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

by Josh Reynolds

  “Esiban!” Ma’iingan shouted, “stop…”

  Esiban darted forward again, swinging the knife wildly. Instantaneously, Ma’iingan knew that he was about to be fighting for his survival. The shock of the idea staggered him enough that he wasn’t able to avoid one of the frantic swings. Leaning back his arm shot out to balance himself when the sharp edge of the knife sliced through his forearm like a hot stone through buffalo intestine.

  Yelling, Ma’iingan grabbed his arm. Warm sticky blood oozed between his fingers, the wound stinging sharply but he didn’t have time to inspect the cut.

  Shuffling backwards he could feel the heat of the flames at his back. Swinging out his foot he caught Esiban in the kneecap. He could hardly take his gaze away from the untamed eyes. Whoever this was, it was no longer his friend.

  The ball of his foot stalled the maniac for only a moment’s pause but it was long enough for Ma’iingan to release his arm and grab for the bone knife at his waist. The flames at his back were heating the furs to an uncomfortable temperature. “Esiban, you’re not yourself.”

  Esiban smiled savagely. “I’m better than just myself,” he rasped. Diving forward he slammed into Ma’iingan. As his shoulder collided with Ma’iingan’s chest, Ma’iingan swatted the obsidian knife from the crazed man’s hand though forfeited his balance in the process.

  Together the men tumbled to the packed snow in a struggling tangle.

  Esiban opened his mouth to bite Ma’iingan’s face. Hot putrid breath wafted into his nostrils.

  Gagging Ma’iingan swung his white-knuckled fist around, the canon-bone knife still gripped tightly. Bracing himself he lodged the bone into Esiban’s side, the teeth almost scraping his cheekbone when Esiban howled.

  Tilting his head back, Ma’iingan pulled the knife free, feeling the same hot blood dribble over his fingers. His grip became slippery when he stabbed his hunting partner once again in the side, just below the ribcage. The soft flesh gave easily to the blade, embedding deep.

  He felt the wrenching strain in his chest when he killed his friend.

  Esiban writhed, rolling off of Ma’iingan and the knife. Coughing violently, Ma’iingan struggled to his feet, kicking up snow and small amounts of dirt in his frantic haste. Esiban shrieked madly on the ground as his blood pooled around him, the flames roaring beside him.

  Before he was able to step back more than a few feet someone raced towards them.

  Backpedaling, Ma’iingan watched in horrified fascination as the man jumped on top of Esiban. The man’s clothing was soaked so thoroughly with blood Ma’iingan could no longer recognize him to call a warning.

  Though it wasn’t the new man he had to warn.

  The bloodied-man plunged his hands into Esiban’s side wound and tore at the flesh mercilessly.

  The screams haunted Ma’iingan’s mind even as he turned away to run. Part of him wanted to save Esiban, part of him knew that it wasn’t his friend and neither was the bloodied newcomer.

  Panic seized his body forcing him to flee with the last remaining members of the tribe.

  It wasn’t long before he saw more bodies. Only two, but they had collapsed in the snow near the edge of the wiigiwaams. Their intestines left grotesque trails through the white ground. Warm crimson melted the months of packed winter snow beneath them in steamy patches. Ma’iingan recognized the men as two of the best fishermen in the village.

  Beside the discarded corpses was his bow. Reaching down to retrieve it someone slammed into him from behind.

  Thrown off balance Ma’iingan drew his stone knife, preparing to swing it at the intruder when he saw it was Gaag.

  “What is going on?!” Ma’iingan demanded, sheathing the knife so he could draw another arrow from the quiver at his back.

  Clutching his chest, Gaag gasped. “It’s coming back. I can feel it.”

  Ma’iingan could feel it too, the familiar chill that slipped within the confines of his ribs. It squeezed his heart painfully. The windigo had come back. He readied his arrow as Gaag grasped for him. “Run…”

  “Not without Aasemaa-ikwe.”

