Monster Hunter Memoir: Saints

  The main thing that I noticed, immediately, was that the open tank where additional holy water was being admixed with the foul ichor from the borehole was boiling with power and foaming up. It was about to overflow.

  I ran over and grabbed one of the spare pipe sections and put it across the top, just like putting a wooden spoon on a pot that was boiling over. The mess settled down but I wasn’t sure we were getting all the “evil” out of it. The outflow was still nasty as shit. And the smell…

  I finally just went over to the side and retched. I wasn’t the only one.

  “We need to increase the ratio of holy water being mixed, Mr. Gordon,” Father Ferguson said. “Can we do that?”

  “Yes,” Gordon said, still holding his head. “Yes, we can. Dan, increase the pump rate on the mix water. Triple it.”

  “Got it.” Dan was just as clearly feeling the effects from the stuff but he started adjusting dials.

  “I would recommend holding the drill for now,” Father Ferguson said. “Just let the holy water pump into the body of the beast. When we start to get less horror coming up, then push downward. Do that over and over again to clear out one section. Then perhaps adjust the drilling or withdraw and drill another portion.”

  “You’ve done this before?” I asked the mysterious priest.

  “Nothing even close. Call it divine inspiration.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Father,” Gordon said, then made a face. “Father…sorry about that back there.”

  “Everyone holds some sin in their heart, son.” Father Ferguson patted him on his silver shoulder. “Everyone. It is like fear in combat. Everyone has some. It is what you do about it that matters. After this battle we’ll talk. But for now, we do battle against one of the worst evils mankind has ever seen in its history. That gets you some solid points with the Almighty.”

  “Where are we with the worm?” I asked.

  “Stop the spin. Just hold in place and pump mud.” Al put his hand back on the string and felt it for a second. “I can feel it moving up. Different now. I think now that there’s more ‘bad’ in the mud and less ‘good’ it can just run right up the bore.”

  I put my hand on the string and felt what he was talking about. The string was mostly still on our end, slight vibration from the idling drill rig, but you could feel a bumping against it. How he could tell how far I had no idea. There was an art to it.

  “Can you switch to pure water, no admix, in the mud?” I asked.

  “It’ll tend to break down the walls of the bore,” Gordon said. “Which, come to think of it, would be good. Dan! Cut the mix on the mud. Pure holy water!”

  All the mud, now pure holy water, came out at the bottom of the drill at the bit. The new mix had to first go down thousands of feet then back up. I keyed my radio.

  “Sam, Milo, get down here on the drill rig,” I radioed. “We have a situation.” Then I switched frequencies. “Boss, this is Hand at the rig. The mava mix was overwhelming the holy water. We’ve stopped progressing the drill and are just flowing holy water to it. Be about thirty minutes until that has effect and we see what that does. The stuff coming up is almost pure mava essence. The mud isn’t burning the kifo worm anymore and it’s coming straight up the bore. We may have a kifo outbreak here shortly. Called down my backup. Copy all that.”

  “Copy, Hand,” Ray III said, not over the radio but from right over my shoulder. “That stuff isn’t half horrible, is it? Kinda claws at your mind.”

  I should have known the old man would show up right wherever the trouble was. If he was having any issues with whatever was clawing at his mind, it wasn’t obvious. I suddenly had to wonder what sort of sins lay in the heart of MHI’s CEO.

  “I’m starting to think Earl needs to stay as far away from this as possible,” I said carefully.

  “Good point, young man.” The Boss touched his radio. “Earl. Do not approach the drill site. Say again, do not come near the drill site.”

  “Feeling it from clear up here,” Earl replied. He was on the roof with the gun teams waiting for the “servants” to show up. We’d expected some mental effects, but nothing like this. “Wondered what that was. I’m heading for the far end of the warehouse.”

  “Father Madruga could possibly assist him,” Father Ferguson said. “If he is having troubles…”

  The Boss and I looked at each other at that one. “With respect, Father, probably not,” he said carefully. “Earl has…particular issues in regards to rage.”

