Monster Hunter Memoirs: Grunge - eARC (31 page)

I think they went through four companies, two of which went out of business, in as many months before they’d gotten that one werewolf and its “offspring” under control. I think at one point they had seven werewolves running around, which I thought was seriously bad until I worked New Orleans. But by that time Portland had developed a vampire problem as bad as Seattle’s. Portland was still a major wood processing town and I swear they started running out of stakes.

Look, MHI is the best for a reason. We only take people who have dealt proactively with supernatural outbreaks, we train the hell out of them and we support them aggressively. We only take the best, we expect the best and we get the best. There are always fly-by-night companies looking for that fat PUFF check. And there’s a reason those bounties are so high. This isn’t a business for amateurs.

There are other groups that are as good as we are overseas and nearly as good as we are in the US. But they are
all
busy. So just because your particular town or county is getting overrun with werewolves, vampires, zombies, or whatever, an emergency on your part does not constitute an emergency on ours. Point being that
everybody
has emergencies. Constantly. That’s why we’ve been in business for damned near a hundred years. If you wanted us to respond like lightning bolts, you shouldn’t have cancelled the contract.

Then MCB had had it. Vamps were out of control, and there was a werewolf surge going. That’s when they got permission to call in SRT. And the Sheriff got read the riot act by the Agent In Charge and got punched through a window by Agent Franks when he “responded hotly.”

The Sheriff, sporting a newly broken nose and two black eyes, formed a Monster Control Squad. There were lots of volunteers. At first.

There were six funerals of Sheriff’s Deputies in the next two months. And no good excuses for why. Half of them were killed in one “drug bust gone bad.”

Even the bravest can freeze the first time they see a real, no-shit, vampire or kappa or gangrenous slime. People who haven’t seen the supernatural and lived through it, fought through it, should not be hunters. SRT members generally spend some time as regular MCB and the rumor is they’re trained on captured monsters.

These guys were SWAT wannabes. Not bad people but most of them probably only sort-of believed in the briefing. And from reports most of them freaked out when every horror movie turned out to understate the danger.

Then an entire bum camp disappeared. Just flat up and disappeared.

And we had to respond. It was time.

Again, I have to put it briefly from the perspective of the Multnomah Sheriff’s office.

* * *

Sheriff Schmidt walked through the scattered bedding and small shelters with his hand over his nose and mouth. Partially it was from the smell. Bums don’t regularly shower. Partially it was the natural human reaction to seeing every sign of a total massacre.

Except the blood.

“Why isn’t there any blood?” Sheriff Schmidt asked.

The encampment was in one of those underground open areas that exist under any city. This one was a turning area for vehicles attached to a corridor that these days led to nothing that was in use. It was abandoned, empty and dry. The bums had just sort of occupied the empty and unused space.

“I don’t know, sir,” Lieutenant Jones said.

“Then what do you know, you idiot?”

“Spiders,” Agent Duncan said. He was just about sick and tired of dealing with this idiot. “Species probably Arachnidae Gigantus Sassus. That’s the most common species in this region. You can see the remnant silk.”

“What?” Schmidt said. “Silk?”

“Giant spider silk?” Duncan said, as if speaking to a candidate for the Special Olympics. He held some up. “This stuff? Left behind by giant spiders after they paralyze and bind their victims?”

“So you’re saying some
spiders
did this?” Jones said, laughing.

“You know you sound like a hyena when you laugh, Lieutenant?” Duncan said. “Sheriff, if MCB has to call in the SRT again, the Attorney General will remove you from office for complete and utter incompetence. There had to be other disappearances before this. This wasn’t one spider. This was a
nest
. And even if we were authorized to handle this, which we are not, it would
take
a full SRT. I’ve got a couple agents in Portland, and could not even
dream
of handling a Sassus nest by ourselves. We’re talking about fifty to two hundred spiders the size of horses. And it almost assuredly means a Spider Mother. Think tarantula the size of a
mammoth
. Sheriff, are you
ever going to figure out that this is important, you fucking idiot?”

“Special Agent,” his partner said.

