Target Rich Environment 2 Page 10

  “Hunter!” Nobuo had woken up. He was too far to get there in time, but he threw something.

  It was a good thing Nobuo’s sword was still sheathed, because it landed right in Hiroto’s lap.

  The oni was bearing down on him. It pulled back its fist, blades aimed at his heart. Hiroto drew and slashed in one smooth movement.

  The katana went through half the demon’s chest. Green blood flew across the forest in a long arc. The two of them remained there a moment, mangled face to metal face. The demon twitched. The twin blades slowly dropped. He twisted the blade free, and Three Sparks, the Oni of Aokigahara, was no more.

  Hiroto was in terrible pain, but he laughed anyway. The summer of death was over. It had been a fine hunt.

  As they limped out of the forest, they came upon Ashikaga Motokane, hiding inside the trunk of a hollow tree.

  “You’re still alive! Is it done?” the official asked as he slowly climbed out.

  Hiroto’s face was being held together with stiches and dried blood, and his newfound lack of depth perception was making him nauseous. He was not in the mood, so continued walking.

  “Were you hiding in there all night?” Nobuo asked.

  “Yes. And I was all alone! Because some bodyguard you are!”

  Hiroto didn’t even look back when he heard Nobuo’s sword clear its sheath. There was a gurgle, and then the sound of a head bouncing down the rocks. The young samurai rejoined Hiroto a moment later, cleaning his katana on his filthy sleeve. “When we report to the Shogun, it was a shame there were no other survivors.”

  “Yes, a terrible shame.”

  Nasu Hiroto knelt before the Shogun. Their report had been delivered. The magnificent trophy he had presented to Minamoto Yoritomo was on the floor between them. Now they were alone. The Shogun had dismissed everyone else from the room so that the two of them could speak privately.

  “The eye patch suits you, Hiroto. What do you intend to do now?”

  “If you aren’t going to execute me for deserting all those years ago, then I’m unsure.”

  “When we last spoke, I came to understand something about you. Other samurai try their whole lives to make a mask that never shows fear, that declares they live for battle, hiding their true weakness beneath. For you, there is no mask. You only feel alive when you are hunting something capable of taking your life. Nothing else will do.”

  Hiroto nodded. The Shogun was truly a wise man.

  “Your report has inspired me. I think it has given me the answer to a problem which I have struggled with for the last few years.” The Shogun leaned forward and picked up the oni’s mask. “We could learn much from the Oni of Aokigahara. Invisible. Calculating. Hiding in plain sight, then attacking with ruthless efficiency, leaving his enemies filled with dread . . . The ultimate assassin.”

  “To be stalked by such would bring nightmares to even the bravest samurai.”

  “Indeed. What if I offered you the opportunity to never be bored again? A hunt which never ends?”

  “I am intrigued.”

  “The Shogunate has many enemies, dangerous men. Often politics make it so that I cannot deal with them directly. The oni has shown me the answer. I have need of invisible killers, inspired by this beast, who make its way theirs. Men who will engage in irregular warfare which most samurai would find distasteful.” The Shogun stared into the blank eyes of the mask. “In short, I require men who can fight like demons.”

  Hiroto was becoming excited. “Such an endeavor would have to be done with the utmost secrecy.”

  “They would be the hidden men, shinobi-no-mono, emulating the Oni of Aokigahara to bring ruin upon the enemies of Nippon. Would you build this organization for me, Nasu Hiroto?”

  “It would be an honor.”

  The first ninja bowed to the first shogun.

  That’s right. It was the Predator who inspired the creation of ninjas. That’s my theory, but I’m pretty sure it is historically accurate.

  One fun note, I managed to put a shout out to my other samurai versus monster story in here. Though it is completely unofficial because these stories were from entirely different publishers and not in the same universe, if you read “Great Sea Beast” in Target Rich Environment Volume 1, note that both of these main characters have the same last name, and Three Sparks takes place one generation later. That’s because Monster Hunting is a family business.

