The Monster Hunters

  Julie Shackleford was silent as she drove up to the gate. She had barely spoken during the drive. Her lips were set in a hard line, and she wore a look of concentration similar to the one that she had before we had stormed the bowels of the Antoine-Henri. She tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel. She was not looking forward to speaking with her father.

  “It will be okay, Julie. Don’t worry about it,” I said, in an inane attempt at comforting her.

  “Are your parents weird?” she responded, still staring out the window. She had stopped beside the security intercom, but she had not yet hit the button.

  “Mom thinks that if we don’t eat all of her cooking we don’t love her. When she gets excited she forgets to speak English. My dad made us kids call him Sergeant.”

  “Well, Owen, that sounds like Leave It to Beaver to me. My mom disappeared on a mission and my dad locked himself in a library for a few years. He twisted forces of ancient and unspeakable evil to his will and tore open a rift in the fabric of space and time to bring her soul back from the other side. He failed, and a horde of rampaging demons from a different dimension killed most of the friends I have ever had. Now Mom is still dead, and Dad’s insane . . . so don’t think that you can tell me that it is okay.”

  “Got it,” I answered. So much for being helpful. Another minute passed in silence. Finally, with a dejected sigh, she rolled down the van window and pushed the intercom button.

  “Who is it?” asked the tinny and static-laced voice of the intercom.

  “Julie Shackleford. I’m here to visit my father—Raymond Shackleford. He is a patient of the Doctors Nelson.” There was a long pause before the heavy iron gate creaked open under hydraulic pressure. We drove through.

  “Doctors Nelson?”

  “Lucius and Joan. Husband and wife team. One is a psychiatrist, the other is a psychologist. I can’t remember which is which though.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Beats me. I was a history major. You’re the trivia nut,” she replied. “They are actually both retired Hunters. They bought this place from the state when they left MHI. They’re good folks. I’ve known them since I was a kid. They are getting up in age, but they do really good work here. The Nelsons have done some great research. They help a lot of people with special problems.”

  “Special problems?”

  “Mostly they work with regular mental problems, like any treatment center, but they specialize in people who have had monster encounters. Not everybody has a flexible mind like those of us who become Hunters,” she answered.

  I had never thought about that. I was still internally freaking out about the things that were happening to me. I could only imagine how some people would react from that kind of trauma. Apparently here was my answer.

  We parked in the near-empty lot under a large tree. Thick leaves dangled across the windshield. Julie cautioned me to make sure the door was locked. Her suggestion made sense considering that there were crazy people roaming the lawn, and we had something like a dozen firearms, grenade launchers, a flamethrower, edged weapons, and several pounds of high explosive in the back of our huge Ford passenger van.

  The grounds around the asylum were immaculate. The lawns were green, and comfortable chairs had been placed in various strategic locations for the patients to make themselves at ease. A group of casually dressed people were sitting in a circle, listening to one of their own tell a story. The woman was very animated, and obviously distressed.

  “They would bite me, and it would hurt, and they would suck on me until I was so weak I was almost dead. But they would never kill me. They would just go until they got full, and then they would just stick me in the hole with the others. They would throw enough food down the hole to keep us alive. It was always dark, so we couldn’t tell what we were eating, but it was always raw meat. But we were so weak and hungry that we had no choice.” The woman was crying and shaking. She was twisting the bottom of her Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt violently. She was young, and had been probably been very pretty once, but was now prematurely aged from stress. “Sometimes, when one of us would finally get too weak, and . . . and . . . and finally die . . . Then the next day there would be more food. So we knew what it was. But we were too weak to fight. Some of us went crazy. Crazy. Waiting for them to come back and drag another one of us out of the hole to feed on. It went on and on and on like that. I don’t know how long because it was always dark. So dark.” She finally broke down in deep, pitiful sobs.

  An older woman who was obviously a doctor stood and comforted her, hugging her and telling her that she was so brave, and that it was all going to be okay now. The group echoed the sentiment, congratulating the woman for sharing. The crying patient returned to her seat.

  “Vampires,” said a man who had stopped beside me.

  I had been so distracted by the patient’s story that I had not heard him approach. He was a short, pudgy gentleman with huge, thick glasses and wild hair. His pants were hitched up over his belly button and kept there with a giant pair of suspenders. If I were to guess I would have to say that he was in his sixties.

  “One of the ways that they stay off the radar. Abduct some poor folks, and keep them locked in a pen, like cattle. Rotate through, feeding just enough to keep them alive. They don’t need to take as many victims that way. Keeps them from drawing the attention of Hunters. Saddest part of all is that even if a victim has only been bitten once, even if it was years and years before, when they die, they will return as a vampire themselves. That’s the real reason we embalm people nowadays. Keeps them from coming back. Even though this poor girl survived, she has to deal with that knowledge the rest of her life.”

  “Dr. Nelson!” Julie exclaimed. She hugged the man. He grunted as she almost lifted him off of his feet.

  “Ah . . . little Julie. You have grown so much. My gosh, let me have a look at you.” He studied her for a moment at arms’ length. “My dear, you look just like your mother. Susan was a beautiful woman too.”