“No!” Duncan said, swearing. “You blithering God-damned idiot and your laughing hyena butt-fuck-buddy have caused the unnecessary deaths of
dozens
which
we have had to cover up!
If you don’t figure out how to deal with this shit I will personally put a
bullet
in your head and deal with the paperwork later! Do you understand me? I am absolutely serious!
Fix this! Now!”

The Special Agent stormed out.

So Sheriff Schmidt went back to his office, picked up the phone and politely asked Captain Lyons, Parking, if he had a moment to spare.

“Heard about the giant spider attack,” Lyons said, shuddering as he sat down without being invited. “A full nest? Just one is nasty as hell. Never had to deal with a freaking nest. Sucks to be you. Clean-up is going to be a
bitch
.”

“You dealt with this for…”

“Ten horrible years,” Lyons said. “Don’t ask. You can’t make me and the answer is no. It’s not worth the nice office and I’m already a captain. I even like parking. No stress.”

“I can order you,” Schmidt said, darkening. He did not like to be crossed. “Failure to obey a direct order would constitute grounds for termination without retirement,
Captain
.”

“Ah, but you’d have to explain to a county review board what the order
was
,” Lyons said, holding up a finger. “Which you cannot because UF is secret-squirrel.”

“So you’re just going to let people die?”

“Is that a recognition on your part that you are completely out of your depth?” Lyons asked. “Before you kill yourself admitting that, be aware that it’s become obvious to everyone with a clue about UF in the county. People who
don’t
have a clue are wondering why the death rate is through the roof and why we lost several very good deputies to random accidents. So just go ahead and say: Yes.”

“Yes,” Schmidt ground out.

“Good,” Lyons said. “That’s the first step of twelve, admitting you have a problem. I gave you the answer to your problem the first night but you rejected it.”

“Lieutenant Shaw?” Schmidt asked, frowning.

“Shaw is sharp, ambitious and has a strong gut so UF doesn’t throw her,” Lyons said. “She also has no life except work which is something you’re going to want. So you’re talking to the wrong person. But you won’t like working with her. You won’t like working with anyone who is good at UF. Because the sort of people who can look at the kind of mess vampires and werewolves leave behind, and still keep it secret, are not going to sugar coat it. And you’ll have to deal with them, regularly, they’ll have to live in your hip pocket. Because at the best of times this is constant. Not as bad as lately but constant. And there’s constant cover-up, funerals, contacts, that have to be managed. So you’ll have to get used to someone who you deal with on a daily basis who is not going to kiss your ass. But that is the only bone I’m going to throw you, Sheriff. Now, Traffic doesn’t run itself so don’t call me again and I won’t call you.”

And he left.

So then the Sheriff called in Lieutenant Shaw.

“Kay,” the Sheriff said, escorting her into his office and gesturing to a seat. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Even if he is read in, now,” she said, gesturing to Jones. “We’re not going to have this conversation, or any other conversation about UF, with him present.”

“Who are you to tell the
Sheriff
what to do?” Jones snapped.

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you weren’t desperate, not after our first one. And I’m not going to have your butt-boy inter-jaculating all over it.”

“That is an obscene thing to say to the Sheriff!” Jones snarled. “And I take offense at your insinuation that—”

“Jonesy,” Schmidt said, holding up a hand. “Why don’t you step out?”

“Sheriff,” Jones said. He could see that choice office slipping out of his fingers.

“We’ll discuss it later, Lieutenant,” the Sheriff said.

When Jones had left, Shaw just waited.

“I’m considering you for the Special Actions position,” the Sheriff said, uncomfortably.

“I don’t care about the choice office,” Shaw said. “I don’t like you, you don’t like me, I’d rather not be that noticeable, anyway. If it’s necessary it’s necessary. But unless it really is, Jonesy can keep his office. But it’s a captain position.”

“The budget…”

“Nice talking to you, Sheriff,” Shaw said, standing up.

“Wait,” Schmidt said, letting out an angry breath. “Just tell me one thing. Why
you
?”

