The Monster Hunters

by Larry Correia

  The priest came. As a man of many letters, he had made a study of the enemy’s language, and was able to communicate with them in a very rudimentary fashion. I waited as the priest and the pagan spoke in a mixture of words and hand signals.

  “He is a leader of his people. He says that a great ransom will be paid for his return,” the priest said. Shots echoed through the jungle as my men happened upon a few other stragglers. “His city is wealthy and the very streets are paved in gold.”

  That was more like it, for gold was the very essence of this conquest. Legends of the natives’ Dorado, their land of endless gold, were what kept my men focused. “Where is his city?” I asked. The priest translated. The prisoner pointed down the road and said something, holding up a pair of fingers.

  “Two days’ march.”

  “Excellent . . . Why take a ransom when you can take the whole city?” The priest understood and stepped away to avoid splattering his robes. I casually raised my ax and brought it swiftly down on my captive’s head.

  NO!

  Calm down, Boy. It is not you. These are Cursed One’s memories. You see world from his . . . how you say . . . perspective.

  But I just killed a man. I couldn’t stop it.

  No. Cursed One killed him. Killed him five hundred years ago. He is . . . I think you would say, mean son of bitch. We just observing.

  How?

  I am attached to him. Hard to explain. I have gone back too far in memory. Must go forward.

  The jungle road faded away, only to be replaced with a city of giant stone buildings and massive pyramids. The city was wedged between jungle-covered peaks and surrounded by a swift river. Brilliant scarlet streamers hung above the roads, and trained jungle birds sang from cages hoisted over the intersections. The vision was jerky as the Old Man tried to control what I saw. If I was truly viewing the Cursed One’s memories, that would explain why I somehow understood medieval Portuguese.

  It was a strange and unnatural sensation, to see through another person’s eyes, to smell the odors of a city long since gone, to hear the voices of people dead for hundreds of years, even to feel the sensations through another’s skin, like wearing an all-encompassing suit made out of human senses: it was perhaps the strangest thing I had ever experienced. And worst of all, I could hear his thoughts—not truly hear them, but hear them as though they were my own, only not under my control.

  The scene was slightly distorted. Less important details were fuzzy or incomplete, leaving gray patches on the otherwise brilliant landscape. Time moved quickly, only to drag to impossible slowness. Sounds were distorted. Conversations of less interest were merely buzzes of background noise. Of course, memory is an imperfect recording device.

  The occupants of the city lined the street. Almost all of them bowed in fear. I ordered my men to kill the few who did not bow as a warning to any who would dare challenge their new rulers. My small army had penetrated further into the interior of the continent than any previous conquistadors, and I intended to claim the riches of this city as my own. I led my men toward the central palace, lances up, muskets ready. Many of the people averted their eyes rather than see us in our armor and upon our horses. Bah . . . primitives.

  The people of the city were right to be afraid. We had ground their entire army into the earth only a few hours before. I had lost seven men and a few hundred native conscripts. They had lost over a thousand. Their army had been for ceremonial purposes, full of show, and probably good at raiding small villages to take slaves and sacrifices. My army was made up of hardened warriors, good at nothing other than killing and looting. Isolation rather than strength of arms had been this city’s real protection, but no longer.

  The priests were happy. We were going to send souls to the Lord, one way or the other. My men were content. There was more plunder, gold and women than they could have ever imagined. It was only through fear and loyalty to me that I had kept them from immediately looting the city. My troops worshipped me, and an entire country feared me. It was a good day.

  I had a dream. Dare I say a vision? I saw myself riding forth at the head of a great army, conquering all of this land and making it my own. Returning home in glory, not as a failed merchant, not as just one of the many sons of a nobleman, but rather returning home in my own glory and with my own riches. I ordered no messengers to be dispatched to the sea. This was going to be my bounty, and mine alone. King Manuel would learn of this only when I was ready for him to learn.

