Matt Archer: Monster Hunter (Matt Archer #1) (23 page)

“You haven’t? Mine does that all the time,” I said. The
major raised his eyebrows and my stomach flipped over. “Didn’t Uncle Mike—”

“He wrote us an email. The knives don’t act that way for me,
Brandt or Parker. We don’t know about Jorge. To be honest, I thought Tannen was
pranking us. I should’ve known better.” Ramirez frowned at his desktop for a
moment before meeting my eyes. “Okay, so hunting Gators—there are some things
you need to know…”

I listened, but a little part of my mind still wondered,
what was up with me and my knife?

My mind reeled all afternoon. The knife, the war—all of it
had my brain humming. The only reason I didn’t crawl back into my bunk and pull
the blanket over my head was the hunt. Pending war with Hell aside, I still had
Gators to exterminate. Murphy came for me at five o’clock for the final
briefing.

“Good, Archer, let’s get going,” Ramirez said as soon as I
came over. I relaxed a little, joining him and eight other men crowded around
the large aerial map of the jungle he’d been studying earlier.

Ramirez pointed at the map. “The blue X is camp. The Gators’
lair is four clicks to the northeast—red X. There’s a stream down there. They’d
built a den under an overhang in the bank, which floods sometimes, giving them
an underwater advantage. The entrance had been camouflaged with vegetation and
it took us months to find it. Kind of hard to miss now, though, because we hit
the area with explosives yesterday. Scorched up that part of the rainforest. My
concern is that they won’t be there anymore. They know we’re on the offensive
and have probably taken off.”

“We need to get out on the main trails tonight, search for
them while they’re hunting,” a lieutenant roughly the size of Frankenstein
said. I couldn’t tell what color his hair was—he’d shaved it all off. His skin
wasn’t gray, though, and he didn’t have bolts in his neck so I decided he was
cool. He jerked his square chin at me. “Archer here gives us the opportunity to
run two teams, close them in a net.”

“I concur. I don’t want the blood of any more kids on my
hands,” Ramirez said. “Let’s do a land-strike tonight, while they’re active. If
we don’t get them all, then we’ll work the streams tomorrow.”

A Green Beret I didn’t know, a thin guy with flint-colored
eyes and black hair, said, “I’ll get the swim equipment prepped for tonight,
sir. Just in case we need to change plans.”

Swim equipment? Just what did these guys plan on doing?

“Thanks, Moreno,” Ramirez said. “Red team, with me: Murphy,
Toldan, Moreno, and Klimmett. Lieutenant Patterson takes blue team: Archer,
Smith, McAndrew and Borden.”

Lieutenant Frankenstein grinned. “You heard the man, Archer.
Your butt belongs to me.”

We planned out the attack for two hours then broke for
dinner. Murphy tossed out “Meals-Ready-to-Eat” pouches—a complete meal for
soldiers on the go, or so the label said. I stared at the flimsy excuse for a
burger patty, considering going hungry. Patterson sat down next to me on the
log I was using for a bench, tore open his pouch and ate half of his burger in
one bite.

After a huge swallow, he said, “Gotta eat, Archer. The
food’s not great, but we can’t have you running the jungle on an empty stomach.
The main Gator trails we follow are eight miles long. Seriously, the MREs
aren’t as bad as they look.”

He lied—it was worse. I choked down as much of the faux-food
as I could. “It’s funny…you guys hunt the same way Will and I do back home.
Well, except for the flash-bangs and the guns. But we flush and rush the Bears,
too.”

Patterson threw back his head and laughed. “I knew I liked
you. Most fifteen-year-olds would be peeing in their pants right about now, but
you’re completely cool. You remind me of your uncle, Archer. He’s a great
fighter. You’re just like him.”

I smiled, filled with pride. “Thank you, sir. Means a lot.”

“Eat up, we roll in forty-five.” Patterson slapped me on the
back hard enough to knock me forward and went to check in with Ramirez.

The sun shimmered beyond the trees, nearing the horizon. It
was almost time to go. The knife hummed in my thigh pocket. I patted it. “Yeah,
me, too.”

* * *

I crouched in a clump of thick bushes with waxy leaves the
size of my hand. Patterson squatted behind me. McAndrew and Smith held guard at
another post a mile away. Staff Sergeant Borden, our lookout, watched the
ground from a tree a hundred yards in front of us. He wasn’t a big guy, and he
all but disappeared among the leaves and branches of his perch. Ramirez’s team
took the opposite end of the trails, six miles from our position. Patterson was
right; the Gators’ territory was huge.

