Monster Hunter Memoir: Saints

  Unfortunately, Special Agent Campbell also attended the meeting. His position was that there had not been a kifo outbreak all summer. In fact, the last time one had been seen had been when Agent Robinson had lost his life. MCB New Orleans’ official stance was that the creature had probably gone back to sleep, the idea that it was actually a larval Old One was laughably absurd, and any operation sufficient to destroy it would pose too much risk of exposure.

  We’d done our homework and come up with a plan that would allow us to bring a maximum amount of firepower with a minimal number of witnesses. We simply needed MCB’s permission, oh…and the whole Marine Corps waiting nearby, in case things got out of hand, would be nice. That was a hard sell.

  Trying to convince them that the real reason New Orleans was such a supernatural hotspot was because of this entity’s true nature, and thus worth the risk to attack it directly, was a harder sell.

  In the end Campbell wanted to pass the buck. He was more worried about the very real chance of witnesses than the tiny off-chance that the mava was a world ender waiting to bloom. New Orleans had been relatively quiet for months, the Select Committee was off his back, and Director Wagner wanted to keep it that way. They would conduct their own investigation into the threat…Of course, under the new oversight rules that investigation might take “quite some time.”

  Of course, Ray wanted to know what “quite some time” meant.

  Sadly, since their recent lawsuit, the MCB was revamping their policy and procedures concerning nonimmediate supernatural threat assessments. Once the new policies were in place, then they would investigate this matter accordingly. If things heated up before then, the MCB would “reassess the situation.” In other words it was, “permission denied. Thank you very much, Mr. Shackleford. You can show yourself out.”

  * * *

  Hoodoo Squad and Team Happy Face had been waiting around the team shack for word from Ray. After he called, everybody who had gotten their hopes up that the MCB would do the right thing for once was pissed.

  Earl waited for the anger to die down before making an announcement.

  “As long as that thing is down there, innocent folks are gonna keep on dying. Fuck the MCB. There’s too much at stake. We’re gonna put this town right once and for all, even if we have to do it ourselves.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I asked.

  “I am. We’ve made a plan. Now we’ve got a lot to do to get it ready. Let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER 20

  All we had to do was put together a big mission, build a team, gather resources, prep a battle space, and do it without the MCB catching wind of it and shutting us down.

  First step was finding another geologist. Preferably one who was read in, or at least wouldn’t just assume we were crazy. That turned out to be a very short list, as in none. Luckily, Neil Frandsen had an attack of conscience. He never said what made him change his mind, but he decided not to sit it out at the ass end of Canada after all. He flew down from Yellowknife, called the number on the business card I had left him from a payphone, and asked to have somebody come pick him up from the airport.

  “Can you show us where we can get a drill into it?” I asked. I had grabbed Ray and we were standing around a map of the city.

  “Drilling to it will be fairly simple. Drilling through it is the tough part.”

  “Can you pump stuff down to it?” Ray asked.

  “That’s more or less how drilling works,” Frandsen said, smiling slightly. “As you drill you pump in what is called ‘mud.’ It’s a mixture of various stuff, mostly water and concrete. The concrete hardens the walls of the drill bore so they don’t collapse on you and the water keeps the drill head cooled. The remaining water brings up whatever you’re drilling through. Filter that out and reuse the water. What do you intend to pump in? Poison?”

  “Something like that. Do we have to drill straight down to it?”

  “No,” Frandsen said. “Otherwise we’d have to drill in through the Superdome.”

  “I could probably arrange that,” I said thoughtfully. And it wouldn’t be the worse place to have a knock-down drag-out. Separated from the surrounding area by parking lots and fences. Better than Bourbon Street. Speaking of knock-down drag-out: Harry would probably want to put it on pay-per-view. Probably not the best idea.

  “There’s no ports. You have to have access to the actual ground. Otherwise, you have to drill through the foundations. No matter how much access you have, they’re not going to let you drill through the footings of the Superdome.”

