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I'd done this kind of thing enough times that nothing could really surprise me at this point. I was standing in the ornate ballroom at the Shackleford family estate. I was either in the past, before we'd blown it up and set it on fire while trying to kill Susan, or in the future, when we'd finally gotten it fixed, because the room was absolute perfection. The walls were covered in mirrors, giving the illusion that it was much larger than it really was, as each view doubled and tripled onto itself. The massive chandelier reflected the sunlight from the tall windows, causing the crystals to sparkle brilliantly. The hardwood floor had been polished until I could see my bedraggled reflection in it.
There was a man waiting for me in the center of the room. I did not know him. He was a head shorter than I was. The stranger was lean, but muscular, with long brown hair, muttonchops, and a mustache that extended to the end of his square jaw. He was in his forties. His uniform was made of creaking leather, with thick protective pieces over the torso and wrists, and a guard that pulled up over the throat to shield from bites, similar to our modern suits. While his archaic armor was battered, his guns were not. He had a pair of Colt Peacemakers with ivory grips holstered on a heavy-duty gun belt. The ammo stuck in the cartridge loops of the belt shined with old-school silver bullets.
The way he carried himself seemed vaguely familiar. "Who're you?"
"Somebody who's been sent to help. Mordechai kindly asked that I not let you pass." He had a very pronounced old Southern accent. "You ain't done yet. There's a mess of folks counting on you."
"I know."
"You best not fail them." He glanced around the ballroom, as if taking in something familiar. "I never liked this room. It felt snooty. It was for bunches of rich folk, gallivanting around in their fancy clothes, telling each other how important and pretty they were." He snorted. "But you know that it was always the most special to her, ever since she was a wee little thing."
He was talking about Julie. This was her favorite room in the old Shackleford plantation house. This was where we were supposed to have gotten married. The stranger hadn't picked this backdrop. I had.
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked.
"Damned if I know. Get back there and take care of business I suppose."
"I'm dying. I got bit by a zombie."
The stranger shrugged. "Cheat death then."
"Cheat?"
"If you ain't cheating, you ain't trying hard enough. That's what I always say. So pull your head out of your rear, get righteous mad, and get to killing."
"I will."
"Then what're you doing giving up and dying?" He pointed for the door, not that I'd walked in, but I got the idea. He was sending me back. "Them monsters ain't gonna kill themselves! You a Monster Hunter, or not?"
"I'm a Monster Hunter!"
"Good!" The ghost had a mischievous grin. "My boy always had a good eye for talent."
Okay. I was back. I inhaled for what seemed like the first time in eternity.
"Hang on," Torres said. "He's still breathing."
I wasn't normal. I knew that. That point had been driven home a long time ago. I had no idea what I was. All I did know was that I didn't want to die. Especially not like this.
The pain returned like a crashing tsunami. It was like being on fire and electrocuted and drowned at the same time. The virus, an incomprehensible curse from outside the boundaries of this world, pushed one last time to finish me. I screamed at the top of my lungs, a combination of fear, agony, and fury. My thrashing increased in intensity. The joints of the chair cracked. "Get help!" Torres cried as he tried in vain to restrain me.
The black energy swept through my body like a flash flood, burning, purging, cleansing, only this time I was the one in control. The lightning clashed with the virus. Then as quickly as it started, it was done.
The war was over.
The shaking stopped. My head flopped limply onto my chest.
"Wait!" Torres commanded.
The pain was still there. But now it was different, the fever had passed. I flexed my hands on the arms of the chair. I could feel again.
"Is he dead?" a cultist asked hesitantly.
"If he is, it's your fault for not getting the needle fast enough," Torres snarled. Fingers stabbed my neck. "Wait . . . I've got a pulse. And . . . it's really strong."
Thanks, Mordechai.
He was still in the room, waiting patiently. "Don't thank me yet, boy. Life ahead of you is hard one. Much work to do. Much sacrifice to make. Sometimes I see what's coming, and I feel very bad for you. No, no thanks for me. Someday you probably curse me for not letting you just die."
I heard the door open. It was a young woman's voice. "It's time. My father needs the sacrifice."
"Yes, mistress," Torres responded.
"What happened here? What was that noise?" she asked with a very proper, high-brow English tone. "Did you harm him?" That one question held a lot of menace.
"No, but we had to give him the shot your father gave us. Pitt was beginning to turn. He's passed out now."
"Lucky for him, pity for us. Come along then. Time is short." The door closed.
What now?
The ghost laughed. "Do what you do best, of course!"
"Come on, guys. Let's go." The chair lifted from the ground. There were three of them carrying me, and since I'm a big boy, they were still struggling. "Great Dagon, this son of a bitch weighs a ton. Careful," Torres admonished. "If you piss off Lucinda, she'll skin us all. Get the door."
Mordechai?
But there was no answer. He was gone.
I could think again. Had he even really been here? Had I been hallucinating? Had I really died again? Had I beaten the zombie infection, or was I just feeling better because of the shot?
Hell if I know. But I was about to get FedExed across the universe to be dissolved for eternity by a creature so evil that just saying its name caused madness. I had to move now. My eyes were closed and my head was lolling side to side as they carried me, boots dangling. They were too sure of my weakened, soon-to-be-zombified state to bother with securing me that well. Their mistake. I just needed a chance to get my hands free. The chair was solid, but I could probably break it. What I needed was a distraction. "Anthony . . ." I croaked. "Wait . . ."
