Monster Hunter Vendetta (58 page)

"Well, look who's awake." Torres was sitting across from me. One of his eyes was bruised and swollen shut. That's what you looked like when Agent Franks knocked you out. "How are you feeling?"

I couldn't respond. My face hurt too much.

"Figured as much. Well, you look like shit." He was leaning back in his chair, enjoying himself. He had Abomination resting on the chair next to him. "In fact, let me show you." There was a small mirror on the table between us. He picked it up and held it so I could see my reflection.

My skin was utterly pale. There were red blotches on my skin from blood vessels breaking just under the surface. The whites of my eyes had taken on a sick yellow tone and they were circled by blackened sockets. The fresh wound on my cheek from the werewolf was festering and leaking pus.

I closed my eyes. I had killed zombies that looked healthier than that. Not too much longer now.

Torres put the mirror down. "You were always ugly. Hell, I wondered how somebody like you wound up with a hot piece like that Shackleford chick. But now? Damn, you're ugly. About to get uglier too. But don't worry, the High Priest says that you'll hang on long enough to make it to the other side."

I tried to tune out the pain but it was all-consuming. I had no idea that it hurt this much to turn into a zombie. All I could feel was agony. One part of my body would just hurt, until another part started to hurt worse, and that would briefly take my attention, until the next bit topped it. The traitor continued to drone on. He was really enjoying himself. There were three other men in the room with us. They would occasionally laugh at something Torres said. I fixated on him. I failed to take out Hood because of my stupidity. Trusting Susan
.
.
.
What the hell had I been thinking? Not only was Hood still alive, which meant Earl was doomed, I had also managed to let loose another devil into the world. Maybe I could partially atone for that and somehow take this piece of trash with me.

I forced myself to pay attention to my surroundings. It was a comfortable but plain apartment, probably attached to the back of the mortuary. There was one closed door and a curtained window off to the side. I was in a heavy wooden chair. They had put down a tarp to protect the carpet. My wrists had been tightly bound to the chair arms with orange twine. The cord was frayed, but strong, and had already cut deeply into my flesh. Looking at my hands made me sick. Blood was seeping around my fingernails.

"I will say this for you, Pitt. You're a man after my own heart, somebody who can appreciate the finer things in life. Good-looking women, good-looking guns." He lifted one of my .45s. "Just so you know, I'm keeping your gear. Don't worry. I'll give them a good home." The others laughed. "And look what else I've got." He stuck out his chest. He had pulled the Velcro MHI patch off my armor and pinned it to his robe. The happy face with horns didn't mean much to him, but he knew it did to me. "I figure I played Monster Hunter long enough to earn this bad boy. Pretty sweet, huh?"

"Screw
.
.
." I was too tired to finish the sentence.

"Poor, Pitt. You'll be on the other side, suffering for an eternity. And we'll be here, living like kings, running the new order."

"The dark new dawn," said one of the cultists.

"Amen, brother," Torres replied. "And we owe it all to Owen Pitt." He pushed the .45 into my forehead with a sneer. "Don't we, you zombie fuck?" He pulled the gun away and snickered. "Don't want to get a bunch of scabs on my new gun. I want to keep this baby nice. I'll probably use it to put a bullet into some of your friends. We're not done with MHI, oh no. When the sun doesn't rise tomorrow, the payback begins. We clean house, and nothing will be able to stop us."

"You'll
.
.
.
die
.
.
.
too
.
.
." It took a moment for me to register that the horrible scratchy noise was actually my voice. I sounded worse than an orc.

"Unbelievers are already dead, they just don't know it yet. The faithful will live forever." Torres slouched in his chair, carelessly gesturing with my gun. "We're not as crazy as you think. The master's one smart dude. Look at me. He's been grooming me for years, knowing that he'd need men in the MCB eventually. I worked hard, got into federal law enforcement. He arranged a monster encounter for me to survive, bam, and next thing you know, I'm one of America's finest
.
.
.
Don't worry. We're not shutting the sun off. Just blocking it until everyone's ready to fall in line. But it's going to get real cold and people are going to get real hungry before they have the sense to do that."

"Convert or die," recited another cultist.

