Larry Correia - Monster Hunter Alpha

They were eager. Kelley and Lins were in this for the money, and this was more cash than either of them had ever come close to earning in their lives of violent crime. Jo Ann was a danger junkie, and as long as Horst kept buying her shiny things and nice clothes in addition to letting her kill things, she was happy. Everyone except for Loco was pumped. The big man just sat there, quiet as always, as he seemed to mull the new information over. Loco was so quiet that sometimes Horst wondered if he was all right in the head. He knew that after Loco had gotten out of prison, he’d gotten his skull caved in during some super-illegal pit fight. That was the same fight that had cost Loco his eye, and considering how scary Loco was, Horst couldn’t even imagine what the other behemoth must’ve looked like. But it didn’t matter if the guy that had broken Loco’s skull had given him braindamage, too. Horst had hired Loco for his brawn.

Stark had somehow gotten the idea that silver might not work on some of this town’s werewolves. Personally, Horst thought that sounded like more paranoid nonsense, as even the MHI people had sworn up and down in their fancy classes that silver always worked on lycanthropes, but he shared it with his crew anyway. If only he had MHI’s budget, he’d have some of those fancy flamethrowers and flaming chemical grenades on hand. Briarwood would someday, but right now they’d have to improvise. Buying a single case of a thousand composite silver 5.56 rounds that an MCB agent had “misplaced” had already cost him an arm and a leg.

“So, our silver bullets might not work, but you said that Stark burned one to death in there?” Kelley asked.

“Sure did. Place smelled like burnt hair,” Horst said. “Sounds like you got an idea.”

Kelley’s face lit up like it was Christmas. “There was a little convenience store back that way. Lots of glass bottles, and we can siphon gas out of some of the cars, if you get my drift.”

“Way to go, firebug,” Horst answered, having forgotten that Kelley had once made his living as an arsonist, terrorizing Boston industrial sites that didn’t pay their protection money. “Good thinking-” The front passenger door opened, letting in a sudden blast of freezing air. Loco got out. His hulking form headed straight for the fire truck.

“What’s that moron doing?” Jo Ann asked. “Close the door! I’m freezing.”

Loco was quickly covered in snow and took on the appearance of a yeti. He rummaged around the back of the fire truck and returned a moment later, the wicked fire ax looking comparatively tiny in his massive hands. His eyes were too small for his big round head, but he met Horst’s gaze squarely. Horst gave the ax one look and nodded in approval. The big man got back in the Caddy.

Old Earl Harbinger would never even know what hit him.

There are a few psychological changes that go hand in hand with the physical change of becoming a lycanthrope. Unfortunately for most of us, one of those changes is that it will turn even the most saintly personality into a bloodthirsty killer. Maybe it was because I was such an effective killer already that I was able to keep those instincts in better check than most. For me, the desire to kill wasn’t really anything new. I had killed my first monster when I was ten years old, and had just kept on ever since. I took a break from monster killing for a few years when I’d volunteered to fight in the Great War, as we called it then. Though I did manage to squeeze in some monster killing in France when General Pershing found out that he had someone in the ranks who knew how to smoke out the ghouls that were attracted to the mass graves.

After the war I’d gone back to Hunting. It was all I had ever known. All I’d ever been good at, and I was really good at it. For most folks, the new super-honed predatory instinct of the lycanthrope pushes them into straight-up bug-nuts crazy territory. For me, it was a natural fit. It was like putting brass knuckles on a boxer.

The other immediately noticeable change is a drastic increase to your survival instincts. Werewolves are survivors. Usually by the time someone realizes what they’ve become, by then it is nearly impossible to find the will to end the curse yourself. The urge to live overcomes everything else.

You feel stronger, faster, smarter, healthier, tougher, sexier, everything. Basically, it feels good to be a werewolf. But at the same time, there is always this glimmer of smugness, a dangerous feeling of being better than humans. You exist with them, but separate. It is real easy to start gloating in your superiority, and from there it’s a real short trip for most of us to start looking at them as objects instead of people, weak things to be used for our amusement…as food, as prey.

Combine unbelievable physical power with a new sense of ruthless superiority and a burning, insatiable desire to hunt and kill and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

The key is being greater than your urges. I spent the next few years living on that little island in the Caribbean learning to understand and control my new nature. Rocky took many of those days away from me-the quiet reflection and meditation, watching sunsets, swimming in the ocean, sleeping on the sand, hours of reflection and study. But Rocky had planned on eating my most painful and brutal memories last, and had been stopped before he could finish his meal. So my most important lessons remained.

Santiago had given me hope.

The sheriff’s department was quiet. The lights were off here as well, and Earl could barely see the squat little concrete building from the street. This was the source of the blood scent. Though it wasn’t the only one in the air tonight, just the closest.

“This ain’t gonna end well,” he muttered to himself. The power, the communications, and apparently the authorities, all neutralized simultaneously. This wasn’t following the pattern of a leadership challenge; this was more like a coordinated attack. Nikolai was more than capable of that. Earl had seen that up close and personal across Southeast Asia, but it made no sense to do it here. The only thing a werewolf gained through this kind of action was attention, and attention brought Hunters.

Like any good Boy Scout or Monster Hunter, Earl had come prepared. He’d stopped long enough to change out of his wet clothes into his MHI-issued body armor. Milo had just gotten him a new suit, since the last one had been ruined by the acid saliva from a nasty flock of helicopter-spiders they’d found in Albuquerque. As always, the brilliant Milo had listened to Earl’s feedback and made improvements. Earl’s personal kit was a little less bulky than the standard suit, utilizing material that wasn’t quite as loud when he moved. Earl reasoned that he valued speed, mobility, and stealth a bit more than the average Hunter and could afford to sacrifice some protection.

Plus, Milo had thought ahead and put some quick-release buckles on the side so that Earl wouldn’t inadvertently ruin anything should he change in a hurry. Milo said he was tired of ordering replacements, and Owen kept bugging him about budgets. Even the boots had a zipper down the side so he could kick them off in a hurry, though he found himself regretting that neat feature as cold slush leaked through onto his socks. The new armor material was a mottled gray, which Earl had to admit he found aesthetically pleasing.

The snow was past his ankles as he trudged toward the front door. The drifts to the side were already far taller. His breath came out in clouds of steam, freezing his lips, before it was ripped away by the howling wind. It had crossed the point of discomfort, and for the first time in many years, Earl was actually cold.

Pausing at the entrance, he cupped his gloved hands over his eyes and peered through the glass. The place was still. He had a seventy-year-old Thompson submachine gun in hand and a few grenades wrapped in silver-wire on his vest and other assorted goodies in pouches. If there were any more cops in here, they might be a touch jumpy about seeing someone so heavily armed looking in the window, but the blood and viscera smell he kept catching on the wind suggested that wouldn’t be an issue. The stencil on the door told him that it was past regular business hours and to dial 911 if there was an emergency. Luckily the door was unlocked.