"I'm sure there is a greater good out there that offsets the evil, Trip. You will find it someday, just don't give up hope. You have seen the dark, but for every dark thing, there is light," Holly said, and patted him on the back of the hand. That was possibly the kindest and most upbeat thing that I had ever heard out of Holly Newcastle. Of course she immediately followed it with, "But if I have to deal with another stupid elf and their mystic crap I swear I'm going to shoot them all in their stupid inbred hick faces and burn their stupid trailer park down."
Milo came back and slid into the booth. He tore into his sandwich with a vengeance. "Don't let me forget to pick up a sub for Skippy too. He loves tuna salad," he mumbled with his mouth full.
"Milo, I've got to ask. Why did Harbinger and the Shacklefords freak out so bad in the meeting this morning?" I asked.
He hesitated. "I probably shouldn't answer that. It's Earl's job to tell the story about '95. I'm just the gadget guy. It's a touchy subject is all, what with all the death, and unimaginable horror, and rifts in the very fabric of reality, and whatnot."
Now I was really curious. "Come on, Milo. You're way more than just the gadget guy."
"True, I'm the guy that takes care of all of the little things. Hey, Milo, we need to make det cord pretzels. Hey, Milo, where can we find a thousand gallons of Holy Water at two in the morning? Hey, Milo, hurry up and build some new device that we need right now out of old junk A-team style. Hey, Milo, cast out these evil spirits. That kind of thing. But when it comes to a good suggestion, No, Milo, we won't go with your idea, because we’re sensitive."
"Everybody takes advantage of you," I said.
"Ha. Nice try. I'm still not talking. You want to know about the Shackleford family and what happened at the Christmas Party, you got to talk to Earl. He saved my life when I was only fifteen years old. I've been with them ever since." He chewed his food for another minute.
"You really rebuke evil spirits?" Trip asked. "Cast them out like in the Bible?"
"Sort of. Hey, I'm a Mormon. Every team has to have at least one person with a little faith. Not all problems can be solved by shooting the heck out of them. Well, most problems can. If not, then high explosives can really be your friend, but every now and then you just need to put your faith against the bad guys. For most Hunters that's a losing proposition, so that's why company policy is that if it don't have a physical body, take it up with the religious authority of your choice. Sometimes we don't get a choice in the matter though…" He slurped noisily from his straw. "Look guys, back to the subject, I grew up in Idaho, the youngest of fourteen kids. So family's important to me. When most of them got eaten, MHI became my family. And I'm loyal, so if Earl doesn't want me to tell you about '95 then I'm not gonna do it."
"Fair enough," I said. We all went back to our food and studiously avoided talking. Milo appeared to sink into his beard, deep into thought, chewing contemplatively.
After a few minutes of actual relaxation, Milo signaled that it was time to move out. We refilled our drinks and prepared ourselves to move back out into the stifling heat. Our group got a few looks from the locals saying that we obviously weren't from around them parts. I picked up a sandwich for Skippy and another foot-long meatball for myself. The senior Hunter waited for the other two to walk out the door before catching my arm.
"Owen." He looked to make sure nobody was listening. "I know you like Julie and that's why you're so intent on finding out what happened to her family." He pulled off his little round glasses and wiped them on his horribly ugly shirt.
"No, it's not that at all," I lied.
"Whatever. I didn't fall off the potato truck yesterday. Look, all I'm saying is that if stuff heats up, and this Cursed One turns out to be as bad as my gut tells me he's going to be, I'll fill you in on the details-provided you do me a couple of favors."
"And those would be?"
"Help me talk Julie into speaking with her dad. He might be the only person in the world who knows what's really going on. I don't want to go behind Earl's back, but this might be the only way. She might listen to you."
"Really? Why would she listen to me? Did she tell you she liked me?" My hope spiked temporarily. Milo quickly brought me back down.
"No. But she thinks you have visions."
"I'm not going to lie to her."