“Now, remember, weak points are the neck, chest and belly.
Their backs are a little harder for the Major to cut through, even with the
knife.” Patterson grunted. “Didn’t used to be that way. Their hides are getting
tougher.”

Nice, just what I wanted to hear. “I remember, sir. Get me
in range, and I’ll go for the heart, belly or throat.”

“Good, because here’s your chance.” He pointed at a shadow
weaving in and out of thick trees, whispering, “Let’s go.”

We ran with our backs bent, staying low to the ground,
getting smacked with leaves as we tore through the rainforest. A flash of a
tail whipped behind a tree. We raced up to it.

Nothing.

“We lost it,” Patterson said, panting a little. Running in
the humidity was hard work. He clamped a hand on my shoulder. “That’s how it’s
been the last three weeks. We can’t catch’em. They know what all our traps look
like and they’re too fast to grab on foot. Let’s move back to starting
position, try again.”

“Sir,” Borden’s voice crackled over the radio. “Activity
fifty feet from my post. Please advise.”

“Which way is it headed?” Patterson asked.

“Your direction…wait. No, I don’t see it anymore. I’ll keep
scanning.”

Patterson rolled his eyes. “See what I mean?”

We waited for half an hour, nothing but the sound of insects
and the rustle of plants to break the silence of night, before we got another
hit.

“There—three o’clock.” The lieutenant pointed to our right.

A long, thick shadow slithered along the ground carrying a
squirming bundle in its teeth. It crawled into some brush with the waddling
gait of a crocodile and was still.

“Looks like it caught an animal. If it’s eating, we’ll have
a chance to get a jump on it. Come on,” Patterson said.

We crept towards it. Leaves swayed in our wake, but we heard
no other sound until we got fifteen yards from its hidey-hole, then the brush
rustled and the tip of a tail flicked back under cover. We had it now.

Patterson whispered, “Okay, I’ll—”

His words were cut off by the most terrifying sound I’d
heard in all my hunts: a baby screaming.

We thrust through the bushes and ran flat out. The baby boy,
lying naked on the dirty, white blanket the Gator had used to carry it,
couldn’t have been more than a few months old. His high-pitched wails pierced
my chest like an arrow.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the Gator stood next to a nest
of dried vines, nudging something toward the squealing kid. A young Gator, only
three feet long, whimpered and butted at Mama with its head. It dawned on me; a
baby wasn’t more than a mouthful to a grown Gator. They were stealing kids to
feed their own. It even explained why the recent kills had been messy, too. The
Gators were teaching the baby monster to hunt.

Little Gator waddled over the wall of the nest, watching the
baby with wide eyes. A few quick, playful snaps of its jaw, then it tottered
toward its meal. Appalled, I was ready to launch myself out of the shadows when
yellow eyes flicked our direction. Mama-Gator rose onto her back feet, towering
over both of us.

Patterson swung the butt of his rifle into the Gator’s
mid-section. She glanced down at her belly, then back up at us, merely annoyed
by the blow. Quick as lightning, the beast grabbed Patterson by the throat and
lifted him from the ground. His legs flailed about, and his face darkened in
the dim moonlight. I ducked under Patterson’s legs, getting kicked in the back,
to stab her in the foot. Snarling, she dropped Patterson. When she lunged for
me, I stabbed at her chest, but she moved too fast, and I got her in the
forearm. She rammed me hard enough to knock me flat on my back. Mama raised a
taloned hand, looking ready to smash my skull, but Patterson sprang up between
us.

She swiped her talons at Patterson’s head. He danced out of
the way and I rolled behind them. On my knees now, I sliced one of her back
legs, then climbed to my feet to try for another blow. Hissing and spitting,
the Gator swept her tail under our feet, tossing both of us to the ground
again. I got the wind knocked right out of me. The little Gator whined for Mama
while I gasped for breath.

The monster dropped on all fours, but didn’t come after us.
Instead, she dashed toward the baby Gator and the still screaming infant. As I
struggled to sit up, the Gator wrapped the human kid in the blanket like he was
a sandwich, getting ready to take her meal to-go. She croaked to the young
Gator and gave it a hard shove to get it moving. Baby Gator whined again, but
toddled along ahead of her.

Not missing a beat, Patterson rolled to his knees. Surging
forward, he grabbed the monster’s tail, leaned back and gave her a jerk. The
Gator dropped the baby hard. The little boy was silent for one horrifying
second, then screamed louder than ever. The young Gator started for him, its
teeth bared.

“Kill this thing! Hurry!” Patterson yelled.

