Matt Archer: Monster Hunter (Matt Archer #1) (25 page)

Shouts, machine-gun fire. The team had found me.

Chaos reigned. Boots stomped all around. Ramirez stormed by
with his knife clutched in his right hand. It glowed green.

Murphy dropped to his knees next to me. “We gotta stop the
bleeding. This is gonna hurt.”

He pressed a bandage to my side. Black shadows of pain
clouded my vision. Barely able to draw breath, I whispered, “It’s too late,
Murphy.”

Just before the darkness took me, I saw it. The big Gator
stood in the trees, watching us.

It was laughing.

“Matt, stay with us, kid.”

Voices faded in and out, not letting me rest.

“…so much blood, sir, I don’t…”

“Murphy…patch job. Gotta get him out of…”

“Sir, movement, eight o’clock…”

I floated on a bed of incandescent pain. Flames seared my
side, my lungs, my heart.

“…with me. I may be able to heal…”

“…carry him?”

Someone picked me up. Hurt. Bad.

“Go, go, go…”

Finally, sleep.

* * *

When I came to, I was lying on a pallet on the dirt floor of
a straw hut, covered with an Army blanket. The cut-up remains of my dry suit
had been tossed into one corner. A man, maybe forty with brown skin and
crazy-scary eyes, peered intently at my face. He was small, with short, black
hair and ropy muscles on his arms. He wore a rough white tunic and khaki field
pants, with a bunch of necklaces made out of rocks and bones, and had a knife
sheathed in a rope belt at his side. His feet were bare.

“Are you the medicine man?” I whispered.

He smiled. “Yes, I’m Jorge. You need rest; we will talk
later.”

* * *

Johnson’s voice shook. “His temp is one-oh-three. I told you
we should’ve medevacked him with Patterson and Toldan. Three KIAs are bad
enough. We have to call his mother, get him to the States.”

Patterson wasn’t dead? Good news, but I couldn’t seem to
make my eyes open. My body felt like it weighed double and I was freezing.

“Fever is good. Fights off infection,” the medicine man
said. “It’s the perfect biological defense mechanism.”

Mike hadn’t been kidding. Jorge sounded like he’d been born
and raised in the northeast—slightly nasal, clipped. And formal, like someone
on a yacht somewhere. The accent didn’t match the guy at all. He also talked
like a doctor or some other egghead.

Then again, I might’ve been hallucinating the whole
conversation.

Cool hands probed my side. I groaned, forgetting about
everything but the pain that burned my ribcage. It hurt so much, tears leaked from
the corners of my eyes.

“The wound is closing much faster than I expected,” Jorge
said. “Quite miraculous, to be sure.”

“He needs to go home, Jorge. A fifteen-year-old with a
slashed up body needs his mama,” Johnson growled.

An amused snort from Jorge. “Give me one more night.
Tomorrow it will look better. You will see.”

“Johnson, he’s right. His medicine is better for this kind
of wound,” Ramirez said.

“Mpfth.” Darn it, that was supposed to be “Listen to
Ramirez.” My tongue wouldn’t move anymore, though, so I just laid there like a
pile of jelly.

Johnson blew out a long breath. “Tomorrow morning. Then we
call his mother and medevac him to the States for treatment.” A pause. “I
promised his sister that I’d be personally responsible for keeping him safe.”

Johnson’s shadow left me as he stomped away.

“He is safe, lieutenant,” Jorge whispered, pressing a wet
cloth to my forehead. I felt the vibration of my knife through the pallet. It
must have been close by and it agreed with Jorge.

Continuing to hum, the blade lulled me to sleep.

* * *

“I’ll see if he’s awake,” Johnson said.

I managed to open my eyes. A little sunlight streamed in
through the cracks in the walls and the straw roof. When I tried to sit up, my
entire body rattled with a chill. I flopped back down.

“Don’t move so much, Matt. You’re better, but let’s not rush
things.” Johnson rested a satellite phone on the dirt floor and knelt next to
my pallet. He tried to smile, but worry lined his dark eyes. He pulled my
blanket back over my chest.

“Good idea,” I whispered, still shaking.

