But it was also hot. Steamy hot. And I was getting as bored as I’d been at Sandals. There was less activity than Seattle in my day. Maybe a minor call-out once a week. It was a far cry from our wild, nonstop, full-moon monster fests. Oh, there are still monsters in New Orleans—don’t let your guard down—but the ones that remain are far more interested in keeping their heads down.
Ray wouldn’t say why the call but I had my own sources. Eastern Europe was heating up. Bad. An entire town had been wiped out by what amounted to a lycanthrope army.
“We’re forming a team to head to Eastern Europe,” Boss Shackleford told us, looking around the conference room.
I knew all the people in it.
Sam Haven, former SEAL and all around badass.
Milo Anderson, hippy goofy vicious monster killer.
Susan Shackleford, the baddest bitch in the valley, now freed enough from mommy duties to go earn some of that delicious PUFF money again.
Raymond Shackleford the Fourth, brilliant scion of a Monster Hunting family.
Earl Harbinger, the meanest and unquestionably toughest monster killer in the business.
And then there was me. Iron Hand. The top PUFF recipient in recent history before I was instrumental in killing an Old One.
“The place is getting overrun with vamps and werewolves and every other kind of boggle. NATO’s formed a new group, the Organization for Supernatural Security Cooperation in Europe. US/Western-country PUFF bonuses and it’s a virgin playing field.”
Some of those Eastern European girls had been turning up in the strip clubs in New Orleans. If they all looked pretty much the same, I was on this like stink on a mava.
“Who’s up for it?”
“Cowboy up,” Sam said.
“Kill monsters,” Milo chimed in.
“Get paid,” Susan said.
“It’s get laid, Susan,” I said. “Get laid.”
Milo just shook his head while the rest of the group laughed.
We were MHI’s top Hunters. The monsters had better run at our very names. Eastern Europe was never going to be the same.
And neither was Monster Hunter International. Because we weren’t all coming home.
AFTERWORD
by Earl Harbinger
Chad started to talk about our mission to Eastern Europe, but there was no sign of that record anywhere in the archives. I don’t think he ever got the chance to write it.
That was the job where we lost Susan and everything changed. Her disappearance pushed Ray down a dark path that eventually ended in an event that ruined our company and cost ninety-seven Hunters their lives.
Including Oliver Chadwick Gardenier, the Iron Hand. Rest in peace, you magnificent bastard.
* * *
Milo brought these memoirs to me, saying I’d be the best one to finish the story.
I’m not sure that’s the case. Me and Chad didn’t always see eye to eye. But Milo is a persistent one, and when he gets an idea in his head, he doesn’t ever let up. Milo was just a kid back in those days, and he still thinks of Chad like an older brother. If I didn’t write this, Milo would bug me for the rest of his life. Which would be short. So here goes.
When I first met Chad Gardenier, he struck me as one of those know-it-alls who I figured would wash out of training. Sure, he was talented, smart, and a hard worker, but there are plenty of tough guys and smart guys who get killed in this business because they don’t have the sense when to shut up and listen. Why would they need to? They were born knowing everything.
Chad had that too-clever-for-his-own-good trait in spades. If we don’t catch those in time and get them straightened out or weeded out, the question isn’t whether they’ll get messed up or killed out in the world, but rather how many members of their team will get hurt in the process.
I wasn’t much impressed to start. My background is straightforward, country, get shit done, and don’t put on airs about it. Chad was too damned froo-froo for me. He was always dressing up. Tailored everything. These were the eighties. It was all about flash. He barely even mentioned things like the fancy dinner parties he’d hold at his place in New Orleans.
