Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1)

by Josh Reynolds

  “I think I’m dying,” he said, his rough voice pitifully small in the oppressive quiet of the cellar. “I can hear—” His thick fingers twitched and then, with a sigh, he was gone.

  “Is he—” Gallowglass began.

  “God I hope so.” With the back of his hand pressed to his mouth to stifle a coughing fit, St. Cyprian stepped towards the stunted body. His Webley was extended at the ready, and his eyes were narrowed. “Light, please,” he said quietly.

  “I think he’s dead,” Gallowglass said, raising the torch. In the light, more than just Bunter’s shame was revealed. Wiry white hair clung to his body in thick patches. His feet were filthy and malformed, with oddly curled toes and wide soles. Even his face, now caught full in the light and freed of spectacles and shadow, was odd in a distasteful way. The jaw was shaped wrong and the neck was too thick.

  “Ugly bugger. No wonder he didn’t go out much,” Gallowglass said.

  “He’s not human,” St. Cyprian said. “Not fully anyway.”

  “So what is he?”

  “A changeling. They do that sometimes.” He swallowed. “They leave one of their own and snatch a child for a…a snack.”

  “So he’s-?”

  “Yes.”

  “He killed all those people,” she said. “He killed them, and he didn’t even know why, did he?”

  “No he didn’t,” St. Cyprian said, resting on his haunches. “Poor fellow was mad from the start. Trying to fit in, but never quite managing it until…what?” He made a face. “Something set him off. Re-ignited those atavistic impulses. Who knows, maybe they—” St. Cyprian stopped, his eyes widening. The scratching they had heard earlier had become louder now that the wall was down, but it was obvious now that it wasn’t rats of unusual size or otherwise, unfortunately.

  “What is it?” Gallowglass said. She ignored St. Cyprian’s frantic gestures to step back and drew closer to the wall.

  “Not rats,” St. Cyprian said harshly. In the light of the torch, something gleamed in the darkness behind the wall. Several somethings. The scratching grew louder and there was a flash of worm-pale flesh as something that might have been a hand reached through and tangled stubby fingers in Bunter’s bloodstained flesh. Almost gently, his body was drawn into the darkness where more hands waited. “No, not rats,” St. Cyprian repeated, taking aim with the Webley.

  Gallowglass grabbed his wrist. “You’ve got four shots left,” she said softly. She played the torch over the hole. The light reflected on the surface of more than four pair of eyes. Claws scratched on stone and eager panting filled the cellar as the rumble of a passing tube-train caused dust to drift down on their heads. From within the hole came the sound of meat being pulled from the bone and the slurping of marrow.

  “Why are they here?” Gallowglass said.

  “To take him back maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is that if they get out of there, they’ll kill us…” Slowly, carefully, St. Cyprian sank to his haunches and, with his pistol still aimed at the things beyond the wall, began to draw his finger through the dirt. Swiftly he cut the shape of a sigil in the dirt. From the hole came what might have been a disgruntled sigh.

  Licking his lips nervously, St. Cyprian scraped another symbol, and then a third. The sigh rose to a growl. “That should do it. Back towards the stairs; keep the light on them,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “Whatever that was you drew, I think you made them mad,” Gallowglass said.

  “As long as they stay mad in there, I’ll live with it,” St. Cyprian said. “Keep going. Hop to it.”

  “I don’t hop,” Gallowglass said tersely.

  “Do you want to be eaten?”

  “Look at that! I’m hopping!” Gallowglass scrambled back up the stone steps. St. Cyprian followed more sedately, his thumb on the Webley’s hammer and his finger trembling on the trigger. As he stepped through the door, he caught a last glimpse of them, watching him from the darkness, their eyes alight with cool, alien intelligence. Maybe they had been human once, but now…now they were something else entirely; something malign and hungry.

