Monster Hunter Alpha-ARC (39 page)

When I began writing this journal, I already knew I was missing that part. The real first memory I have after the battle was stepping out of a chopper onto the deck of an aircraft carrier. Six men of first squad had been killed, and one was missing. Every other man had been injured.

The huge body of Travis Alamo Sam Houston was unmistakable under his blanket, now soaked with blood, as the corpsmen laid him on the deck. Conover and Sharon had both been injured, Conover not too badly, but Sharon had suffered a severe laceration and had been rushed away. We’d been left unsure as to her fate. Conover had cried on my shoulder.

The memories would have been blurry anyway, since I knew that we’d clashed as werewolves. I still know that there was a truce between us, but I don’t know how we got it.

STFU was disbanded. We were instructed not to speak about it and not to contact each other. I was sent home. A few months later, I got a fancy letter stating that I was once again PUFF-exempt, along with an anonymous note telling me that Sharon had survived, but no other details.

A Bullman came to visit me in Cazador a year after I’d returned. My Hunters almost attacked him before I was able to get them to stand down. He was a holy man. He told me that Travis Alamo Sam Houston had earned a PUFF exemption for the Bullmen of East Texas, and that in his final message to his people, he’d spoken of how he’d declared a werewolf to be his brother, and therefore of his tribe. The shaman had brought me a gift. It was a leather hide.

I damn near blew a gasket when I found out it
was
Travis. The shaman explained. The greatest honor a Bullman could bestow was to give his body in the service of his tribe. It was their way. I suppose it was like Travis telling me that death wasn’t about to keep him from watching my back. It would be a huge dishonor on all Bullmen not to use the gift. Plus, the shaman was Travis’s father.

Turns out Travis’s letters to his tribe had detailed how he still needed to save my life several times before we were even. The shaman explained that this was the only way that Travis’s spirit could get a proper rest in Bullman heaven. Together, we crafted the hide into a coat—broke a mess of needles in the process—and the shaman enchanted it with the Bullmen’s strongest medicine. I’ve used it ever since. It was the nicest gift anybody ever gave me.

I’ve not heard from Nikolai since Vietnam. He’s out there. Waiting. I know there will come a time when we meet again. I can only pray that I’m stronger and wiser this time. I have to rise above.

Nikolai reminded me what a true werewolf was. It’s not the claws or the fangs. It isn’t just the physical manifestation. It is the darkness that lives inside us all, left free to roam. The Hum awakes the evil inside. The only difference between us and everyone else is that we can’t keep our evil bottled up like everyone else. We have to face it. We have to overcome it. In Vietnam, I failed. I let myself become like him in order to fight him.

If I could have one wish, it would be to take this curse from me. I dream of being a man, and nothing more than a mortal man. How would it be? Freedom? I can’t even remember what that was like. But even if somehow this curse was lifted tomorrow, I’d still have to pay for my sins. Besides, being cured? That can’t ever be. It’s stupid and vain to wish for the impossible. So instead I will live every day trying to atone for the things I’ve done. It’s the best I can do.

Santiago was wrong. He thought I was a good man. I’m not. I can never be worthy of that title. My father was a good man. Santiago was a good man. Travis was a good man, though he’d be insulted if I called him a man. The men of first squad and the hundreds of Hunters I’ve helped set in the ground have been good men. No. Not me. The best that I can ever aspire to is kicking evil’s ass at every opportunity, until eventually it wins and I die.

Then I can look God in the eye and say that I did the best I could with the hand I got dealt. A werewolf can’t ask for much more than that.

PART 3: THE HARBINGER

STFU was operating out of a firebase in the highlands when I found my new name.

Let me explain. As a werewolf, you age very slowly. Having the same Shackleford running MHI for too long could get suspicious, so I’d started picking a new name every generation. I planned on restarting again after getting back from Vietnam, and Mr. Wolf certainly wouldn’t do for a proper name.

One morning Van came and woke me up. He said that an important man had come to the village and wanted to speak with me. You’ve got to understand, we were in the middle of nowhere, so I wasn’t sure what kind of important person would end up out here, but our young translator was adamant. So I followed him down to the Degar village.

