Monster Hunter Nemesis (33 page)
Read Monster Hunter Nemesis Online
Authors: Larry Correia
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Urban
There was a flash of fire up his arm as Harbinger tore his head back and forth, severing muscles and tendons, trying to bite clean through Franks’ wrist. They hit the stove and bounced across the counter. Franks let go of Harbinger’s neck and started hitting him with that hand. Each time he hit the werewolf, it lifted him off the ground, left a dent in his torso, broke ribs, and flattened lungs, but that damned stubborn werewolf kept chewing on his arm.
There was a butcher’s block. It fell over and knives spilled free with a clatter. The first one Franks got his hand on was a long, serrated bread knife. Not ideal, but it would do. He stuck it under Harbinger’s ear and dragged it across the werewolf’s neck, splitting it wide open.
That got him to let go.
He lost the bread knife, but immediately replaced it with a butcher knife. He slammed the blade deep into Harbinger’s armpit, levering it back and forth, spreading the rip, looking for the heart. The werewolf backhanded him, but it wasn’t as hard as before. The stab wound had taken some fight out of him. Slippery with blood, Franks lost the kitchen knife, which was why he always preferred textured handles for serious work. He didn’t mind leaving the blade in there though, since lycanthropes had a hard time regenerating around a foreign body.
Air was whistling through the hole in Harbinger’s neck and bubbling through the hole in his chest. Franks kicked Harbinger in the stomach, sending him flailing back into the cabinets, knocking half of them off the wall. Franks followed up by taking hold of Harbinger’s mane of hair and slamming him headfirst into the sink. That entire cabinet imploded. Pipes broke and water sprayed.
There was a frying pan there, and Franks thought briefly about beating Harbinger with it, but then he saw the much larger, heavy-duty KitchenAid mixer, picked it up, and slammed it down over the werewolf’s head. It made a very satisfying crunch before it broke. Then he spied a meat cleaver on the floor, so Franks snatched it up. Systematically chopping the werewolf into pieces would do the trick.
Only Harbinger was far smarter in his transformed state than Franks had expected. Werewolves were supposed to be too savage to pick up an aerosol can of oven cleaner, turn, and crush it open directly in front of their opponent’s eyes. Or maybe Harbinger had just gotten lucky . . . Either way, the caustic acid went off like a grenade right in Franks’ face.
That stung.
Even with that, Franks remained analytical. One eye had been instantly blinded. The other was swelling shut. Harbinger had used the opportunity to get up and free the butcher knife from his lung, and his body had already begun healing. The werewolf leapt back, just ahead of Franks’ wild meat cleaver swing.
They were both slipping across the tile. There was blood everywhere. Franks had to overwhelm the werewolf before he could fully regenerate from his wounds, but Harbinger, even in his bestial state, was too clever to be pinned down. He ran for the door. Franks raised the cleaver to throw it, but Harbinger yanked open the refrigerator door, and the thick steel blade stuck into the stainless steel with a
clunk
.
His opponent had fled. Franks yanked the meat cleaver out, kicked the refrigerator closed, and followed the blood trail. Harbinger was moving. In a battle of attrition, time benefited the werewolf. Franks left his own red trail behind him. Harbinger had gnawed his left wrist down to the bone. Franks curled that hand into a fist and squeezed, estimating that he’d lost at least half his muscle control there, but he was still combat effective. His damaged vision was going to be a bigger problem.
Harbinger had gone up the stairs. Franks leapt up them in three bounds.
The werewolf intercepted him at the top, attacking from his now blind side. Harbinger came in, clawing and snapping. The two of them crashed through a doorway, through a wall, and into a bathroom. He managed to hit Harbinger with the meat cleaver, embedding it in his collarbone, but Harbinger sliced his chest open from one side to the other.
This was really starting to piss him off.
Franks slugged Harbinger in the chest, hard enough to stop a car. It knocked the werewolf clean through the shower stall, through the tile, and the wall behind it. However, it snapped Franks’ damaged wrist, and now that hand was hanging limp and useless. He followed, stepping through the broken tile and squirting pipes, smashing a bigger hole through the wall so he’d fit.
