Grits, Guns & Glory - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 2

by John G. Hartness

  There were a dozen graves, and eleven of them were undisturbed except for a few dog turds on Great-Grandpappy’s patch of grass. He was the first Monster Hunter in the family, so I reckoned somebody decided to show his opinion of the family business right there. I scooped it up in a napkin out of the truck and threw it off into the woods, promising to figure out who’d crapped on Great-Grandpappy’s grave and explain to him the error of his ways.

  But one grave, on the far right side in the front row, was halfway dug up. The grass was torn and a huge hole had been started. It looked like whatever had been digging there got interrupted, and by the few drops of blood on the grass, I figured I knew what the interruption was. I looked at the headstone—Octavia Brabham McFadden, beloved wife and mother. Great-Aunt Tavvy, Aunt Marion’s mama and Great-Grandpappy Beauregard’s sister. According to all the stories, she went monster hunting with her brother and provided the brains to his brawn. She was kinda like his Skeeter, except a chick, and a white chick, and having to break a lot shit to figure stuff out. Okay, maybe that last part was pretty much like me and Skeeter.

  “Skeet, you got any idea why these furballs would want to dig up Aunt Tavvy’s grave?”

  “No, Bubba, I got no clue. I’ll call into the house to Miss Marion and let you know.”

  “Nah, I’ll go talk to her. Maybe she’ll make some lemonade and come sit on the porch.”

  “You just want her to trot out the Jack Daniels and make you some Lynchburg Lemonade,” Skeeter said.

  “I don’t give a shit about the triple sec, I’m good with just a healthy slug of JD in my lemonade,” I replied, stepping back over the broken fence and silently planning to come over the next free weekend I had to fix it. I stopped just outside the fence and knelt down.

  “Y’all see this?” I asked. I reached down and picked up the shiny thing that had caught my eye. It was a dog tag. Not the military kind, but the kind that went around a real dog’s neck. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. There was no owner’s name on it, just “Tommy” and a number.

  “You got that, Skeeter?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I got it. I don’t know if I know what to do with it, but I got it. I’ll run the number against local veterinarians to see if the dog got micro-chipped there or something, then figure out who owns it from that.”

  “But why would anybody let their normal dog run with a pack of werewolves?” Amy asked.

  “The better question is why would a pack of werewolves put up with a normal dog in their midst?” I mused. “Something’s goofy here, and I bet we’ll find out exactly what that is when we find little Tommy here.” I slipped the tag into my pocket and stood up, my knees going off like rifle shots.

  I made my way back across the yard, looking over the remnants of four or five generations of Brabhams scattered across the mountaintop. Over yonder was the truck Great-Grandpappy took to Atlanta when he came back with the sword that Jason stuck in my guts and stole from me more than a hundred years later. It was little more than a lump for kudzu to grow on these days, but if you looked close, you could still see the shape of the flatbed. In the side yard by the house was a huge old oak tree with branches the size of my thighs hanging over the house. A knotted hemp rope hung from one of those limbs with an old tractor tire swinging from the end of it. I remembered pushing Jason on that tire swing when we’d come up here visiting every Sunday afternoon. He was a carefree little shit back then, always yelling for me to push him higher and higher, then laughing like crazy when he jumped off at the highest point and tumbled halfway to the porch before he stopped rolling.

  Aunt Marion came out on the porch with two tall Tupperware cups and sat in one of the rocking chairs. I sat in the one beside her and took my drink from her hand. “That Skeeter boy said you wanted some lemonade. I didn’t have none made up, so I just poured you a Jack and Coke instead.”

  “That’s my favorite flavor of lemonade, Aunt Marion.”

  “You find anything out in the yard?”

  “Just a bunch of big damn tracks and this. Looks like some kinda dog tag.” I reached into my pocket and handed her the aluminum heart-shaped tag.

