Larry Correia: Monster Hunter Alpha

“Yes, sir,” Mosher replied as he got into the driver’s seat of their government Suburban.

The primary responsibility of the MCB was keeping the existence of monsters secret. Most survivors could be intimidated into staying quiet. The stupid were taken care of in various ways, either through making them look like crackpots, or, if that didn’t work, then through more extreme measures. MCB agents were granted a lot of flexibility in dealing with that kind of problem. Stark liked to call it his license to kill.

So if this Deputy Buckley was infected by a werewolf, then Stark had every legal right in the world to put a silver bullet in him. But then the three other cops that had been sitting in the waiting room would probably end up shooting him. Which meant that if the test came back positive, he’d have to go talk to the sheriff and fill him in about the complete mission of the MCB, which would require paperwork, and then go kill the deputy, which would require even more paperwork. Stark hated paperwork.

He studied the glass vial in his hand. It was a werecreature field-test kit. The solution was a pinkish red from the drop of Buckley’s blood dissolving in it. It took up to a few hours for the chemical reaction to work. If it stayed red, then the deputy was clear, and if it was a false alarm he would only have to do a little bit of paperwork. If it turned blue, he’d have to do a lot of paperwork.

Stark had been doing this a long time, though. He’d looked at the extent of the unconscious man’s injuries and had spoken briefly with some of the cops who’d been to the scene. His gut told him that it was a werewolf. Which meant that there was one in the area, and since there were clear bite marks on the victim, on the next full moon there would be two.

Maybe he was thinking about this the wrong way…

If Briarwood were to kill two werewolves, then Stark stood to make a lot more money, and if he didn’t have to pull the trigger on the deputy himself, that would save him from doing all that bothersome paperwork. He bounced the vial in his hand a few times. These tests aren’t always reliable. Nobody at headquarters would bat an eye if the test came up negative but the deputy turned anyway. That kind of thing had happened before.

“So, where to now?” Mosher asked, tapping his hand on the steering wheel.

If it turned blue, he’d just call Briarwood and then tell Mosher that it had come up negative. The werewolf would still get popped, society still got protected, only Agent Stark would actually get paid what he was worth for once. “Let’s see what there is to eat in this dump,” Stark ordered. He was feeling better already.

Earl Harbinger had driven another hundred miles after leaving Conover, before parking at a truck stop, pulling the brim of his ball cap over his eyes, and grabbing a few hours of sleep. He’d need his wits about him when he arrived.

Werewolves dream, just like anyone else. Yet he’d found that the closer it was to the full moon, the more his dreams turned to the fevered images of his animal state. Maybe it was early this time because of the nature of his current mission, but Earl awoke to the memory of running through the trees, hunting, killing, perfectly in his element. He took that as a good omen.

Back on the road, hours passed, fields turned into city, then back into fields, and then the view turned to trees. He had never been to upper Michigan before, but found it pretty. Hills and forest, just like home. But Alabamans were smart enough not to live someplace that got this damn cold. It seemed like whenever there was a break in the trees, there would be another abandoned mine hoist building, splintering wood and rusting steel constructions. Some of them were surprisingly tall. The industry of the area had fallen on hard times.

The clouds were thick and rolling in hard. Lights from the ground reflected against the snow in the air and gave the whole area a pinkish tint. It was just itching to snow hard. The hour was late by the time the GPS told him he’d reached his destination. The sign said that it had a population just over two thousand. There was a main street with one stoplight. The downtown area was made up of two-and three-story buildings, mostly brick, constructed back in the boom days. Many of them were empty now. There was a vast, pointy, Lutheran church across from the surprisingly big, ugly, Sixties-era high school. The cars parked along the street were humble. The people who lived here worked hard for a living. It was typical small-town America.

It positively stunk of werewolves.

I didn’t want to die.

I had never been a quitter. That’s one of the things that made me such an effective Hunter: sheer absolute stubbornness.

Sure, I’d tried to do myself in that first morning when I’d woken up with a stomach full of human flesh. What sane man wouldn’t? But I’d managed to live with the curse for nearly a year, driven by a desperate mission of revenge, and the truth was, I didn’t want to die.

But it was my duty. I’d sworn an oath to my daddy that I would fight monsters to the end. The possibility of becoming one hadn’t really entered my mind, but then again Bubba Shackleford’s Professional Monster Killers had never come up against any werewolves before the one that got me. Undead were different. If you turned into an undead, that didn’t count; you weren’t a person anymore. Undead are just shells, with no souls, just going through the motions of living. But here I was, changed, the foulest of murderers, but I still considered myself human. I still felt like a person, but I knew the truth. I was a monster. And monsters had to be destroyed. By the time that bottle of whisky was half empty, the decision had been made. And this time I had a silver bullet to do it right.

The crumbling fort was isolated, but I heard the footsteps on the stone steps long before I saw whom they belonged to. I was polite enough to not want to share the sight of my fresh brains with some random passerby, so I put the Smith back under my shirt.

But the stranger wasn’t just passing through. The man was tall and very thin, with a beak nose, not too old but nearly bald, and wearing a black suit with a padre’s collar. He looked suspiciously vulture-like, but then again I was rather drunk. The priest said that he’d been sent to find me and that he was in dire need of my assistance.

“No offense, Father, but I’m a little busy right now,” I told him.

He bobbed his wispy head in agreement. “Of course. You were trying to have a contemplative moment before shooting yourself. I understand, but if I could have but a moment of your time first?” He looked like a local, but his English was excellent, hell, better than mine for sure.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, but I have been watching you for quite some time. I know exactly what you are.”

I was certain that I’d never seen or smelled him before. I’d come here trailing a werewolf. I had been the predator. I had been the one running the night through the streets of the old city. If anyone had been following me, I would have seen them for sure. “Really? And what would that be?”

“Someone who bears a curse.” The priest dusted off a spot on the stone next to me and took a seat. “Someone who bears the mark of Cain.” He stopped, as if waiting for me to argue. “I’m sure you are aware that what you are contemplating is a terrible sin.”

“Yeah, yeah. Add it to the list. I’m going to hell. You got a point?”

“My impression is that you are a decent man who has had an unfortunate turn of events. I do believe that if I were to throw my life away, I would do it in a manner more useful to my fellow man. There is great nobility in sacrifice.”