A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  “You don’t know what this is. Maybe it’s a day-hunter.”

  “Dude. Chill.”

  “I’m just getting a weird feeling.”

  I choose not to mention that I am, too. My eyes sweep the area but nothing moves. Just an odd sensation of presence . . . watching.

  He grumbles. “I signed on to make yarn, not hunt monsters. That’s why I came here. You said Vermont had less than its fair share.”

  “We do! And our Uncannies get along with humans. Mostly. We’ve still got them, and not all signed the Policies. You want monster-free, hop a plane to Switzerland.” I freeze, head tilting. Off to the left, sticks crackle underfoot. I whip my head around but nothing moves. Nothing . . . tangible. What did I see?

  Branches snap to our right, followed by a heavy thud and a crash. A low hoot echoes from the left then a shrill shriek from the right. Dean’s head swivels to follow the noises.

  When nothing else stirs, I head off to the left without warning. Dean grabs the back of my shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Stay close.” Something shifts like smoke filtering through the air, disappearing even as it materializes.

  “What the—”

  “You see it?” Swinging the Harvester off my shoulder, I thumb the iron bolt into place, twisting the lock open with a practiced twitch and sighting at . . . absolutely nothing.

  The air doesn’t shimmer again. I reach the spot I first saw movement. Lowering my Harvester, I crouch beside a snarl of brush. “Keep watch.” Scanning the ground turns up no tracks. But something . . . sun catches the smallest sparkle among tangled branches. I reach, but it’s gone. No, there again. And gone. Used to finding dropped bits of fiber, I pluck at where it was and pull back a tuft of hair.

  As I stare, it winks out of sight, only the texture against my skin telling me I haven’t dropped it. Then it’s back. Silverwhite, it glitters in sunlight like the plentiful red in my brown hair. “Check this.” I nudge Dean with my foot.

  He tears his attention from the woods. “What is that, hair?”

  “Watch.” On cue, it disappears. His breath catches when it reappears.

  “Bizarre.”

  “Indeed.” I tuck it in my pocket. No noise reaches me beyond the drone of spring insects gearing up to become the bane of my existence for the next few months. Twisting the lock on the Harvester, I disengage the bolt. “Let’s go.” I move faster.

  “Have you seen or heard anything like that?”

  “No.”

  He falls silent and I don’t waste further breath reassuring him. We make it to Bernie’s in record time. Once out of the woods and crossing his yard I breathe easier, seeing the humor in my brief panic. I still glance over my shoulder as I knock. The bright day gives no indication of anything lurking in the trees.

  “Trouble, Reesa?” Classic New Englander, Bernie gets right to the point. Granted, toting a Harvester indicates I’m not over for tea. I set it in the rack by his door and explain about my sheep.

  “Kroegers lost a bunch of chickens. Hell of a mess.” He shakes his head, walking to the couch. “No tracks, nothing. Bit clean through chicken wire.”

  I pull the tuft of hair out and sink into the rocking chair. “Seen anything like this?”

  He brings it close to his face. The strands waver in and out of visibility. He pulls glasses out of the chest pocket of his overalls. “What the hell . . .”

  “It’s not your eyes. It disappears.” I watch, gauging his reactions.

  “If that isn’t the damnedest thing,” he mutters, rubbing the hair between his fingers. He looks up. “Was it with the sheep?”

  “No, we found it in the woods.” Does he look relieved? “We heard something, saw movement. Found this.”

  “You should have heard the noises!” Dean interjects. “There was more than one of . . . it. One hooting and another yelling and crashing around—”

  “Hooting?” Bernie’s brows draw in and I nod, exchanging a long look with him. He lifts the hair to smell it and grimaces. “Can’t smell a thing. Damn sinuses. You?”

  Taking the hair, I sniff. “No,” I admit apologetically. I always want to be extra-helpful around Bernie. Dean grabs the hair, and I wonder if he suffers the same impulse.

  “This thing attacking . . . it’s got some sense. Leaves out zombies. Damn fool things. They were my first bet.”

  “Werewolves might—” Dean starts, but Bernie waves an impatient hand.

  “Vermont werewolves have more sense than that.”

  “Exactly! Smart enough to clear tracks—”

  Bernie shakes his head. “Not werewolves.”