  RECKONING DAY

  This flash-fiction sized short originally appeared in the Monster Hunter International Employee Handbook and Role Playing Game from Hero Games in 2013. It was just a brief little look into the daily life of some of the Monster Hunter International series’ most popular characters. Shelly the Orc shows up again in Monster Hunter Guardian.

  IT WAS GOOD to be chief.

  The noble orc, Skull Crushing Battle Hand of Fury, or Skippy as his human friends called him, was pleased, and for the record, he did not mind being called Skippy. The humans’ ways were abrupt and strange, but their oddly short names did save time.

  The Tribe was at peace. The scars of their last battle against the evil dead of the foolish human necromancer, Hood, had healed. Word of their righteous revenge had spread across the world and orcs from other tribes had journeyed far to join with their number. The Tribe’s warriors were volunteering to go forth into the human world in ever increasing numbers to join the war bands of MHI. The Harb Anger was very pleased by the Tribe’s warriors and much honor and respect was given, Harb Anger paid them moneys too, though Skippy didn’t really know what to use that for, so they mostly kept it in a big pile which his wives then used to occasionally purchase important items, like new heavy metal albums from iTunes or flea shampoo for their mighty Wargs.

  However, Skippy was far too busy to concern himself with such things as human moneys or Warg care, for today was a young warrior’s Reckoning Day. Because the gods loved the orcs more than they loved all of their other children, each orc was born blessed with a special talent. These talents varied wildly, but all of them were somehow valuable to ensure a great future for the Tribe. Some orc talent’s usefulness were obvious to understand, such as his younger brother’s supreme skill in bladed combat, or his own mastery of the human flying machines and his unmatched knowledge of the Air Spirits. Other talents’ uses were not so easy to discern, such as his cousin Rufschertzls’ amazing ability to solve any of the humans’ “crossword puzzles,” but who was Skippy to question the god’s choice for Rufus? Perhaps someday Rufus’ ability to make letters fit into small squares would bring great honor to the tribe . . . Naw, who was he kidding? Rufus was a moron.

  But regardless, today was another orc’s Reckoning Day, which meant that the elders and teachers had finally been able to discern the path chosen by their gods. The young orc would be brought before the chieftain, and his talents displayed. The Old Ways required the chieftain to execute the young orc should his talents be insufficient, but Skippy considered himself a very reasonable and modern orc, maybe it was because he lived in America and the Hunters’ strange sense of mercy had influenced him, so he’d never executed anyone on their Reckoning Day. He’d even spared Rufus, though he’d been so very tempted . . . Like most orc holidays, Reckoning Day was mostly a chance to throw an awesome party, and since Gretchen had already baked a cake, Skippy certainly hoped that today wouldn’t be his first Reckoning Day summary execution.

  Skippy stood in the center of the village, attended by his wives and his advisors, while the young orc was brought forward. It turned out to be a female, recently arrived with her family, refugees from another tribe. She was squat and dumpy, with misshapen tusks, and one crazy eyeball which kept looking in different directions, and despite the ceremonial fur robes, colorful feathers, and small animal bones which they had decorated her with, she certainly would never get a husband on looks alone, so for her sake, Skippy hoped she’d been blessed with a good talent. Somebody who could cook would be nice. The village could use another cook, because no offense to Gr
etchen, her cake tasted like ashes in his mouth, not that he would ever tell her that, because even the chieftain couldn’t talk bad about his first wife’s cooking.

  The girl was introduced by his brother Exszrsd. That was intriguing. Normally Edward, as their strongest combatant, wouldn’t involve himself in a Reckoning Day unless the child had displayed a particularly strong warrior’s gift . . . or it was a really crappy talent, since he was their default executioner. Either way, this should be interesting.

  Edward addressed the gathering, extremely excited crowd. The girl’s parents looked very nervous. The girl seemed ambivalent, which was a proper orc war face. “This is Slschschlee.”

  Skippy snorted. Foreign orc tribes had such silly names. “For our human masters, she will be known to them as Shelly.” Everybody bowed at his wisdom. Shelly shrugged. “Let the Reckoning begin.”

