Chapter 4
The next three weeks had passed quickly. The PUFF check had surprisingly enough cleared. And with a bloated bank account, I had packed my bags, sold or given away most of my stuff, broken the lease on my apartment, and driven to the middle of nowhere, following the directions that Julie Shackleford had left me.
Everything that I still owned was stuffed into the back seat and trunk of my rust-brown Chevy Caprice. All I had was a couple duffel bags with clothing, my laptop, a few other supplies, and about a dozen guns. There was no way I was parting with those. It was a good thing that a Caprice's trunk is big enough to suit a Mafia don.
Julie's directions had been printed on a 3x5 card. Her parting instructions had been for me to meet at the location listed at a certain time and date. She had told me that food and lodging would be provided, but she had not given me any other details.
I had driven straight through from Dallas to Alabama, thoughts of the absurdity of what I was doing nagging at me the entire time. Welcome to the heart of Dixie, the sign on the border had proclaimed. I stopped once in Montgomery to pick up a better map. According to the card's directions the place I was driving to was nothing but an almost blank green spot on the map with only one road and one small dot for a town. Cazador, Alabama.
It took another two hours from Montgomery to arrive in Cazador, but a good half of that was spent driving lost through the forest. The trees were dense and the underbrush was thick and still over the iron-red soil. The country around Cazador consisted of beautiful rolling hills interspersed with many streams and creeks.
The town itself was really more of a village. There were a few small stores, a Baptist church directly across from a Church of Christ, and a scattering of houses. The buildings appeared old and weathered. An old sign near the road read simply ‘cazador, alabama, population 682’ A slightly newer sign beneath stated that guided tours of the catfish plant were available from noon until four. I'm sure that was a barrel of fun.
I stopped for overpriced gas, a soda, and to scrape the bugs off of my windows at the only convenience store in town. A few locals made eye contact but nobody spoke to me. I overheard a toothless geezer murmuring to the cashier something about fresh meat. I didn't care to guess if he was talking about me or the lunch menu.
Following the final directions on the card, I had taken a small, barely paved road through some more hills and into even deeper woods. It branched and I kept to the west for another mile. I almost missed the gravel turnoff. My main indication that I had found the home of Monster Hunter International was a small sign painted with the letters mhi and a green smiley face. The smiley face had horns. As my car bounced slowly down the gravel road I took note of the many no trespassing and trespassers will be shot warnings.
Finally I came to an open gate surrounded by high chain link and razor wire. Near the gate, a man sat in a folding chair under the shade of a large umbrella, relaxed and apparently listening to a big battery-powered radio. He waved lazily as I braked and rolled down my window.
He was an interesting-looking fellow, weathered to the point that it was difficult to guess his age, a little shorter than average, with a shaved head, small wire-rimmed glasses over a blunt freckled nose, and a thick red beard that was absurdly long and pointy. The end had even been braided with a few decorative beads. He was wearing a Rush Tom Sawyer T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Birkenstock sandals. He looked kind of like a granola-eating environmentalist type, except for the worn M4 carbine hanging idly from a tactical-sling draped over his shoulder. He was spitting the remains of sunflower seeds into a cup.
"Hi. I'm looking for MHI," I said.
The man adjusted his glasses and looked at me, head tilted at a slightly strange angle as he smiled absently. Suddenly he clicked his tongue and pointed at me.
"Big dude… Scar face. You must be that guy Earl found. Threw a werewolf out a window?"
"That would be me." I realized that the boom box was set to a talk radio station, and the subject was something to do with black helicopters and cattle mutilation. "Julie Shackleford offered me a job."
"She does that a lot. We're a little short-handed right now, but that's a long story. Drive straight in, park in front of the biggest building. You're a little early, but a few other Newbies are already here. The Boss said that he would say a few words to you guys, so just hang out."
"Newbie?"
"New hire. Greenies. Monster bait. Organ donors. You know. It's slang."
"Oh, okay… I'm Owen Pitt." I stuck my hand out the window.
"Milo Ivan Anderson. Jack of all trades, master of a couple. Call me Milo. If you live long enough I'm the guy that gets to teach you how all of the cool stuff works." He shook my hand and grinned. His beard stretched halfway to his shorts. "See you around."
I parked in the lot that Milo pointed out, locked the doors out of habit, and checked out the surroundings. The MHI property could probably best be described as a compound. The main building appeared to be the only permanent structure, being constructed of heavy red brick and steel. It was an office building, but with narrow windows, obviously thick walls, and iron bars. It looked like it could pass muster as a fortress if the need arose. I wouldn't be surprised if there had been a big pot, full of boiling oil, just out of sight on the wide flat roof. As I entered I realized that the main doors opened into a small room that funneled down to a smaller set of doors. Suspended overhead was what appeared to be a heavy portcullis that could be dropped to seal the secondary doors. Very interesting.
An older lady was seated behind a massive reception desk. She smiled at me as I approached. At least the staff here was friendly. She had to be in her sixties and looked plump and cheerful. She was wearing a matronly purple knit sweater, but the large-frame revolver in her shoulder holster was printing pretty badly through the fabric.
"Hello, dear. You must be here for the orientation," she said.
"Yes. My name's Owen Pitt."
"Oh, I recognize you. You're the one that kicked that werewolf's ass. That was some mighty fine brawling, sonny."
"Uh, thanks, I guess."