"Holy shadows will engulf the earth. Nations that convert will get to see the light, pardon the pun. Those that don't
.
.
." He shrugged. "Too damn bad for them. We'll animate their starved dead and turn them loose on the survivors. When it's over, we'll build a perfect society from scratch."

Torres kept talking. He was really enjoying himself. These lunatics were actually going to go through with this. It sounded preposterous, but I had seen the gate that had opened over Alabama. After that, I could believe just about anything. The Old Ones could do it.

I closed my eyes. I just wanted the suffering to end. Maybe if I hurried up and died, then Hood's squid god wouldn't be satisfied with just a zombie. I found myself wishing for death, and death drew even closer, like a black wall. I touched it.

"Poor boy. Hurt to look at," a familiar voice said. "It makes an old man's heart hurt to be seeing such pain."

It took a second to recognize the voice.

"Mordechai?" I whispered.

"What?" Torres asked. When I opened my yellow eyes, Torres was regarding me suspiciously. "What did you say?"

I ignored him and tried to lift my head higher. "Mordechai? Is that you?"

It was. Old, bent, leaning on his cane, small glasses perched on his nose, Star of David hanging in front of his battered shirt. He was not young and healthy like the last time I had seen him, but in the form from the time of his death in 1944, just like how I'd gotten to know him originally. He was standing directly behind Torres, between two of the cultists. They didn't appear to notice him.

"Yes, boy, I am here for help," he said with a slight smile. "Others felt you need some wisdom. They say, boy very strong, but not always smart. Others can be mean like that." His Polish accent was as thick as ever.

"But
.
.
.
you moved on
.
.
.
I freed you."

He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Eh
.
.
.
what can say? I moved on, but veil is thin for you now. Close enough to death that we can talk so easy. Not exactly a long trip for me to get here! This more important now, so I come back. You need smarts." He tapped his finger on his temple and smiled. "I have smarts. You have guns and magic. Should blow up many crazy people together."

Was he really here? Had he come back to help me again? "Are you an angel?"

Torres turned back toward his henchmen. "He's hallucinating. Get the stimulant, now. We can't afford to lose him yet."

The ghost of Mordechai Byreika lifted his cane. It looked exactly like the one I'd driven through Jaeger's torso. "This look like flaming sword to you, boy? Of course is not angel. Angels? They're more formal. Kind of, how you say, stuffy. Now listen close. Time is short."

"Too late." I tried to show him the bandage on my hand, pulling repeatedly, forgetting that I was tied down. "Dead
.
.
.
soon."

Torres took my jerking against the bonds as a seizure. "Hurry with that potion, damn it!"

"No!" Mordechai admonished sternly. "You not die yet, boy. More work to do. For something more important than you. Not like this."

I tried to speak, but the pain was too great. Nobody has ever been bitten by a zombie and lived.

"You are not nobody, boy. You are somebody. You are one picked to finish fight. Good has said you are their champion. Bad's champion is waiting for you. Champion of Good not die because of stupid zombie! That's crazy talk."

I can't. Dying.

A cultist had removed a vial from his robes. He shoved a syringe into it and began pulling out a thick red liquid. "Give me that!" Torres ordered as he snatched the syringe away.

"You not die until I say so," Mordechai insisted. "Listen to your elders, boy. You have power to fight off zombie bite, just like you fight off werewolf when we met first time."

That was different. That was something I could fight with my hands. I was never infected by the werewolf.

"Of course not infected, because you are not monster now. You are Monster Hunter. Quit being stubborn and listen. Werewolf can't turn you. Zombie can't turn you. Vampire can't turn you, if stupid enough to get bit by vampire too you are. Regular Hunter, yes, but you? Different you are. You only turn if you give up."

So I can't die until I give up?

"No, that's just dumb. Turn, not kill. They can kill you just fine. Cut head off or blow up or set on fire, maybe shoot you in face, you die." He spread his hands as if balancing the scales. "Sploosh. Dead. Just like everyone else. But you are Chosen. Harder to kill Chosen unless he is being big baby. Certain things only you can do. Old Ones not realize who they're fighting with."