  “Tommy, huh?” She turned it over and over in her hands, then I watched realization dawn across her face. Her eyes went wide, then flashed cold and chips of ice. “That little son of a bitch. I know who was with your brother’s bitch and the rest of them dogs.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was my good-for-nothing cousin Gerald. He ain’t been worth a damn his whole life, but I never thought he’d turn against his own blood.”

  “Maybe he thought Jason was his blood, too,” I said.

  Marion turned to me, whip-quick, but her jaw relaxed when she caught the look on my face. “I reckon he is, at that. No matter how much you’d like to, you can’t pick your family.”

  “And you can’t wipe them on the back of the couch, neither,” I said, finishing the old joke. “But what’s the deal with Gerald? And why were the wolves digging around Aunt Tavvy’s grave?”

  “They wanted this,” Marion said, pulling an old pocket watch out of a pocket of the Carharrt work shirt she wore as a jacket. It was a battered gold watch, obviously older than she was. Any design that had ever been on the outside of it was worn away long ago from handling, time, and lots of hands that had polished it smooth as glass.

  “What’s so special about an old watch? I mean, I appreciate that it’s an antique and all, but is that worth digging up a grave for?” I asked.

  “This was your Uncle Billy’s pocket watch. He and your Aunt Tavvy found it when they were trapped in a caved-in coal mine a couple hills over. It was his uncle David’s. He got caught in a cave-in and died some years before your Great-Grandpappy Beauregard and my Gran, or Aunt Tavvy, went up to the mine to investigate some tommyknockers. They found more than tommyknockers—there was a whole passel of ghosts in that mine, not to mention a sumbitch mine boss trying to get everything shut down so he could take the claim and the gold behind the coal for himself. But Gran and Beauregard and Grandpa Billy came out of that hole in the ground with this watch, and they told the rest of their lives how that old watch let them talk to the ghosts and got them out of the mine safe.”

  “So now Gerald wants it because why?” I asked.

  “Gerald’s just a little pissant, been jealous his whole life that Grandpa Billy passed the watch down to his children and grandchildren instead of to Gerald’s people. He always said we was more Brabham than McFadden, and the magic oughta go where the blood is truest, not just to the namesakes.”

  “That sounds stupid. Sorry to say, but it does.”

  “That’s ‘cause Gerald’s a dumbass, Robbie. He don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground ’til he steps in one. He’s been bitter as a pill his whole damn life because Grandpa left this house to my daddy instead of his daddy.”

  “What does he want with this watch?” I asked. “I mean, being able to talk to ghosts is fine and all, but it ain’t like they’re great in a fight, and Jason would still have to get them on his side. I can’t see a bunch of dead dudes giving much of a shit about a fight between a werewolf and his big brother.”

  “I can’t either, but didn’t I hear about Jason trying to set himself up as this big-deal monster messiah or something?”

  “Yeah, that’s his whole deal. He’s gonna bring monsters out of the shadows and knock humans a couple rungs down on the food chain.” I shook my head at the idea. It was stupid, but Jason had always been a go big or go home kinda guy.

  “That’s why he wants the watch.” Aunt Marion folded her arms over her skinny chest.

  “I don’t get it,” I admitted.

  “It don’t just let you talk to ghosts, Robert. It lets you control ghosts. And all kinds of other dead and undead things.”

  “Shit,” I murmured, then looked at Aunt Marion. “Sorry about the language.”

  “I think ‘shit’ just about covers it, son.” We sat there for a minute sipping our d
rinks, which were appropriately a lot more Jack than Coke, when I had an idea.

  “I got it. Or at least I got something,” I said, standing up and pressing the button for my headset. “Skeeter, send Joe up here with the truck and a spare helmet. I need to get Aunt Marion into the bunker with you before it gets dark.”

  Skeeter’s voice came through my headset. “What are you gonna do, Bubba?”

  “I’m gonna use her watch to get advice from my Great-Grandpappy.”