  Edward, being an orc of few words even in Orcish, looked at Shelly and grunted. She nodded, her googly eye squinting in determination. “Her talent did not show for a long time. The gods did not speak to her until she watched the Hunters through the Great Chain Link Fence of Separation and witnessed their preparations for glorious war.”

  Interesting. So that meant it probably wasn’t cooking. Disappointing that, but Skippy nodded for them to continue their demonstration.

  His brother snapped his fingers and several of the younger orcs ran forward holding empty beer bottles in their hands. There were six of them, with two bottles each. They cocked their arms back as if ready to throw them into the forest. Curious, Skippy wondered why Edward had just stuck his fingers into his ears.

  The orcs hurled their bottles into the air, and a split second later, threw their second. Shelly flung open her fur robe, revealing a leather gun belt with a holster on each side. Two big revolvers appeared in her hands as if by magic. Skippy knew enough about guns to know that these were .44 magnum Redhawks. There was a continuous roar as she fired them both from the hip, and every single one of the flying bottles exploded before reaching the trees.

  Skippy’s mouth fell open. The Tribe began to cheer. “By the violent tusks of Gnrlwz! That was so metal!” And Skippy threw the horns.

  Shelly had both smoking revolvers reloaded from speed loaders and put back into their holsters before Skippy had finished his pronouncement. She looked right at him with her good eye, then her googly eye, and then she bowed. Skippy returned the bow, extra low.

  “The gods must be pleased with this orc. Now it is time for cake!” Such dry, ashy cake . . .

  And another Reckoning Day was complete.

  WEAPONIZED HELL

  This story first appeared in the anthology Urban Allies, edited by Joseph Nassie, published in 2016 by Harper Voyager.

  Urban Allies was a really interesting idea, where twenty urban fantasy authors paired off, each of us taking one of our popular characters and having them team up with another author’s existing characters for a story. Like one of those crossover episodes where two TV shows collide.

  I’m a fan of Jonathan Maberry’s work and really enjoy his Joe Ledger series (in fact, a story that I wrote for him for that universe appears later in this collection). When I saw that he was involved I asked if he’d want to team up. He said he’d write Ledger if I wrote Agent Franks. That sounded badass.

  1

  Captain Joe Ledger

  Department of Military Sciences

  Iraqi Desert near Mosul

  THEY SAY THAT IN TIMES of mortal peril your life flashes through your mind. Ideally, those memories are not accompanied by shrapnel or bullets.

  For me it isn’t usually my childhood or images of my family or my ex-girlfriends. I don’t have flashes of chances taken and chances missed. None of that stuff. When my life is about to fall apart, what flashes through my head are the details of how in the wide blue fuck I got into this mess in the first place.

  Case in point . . .

  First, you have to know that the ideal combat mission starts with solid and very detailed intel, with time for training your team, for putting boots on the ground with all of the equipment you need, and to have local assets on hand to smooth the way. An ideal mission has close-range and long-range tactical support, and the cavalry is cocked and locked and ready to ride over the hill to save your ass if things go south.

  Yeah, that would be nice.

  So nice.

  Never fucking going to happen, though. At least not for guys like me.

  I run the Special Projects Office for the Department of Military Sciences. Sounds like a bunch of nerds sitting around dreaming up cool gizmos. It’s not. The name is boring and there’s some misdirection built into it. And, sure, we have geeks and nerds working for us, but they’re support. The truth is that the DMS is a covert rapid-response group. We run a couple-of-dozen small teams of first-chair shooters. We go after terrorists or criminal groups who are using bleeding-edge bioweapons. We are a zero red-tape outfit. If they’ve sent us in then the shit has already hit the fan.

  The tricky thing is that this means we have to start running the moment we hear the first rumble of that avalanche. Prep time is what you can manage on the fly. Field support is usually a voice in the earbud I wear: real-time intel that the science and tactical teams are scrambling to acquire while we’re running headlong into the valley of the shadow.