They were in an office filled with paintings. The dossier said Shackleford was an artist. Since blood was spattering across all the canvases, she was probably going to be very upset afterwards.
Oh well.
Harbinger was already up, so Franks simply kicked him through the next wall too.
The Elixir of Life had magnified his strength to absurd levels, so Harbinger’s body actually covered quite a bit of distance to embed itself in the far wall of another office. Franks picked up a filing cabinet and lifted it overhead. It felt very full. Franks tossed it at Harbinger, but the werewolf dodged aside and the cabinet exploded through the wall. Harbinger hurried and ducked through the hole.
“Slippery bastard,” Franks said as he followed, crashing through the hole.
Their new doorway opened onto a balcony overlooking a very large space. It appeared to be a ballroom with mirrored walls. Franks stepped through, but the instant his foot hit the other side, jaws like iron clamped around his leg, and Harbinger bit
deep.
Teeth sliced through muscle and blood vessels.
Franks roared and clubbed Harbinger’s skull, fracturing it enough to put bone fragments into the werewolf’s brain, but even then he didn’t let go. Alarms were sounding in Franks’ mind. If he lost that leg, he’d lose his mobility, and then it was over. Desperate, Franks pushed off toward the railing, dragging the latched-on werewolf with him.
They toppled over the edge.
The floor rushed up to meet them. They both landed at an awkward angle. On impact, Franks felt bones break, but more importantly it knocked Harbinger’s teeth off of him. Franks kicked Harbinger with his other leg, sent him sliding across the polished hardwood.
Franks tried to push himself up, but his ruined arm flopped about uselessly. He shifted, used his other hand, and struggled upright, only to find that his other leg was buckling beneath him. Harbinger had crippled it as well. He was becoming combat ineffective. This called for desperate measures. Franks reached into his blood-soaked pocket and pulled out another flask of Elixir.
He had never used more than five doses at once. He was unsure what would happen if he did.
But he wouldn’t find out, because Harbinger was on him before he could open it.
Teeth sank into his shoulder, punching clear to the bone, and then Harbinger twisted and shook, tearing him apart. Claws flayed open his back and ripped a kidney in half. Franks struck out with his good hand, but Harbinger released, moved aside, and counterattacked that arm. That bicep opened to the bone. Franks bellowed in fury, but Harbinger followed up, and bit him on that arm, pulling and ripping, yanking him across the floor.
He had intended to take the werewolf apart, piece by piece, but it was Harbinger who was doing that to him instead. Franks twisted his head as far as his neck would allow, and bit the werewolf on the nose. He really chomped down hard. The werewolf yelped and let go.
Franks was running out of options. He looked to his dangling hand and the white bones sticking out, thought
why the hell not?
Then he stabbed Harbinger in the neck with his jagged wrist bone.
The surprise in those golden eyes told him that the werewolf hadn’t seen that coming. Franks jerked his arm back in a flash of red. Harbinger collapsed.
The two of them lay there for a moment on the dance floor in a mingled puddle of blood, struggling for breath. Even a powerful werewolf could only regenerate from so much damage before their system began to shut down.
“You are a worthy adversary,” Franks muttered as he tried to sit up.
Harbinger was also struggling to rise. Apparently neither one of them was much for giving up.
The werewolf lurched toward him, teeth snapping. Franks fed him one arm and felt the crunch as Harbinger chomped it to the bone. But then Franks used his elbow to begin hammering the werewolf’s head into mush.
Thud.
Even with his blood drizzling from dozens of wounds, Franks’ blows were slow, methodical, but still incredibly powerful.
Thud.
Harbinger sunk his claws deep into Franks’ abdomen and began pulling things out.
Thud.
Neither of them was going anywhere until this was over. It was a race to see if Franks would die from blood loss and organ failure before Harbinger was beaten to death.
Then they both got hit by a truck.
The approaching noise of the engine hadn’t even registered. The steel shutters over the ballroom doors flew apart as blinding headlights filled the space. The impact of the front bumper knocked him and the werewolf apart.
Franks found himself flat on his back on the other side of the dance floor. He tried to sit up, but his body was too broken. Those headlights were scalding his one barely working eye, so he tried to lift a hand to shield it, only to discover that with the impact, Harbinger had kept that arm. Franks glared at the bloody stump. “Damn.”
