Monster Hunter: The Fifth and Final Bullet
This story was made using the solo RPG: Monster Hunter, by La esquina del rol.
The dragon’s rotten lips parted, a fetid cloud of swamp gas leaking from the beast’s depths. “So,” the monster spoke, “you’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?”
Vic opened her mouth in shock before she could collect her wits. “I’m here for the bullet,” she said at last, reaching out a hand to steady herself against a tree.
“Yes, then,” the dragon slowly uncoiled, its head snaking forward. “Well, I’m not interested in fighting today, so I suppose I’ll just let you have it.”
“What?” Vic could scarcely believe it. Was the dragon being honest? She certainly wasn’t feeling up for a fight, much less with a dragon and without her rifle. Would it really be that easy?
The dragon hissed, sending a spray of burning liquid over Vic’s face. “You heard me. I’m going to give you one of the six legendary bullets. You can pluck it straight from my forehead and I won’t even eat you for your trouble. How does that sound?”
“Too good to be true,” Vic murmured. It was getting harder to speak. Her insides were twisting about and she was suddenly forced to double over and retch.
“Tsk,” the dragon clapped its jaws together. “Such a pity. You’re dying, you know. My disease of the swamp is quite virulent. Well, no matter. I can always wait for the next Hunter to give my bullet to.”
“You can’t,” Vic managed to gasp after rubbing her mouth clean. “I’m the last.”
“Are you now?” the Dragon laughed. “Well, that just makes my deal all the sweeter, doesn’t it?”
Vic felt lighter for having emptied her stomach of what little was inside it; almost like she could just float away on the fog. “You are…eloquent for a dragon,” she gasped through her heaving lungs.
“And how many of us have you tried to speak with? No, that is unfair of me. It is true, most of my kin are less concerned with conversation, but I have had many many years here to contemplate the finer arts.”
Vic looked about the dragon’s rotten nest. Surely there was a rock or log that she could rest on. “Years?”
“Centuries,” the dragon roared, causing the leaves and vines of the swamp to shudder. “Ever since that blasted — Well, no matter. It is because of her that I am trapped here, starving for a hunt, a village to terrify or a town to raze to ashes. Why, I could even be satisfied with no more than a hamlet and a single well to poison with my breath, so I might watch them die in wailing agony…”
The dragon sighed, letting its head fall back onto its coils. “But no. I am stuck here, waiting for you. Come now, be quick; take the bullet and set me free!”
Vic cursed herself as a fool. She tried to blame her foolishness on the diseased air and the swamp encroaching ever deeper into her soul, but whatever the cause, it was her fingers that reached out towards the bullet. It was she who didn’t think of the thousands of tortured and slain souls under the dragon’s feet. It was she who was more concerned with getting the fifth bullet than protecting the innocent. It was she who yearned for the ease of simply taking the bullet instead of fighting a dragon.
Of course, if she fought the dragon she certainly would have died. The smart move was always to take the bullet and let the dragon leave, but the good person she wished she could be would have struggled, surely. They would have spared a thought for who she might be damning to a painful death for her security. They might have compared the suffering between setting the dragon free, and killing Old Splitfoot once and for all.
But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out, as if in a dream, and pulled the bullet off of the dragon’s forehead.
The laughter split Vic’s head as the dragon flew into the air, a rushing wind pulling the fog and miasma around her. The gale of disease spun around her tingling skin, urging her to collapse, sink deeper into the mire and never come out again. She could feel her very soul sicken with the reek of rotten dragon skin and dying vegetation.
But she managed to hold on, gripping the bullet in her hand as tight as she could. At last, the winds faded and the sounds of the swamp returned. The dragon was gone.
Her numb fingers fumbled at her belt, pulling a motley collection of charms and vials into the soft earth. She could barely concentrate, much less see through her blurry eyes. She drank, chewed, and swallowed herb and potion, rubbed powders over her face and several other rituals to ward off the diseases of the Borderlands. She would live. She had to. If the dragon was gone, surely the fetid miasma would fade too…
She crawled out of the swamp, her lungs heaving every inch of the way. She threw up seven more times, nothing but sour bile burning her throat. Her skin grew slick with sweat as she slid through the mud until she was covered with plant matter, leeches, and the foul stench of death.
Her last thought before she lost consciousness, breathing the sun-kissed air beyond the edge of the swamp was that she couldn’t die; the Legendary Bullets wouldn’t let her.
Far to the east of most of the known borderlands lay the Valley of Ten. It was called that because of an old folk tale told around the region, a story about ten desperadoes who made their final stand in the middle of the valley. Surrounded on all sides, the ten were cut down by bullets as quick as anything. It was justice for their crimes, though the old tales never seemed to be perfectly clear on what they had done. All they knew was the valley was haunted by the souls of those ten bandits, and only the bravest dared travel through the valley pass.
