Monster Hunter

The rotten lips parted once more, 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, 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 bite you for your trouble. How does that sound?”

The lake water looked cold, but the singer payed it no mind.

The rising sun was slowly warming the nighttime air, the first piercing rays striking the singer full in the face, but it paid no mind to the sun either. It’s eyes had long since rotted away to a shrivled milky white. Loose teeth rattled in its skull as its head fell from side to side, a sound that was half a moan and half a hymn drifting across the gently rippling lake.

Whoever they were, they died years ago. Now, all they were was a fountain of suffering that drew the living and trapped them in their own nightmares. There were ten of them, at least. They rocked back and forth, their eyes squeezed tight, their faces frozen masks of pain, fear, and despair.

Vic rubbed her mouth as she studied the scene from her hiding spot. It would be hard to get everyone away from the monster without being seen, but the walking dead were harder to kill than most. Besides, she was running low on supplies and still had to get the ten people back home.

Humans didn’t last long in the Borderlands. The air was bad, it made you sick. Monsters hunted silently, and claimed their pray with sudden and clear fierceness. The few who survived for any length of time, did so because of either extensive training or a guide who had the same, and they rarely stayed longer than a week before returning to the safety of civilization.

Vic opened her pack and pulled out the last of her herbs. Surely, she had to have something useful that could keep the weathered zombie busy while she fled with its captives.

The way was dark and cold. A rusted lantern with a small spattering of ancient oil provided enough light to see by, and not much else. The sound of dust and dripping moisture echoed silently through the depths. It was all Vic could do to not shiver.

The darkness was unyeilding, drawing her 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.

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 locals called it Old Man Hollow. Vic Duncan called it warm and dry, and in the Borderlands, especially during the cold times of the year, that weren’t nothing to sneeze at.

That said, it wouldn’t remain warm and dry much longer. The sound of rain and thunder was rolling across the distant plains; if Vic wanted to beat the rain, she figured, she’d have to start moving soon.

When she was younger — back when she had first became a hunter — part of her would have wanted to remain surrounded by the gnarled hangman-trees that cradled her small camp. These small moments of warmth and security were rare in the Borderlands, and she used to take all she could get. That part of her had died a long time ago; there was no comfort to be had here, surrounded by ancient woods and dark shadows. Ever since Old Splitfoot came to the Borderlands, there was little comfort to be had anywhere, least of all for Hunters.

Vic began to pack up: her father’s old map and compass, her mother’s traveling pan, her roll and flask, her last few bits of food…it all went into her saddlebags. When was the last time she had seen a horse? There were still a few back in the corelands, but not many hunters ever rode horseback. Horses were too unpredicatble when it came to the Hunt. If they weren’t prepared they’d never survive, and there was nothing that could prepare you for your first time in the Borderlands. Too many horses died or caused trouble to be worth the risk.

Vic opened her eyes.

The icy chill of morning fought to keep her still, poking at her aching muscles and urging her to sleep longer, to wait until the day was warmer. Vic would hear none of it; she sat up, brushing the frost off her cheeks and hair and streching her cramping limbs.

The man was still there, sleeping as best he could while wrapped in what was left of his blanket. Vic took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Damn it all. Kicking dirt on the smoking remains of his fire, Vic walked past the man and snatched up her pack and rifle. “Come on,” she shouted. “Up you get. Time for us to get a move on.”

The man sputtered, jerking upright and casting about. When he realized where he was, he stifled a yawn and slowly crawled upright. “What are you…where are we going?”

Damn, damn, damn fool woman. “If I let you wander off, you won’t make it past sundown. I’m going to take you east a ways until I’m sure you can make it home on your own. This is taking time out of my Hunt, you ken? So I don’t want to hear any complaining about how hungry you are or how much your feet hurt. We’re heading east and we’re going as fast as we can. Got it?”

“I…I got it,” the man rubbed his face. “I suppose asking for breakfast is out?”

As things turned out, the man was finished and standing by the ash of the fire when Vic returned. She tossed him a waterskin and hoisted her bag over her back. “Let’s go.”

“Towards the mountains?” The man coughed. “I thought we were headed east. What’s over there?”