Car doors slammed. A female figure moved in front of the headlights. It was Shackleford. “Franks is over here. He’s in pieces!”
He coughed up a knot of blood. “Sorry we messed up your house.” That made him realize just how bad a shape he was in. He rarely
apologized
. “Good fight though.”
Then Franks died.
PART 3
The Contract
CHAPTER 15
Now Franks remembered how he’d ended up in the small white room.
The interrogator was studying him. “That’s correct, Franks. Your mortal body has been ruined.”
“So that’s it?”
“Like I said before, that’s not my call.”
When he’d been told that this was going straight to the top, Franks had not realized just how high up they’d been talking about. “Send me back.”
“And why should He? You let your pride and your anger get in the way of fulfilling your part of the covenant.”
“Because I’m not done yet!” Franks roared and slammed his fists into the table. The fact that he didn’t so much as dent the surface told him he was no longer in the mortal world.
The interrogator sat there, studying Franks dispassionately. “That’s not your decision to make. Haven’t you learned anything over the last three centuries? You’ve had far more time to learn than a regular mortal is granted, and still, you expect patience? You expect mercy, yet never grant it. You ask for charity, but are incapable of dispensing any. Justice demands that you be sent back to Hell.”
Franks leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You’re not a regular interrogator, are you?”
“I have stewardship over the special cases. You might not remember much about the war, but we’ve met before.”
It came back to him in a flash, just a glimpse of a battle, terrible beyond imagination. They fought across a bridge of light between the stars, with the being before him wielding pure energy as if it was a flaming sword. “You . . .”
The archangel nodded. “It’s been a long time. You’re still just as stubborn as before, which is why you were offered The Deal to begin with. We need something like you to stop the things like Kurst. You may be an aberration in The Plan, but he threatens to break it entirely.”
“Don’t underestimate Kurst. He’ll crush mankind if given the chance.”
“Mortal life is fraught with perils and tests, but everything on The Plan is for their own ultimate good. Much like you, our current threats are off The Plan. This is why we’ve allowed you to fight the battles that mortals aren’t equipped to. . . . It turns out today is your lucky day, Franks. An inspired soul has taken it upon himself to repair your sorry corpse. They’ve saved your life. This isn’t MHI’s fight. Keep them out of it. They have a different purpose waiting for them.”
He didn’t really want their help anyway. “Fine.”
“Good. You will require assistance. There are still a few humans who heed the old ways and who are aware of The Deal. I have sent a message to one of these to assist you. His name is Michael as well . . . No relation. Congratulations, Franks. You have been granted a temporary respite in order to deal with our current problem. No reaction? Normally, this would be where a repentant man would say thank you for another opportunity.”
Franks just grunted in response.
“We’ll meet again. In the meantime I will continue to review your history in order to make my recommendation about what to do with your immortal soul. Do you have anything else to say for yourself?”
“Quit screwing around and send me back. Those demons aren’t going to banish themselves.”
* * *
Franks was no longer in the white interview room. He woke up to find himself in an icy cold room with concrete walls. Bright lights were shining down on him. There were small metal doors along the wall and drains on the floor.
He was in a morgue.
Only one eye was working. The empty feeling in the other socket told him that eye had been cut out. His chest had been opened and his armored rib plate removed, exposing his internal organs. He tried to move, but discovered that he was strapped down. Not that it would do much good, since the awakening nerve endings told him that he was missing both arms and one leg.
He was in a morgue and he was being dissected.
“Whoa. Hold still there, Agent Franks. I’m not exactly good at this and you wiggling around sure isn’t helping me put you back together.” A head moved in front of one of the lamps. The man was wearing a surgical mask and glasses, but the thick red beard sticking out around the mask told him that it was one of the Hunters from MHI . . . something Anderson . . .
Milo
. “For the record, I’m not a doctor. In fact I only got a C in biology. Heck, I don’t even know how you’re actually alive right now, but I do know for sure that the human body only has one heart, so where the heck am I supposed to stick this little guy?” He held up a red blob. Due to the Elixir, it was still pulsing.