The Monster Hunters knew a different tale about the Valley of Ten. They knew the ten people who had been cut down by army rifles, and what hadn’t been done to deserve it. They knew the poor souls who had been lied to that night, and what horrible things were unleashed because of it.
They knew how the blood of the ten was collected and poured at the foot of the gnarled dogwood tree. They knew the horrible rites that were performed.
It was fitting, Vic decided, that this be the place Old Splitfoot died.
The heat was fading already as the sun began to set. The winds continued to blow, sending dust across the shallow valley. In the center, the twisted dogwood tree sat still and dark, a monolith of evil portent.
She would have to be quick; once she started down the path, there was a good chance she wouldn’t survive. Taking a deep breath of evening air, Vic drew her father’s old revolver. She gently traced the sigil on the handle with her fingertips.
She could still turn back. She could go home, find Pet, live the rest of her days in peace and quiet. She could even be Victor as much as she wanted. All the time, even, if she wished.
Vic aimed the revolver and fired.
The silver ball whirled through the air, sparks flying off its spinning arc. It cut sharp through the heat and tore into something.
Old Splitfoot staggered.
“The first bullet,” Vic whispered, “to bring forth the devil.”
“Oh, well done,” Old Splitfoot’s voice was dry and mocking. “One out of five. I happen to know you don’t have all six, and that’s going to make things a little difficult for you, isn’t it?”
The shadowy figure danced between the outcroppings and shaded boulders. It was a thousand shapes at once; a mountain lion, a man in a thick coat, a falcon, a hare, a howling wolf…
Vic carefully took aim. “The second bullet, to pierce his lies.”
The crack of the gun echoed through the valley, as the shadows twisted and screamed. Vic stepped forward as the shadowy figure stood up, clutching at his leg. “Damn you,” he spat, fire licking from under his tongue, “Damn you and your two-penny hedge-magic, it’ll take more than —”
The gun fired again. The figure spun about, landing in the dust. “The third to bind his flame, the fourth to cut his claws.” The gun spat fire and smoke once more, as Old Splitfoot writhed on the ground.
His voice was deeper than any human’s when he spoke again. “You think this gets you anything? You’ve been hunting me for years, and now you think you can just end it all?”
Vic didn’t answer. She reached down and grabbed the man by his neck and pulled him towards the tree. It was easier than she had expected, something about the old devil’s sins should have felt heavy, she reckoned.
Tossing the limp body against the tree, she cocked her father’s gun once more. “The fifth to nail him still.”
Old Splitfoot screamed as the fifth bullet buried itself in his heart — or where his heart would have been. His body sagged, weak and helpless against the tree. For a moment, the two stared at each other.
“Well?” Old Splitfoot grinned, red pouring from his mouth. “That’s five. You think I won’t just start again? The door was opened for me. The Borderlands are mine by right. Without the sixth bullet, you just wasted your time.”
“I have the sixth bullet,” Vic said.
“Oh?” Old Splitfoot sneered. “You think you can lie to me? I can’t smell it anywhere near.”
“I know,” Vic sat down next to the tree, setting her bag at her side. “You’d have fought harder if you had.” Slowly, she pulled out her blanket and started to cut it into strips with her knife. Her water-skin came next, and then her father’s leathery map.
Old Splitfoot watched as she carefully lay the map against her chest. She positioned one corner under her chin, and pulled the other corner towards her belly. The lines on the map, as inaccurate as they were for marching about the Borderlands, now provided a perfect guide.
She worked as quickly as she dared. Her knife was swift and sharp, the pain blinding. When the job was done, gritting her teeth through the pain, she rinsed the bullet off from her water-skin and slipped it into her father’s gun.
“Clever,” Old Splitfoot muttered. “That’s why I couldn’t ever find it, I suppose. Your parents put it inside you when you were young?”
“They knew I’d need it,” Vic whispered, her throat tight. “Someday.”
“Well…” the crumpled body of Old Splitfoot struggled to move, but it was too late. His power was gone. “You do me a favor, yeah? Last request sort of thing?”
Vic cocked the gun.
“When I’m gone, keep track of all the horrible things you humans do to each other. Keep score. I’d love to know if having me around made things —”
The gun cut him off.
“Six to end his claim,” Vic whispered.
The wind blew quietly through the tired old dogwood tree, the rattle of branches the only sound. Wincing in pain, Vic began to minister to her self inflicted wound.
“It’s done,” she repeated to herself. “Ma, pa, it’s over. He’s gone.”
The Borderlands could heal now, she hoped. It would take time and effort, but she might live to see the day that Old Splitfoot’s taint left the Borderlands entirely.
It was certainly a hope worth having.
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