Larry Correia: Monster Hunter Alpha

Once Mosher was gone, Stark excused himself from the office, supposedly to pick up some snacks for the road trip. He stopped at a pay phone on the way. He didn’t like Briarwood much, certainly didn’t trust them, but a man had to provide for his retirement somehow. His pride wouldn’t let him deal with their competitors. He couldn’t stand those MHI punks, ever since he’d lost a drunken fistfight to that asshole Sam Haven all those years ago at a BUD/S reunion, but MHI wasn’t the only game in town. These new guys were local, hungry, morally flexible, and not above passing him a little cut of the PUFF action under the table.

“Briarwood.” That’s all the receptionist said whenever she picked up. They liked that cool mysterious vibe, like if you didn’t know what they did, then you shouldn’t be calling them.

No names. “It’s me. I’ve got a scoop for you.” Stark glanced around the busy street. This was the kind of thing that could get him fired or worse if somebody like Agent Franks got wind of it. Traditional forms of reprimands kind of went out the window when that guy got involved.

“Your information is always greatly appreciated,” she purred. The Briarwood receptionist had a sultry European accent. Stark had never met her, but he liked to imagine her as a sexy blonde who liked to dress in tight black leather. Stark had always had a thing for European chicks since way back when the Navy had stationed him in Italy.

“My standard finder’s fee applies.”

“But of course,” she said. It was only money, and these private hunters were rolling in the dough. He imagined the hot receptionist working out of some secret posh office on top of some downtown high-rise, all black glass and marble. Twenty percent of the PUFF bounty was nothing to those people, but to a GS-13, it was a few extra mortgage payments. “What and where?”

“Possible lycanthrope. Copper Lake, Michigan. I’ll know tonight for sure. Your boys don’t do shit until I give the word, got it?” Stark hung up before she could respond. It was always good to let those contractor goons know exactly who was calling the shots. Agent Stark then used his cell phone to warn his wife that he would be pulling an overnighter, and he apologized in advance for missing his daughter’s recital.

The offices of Briarwood Eradication Services were on the second floor of a crumbling brick building in a not-quite-terrible-but-getting-there section of Chicago. The first floor was a pool hall, the third was rented by a company that stuffed coupon mailers, and the fourth was untenanted except for the pigeons.

Ryan Horst stopped cleaning his carbine long enough to listen to Jo Ann take the call. She was still doing that Euro-trash voice, which told him that it was probably a potential job. Jo Ann Schneider was from Wisconsin originally and had the accent to prove it but had been working for a phone-sex line when he’d met her. The woman could sound like just about anyone over the phone, which did manage to add a little mystique to their tiny company. Horst knew that success was all about the marketing.

“Ryan! It was that asshole, Stark,” Jo Ann shouted across the large open space. She yanked off her headset and tossed it on the desk. “We’ve got us a big one!”

“About damn time,” he muttered as he finished tugging the boresnake through the barrel of his FAL. He’d assembled a tough crew, but the boys were getting restless. He’d promised that there was lucrative money in this business, far better than what they were used to making for their particular set of skills. Men that good at hurting people weren’t the kind that he wanted to string along. “What’ve we got?” he asked as he pointed the barrel at the overhead lights and squinted at the rifling. The chrome was perfectly clean and shiny as expected. Horst took meticulous care of his weapons.

“A lycanthrope up in Michigan. I think that means werewolf! You know what one of those is worth?” She was practically squealing.

“Of course I do, babe. I am the expert, remember?” he said. Jo Ann stood off to the side, bouncing up and down eagerly, the aesthetics of which he especially appreciated when she wore a tank top. Horst could almost see the dollar signs flashing in her eyes. Even a brand new werewolf was worth at least forty large. The older they were or the more people they’d killed, the more you could make. The sky was the limit on a lycanthrope. Horst had memorized the PUFF tables before those squeamish pansies in Alabama had booted him out of their training camp.

Sociopath. That’s what that broad, Paxton, had called him right before they’d fired his ass. Well, he didn’t need them. Horst had always been an entrepreneur, and he’d always done best on his own. Sure, most of those business dealings had been of questionable legality, but he’d never gotten busted or served time for any of his many ventures. He was far too smart for that.

Horst had filed the paperwork, borrowed some money from his uncle Mickey, got his own PUFF charter, got the Title 13 FFL for the weapons, and recruited his own team of badass killers. Now that he had his own license to print money, all he needed to do was start collecting some fat monster bounties. Even with Stark taking his normal cut, this trip could pay a few bills. So far Briarwood Eradication Services had only taken down a few small, local monsters. Killing a werewolf, hell, any shapeshifter, would launch him into the big time. Horst took his time putting his gun back together. He worked the charging handle a few times. Smooth as silk.

“Good work, babe. Now do me a favor and call in the boys. We’re gonna bag us a werewolf.”

One of the old wives’ tales about werewolves said that if you could destroy the werewolf that bit you, the curse would be broken. Turns out that’s wishful thinking. We know now that it’s an agent present only in the werewolf’s saliva, that must be introduced in quantity directly into the victim’s bloodstream to cause the mutation to human DNA. But in the 20s, it was all just considered black magic and curses. But after I’d been infected, I was willing to try anything.

It took a magic spell, but I found the werewolf that had bit me. I tracked her for nearly a year. Ten moon cycles, at least three nights each time, and occasionally more if I lost control. I had something of a clue by the time I caught up. I knew that I could keep some semblance of control when I was changed, except for during the full moon, so I figured out how to restrain myself during those nights. I’d learned about the weakness to silver by then, but had developed the hope that I wouldn’t need to use it on myself if I could just catch the evil thing that had inflicted this on me.

She went south, deeper into Mexico. Unlike me, she loved the killing. Whenever the trail grew cold, I’d just stay for spell and wait for the next tale of mutilated bodies to reach me. It made her easier to follow. I just missed her in Honduras, where I broke the chain I’d used to tie myself to a tree and ended up murdering a goat herder. She doubled back and headed north. I lost her for a while when she went into the Gulf, but I caught her eventually. The thing about werewolves is that once we’ve got a scent, unless the prey knows a few tricks, we’re almost impossible to shake.

Across the sea, I finally caught her in Havana. Killing her was intensely satisfying, but as soon as it was over I knew it had been for nothing. I could still hear the Hum. When the moon was full, it would be back to the same old thing.

I was dead to my wife, dead to my kin. I was dead to my fellow Hunters. Raymond Earl Shackleford Jr. had ceased to exist after that first night. No one knew where I was or what had become of me, all in the hope that I’d be able cure myself by destroying a single werewolf. I was such a sucker. Now she was dead, but so, still, was I.