  My troops marched toward the city center, where the largest palace loomed. I called a halt as we entered the central courtyard, and had my men set up the cannon just in case a trap had been prepared, for surely not all of these backwards people could think that we were gods.

  The royal entourage met us in the courtyard. They were brilliant in their finery. A contingent of jaguar-helmeted guards surrounded the royal family. Scores of priests and priestesses, wives and concubines, scribes and courtiers filled the square. A man stood at their head. His skin coated in gold dust, his raiment a robe of brilliant feathers, surely this was their king. He was frail and weak with age. The king approached, ahead of his personal bodyguard, and laid his staff upon the ground in front of my horse’s shoes. His eyes were the sad eyes of a broken man. I summoned Friar de Sousa to translate.

  “In the name of his Royal Highness, King Manuel the Great of Portugal, your kingdom has been conquered, and must pay tribute. I am General Joao Silva de Machado. My word is law in this land. You will provide gold and treasure as I see fit. You will provide food, lodging and clean women for my soldiers. You will provide able-bodied men to join my army in the continuing pacification of this land as I see fit. Your people will learn the true Catholic faith and receive the blessings therein. Failure to follow my orders will result in your death and the deaths of your people. Trickery will not be tolerated. For each of my men attacked by your people, I will kill five hundred of yours. For any of my priests attacked by your people, I shall kill five hundred of your priests. If any of you tries to harm my officers or me, I will raze this city to the ground until no two stones stand upon another. I will kill every man, woman and child, feed your flesh to our hounds, and salt the earth so that nothing will ever grow upon this blighted land ever again.” I waited for the friar to catch up. He spoke loudly so that the whole crowd could hear. I imagined that de Sousa’s gift of languages would only carry him so far, but as long as the heathens understood the fundamentals of what I was trying to convey, I would be satisfied.

  “But do not think that you can harm us. For we are gods to you.” The priest stuttered a bit as he translated that bit of blasphemy. “You have witnessed the power we control. I can call fire from the heavens and smite you to dust. You cannot harm us, but you can try. If you try, you will be punished. Is that understood?”

  The priest finished and the king bowed before me. The royal party did so as well. Jaguar helmets touched the ground as their army followed suit. I could grow used to this.

  All bowed except one, a dark-skinned woman in the opulent robes of a priestess. She alone met my gaze. She stood proudly as the other members of her strange priesthood cowered. I had not seen such beauty and poise since I had been banished from the royal courts so long ago. I gestured for two of my men to seize her and bring her forward. She held up a hand to stop them, and approached of her own volition.

  The king glared at her as she made her way across the courtyard, and hissed something at her in their incomprehensible language. I spurred my horse forward. With a snort and flared nostrils, the mighty beast knocked the king roughly to the ground. The royal party gasped in astonishment as the old, broken man scurried away from my warhorse’s iron-shod hooves.

  “Who are you and why do you think you should not bow?” She was a beautiful wench, and it was going to be a waste to kill her as an example, but the pagans could not be allowed to see weakness from my army. My fingers drifted toward the handle of my ax. Regardless of the answer I planned to take her head, t
hough perhaps if she amused me I would have my way with her first, and I would do it in front of the royal family. Friar de Sousa hurriedly translated.

  She cut him off. “I am Koriniha, High Priestess of the Temple of Neihor.”

  My hand moved away from my ax. “How do you speak our tongue?” Many of my priests and soldiers began to murmur at this surprise. We were the first civilized Christians to make it this far into the interior of the continent, that we knew of at least. Had some of the blasted Spaniards beaten us here?

  “There is power here, untapped for generations. I have learned your language in preparation for this very day. The spirits burned your words into me so that I may speak with you,” she boldly retorted. “I have been waiting for you. Your coming was prophesied by the Old Ones. Your men come here, searching for riches, like pigs, simple in their greed. Your priests come for souls, numbers to feed their machine. But you, my Lord Machado, you are different. Your quest is for power. It is what you seek in your heart. I can offer you power. Power beyond your dreams.”