"I don't want you to. But if the choice comes down to having the world blow up, or having a painful Shackleford family reunion, personally I would rather have the reunion."
"Why don't we just go speak to him ourselves?"
"He's real particular who he talks with," Milo whispered. Holly sounded the horn. She actually held it down for a full ten seconds. "Just stop by my workshop tonight, and we'll talk then. And I've got a piece of hardware I want you to try out. I think it might actually suit your personality."
"Little green book-keeper visor that clamps to my helmet?"
"Nah. Full auto, magazine-fed, 12-gauge shotgun."
My earlier hunch had been correct. Milo Anderson was a mad genius.
The drive back to Booneville and the return flight to the compound were uneventful. The rest of the Hunters were busy reading through old books or making phone calls. I helped give a short debriefing about the information we received from the Elf Queen. At the end of the little meeting I was taken to task for not telling the others about the Tattooed Man from the dreams.
"You should have said something. We could have been researching him too. Who knows what clues that might have turned up?" Julie snapped at me. She was tired and discouraged from a long day of research. I couldn't really blame her.
"Sorry. I didn't know. I thought they were just normal dreams."
"Yes, but your dreams are somehow tied to this case. I don't know how, but until we figure it out, you need to report every single dream you have." She pushed away from the table and stood to leave. "I'll go see if I can find any records matching the Tattooed Man's description. If you will excuse me, I've got a hundred years of dusty garbage to read."
After she stormed off, Harbinger assigned me to go to the range and help coach the remaining Newbies with their pistol shooting. At least there was one thing that I was good at. I stopped by the armory and picked up another pistol on the way. I needed to replace my poor broken Kimber. Stupid vampire.
There was an absurd number of weapons to choose from. The armory was actually a concrete bunker with a bomb-proof door, filled from floor to ceiling with weapons. I could spend hours in that room fondling and drooling over the various guns. There was a wall dedicated to just.45 caliber handguns: Colt, Springfield, Kimber, H&K, CZ, Sig, S&W, Beretta and other lesser known brands. I picked out a lightly customized CZ 97B. I was always a sucker for a big.45. Ten rounds in the mag, plus one in the chamber. I could carry it cocked and locked; it would not be in the armory if it had not passed the reliability test with our ammo. I took the CZ, an inside-the-waistband holster, and several extra magazines. Dorcas would make sure that it came out of my check.
That evening I stopped by Milo's workshop. It was a corrugated steel building located behind the main office. All manner of tools and gadgets were hung on the walls. Drill presses, welders, machine tools and worktables filled almost every square foot of the large space, leaving only narrow foot trails to navigate through the mess. A large American flag was taped up on the far wall. Huge speakers mounted in the corners were playing Oingo Boingo. Sparks flew as Milo used a grinder on some sort of massive device that appeared to be a harpoon launcher. He lifted his plastic face shield when he saw me coming.
"Ooo-wen. What's up, my man?" He bobbed his head to "Only a Lad."
"Milo, what the hell is that thing?"
"Harpoon launcher."
"What for?"
"In case we need to harpoon something."
I nodded slowly. I think even by the bizarre standards of Monster Hunters, there were still a few of us who marched to the beat of a slightly different drummer. In another corner there was a stuffed head mounted on the wall. It looked kind of like an alligator, but it had antlers. I did not dare ask if it was real.
"Check this thing out. We can still hit the range while there is a little bit of light left." He led me to a workbench where a strange-looking gun was mounted in a vise.
"Saiga?" I asked. That was a Russian shotgun that was based upon the action of an AK.
"At first. On this one I mounted an adjustable ACE stock, with recoil pad of course, FAL pistol grip, holographic sight system, EOTech in particular, night vision compatible. Full rail system, so you can mount lights or IR illuminators, or as you can see here, a Tula 6G15 40mm grenade launcher, front-loading, single-shot. The barrel has been cut down to twelve inches, modified choke, gave it the Vang comp treatment also so the patterns are good and tight and recoil is softer. I modified the trigger group, so top position is safe, middle is full, bottom is semi. I've got the gas adjusted so you are looking at about 700 RPM on full."