  “We don’t know how quiet it’s going to get when we hit it, though. From the historical records, these things tend to react violently.”

  “The place to do it is a warehouse, then,” the geologist said. “You can drill in sideways from one of those. You’re still going to have to cut through the floor but that’s easy. There are even some that have already been used for that in the New Orleans area. People get upset when they see drill rigs in their backyard, so you hide them in a warehouse. Common.”

  “Know if there’s a big warehouse in the area that’s not being used at the moment?” Ray asked me.

  “I don’t. But I’ll call my real estate lady.”

  * * *

  I met with Madam Courtney in order to buy a warehouse. She ended up having a vision.

  “Oh, this is terrible. Terrible! The work is not done! The loas had their revenge, but only part of their revenge! Alpha and omega, beginning to end. Only your brother’s foulness leaving the world was not the end at all, merely a prelude.”

  “What?” I was sitting in her office holding a page of industrial real estate listings. She had been sitting behind her desk when “the spirits came upon her.” “Can’t be, Madam Courtney. It’s over. He’s dead.”

  “Nay, it was the Dark Masters who first caused the beast beneath to stir. It was they who accidentally woke its hunger and brought this curse upon the city. You ended them, but you did not end that which they woke!” She pounded her desk for emphasis. “Your work is not done! The true end is before us!”

  “Hold on…” The local kifo eruptions had only been going on for a few years as far as we knew. The old vampire I’d met at Mardi Gras had made the outside meddling sound like a relatively new phenomenon. Thornton hadn’t been selling virgin sacrifices for that long, so the timeline fit. “Are you saying that unbeknownst to my evil idiot brother, something his cult did caused the mava to activate?”

  “It is so. It was some of their dark rites and spells that the beast felt and reached out for. Fates entwined. You were there at the beginning; now you must be there at the end. Trust in the loas.”

  “Sure. Got it.”

  “Very well. You will bring justice with a flaming sword…Now let us speak of this property the loas have picked out for you. It has a lot of square footage, is very private, and an excellent value.”

  * * *

  “So what are the effects going to be?” Captain Rivette asked.

  With MCB sitting this one out, any official response was going to be up to local authorities. If there was one thing Captain Rivette didn’t like besides being around hoodoo, it was taking responsibility for an event. On the other hand, it was clear to SIU that this thing needed to be dealt with. Earl and I paid them a visit.

  “We don’t know, exactly,” I admitted. “The only records of previous battles with them are ancient and incomplete. It’s going to react and it’s going to raise ‘servants.’ We’re pretty sure that’s undead. Could be other Old One entities if there are any in the area. Like shoggoths.”

  “They’re bad, right?” Lieutenant Hale said.

  “Giant black man-eating blobs,” Earl said. “They don’t like fire; burns them right up. I’ve fought them before. Just don’t let them latch on, because they’ll tear you to pieces in seconds. The latching-on part is tough though, on account of it sprouting tentacles at will.”

  “Oh…”

  “T
he other problem will be the kifo worms. They’re what we used to call ‘the basement boogie.’” As I said that, most of the cops and deputies blanched. Most of them had not seen one but were familiar with their handiwork. “We anticipate they’ll be attacking at our location but they might break out anywhere that they’re already present.”

  “They don’t like sunlight, though,” Lieutenant Bechard pointed out. “But you’re planning on breaking through at night?”

  “If it goes like the historical record, this is going to be bigger than Mardi Gras,” I said, shrugging.

  “You really want thousands of people caught up in this?” Earl said. “We’re planning on initiating around zero three hundred. Most of the street people will have even packed it in by then.”

  “You’re worried about witnesses?”

  “No. I’m worried about collateral damage, which is why, that night you Nola BOYS are gonna make up an excuse to evacuate the whole neighborhood around that warehouse for us.”

  * * *

  Frandsen had assumed we would be pumping poison down to the mava. In a way he was right.