I’m a beer and steak kind of guy. Chad was caviar, raw fish, and then arguing over the quality of the wine list with the sommelier for thirty minutes. I don’t even know if he liked wine, or if he just wanted everybody else at dinner to be impressed how much he knew about it.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. First impressions. He didn’t strike me as a man who could go the distance. As much as Chad despised his parents, he’d grown up with snooty academics, so when given any opportunity to try and show off how smart he was, he’d take it. Boy couldn’t help himself. He was that way from his newbie class, and it never really changed his entire career. Hell, on the night he died he was still lecturing party guests about some esoteric something or other so everyone would know how clever he was, like how he was the only guy in the world who had ever learned Yeti sign language or some shit.
Yet he’d been a Marine, and that inclined me to like him. We’ve hired a ton over the years. They tend to do pretty damned good as Hunters. He worked hard, and got to give him credit, the boy had a mind like a steel trap. In those days he was one of our sharpest, when it came to the supernatural probably as tuned in as Ray IV or Marty Hood. I suppose it says a lot about Chad’s actual character about how he turned out in comparison to either of them.
Seattle: I hoped working for the Nelsons would help temper him. Maybe even teach him some wisdom and humility to go with those smarts. But instead he ended up almost getting our company in a war with the fucking Yakuza of all things, and then made a bargain with a Fey court.
Every time I got a report, I was either tempted to fire his ass, or impressed that he’d pulled off some crazy stunt, and sometimes both simultaneously. The Nelsons loved him like a son. Still do to this day. Those two can’t help but psychoanalyze everybody they meet. To them, Chad was a product of his environment. A genius overachiever, raised by an evil mother, a dirtbag father, and an abusive brother, who hid his smarts out of spite. Once he was free of them, and able to do what he wanted, of course he desired recognition from his peers. The Nelsons like to say all of us are the sum of our experiences.
I once asked the Nelsons how to fix him. They said there was no fixing people, there was just providing some guidance when possible, hoping for the best, and enjoying the adventure. That’s not the kind of employee evaluation that fills a leader with joy. There’s usually a fine line between cocky and confident. Chad didn’t have a line. Only it ain’t bragging if you can do it on demand.
He got the job done. He always got the job done.
Then New Orleans. I tell you, Hoodoo Squad saw some shit. They had more action in less time than just about any other team in MHI’s history. Pipe hitters and party animals, those boys did work.
I hated New Orleans. I despised that town. It’s pretty quiet now, thanks to the sacrifices of Hoodoo Squad, but for several years back in the eighties it was a constant thorn in our side. Anything that could go wrong, did.
I knew Chad blamed me for what happened to his team on Mardi Gras. He hated my guts for it. That’s okay. Sometimes a man just needs someone to blame so he can get back to work.
Yet again, through all that blood and chaos, Chad still got the job done.
As many of you are aware, a couple years ago I got into a fight with the demon Rok’hasna’wrath, devourer of souls, reaper of worlds, and a bunch of other self-appointed titles that asshole wouldn’t shut up about. Many of my memories were damaged or lost. I’m still trying to put some things back together. That said, I’ve still got enough left to know that Chad’s versions of events sometimes diverge significantly from the way I remember them happening.
But, the whole bit about being blown to hell in Beirut, and being sent back to life, supposedly by Saint Peter, until he could fulfill some important mission from God? I didn’t buy that the first time I heard it from him. Believe me,
for the kind of men who end up in this line of work that sort of belief ain’t particularly odd. There’s plenty of tough sons a bitches who think they’re destined for something great, until life busts them in the chops, and they either die badly, or get over their foolish notions.
Except I saw how Chad went out…So I believe it now.
You chose the right man for the job, Pete.
That Eastern European mission he started writing about at the end was a hard one. The thing about Monster Hunting—sometimes you do everything right, and people still die, while other times you do everything wrong, get lucky, and live. That time we did everything right. I put together the best team. We worked hard. We fought smart. We picked fights we could win and avoided the ones where we were at a disadvantage. We still got the rug pulled out from under us and it ruined everything.