I liked the Degar.
Montagnards for “Mountain People,”
The French called them. So most of the Americans called them Yards for short. They were on our side, and they could fight like nobody’s business. The locals had been guiding Destroyer and his boys and had been feeding intel to STFU.

Van took me to a hut on stilts with a really tall roof. It appeared that all of the local warriors had formed a perimeter around the hut. They were showing a lot of deference to whoever the mystery guest was. Inside the smoky, dark, hot dwelling was one of the oldest men that I’d ever laid eyes on. He was blind, wrinkled, could barely whisper, and was playing with a plate full of chicken entrails.

“What’s the deal, Van?”

“He’s a holy man, Mr. Wolf. He’s come a very long way to find you.”

“No. I mean with that chicken.”

“He’s telling the future.”

Van was an earnest fellow, and I’d never known him to be the superstitious type. The old man whispered something. Van had to lean in real close to translate. “An animal gave its spirit to a man. The spirit was tricky and thought it could change the man. The spirit had always changed the man. But this man would not change. Instead, he made the animal spirit change its ways.”

My condition was not to be spoken about. “I’m sure hoping you didn’t tell him anything classified, Van.”

“No, Mr. Wolf. I didn’t tell him. He said the mountain spirits told him you were coming.” Flexible mind, I preferred to think that this old man’s mountain spirits were whispering to him rather than my translator was talking about things that could get him in trouble. The old man kept on whispering. “He says that the animal spirits have waited…I don’t know the word…A very long time for one that could change them. The animal spirits will listen to you…the mountain spirits will help you…in the war.”

“Tell him thanks. In a war, you’ll take whatever help you can get.”

Van told him. There were flies buzzing around the chicken, and the hut was so humid it made Alabama seem frosty. The old man kept on in a monotone whisper. Van looked confused. “Not this war. The big war.”

“This one ain’t big enough?”

“No. The coming war…Sorry, I don’t understand. The mountain spirits told him it is coming. The war to end all things. You are one of the four.”

“What’s that mean? Four what?”

The creases of the old holy man’s knuckles were filled with dried chicken blood. “The Mountain Spirits won’t say. Before you can lead the animal spirits, you have to teach someone. Make them ready for the war that will end all things. You have to prepare the way.…There will be many battles. Many changes. If you fail, the animal spirits will fight on the enemy’s side instead. When the time is right, you will announce the war, and all the spirits will follow you into the dark place.”

“None of that makes a lick of sense.”

“He says you are the one that prepares the way.…I don’t know the word. One that prepares the way.…A harbinger? Yes. The mountain spirits say you are the harbinger.”

The holy man fell silent. He scooped up the plate of guts and tossed it out the door to the dogs. He was done. He’d delivered the message from his mountain spirits. We were dismissed.

Harbinger. I liked the sound of that.

Chapter 24

The Briarwood company Cadillac was stuck. “On three,” Stark ordered. “One, two,
three!
” He threw all his weight against the bumper. The tires spun uselessly in the snow. “No! Damn idiot! You’ve got to rock it! Rock it!”

Ryan Horst stuck his head out the window. “I’m trying, okay? Quit yelling at me.”

Stark stood up with a grunt. His back was killing him, having wrenched something during his jump from the hospital window. They’d managed to lose the zombie-werewolves right before Horst had spun them off the side of the road into a ditch. The other Briarwood Hunter, Lins, was trying to help push the front end of the truck out. It was hopeless. It would probably take a tractor to drag them out.

The two of them stopped to take a breath. Stark looked back the way they’d come. The monsters were bound to catch up any second, but he couldn’t even see far enough through the snowfall to tell how much time they had left. “All this shit on here and you don’t have a winch? You’ve got rims that spin, and no winch? Are you kidding me?”

Lins shrugged. “Weren’t expecting none of this, man. This was supposed to be a cakewalk.”

“No heavy weapons. No clue. It’s amateur hour.” Stark glanced around. His parka was back at the hospital, and the wind was cutting right through the seams of his armor. He needed to warm up, but if they hunkered down the monsters would tear them apart. There had to be something they could use, somewhere they could go. “I can’t believe I trusted you idiots.”