“Think you can talk to Mamie?” he asked. “She’s worried
sick.”

“Does she know…that I’m hurt?” My throat scratched when I
talked.

“Yeah, she knows. When you didn’t check in with her on time,
she called Colonel Black every hour for nineteen straight hours.” Johnson
chuckled. “Takes a lot to wear that man down, but your sister did it in less
than a day.”

That made me smile, and it felt good. Strength flooded
through my arms and legs. I wiggled my fingers and toes. Everything was still
in working order. My side ached, but not as bad as I would have thought, so I
propped myself on my elbows. This time it didn’t wear me out as much. Someone
had covered my stab wound, a long gash just under my right ribcage, with gauze
and some kind of smelly paste.

“Give me the phone. I’ll see if I can calm her down some.”
He handed it to me. I cleared my throat and tried to sound cheerful. “Mamie,
what’s up?”

“You…you idiot!” That’s all I got before she burst into
noisy sobs.

“I’m fine. I just got a little scratched up.”

“Scratched up? Matt!” she wailed. “I can’t do this anymore.
We need to tell Mom!”

“So Mom still doesn’t know?” How on earth had we gotten away
with that? I’d been gone for days. Mom would never let me hang at Will’s that
long.

“Not yet. No thanks to the military’s flimsy cover story,
though. Will and I had to improvise so she wouldn’t get suspicious,” she said
with a sniffle.

Improvise? “Where does Mom think I am?”

“Aspen. I texted Mom on your phone, begging to go skiing
with Will. Then he hacked Mrs. Cruessan’s email to send Mom a message saying it
was okay for you to join them. Once she said yes, I took your ski bibs to
Will’s, and he’s been hiding out at his place ever since to make sure he
doesn’t run into anybody since he’s supposedly out of town. I send Mom texts
from your phone every night, telling her about the trip, and I’ve been posting
bogus pictures on your Facebook page.”

“Is that how we’re going to explain the injuries? The ski
trip?” I asked, impressed with her sneakiness.

“Exactly. You’re supposed to be home from Aspen on Saturday,
having taken a tumble down the mountain on Friday. Now, get better or I’ll kill
you myself!” She sniffed once then hung up.

“One tough cookie,” Johnson said. “Um hmm, wouldn’t want her
on my case.”

“No joke. How long have I been out?” I asked.

“It’s Tuesday evening.”

Two days? No wonder I needed to pee. “Please help me up,
sir. I need to use the latrine. After that, I’d appreciate someone telling me
what happened.”

* * *

Jorge insisted that we eat before we got down to business.
As much as I wanted information, I almost cheered. Stab wound or not, I
could’ve eaten raw Gator.

I felt a ton better after eating. I was even able to get up
and walk around on my own, as long as I didn’t go far. During my trip to la-la
land, the team had moved to Jorge’s; the tents looked out of place around his
hut. The hut itself was made of light-colored wood and straw, and was roundish,
with a pointed roof. Jorge’s house was barely bigger than my bedroom, but the view
made up for the lack of space.

He lived on a cliff overlooking a swift stream running in
the gorge below. Trees grew thick all around us, to the edge of the cliff, and
tropical birds flew overhead in droves. The sunset, deep orange and pink,
glowed through the vines, turning the whole sky rose-colored. Too bad Gators
lived here—I’d consider moving, otherwise. It’d be nice to live someplace where
I didn’t need a snow-blower.

Jorge came to stand next to me. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

I still couldn’t get used to the way he talked—like an
ivy-league college professor. “Your English is better than mine.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You are fifteen?”

“Yeah.”

“So young… I came home from the States before you were born,
so I have been speaking English longer than you have, native tongue or not.”

He put a finger on my cheek, turning my face this way and
that. Jorge was so short, he had to reach up to do it. I had no clue what he
was looking for, and he didn’t tell me.

“We should talk,” was all he said before leaving me to stand
alone.

When it got dark, we gathered around a fire. Ramirez and
Johnson sat to my left, Jorge to my right, with the rest of the team spread out
in little groups around us. It was like being at camp. Except for the guns. I
smothered a laugh when I remembered Ramirez saying they didn’t have time for
fireside chats.