  “You foolish boy!” Gaag snapped. “Her heart turned to ice and now she belongs to them.”

  Ma’iingan snapped. “There might be a way…”

  “What do you think made her better?”

  Ma’iingan remembered Genebig’s remains. It was as if someone had eaten him from the inside out. Something had torn him to pieces and chewed everything but the clothing and bones. The demons would have understood humans were nearby, they just needed to find where.

  The fires blazed across the tops of several wiigiwaams. It would leave his tribes-members homeless and helpless. He saw three people, a family race towards the trees. He started after them, shouting their names to try and stop them.

  They didn’t look back, they ran, fear propelling them across the snow, away from the fire.

  Turning around to confront Gaag he realized the medicine man had vanished as if he was never there. The tracks were muddled and mixed with so many others there was no indication of which direction he fled.

  In the distance he heard Aasemaa-ikwe sweet melodic voice sing. “Oooooh Little Makwa, I’ve been waiting for you…”

  Ma’iingan was grossly aware of his heart breaking just before the pain blossomed white and hot in his chest. The dagger had pierced him from behind and he could feel her frozen breath on the back of his neck. “It’ll be over soon,” she whispered sweetly.

  Fish Out of Water

  Liam Cadey

  Reeling in his line and finding the hook unbitten for the umpteenth time, Mervin was certain little more than turds and tampons managed to survive the Thames’s murky depths, despite reports of cleaner waters.

  Dense cloud cover blocked the sun’s rays but gave no relief, as the humidity covered him and the rest of the city in a layer of sweat, while the stench of rotting detritus and warm seaweed was far removed from the fresh, salty air that he had come to love so much.

  Draining the dregs of his last can of lager, he realised that he was bored shitless. The reason why he had left London in the first place was because he hated the bloody place, but having been given his instructions, he knew that he had little option but to follow them.

  The boss had interests in London, and Mervin had been told that his skills had been required. He wasn’t given any more information and didn’t ask for any, just dealt with the middlemen when necessary and left it at that.

  His thoughts were disturbed as a group of noisy teenagers began descending the steps to the sand and so he checked his watch, finding it already coming up to four o’clock. Realising that it was getting on a bit, he decided that his fishing was a lost cause and picked up his equipment while running his eyes over the developing curves of the lone girl of the group, who gave him the finger when she saw him eyeing her up.

  Muttering under his breath, he made his way up the beach, before climbing the slimy stone steps that led up to the river path. The hidden sandy banks of the Thames, only revealed by low tide, had been his personal retreat since he’d arrived back, and he hoped the noisy bastards would step on some of the broken glass that was buried in it.

  It wasn’t a long journey along the north bank, but it was an area that only the most adventurous non-Londoners visited: the bend in the river to the west hid Tower Bridge from sight, while only the commuter ferry between Greenwich and Waterloo gave easy viewing access to the tourists who wanted to see the East End and the glass towers of Canary Wharf.

  Buried in the shadows of the business district lay the borough of Tower Hamlets, where the remnants of his line still eked out a living, as they had been doing ever since his grandfather had arrived from Ireland at the turn of the century.

  Stamping his way through the piss-scented corridors and stairwells of the housing block where his family lived, his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he needed to get some food.

  The plane hadn’t stopped taxiing but he had already unlocked his
seat belt and gathered his bags from the overhead locker, despite the glare from the stewardess seated at the front of the cabin.

  Blake hated flying at the best of times and only did so when necessary. Too many things could go wrong that he had no control over, and he made sure that when he did fly he only carried hand luggage, to speed up the process.

  The flight from Lagos had been uncomfortable and noisy thanks to the snoring businessmen on one side and the bickering family on the other; luckily the stop-over in Dubai, which was as bland a place he had ever seen, had given him the opportunity to walk off the cramp, get some food and consider the business ahead.

