want to thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
“I’m not going to beat around the bush, Aedan. I’ve a favor to ask of you.”
Aedan was quiet, expectant.
“There are two young men at the very end of their training, two boys named Justin and Damon, that are ready to join the ranks of hunters.”
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 7