  “Ah…” Father Ferguson thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I was briefed. A most unfortunate curse, and one of the rare wills able to constrain it. Will he be able to maintain control…given the circumstances?”

  “I’ve never seen him lose it, Father,” I said.

  “I have,” the Boss said sadly.

  “Harbinger will be under a particularly harsh assault,” Father Ferguson said. Gordon had gone off to adjust something else on the rig so no one else was close enough to hear him over the machinery. “If he is driven to change because of the influence of this evil—”

  “If Earl is taken over by this foulness, I will take appropriate action myself. It’s my duty, my responsibility.” Boss Shackleford thought about that for a long time. Then he said something that came as a complete surprise to me. “He’s my father.”

  I’d never seen that particular expression on the old man’s face. I could swear to God he was damned near crying. I put it down to the effect of that evil goop. Only thing that could have been causing it. That and I’d just noticed this fucking warehouse was dusty as hell.

  What the fuck was it like growing up with a father who was…Earl? Because they kind of looked the same, I’d kind of always figured Earl was the Boss’s illegitimate son. I’d had that completely backwards. The PUFF adjuster had used “Shackleford” as one of Earl’s names. How old was Earl when he got to being…Earl? Come to think of it, how old was Earl? The Boss had to be in his sixties and Earl couldn’t have been…normal when he’d…How old was Earl?

  “We got anything from SIU yet?” was what I asked, because there were questions you don’t ask. Especially not at a time like that.

  “Not so far,” Boss said, the unburned half of his face hardening. “I’d guess this thing’s going to start the party when that worm gets up here and finds out where ‘here’ is.”

  “What the fuck is…?” Sam Haven said as he and Milo arrived. They both had their hands over their noses and mouths and Sam seemed to be having some issues as well. His hands kept gripping the M-203 he was carrying. Hard.

  “That’s the mava juice.”

  Sam and I had both opted for M-203s. Most of what we expected to fight wasn’t susceptible to silver and the 5.56 worked well enough at zombie shots. For that matter it would tend to slow down some vamps as well as wights and ghouls if you got a head shot. Last, the 40mm grenade worked on everything. Milo was rocking a flamethrower and sidearms. He clearly didn’t like the smell coming from the hole but if the mystical effects were bugging him, Milo didn’t let it show. He still seemed as perpetually cheerful as ever.

  “Don’t allow the evil to touch you, son,” Father Ferguson said, laying his hand on Sam’s arm. “It tries to find your sins, those you have committed and those you have contemplated, to use those against you. Fight it. Find God.”

  “I’m trying, Father,” Sam said, working the tobacco in his cheek. He spit to the side and shook his head. “Ain’t gonna let no boogieman bring up nothing I’ve fought most of my life.”

  “How are you doing, my son?” Father Ferguson asked Milo.

  “I’m good. My sins aren’t comparatively interesting in this crowd.”

  “You are strong in faith,” Father Ferguson replied, smiling. “It pours off you like the evil from this monstrosity.”

  “I just pray a lot,” Milo said humbly.

  “And he refuses to do anything bad, like, ever,” I said, grinning. “Most boring friend I’ve got.”

  We had about
a dozen Hunters gathered around the rig. I put my hand on the string again and shook my head. Now I could tell it was close.

  “This is it. Any suggestions?”

  “Fire?” Milo said, holding up the nozzle to his flamethrower.

  “That’s your answer to everything!”

  “Don’t damage the equipment. The mud comes back out and is pumped to that tank,” Gordon said, muffled by the silver suit. “Your napalm is going to burn the sh…” He glanced at the priest. “Sugar out of all that.”

  “I should be able to hold it, here,” Father Ferguson insisted.

  “Not disagreeing with you, Padre. But a backup plan is always useful,” the Boss said.

  “If you bless the tank on that fire truck, we’ll get one of the fire hoses.” Sam suggested. “Kill the worm with more holy water. Direct application.”

  “I like it,” the Boss said.