  “She is a witch,” exclaimed Friar de Sousa. “Kill her, Lord Machado, the devil has given her our speech.”

  “Silence, priest. Do not presume to tell me what to do.” The friar bowed his head in submission. I was interested. Something about the beautiful priestess provoked something deep in the back of my mind. “What do you speak of, woman? Make it good or I will be most displeased by this interruption.”

  She bowed slightly. “I can offer you much, Lord Machado. With my help I can keep this city docile and willing to serve you.”

  “They will do that now,” I stated.

  “But only out of fear. You are a wise general. You know that eventually they will rebel. Brave ones will rise up, as they always do. I know that you are only men. Mighty and wise men to be sure, but you must sleep, and you must eat our food, and your flesh can be pierced by an assassin’s blade when your guards are not alert. You need not rule this city out of fear, if I can make this people serve and worship you. Why plunder one country, one people, when you can instead bend that city to your will and use it to build your own kingdom out of this land?”

  I found myself intrigued by the ruthless cunning of the witch.

  “Tell me more, Priestess.”

  I blinked and the vision was gone. I was no longer an unwitting passenger in the Cursed One’s memory. We were back in the destroyed church, except now the make-believe world was no longer in sharp focus, there were blank spots around us filled with nothing. The Old Man was losing his concentration. He was sitting on the steps of the altar, pale and wheezing. His hands were shaking. I sat down next to him.

  “Sorry, Boy. Can only do for so long. Is very difficult.”

  “What were you trying to show me?” I felt unclean from seeing the world through the Cursed One’s eyes, feeling his pride and his calculating mind, hearing his thoughts, and experiencing his casual brutality.

  “Can’t explain. Must show. I will try again if there is time, but now am weak. Very weak.”

  “How are you tied to Lord Machado?”

  The Old Man was silent. He gently tapped the hard wood floor of the church with his cane, apparently lost in thought.

  “How are you tied to him? I want to help you.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Boy. I am trapped. I am no matter.”

  “Do you know where he is? Or where he is going? Can you show me a current memory?”

  He laughed tiredly. “You can see his old memories from when he was man, but now? One look in his head and you either dead or go crazy.” He used his finger to make a swirling motion around his ear. The universal sign of insanity. “Maybe I can send image. Maybe like photograph from what he sees. I will try . . . after I rest.”

  “Thank you.” I thought for a moment. “One last thing.”

  “Hurry.”

  “What about the tattooed man?”

  “Guardian of the artifact. Do not trust. He wants one thing. Just one thing. Get in his way—” The Old Man dragged his bony finger across his throat and made a gack sound. “You go now. Help your lady friend. Keep her safe. She is good girl. You two make cute babies someday.” He patted me on my arm.

  “Huh?”

  “Go, stupid boy. Try not to get dead!”

  I awoke with a start. My alarm was buzzing with all of the gentleness of an air-raid siren. I pounded the snooze button and jumped out of bed, alert and breathless. The sun would not rise for a few more hours, but I had to tell the others about my dream immediately. I still did not understand exactly what was happening to me, but somehow I was being given some serious knowledge about our adversary. I threw on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and rushed out of the barracks, not even bothering with shoes. I crashed into Trip on the way out the door. He swore as he spilled his coffee. I shouted an apology as I sprinted for the main office building.

  The MHI library was located in the basement. It was a massive room, tight with shelves and dusty tables. All of the company’s monster encounters had been logged and documented for the last hundred years. In addition, books of topical value had been brought here by more scholarly-minded Hunters the entire time. In total there was a century of accumulated paper moldering away in that room. It was probably the world’s biggest collection of actual monster lore, but it was a daunting task to find any one particular thing.

  I found Earl Harbinger in the archives, staring vacantly at a heavy old book. From his appearance I could not tell if he had gotten up really early, or if he had never gone to sleep.

  “Another dream? Did you learn something?” I nodded in the affirmative. “What did you get?”