  The lamas who had helped interpret the ancient records had all agreed that the mystic unguents of the Most Perfect would have been merely a carrier for the power of the Great Lotus, which could be anything imbued with sufficient faith in goodness, light, and purity. Those things were anathema to the Old Ones. Father Pema had suggested holy water.

  Lots of holy water. Like tanker trucks full of it.

  Pro-tip: Hunters often use blessed items. Most creatures you’d consider “unholy” have adverse reactions to them, sometimes violent ones. But it isn’t an easy way out. We’ve seen over and over that religious items are only as strong as the person using them. If their faith wavers it’s basically useless.

  So if you think you’re fighting on the side of the angels, you’d better really believe it or else. End pro-tip.

  Hunters come from a wide variety of faiths, so theological arguments can get heated, but this religious stuff works if you believe in it hard enough; but that even if you are inclined that way, it still takes a lot of juice to actually channel the power of God. Blessing a little basin of water? No problem. Blessing thousands of gallons to use as a weapon against an otherworldly being during a battle that could potentially rage for days? Big problem.

  Unholy evils always try to get in your head and find weaknesses. Everyone on this mission would come under psychic assault. They’d need spiritual help to survive. So all of us began discreetly calling upon our respective clergy to see who would be willing to help. Franklin had made friends with a local reverend who had dealt with quite a few supernatural problems, real solid, salt-of-the-Earth man. Milo called in some of his Mormon friends. Even though it weirded out the Christians, I invited Madam Courtney and some of her associates to join in. This was, after all, her town.

  In the end we had several flavors of Christianity, some Buddhists, Hindus, and hoodoo (White side obviously) to drive off the seed of evil. ’Cause the Saints Come Marching In.

  To represent the Catholic Church, I had told my local father confessor and asked for his help, but Earl told me I hadn’t needed to. He had made a call because he knew “some Catholic guys.”

  A few days later “some Catholic guys” showed up at the team shack. From the way they looked, I suspected Earl’s call had been long distance direct to Rome. There were a few priests, and several extremely physically fit men with Swiss accents and military haircuts. There were records in Oxford originating from the Vatican’s Blessed Order of St. Hubert the Protector, one of the oldest Monster Hunting organizations in the world. I suspected that these priests were from their “Secret Guard,” an order which supposedly no longer existed.

  Earl introduced me to the senior priests. “This is Father Madruga and Father Ferguson. Fathers, this is Chad. We call him Iron Hand. Most of what we know about this thing is from his research.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Madruga was Hispanic, and Ferguson was a redhead nearly as muscular as the Swiss Guard. We shook hands. “I’m glad His Holiness sent you.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that,” Ferguson said.

  “We are simple priests, merely here to provide whatever aid we can,” Madruga said. He was in his fifties, short, fit and stocky, broad-shouldered with black hair and eyes, and some serious facial scars that looked to be from fire. One eye was milky white and clearly blind. “Nothing more than simple priests.”

  “Sure.” There was another man with them, not a priest, but not one of the Swiss Guard either, who I won’t give much description of for reasons which will become obvious shortly. “Who is he?”

  “That is Fedele,” Father Madruga said. “When Mr. Harbinger told us what you are potentially dealing with, we asked for him to assist us. He is something of an expert in the field.”

  Fedele nodded in greeting. “Hello.”

  “I didn’t know you were Catholic, Earl.”

  “I ain’t. I just like working with professionals. These boys are all right.”

  “They seem kind of secretive. Fitting. Since ‘secret’ is in the name of their order.”

  “We do not know what order you speak of,” Madruga said. The priests did not seem comfortable with that getting out. “It would be best not to share such speculation, my son.”

  “This way, Fathers,” Earl said. “We’ll go over the plans.”

  They walked away, but Fedele lingered for a moment.

  “So, Mr. Iron Hand. I believe we have a mutual friend.”

  “Who?”

  “A nice old fisherman who calls himself Pete.” Fedele smiled. “You will certainly be going back to see him again before I do. When you get there, please tell him hello for me.”

