“I’m afraid to admit that our efforts have been...less than successful thus far.”
Maksimov drummed his fingers on the desk, considering his next words. This matter was unconventional, to say the least, and needed to be approached with delicacy. “Our men are soldiers, simply put.” He waved a hand through the air, as if displaying his point. “Good for fighting other men, not so good for fighting these...things... that we have been tracking.”
“We have currently been investigating the creatures for several weeks, since the first reports came in back in November. At the start of this campaign, we had deployed six field teams into the region that the reports had come from, an area of several hundred square kilometres within Kazakhstan. By the second week, ten men had gone missing. Before that week had even passed, we’d lost another five.” He paused, before sliding forward a folder of maps of the region, several locations circled with red marker. “The effort was not entirely in vain, however; these are several entrances to a previously unknown cave system, running below the area. We have reason to suspect that it goes much further than that.”
“In the last month, I’ve received reports from regions across the continent; each suggesting that the same entities are responsible. Up to this point, we have directed attention elsewhere, blaming anarchists, extremists, American insurgents, whatever the common people can more easily accept.” He leaned forward, towards his companions. “Gentlemen, I must stress that this is a temporary solution at best; the people are not blind, and there is only so much time that they will believe in imaginary foes before they begin to wonder where these supposed enemies are. These animals - if that is truly what they are - are at this time beyond our capacity to deal with, unless we can locate their origin.”
“Fortunately,” Maksimov’s thin lips tilted in a knowing grin, “we do have resources.” Another folder was passed around. “The ASR, founded in the late 1920s to investigate unexplained sightings of what could only then be described as ‘monsters’. Due to the massive amount of skepticism surrounding the division, it was severely underfunded, and only a small amount of personnel were ever devoted to it. Despite this, in the brief time that it was funded, the ASR was able to make contact with… certain individuals.” One last folder was passed out. “Of them, only one is still within our reach. For a number of years now, he has been in the field, continuing his predecessor's’ legacy. Needless to say, without him, the things that our government, and others, have been keeping silent would be very, very loud.”
He stood, with these words, and addressed his audience. “Gentlemen, we must go on the hunt. And what does a hunter do, but call in a hound?”
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Siberian Wilderness, 151 km from nearest community
Stillness. There's no movement here but the flakes of snow that fall through the ivory branches, themselves only rustling in the wind. No, no movement here, no signs of life. But nothing lasts.
He waits, watches from his spot in the brush, his thick clothes long covered by the white of the snow, the only sign that he was a man and not some random shape in the forest is the slit between his cap and his scarf where his eyes peek out. And even then, they are less the eyes of a man, and more those of a wolf; unwavering, anticipating, filled with feral drive. What he hunts is a bringer of fear, but he hasn't felt that sensation in decades. Now everything fears him.
Movement ahead, a flash of fur between the trees. He slowly, mechanically raises the rifle to his shoulder. He doesn't aim it, yet. The time hasn't come yet, the prey isn't in sight. The deer wanders into the clearing, drawn to the small pile of feed placed in its center. It's frail, sickly, wouldn't be likely to survive more than a few more weeks, if that. 'Good', he thinks, 'it won't be too great a loss to these woods.' The trap, placed days before, springs out from the layer of snow, slamming upon the poor creature's leg. The deer shrieks in surprise and pain, struggling to escape. Won't be long now. The deer's calls and movements persist for several more minutes, before the creature grows silent, exhausted from its efforts. Yes, not long now.
He listens for sounds on the air. There, just above the low moan of the wind, is the sound of the prey. Heavy footfalls, the rustling of branches and twigs being pushed aside as the heavy bulk draws closer. He hears the panting breath, just beyond the edge of the clearing. He smells it, the scent of musk and rotten flesh. At last he lifts the rifle to his cheek, and slows his already pensive breathing to the absolute minimum.
The beast is here.
It waits, as he does, just beyond the trees, hidden by snowy brush, it’s dirty white fur concealing it from any but those who look for it. Any, but him. He doesn't fire yet; he needs a clear shot. This is a tense balance, and whoever breaks it first will decide the outcome. As always, it’s not him. The animal lunges from its cover, and is upon the deer within a second, ripping it from the trap and silencing its weak cry with a sickening snap of its neck, effortlessly shattering the bone with a fur-covered hand.
