Monster Hunter: The Second Bullet, Part 3

This story was made using the solo RPG: Monster Hunter, by La esquina del rol.

There were few people in the world who remembered the Borderlands before Old Splitfoot staked his claim: legends of forests free of monsters, deserts without the wailing dead, and plains full of fresh water and dancing deer, sleeping field-mice and singing birds.

The true telling of it was kept by the Grand Order of Monster Hunters in books and journals held as sacred, to be protected above all else. It was a holy memory — there was a time before Old Splitfoot.

Now, the plains were dangerous.

The worst danger of the plains was their lure of ease. The plains weren’t the hungry earth of the swamps nor the treacherous cliffs of the mountains. The plains could seduce even the wisest and most experienced into lowering their guard just long enough to become the hunted instead of the hunter.

For Vic, such feelings were lies. There was no peace and quiet in the Borderlands. Silence was the sound of stalking, gentle breezes the same as a predator’s breath. The peace of the plains was the allure of a fly-trap ready to snap closed.

She sat quietly, staring over the cold and empty expanse. Even without her training, these plains were unnaturally quiet. Even in the harshest lands there were sounds of a twisted nature; birds howled over still winds while emaciated deer and coyotes picked through rattling twigs. There was life, of a sort, among the dead.

Here there were no such sounds. The wind wailed without the merest hint of wolf howl or birdsong. The quiet footfalls of elk or field-mouse were absent. This stretch of plains was silent.

The fauna of the Borderlands had kept themselves well away from the beast’s hunting grounds, while the sparse flora was dry and gnarled. Even the sky seemed to shy away from the wolf’s home, leaving a dark gray haze to hang over everything, oppressive and spiteful.

Fang had staked his claim.

Tracking the monstrous wolf had been easier than she’d expected. Drake hadn’t been wrong when he called the thing mad. Fang’s tracks had been everywhere. It moved not like a wolf or bear, but more like a human, crashing its way through the plains like a force of nature. Vic only had to hear his howl once to understand. It was a wail full of pain and hate, a clawing scream of death and hellfire. It wasn’t a mortal scream.

“Big as a bear,” Vic had repeated to herself, as she placed her hand entirely in one of its tracks. “Or bigger.”

Her plan was simple. She would sit and wait, ready to fire a blessed silver bullet into the monster’s throat. She wouldn’t bother to mask her scent — the beast either could smell beyond her meager attempts or was already too mad to care.

Five days she sat in stillness, eating little, moving less. She listened and she waited.

At dawn on the sixth day she saw the monster.

He was bigger than a bear, thick and muscled like an old oak tree. He staggered out of the distance like a drunkard coming home from the tavern. A keening whine leaked out from clenched fangs, as saliva flew out from a tossing head. His muzzle was soot black and dripping viscous ichor. His eyes burned red in the dim light.

He stopped some ten yards away from Vic, pulled his head back, and howled into the air. It was a siren warning of an impending storm, a thousand wails of suffering souls. It was a cry from the darkest pits of hell where even the damned feared to tread.

The first shot rang true, cutting through the air and striking the monster full in the throat. The unearthly howl tore itself short, gargling through spurts of sour blood. Staggering in sudden shock and agony, the dreadful wolf scrabbled against the rocky ground, it claws sparking fire and lightning as it reared its head about, too late. Another bullet was already flying through the air, its silver tip burying itself in the beast’s flank. A new gout of steaming blood sprayed into the air as the monster leapt.

Too fast! The wolf was on Vic before she could blink. It moved like lightning, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as thick as fog. Two glowing flames marked its eyes as Vic rolled to the side, barely missing the rake of steel claws that cut the air.

The growl was deeper than the deepest earthquake, filled with screams of the dead and dying.

Spinning around, Vic’s rifle was up and between the wolf’s teeth as it drooled dark acid over her chest. The weight of a mountain pushed her back, deep into the ground. She could feel her arms weakening…

Hauling hard, Vic twisted the rifle, driving the barrel into the ground. The wolf’s jaw was tight with hate, and twisted his head around. Letting go with her right hand, Vic pulled her hatchet free from her belt and swung it into the beast’s forehead.

A gentle shriek poured out through miles of wet blood and red teeth. Again and again, Vic pulled the hatchet loose and struck deeper and deeper into the skull.

The world faded away. There was nothing but the wail and the sickening crunch of snapping bone. The dark jaws strained against the hardened steel of the rifle while the flaming red burned brightly, burrowing into Vic’s eyes.

At last, at long last, the monster choked its last, blood pouring freely from its throat, shoulder, and skull. Vic fell back, breathing deeply as her heart pounded in her head. The silence of the plains flooded back into her ears and the weight of the dire wolf on her chest became dead.

Together the two bodies lay there, one drinking in the air tainted by the smell of blood and death, the other twitching as its last promise of life leaked out onto the dusty ground.

Finally, Vic heaved the corpse off of herself and pulled the silver knife from her belt. She had learned how to skin animals years ago as part of her mother’s intense training on surviving in the Borderlands. These monsters were not regular animals; their skin was tough as iron, though it leaked dark ichor like a sponge. It squirmed and writhed over living bones and bulbous muscles. It was a horrible thing, made of nightmares and the vestigial memory of flesh.

Vic carved quickly, spilling foreign and alien innards over the ground. She cut past the ribs, snapping bones that were at once too hard and too soft. She pulled out lungs that were shriveled black and dripping a thick slime. She carved through muscle and sinew until she found the creature’s purple heart. She carefully sliced though the meat, as slow and steady as if she were carving a wooden toy…

Something metal glinted in the brackish blood.

Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t dared hope the legend of the Fang was true — or true enough. With quivering fingers, she pushed through the squelching flesh to pull out a black-stained bullet.

She poured water over the bullet to clean it. Its casing was a dark metal she didn’t recognize, but the ball itself was pure gold. She couldn’t see any markings or sigils, and the casing was rough to the touch, like old wood. Something about the bullet felt…sick, somehow. Like this bullet wasn’t just a tool for bringing death, but that it could spread a sickness.

A single bullet could change everything. It was what her father had told her. Kill a monster and a hundred people could live where once would be only death. A thousand people. What seeds could each plant? What joys could they bring?

This was a bullet that could kill a thousand monsters.

With the weight of destiny heavy in her heart, Vic opened her father’s gun and slipped the bullet inside. Two bullets down, four to go. She knew where one of the four was, if her father’s map pointed true. Where were the others?

The sun was low in the sky, and rising still. Vic stretched as tall as she could, lifting her arms over her head. She had been still for five days straight. It hadn’t been pleasant. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The smells of death were already leaving, taken by the wind. It was blowing stronger now, towards the east.

Vic opened her eyes to follow the wind. The more civilized lands were to the east. She could resupply and ask for old legends. The closest town was Lakeside, a small fishing and logging community, barely holding on to their livelihoods as the Borderlands crept closer. She could head there tomorrow. Today, she would burn and then bury the rotting corpse at her feet, and clean the world of its taint. She would rest. She would recover.

Off in the distance, the faint cry of birdsong echoed over the silent plains.