  He had a brief image of termite mound cities, stretching down, down into the depths like a reflection of the city whose underbelly they clustered about. Of dim white ape-shapes bounding through filthy sewer pipes and through jungles of human waste and crouching on the platforms of forgotten ghost-stations. Of pale fingers prying at sewer grates and toilet pipes.

  We are here. We have always been here. And we always will be, those eyes seemed to say. Our children are among you already. And we will have back all that you have stolen. Then, one by one, they winked out, leaving him alone save for his fear and the stink of blood on the musty cellar air.

  Once they were upstairs, St. Cyprian replaced Bunter’s bolts and locks, his pistol close to hand. Gallowglass watched him, with her own recovered pistol cocked and ready. “We’ll call in Stanhook and the Tunnel Authority. Let them seal it up. Should have probably let them handle it in the first place,” he said. He turned to her, his face pale and sweating.

  “Was that them then?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes on the floor.

  “Yes.” St. Cyprian collapsed into a chair. His eyes were locked on the door, though his pistol was pointed at the floor. He wondered if they were down there looking up at him. “Yes, that was them. Our delightful neighbors to the far south.”

  “What was that he was going on about? Bells?” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Was that them, do you think? Was that what he was talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” St. Cyprian said. He closed his eyes wearily. “But I wonder how many more poor buggers hear the same bells Bunter did…or will?”

  Finally, the Source

  Christopher Nadeau

  Wilson wondered why the Nightmare Guild would contact him, one of the few hunters who’d come closest to taking them out permanently? Sure, he’d been given a reason, one that made sense on the surface, but surely there was more to it. No way they’d selected him at random.

  Wilson knew he was good but he wasn’t the best. That distinct honor belonged to a man named Sitchin, a hunter he’d never met but who many claimed had unlocked the key to prolonged life. It was said Sitchin was death personified and, if the Guild had approached him, he’d most likely have served up a few deadly reminders to let them know his feelings on being recruited by monsters.

  Perhaps that was the answer; Wilson was easier to work with. Unlike other hunters, he’d been known to grant freedom to captured monsters in exchange for deadlier, more important ones. Having been an FBI agent at one time, he had a different methodology than the medieval-minded mace-wielders skulking around Europe and Asia. Wilson was known as the “rational one,” whatever the fuck that meant in a world populated by beings that would love nothing more than to turn the human race into crops.

  The weirdest part of the whole experience had been his benefactor, a creature called Stanislaw that invited him to some remote mansion in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula during a bizarre party being attended by all sorts of things that went bump in the night.

  “Mr. Wilson, welcome to our Nightmare.”

  Wilson rolled his eyes and turned around to face a silhouetted, wispy figure. “I’ll bet you waited all week to use that one.”

  The figure chuckled. “It certainly never gets old.”

  Wilson sneered. “That’s about as much socializing as I plan to do with you bastards, so why not get to the point?”

  “Such venom. I mean that figuratively, of course. True venom is astoundingly difficult to come by.”

  The figure wasn’t wrong. There was a creature of supernatural origin known as a reptiloid whose venom was deadly to almost every other creature in the known worlds, including many of the undead. They were the rarest and most hunted creatures around and Wilson, an experienced monster hunter/killer, had only ever encountered one.

  Nobody in this room needed to know about the vials in his bag filled with the deceased creature’s dead
ly venom.

  “I sense your willingness to destroy us all so I shall be brief,” the silhouette said. The creature floated toward the door and through it. Wilson nodded to himself; a shade. It was the hardest thing to kill, but not impossible. Catch them during their phasing moments, when intangible temporarily became tangible, and you could kill them just like anything else. This one was smart, keeping its distance at all times. It was also flanked by two death-walkers, or what the everyday folk referred to as zombies. It was obvious Stanislaw the Shade was disgustingly wealthy because the two gray-faced bruisers serving as his “body” guards could talk and seemed reasonably intelligent.

  The four of them finally entered a private room at the end of a forever-long corridor, a row of candles igniting immediately upon their entering.