Torres jammed the huge needle into the nerve bundle between my ear and jaw and slammed the plunger down. The thick clump of liquid burned. Every muscle in my body automatically contracted with brutal force. The legs of the chair slammed back and forth on the floor. "Hold him!" Torres and one of the others grabbed me by the shoulders to keep me from flopping over.

Mordechai walked right through Torres as if he wasn't there, and I suppose in the twilight spirit world that my old mentor currently inhabited, he probably wasn't. Mordechai leaned close to my ear and whispered, "Don't give up."

The drug, or potion, or whatever the hell it was they shot me with pummeled my central nervous system like a jackhammer. The now-familiar black lightning was not just in my vision. It was colliding back and forth between the very fibers of my being. My body was a battleground, an undead virus was my enemy, and the prize was my soul.

"Never give up."

I won't.

"I know. That's why you are one who drew short straw."

Then I died. I think.

◈
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I'd done this kind of thing enough times that nothing could really surprise me at this point. I was standing in the ornate ballroom at the Shackleford family estate. I was either in the past, before we'd blown it up and set it on fire while trying to kill Susan, or in the future, when we'd finally gotten it fixed, because the room was absolute perfection. The walls were covered in mirrors, giving the illusion that it was much larger than it really was, as each view doubled and tripled onto itself. The massive chandelier reflected the sunlight from the tall windows, causing the crystals to sparkle brilliantly. The hardwood floor had been polished until I could see my bedraggled reflection in it.

There was a man waiting for me in the center of the room. I did not know him. He was a head shorter than I was. The stranger was lean, but muscular, with long brown hair, muttonchops, and a mustache that extended to the end of his square jaw. He was in his forties. His uniform was made of creaking leather, with thick protective pieces over the torso and wrists, and a guard that pulled up over the throat to shield from bites, similar to our modern suits. While his archaic armor was battered, his guns were not. He had a pair of Colt Peacemakers with ivory grips holstered on a heavy-duty gun belt. The ammo stuck in the cartridge loops of the belt shined with old-school silver bullets.

The way he carried himself seemed vaguely familiar. "Who're you?"

"Somebody who's been sent to help. Mordechai kindly asked that I not let you pass." He had a very pronounced old Southern accent. "You ain't done yet. There's a mess of folks counting on you."

"I know."

"You best not fail them." He glanced around the ballroom, as if taking in something familiar. "I never liked this room. It felt snooty. It was for bunches of rich folk, gallivanting around in their fancy clothes, telling each other how important and pretty they were." He snorted. "But you know that it was always the most special to her, ever since she was a wee little thing."

He was talking about Julie. This was her favorite room in the old Shackleford plantation house. This was where we were supposed to have gotten married. The stranger hadn't picked this backdrop. I had.

"What am I supposed to do?" I asked.

"Damned if I know. Get back there and take care of business I suppose."

"I'm dying. I got bit by a zombie."

The stranger shrugged. "Cheat death then."

"Cheat?"

"If you ain't cheating, you ain't trying hard enough. That's what I always say. So pull your head out of your rear, get righteous mad, and get to killing."

"I will."

"Then what're you doing giving up and dying?" He pointed for the door, not that I'd walked in, but I got the idea. He was sending me back. "Them monsters ain't gonna kill themselves! You a Monster Hunter, or not?"

"I'm a Monster Hunter!"

"Good!" The ghost had a mischievous grin. "My boy always had a good eye for talent."

Okay. I was back. I inhaled for what seemed like the first time in eternity.

"Hang on," Torres said. "He's still breathing."

I wasn't normal. I knew that. That point had been driven home a long time ago. I had no idea what I was. All I did know was that I didn't want to die. Especially not like this.

The pain returned like a crashing tsunami. It was like being on fire and electrocuted and drowned at the same time. The virus, an incomprehensible curse from outside the boundaries of this world, pushed one last time to finish me. I screamed at the top of my lungs, a combination of fear, agony, and fury. My thrashing increased in intensity. The joints of the chair cracked. "Get help!" Torres cried as he tried in vain to restrain me.

The black energy swept through my body like a flash flood, burning, purging, cleansing, only this time I was the one in control. The lightning clashed with the virus. Then as quickly as it started, it was done.