He took aim, scanning the wild form, locating the head, hidden atop the mountainous torso and shaggy hair that coated it. Pursing his lips behind the thick scarf, he gave a sharp, low whistle. The creature paused, and raised its head, revealing a broad, grey skinned face, blue eyes looking out from under a bony brow. A semblance of expression flashed in the monstrous features, a look of uncertainty, even fear. Bloody lips parted to bare thick, yellowed teeth, as the beast began to howl. It was almost enough to drown out the sound of the gunshot. The thud as it hit the ground was audible enough, though.
Taking the coil of rope from his belt, he tied several loops around the corpse, binding its limbs tight. Throwing the end of the rope over his shoulder, he began to pull. The fur of the creature, adapted to deflect snow and water, let the heavy body slide with minimal effort over the ground. Still, it made his back ache. He’d done this so many times before, but it was finally wearing on him. How much longer, he wondered, would he be able to do this? Another decade, another year before he finally broke? Giving the rope another heave, he pushed the thoughts down. He shouldn’t think those thoughts, should never think anything like that again. In any case, he was done thinking about the future. Sooner or later, something would happen, the lies would unravel, and men like him wouldn’t be needed.
He and his unorthodox haul emerged from the thick trees, onto the pathetic excuse for a trail where his truck waited. Rusted and dented metal pocked the machine’s surface, and where it wasn’t showing signs of age, it showed the marks of its owner’s profession; long, jagged marks ran along the length of the sides. Bears, he always told the people who got too close. God knows how many times he’d used that excuse. Bracing himself, he hoisted the new kill into the truck’s bed, joining the others that already lay there. Five, this time. He pondered, briefly, why there had been so many in this area as of late, but brushed the thought away. Taking one last look, he pulled a tarp over the collection of corpse, hiding the pile of monstrosities away from the world.
He’d come back again tomorrow.
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The pub was not a place of high repute; dark, dingy, and hidden away at the corner of town. That said, the drinks were cold, the service quick, and the barman wasn’t inquisitive. All in all, it wasn’t a bad place if one wanted to escape from the rest of the world, especially since Khrushchev had relaxed policies and allowed a greater selection of goods into the Union.He sat at the bar, nursing his drink and waiting for the world around him to drown away. The alcohol helped to ferry him from reality, regardless of how numb he’d become to it’s more potent effects, over the many years. A noise from behind reminded him that he wasn’t alone here, and broke his mental torpor. The crowd of young men had shown up perhaps a half hour after he had, and had been alternating between drinking and rowdy boasting ever since. This time, they were slightly less amicable; one of their number had seen fit to perform his impression of a German soldier. For whatever reason, and the hunter wasn’t bothered to wonder, his friend had taken offense to it, and the two had begun shouting at each other. With a scoff, he raised his drink to his lips again -
A crash of wood against the floor drew his focus, his savouring of his drink interrupted. He twisted his head to peer over his shoulder at the group, a bleary but vicious gaze peering out from under his scruffy brows. The two would-be adversaries were engaged in a pathetic scuffle that had managed to knock their chairs over. He scowled, his haggard features growing even more harsh; so long as these fools were at it, he’d never finish his drink in peace. Times like this he wondered why he even bothered. Hoisting himself to his feet, he lumbered over, death in his eyes. Approaching the younger men from behind, he gripped each in a headlock and held them away from each other.
“I came here to drink, boys,” he said with a snarl, “and you all’ve been ruinin’ this place’s atmosphere.” With a small grunt of exertion, he tossed the men back to their chairs. “Now, I can handle a bit of joking around, but I can’t drink when there’s hollerin’ and fightin’. And you’ve been doin’ plenty of both.” The brawlers, from their spot on the ground, looked terrified. Straightening up, he addressed the group. “Now, you’re free to go on enjoyin’ your night, but make another ruckus like this and I’ll drag you out myself.”
With that, he returned to his seat, and his drink. To his surprise, and further irritation, he wasn’t alone.
He distrusted the woman immediately. She seemed out of place in the bar, and he doubted that she’d even fit in with the rest of the area; she wasn’t from around here, clearly enough. What drew his suspicions was not that she wasn’t local, but that she seemed to be trying to be. Her clothes, her hat, and even the bag at her side were all clearly bought in the region, and bought recently; they were crisp and clean, as if taken right off the shelves. To his utter lack of surprise, she began talking to him as soon as he sat down.
