Grunge (ARC) Page 8

  “I guess,” Christy said. “And don’t get the impression I’m a slut or anything. I’m not.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” I said, hoping against hope that she was. It had been a while, what with the deployment and getting all blowed up, since I’d gotten laid. “Just don’t sweat the little stuff about God and Jesus. Jesus is the savior. The only time Jesus ever got angry at people was at the Pharisees that were keeping people out of the temple who couldn’t pay. Put it this way, the guy who released those zombies? Totally going to hell when his time comes. The people who died from them? Your friend’s mom and dad? Already in heaven. Virtually guaranteed. They’d have to have done some pretty terrible stuff to get denied. I guarantee that nothing you’ve done in your life, or ever will do, is going to keep you from Heaven. Absent, you know, learning how to raise zombies and using them to kill a bunch of folks. You’re not a secret serial killer or anything, are you?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and smiling just a little.

  “There’s that smile,” I said, grinning. “The truth is, the lucky ones are the ones that died. They’re, truly, in a better place. Seen the edges of it. It’s nice. I keep thinking I should have stayed.”

  “When did you see heaven?” she asked, doubtfully. I could tell she was starting to question my sanity.

  “Think all this came from tripping on stairs, honey?” I asked, holding my arms out with the cane in my hand. “Double check on the dinner invite and I’ll tell you then. For now, got to fix people’s cars.” I handed her the receipt and the keys.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll call.”

  “Please,” I said. “I’d like to see you again.”

  “I’d like to see you again, too,” she said, shyly.

  God, please let her be a slut. I know that’s a very bad thing to pray for, but…

  * * *

  A gentleman does not kiss and tell. But…Wow. That girl could suck the chrome off a bumper. Not to mention she could shake daddy’s little money maker harder than Stevie Nicks…

  * * *

  The next day I got introduced to the mayor and met Sheriff Yates again. I was offered a position as a deputy if I went through an accredited academy as well as, quietly, given the “keys to the city.” Everyone had gotten the word that what happened “never happened.” It was a small town. Everybody knew the outline even if some of them had a hard time believing it.

  There was no news on the identity of the mysterious “travelling preacher.” The identities he’d given were false. The sheriff was pretty sure even if the FBI caught up with him they’d never hear about it.

  I met Mr. Anderson again, the man whose Cadillac I’d badly scuffed up. I apologized for that and he told me to quit being silly. Former Army tanker. He asked me why I’d chosen him to hand my magazines and I told him he looked as if he had his act together. I was offered several jobs by businessmen in town, both those who had been at the revival and friends.

  I attended two funerals, one a joint one for Amy’s parents. Christy asked me to go with her. More pats on the back from people. Amy’s brother and sister were pretty well catatonic through the whole thing. Both of the bodies had been cremated by order of the FBI.

  Christy spent the whole night. I’d told her I wasn’t staying and she said she understood but I could tell she didn’t. It told her God had given me a sign that I had a job to do and I couldn’t exactly do it in Elkins. I could tell she wanted me to ask her to go with me.

  I didn’t tell her the parts had come in for my car that day. After she dropped me off at the garage I said goodbye to Mr. Sutton, drove back to the hotel in my repaired Honeybear, checked out and left town without saying goodbye or leaving a forwarding address.

  Just slip out the back, Jack.

  Make a new plan, Stan.

  Just turn in the key, Lee.

  And set yourself free.

  Carlos hadn’t had to mention the casualty rates to hunting. More than once the shamblers had nearly caught me and I’d seen what would happen to me if they did. There was no way I was going to leave behind a young widow or put kids in a position of being hostages to fortune. Not down the road I was taking. Not everybody agrees. The Shacklefords have been fighting monsters, and breeding, for generations.

  Personally, I think they’re nuts.

  Or maybe I’m just a philandering ass like my dad.

  CHAPTER 5

  I didn’t move in on the Brentwoods. I spent a few days there recuperating from Elkins and the drive then found a furnished studio apartment. I spent a bit of my discharge pay getting a gym membership and proceeded to pound my body like a piece of cheap meat.

  I was determined to become a Monster Hunter. God had called me to that, clearly, and who was I to argue? But I knew it was going to be nearly as physical, if not as physical, as being a Marine infantryman. I was going to have to get back to the point I could shoot, move and communicate.

  I got a cashier’s check from Monster Hunter International for eighty-four thousand, eight hundred dollars. I’d already set up an accountant and discussed the tax ramifications with him. I didn’t tell him what the money was from, I said it was a consulting gig. He clearly thought it was illegal money but as long as I was following the laws it was all good.

  The amount of tax you had to pay, even in 1984, on eighty-five thousand dollars for a single male was a nasty shock. On his advice I invested some of it. I didn’t think I’d live long enough for anything to mature but if I did having a nest-egg would be nice. He helped me figure out a budget plan that I’ve stuck to ever since. I put some to charity and blocked out a bunch of the rest. I told him that part of my business expenses was going to be guns and other equipment. Again, he was pretty sure he was dealing with some sort of organized crime, maybe a contract assassin based on the guns, but I was at least doing it properly.