“I know what to do and how to do it, Sheriff,” Shaw said, sitting down. “I know who to call. I know the people and
don’t
have a bad relationship with them. You have, frankly, pissed in every
single
well. I haven’t. Give me the budget and the authority and you can stop being woken up at three AM every damned night. But that means
I
will be. And I’ll have to be able to take charge of any scene, order
anyone
around including Lieutenant Jones since he’s handling so much of your administrative trivia. That means
Captain
in big, bold, letters on my door in the basement. I’m fine with the basement. But the door says ‘Captain Shaw’ or I can go back to chasing human homicidal maniacs. Much safer and waaay less stress.”

“We’ve got a serious giant spider problem,” Schmidt said.

“Heard,” Shaw said. “Worse than you probably realize.”

“What do you mean?” the sheriff said.

She’d talked to Lyons about the issue the day before and just repeated the briefing. He’d gone through this once before and the Hunters had given him the details. “If they need that much meat, she must be breeding. Once they’ve digested all those homeless, takes a day or two which has already past, she’ll be laying eggs. Those take four weeks to mature. Then the babies, each about the size of tarantulas, burst out. She grabs as many of the females as she can for snacks. Shelobs don’t like competition.

“The males stick around and grow. They’ll have to be fed. They take about six months to mature. Given the number of homeless that were taken, we’re looking at, currently, one hundred to two hundred spiders. In six months, if we don’t kill the nest, we’re looking at double that number. And any females that escape will start to grow. Takes about six years for a shelob to mature to breeding size. So we’ve got time on that one. But when four hundred spiders have to be fed, they’re not going to be satisfied with dogs, cats and rats. In about ten to twelve weeks we’ll start losing people at a rate even MCB won’t be able to cover up. And all over the county. Breaking through from toilets, into basements, into homes…Welcome to Arachnid Apocalypse, Portland. MCB will cover it up with some hokey horror movie if they can. But we’ll be looking at hundreds dead. And that is not an exaggeration, Sheriff. That’s why MCB went off on you. And, yeah, I heard about that.”

“I hadn’t realized…” the Sheriff gulped.

“You see why I don’t really want this job? I have to worry about shit like that so you don’t have to.”

The Sheriff actually stopped and did something he didn’t enjoy. He thought. Shaw let him.

“We have a giant spider problem,” the Sheriff said then held up his hand to forestall a reply. “There are others but that is the big one right now.”

“Understood,” Shaw said.

“Take care of that,” the Sheriff said. “And I’ll make you a Captain and you can choose your office.”

“Lieutenant Jones is not involved in any way, shape or form.”

“The lieutenant is…”

“Not involved or I’m not involved,” Shaw said. “His real position in meetings is interjecting comments to throw people off. This is not something open to debate or playing games. When I need to talk to you, I need to talk to
you
. Not him. Because I need you to tell someone something. From you. Not him. And if I’m talking to you and he keeps talking crap I’m eventually going to punch him through a wall and go find a job with a Monster Hunter company. Pay’s much better, anyway. He takes orders from me, yes. When I have to call to get something that absolutely doesn’t have to come from you but Jones can handle I’ll call
him
at three AM so I don’t have to call
you
. But he understands that he’s subordinate and he does
not
get between us. No Jonesy or no me.”

“No Jones,” the Sheriff said.

“Same budget as Israel.”

“Agreed.”

“And I am neither going to blow smoke nor waste your time,” Shaw said. “You might have noticed I don’t kiss ass.”

“Which is why you’re probably right for the job,” Schmidt said, smiling as broadly as he could manage.

“Agreed,” Shaw said. “Fuck me on it and anyone who
could
do this job competently will tell you to piss up a tree.”

“Understood.”

* * *

Shaw didn’t currently have a UF office at all, so she went back to her substation and her cubicle to think. Then she picked up the phone.

“I got the job,” she said.

“I knew you would,” Lyons said.

“What the fuck do I do,
now
?” she asked.

“You let me make some calls,” Lyons said. “Then when you’ve saved Portland and Multnomah from giant spiders you come pick up my rolodex so you can make them next time.”

CHAPTER 24

Doctors Nelson were taking a well-deserved joint vacation. We’d been working our asses off and they weren’t getting any younger. Naturally, it was to a seminar but everyone vacations in their own way.

But Brad was in the office when the phone rang.

“MHI, Brad speaking,” Brad said.

“Brad, Captain Lyons, Multnomah.”

