Monster Hunter: The Third Bullet, Part 3

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

Vic’s arm swung before she realized what she was doing. The silver blade dug deep into the side of the dry-one’s skull, peeling the parchment-like skin off the bone.

The dry-one shrieked, stepping backwards as the clawed hands flailed at Vic’s skin. She yanked the dagger free, ducking under the clawing limbs as she drove the knife towards the monster’s chest.

The corpse lurched aside again, the silver knife gouging a chunk out of its chest. Dry cloth and thin leather flapped around Vic’s ears and face as the glowing blue flames licked her face.

“Victoria, it must be you. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.”

Vic shoved the corpse hard, pushing herself away from the teeth and claws. She rolled back on the ground before coming up into a crouch, knife at the ready. Her heart was beating like mad, her conscious mind was in a panic. How could he be here?

A second explosion rang out. The dry-one tipped forward, barely standing upright as its chest exploded outward. Vic threw herself backwards, covering her face from flying bone and skin.

When the echoes vanished, Vic opened her eyes.

The dry-one was there, draped in the air like a poorly hung suit. It’s chest was all but gone, bits of rock salt sizzling on the dry bone. The legs stood straight, one still gamely hanging on to half its hip, which dangled like a rusty shop sign. The other wobbled uncertainly with its thigh splintered into pieces. One of the monster’s arms had vanished in the dust, while the other arm floated with pieces of shoulder-bone beneath the hobbled skull.

The flames still burned.

“Ah,” the voice hissed, frighteningly calm. “You always break my favorite toys.” The blue flame gazed at the withered fingers before turning back to the circle. “But not you, this time. Someone else? Someone you’ve protected…Someone you care about.”

“You old bastard!” Vic leapt forward, her knife cutting through the air.

The blue flames flared bright as the mummified hand of the dry-one spun around, catching Vic from her leap like a thrown ball. Vic choked as the claws bit down into her throat, choking the life out of her.

“Foolish child,” the voice of Old Splitfoot hissed like a soothing lullaby. “You think I would let you little claim jumpers walk over my land without retribution?”

Vic swung her knife again and again, struggling to find purchase on the dry-one’s body, but the bones evaded her blade like leaves on the wind. Darkness began to crowd in from the corners of her eyes.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Old Splitfoot’s blue flame glittered bright. “It’s so easy to do. All those words never said, the opportunities never realized, the promises never fulfilled…I slip in, I feed, and the poison spreads through the whole town. Every tiny injustice another bullet in my gun, every unkind word a whetstone for my axe. I ride a horse made of blood and wear spurs made of hate. I have no name, I have every name, and as soon as I’ve finished with you, I’ll find out who’s inside that hedge-magic circle of yours and plunge their soul into a pit so deep they’ll forget they were ever a human.”

Through the burning wind and chilling pain, the sound of a hammer being cocked split the air.

The claws around Vic’s throat vanished, the air came freely once more.

A third explosion ripped the air. Vic was already falling to the ground, rock salt spinning past her ears as she coughed, gasping for air. Her head ached, the knife had fallen in the sand, somewhere. Where was it? She scrabbled at the dust, blinking hard to rid her eyes of the flashes and spots that blinded her.

A fourth gunshot rang over her head. A small whimper told Vic what she’d already guessed; Petra had missed again.

“You know,” the voice of Old Splitfoot hissed through the air, “I’m getting quite cross with you. If you aren’t careful, I’ll have to hunt you down personally. You wouldn’t like that, would you Victoria?”

Vic closed her eyes. The spots flickered and danced in the darkness. She could hear the wind, the click and clatter of Petra frantically reloading her shotgun with the only two shells left. She could hear the creak of the tavern doors, the dust blowing across the ground…

A shuddering step touched the earth behind her.

“My name is Victor,” he croaked through a raw throat. Spinning around, his eyes snapped open as his hands reached upwards with a bestial growl. He gripped skin and bone, and pulled hard as he could, tearing and rending the dry bones and mummified flesh apart.

“Vic!”