  As some of his clients preferred dealing with speakers of their native language when away from home, he had sent O’Connell ahead two weeks ago. Blake had considered his skills to be more useful at the London end of the operation, where the man’s experience meant he could get by with the city’s Nigerian Expat community.

  The Irishman had been obviously irritated, but his men’s feelings weren’t his problem—they were paid to do as they were told.

  Blake’s problem, especially for one who had his fingers in so many pies, was making sure that business ran to plan and that those who had invested their money and trust in him didn’t get let down, which was why he’d had to return to London so quickly.

  Disembarking the plane, he found the late afternoon heat mild compared to what he had become used to, and he donned his battered leather jacket. Although the airport was busy he made it quickly through customs and heading towards the attached tube station, pulling out his mobile.

  “You’re late.” The voice that answered didn’t sound welcoming, but then again, it never did.

  “I’m here now.”

  “What do you want, a medal?”

  “Cheeky bastard,” Blake replied good-naturedly, “the flight was delayed. Is everything okay?”

  “Yep, but as for O’Connell…” The man hesitated, which was unusual.

  “I didn’t believe it myself, at first,” Blake paused, avoiding an oncoming luggage cart, “until I saw the results.”

  He and Harry had worked together for years and had formed a bond of trust, so he had no qualms about being honest, and wasn’t one to exaggerate.

  “Alright, I’ll give him a bell now then.” The other man ended the call.

  Blake made his way down the escalator into the stifling heat and dust of the underground, where he leaned against the tiled wall and waited for the next train to come along, which it did twenty minutes later, the scraping of metal and warm rush of air heralding its arrival.

  When the doors opened, he stepped back to allow the old, the infirm and the quick to board, realising his mistake when all the seats were taken, so he sighed and stood by the door, considering the situation ahead.

  Mervin put the phone down, glanced at his watch and took a seat in the gloomy and cluttered living room. He hadn’t been expecting the call but supposed it would make a change from another evening in this shit-hole.

  Having never been one for saving and having no friends here, he’d had no choice but to stay with family, his wages not being good enough to waste on a rip-off bed-and-breakfast or hotel. Luckily his siblings had an extra large council flat which meant he could kip down on the sofa, but his harridan of an older sister and half-pickled younger brother had given the place an almost oppressive atmosphere.

  Mervin tried to make sense of the programme that was on the television, but decided to make his way to the pub instead; a slow pint whilst waiting for orders would be preferable to watching this rubbish. No wonder the country had gone to shit if this was what people did with their time.

  The walk to the Queen’s Head took twenty minutes, through a neighbourhood inhabited by representatives of most of the countries he’d visited, rather than the country he’d left all that time ago. Luckily, the façade of the pub painted a refreshingly English picture, as did the warm wooden interior, while the jukebox played Dexy’s Come on Eileen, lending the place a boisterous atmosphere.

  He took a stool at the bar, grabbed a tattered copy of The Sun and glanced at the sport, while the barman took his order and placed a lukewarm pint of working man’s elixir in front of him. Marvin counted out his change and put it on the bar, but when it wasn’t taken he looked up and noted the man smiling at him.

  The bloke looked like somebody he knew, but as Mervin didn’t know anyone here, he thought he must be up to something.

  He pushed the coins back towards the barman, but the money was pushed back towards him.

  “What’s the problem?” He didn’t want trouble, but the other man was obviously winding him up; he even felt himself getting hot and sweaty, but tried to calm himself.

  The barman laughed, and waved a hand at him.

  “Calm down, I’m only pulling your plonker,” he pulled an extra half-pint for himself, and took a sip. “You’re Mervin, right?”

  “That’s me,” Mervin unclenched his fists.

  “Harry said to look out for a curly haired, tanned and miserable old Irish bastard,” he saluted the older man with his glass. “Sums you up, don’t it?”

  He had to admit the cheeky sod was good, and he realised who the lad resembled: the shaven head, the heavy brow and unshaven blunt jaw reminded him faintly of Blake, a younger pre-boxing Blake; he even had the same dark, hard to read eyes.