“I am glad that you handled those men like that, sir,” she said with a pert smile, “I had thought that my whole night would be ruined because of them.”
He groaned. “God, not all this again.” With a rough swing of his arm, he lifted up his drink and finished it in a single gulp. “Can your lot never give me any peace!?” he exclaimed, his tone full of venom.
The woman looked unsure of how to react to the outburst. “I-I’m sorry?”
He turned on his stool to face her, and, sticking a finger in her face, spoke yet again. “Listen, you’re not the first girl that’s been sent to rope me in, but believe me when I say that you’ll no more succeed at it than the last few.” He leaned forward, the stool creaking under the shift in weight. “Tell whoever paid you that they can stop hidin’ in the shadows, and face me themselves.” To his amazement, they did just that.
The man who walked over from the doorway he had been waiting by was sharply dressed; a grey overcoat hanging over immaculately pristine dress pants and a set of brightly shined leather shoes. He looked as if he belonged in a city somewhere, out for a night on the town. His face, however, betrayed his intentions, cold eyes focused only on the hunter.
With a quick nod, the woman who had been sitting next to him left the bar in a quick strut. Her employer took the stool she had been occupying. When he spoke, his voice was as refined as the hunter had expected.
“So, you are the fabled ‘Hound’,” he began, addressing him with an air of enforced friendliness. “Admittedly, you were difficult to find. I’m surprised that you’re not Russian.”
“I’m not anything’” Hound scratched at his chin, squinting with derision “I’ve lived in more countries than you can name, boy.”
The cold-eyed man gave a humourless chuckle. “So I’ve heard. You’re quite prolific.” He smiled at Hound. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I am Eduard Alkaev, a - shall we say - representative of the A -”
“ASR. I know. There’s only one organization in the Union that ever concerned itself with what I do.”
Alkaev dropped his smile. “Then you know why we sought you out.”
“I have suspicions why.” He looked into his empty glass. “There’s something that you don’t want anyone else to find out about, you’ve bungled up every attempt to get rid of it yourself, and now you want me to clean up your mess.” He turned to the agent. “Am I wrong?”
The agent, astonishingly, did not deny it. “No, not for the most part. There is a factor that you have not considered, however.”
“And what’d that be?”
Alkaev narrowed his eyes. “If you do not help us, there will be blood spilled. Innocent blood, and much of it.”
Hound scoffed. “That’s how it always have been, boy. That’s how it is every single day.”
“You’re not understanding, hound. This is beyond anything we’ve ever had to cover up, beyond anything anyone has.”
The old hunter shifted. Maybe, just maybe, the agent was being sincere. If he was,then this could be more than governmental paranoia. This could be a legitimate threat. He thought back to the creatures that he had been hunting, how so many of them had been moving so far north...
Yes. He had to know for sure. “Boy - Alkaev - just what is it that you’re askin’ me to hunt?”
Alkaev leaned in close, and whispered, “The creatures that really stand at the top of the food chain. Manhunters.”
Hound considered this, for a second, glancing off to the side, looking at nothing. He drew in breath. “Say I agree to help you, what exactly am I agreein’ to do?”
The agent looked him in the eyes, relief clear on his face. “Lead my men into the territory, help us find where these things are nested, and help us eliminate them. We do this right, nobody has to die. You help us, and we ensure that you’re left alone for the rest of your life.”
The hunter scratched at his chin again, feeling the greying stubble. “And if I refuse?”
Alkaev looked desperate. “You cannot. Hear me, you cannot refuse this. We need you.”
Hound pushed himself up from the bar, Alkaev standing up a second later. He looked at the younger man, annoyed that he had been making so much sense. He didn’t want anything to do with people anymore, let alone a governmental agency. But this was his task, his lot in life. He was a monster hunter, and nothing could change that fact. Grudgingly, he held out a gnarled hand. Alkaev took it.
“Alright, boy, you’ve got yourself a contract. But I expect you to make good on your promises. I find out that you can’t, I leave. You got that?”
Alkaev nodded. His expression was resolute.
“Welcome to the hunt.”