He was speaking my language. "Don't these only come with five-shot magazines?"
"I've got a bunch of nine-round box mags, and two twenty-round drums. I've tested them all, all are reliable, but on full you can run through the nine rounder in a second, so use it sparingly. Go ahead, check it out."
I gently picked up the massive weapon. It was short, but it was thick and heavy, and that was while it was empty. Add almost a box of shells and a grenade and it would be even more so. I worked the action. The bolt was slick and the spring was powerful. Milo had thoughtfully added a shelf to the safety so that it could be operated with the trigger finger. It pointed better than it looked when I snapped it into position.
"What about specialty munitions?"
"There is a gas regulator at the end of the hand guard. I machined a new one so that it now has three positions. If you have the regulator in the right spot for the right ammo, it isn't going to malfunction."
I ran my finger along the regulator, and found detents for the different power levels. There was also a mystery button. When I pushed it a hinge unlocked, and an eight-inch, heavy-duty bayonet was released. The blade was absurdly sharp and thick. With a flick of the muzzle it locked into place with a snap. It was not the world's best-balanced spear, but I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it.
"No freaking way. That is awesome."
"I got the idea off of Czech CZ52, but I improved it. It folds to the side, out of the way of the grenade launcher. You don't hardly even know it's there until you need it. Bottom edge is good cutting steel, on the top edge is a silver inlay. You stick this in a lycanthrope and it's going to know it."
"Why did you paint it brown?" I asked as I slowly turned the monstrous weapon over in my hands. It felt good. I realized I was grinning like an idiot.
He shrugged. "I'm tired of black guns. Everybody has black guns. I wanted this to be a little different. Plus black gets hot in the sun. I tried to give it kind of a desert-tiger-stripe thing. So do you like it?"
"Milo… This is the coolest gun I have ever seen in my life. And I've seen a lot of guns. How does it shoot?"
"Let's go find out. From what I've seen from you in practice, and from what Julie told me about your shooting on the freighter, I have been waiting for somebody worthy of Abomination."
Abomination? That was just too cool. Milo handed me a sack of loaded magazines. "Okay, just one more question. Exactly how many gun laws does this break?"
Milo's red eyebrows scrunched together in thought. He started to count on his fingers, and then thought better of it.
"All of them."
The Abomination shot far better than I had expected it to. It was not sleek, it was not stylish, it could never be considered pretty. But it was reliable, and it was amazingly fast. The front-heavy weight swung quickly, and the heft helped keep the barrel down as I poured shell after shell into the targets. The holosight was amazingly fast. At close range you just put the target into the giant floating circle and pulled the trigger. I knocked down steel plates, I dusted clay pigeons out of the sky, and I put slugs into pie-plate-sized targets at a hundred yards with ease. The mag changes were so fast that it put my old reloading trick to shame. If I felt the need I could keep the rate of fire high enough to melt the barrel off of the mutant shotgun from hell.
I even got to run through a dozen flour-filled practice grenades, and even a handful of high explosive shells. Shove them in the front of the stubby launcher until they click, pull on the absurdly heavy trigger, and launch a blob of deadly high explosive out to the end of the range. The explosions threw clouds of red Alabama clay high into the air. What's not to love about that? By the last grenade I had figured out the approximate amount of holdover necessary to get hits out to two hundred and fifty yards. Well, perhaps not hits, but like the old saying goes, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
By the time I had emptied all of the magazines, it had been dark for hours, and I was standing in a sea of spent plastic hulls. My clothing reeked of unburned powder, and the muscles in my face hurt from smiling. What can I say? I'm a gun nut.
"Oh my gosh. That is so cool," I gushed. "I have to have one of these. This thing is going to rock against undead."