  Slowly, I started building a weapons inventory. I’d gotten my pistol back from the sheriff, it had been briefly held as evidence, but that was just the start. I had plenty of money to live on, a small check each month from Uncle Sam that barely covered my rent, and nothing but time on my hands.

  I spent the time doing several things.

  I paid for a class at a local community college. That meant I could use any of the local college libraries including the local seminaries. So I began studying essentially my mother’s field of expertise, anthropology and mythology, assiduously.

  I went to the gym every day and pounded my repairs. I didn’t just use the weights and treadmills. I took a yoga class. I knew that everything was going to need to be stretched out.

  I signed up for several martial arts courses. At first I was nearly useless at all of them, even kendo. But slowly, as the repairs started to align and the muscles came back, I got better. I didn’t only study kendo as a weapons form. There was a ju-jitsu class that included a double blade fighting style. Ju-jitsu and wah-lum kung-fu occupied much of my time. They also helped me find new muscles to stretch.

  Pro-tip: A lot of what hunters do involves wrist strength. Firing weapons, using blades, etcetera. One excellent physical training method for this is used by several martial arts forms. Take a wooden stick, such as is used in stick fighting. Tie a rope to it, tightly. Suspend from the rope a weight. How much depends on how strong you are and your grip and wrist strength. Hold the stick slightly outwards from your body and rotate it to raise the weight. Lather, rinse, repeat.

  By the time I felt I was in shape enough to go to the MHI classes, I was doing fifty reps of fifty pounds at a set. When you’ve got to cut off a bunch of vamp heads or you have to cut one off that’s particularly strong, especially if the vamp isn’t staked at the time, you’ll thank me.

  And if you ever have to face down The Great Hunt with a dead-man’s switch attached to two hundred claymores in your left hand, you’ll thank me more.

  Reading about fitness in general I ran across a statement by of all people football star Herschel Walker who recommended, strongly, ta
king ballet.

  After thinking about it, I signed up for a ballet class. That turned out to be a twofer. First, it really is a great way, even better than yoga, to work on stretching and balance.

  Second, I was the only male. I was also one of two males in my yoga class and by far and away the cuter one.

  Did not have a lack-of-nookie issue during my retraining period. Also strenuously avoided getting anything resembling a girlfriend. I seriously considered only dating married women but that seemed like it would really impede on the God front so I declined those invitations. Twice ladies tried to move in on me by cautiously marking territory. Neither one liked it when I courteously handed them back their toothbrushes and clothes they’d left at the apartment.

  On the God front: I didn’t go to church every Sunday but I hit it about every third and frequently went to confession. After delicately bringing up the subject, just using the term “PUFF,” I found a monsignor as a Father confessor who was “read in” on the supernatural.

  Father O’Connell also looked like a stereotype. He was heavy set, florid, with balding blond hair, pale blue eyes, a permanently sunburned complexion and was, in general, the archetype for every Irish-Catholic priest you’d ever see. He was also one of the smartest human beings I’d ever met and deeply knowledgeable of the Catholic Church’s long and frequently complex battle against the forces of evil on God’s earth.

  He didn’t think much of my philandering ways. I learned to say the rosary as a constant mantra any time I wasn’t otherwise occupied. I never told him, ever, that it was a great way to keep from…well, there were times even when involved with a lady you could say prayers. Although I felt it was truly blasphemous to say the Hail Mary at such times so I stuck to the Our Father.

  The rest of the time I became a regular at several local ranges and gun stores. After I started getting in better shape, I even took to competitive shooting. I was okay at shotgun but long guns and pistol were my preference. One of the weapons I picked up was the then new Uzi carbine in .45. It had a hell of a kick to it but thinking about what I was potentially going to be facing it seemed like a great choice.

  I applied for a Federal Firearms License. I was now officially an arms dealer. Then I jumped through the extra hoops to become a manufacturer so that I could legally make my own machineguns. You could still register new ones back then. I wanted to name my company “Evil Arms Dealers, Incorporated” but was dissuaded.

  The first thing I did was convert that Uzi to full auto. Using the lathe in Mr. Brentwood’s basement shop I cut the barrel down. Then I built a suppressor that screwed right onto the Uzi’s locking nut. It’s just a tube with baffles inside, not rocket science. I now had a fully automatic .45 submachine gun with a silencer that was not too shabby. The Uzi had tended to mangle the .45 ammo when I first got it. After looking at the problem, and bringing Mr. Brentwood in for his expertise, a little work with a Dremel tool fixed the problem. Once I smoothed and polished everything it never jammed on me again.

  I didn’t get it all perfect the first time. I’d started working on it pretty shortly after getting back to Louisville and there was a good bit of trial and error. But by the time I was ready to go sign up with MHI it was good to go. Reliable, and a serious monster killer.

  That Uzi wasn’t the only weapon I picked up. I really had to remind myself that one big PUFF bounty shouldn’t all be spent in one place. But…It was GUNS! I’d wanted to own guns since I was a little kid. I really felt like a kid in a candy store with more money in my pocket than I’d ever dreamed I’d have and the free right as an adult American to buy any damned weapon I pleased.

