Monster Hunter: The Fifth Bullet, Part 2

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

The way was dark and cold. A rusted lantern with a small slosh of ancient oil provided enough light to see by and not much else. The sound of dripping water echoed through the depths. The darkness was unyielding, drawing Vic further and further away from the light. She had never ventured into the caves and abandoned mines of the Borderlands; the monsters that roamed the land above were bad enough, and there was little of worth in the dark underground. It was all Vic could do to not shiver.

The passages twisted and wound across each other like writhing snakes. Were it not for Vic’s compass, she would have been completely lost.

No, not completely. Every once in a while, the pull of the fifth bullet dragged at her stomach, tugging her down this tunnel or that. She was hunting on instinct now, navigating the maze of tunnels with little more than hope spurring her on.

At long last, a faint glimmer of natural light shone through the darkness. She crept forward, ducking through the small passage until she reached a large fissure in the rock, stretching up to the surface and down deeper into the earth.

The light shone from above. It would be a tight squeeze, but it certainly looked like she could make it through. Testing the rock as she went, she began to climb. The crack drew tighter as she ascended, scratching at her hands and clothing. The pack on her back strained against the straps while her rifle rattled as it cracked against the stone. Nevertheless, the light came closer and closer as she climbed.

Suddenly, the rock gave way. Her hand slipped, her leg twisted, and she felt herself drop —

She stopped. She had caught herself, wedged between the walls. She just needed to twist herself a little more to reach —

There was a snap. Something gave and she felt herself swing free. A clatter from beneath her sent a chill through her heart. A quick glance told her all she needed to know; her rifle’s strap had broken. Far down, another echoing clatter confirmed her worst fears. Her rifle had slid down the crevasse and was even now falling deeper into the depths.

Damn! A fleeting moment of desperation set Vic wondering if she could climb down after it, but she soon rejected the idea. The crevasse wouldn’t be any wider at the bottom, and it was already getting tight for her. The rifle could slide places she’d never reach, and she was so close to the top…

A litany of curses flew through her mind as she continued to climb, squeezing her body through the tight gap. Her rifle was gone.

At long last, she pushed her way through to the open air. The smell was thick, rank, and sour. The heat of the Borderlands was milder, but the thick moisture in the air hung like a curtain, covering Vic in a thin sheen of slippery sweat. The world, which had just hours ago been tan and red and seconds ago had been dark and gray, was now bright and sickly green.

The buzzing of insects and the knocking of frogs met Vic’s ears. A few steps forward saw her boots sinking into the mud. Water pooled in her footsteps, and the oppressive air bore down on her like a diving falcon. Somehow, the old mining tunnels had come out in the middle of a swamp. No wonder there was so much moisture in the air…

Vic shifted the pack on her back and checked to make sure she hadn’t lost anything else. She was already feeling naked without her rifle, and there was scarce any chance she’d find another one anytime soon. She still had some water and a few rations, and her hatchet still hung at her side. Her knife was still there, as was her blanket and pack of herbs, though there weren’t many left. She considered leaving what ammunition she still had behind, but there was no telling in the Borderlands.

Vic looked around at the fetid swamp. She could smell the miasma leaking into her bones already. She’d have to be quick if the fifth bullet was here.

It certainly felt like it was. Deep in her gut, she could feel the other bullets tugging, pulling her in multiple directions at once. As she trudged through the soggy land, she could feel the pull of the bullet, but she couldn’t figure out where. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

“Ain’t you tired of this?”

Vic stumbled, nearly tipping herself into the fetid waters. The drone of flies grew thicker around her.

“Ain’t talkin’ to you,” she muttered as she stood up, wiping her hands on her jacket.

“Yeah,” the smooth voice of Old Splitfoot drifted up from behind her, “I get that a lot. This time it ain’t in a desert, though, so you gotta be thankful for that.”

“Ain’t thankful for you for nothin’.” The mosquitoes were like a heavy rain, threatening to fly into her mouth whenever she spoke.