  * * *

  “I get the nozzle, you get the hose,” I said as we unrolled one of the fire hoses. The NOFD guys had not been happy to hear one of the kifo worms was headed up the bore. They’d turn on the pump for us, but they weren’t going anywhere near the hole that was spewing mind-altering evil.

  “Hell with that,” Sam said. “It was my idea!”

  “You’re the new guy. You get the hose.”

  “You can’t even handle one of those things,” Sam protested. “They whip around like nobody’s business. You’re scrawny! You’re going to get picked up and thrown around the room.”

  “Not if you’re doing your job on the hose,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Fire it up!” I yelled. I had the gate mostly closed on the nozzle. But we’d want pressure right away if we needed it.

  The hose started to writhe as the water pressed forward and, as instructed, I had enough of an opening for the air to come out. There wasn’t much since the hose was flat but it came out with a nasty shriek; then we had water. I closed the nozzle all the way.

  “This thing tries to get away from you,” Sam said, holding on tight. “You’d better hope I don’t lose my grip.”

  “Always said SEALs were wimps,” I said.

  “You did not go there! You pick the one time we’re getting murderous thoughts blasted right into our brains to piss me off. Just tempt me to kick your ass, why don’t you?”

  “You’re the one complaining about something the most-junior firemen can figure out,” I pointed out.

  “It’s here,” Father Ferguson shouted.

  The kifo worm erupted through the borehole in a mass of eyes and teeth and pustulant pseudopods. The drillers ran screaming. They weren’t really doing anything at the moment, anyway.

  It was having to press its bulk around the mass of the string and up through the narrow bore. So it was much smaller than normal. And it was causing the muck from the mava to squirt everywhere, which was vile. Some of it splashed on me and the wave of evil thoughts got worse.

  I started to open up the valve but Father Ferguson just stepped forward, fearlessly.

  “Begone, spawn of evil!” he shouted, holding his cross out. “This place is sealed against you!”

  The kifo worm shrieked in agony and sucked back down the bore and out of sight.

  There were a bunch of Hunters ready to attack, but we really didn’t want to accidentally damage the equipment. “Kifo worm really didn’t like the padre,” I radioed. “It’s back in the hole. Hold your fire.”

  Gordon overcame his fear, went back, put his hand on the string, and shook it. “I don’t feel anything!” he shouted.

  “Stand back, everyone,” I said.

  I put the valve on spray and hosed down the entire area. Wherever the blessed water hit the mava ichor, the two reacted like a couple of combustible chemicals.

  In the process I got myself and Sam nice and wet. The “burn” from the holy water hitting the mava juice didn’t even feel like burning. More of a tingling sensation. The unholy thoughts it caused faded a bit. They didn’t go away entirely but I’m no saint.

  CHAPTER 22

  The drill team kept working. Get a little deeper into the mava’s guts, then pump it full of holy water. Once the foulness died off, repeat. Between the priests taking turns at the hole and liberal applications of holy water, the kifo worm had not been able to come up the borehole.

  Except this was going to be a war of attrition, and the larval Old One was desperately trying to defend itself.

  I was up on the roof, taking a mandated break from the mava’s evil aura. The evil thoughts got better the further away you got from the hole. I was standing near Earl when we got the radio call from the police.

  “Every single dead thing in New Orleans is headed for your position, cher,” Juliette told us. “You’ve got road-kill snake zombies headed your way. I’ve got calls coming in from all over the city. Graveyards are waking up. According to the officers on scene, every tomb is either smashed open or rocking,” the dispatcher radioed. “They’re not attacking anyone, just headed your way. I don’t know what deity you pissed off, honey, but it is seriously pissed!”

  “Roger, Dispatch. Thank you for that. Tell your officers do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. Keep civilians out of the way and let the undead pass,” Earl radioed back, then turned to me. “See? We told them we were better off breaking through in the middle of the night while most folks were safe in their homes.”

  He sounded remarkably calm, considering the news that potentially thousands of undead had just been summoned to kill us.

  “MHI teams, stand by. SIU, come in.”