“They give you your job back?” Brad asked.

“Better, they gave it to a protégé, who has no life anyway. Me, I’m learning to fish for salmon again. I think the most fun is having the time to slowly go through catalogs looking at new rods and lures. At my office on taxpayer time. Good times.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

“Please tell me you’ll pick up a job for an old and trusted customer,” Lyons said. “We’ve got a nest of sassus and probably a shelob.”

“Shit,” Brad said, scratching his head.

I was watching this interplay from the jig so I turned it off and raised an eyebrow.

“Nest of Sassus,” Brad said, turning on the speaker. “And probably a shelob.”

“Wow,” I said. We’d handled a few individual giant spiders. Nasty fuckers but easy to kill in small groups. A nest, though…“How big of a nest?”

“Hundred to two hundred,” Captain Lyons said. “We’re missing a shitload of bums. Who’s that?”

“Chad,” Brad said.

“Hey, Chad,” Lyons said.

“Hey, Cap,” I said. “You get your job back?”

“Won’t take it in a million years,” he said. “Turned it over to a protégé. And if you come on to Kay Shaw she’ll rip your balls out through your throat, Romeo.”

“I’ll keep my comments to myself,” I said, grinning. “Is she cute?”

“Hot redhead,” Lyons said. “Real va-va-voom body. Dead shot, kicks ass with the best of them.”

“I’m already in love!” I yelled.

“I will seriously fucking kill you, Romeo,” Lyons said. “Brad, do an old friend a favor. I know Portland is on your shit list…”

“We’re not going to let giant spiders take over Portland,” Brad said, rubbing his head. “But the Docs are out of town and our Newbie is in recovery. We’ve only got five guys. And if she’s taken a whole bunch of homeless, she’s breeding so we’ve got to step on this nest, fast.”

“With you there, buddy,” Lyons said.

“We’re going to need more support than normal,” Brad said. “And it’s probably going to get exciting. We’re going to have to use a shitload of flame and explosives.”

“Underground chemical fire caused by a build-up of methane gas,” Lyons said.

“You working for MCB now?” I asked, grinning.

“Bite your tongue, Romeo. But I’ve been doing this for a while. Will you take it?”

“We’ll take it,” Brad said, frowning. “Good money. Assuming any of us survive.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lyons said.

“Time to summon the clans,” I said. “It’s gonna be a hot time in Portland. Probably
tomorrow
night at this rate.”

* * *

“Oh,” I said. “Va-va-voom
indeed
!”

Lieutenant Shaw was classic bodacious Irish redhead, one each. I was instantly even more in love.

“
I
will kill you,” Brad said. “Don’t fuck this up. We can use Portland back in our list of contracts.”

“I am always a gentleman,” I said. “Well, generally.”

As we unloaded from the team van, Brad introduced us to Multnomah’s new UF manager.

“Lieutenant,” I said, taking her hand in both of mine. “May I just say what a
pleasure
it is to meet one of Multnomah’s
finest
?” Strong emphasis on “finest.” It was clear I was referring to her beauty not her position as a law enforcement professional.

“You must be Romeo,” Shaw said, dryly. “Israel warned me about you.”

“Why don’t we get to business, here,” Brad said, frowning.

“Yeah, where’s the nest?” Jesse asked.

“After we lost seven officers to four vamps, nobody will touch anything UF,” Shaw said. “So we don’t know.”

“Bug hunt,” I said, all business. “Rig up, boss?” I added in a distinct southern accent.

“Rig up,” Brad said.

I was careful to not even look at Lieutenant Shaw as we rigged.

“We’re not going to take on the nest until the heavy stuff gets here,” Brad said as we were donning our gear. “The U-Haul couldn’t keep up.”

Jesse was in the process of loading his vest with grenades as he said that.

“What do you call this?” she asked as I racked the Uzi.

“Our light stuff,” I said.

“I’m sort of looking forward to seeing your heavy stuff,” Shaw admitted.

Be still my beating heart. A gun and boom nut with a size 36F chest. I might just have to quit my philandering ways.

Nah.

“If you’re extra special nice to me,” I said, winking and slinging the Uzi, “I might let you play with my Barrett.”