“Me, before nightfall. Quit your whining.”

“What about the…the body?”

“Doesn’t keep good, let the vultures take care of it,” Vic sighed. “Come on, move it! We’re losing light.”

As they walked, Vic took out her father’s map and compass. They were heading northeast, now. If she had read the map properly, they should be about here, but if she saw what she thought she saw, they needed to be about here…

Vic cursed her father again. Then, out of misplaced frustration, she swore at her mother. Neither of them had bothered to write a proper map, and now it was her job to wander around the Borderlands, searching for the bullets that they should have picked up years ago.

Vic checked the map. “Shit.”

The southern wetlands were not the best mapped areas in the Borderlands. The marshes and soggy soil kept most people away. There were plenty of monsters in the wetlands, and in fewer places were the lands less hospitable. It was too easy to lose your way only to find yourself drawn down to a watery grave by a misplaced foot.

But there were reasons to come to the wetlands; herbs of all kinds grew here, special ingredients of an arcane nature. Roots and barks, fresh leaves and buds from flowers, even certain kinds of mud were useful. It took a keen eye and a sharp mind to harvest the rarest, and a few were known only to the Monster Hunters.

Vic walked slowly thorough the reeds, testing each soft patch of soil with her rifle-butt. The glanced at the map once more before shoving it back into her pack. Landmarks were a Monster Hunter’s best friend. Sketched maps and folk tales were all well and good when it came to survival, but when you were looking for a particular lake in a land of lakes…

Vic heaved a sigh as she pulled her small telescope from her bag. She needed to get the lay of the land again…something about the wetlands made even walking in a straight line nearly impossible. Nevertheless, the marshlands were a place of great importance for the Order.

“Ah!” The sands settled for only a moment. “Brave and bold! There is little you could offer us, child. We who flit through the air know all things that the air touches. We hear all things whispered and see all things seen.”

Vic smiled. It was the curse of the elementals; they had great power, but cared for nothing. All the secrets they knew, and they didn’t want for any of them. “Then you know where the legendary bullets lie?”

“Hmm…” The air seemed to think, though it had no mind to think with. “We know of one. I lies buried deep in this very desert.”

Vic’s heart skipped a beat. “Can you tell me where? Show me where it’s buried?”

The airy sprite swung back and forth, a windy kind of childish smile. “Why should we do that?”

Vic took a slow breath. She had never dealt with an elemental directly before, but she had listed to plenty of her elders describe their own dealings. She had come prepared.

“I’ll race you.”

Vic woke with a start, gasping in the dark of the cave. Her heart was pounding in her ears. The air was cool, but sweat was pouring down her face. On reflex, her hand grabbed for the hatchet resting at her side, ready to strike at anything nearby.

The cave was quiet, the dawn light outside was leaking gently into the room.

Vic exhaled. Just a dream. She had been running…no, she had been still but the world was running around her…but weren’t her legs moving? And there was a…shape…

Vic took another deep breath. The dream was gone already. It didn’t mean anything, and she had a long way to travel. She stood up from her roll and stretched the kinks out of her muscles.

Her eye lit on her father’s revolver as she dressed. For three months she had been hunting the Borderlands, and now the first bullet was in her hands. Had she really believed the legend? She must have, else why had she searched for them in the first place?

The moment didn’t last long.

Only a few minutes after she had laid the man out on the threadbare lounge and seated herself on a ragged chair, a deep thudding sound tickled her ear.

Damn. Gripping her rifle, she moved to the windows, carefully peaking out to see what was coming.

She couldn’t see anything. A fog was crawling up from the south, starting to cover the ground in its white glow. The sullen throb of sound was following the mist, a slow and steady ominous heartbeat.

Vic licked her teeth. The building wasn’t a terrible place to fortify herself, but it could also trap her. If she left, she could engage the monster — whatever it was — in the open. If she could only see what it was, then she could…

Her eye fell to her unconcious companion. Damn, damn. If it was a pack, or it decided to ignore her in favor of easier prey…no, she needed to stand her ground. Slowly, she unlocked the window and pushed it open. Kneeling next to the window, she propped her rifle on the sill and waited.