Franks recalled the dossier on the Hunter. Milo Anderson had been listed as an
eccentric genius
. He supposed it could be worse. “I’ll walk you through.” His voice sounded funny, and he realized it was because much of his breath was blowing out the gaping hole in his face. “You will need a skilled surgeon.”
“Good thing Earl sent up the Gretchen signal!”
Another head appeared over him. This one was wearing a full mask and mirrored shades. The feathers and small animal bones tied to her surgical gown suggested that she was an orc. She poked her fingers into the bite marks on his shoulder, grumbled something, and
tsked
disapprovingly.
“Yeah, good question, Gretchen. So what happens when you get bit by a werewolf?” Anderson asked. “Do you like turn into Frankenwolf?”
“No.” Franks had been bitten by just about everything over the centuries and nothing had ever changed him. “The Elixir of Life burns off impurities.”
“Speaking of which, we found that thermos of glowing stuff in your car. Gretchen said I should pour some into your chest cavity. It seemed to work like a jump start. That’s pretty nifty. Can I have the recipe?”
“No.”
“Aw man . . . Well, what if when we poured it in you, you started having a seizure, which surprised me, so I accidentally dropped the thermos and spilled the rest, and we really need to make some more in order to get you fixed?” Anderson looked hopeful, like maybe Franks wouldn’t be able to hit him since he didn’t have any arms. “Hypothetically speaking of course.”
Franks sighed. It made the loose flap of cheek flutter. “The alchemical instructions are inside a case in my trunk.”
“Sweet . . . Well, actually, Holly already searched your car and found it, and Trip knows chemistry and stuff so he’s already making some, but better to ask forgiveness than permission and all that.”
There were probably worse things than letting MHI have the formula for the extremely dangerous Elixir of Life, but he couldn’t think of any right then. His body was barely functioning, and it was working at all only because of his many redundant systems which had been built in over the years. Even then, he should have been dead . . . Franks lay there patiently while the orc reattached his internal organs. He really didn’t have much choice in the matter. “Where am I?”
“The Body Shack . . . Uh . . . It’s where I store cadavers for training purposes. Staking and chopping, that sort of thing. Lucky for you I just bought a fresh shipment from the med school supply place so we’re stocked up. You can have your choice of the finest spleens from our spleen gallery . . . That was a joke. Sorry. . . . Okay, to be fair I’d guess most of them were homeless people and drug addicts, but there are a few who looked pretty healthy.”
Gretchen mumbled something as she pried a bone sliver out of his arm stump with a pair of pliers.
“Good point. Most of them are probably a little small, but we’ve got one guy with arms that looks like he did a lot of steroids. Those should fit.”
Franks grunted. The Elixir would force everything to work. New parts would be properly assimilated over time. His genetic code was continually shifting, a rolling average of his various parts. “Why are you doing this?”
“Earl’s orders. They came rushing in here with you rolled up in a tarp in the back of his truck. He said that I needed to save you. We’ve been putting you back together for hours now, well, Gretchen has anyway, me and Holly have mostly been handing her tools and guts. So . . . it sounds like you and Earl had something of a disagreement . . .”
“Yes.” Franks still wasn’t sure why exactly Harbinger had attacked him.
Anderson played it coy as he went back to his stitching. “So . . . before Owen hit you both with a car . . . I was curious, unstoppable force meets the immovable object and all that . . .”
If Pitt hadn’t interrupted them, Franks’ best estimate is that they both would have died. “It was a draw.”
“Shoot.” Milo stopped, reached into his back pocket, removed his wallet, and handed Gretchen a twenty-dollar bill. The orc cocked her head and studied the money, probably not really sure what to do with it, and then stuffed it inside her gown before going back to her operation.
“Where’s Harbinger?”
“Right here.” The head of MHI entered the morgue. He walked up next to Gretchen and studied Franks. He had no shirt on under his leather jacket, and his chest was still covered in dried blood. He’d been too busy to clean up. Harbinger appeared to be emaciated, which was expected given the amount of energy necessary for a werewolf to regenerate with that much damage. He also seemed very angry. “Give us a minute,” he ordered.
Anderson and the orc hurried out of the cold room. Once they were gone Harbinger pulled a stainless revolver and stuck the muzzle against Franks’ forehead. He appreciated that Harbinger was a straightforward man who would not waste time with bluffing or foolishness.