  “SIU, over,” Rivette replied. “Confirm dispatch. We’ve got all sorts of things approaching our perimeter.”

  That meant some of the undead had reached the surrounding blocks that local law enforcement had evacuated for us.

  “Do not resist, SIU. Get out of the way and let them pass. We’re ready for them.”

  “Roger, MHI,” Rivette radioed. “Good luck.”

  “Fortune favors the prepared,” Ray III said over the radio. That old man was so hard that he had stayed by the drill the whole time, unfazed. “MHI teams. This is it. We have been the thin line between the darkness and the light for danged near a hundred years and we ain’t ending here. We’re about to put the fear of God into these undead sons of bitches! When we’re done, New Orleans is going to be the most peaceful place on Earth! Now cowboy up, kill the monsters and get paid.”

  “We got incoming,” Earl radioed as the old man finished. “Looks like wights or vamps. Moving fast on the first quadrant. Scattered. Looks like about twenty.”

  I could not make out what he was pointing at, but someone at that corner did, and opened up with a Ma Deuce.

  “Time for our secret weapon. I hope the fucking thing works.” Earl turned around and shouted toward the middle of the roof. “Ray, how’s it going?”

  Ray had been working on something here at the warehouse for weeks. The Shacklefords wouldn’t say a word about what it was. Apparently it was complicated, so Ray had asked for Milo’s help, but not mine. Which was a little insulting.

  “It uses a complex system of mathematical calculations based on the geometry of ley line intersections. If I’m off in the archaic system of coordinates by much at all, a priceless magical artifact will be irreparably lost forever. So how do you think it’s going?”

  “Which is why we never move the stupid thing out of Cazador,” Earl muttered so that only I could hear him. “Great, Ray! Now hurry and wrap it up. We’ve got incoming.”

  “Damned confusing magic rock.” Ray swore a bunch more as he went back to working on something inside a big steel safe that had been bolted to the roof. “No pressure or anything!”

  “Earl, what is that thing?”

  “One of Isaac Newton’s ward stones.”

  “Fuck…” I’d read about those at Oxford. Hell, the only reason there was a library at Oxford was that Isaac Newton had built one of these things to save England from a Great Old One. They we
re considered one of the rarest, most valuable, most powerful alchemical inventions of all time, creating a field that violently expelled necromantic energy. “You have a ward stone?”

  “Yeah. Just the one. I stole it from Adolph Hitler.”

  “Okay, how fucking old are you? Never mind. A ward stone? You’re risking a ward stone here? That’s got to be worth billions of dollars. You could buy a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier with one of those. I read they are fragile and sensitive. They wear out! There aren’t hardly any of them left and our best scientists can’t recreate them. The smallest screw-up and it’s done.”

  “Yep…” Earl paused to light a cigarette. “I’m aware. We’ve got it dialed in for Cazador safely, but I only risk moving it for special occasions, because anytime we move it could be the last. But I figured this party qualified.”

  “That’s a hell of a risk.”

  “Remember how you were all pissed off at me, because I didn’t give a shit about your team, and I didn’t give a shit about your town? Truth is, I had no way of knowing what was gonna happen to Mardi Gras. I made a call. I sent Hunters where I thought they would be needed most. I guessed wrong. People died. My people died. Innocent people died. When you’re a leader, it’s all balancing risks against costs, and sometimes life comes along and kicks over the scale. You needed somebody to blame, and that’s fine. I’ve had a long damned time losing a lot of good men to get used to it.”

  “Earl—”

  “Don’t care, Hand. But don’t ever fucking question my commitment to my hunters again. And if you’re ever tempted, just remember I brought the Mona Lisa to a knife fight for you.”

  Dr. Henderson would have shit bricks. Hell, the entire faculty of Oxford would have shit so many bricks you could build a house. But I was more warrior scholar than just scholar.

  “Will it actually kill undead like they say?”

  “I think we’re good!” Ray shouted.

  “Just enjoy the show.” Earl grinned.

  * * *

  For the next twenty minutes I watched undead pop like firecrackers.