  “But—”

  “Not werewolves,” another voice speaks. A lovely dark-haired woman in her forties enters, small and fine-boned, with large liquid eyes.

  I smile at Bernie’s eldest. “Hi, Cathy.”

  Catherine nods. “I guarantee it’s not werewolves.” She perches on the arm of the couch, graceful and self-contained.

  “How can you guarantee—” Dean stops, eyes widening. He sinks into a chair.

  Catherine smiles, unruffled. “The local werewolves assured me.”

  Dean’s face pales. Knowing Vermont has successful Integration Policies is an intellectual exercise. Sitting across from an integrated werewolf is an emotional experience, and likely not a pleasant one given his history in Pennsylvania. Having suspected for a while now, I just hope Catherine won’t be offended. I’ve kept Dean and Bernie’s daughters apart without much trouble. Guilt pokes at me for not warning him, but ethics dictate that you just don’t imply someone is Uncanny unless you know. I couldn’t see agitating him by implying werewolves might be visiting next door at all hours.

  “So, not werewolf—” A car pulling up makes Catherine pause.

  “Who’s that?” Bernie asks. Catherine rises and crosses to the window, politely ignoring Dean shrinking into his chair as she passes.

  “Ned,” she says, voice clipped. “If you’ll excuse me.” She tosses her head and leaves the room.

  Bernie heaves himself to his feet, limping to the door and opening it before the knock.

  “Bernie!” Ned Dietrich bounds up the steps, striding in with a wide grin and a hearty handshake. “You have company! Didn’t mean to intrude!” He walks into the living room, flashing blinding white teeth the whole way. I can’t help smiling. Hardly my favorite person, he’s still hard to dislike. “Reesa! My favorite weaver!”

  “Hi Ned.”

  “And her sidekick!” Ned heads for Dean’s chair, hand extended.

  Dean leaps up, color returning in a surge, dopey grin breaking across his face. I muffle a snicker. Dean doesn’t like Ned any better than I do—surprising, given his understandable discomfort around Uncannies could make him sympathetic to Ned’s position as chair of the local Society for the Preservation of Human Rights. But Dean’s an inclusive sort by nature, and didn’t jump on board with SPHR. He distrusts Ned on principle. Like or no, though his response to Ned is a lot more visceral than mine.

  Even I can appreciate that Ned’s thick black hair, dark complexion, and deep brown eyes make a killer combination. It’s an arresting face—“good bones,” my mom would say. The semi-permanent five o’clock shadow just adds to the appeal. Tall and rangy, his strong features, ready grin, and infectious enthusiasm mean his more irritating aspects too often get overlooked. I affectionately refer to him as our local Greek god descended to Earth as a used car salesman, though if he has any actual Greek blood, I have no idea. He doesn’t sell cars either.

  I can appreciate the powerful sensuality he radiates even knowing I’d never touch him with the proverbial ten-foot pole. Dean claims the same. I have my doubts.

  Of course, more than enough people are happy to overlook strident politics and a tendency to drink a little too much. Whether or not Ned returns any of the interest is one of our town’s big mysteries. A perpetual bachelor, Ned devotes himself to everything in town but finding a partner. Which I’ve noted doesn�
�t stop him from trading on that pure animal magnetism, and he gravitates toward people who respond the strongest. Such as now— he nods to me but walks directly into Dean’s personal space, his grin dampening to a warm, private smile.

  I’ve watched the dynamic since I met him, and honestly believe it’s completely unconscious on Ned’s part.

  Dean accepts Ned’s hand before realizing he still has the strange hair and trying to halt the motion. Too late. Ned clasps his hand, releases it, then looks at his own, wiggling his fingers. “What the hell—” Strands of the hair appear and he startles, flicking his hand harder.

  Jumping up, I swipe at the hair. “Sorry! We were looking at fiber samples.”

  Ned’s eyes gleam with more interest than fiber samples warrants. “Yeah? Can I see?”

  Damn. No polite way to refuse. “Top secret. Don’t tell anyone. Proprietary material for String Theory Fiber Arts.”

  “Hey, you know me! I wouldn’t tread on anyone’s small business! Vermont Makes It Special, after all!”