“I doubt you had them save me just to kill me,” Franks stated.
“I didn’t. I kept you alive because I want answers. Did you kill Heather Kerkonen?”
“No.”
Harbinger’s face was a mask of barely controlled rage. At least he was too exhausted and spent to be in any danger of turning. “Did you
hurt
her?”
“It was a fair fight.”
Franks watched the cylinder rotate right in front of his remaining eye as Harbinger cocked the hammer. “That’s the wrong damned answer.”
“I could have killed her.” Franks’ one eye narrowed. “I
spared
her.”
“Why?”
“So she could expose Stricken. I told her about Nemesis.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t care enough to lie,” Franks explained.
Harbinger exhaled. His finger was on the trigger. The gun wasn’t even quivering. Franks could tell he was mulling it over. Harbinger could justify either decision rather easily, but Franks didn’t look away. He didn’t so much as blink.
After several tense seconds, Harbinger lowered the gun. “Julie and Owen told me your story. God help me, but I think you’re telling the truth. Stricken told me you’d killed her.”
“That’s dumb.”
“You’ve got to admit, it sounded plausible. You’ve got something of a reputation, Franks.”
“Still dumb.”
“Damn it. Stricken played me. He wanted to put MHI on your trail too and have me do the dirty work for him. He told me something I’d believe, knowing exactly how I’d react.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. From where Harbinger was standing he could look down into Franks’ open chest cavity. He paused in his reconstruction of events long enough to ask, “Does that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Good . . . If you didn’t kill her, I’ve got no way of reaching her to find out if she’s okay. She’s either dead or somehow out of the picture . . .” It didn’t seem possible, but Harbinger suddenly appeared to weaken as that realization sunk in. “Stricken wouldn’t lie to me, then leave her alone, because if I found out you hadn’t hurt her I’d go after him instead. He probably . . . he probably killed her.”
“Maybe not. A werewolf like that is valuable.”
Franks had given a completely honest assessment of the situation, but it seemed to give Harbinger some small glimmer of hope. “Maybe . . .” Harbinger took a long drag on his cigarette. “Stricken must’ve figured we’d do him a favor and kill each other. It almost worked.”
“I would have won.”
“Fat chance. I’m not the one spread all over a slab.” Harbinger picked up Franks’ severed hand, studied it, and then unceremoniously tossed it in the trash can. “I’ve been trying to keep tabs on Heather as much as possible. I’ve got one contact inside STFU, friend of a friend sort of thing. They’re supposed to be decent enough, so I made some calls trying to confirm what Stricken said. I’ve not heard back from them yet. If she’s still alive, I’m going to get her out of there.”
“If she’s not?”
“Then I’m going to go on a killing spree that’ll make yours look like a Cub Scout jamboree.”
Franks had expected as much, but according to the interrogator that would be bad. Telling Harbinger the whole truth was out, threatening was pointless; Franks needed to
talk
Harbinger out of going on a rampage. He was not good at that sort of thing. Franks preferred rampages. “If you do that, MHI is done for.”
“It’ll just be me. Not my people.”
Here goes nothing.
“That’s not how the government will see it,” Franks stated flatly. “Stricken is a high-ranking official. Even if he’s corrupt they won’t let you kill any of them and get away with it. They won’t just hang you. MHI will be declared terrorists. Stricken has allies. Give them an excuse and they will make sure all of your people die in prison.”
He might not like it, but Harbinger knew Franks was right. “Like you give a shit what happens to us.”
“A little.” Franks wasn’t about to try to explain the interview he’d just gone through, because this day had been complicated enough already. This next part was going to be
very
hard to say. “The world needs MHI in order to survive what’s coming.”
“What?” Harbinger started to laugh. “I never thought I’d hear something like that from the likes of you.”
“I know. I can’t
stand
you people. You’re sloppy and disrespectful . . . But you’re decent at your job. Put me back together and I’ll handle this.”
“What’re you proposing, Franks?”
“If Kerkonen is alive, I’ll free her. If she’s dead . . .” Franks tried to shrug, but his torso was strapped down. “Stricken has to pay anyway. He killed Myers.”