  *****

  A couple hours later, I found myself once again on the inside of that broken-down little picket fence, this time sitting on a bucket I had carried up the hill just for that purpose. You see, once a body gets north of the three hundred pound mark, getting all that mass up off the ground gets harder and harder. But a five-gallon bucket, usually used for large quantities of paint or motor oil, when turned upside down, makes a perfect seat, no matter how big the posterior that’s to be perched upon it. Besides, I used the bucket to haul a case of beer and ice up the hill. After I mostly filled in Aunt Tavvy’s grave, I put the beer in the depression that was left, ‘cause there always seems to be either too much or not enough dirt left when you try to fill a hole back in, never just the right amount. Then I poured the ice over the beer and sat waiting for dark.

  I didn’t have too much experience dealing with ghosts, most of my experience coming from supernatural creatures of a more tactile nature, but I figured if I sat on Great-Grandpappy Beauregard’s grave and called to him while holding the watch, he’d probably show up sooner or later. If nothing else, just to find out what jackass was making all that noise. So I sat on my bucket, drinking beer out of a shallow grave, and watching the first lightning bugs blink their little butts on and off down the hill near where the honeysuckle grew. Uncle Father Joe was with me, making sure, as he put it, that I didn’t offend any dead people or get the world invaded by pissed off poltergeists.

  I finished off my third beer and tossed the empty can off into the woods.

  “I don’t think that’s exactly biodegradable, Bubba,” Joe said from where he sat on the ground under a spreading live oak tree. Joe was closer to two hundred pounds than three, so I wasn’t worried too much about his knees. He’d also never spent any time on the defensive line of an SEC football team, so his joints hadn’t endured quite the level of punishment in his twenties that mine had. Neither had his liver, on account of him going to seminary and me going to the University of Georgia. One of those institutions involves sipping sacramental wine, the other involves beer bongs and keg stands. You figure out which one I went to.

  Joe was sitting in the graveyard with me watching for ghosts because my efforts to send Aunt Marion back to the bunker with him where it would be safe met with limited success, to say the least. To say more would involved a five foot tall old woman threatening to beat my ass if I didn’t shut up about locking her up in some hole in ground and leaving her out of her own fight. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know when to pick my battles. And I knew enough to not cross any of Great-Aunt Tavvy’s line.

  “I don’t think I exactly give a shit about littering, Joe. It’s my mountain, or at least my family’s mountain, so I reckon I can toss a few beer cans on the ground, long as I do it where Aunt Marion can’t ever find them.”

  “That’s a good idea, son, because if she sees so much as a pop top where it ain’t supposed to be, she’ll whoop your ass like you was still a little feller trying to play giddy-up on the sow.” I knew that voice, but it wasn’t quite right. I turned around on my bucket and felt my mouth fall open a little bit. Standing on his own grave was my Great-Grandpappy Beauregard, the original Monster Hunter. He looked a lot like Grandaddy, and little bit like me, but nothing at all like Pop. Great-Grandpappy Beauregard was a barrel-chested man well over six feet tall, a giant back in the day when he was alive. He had the long beard that mountain men favored at the start of the twentieth century, but his hair was cropped short. He wore coveralls, a plaid flannel shirt, and weathered brown work boots. He held a double-barrel shotgun in one hand, and I could see the hilt of my sword sticking up over one shoulder.

  Joe jerked up to one knee and his hand went to his hip where he had a Colt 1911 holstered. I chuckled a little and wasn’t all that surprised to see the ghost do the same. Joe realized what he was about to draw down on and let his hand drop by his side. He did stand all the way up, though. I did the same, showing respect to my elders, I reckoned.

  “I reckon you’re my Great-Grandpappy Beauregard,” I said giving the ghost a little wave.

  “And I reckon you’re Robbie, my great-grandson. That would make you Leila and Eugene’s oldest boy, right?” The ghost flickered a little when he took time to think about what he was going to say, but otherwise he looked almost solid. Just not quite. He didn’t glow blue, like Obi-Wan Kenobi or nothing like that, he just was a little less here than real people.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are they doing?” It was odd, standing in a cemetery making conversation with a ghost, but I reckon that’s the story of my life—odd.