“Is that what you call it?” Jesse asked. “Man, that’s sick. Get a life.”

* * *

Looking around the encampment made me want to puke. There was not a trace of real horror. It was the lack. Food, what there was of it, was still in dishes. A coat that was in the middle of being darned. A stuffed rabbit. There’d been kids.

“Ah, Jesus,” I said, shaking my head. “These poor people. Please, Lord, let it have been quick.”

“You actually care?” Shaw asked.

“Am I a lounge-lizard SOB?” I said. “Guilty as charged. Am I a mercenary? Yep. Do I do this purely for the money? I’ve got a sky-high IQ and could have gone to Harvard business and be making a phone number in investment banking or something. This is for me, literally, a mission from God. I got sent
back
from heaven, by choice, to fight monsters. ’Cause, yes, Lieutenant, I give a shit.”

“You’re serious?” she asked.

“He’s serious,” Brad said. “Trail leads down this sewer. Lieutenant, why don’t you go back to the clear air. If we’re not out in…four hours, tell MCB to call SRT. Because if we can’t handle it, nobody else can.”

“I can go with you,” Shaw said.

“Lieutenant,” I said. “One, we’re experienced at this. Two, we’re armed and rigged for this. Three, you’re
way
too pretty to get paralyzed, strung up in a web then later injected with an enzyme that turns you into a gooey substance to be sucked up through a feeding proboscis.”

“I’ll head up top,” Shaw said.

* * *

The trail went through the sewers for about a really disgusting mile then went up into a large, round, tube that was up near the top of the sewer tunnel.

“New guy gets to check out the tunnel,” I said.

“Oh, hell, no,” Roy said, backing up. “I’m not going in there!”

“I think the biggest pain-in-the-ass gets to check out the tunnel,” Brad said, dyspeptically.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “I can barely fit in there!”

“You’re also our smallest guy,” Louis pointed out, enjoying my discomfort.

“Oh, fuck me…Help me get out of my gear.”

When I was divested of all my gear, I pulled out a rosary and said a quick prayer.

“Saint Michael, Patron of Warriors, give me the courage and the strength,” I said, holding the rosary in my clenched hands. “Let me bring a light to the darkness. Amen. I’m gonna need a boost.”

I carried my 1911, same one I’d carried in Elkins, and a Maglite with really fresh batteries. And that was it.

When Jesse and Brad had boosted me up I poked the flashlight into the tunnel and then reached back.

“Louis, hand me my Uzi.”

“You’ll never fit it in there,” Brad said. “And you’re heavy. Quit stalling.”

“I’m not stalling,” I said, taking the Uzi. I pointed it into the tunnel, leaned to the side and fired off a mag on full auto. None of the rounds ricocheted but I could hear them travelling quite a way up the tunnel. “I’m using suppressing fire.”

I handed the Uzi back and clambered into the tunnel.

It was one of the worst experiences of my life. There was barely room to move. Brad had tied a long rope to my boots so they could pull me out. That was how little room there was.

The air was close and foul. I wasn’t even sure there was enough to breathe.

But I started wiggling down the tunnel, looking for giant spiders. I had to wonder how the spiders had managed to get through there, especially towing human prey. I had to wonder how much chance I’d have if one of them came down the tunnel searching for fresh prey.

Not damned much, that was my chance.

The damned tunnel seemed to go on forever. We ran out of rope. I had to sit there while somebody went back to the surface for more. Just sit there in the fetid dark. Finally they shouted they had more rope. I had to hope they’d tied them together with really strong knots.

It wasn’t straight. It curved after a while. I was really nervous going around that curve. And it was sloped down. It was getting deeper. But there was air. A slight cross-current. There was an end to it. I just hoped like hell it wasn’t actually in the nest. That would be bad. I only had eight rounds in my pistol.

I committed to saving the last round for myself. I knew suicide was a sin. I was pretty sure that Pete would intercede on that one. I was not going to be sitting in a cocoon, waking up from time to time in agony, waiting to be spider chow.

I wasn’t going out that way.