  I’m sure I mixed a couple of metaphors there, but I actually don’t give a cold shit.

  I was in Iraq, in a twenty-year-old Humvee going bump-thumpity over a road that was pocked with wagon ruts and blast holes from IEDs. My driver, Rizgar, was a friendly, a Kurd with knife scars on his face. Four of his buddies were in the back. My own crew, Echo Team, was in a fast plane somewhere over the ocean. Too far away. Rizgar drove like his lifelong dream was to die in a fiery crash. My balls had climbed up inside my chest cavity and I’d found religion five separate times during near misses with boulders, craters, and the burned-out shell of an old Bradley. Rizgar had to swerve to keep from hitting a goat and—still at high speed—leaned his head all the way out the window and yelled at the animal who was now fading in the dust behind us.

  “Kerim bimzha, heez!”

  I understand enough Sorani to know that it was a vile thing to say, even to a goat.

  I was yelling, too, trying to have a conversation with my boss, Mr. Church. He’d snatched me away from the mission he’d sent me over here to handle—taking down a black-marketer named Ohan who was selling recovered Soviet chemical weapons left over from the Afghan war in the eighties. Church said he’d catch up to me in motion. I was, in fact, in motion.

  “What’s the damn op?” I demanded. “My guy in Baghdad said he could put me in a room with Ohan and—”

  “We’ve been following a false lead,” said Mr. Church. “Ohan is not in Baghdad. We have reliable intel that he is in a village outside of Mosul.”

  “It was reliable intel that said he was in Baghdad.”

  “Nature of the game, Captain,” said Church. “We have very high confidence in this sighting.”

  “What’s the source of that intel? Our friends in the Agency? Another of those hotshot Delta gunslingers? Everybody’s seeing Ohan lately.”

  “The identity of our source is classified.”

  Even though Rizgar could hear my end of the conversation, the feed into my earbud was filtered through a 128-bit cyclical encryption system that God couldn’t hack.

  “Declassify it,” I growled.

  Church—being Church—ignored that request. He said, “Operatives on the ground have confirmed the presence of Ohan heading into the village. We believe he is going to meet an ISIL team to hand off a bio agent recovered from an excavated burial site.”

  “Whoa, wait . . . repeat that? Someone’s using a burial site as a lab—?”

  “No,” said Church. “Sketchy reports indicate that a biological weapon has been harvested from the burial site.”

  “What kind of bioweapon? Are we talking mycotoxins or bacteria?”

&nbs
p; Graves and tombs were famous for all kinds of dangerous spores, molds, fungi and similar microscopic monsters. The whole Curse of King Tut’s Tomb was a prime example. Lord Carnovan, the Englishman who backed Howard Carter’s expedition to find Tutankhamen, died of a mysterious illness after entering the tomb and being exposed to a fungus that had been dormant in the tomb for thousands of years and reactivated by fresh air. Other recently opened tombs in different parts of the world revealed pathogenic bacteria of the Staphylococcus and Pseudomonas genera, and the molds Aspergillus niger and Aspergillus flavus. Very nasty stuff. Obtaining and weaponizing diseases so old that modern humans have no acquired immunity for them is a popular hobby for the world’s mad-fucking-scientists. Of which there are way too many.

  “The nature of the threat is unknown at this time,” said Church. “I need you to make an assessment and to keep it out of the hands of the ISIL team operating in that area.”

  I was still dressed for plainclothes infiltration of the Baghdad hotel where I was supposed to intercept Ohan. My cover was that of a South African mercenary acting as a go-between for a party wanting to buy some of Ohan’s nasty toys. I had my Sig Sauer and a Wilson rapid-release folding knife, but I was not in full combat rig. I was dressed in khaki trousers and one of those canvas shirt-jackets with lots of pockets. No helmet, no long-gun, no grenades. None of my favorite toys. And not nearly enough body armor. And, more to the point, no hazmat suit or even a Saratoga Hammer suit. Nothing to protect me if this was an active biological agent, particularly an airborne one.

  “Sure,” I said, “I’m on it.”