  “Pop’s dead. He died last year. I don’t know about Mama. She left a long time ago.”

  “Ran out on y’all?” the ghost asked.

  I nodded. I didn’t like talking about my mama, even to family. Even to dead family.

  “I ain’t surprised. She wasn’t mountain people, so I figured she might not stay. And she wasn’t monster-hunting people neither, and you need to be one or the other to put up with the life we lead. I’m sorry about your daddy, though. What happened?”

  I took a minute to decide whether or not I was going to lie to the ghost, then I figured I had nothing to hide, so I told him the truth. “I killed him,” I said. “He went bad, turned werewolf and followed a bad pack leader, so I killed him.” It made short telling of a long story, but I figured Pop’s wasn’t going to be the only blood on my hands before everything with Jason was all said and done.

  “Huh,” the ghost said and pulled a pipe out of his pocket.

  “I don’t think you can smoke,” I said.

  “I can’t,” he agreed, putting the pipe between his teeth. “But it helps me think. Now what can I do you for?”

  “It’s my brother,” I said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s the bad pack leader that Pop went off and followed. He’s trying to raise an army of monsters to take over the South. Then eventually he’ll go bigger.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “Well, today he’s trying to get his hands on Great-Aunt Octavia’s pocket watch, thinking it can control ghosts. Aunt Marion thinks Gerald McFadden is behind that, so I reckon I’m gonna go hurt Gerald’s feelings on the matter of a pocket watch.”

  “I reckon that’s a pretty good idea. It don’t let you control spirits, there ain’t much outside some really vicious magic that lets you do that. But that watch will call up every spirit within a couple miles if you ain’t careful, and most ghosts are either crazy or just plain mean, so they’d be likely to help your brother anyhow. All right, so you keep Gerald from getting the watch. Then what?”

  “Then I reckon I have to deal with Jason.”

  “And exactly how do you plan to deal with him?”

  I didn’t meet the dead man’s eyes. I knew what I’d see there—a reflection of my own guilt and disappointment in not being able to save Jason from himself. Finally I spoke. “Well, I reckon I’m gonna kill him.”

  Great-Grandpappy Beauregard stood there silent for a long moment, leaning up against the trunk of that old oak and chewing on the stem of his pipe. When he finally spoke, his eyes had no more of the cheer that was there previously. “Boy, I’m only gonna say this one time. And I’m only saying it because I think it’s important, so listen up. We hunt monsters. It’s what we do. It’s part of who we are, and it’s the thing that makes us different from normal people. You ain’t never gonna get up in the morning and go to work in some fact
ory or sawmill. We live in the dark places, and we do the dark work so the day people ain’t got to. Now if your brother has looked too far into the heart of that darkness, it might have overtook him. And if that’s the case, well, it’s just like a dog that’s got the rabies—you can’t do nothing but put it down. But if there’s a sliver of doubt, just that littlest bit of hope in the bottom of Pandora’s box? Well, then, he’s still family, no matter what he’s done, and you got to save him if you can.”

  “That ain’t gonna be easy, Great-Granddaddy,” I said.

  “Shit, son, if it was easy wouldn’t nobody need us!” He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at me. I could see the flint glimmering in his ghostly eyes as he said, “Boy, you can’t save them all. But you got to save the ones you can. Now get on across the holler and whoop Gerald McFadden’s ass and tell him to leave your Aunt Marion alone. She’s a good woman—keeps the weeds off my headstone. Ain’t many like her left, you take care of her.”

  “I will, Great-Granddaddy,” I said, turning to go.

  “Joseph?” Great-Granddaddy’s ghost called out to Uncle Father Joe.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Stay here a minute, boy. I got a message or two for you.”

  I stopped right outside the fence and looked back at where Joe stood with Great-Grandpappy until he motioned for me to go ahead. I walked the hundred yards back up to the house and stepped inside, hollerin’ for Aunt Marion not to shoot me as I ducked through the door.

  “What’s the plan from the dead man?” Marion asked.