  “Neat trick,” Wilson said. “Saw it in a movie once.”

  “Are you familiar at all with the different religious beliefs of the world?” Stanislaw asked.

  Wilson shrugged. “Any good hunter should know about the things that can help him kill your kind.”

  The shade chuckled, flickered a bit as it glided across the room. “You certainly are that, Mr. Wilson.”

  Wilson glanced at the two hunks of decaying meat standing in front of the door. He’d allowed them to block the exit because if he had a move against the shade, they would have no choice but to split up so at least one of them could try and stop him. There was nothing worse than paired up zombies coming after your ass at the same time.

  “This room houses some of the oldest knowledge in the known worlds, Mr. Wilson.” Stanislaw floated past Wilson’s line of sight towards a massive book.

  “Of course,” Wilson said through gritted teeth.

  “The interesting thing about knowledge is it’s rarely accumulated into a single, coherent moment of clarity.” The shade shimmered again. “Until now, that is.”

  Wilson raised an eyebrow. All those books comprised the thoughts, feelings and discoveries of more races and individuals than he could count with ease. It was said shades were immortal just like vampires, perhaps even longer-lived as they were barely physical. Was it possible Stanislaw had read all of these books and arrived at something world-changing?

  “What I am going to share with you will make it impossible for you to see the world the way you once did.”

  Stanislaw hadn’t lied about that. This past week was nothing if not trying for Wilson, whose confidence in a consistent worlds-view faltered to the breaking point. He spent more than a few days drinking himself under the table, holed up in some shitty motel off the beaten path, five miles from the target zone as designated by the Nightmare Guild. How he despised them.

  Centuries ago, when it looked as if the human race had somehow gained an advantage in an ongoing war against its inhuman tormentors, a group of progressive-minded monsters got together and wisely decided it might be best for them to vanish into the ether until they were little more than half-remembered myths. Ever since that successful little gambit paid off, the Guild ran the show in the arcane world, overseeing the clandestine war that was taking place that never seemed to result in anything more than a frustrating stalemate for people like Wilson.

  He’d always suspected it was designed that way, somewhere higher up. It didn’t make any sense considering how unevenly matched the two sides were. Humans outnumbered monsters five-thousand to one but numerical superiority wasn’t the only determinant in a battle against a superior foe. Whatever the outcome, somebody should have lost a long time ago.

  Long before there were hunters.

  “Hunters were part of the plan,” Stanislaw told him a week ago. “Checks and balances, Mr. Wilson, with both of our kinds suffering for a higher agenda.”

  The shade wasn’t the first one to advance such a theory. But his research, his evidence, was indisputable. And true to his word, Stanislaw had literally blown Wilson’s mind because once it was out there, he could see it as if it had only been hiding just out of sight.

  The hospital parking structure was comparatively empty for a Sunday afternoon. Wilson was surprised by the lack of visitors and wondered if the Nightmare Guild had somehow found a way to arrange that as well. Nothing seemed out of their spheres of influence. He fought the bile rising in his throat and got out of his car, surveying the area before proceeding.

  He was being watched.

  It was a different feeling, less menacing and more present. If Stanislaw told the truth, these were an entirely new kind of creature or, more accurately, an even older one. Wilson felt the presence all around him, and realized he wasn’t being followed after all. These beings were just that perceptive. How the hell was he supposed to conceal his intent with more than one of those things in the area? He doubted even the Guild could pull that off.

  “This is stupid,” he muttered.

  He reached the hospital’s north entrance within moments, acknowledging the guard with a brief nod of the head, and headed for the elevators. According to the shade, his target was on the fifth floor and would only be vulnerable for a little while longer.

  Wilson felt the bile sting his throat yet again.

  “You’re insane,” Wilson said. “And I’m leaving.”

  One of the zombies took a few steps in his direction; Wilson smiled.

