Monster Hunter: The Third Bullet, Part 2

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

“Here’s the last of it,” Petra grunted as she set the large sack of salt on the bar.

Vic glanced up as she finished filling her last casing. “Good. That’ll be plenty. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not getting much use for it now,” she shrugged. “And no one’s comin’ in again if you don’t lick this problem right quick.”

Vic sealed the cartridge with a wad of paper. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to promise I’ll win. Never fought a dry-one before.”

“What’s that?”

Vic sighed as she slipped two prepared cartridges into Petra’s shotgun. “The deserts, the windy places of the Borderlands…they do something to the dead, but they can do something to the living too. You get thirsty, even if you have water. You start losing things; your self, your skin, your thoughts…eventually, all that’s left is hate.”

“And…it’s a disease?”

“No,” Vic sighted down the shotgun before handing it to Petra. “Dry-ones are just like you and me, only Old Splitfoot got into their heads. The disease is him, making that hate real. Who’s still healthy?”

“Just a few of us,” Petra said, grabbing the bag of prepared shells. “ten, maybe twelve.”

“Everyone who moved into town in the past fifteen years or so?” Vic reached across to the bag of salt and hoisted it onto her shoulder.

Petra thought for a moment as they left the tavern. “No, Old Ma’am Renee came here seventeen years ago, and I think she’s fine.”

“Then that’s when they got taken,” Vic nodded to herself as she tore open an end of the bag and began carefully spilling the salt in a circle. “Whoever this dry-one is, they don’t know you, so they don’t hate you.”

“But…No, there’re kids who got sick. Sally’s boy, and the Olson twins —”

“Sins of the family,” Vic muttered. “Old Splitfoot’s got a thing about bloodlines.”

“So…” Petra cocked her his as she rested the shotgun on her shoulder and her hand on her hip, “If all the old bloodlines die, then the disease’ll die too?”

“No, then it’ll get mad at the rest of you for survivin’.”

A distant wail of wind brought both women to silence. The air was beginning to chill, the sky was darkening. At last, Vic straightened and tossed the bag of salt aside. “Pet, get in the circle.”

Petra carefully stepped over the salt line and stood tall in the center, shotgun gripped tightly in both hands. Vic took a slow breath. “You remember your part?” Petra nodded, patting the bag of shells on her hip before gripping the gun even tighter. Vic nodded back. “Good. Again, don’t say a word. No matter what.”

The hot wind scraped at Vic’s cheek. From the center of town, the clock tower struck the hour. Fitting, Vic thought as she pulled out a small tube from her jacket. It had been easy to find in a tavern; just a bit of mudwort mixed with a bit of sage from her pack. She opened the vial and poured the ground herbs at her feet. Putting the vial away, she pulled out a match and struck it against the sole of her boot.

The fire flared quick and brief before she plunged the flame into the small pile of herbs. There was a sudden stench of sulfur, then an acrid smell of burnt mudwort. The faintest whisper of sage flickered through the air along with burnt wood and leaves.

“Come on, you son-of-a-bitch,” Vic slowly pulled out her silver knife. “I’m ready for you.”

The wind grew stronger, pulling dust and dirt from the ground and into the air. The creak of the tavern doors echoed through the air as they swung back and forth on their hinges. The sound of Petra’s breathing vanished into the torrential gale. Sand spun up in a dusty cloud, obscuring the road out of town.

Vic gripped her knife tightly. Sparing a quick glance, she checked the salt circle. It was undisturbed. “Alright,” she said, staring back at the road. “let’s get this over with.”

Through the thick cloud, a dark figure staggered forward. Cloth hung in ragged straps from limbs as thin as bone. Dried leather skin wrapped the body tightly, as shrivled muscles jerked the corpse closer. Vic slowly stepped to the side, giving Petra a clear shot with her shotgun. “There you are,” Vic muttered.

The dried mummy reached out with gnarled fingers, darkness flowing under his parchment skin. The jaw dangled uselessly as the wrinkled eyelids quivered in the sharp wind. Vic could feel the hatred leaking off of the corpse as it pressed closer; years of resentment at the injustice of death in the face of life. Rotten teeth rattled in the withered husk as regret, yearning, and pain all rolled together in the dry-one’s chest, a simmering ball of fury.

Vic brought up her knife. She was in its way, and now its ire was directed at her. She stepped to the side…

She heared the click of Petra’s shotgun as she raised it to her shoulder…

It happened in an instant. The taught eyelids snapped wide, like a torn balloon. A burst of sickly blue flame erupted from the empty sockets as a roar of black smoke poured from Petra’s shotgun. Rock salt hurdled through the air towards the dry-one, who…

…Wasn’t there.

Vic turned to see the glowing blue eyes of the corpse staring her full in the face. A blue glow flickered deep within the dry-one’s throat, echoing up from further away than it could possibly be.

“I…smell…salt.”

Vic’s heart froze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Petra’s shotgun lower at the hissing breathy voice. It was horrible; the sound of a thousand screams pressed into a haggered dusty laugh.

Vic recognized the voice.

“Not just salt,” the voice continued as the dry-one, moving smoothly and calmly, cast its burning blue gaze around the scene, “but a Hunter. Hunter’s blood, I smell. Is that you, Victoria?”.