  “What can I say?” He decided it would be advisable to play along.

  “He said you can have a few drinks on the house,” the other man replied, before moving away to serve a bunch of overall-clad labourers.

  Having effectively been told to sit and wait, he scanned the paper and the rubbish that padded it out, before picking up a copy of the Daily Sport to count nipples. The birds nowadays were a bit scrawnier than he was used to, as he liked a bit of meat on his.

  The evening progressed and punters drifted in from the streets, filling the pub until it hummed with conversation and laughter. The jukebox was now churning out electronic shit, which he hated at the best of times, but luckily his pint glass was regularly refilled. He was itching for a cigarette, but they’d even banned smoking in pubs now.

  Mervin was beginning to feel like a spare prick at a wedding.

  The Piccadilly Line runs from Gatwick, normally speeding its way through the city’s south-western suburbs before piercing the crazy web of central London and emerging in the northern suburbs.

  Blake knew it was a faster and easier way of accessing the city than the road network, but he had forgotten about its lack of reliability, and the train stopped in the tunnel just before Earl’s Court.

  As they stood idling in the tunnel deep below the London streets, his hatred of the place was quickly rekindled: as a kid, he’d once compared it to putting on a slightly damp sock—once you realised it wasn’t dry, it just got worse and worse.

  He resisted checking his watch as there was little he could do. In a way it was almost like his current job, which had been both hectic and frustratingly slow, in the way that all of his African dealings seemed to be; on the plus side, the delta was large and porous and it had been easy to deliver his clients’ goods to specified locations around Port Harcourt.

  In fact, it had gone so well he had given the crew some time off, a habit that his father had advised him on when teaching him the ropes.

  His father, like his grandfather, had been a jack of all trades and had pressed a solid work ethos on his son, usually supported by the regular administration of his work belt. Despite this, Blake had been a quick learner, picking up his skills and making connections on the building sites, trading estates and docks of London and the Thames Estuary.

  It was in the pubs and gambling dens that he had learned of the darker things in life, things that hid beneath the surface of society, which thrived on the decay and detritus beneath the veneer of civilised behaviour.

  His first encounter with such, brief but memorable, was when his father had been found in the sewers; the official verdict
was death by misadventure, with trauma caused by rats.

  The night before, his father had gone on a simple warehouse clearance while the owner, an upstart petty criminal who no one cared about, was away. The problem had been with the owner’s hired security, something that no one could have prepared for.

  Blake’s coming of age party had been to burn the man, his warehouse and his hairy servants to the ground.

  The carraige jolted forward and broke his train of thoughts, before stopping again.

  He scanned the bored faces before him, wondering whether the pretty office girl reading the chick-lit, the angry teenager listening to his loud music or the matronly woman barely controlling her annoying offspring were as they seemed.

  A few decades later, he now maintained business interests on most of the continents, none of which were directly associated with each other and all with a legal source of income from legitimate sources. This enabled him to support further opportunities should they arise, and hunt down abominations when he could.

  The problem with this job hadn’t been with the speed of delivery, the quality or integrity of the shipments or even the manner in which it was done: the problem had been with the personal activities of one of his crew.

  Blake’s reliable reputation meant that most were willing to pay a little more for his services, and in his line of business reputation was something that he had to keep, regardless of the means, effort or expense that it required.

  But as the train ticked over and its unwilling passengers sweated and waited for it to get going, he wondered whether all the delays were a bad omen.

  It was getting busy in the pub by the time the barman walked over again, finishing his conversation with a hefty blonde and crazily haired Asian girl, both stocky, well-equipped and looking as if they knew how to handle themselves.

  “You work in London then?” The younger man waved at a batch of revellers as they pushed past and exited the pub.

  “Nah, been down in Africa for years.” Mervin didn’t know how far he could go with the lad, or whether he was being tested on how much he could keep his mouth shut. After a moment’s pause, he decided the boy was just being friendly.