“Before we get started,” Johnson said, his voice thick and
more rumbling than usual, “I’d like to propose a moment of silence for the
fallen, God rest their souls.”

Heads bowed all around the campfire and tears stung my eyes.
Borden didn’t deserved to die the way he had. Neither did Moreno or McAndrew.
No one did. Anger started to burn through my veins. I’d hold onto the anger.
It’d keep me focused, give me strength.

Ramirez cleared his throat. “Jorge, you find some Gators out
there?”

“Yes—three. And I finished them,” Jorge said, with a hard
smile. “The creatures that got away Sunday night are the last.”

Did that mean the big Gator was still out there? I drew my
knees to my chest with a shudder. “What happened after I got captured?”

“Well, we saw a flash of light and ran your direction,”
Ramirez said. “Jorge had slit one of the Gators’ throats. The rest were
fleeing.”

I stared at the little man. While Jorge couldn’t have been
more than five-two, there wasn’t a more powerful person around. Not even
Johnson. I could just tell. Something about the glint in his dark eyes, maybe.
The intelligence mixed with magical powers…good thing this guy was on our side.

“We bagged one more. Based on the kill count this week, we
have three on the run,” Ramirez added.

Three left. Who wanted to bet the big Gator was one of them?
I tuned Ramirez out for a second, wondering if it was hunting for me. Its laugh
had haunted my nightmares while I was unconscious. Was it still laughing?

When I came back to earth, Ramirez was talking about me.

“…as much damage to your side as we originally thought—tore
into the muscle layer, but didn’t puncture any organs. It was bad enough,
though.” Ramirez rubbed his eyes. “Murphy had a hard time getting you stable.
You’d lost a lot of blood by then.”

“What about Patterson and Toldan. Will they be okay?” I
asked, the image of Patterson’s bleeding chest seared onto my brain.

“Yeah, man, they’ll be okay,” Johnson said. “Patterson
needed about eighty stitches and three units of O positive, but he’ll make it
just fine.” He paused, darting a look at Ramirez. “Toldan lost an eye.”

“So three KIA, two others wounded, and you got slashed
open,” Ramirez added. “Gators did a lot of damage.”

“Gators? No, I stabbed myself when I fell.” I pulled my
clean t-shirt away from the sticky paste that had worked past the gauze. The
goo smelled like rotten plums. Might have been, for all I knew. “Pretty dumb,
huh?”

“The knife?” Ramirez sounded surprised. “We thought a Gator
wounded you.”

“Matt, you probably just don’t remember right…if you’d
fallen on your knife, it would have laid you open like a gutted fish,” Johnson
said, his voice soothing, as if I was still out of it.

Jorge chuckled. “No, I’m sure he remembers right.”

Like they’d planned it, the entire team turned in unison to
stare at me.

“What…what are you talking about?” My knife, sheathed and
sitting on the dirt in front of me, hummed in response.

“The knives protect us when they can. I accidentally slid my
finger along the blades a few times when forging them, and never cut or burned
myself.” Jorge scooted closer to me, a strange smile on his face. “But yours
reacts when you aren’t touching it. I’ve not seen that before.”

“You haven’t?” I squeaked.

“No,” Jorge said, looking me over like I was an interesting
lab specimen. “Of the five knives, yours is the only one that reacts to its
wielder without physical contact. Your spirit-bond with your blade is unique.
Impressive.”

“Wait, spirit-bond?” I blurted out. Ramirez and I exchanged
freaked glances.

“Yes, it’s time you knew exactly what all of you have been
chosen for,” Jorge answered. “The knives are alive.”

“What do you mean, alive?” I asked, trying to keep the panic
I felt out of my voice. I didn’t want to look like a pansy in front of the
Green Berets.

Ramirez nodded fast. “Yeah, what do you mean? Magic, sure.
But this is the first I’m hearing about spirits.”

Jorge laughed. “I had a hard enough time convincing your
Army that you needed the knives in the first place. Do you honestly think a
group of soldiers would have trusted a weapon that could think for itself?”