“Hey. Look at that.” Lins pointed at something in the distance.

Squinting, Stark could barely make out the lights. “I think that’s the high school. I drove by there earlier.”

“You got a better place to be?”

Stark’s face burned from the cold. His ears were probably going to turn black and fall off. Odds were there was nobody worth a damn at the high school, either, but if they had lights, then they had a generator, so at least he could die warm. “Better than being out here.” He slammed his fist on the hood to get Horst’s attention, then regretted it immediately as the impact stung his frozen hand. “Come on, stupid. Let’s go.”

Horst gave him a sullen glare as he got out, but he was smart enough not to say anything. Stark wasn’t in the mood.

The three of them gathered around the back of the Cadillac so Stark could take stock of the situation. Horst and Lins both had rifles, but there were only a couple of mags left between them. Stark had his issue Glock and a combat knife; that was it. He had pouches full of SCAR mags filled with composite silver 7.62, but his rifle had been left leaning against the wall during his hasty escape from Deputy Buckley. To make matters even more embarrassing, there was a Suburban full of top-of-the-line MCB equipment sitting in the hospital parking lot surrounded by zombie-werewolves.

“Before we make a run for those lights, you guys have any more cold-weather gear you can spare?” Stark asked through chattering teeth.

“If we did, I’d be wearing it,” Lins answered sharply as he sat on the Caddy’s bumper. Balancing his M-4 carbine between his legs, Lins pulled his sweater up over his mouth and nose, then shoved his hands into his armpits. “What’re we supposed to do about Jo?”

A slimy hand landed against the interior of the back window. A horrible visage rose behind the hand. The face was slack and pale, dripping sweat past bloodshot eyes. Drool spilled out as the mouth opened wide. The monster’s face hit the glass with a wet thud.

“Threat!” Stark shouted as he went for his sidearm.

“No, wai—”

BANG.

A hole appeared in the glass. The horrible face disappeared.

Lins fell off the bumper. “Son of a bitch! You shot Jo!”

Stark slowly lowered his Glock as the hand slid down the glass until it also disappeared from view. “Jo?” He looked to Horst, but the lead Briarwood man was just standing there, mouth hanging open, apparently in shock. “Who’s Jo?”

“
That
was Jo Schneider,” Lins said as he got to his feet. “She’s with us. She’s Horst’s girlfriend! Shit, man, you just capped our secretary!”

It took his numbed hand a few tries to get the Glock back into the holster. “The one with the sexy voice?” Stark mumbled. “Well…Huh. I pictured her as better looking.”

“She was, before a giant scarecrow robot puked her up,” Lins said.

Horst stepped forward without a word and opened the back of the Cadillac. Stark looked past Horst’s shoulder. The woman had been wrapped in a blanket and appeared to have been in really rough shape even before the gunshot wound. He’d seen healthier looking zombies. “In my defense, she
looked
like a monster.” Jo Ann was still alive, but probably not for long. Stark’s bullet had punched through her shoulder, and from the amount of blood, he assumed that he’d severed the axillary artery “Well…Shit. Sorry, I guess.”

Jo Ann squinted at Horst. She was having a hard time focusing. “I…I was just gonna…tell you I was feeling…better.”

Lins urgently tapped Stark on the shoulder. “We got company.”

He turned around. There were dark shapes moving against the white backdrop down the block. The undead were back. They weren’t running this way yet, but they would be soon. “Time to go, Horst…Horst?” He turned back to find Horst still staring at the woman. Stark leaned in and whispered, “We don’t have time to be sentimental, kid. If you want to put her out of her misery, do it quick and don’t make too much noise.”

Shaking his head, Horst stepped back. “Naw. I’m cool.”

“Ryan?” Jo Ann croaked.

“Nothing personal, baby, but my pop used to say that if you’re being chased by a bear, you don’t need to outrun the bear, just your slowest friend.” Horst’s expression was as cold as their surroundings.

Jo Ann reached out for Horst as he turned away. She managed to snag his coat sleeve and held on for dear life. “Don’t leave me.”

Horst jerked his arm out of her grasp without giving her so much as a glance. “If we’re lucky, they’ll slow down for a snack. Come on. Let’s go.”