By that time I can’t say that I liked Chad, but I trusted him with my life. He still rubbed me the wrong way, yet I knew he was one of the best Hunters I had. The man could solve problems, and he could fight. He also could annoy the hell out of me, and cause more trouble than he was worth. Between him and Sam picking up on half the female population of every town and village we rolled through, or him and Milo annoying me with some crazy scheme, or him and Ray rocking the political boat agitating to get a Communist dictator overthrown, I can’t say if he made my life easier or harder.
I’ve never written about how we lost Susan. I don’t really want to. Someday, maybe. Chad didn’t get to it here, and I’m a little glad for that.
In brief, we got outplayed. It wasn’t until years later that I learned just how badly we’d been tricked back then. At the end of a battle, part of our team had broken off to chase down a weak and wounded vampire. I’d been with Sam and Milo. The pursuit had been Ray, Susan, and Chad’s call. Only they ended up blowing up a castle, and Susan disappeared in the chaos.
It was like she’d vanished. We searched the wreckage for days, and after we’d given up hope that she was alive, we dragged the river, and explored miles of forest and catacombs. We searched for weeks and came up with nothing. Even I couldn’t find her…and I’m decent at tracking.
The logical assumption was that her body had been eaten by one of the ghoul packs that infested the area. Those things consume bodies so thorough, that it’s like they’re scrubbed from the face of the earth, bones and all, leaving not a trace.
I’d never seen a man break as hard as Ray did then. We weren’t finished there, but Ray was. He sank into a place so black that eventually it nearly doomed us all.
We had all loved Susan, and I know that Chad held himself to blame. He was never quite the same after that.
But he still got the rest of that job done. That’s kind of the thing about Iron Hand. Some of us loved him, and some of us hated him, but when you needed a puzzle figured out, or you really needed something killed, he was the man to point at it.
Which was why the night of the Christmas Party, when it was do or die, just one chance to get it right, and I had to send somebody to do something that meant almost certain death, I picked Chad.
After Europe, most of us got back to work. Chad went up to the New York team. Manhattan in the nineties had a lot of monster activity. Part of that big “crime cleanup” was actually the city instituting some new Hunter-friendly policies that allowed us to be a little more proactive. He was one of my best troubleshooters…and trouble causers. It usually worked out.
It went pretty much how you expected. Manhattan had all that fancy culture Chad prided himself on appreciating, plenty of snooty politicians and professors to wow, and about a million single ladies. Chad got a penthouse and decorated it like he was a Japanese Hugh Hefner. He dragged along his poor butler Remi too. Now, that there was a dignified fella. I don’t know how he put up with it.
One day Remi told me Chad went from having a different woman on his arm for every event, to just the same one, over and over. Apparently he’d finally found a woman he couldn’t drive off. Well, stranger things have happened.
Chad damaged his sword in New York. The man was distraught. I didn’t get it. I never understood any of that mystical bushido nonsense. I appreciate quality weapons as much as the next Hunter, but when I buy knives I always order some spares, because you’re going to lose or break them. They’re just steel tools.
Not for him. Chad was all into that soul-of-the-sword mystique, and he’d talk your ear off about it. I think the idea of having to retire Mo No Ken hit him like the death of a teammate.
The last time I talked to Chad on the phone was to give him what I thought at the time was good news. Ray went nuts when Susan died, simple as that. All his friends had been worried about him ever since—Milo especially. I know Chad had visited a few times over the intervening years, trying to get through to Ray, to bring him out of his funk. He’d always left frustrated.
But the reason I called was to tell Chad that it looked like Ray was finally shaking off his depression. Chad had been on that mission, he deserved the update. Ray was getting out, even working again. He even wanted to put together something big to celebrate the company’s one hundredth birthday. I thought it sounded like a waste of time, but everybody else thought it was a great idea, especially Ray and Susan’s kids.
It was going to be the biggest celebration in company history, I told him. Everybody was invited. I figured Chad would appreciate it because this sort of thing was right up his alley.
MHI was going to throw a Christmas party.
* * *
Everybody had a real nice time, up until when the killing started.