  I swear that Julie the fearless Monster Hunter blushed. “Thanks, Doc. I’m told that a lot. Everybody loved Mom.”

  “Yes, we did. She was a shining light to all of us knuckle-dragging hooligans. She kept us in line, kept me and Joan alive on more than one occasion as well. How is your grandfather? Still a cantankerous old bastard I hope? Is he well?”

  “Of course, on the cantankerous part. Healthwise? He’s getting older, but he’s tough.”

  “Good, good. And Earl? Staying out of trouble? He needs to call more often to check in. I would love to write a paper about his condition if he would just sit on my couch long enough for an interview.”

  “Earl is good. I’ll tell him to call . . .” She changed the subject. “This is Owen Pitt. One of our newest Hunters.”

  The doctor shook my hand. His grip was strong for an old man. His grin was infectious.

  “Nice to meet you.” He pumped my arm vigorously. “Considerable facial scarring. Claws, yes?”

  “Werewolf,” I said, self-consciously touching my face. “I pushed him out of a tall building.”

  “You must be the lad from Dallas then. Good show on that one. I knew as soon as I saw the report that you would become a Hunter, though I would not have minded having you here for my research—werewolf encounter, survivor’s guilt, and a near-death experience, all in one patient. My, but that would make a splendid paper. Perhaps if you have the time you could give me a blow-by-blow account, maybe tell me about any psychosomatic problems you have faced since, obviously not lack of appetite. Ha!” He punched me lightly in the stomach. “Perhaps bad dreams or sexual dysfunction then?”

  Julie snickered at my discomfort. Luckily I was spared any further quizzing by the arrival of the other Doctor Nelson. She was a small, thin, birdlike woman. She was probably about the same age as her husband, but the main thing that they had in common was the enormously thick glasses. She also hugged Julie, but before they could even converse, Doctor Joan
called the group of patients over.

  “Look, everybody. These two people are from Monster Hunter International. They are real live Monster Hunters.” I waved sheepishly. Some of the patients oohed and aahed. Others held back and sullenly smoked cigarettes.

  “You are so brave.”

  “Hunters saved my life.”

  “You were my savior.”

  “Thank you.”

  Probing hands grabbed at me. I was hugged and kissed on the cheeks, and tears fell onto my clothing. I was stunned by the outpouring of emotion, and mostly tried to keep my hands on my concealed weapons. I did not want to find out if any of the patients were feeling suicidal or homicidal. Finally the crowd drew back, leaving Julie and me disheveled and tear-stained. It was a strange experience to be thanked by total strangers for things which I had never done.

  “Where were you people when my kids were getting torn apart?” one of the patients snarled. He was a middle-aged man who did not look comfortable in casual clothing.

  “Now now, Barney. The Hunters are only human. They can’t be everywhere. They can only do their best. We can all learn from that example.” The female Doctor Nelson clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone, the sharing circle is done for today. It’s lunchtime. Today we are having meatloaf.”

  “Bah.” The man named Barney spit on the ground in my general direction and stormed away. The group dispersed.

  “What’s his problem?” I asked.

  “He must not like meatloaf,” Lucius Nelson answered.

  The interior of the asylum was much warmer and friendlier than the gothic exterior. The Nelsons had remodeled the building until it looked less like a state-run ward, and more like a comfortable and relaxing place to live. The walls were painted warm colors, and the staff was courteous and friendly. Julie had gone with Doctor Joan to see her father. She had understandably not wanted my company for the painful meeting. If we were needed, Doctor Lucius had his beeper.

  I was getting the tour. “Those patients you met are some of the more well-adjusted people we have staying here. Most of them are on the verge of really dealing with their issues. Hopefully some of them will be able to return to the world soon. We also, I’m afraid, have others who are not doing so well. This common area is made up of people who are no longer really a danger to themselves or others. The other sections have greater security.”

  “Which one is Ray Shackleford in?”

  “Maximum security. He is actually a ward of the state, and only released into our custody because of the nature of our facility. We are required to keep him locked up and guarded.”

  “Is Julie going to be safe?” I could not help but ask.

  “I saw that girl beat an Indonesian blood fiend into submission when she was sixteen years old. I’m not worried. But just in case, Ray has been restrained. I would have administered drugs, but I’m guessing that you want him lucid.” He adjusted his suspenders. “I wish that MHI would have called and warned us you were coming.”

  “It was kind of a surprise decision.” I shrugged. Some of the patients were playing Ping-Pong. One of them had scars that made my own look miniscule.

  “Well, I’m glad that Julie is finally speaking with her father. I just hope that she has prepared herself for this. It could be potentially traumatic.” He chuckled softly. “That is why my wife went with her instead of me. She is the loving one.”