He could almost feel the knife flying through the air before he turned and saw Petra, arm outstretched. He caught the handle and drove the blade through the monster’s forehead, prying the skull apart like a walnut. There was a thunderclap, and a gout of blue flame burst from between Vic’s fingers.

A shriek echoed from the gnarled bones as they collapsed in a heap. The flames vanished into the dust as the wind died down and the chill stench of death began to fade. The dark clouds began to lighten as the evil left the town.

Petra leapt out of the circle and ran to Vic’s side. She gripped her arm, but Vic shook her hand off. “Stupid girl,” she snapped, “What did you have to go and shout for?”

“Vic,” Petra opened her mouth, but Vic wouldn’t be interrupted.

“He heard your voice,” Vic said, waving her arms about the town. “He’ll know where you are! I could have protected you as long as you were in the circle, but now that he heard your voice, he’ll hunt you down and he’ll find you and —”

Petra reached out and slowly embraced Vic in her arms.

For a moment they stood there, Vic simmering in rage at Petra’s foolishness and risky future, Petra holding her tight while gently rocking back and forth in the dying breeze.

Finally, Vic’s arms raised and held Petra back.

“I can’t protect you,” Vic murmured into Petra’s soft hair. “I said that same thing years ago, remember? I can’t protect you. I have to keep moving. If I stay, I’d —”

Petra tossed her hair as she leaned back, pressing her fingers against Vic’s lips. “Hush. I can take care of myself.”

Vic reached up to hold Petra’s hand as she brushed her lips across her soft fingertips. “You should leave. The whole town. Old Splitfoot knows where you are, now. Head east and find somewhere new to settle.”

Petra gave a sigh. “It’ll be hard. A lotta folks call this place home, and have done for years. They won’t want to leave the land, or their sick.”

“The sick should get better soon.” It was a half-lie. They’d be able to walk and talk again, but better? After being subjected to Old Splitfoot’s work — Maybe not. Maybe never. “There’s room up in New Harrisburg,” Vic cleared her throat. “You’ll be safer there than here.”

“I’ll try,” Petra nodded. “Who knows, maybe some folk’ll come with me. But you don’t have to go just yet, do you? Victor?”

Vic winced. “I…Look, I know what I said, how I…what we did was wonderful, and I…”

Petra took a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“No,” Vic coughed. Her throat was still painful. “I just mean…I don’t know if I’m…Victor…all the time, you understand?”

“Oh,” Petra’s gentle smile came back. Her eyes were wide and her breath was calm. “Well, it’ll take some time for us to leave, you know. Lot goes into resettlin’, and it might be a day or two before everyone’s ready to go.” She cocked her head. “It’d be a real comfort to have a Monster Hunter around to keep everyone safe while we pack up. Just for the night?

Vic rubbed her sore throat, and thought of her light pack. “I…can stay for a quick rest.”

Petra’s eyes were deep and brown. “Maybe you’ll actually say good-bye this time?”

Vic could smell the gentle spice of Petra’s sweat. “Maybe I will.”

She watched as Petra swept back into the tavern, to check on her brother, no doubt. Vic watched her leave, memories and hopes of the night dancing tantalizingly in her mind.

The clatter of the tavern doors broke the spell. She turned around to face the ragged clothes that had once framed the dry and mummified corpse. She bent down and sifted through the sand, searching for…

Her hand closed around a solid object. She pulled it from the dust and sand, blowing it clean.

It was a bullet.

How had she known? Truth was, she hadn’t, but something about this place, this dry-one, the pile of clothes, it called to her. Were the bullets reaching out to her, somehow?

This bullet was odd, the cartridge made of solid oak and the ball itself a polished gemstone. It felt heavy in Vic’s hand, almost as heavy as a gun. Something bright flickered in the gemstone’s depths, something that made Vic turn her eye away.

She pulled out her father’s revolver and loaded the bullet. Three now, three to go before Old Splitfoot met his end at her hand.

The gun felt heavy in her hand as she turned back to the tavern. “Maybe,” she muttered as she walked towards the doors. “Maybe tomorrow…”