“Man has a point,” Johnson muttered.

“My ancestors have been trying to forge these blades for
centuries, based on the vision one of our elders saw of the coming dark war.
The elder saw the knives as well, as the weapons necessary to our survival, so
my people set out to create them.” Jorge said, settling cross-legged closer to
the fire. “From father to son, my family has been trying to make these blades
since that time.”

“It’s taken this long?” I asked. Talk about being patient.

“It has,” he answered. “We knew how to craft them in the
ancient way, with gold and copper and special spells. But there was always
something missing; the metal would not hold power. Not until I discovered how
to bind the spirits of light to the blades. University education goes a long
way.” He grunted out a laugh. “Chemistry and the occult, you see? Old and
new…science and the mystical. Fusion, yes? That’s what was missing.”

“So you went to Yale…to make your magic better?” Johnson
asked, looking at Jorge in disbelief. “Don’t know that I’ve ever heard that one
before.”

Jorge laughed outright at that. “Indeed. And it worked. Of
course, I did blow out half the windows in the lab the night I solved the
problem. The result was a bit more explosive than I imagined. But it still
worked.”

I stared at my knife. Yeah, it had definitely worked. Dozens
of dead monsters agreed. “Is that when you came home?”

“Yes,” Jorge said. “My family has served these people for
generations, and now I had the right tools. This is where I’m needed. The light
told me as much, and I trust its counsel most of the time.”

“So, the spirits…they talk to you?” Ramirez asked.

“Of course. They talk to you, too, Major. You just haven’t
learned to listen,” Jorge said. “They are a part of each of us.”

I shivered. I’d been carrying a spirit around in my
backpack. One that talked to me. A lot of puzzle pieces were falling into place
now.

Jorge went on. “That’s why the knife didn’t kill Matt when
he fell on the blade. The spirits protected him. Dulled the edge, maybe.”

“I always wondered why I never had to sharpen my knife. The
spirits must be maintaining the blades,” Ramirez said.

“Wait—maybe that explains something else then, too,” Johnson
said, pointing at me. “Matt looks like he got stretched by a taffy machine
since I saw him last fall. Major Tannen said the kid shot up half a foot in
just a few months. Can the spirits change people?”

Jorge looked thoughtful. “It’s possible. In fact, in the
boy’s case, I’d say it’s likely.”

I controlled the urge to chuckle in hysteria, because I’d
figured that out weeks ago.

“I’m a wielder and they haven’t changed me physically,”
Ramirez said, giving me a strange look. “Why would they mess with Archer?”

“My guess?” Jorge said. “The spirits saw a need to push him
to adult fighting strength as quickly as possible to level the playing field
for all five wielders. I don’t think they are pushing him beyond the natural
order—making him taller than he would have been, for example—but are simply
speeding up his normal growth.”

“I still don’t get why they picked me in the first place.
Wouldn’t it have been easier to stick with my Uncle Mike?” I asked.

“Did you notice the Gators seemed to recognize you?” Jorge
asked, raising an eyebrow. “When I came to save you the other night, I
overheard them talking. They knew who you were.”

Ramirez’s jaw dropped. “They
what?”

“Oh, yes, Major,” he said. “The Gators are quite afraid of
Matt. One told the others to be careful because ‘El muchacho es muy
peligroso’—the boy’s dangerous.”

Icy sludge filled my gut. It was true then; the Gators knew
me. “But how did they find out about me? I’ve only been here a few days.”

“We’re talking about supernatural beings, Matt. The regular
communication channels don’t exactly apply.” Jorge’s smile was kind and amused.
“But you do appear very closely bound to your blade’s spirit. It gives you an
edge, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“You’re also one hell of a fighter,” Johnson added.

“Yes, you are,” Jorge said. “The spirits compliment your
natural abilities, turning you into a skilled weapon. I imagine this is why
they chose you. If that is true, then you are
very
dangerous to the other side. And
the dark spirits know it.”

The icy sludge formed into a ball and my gut ached. “But
what’s so special about me? If the spirits can change people, why not pick
someone stronger and faster to begin with and turn him into Superman or
something?”