  I groan as I hand him the hair. He does love quoting our state marketing motto. Vermont’s emphasis on artisan handcrafts and specialty producers brought me here, but Ned’s nonstop boosting gets tiresome. I shouldn’t knock it—he’s good for the town, the state, and business. Hell, I even agree with him on Vermont secession. If he’d just dial it back a little . . .

  Ned stares at the hair with disturbing intensity. “Look at that,” he breathes as it disappears. “Hell of a find. Where’d you get it?”

  “Business secrets.” I snatch it back.

  He eyes me, then flashes his genial smile. “Just stopping in to trade news with the Bern- meister! Check on our monster-quest.”

  Bernie pulls a pipe out of his pocket, inspecting it. “Keep telling you I’m not in the business anymore.”

  “But you’re the man! Our Vermont Shaman! You’ve got a way with monsters. Something goes down, everybody comes to you—”

  Dean looks puzzled. “Shaman?” he whispers. “Bernie’s Native American?”

  “No, ‘shaman’ isn’t actually native, it comes out of Siberia—”

  Dean’s nose crinkles. “Bernie’s Russian?”

  I open my mouth then close it. “I’ll explain later.” Ned’s attention swings back to us. He gestures at my Harvester racked by the door.

  “—prove my point. What brought you over here armed?”

  Another reason I don’t like Ned. He notices too damn much. I contemplate telling him the weapon isn’t mine, but what’s the point with clips on my belt and VisiBlades strapped to my arms. He knows Bernie doesn’t rack anything by the door anymore. “Lost a sheep.”

  “Ripped up? Eaten? No tracks?” His face takes on the fervency that reminds me just how much I don’t like certain qualities of his. “Something bad out there,” he says with entirely too much relish.

  “We were just discussing what it might be,” Bernie allows.

  Ned brightens. “Any ideas?”

  “Not werewolves,” Dean says.

  Ned laughs. “No?”

  “Bernie says so.”

  “Good enough for me.” Ned nods.

  “I don’t think there’s anything for SPHR to be overly concerned—” I start.

  “Torn-up sheep? Ankle-deep chicken carcasses? Dead dogs? We’re concerned! Who’s to say when it’ll start on humans?”

  “You heard about Kroeger’s chickens.” Bernie fills his pipe.

  “Yessir!”

  “Doubt it’ll be moving from chicken dinners to people. Not the way these things usually work.” Bernie strikes his lighter, holds it to the pipe, and sucks in. When the tobacco glows, he continues. “Sheep, chickens, dog. None of that says ‘hunting humans’ to me.”

  “Never know though,” Ned says cheerfully. “And even so, it’s affecting livelihoods! Hurts the agribusiness. That’s our bread and butter! Not good for the state. Especially when we’ve almost solved our monster problems!”

  Bernie nods, placid. “Integration’s working out.”

  “Never let it be said Ned Dietrich can’t admit he’s wrong! Hate to say it, but it was the best thing for this state. We’re a haven. Come to Vermont, where the monsters behave! Didn’t trust it, but you gotta believe your eyes. The Policies work and I’ve shut up.”

  True. I haven’t seen a letter to the editor from Ned in months. He used to be the first to wade into it with Uncannies in the Brattleboro Reformer Letter Box. The SPHR now focuses on “monster-monitoring,” watching for Policy infractions. They hope to document enough violations to put the Policies back into referendum. In the meantime, I have to admit I don’t think monitoring Uncanny activity is such a bad idea. But right now I want to discuss this with Bernie, out of earshot of Ned.

  “Some people are talking yeti,” Ned says, voice bland.

  I wince. Damn the man.

  “Thought they were extinct,” Bernie returns.

  “Didn’t we all!”

  Dean chokes. “You mean . . . Bigfoot? The Abominable Snowman?”

  “Bigfoot, Snowman, sasquatch, you name it. Gorillas on steroids! Kill you as soon as they look at you!”

  Bernie laughs. “You talk like you know, Ned. When’d you meet one?”

  “I’ve seen the torn-up sheep—”

  “Seen a yeti tearing them up?” Bernie shakes his head. “Never knew a yeti to hunt farms.”