“You should be,” his voice kept pace with her every step. “Done a lot for this region, I have. Gave you a purpose, didn’t I? Got you running about all over instead of sitting in some dead-end town, wearing a dress, waiting to die.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a peaceful life.” She knew she shouldn’t keep talking. She should have ignored the monster but the heat was making her dizzy.

“Peaceful?” Old Splitfoot laughed. “You tell me, Vic, when was it you stopped worrying about petticoats and corsets? When did you decide to cut your hair short and tighten up those bandages?”

The heat bore down on her head. The scent of rotten meat and dying foliage assaulted her nostrils. The world was beginning to spin, swaying back and forth as she staggered forward. The bullet was here somewhere!

“When it didn’t matter anymore,” his tone was triumphant. “When you looked at yourself in the mirror and thought ‘well shucks, guess it’s now or never.’ You spent quite a lot of time out here in the Borderlands, and you can’t tell me you didn’t feel more comfortable killing my kith and kin than you ever did palling around with yours.”

Where was it? Sweat poured down her face. Her innards heaved back and forth, threatening to pour out of her throat. Her legs shook as they struggled to keep walking. This wasn’t just the heat, this was an illness beyond the mere physical world.

All around her, flies and mosquitoes spread like raindrops. They hummed and buzzed and circled her head like eager vultures, waiting for the disease of the Borderlands to take its toll.

“Fine,” Old Splitfoot sighed, his voice slowly fading as he spoke. “You keep running around like a chicken with its head cut off, and I’ll keep my claim. I just don’t want you to feel all put out if you decide to pack it in.”

Vic spun about, curse on her lips to silence the foul beast once and for all…and caught herself before she made a sound. Old Splitfoot wasn’t there, hadn’t been there, but other things were. The swamps were no safe place for the living, and she had almost shouted into the droning air, almost drew the attention of every monster in a mile.

She clutched her head. It was here somewhere, and Old Splitfoot was trying to distract her, delay her, or get her killed. Well, she wasn’t about to let that happen. He could distract her all he wanted…

She looked around. What direction had she been headed in when he first spoke? She should head in that direction, shouldn’t she? She trudged onward, blinking her way through the foggy mire. For a moment she was worried, concerned she had guessed incorrectly, that she had overestimated — or perhaps underestimated — her adversary’s game. Perhaps he had just chosen the moment by accident, and she was getting no closer to the bullet.

Soon enough, her worries proved unfounded. The way became harder, as thick brambles and deep watery bogs barred her way. She hacked her way through, pushing her aching body further into the swamp. Gnarled tree branches, soaked thick with water, clawed at her face and arms, desperate to keep her further from the swamp’s core. “Heh,” she spat as she half-climbed and half-swam through the barriers. “Trying to keep me out, are you? Well, you should know that’s not how I work…”

The swamp spun about her, such that it didn’t occur to her that Old Splitfoot might have very well known that fact, before she came face to face with the dragon.

When Vic was younger, she had heard old fairy tales of splendid dragons, mighty and majestic. They were supposed to be beautiful creatures, as deadly as they were awe-inspiring. The dragons of the Borderlands were not majestic creatures at all; they were pure manifestations of hate and cruelty. They were fiercely clever but used their intelligence only to think of ways to hurt others. They ate their prey alive and slow. They smelled of the foulest pits of hell. They were evil.

The dragon was lounging in the mire, coils slick with slime and rot. Its wings flapped lazily in the moist air, setting the fog rolling up and down while its glowing yellow eyes sizzled like hot coals. A purple tongue snaked out from between its ragged jaws and curled around its lips, tugging at scraps of skin and dried blood.

Vic froze, shocked at the sudden sight. The monster’s eye was locked onto her; it had seen her, and now it was deciding what to do with her.

It hadn’t pounced yet, that was lucky. If she moved slowly, she might be able to get out of sight before it decided to eat her, and then she could either hide, or the dragon could be distracted by something else…

The dragon blinked, the glow dimming slightly before flaring again.

Vic squared her jaw. In the dim light, she had seen something glinting that the dragon’s bright eye had obscured. The bullet! Its metallic sheen sparkled in the soft sunlight that filtered through the fog. It sat, patiently waiting, in the dragon’s forehead.

Damn, she thought. Have to kill a dragon.