The baby kicked free of the blanket. The sight of his chubby
legs wriggling on the jungle floor did something to me—this was way worse than
seeing Ella cornered.

My brain went nuclear. In a fit of rage that ran white-hot,
I stabbed the Gator in the back of the neck, yanking the knife through her
leathery hide. The powerful blade slid through the flesh, hide and bone like it
was made of warm wax.

Patterson snatched the baby away from the young Gator. It
shook its head angrily, croaking at us in shrill tones. I knew I had to finish
it off. It ate kids; I couldn’t let it live. But it was so little, reminding me
of the rubber crocodile pool-raft my mom had given me when I was six. How could
I kill Mr. Swimmy?

That hesitation cost us. With a wild howl, the young monster
began to swell. Its scales popped as its torso lengthened and broadened,
followed by its head, legs and tail. I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was like
time-capture photography, except in real-life. Chest heaving, the now
adult-sized Gator stood on its hind-legs and growled at me.

“Run, sir!” I jumped in front of the beast, waving the knife.
“Get the baby out of here!”

Patterson took off. I heard him screaming into his radio as
he ran. Borden would be here soon. Of course, I’d probably be torn to bits by
then. I’d killed this thing’s mama. It wasn’t going to roll over and play dead.

It flexed its claws, clicking them together, as if to tell
me it planned to kill me inch by mutilated inch. I knew if I ran, though, it’d
chase me down. Better to face it here. The knife hummed in agreement.

The Gator and I circled each other. We brushed against the
close-growing plants as we moved. Its yellow eyes never left mine. I took a
shaky breath and raised the knife.

Before I could blink, it rushed me and threw me back six
feet. Something popped when I hit the dirt, then my left leg went numb. Unable
to sit up, I lay helpless as it dropped on all fours, snapping with its
piano-key-sized teeth. I tried rolling away, but it hurried alongside,
corralling me the other direction. I struggled to my knees, ribs killing me, my
leg tingling, and started to crawl. The Gator stood in my way. Every move I
made, it countered without attacking. Like it was tiring me out so it could
chew me in half at its convenience. Bored with the game and needing a way to
strike its belly, chest or neck, I flopped back to the ground with my eyes just
barely slit open. It crawled over and straddled my body with its too-long legs.

“Ahora,” it snarled.

It spoke Spanish! Not mangled words, like the bears, but
real, live, human-level Spanish. I even understood the word—”now.” I knew
better than to react, since I was supposedly unconscious, but holy guacamole!

Something thrashed through the bushes; it sounded like a
man, running. The Gator paused half a second to see what was coming. That was
enough. I’d hesitated once. This time I didn’t. I slashed its belly. The thing
gurgled then flopped onto one side, showering me with green blood.

Borden flew into the clearing, took in the scene and heaved
the monster’s body away from me. “Archer, you okay?”

“Yeah, think so.” I crawled to my feet. “Where’s the
lieutenant?”

“This way.”

We hurried down the trail toward camp, finally catching up
with Patterson as he jogged along holding the baby. Now that the little guy was
wrapped up in Patterson’s huge arms, he had quieted down. He shoved two fingers
in mouth and sucked on them while the lieutenant rocked him back and forth.

“Will he be okay?” I asked. Given that he wasn’t crying, I
figured he would, but what did I know about newborns?

“Should be,” the lieutenant said. “He’ll be hungry soon,
though. Not much we can do about that, so we need to hurry back to base and
find his mom.” Patterson jumped, then snorted. “And we need to figure out a
diaper. Then the team needs to get our happy butts back out here and kill as
many of these things we can find over the next few days.”

“Amen to that, sir.” I cleaned my blade on the bushes before
following Patterson down the trail. I didn’t bother to sheathe the knife,
planning to kill anything that got in our way.

Borden took point, so Patterson and the baby were between
us. “I heard that kid scream from my post, sir. Ran as fast as I could. Nice
save.” He ran his hand over his sweat-coated brown hair. “You, too, Archer.”

When we got back to camp, we were greeted by applause.
Ramirez clapped me on the back. “Good work.” He grinned at Patterson’s wet
BDUs. “Lieutenant, hand me the baby so you can change.”

It took three hours on the radio with the Peruvian Civil
Guard to find out where the baby belonged—a village ten miles away. His name
was Miguel. Seeing as how we didn’t have anything a baby needed, we dressed him
in an olive-drab t-shirt. Patterson also made a diaper out of underwear and a
sock, then tucked him into a cardboard box lined with an old blanket. As
McAndrew and Smith got ready to drive Miguel home, I checked on him one last
time.