"Hold on," he barked. He was holding the chair on my right side. "He's awake."
"Did you take Myers' treasure?" I kept my voice weak. "He told me to . . . keep it safe . . . from you."
"What treasure?"
"Some powerful . . ." I mumbled something else, too faint for him to hear. He leaned in closer. I risked a peek. He was at bad-breath distance. "Can you hear me now?" I whispered into his ear.
"What did Myers say?"
I bit his ear. I really chomped down on it as I jerked my head away. Torres screamed. The chair toppled, sending me crashing to the floor. Spitting his ear out, I jerked violently against my bonds, pulling with every bit of strength I had. The twine held, but I tore the arms right off the chair. I was free.
Cultist on my left, one behind me, one at the door. I swung my left arm, leading with a big chunk of splintered wood and slammed the nearest bad guy in the crotch. He doubled over and I threw an uppercut into his throat. My fist never contacted, but the chair arm did. He went down, choking.
A weight collided with my skull. I was too furious to slow down. I was up, driving my shoulder into the next cultist, taking us both across the room. I threw the smaller man into the wall, crushing him into the paneling. I slammed him in again, breaking his ribs. The last cultist rushed me, but ran directly into my boot as I side-kicked him in the stomach. Since I was twice his size, the kick put him on his back.
All four of them were hurt. I had to press my advantage quickly. Even as experienced as I was, there was no way I could take on multiple assailants in my sorry state. The one against the wall was wheezing, gasping for breath. I brought the chair arms down on his skull with terrible force, striking until the wood was nothing but splinters. The man I had struck in the throat didn't look like he was moving, but the cultist I kicked was trying to rise. Abomination was still sitting where Torres had left it. I scooped it up and charged.
He reached for his squid necklace, either to signal for help, or to activate some sort of magic, but I never found out what exactly, as I flicked open Abomination's silver bayonet and slammed it through an eye socket and into his brain. I yanked the bayonet out and he toppled, twitching to the carpet.
That just left Torres.
He was crawling across the floor, panicked, disoriented, holding his hand against the side of his head, blood streaming between his fingers. There were still loaded magazines in my pouches, so I reloaded, worked Abomination's charging handle, and put a round of buckshot into the chamber. Torres wasn't currently a threat, so I risked a quick peek out the curtained window. We were on the third story of the mortuary, overlooking the back of the graveyard. It was dark, but I could see quite a bit of the cemetery below. There was a lot of movement, robed figures with torches and flashlights moving between the mausoleums. Something big was going down out there. I let the curtains drop and got back to business.
"Hey, Anthony," I said, my voice cold and detached. My pistol was on the ground. He had seen it and was trying to reach it. I didn't plan on letting him. "Stop right there. Yeah, I'm talking to you." He kept crawling, making a kind of whimpering noise. Furious, I walked ahead of him and put my boot down on his hand. "Try listening with your good ear."
"How . . . how did you . . ." he gasped. Apparently that kind of injury was very disorienting. "You should be . . ."
"Dead?" I asked, as I tugged the cords from my wrists. "Eventually, but I'm busy right now. What's your boss up to?" I ground down on his hand. He cried out. "Start talking"—I put my bayonet against his back—"or I start stabbing."
Torres raised his head. He looked pathetic with one ear. "You can't stop us."
"Maybe, but I bet I can kill a whole mess of you in the process." There was a groan. I glanced over. Two of the cultists were stirring. Apparently every member of the Condition animated as an undead as soon as they expired. The one that I had stabbed in the brain wasn't going anywhere, ever, but the other two were going to be an issue here pretty quick.
"See . . . already my brothers are rising. The Exalted Order will never stop—"
I swung Abomination over and blew both zombies' heads off. The blasts were deafening in the small room. "They look stopped to me." If that didn't raise the alarm, nothing would. I bent down, grabbed Torres by the back of the neck, and jerked him to his feet. My strength had returned. In fact, I was feeling pretty damn good. Good . . . and violent. "I've just got one question, Anthony. Why? Why'd you fall in with these people? Why'd you betray your friends, your country? Why?"
His eyes were windows into insanity. "I had a revelation. I saw the majesty of the Old Ones. I heard their songs. Their mysteries were—"
Screw this. I squeezed the back of his neck harder as I dragged him across the room. "Yeah. You know what? Never mind." I paused long enough to rip the MHI patch from his robe before shoving him against the window. The glass shattered, and he tumbled headfirst and screaming out of sight. There was a tearing noise and the screaming stopped abruptly.
I stepped forward. The damp night air was refreshing. The curtains billowed around me. Torres' crumpled body was impaled on multiple fleur-de-lis tops of an iron fence. Several other surprised Condition members had rushed to the body. One of them looked up and pointed my way. "It's the Monster Hunter!"
"Damn straight," I responded as I stuck the Velcro patch back on my armor. "That's more like it." Then I shoved Abomination out the window and fired the 40mm grenade launcher directly into them. Everything in the blast radius was torn apart by shrapnel. I turned away from the window, picked up the rest of my gear, and headed for the door.
I wasn't done yet.
Oh, no, not nearly done. I was just getting warmed up.