Finally I saw not a light at the end of the tunnel, despite what it shows in movies sewer tunnels are never lit, but an opening at the end of the tunnel. That was nervous making. I shut off the light and listened. Any skittering? Not a bit. Not even rats. That was a bad sign. There were always rats in tunnels unless there was a super-efficient rat predator. Like, say, hundreds or thousands of giant spiders.

The opening was another tunnel. A big one. A huge one. I briefly considered just going out that way. Then I thought better about it. Giant spiders. Let the team haul me out.

There was a number on the far wall. Very faint. The paint was old as was the brick.

57

Shit. No. Not that damned number again!

Make that 157. One fifty-seven. Better or worse, I wasn’t sure. But it might give us a clue where I was at.

I jerked my feet up as hard as I could a couple of times. Time to pull me out.

The number lingered in my memory on the long slide back to my teammates.

* * *

“Given the description of the tunnel and the number it has to be support tunnel 157 for the old PHG cistern.”

Portland’s chief city engineer wasn’t sure why he was being grilled by a lieutenant from the Sheriff’s office, three FBI agents and some overarmed civilians that looked like a militia. A very smelly militia.

“PHG?” Louis asked.

“Powell, Hurst, Gilbert,” Shaw said. “Local area.”

“Roger.”

“Can we access the tunnel?” Brad asked.

“You can practically drive a tractor trailer down it,” the engineer said, flipping through maps. “The entrance is here. Main entrance is welded shut, though. We haven’t used the cistern in sixty years.”

“You can either handle opening it or we’ll do it,” Phil said. “I’ve got three hundred pounds of C4 just
itching
to be used.”

The U-Haul had arrived.

“Uh, we’ll open it,” the city engineer said, clearly not sure if Phil was serious.

“Probably the better choice,” Brad said, blandly.

* * *

Once the massive double doors had surrendered to cutting torches and some judicious use of hammers and levers, no C4 to Phil’s disgust, the tunnel was as advertised. It was twelve feet high, seventeen feet wide, brick walled and cobblestoned. It was also in very bad repair. Bricks had fallen in at several points including bits of the ceiling.

“Well, this is fun,” Phil said. “No way we’re going to be able to do this without heavy firepower and if we use heavy firepower it looks like the ceiling is going to cave in.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Brad said, thoughtfully. “We always do. Louis, go get the van.”

“Yessa, Boss,” he said, trotting back to the team van.

“We’re going to drive the van down till we find definite sign,” Brad said when he was back. “Louis, you’re going to have to back it. Iron Hand, Jesse, in the back with flamethrowers. Phil, behind them with an Uzi. Hand, keep an eye out for where you came out. When we get to that point, firemen unload and walk it. Keep an eye out for when you get to solid web. But with the flamethrowers you can keep the bugs off till you get in the van. If we get hit by a wave we jump in the van and drive like hell. Got the plan? Questions?”

“Flame suits?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Jesse said. Since Ray III got barbequed any time we used flamethrowers we tended to put on silver suits.

“Up to you.”

Ten minutes later, Jesse and I were in the back of the Ford Econoline, feet dangling from the back, as Louis backed slowly into the tenebrous tunnel…

* * *

Our silver-suit helmets had fairly powerful lights on them and Phil was shining a million candle spot-light between us. But it was still hard to spot where the tunnel had come out. There were a bunch of little ass tunnels entering the cavernous one.

It was the spider silk that we spotted first. And Phil that spotted it.

“Hold up. I got silk.”

Brad bailed out as we clambered down, unbalanced by the weight of both flamethrower tanks and air tanks. The silver suits were hermetically sealed so we had to carry air tanks to breathe. The design was specially made for us with the air tanks down and sideways on our waists rather than vertical. ’Cause our flamethrower tanks were right on our backs where the air tank would normally be. The air tank was inside the silver suit, the flamethrower tanks outside.

Brad examined the silk then backed up and looked at the openings.

“Iron Hand,” he said from up forward of the van. “This look familiar?”

I walked back, there was enough room between the van and the right wall to fully open a door, and checked it out. There was an opening. About the right size, maybe. It looked even smaller than I remembered and I remembered it small.

But on the far wall was a barely visible “157.” It had been stenciled on the wall who knew how long ago and was harder to read from the where we stood than when I’d been in the tube.

And there was a definite trail of silk bits from the tube.