“You’re marked by blood,” Jorge said. “All five of the
wielders are. Our forefathers possessed great strength and courage. The knives
recognized that strength in us.” He stood, pacing about the fire. “But, in your
case, I believe there’s more. You are marked by name as well.”

A sharp zap, like a shock, hit my heart as I got what he
meant. Archer. Except for blue eyes, my last name was the only thing my dad had
ever given me. Archer was a soldier’s name. A hunter’s name.

“Your knife was the last I made. The best,” Jorge said. “I
thought it would choose to stay with me, but it didn’t. It left with your
uncle, then found you.” He knelt next to me. “You’re destined to fight, Mr.
Archer. What else all this means, I cannot say. I simply don’t know, not yet.
But you are one of the wielders. A warrior against dark spirits.”

None of this information did much to cheer me up, because if
what Jorge said was true, I had no future. Only a mission. To save humankind
from demons, terrors, and evil creatures bent on our destruction. Armed only
with a knife.

“Blood and light,” I said, feeling numb.

Jorge sucked in a surprised breath. “Yes. Your blood. The
spirit’s light.”

The knife’s handle flashed blue, as if to tell me I’d
finally worked out a secret it had been trying to share. I picked it up. Like
always, something about the blade’s weight steadied my nerves. An entire team
of Green Berets had my back. Will and Mamie were with me, and now Ella was,
too. With that kind of help, maybe I could tackle this quest thing.

“Yeah,” I murmured to my knife, “you and I have work to do.”

* * *

Jorge gave me some tea that tasted like stewed tree bark. It
made me sleepy, and I went to bed early. I dreamed about normal things. Ella in
a pink bikini. An otter riding a unicycle. No monsters. I woke up feeling more
rested than I had for a long time.

When I staggered out of the tent, looking for breakfast, I
found Jorge standing at the edge of his cliff, watching the sun come up over
the trees. Murphy had guard duty. He walked the perimeter of camp, his automatic
at the ready. Everyone else was crashed out.

“Buenos Diaz,” Jorge said. “Sleep well?”

I nodded. “No clue what was in that tea, but I slept great.”

“I imagine you did,” Jorge said, smiling. “Strong stuff, but
I wanted you feeling rested. We hunt tonight.”

Hunt? I’d been stabbed and dragged through the jungle a few
days ago, and he wanted me to hunt? I leaned against a tree trunk, rubbing the
sore spot on my rib cage. “You think I’m well enough?”

“I don’t know.” Jorge sighed. “The fact that you’re so young
grieves me. It’s quite a burden, being a wielder.”

That comment caught me off-guard after all of his “you’ve
been chosen” crap the night before. He sounded like Mike did early on, and I
was tired of people saying I was just a kid.

“I can handle it,” I said.

“Then you’ve answered your own question, haven’t you?” Jorge
gave me a sidelong glance and his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

Oh, yeah, I’d walked right into that one. Reverse
psychology…hard to believe I fell for it.

“Guess I did.”

“But,” Jorge said, serious now, “it doesn’t matter if you
are ready or not. The knives choose our path—not us.”

The truth could be a kick in the pants sometimes. Because
Jorge was right; the job couldn’t wait, not this time. I didn’t have the luxury
of healing up first. Maybe I never would again.

“I’m ready just the same,” I said.

“I know,” Jorge said. When he looked at me, I could see that
he meant it. “We didn’t finish part of our conversation last night. About why I
came home, despite the culture shock.”

“You said you were needed in Peru—that your family had
always served here,” I said.

“True, but I could have ignored the need. I made a life in
the States. I became used to modern conveniences and it was hard to give that
up. But I did.” Jorge stared at the valley below us and we watched a flock of
birds take flight against the brightness of the rising sun. “I came back
because I have a duty. And duty isn’t a choice for those of us who seek to be
good men. Remember that.”

Jorge was just full of sunshine this morning. Still, what he
said stuck in my head. I didn’t want to be like my dad. I wouldn’t run out on
my responsibilities because it was easier.

“I’ll remember,” I said.

He clamped a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Spend the day resting. We’ll meet just before dusk.”