  “That’s just it, we don’t know! They’re a mystery. Who’s to say what they’re capable of? Stories say they’ve got hellish tempers! Vicious! They didn’t sign any Policies, however many are out there.” Ned glances out Bernie’s window as if expecting a horde of yeti to rampage across the yard.

  “No, they didn’t,” Bernie puffs on his pipe. “Well, nothing else new. Reesa’s sheep, Kroeger’s chickens. Crossed zombies off my list. And no, I’m not going hunting with you.”

  “But Bernie, you’re—”

  “—retired.”

  Ned looks ready to argue, then laughs. “Okay, old man. But don’t think I’m done asking!”

  “You know what they say. Definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over, expecting different results.”

  Ned roars, tosses me a salute, then claps Dean on the shoulder. Meeting Dean’s eyes, his voice deepens to a confidential purr. “You hear any yeti screaming, you let me know.”

  Mostly to break Dean out of Ned’s spell, I say, “Believe me, I pay too much for my sheep to be losing them.”

  Ned grins. “Exactly. We’ve got livelihoods to protect!” He jogs out the door and down the steps, whistling.

  “Livelihoods . . . people—what do you think he wants to protect most?” Dean asks.

  “His career at the Chamber?” I say.

  “Don’t be too hard on old Ned.” Bernie says, then calls, “He’s gone.”

  Catherine reappears, irritated. “Why is he prattling on about yeti?”

  Dean frowns. “Did he say they scream?”

  “Possibly.” I avoid his eyes.

  “But that was just Ned being . . . Ned. Seriously, they’re extinct, right?”

  “So people say,” Bernie hedges.

  When he doesn’t elaborate, I sigh. I hoped he’d just come out with it, but apparently he needs a prod. “But they’re not extinct, are they, Bernie.”

  He talked yeti with me frequently last winter. I sat knitting while he described how he felt presences in the woods, found tracks, heard noises right out of the old stories. He gave vivid imitations—hooting, yipping, woofing, shrieking. No reliable sightings for over a century, but Bernie didn’t believe them extinct.

  He’d seen them.

  Having hunted the Uncanny all his life, he had theories. I finished an entire scarf one snowy day listening to how he thought yeti stayed off human radar. He theorized an ability to disappear, something immensely powerful, steeped in magic. Not just fading into the woods and avoiding people—literally disappearing, disguising their very existence.

  In the depth of winter I
listened, amused, thinking him a fascinating old man with a colorful history and a gift for storytelling. Standing in the woods today, feeling something watching, listening to shrieks, staring at disappearing hair . . . I’m not laughing. All his stories and theories accumulated in my brain until out there in the woods I just knew.

  Fact, not theory.

  I expected him to see the hair and open up. Usually, I’d respect his reticence but with animals dying and Ned Dietrich hovering, we don’t have time for discretion.

  Bernie smokes in silence then finally says, “Not extinct.”

  “You’re having me on, right? This is like the bears. Or unicorns.”

  “More like the bears,” I say.

  Dean’s widening eyes indicate the dots are connecting. “You’re telling me . . . today . . . that really was Bigfoot? Bigfoots . . . Bigfeet . . . more than one?” His voice rises an octave.

  “No, likely just one.”

  Bernie nods. “Common reaction on their part . . . throwing rocks, trying to scare people off.”

  “That shriek—”

  “They can bounce their screams,” Bernie explains.

  “They what?”

  “Like throwing your voice,” I clarify.

  “So, Bigfoot ventriloquists live in our woods and you DIDN’T TELL ME?”

  “I didn’t know!” I did, actually, I just didn’t know I knew.

  Dean glares at me. “And Bigfoots don’t leave tracks? I’d think they’d leave pretty damn BIG tracks.”

  “People only ever find random prints.” More facts rise to my brain from last winter. “Bernie thinks yeti take care of tracks, but sometimes get surprised or don’t have time. They apparently just don’t move very heavily through the world.”

  Bernie smiles at me, approving. “No need to be scared,” he tells Dean. “They’re all bluff. It’s how they get by. Sweet-natured, really. Not doing this killing, for damn sure.”

  “You’re absolutely certain?” I press. “Nobody but you has talked about yeti to me. Now my sheep gets eaten, a yeti appears in my woods, and Ned Dietrich mentions them, all in one day. Coincidence? Why would someone bring up yeti to Ned?”