"No, thank you. Earl showed us all that video. It was right entertaining. I hate werewolves. Used to hunt the sons a bitches once my own self. Used to could do a fair job in my day, till one of the bastards took my leg. This one here is plastic." She knocked on her plastic leg for effect. It made a hollow noise. "My old one was made out of wood, but it would swell up when it got humid. I reckon it does get mighty wet in these parts. No place at all for a wood leg. Could be worse. Old Leroy had himself a wood eye. Painted it brown, same color as the other. Summer time roll around, damn thing would swell till it would get stuck pointing in one direction. Poor old Leroy. He was a good one. Oh well, sign in here."
My signature was quick and sloppy on the clipboard. As an accountant you have to sign your name a lot. You try to keep a pretty signature when you have to sign it a couple hundred times a day. There were at least twenty names ahead of mine.
"My name's Dorcas. Some kids nowadays snicker at that name. But my ma said that it was a right fine biblical name, and it has suited me for close to seventy years. Any punk kids make fun of my name, I'll put my plastic foot in their ass. Got that, boy?"
"Yes, ma'am." That was my instinctive response to crotchety old ladies. Especially former Monster Hunters strapped with what appeared to be a.44 magnum.
"Good, go down the hall. Double door on the right. That's the cafeteria and meeting hall. Now scat. I got business to conduct."
"Yes, ma'am." I hurried away so Dorcas could continue her game of solitaire on the computer.
As I strolled in the direction the receptionist had indicated, something caught my eye. I paused in front of a wall of small silver plaques. There had to be at least four hundred of them and they took up quite a bit of space. Not all of them had pictures, but all had a name, a birth date, and a death date. The oldest plaques mostly lacked photos, and the birth dates started clear back in the 1850s. It was a wall of remembrance for fallen comrades. There was an inscription in Latin carved into a large polished board at the top of the wall. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.
Being an auditor by trade I could not help but notice the curious fact that almost a hundred of the newest memorials shared the same death date: December 15, 1995.
Whatever had happened on that date must have been a black day for the Hunters.
Also strange, there was a span going forward from that day, with no new death dates until a few in the current year. The six-year gap was conspicuous by its absence.
A group was waiting in the cafeteria. There were a few small pockets of conversation, but mostly they had pulled up chairs by themselves and were waiting nervously. Not being one for socializing, I grabbed a metal folding chair and took up residence in the back of the room. The fellow to my right was snoring loudly. To my left was a young Asian man, warily watching the others. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Albert Lee. When I asked him how he had ended up here he muttered something about spiders. Big spiders.
More people gradually arrived. To pass the time I studied the others. I caught a few of them studying me back. The group was about eighty percent male, and I would guess that the average age was probably just under thirty. Most of the Newbies looked relatively fit, though surprisingly there were a few people I would call gravitationally challenged. The group was a good demographic cross section of America, with the biggest numbers being Caucasian, but also some Hispanics, Asians, Blacks, and a couple of people like me of indeterminate race. Don't bother to ask. My ancestors really got around.
Finally when I counted about forty others in the room, I heard a voice bellow for everybody to quiet down and take a seat. Earl Harbinger paced back and forth at the front of the cafeteria. He was wearing the same leather bomber jacket, and he had the same intense presence, as when I had first met him. Several other individuals entered and took seats behind him. I recognized Milo from the gate, and there was Julie Shackleford. She smiled when she saw me. My heart skipped a beat.
"Hello. My name is Earl Harbinger. Many of you know me already. I'm the Director of Operations here at MHI. Welcome to our new Hunter orientation. Let's get one thing straight right off the bat. We hunt monsters. That's what we do. Every one of you has had the experience to realize that there is a lot more out there than you've been led to believe. In the coming days I would just ask for one thing. Keep your mind flexible. Don't get caught up in what you're sure is real, because if you can't believe in them, you can't fight them."
Harbinger stopped speaking just as an older gentleman limped into the room. He was tall and gaunt. A black patch covered his obviously empty left eye socket, and the skin on that side of his face looked as if it had been badly burned at some point in the distant past. He had a stainless steel hook instead of a right hand. His hair was thick and white, and had been neatly combed. He wore an obviously expensive, dark Italian suit. He walked slowly, one foot slightly dragging.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Let me introduce Raymond Shackleford, President and CEO of Monster Hunter International." Harbinger quickly sat down. Most of us started to clap politely.
The senior Shackleford shushed us and waved his hook in our general direction. "Enough of that nonsense. I ain't no politician." He paused, folded his arms behind his back almost as if he was at parade rest and proudly addressed the room. He had the air of an old Southern gentleman. The boom of his voice did not fit his frail appearance.
"Welcome to Monster Hunter International. My name is Raymond Shackleford the Third. You can call me sir, Mr. Shackleford, or Boss. Today you are going to get a little history lesson, so pay attention." He cleared his throat loudly. "My grandfather founded this company in 1895. Raymond Shackleford the First, but around these parts everybody knew him as Bubba. Bubba Shackleford was born and raised in this very valley, here in the heart of Keene County. One winter the good folk of Keene County started to disappear: sadly, some of them even came back, only they were not quite human any more. My grandfather formed a group of concerned citizens, best could be described as an angry mob, and took care of the problem. The fault lay with what we now know to be a vampire. Grandpa Shackleford lynched the creature twice, and when it wouldn't die they finally, in frustration, burned it at the stake. One by one my grandfather's men found every newly created vampire, and destroyed each in turn, until finally the county and Cazador township was made safe."