  I picked up a Garand that needed some work and fixed it right up. An M-14 seemed like a no brainer. I picked up an Armalite to have something in 5.56. Then an FN-FAL as a back-up to the M-14. An MP5 just ’cause I wanted one. I wished, badly, that H&K would make a decent weapon in .45 but no joy. I know a lot of people in the industry don’t like H&K ’cause their customer service sucks and you can’t get parts. That’s just a German thing. The reason you can’t get parts is they hardly ever break. Also a German thing. Which is why I like H&K. I picked up two custom 1911 .45s and a couple of .357s, a Colt Python six inch and a Smith and Wesson snubby.

  The other major purchase I made was of some really good blades. I’d talked with the MHI guys after dinner and one point that was made was that often the best way to kill a monster was cutting off its head. They had various implements they recommended. I kept my mouth shut because I already had opinions on the matter and wasn’t going to just voice them with such an experienced bunch. But the truth, in my opinion, and I hold it to this day, is if you want to cut something’s head off, you can’t go far wrong with a really good katana.

  The difference is steel. The steel of most mono-metal blades is designed so it can be sharpened down to micrometric thickness. A katana’s blade will sharpen down to very low micrometers or even high nanometers and still retain strength. The secret is in the folding and, assuming equal skill on the smith, the more folds is generally the better.

  Another reason I didn’t voice the opinion was I’d already had the same argument with my Brazilian ju-jitsu teacher. Not specifically on the subject of the supernatural and cutting off the heads of vampires but generally on how Japanese blades were not as good as most people made them out to be and that you really needed to use a heavy blade like the cane cutting blades that were a feature of ju-jitsu and…Blah-blah.

  Fortunately, I had an in-house expert in the field and cash burning a hole in my pocket. Through Mr. Brentwood’s connections I was able to secure what is described as a “three soul” blade. The term means that it should have the ability to cut through three necks in one well practiced stroke.

  I didn’t tell him I was planning on using it to actually cut off heads. But other than blades with defined historical significance, the cost of a katana generally depends upon its quality and sharpness.

  The three soul blade, Mo No Ken or Sword of Mourning, cost more than a pretty nice new car. I carried it for years. It was well worth the money. It took the spine of a Greater Vampire to finally damage it enough I had to retire it. And it still went through that hardened spine like most blades go through a human’s.

  This is the story of the blade called Sword of Mourning.

  The maker Makoto Kimura was a sword smith in the Emperor’s court. His apprentice and son was the apple of his eye. All of Kimura’s other family had died. His wife had died in child birth of their second child. So Ashio was all he had left. Then Ashio took a fever and even the doctors of the Court and the finest Shinto priests could do nothing. His beloved son and heir died.

  Kimura, stricken by grief, threw himself into his work. He tried blank of metal after blank of metal but none were to his satisfaction. The master sword smith of the court was angry with him for he seemed to be simply malingering. Swords needed to be made and all Kimura could do was throw the finest steel blanks aside as if they were trash.

  Finally, he found the blanks of steel that were to his satisfaction and began the folding and reforging process.

  He folded and folded and folded that steel, throwing all his grief and hurt and mourning into his work. Day and night he worked, his tears the only water used to quench the blade.

  He worked for a year and finally was finished. He had created what he knew was the finest blade he would ever create in his life. Done, he committed seppuku that he might be reunited with his family.

  This is the story of Sword of Mourning.

  When we had it in hand and around the time I contacted MHI and was getting ready to leave Louisville, I spent the money to buy two live pigs and invited my ju-jitsu class along with others (some from Kendo, friends I’d met shooting, couple of friends from high school) to a barbeque out at a friend’s place near Elizabethtown. Part of a good-ole-fashion pig roast back then was you got the whole pig, cleaned it before dawn then roasted it all day long. People would show up later with various dishes
and in the evening you’d rip into the barbequed pig. Good tradition.

  My ju-jitsu instructor and anyone else who wanted (which was about fifty people including the Brentwoods) showed up before dawn for the demonstration. Both of the pigs were tied down by their snouts. Contest: Who could take off the head easiest and quickest, me with a katana or my ju-jitsu instructor with a cane cutting blade?

  It only took him two blows, give the guy credit. One went through the spine and most of the way through the neck. The pig dropped and the second took the head all the way off.

  My pig literally stood for a moment, one guy got video, before its head slid off neatly and it dropped to the ground. People said at first they thought I’d just missed.

  They both tasted the same, great, it was a good day of drinking and hanging out and arguing about better fighting forms, but…

  Pro-tip: If you’re going to be cutting off a lot of heads, get a really good katana.

  I also picked up a very good wakizashi and a few other sharp things including two kukris, a standard and a Ganga Ram long blade.

  In December I called MHI and talked to a woman with a just beautiful voice named Susan Shackleford. I was dying to meet her in person just to find out if her looks matched her voice. They did. Susan was probably the most beautiful woman I ever met and like most guys who met her I fell in love at first sight. If there was no other reason for me to never get married it was the fact that, alas, she was already married to the heir apparent. Even worse…Well, that’s a story for another day.