I had spent a lot of money. Big crowd, Hunters brought spouses and dates. All our retirees had been invited too. We rented this resort place on the Gulf that Ray had picked out. He told me that him and Susan had visited there, and it had been real nice. He lied right to my face and I didn’t know any better. He’d never been there. He wanted that spot because it was on sacred land, a conflux of power, something that a crazy person would pick out as the ideal spot for a ritual.
Even the band knew who they were playing for, what we did for a living, and the kinds of things we did it to. The caterers and bartenders were all people who were in the know. They brought in food and booze by the truckload.
This was when MHI was at its largest, so even with all the Hunters busy working a job, we still had a few hundred people show up. Lots of old friends reunited, buddies who’d fought together, experienced folks who hadn’t seen each other since training, and a bunch of newbies trying to fit in and sound tough. I knew them all, and thinking about the ones we lost there still hurts.
But this memoir is about one in particular.
Obviously, Chad arrived fashionably late, in a tux, with what I first thought was a supermodel on his arm, and I shit you not, wearing his fucking samurai sword. I supposed it was his fashion accessory and conversation starter. Why the hell not? It was a Monster Hunter party. Have fun.
I made some polite conversation with Chad. Small talk I guess they’d call it. We still weren’t what anyone would call friends. But when I got close I got a better take on his girlfriend. The nose knows. Me and her needed to have a word, so I gave her a knowing look, and then went to have a smoke. A minute later she excused herself, ditched her boyfriend, and came outside to talk with me alone. Even the parking lot had a good view of the ocean.
“I’m kind of surprised, seeing one of your kind show your pretty face here,” I told her.
“I’ve earned my PUFF exemption.”
“You got your tag on you?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Lady, there’s a couple hundred Hunters here who’d cap you for the bounty, then go back to drinking without a second thought.”
“They could try, but it wouldn’t be necessary.” Then she showed me her silver PUFF-exemption tag. From the number etched on it, I guessed the issue date would have been around 1945 or so. “I did my time.”
“Does Chad know what you
really are?”
“No. I’d rather keep it that way. I love him.”
I was starting to like this one. “Just don’t break his heart.”
“I don’t think any woman could.”
“We both know you ain’t no ordinary woman.”
* * *
The party went on for hours, everybody having a good old time.
Many of you know this story. A few of you who read this were probably there.
There was a commotion on the dance floor. I was across the hall, but I saw that it was Ray, up to something. When I heard him speak it was so loud that my first thought was that he’d gotten a microphone, and maybe he was going to make an announcement or something. Only he was staggering around, unnatural, and the words weren’t right. He was speaking some weird language.
In these memoirs, when Chad writes about all those languages he knew, that was no bullshit. He really had the gift of tongues. When Ray started speaking, I saw Chad leap up and look in that direction, with a look on his face like what the hell did you say? That’s probably because he was the only man there who recognized the ancient words.
“Somebody stop him!” But by the time Chad shouted that, it was too late.
Later on we found out the spell was supposed to bring Susan back from the dead. I don’t know what Ray thought would happen, like after he made a blood pact circle in the middle of a dance floor in front of the whole company, she’d rise up through it like some glowing angel and everybody would cheer. Except poor delusional Ray had been conned, suckered by a necromancer who’d been playing the long game. That wasn’t what that spell did at all.
The circle beneath Ray’s feet vanished and he dropped right through into nothing. There was a crack of thunder and a rush of air. The closest people on the dance floor got swept off their feet. And then it was like thousands of claws clicking, and monsters came pouring out of the hole. It was so fast, and there was so many, the dance floor erupted like a volcano, only instead of lava…bodies.
We’ve fought these things a couple times since, but this was our first encounter. They’re sort of man-shaped, but mostly buglike, with shells like crabs, claws and teeth that can shred a man to the bone in a flash. They’re colorful bastards, bright orange, and red, purples. Too many eyes, too many joints, all so damned alien that the sight of them shakes even the hardest Hunter in battle.