  “It was weird, but I got his whole name, General Joao Silva de Machado, and I know a lot more about him. He was an evil bastard when he was human, and apparently he has just gotten worse with age.”

  Harbinger smiled tiredly. Apparently that was the best news he had gotten lately. “Good work. With that I bet we can pin him down. I’ll go get the others,” he said as he left.

  I pulled out a chair and sat down tiredly. Whatever happened when I had these dreams, it certainly wasn’t restful. I put my head down on the old wood table. I closed my eyes. The minutes ticked by. I did not feel so good.

  Then the vision began. The Old Man had been true to his word. Once he had recovered enough he attempted to bring me a more recent memory from the Cursed One. This was merely a visual snapshot, just a single image that might help us locate the enemy, nothing more.

  However, it came from such a tortured mind, so filled with hate and darkness and pain, that just the brief second I felt the connection was enough to knock me to the ground and leave me gasping for air in a blind panic. The Old Man must have made a mistake. I could feel the Cursed One as he sensed me intruding. I could feel his anger, and his promise to destroy me and the very fabric of my world. He sent me a message. I screamed in agony and clutched my face as I was wracked with spasms of unspeakable pain. Crashing out of the chair, I twitched wildly as thousands of invisible blades stabbed at my flesh. Tears streamed from my eyes as I thrashed about, trying to evade the pain. Everything went mercifully black.

  The others were standing over me. Julie was kneeling at my side, her hand gently resting on my forehead. They all looked very concerned.

  “What happened?”

  “You were having a seizure or something,” she said. “How do you feel?”

  “Like crap. That wasn’t a seizure. Lord Machado sensed me. I had another vision.”

  “While you were awake?” Harbinger asked sharply.

  “I requested it. Last night in my dream. I asked for a picture, a current memory . . .” The other Hunters looked at each other in confusion. “I’ll explain later, look . . .” I tried to sit up but I was too dizzy. I gave up and embraced the cold floor. “I saw one of his memories. I saw the world through the Cursed One’s eyes. I don’t know from when, but it was a recent memory.”

  “Owen, take it easy. Tell us what you saw.” Julie’s voice
was soothing and relaxed.

  “He was in some sort of vehicle. It was dark. I just saw the road illuminated in the headlights. They were approaching a sign . . .”

  “What did it say?” Julie asked.

  “Welcome to Alabama.”

  Chapter 14

  The Appleton Asylum was located on the banks of the Alabama River. It was an isolated location, far off of the main road, nestled deep into the thick surrounding trees. According to the map it was only sixty miles from the MHI compound, but the barely-paved route to the asylum was so circuitous that I think we had to go twice that far. The nearest actual town was Camden, and to call it close was a stretch. The afternoon air was still thick with dew. Spanish moss dangled over the roads, dappling them in shadow, and dragged along the roof of our van.

  The asylum itself was an enormous, four-story gothic construction, gray and stern, surrounded by a high wrought-iron security fence. The narrow windows were barred, and the building emanated a quiet bleakness. The sign above the entrance said appleton. I had almost been expecting it to have a quote from Dante’s Inferno instead.

  Julie and I had slipped away after the morning debriefing. I had given as much detail from my dream as I could to the other Hunters. None of us really knew what it all meant, but we knew that the Cursed One and his minions were now on our turf. Unfortunately, as near as we could figure, there were at least a dozen roads along the border that had a sign like the one I had seen, plus we had no idea how old the memory was. Reports had begun to drift in that the government had activated all of the National Guard units in the southeastern U.S., including units that had just gotten back from long deployments overseas. The morning news had a report showing tanks and trucks parked at the Pharr Mounds in Mississippi. Reports indicated that there were also troops protecting Civil War battlefields, Indian burial grounds and historic monuments. The spokesman from the Department of Homeland Security explained that it was merely an exercise to prepare for potential terrorist threats. Apparently the Feds were nervous as well, and trying to cover any spots that might potentially be the Place of Power.