  He pointed at other patients as we continued walking. “Part of the problem we face here is the whole government-mandated secrecy about monsters. Many of our patients were put into regular mental health facilities after their encounters, before we were able to find out about them and bring them here. Unfortunately, when a severely traumatized individual is taken in for treatment, and they are already struggling with the reality of what they have experienced, regular doctors are not much help. Can you imagine going to a normal psychologist and explaining that your boss turned into a werewolf and tried to eat you?” He did not wait for me to answer. “They would think that you were delusional and they would pump you full of drugs. You know what you saw. They don’t think that is possible, so after a while the sane and healthy patient begins to doubt their own memories, that leads to insecurity and that snowballs into all sorts of mental problems. If you can’t trust your own memory, what can you trust?”

  “I got security camera video,” I replied.

  “Ha. Like most of these poor people get to see anything like that. Damn quacks can ignore piles of evidence, because they are sure that monsters are only figments of our subconscious. I’ve read huge textbooks explaining how the werewolf and vampire legends, that date back to the dawn of recorded civilization and span every single culture on the planet, are neatly explained by mass hysteria, religious fervor, vain attempts at understanding natural pathological psychoses, or even hallucinations caused by ergot in bad rye bread. Ha. Joan and I were staking vampires while we were still in med school, so our methods are a little unorthodox in the scientific community. Learn this, Mr. Pitt, there are three kinds of people in the world: people who can’t believe in anything, suckers who believe in everything, and a few of us who can face the truth.”

  We stopped in front of a large security door. A hulking orderly nodded at us, and Doctor Nelson scanned his badge to get us through. We entered a long corridor, lined with steel doors with small window slits. Screaming, crying and gibbering nonsense echoed through the hall. It gave me shivers.

  “This ward is for people who have had serious monster trauma and are not coping with it well. They are suicidal, violent, or unable to distinguish reality from fantasy.” We stopped before a door. I peered through the slit. A man was sitting cross-legged in the corner. He was wearing a straitjacket, and he was softly beating his head against the padded wall. He was humming “Mary Had a Little Lamb” over and over again. Drool was running down his chin, and forming a puddle on the floor.

  “Believe it or not, Carlos here was a Monster Hunter. He worked for MHI up until about fifteen years ago. He was one of our team leads in New England. Brilliant man, great Hunter, good leader.”

  “What happened?” I asked softly. Carlos cocked his head to the side as if listening to something very far away. After a few seconds he went back to humming.

  “Have you ever read any H.P. Lovecraft, Mr. Pitt?”

  “Please, just call me Owen. I read a little bit when I was a kid, why?” I did not say that his stories had given me nightmares.

  “Lovecraft was no Hunter, but he heard the stories, and he did his research. He had a pretty good idea of what was out there. If you remember, a common theme in his work was the protagonist’s gradual descent into madness over a period of being exposed to the darkness of the other side. There are things out there which man is not meant to ever see or understand. Poor Carlos here is a perfect example.”

  “What did he see?”

  “Nobody knows. His whole team went missing, and he was found wandering in the countryside, naked and confused. Just keep that in mind as you continue your career, Owen. There are some things that are best just left alone.”

  We exited the ward, leaving Carlos and the others to their songs.

  Lunch was filling, and the meatloaf was surprisingly edible, considering it was mass-produced in an insane asylum’s cafeteria. Doctor Joan called at one point to tell us that Ray was finally speaking a little bit to his daughter. I overheard part of the conversation. He was coherent, but the Shackleford family reunion was not exactly a joyous occasion.

  After we ate, the tour continued, terminating on the back lawns of the Appleton Asylum overlooking the sluggish Alabama River. A high fence ensured that none of the patients decided to take a swim. It had rained briefly, and this time it was enough to break the humidity and lower the temperature to an almost comfortable degree.

  As we walked along the lawns, many other patients came up to speak with me. Some wanted to touch my hands, or give me hugs. Many of them thanked me for what I did with heartfelt emotion. I was not used to su
ch attentions.

  “They are trying to give their thanks. Of course, I find out about many of my patients from your organization. Many of them would not be alive if it weren’t for MHI or your competitors,” the good doctor explained. “They see people like you as saviors, as heroes, as champions.”

  “I’m no hero,” I replied. “I’m not even particularly brave.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Everybody needs something to believe in. So for those who have been hurt by evil, they need to have champions of good to offset that in their minds. For the victims, they see people like you as Batman or the Lone Ranger. It keeps their worlds in balance. Mankind needs our heroes.”

  “I’m not sure exactly what I am, but I’m nobody’s champion.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I’ve been around Hunters longer than you have been alive. It is a job that requires bravery to the point of insanity. Everyone has their own reasons. Some of us are just in this for the money, others are in it for the thrill, others because they need a place to vent their violence in a manner that is not only legal but encouraged. Some do it out of a thirst for revenge. Some, like Julie I’m afraid, do it because it is the only world they know or really fit into. And then there are the few, the very, very few, who do it because they really are heroes, and they don’t have it in them to be anything else.”

  I thought of Trip when he said that. My friend was in this for the right reasons. He just wanted to do good and help people. Guys like him were the heroes. I was just an accountant with a gun.

  “So why are you doing this, Owen?”

  “You going to psychoanalyze me now, Doc?”

  He laughed. “I’m just a curious man by nature.”