  Okay. This guy was legit. “I’ll tell Pete hi.”

  “Thank you.” The holy warrior began walking after the priests, then paused. “Another favor I must ask. When you write your memoirs, please refrain from writing any specifics about me, or record anything noteworthy you may see me do during the upcoming conflict. The ‘secret’ part of the name is a matter of doctrinal pride.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  I kept that promise, but pro-tip, if you ever meet a combat exorcist dispatched by the Vatican, just stay out of his way.

  * * *

  “Most of the drilling should be pretty standard,” I said, pointing to the schematic. “It’s the last part we have to worry about.”

  Getting the right drill crew had been tough. You couldn’t put out an ad for drillers that had experience with hoodoo. It had taken various calls to contacts. Brad from my old team in Seattle was from Oklahoma and knew a couple of good-ole boys that had experience drilling and the supernatural. Ray had some that he knew had experience with the supernatural but who chose to not join the cause. Earl knew a couple more.

  When we told everyone more or less what we’d be doing, they’d all jacked up their hourly. A lot. And every single roughneck had showed up armed to the teeth.

  “The mava is about three thousand feet down. From the previous record the exterior is extremely hard. They went through three drill bits drilling through a bare four meters of shell.”

  “They get what it was?” Daniel Scott asked. He was a weathered tough guy, who had spent most of his life on offshore oil rigs. “That’s some tough shell.”

  “We’re dealing with stuff that doesn’t really abide by the laws of physics as we understand them,” Ray explained. “This is beyond anything any of you have dealt with. It’s not really amenable to normal analysis. It doesn’t make sense to a material scientist because it’s not really of this universe. It’s really bad for one’s sanity, too.”

  “Going crazy when you study them too hard is just one problem,” I continued. “Upon piercing the shell, you start getting the ichor from this thing. It pretty much drove the last drill crew nuts. Since we’re not sure what mechanism that works by, when we get to the shell, we’re going to have to suit up.”

  “A
nd we have to communicate,” Ray added. “A lot. If you’re feeling the effects, you’re going to have to back away. We’ll be pumping holy water in to destroy it. If that doesn’t work, we’ll drop back and punt. I’m not losing the drill crew the way they lost the last one.”

  “Explain ‘lose,’” Al Gordon demanded. The drill team leader was one of Brad’s contacts and had the same cowboy look going as Sam Haven, except he was shorter and heavy-set.

  “Some of them went nuts. Others ran. One of them killed two others with a shovel. Stuff like that,” I explained. “This is full-on horror movie stuff. If you’re feeling weird, just back off and see Father Ferguson, Reverend Hawkins, or the religious authority of your choice. We’ll have plenty to choose from. Praying over this stuff actually works if you’ve got enough faith. If you start feeling consumed with uncontrollable murderous rage, take a break.”

  “That’s how Al normally is,” Daniel said. “So how will we tell?” The drill crew had a laugh.

  “How long for the stuff you’re using to kill it?”

  “We don’t even know if we can kill it, Al. It’s our best guess. It’s got the volume of the inside of a high school football stadium. If we have to pump it entirely full of holy water? We’ll be here for weeks and probably have to reset to drill it at multiple points.”

  “Assuming MHI can afford that…” Al muttered.

  “We’ll run out of lives before my family runs out of money,” Ray said. “We’ll switch people out as we need to. When we hit the shell, we’ll start pumping the holy water. Hopefully that should reduce some of the effects. And when we punch through and it hits the internals, we’re expecting a large-scale response.”

  “Despite that, we need to keep drilling ’til we’re deep in the interior,” I continued. “We’ve got no clue about anatomy but our best bet is to pump that bitch full of holy water.”

  Ray was assessing the crew while we briefed them, looking for any signs of weakness. These men were tough, but they weren’t trained Hunters. “Men, I can’t accentuate this enough, but we’re facing true evil, like nothing you’ve ever imagined. I can’t predict how, but it will attack you—body, mind, and spirit.”