  “Not satisfied with only being half dead?” he said.

  The bodyguard’s face contorted with rage, although his eyes maintained their customary blankness. “You go nowhere,” it growled.

  Wilson reached inside his coat and unhooked the MAC-11 from its holster. Bullets wouldn’t kill a zombie but they sure as hell would cause it pain, especially one as advanced as these two.

  “Be reasonable, Mr. Wilson,” Stanislaw said behind him. “Even someone with your undeniable skills would be hard-pressed to escape so many members of the Guild.”

  Wilson thought of all the creepy crawlies gathered in the huge reception room and slowly removed his hand from the weapon’s handle without snapping the holster back into place. He maintained a steady gaze directed at the death-walker.

  “Please, Mr. Wilson. Must I employ the beloved ‘If we’d wanted you dead’ cliché’?”

  Wilson relaxed his shoulders and turned to face his host, his expression weary and annoyed. “Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?”

  “I have every idea.” The shade shimmered. “I won’t deny how troubled I am by this revelation but can you honestly tell me something else makes more sense?”

  Wilson stared at the floor. It was one thing to claim a conspiracy of powerful entities. Hell, he’d even once heard rumors of a human/monster plot to effectively split the world in half that was foiled decades ago. But that was less incredible than Stanislaw’s claims that he had located the source of all their troubles and knew how to take it out for good.

  “Why can’t one of you do it, then?” Wilson asked.

  “If we were capable of that, you and I would not be conversing on the topic,”

  Wilson walked over to the enormous bookshelf and pulled out a book at random, an ancient leather-bound edition thick enough to be…he turned his head sharply and looked at first the zombie henchmen and finally Stanislaw. He could feel the shade’s smile.

  “First edition,” Stanislaw said, drifting over nearer. “If you could read the language, you would be shocked at what you found. A psychopath emerges as clearly as a sunny day.”

  Wilson did not miss the intentional irony of a shade using the one thing that could destroy it within moments as a metaphor for their so-called mutual enemy. He told Stanislaw to make him understand what was in the book.

  “You realize what you’re asking me to…”

  “Just make it happen.”

  The shade sighed and drifted over to the zombie that was still guarding the door.

  “Summon a translator demon.”

  The fifth floor elevator doors parted with a whine and a hiss and Wilson felt himself plunged into a series of new, intense sensations that threat
ened to overwhelm him to the point of madness. There was too much truth here, an overabundance of purity, neither of which a flawed human being should ever know on an intimate level. He knew he shouldn’t be here, wasn’t supposed to be here, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d arrived, he had every intention of following through.

  Wilson turned left and squinted as a nearly blinding light assailed his eyes. It was the sort of light that should have caused an instant headache but it didn’t. Now Wilson understood why Stanislaw couldn’t do this; the light would have destroyed him within moments.

  Orderlies and nurses walked back and forth, pushing things, carrying things, concentrated on the various tasks at hand. None of them seemed to take notice of him as he headed onto the ward. So far it was happening just as he’d been told. Concealment spells made things easier since most humans didn’t know what they were nor did they have the training to overcome them.

  The real trick involved reaching an area only accessible to those who were supposed to be here. No amount of concealment could do that.

  Wilson hugged the wall and tried to notice a pattern in the movement around him. He knew he was still being watched, now more closely than before, so he needed to make a move soon or risk total exposure. While he observed, his mind flashed back to the tale he’d been made able to read at Stanislaw’s mansion.

  From “The Book:”

  The world was cool and empty and nothing trod upon its surface. The void stretched out, undeniable, ravenous. The Light flickered in its presence, trying with all its might to spread and illuminate all things everywhere. And from the Light emerged the One, finally free of the Void and now incomplete.

  “There shall be more than just me,” He said, and there was.

  And the cold, empty surface of the world became wet and filled with things and he was pleased. He stood and watched and waited till the day came when he grew tired of their pointlessness.