This was my first real completed story. It has its problems for sure, but it felt good to actually tell a full complete story for once. I still toy around with the universe, so the following should be considered entirely non-canon.

As a newly minted apprentice, I signed on for some two man jobs throughout the northeast. They were all pretty standard fare: find out what was causing trouble, figure out where it was hiding, and take care of it. Fifty percent chance that we could talk it out, fifty percent we had to fight.

This was the first time I had been assigned work with this particular hunter. For three days, I waited for him in this this tiny town of Boyers, Pennsylvania. I spent each evening at the local diner, waiting for him to show up. After three fruitless nights, I settled in for a fourth. I sat in my booth, intent on doing a little reading and minding my own business. That turned out to be a bit premature.

My reading was interrupted when this big guy in a leather jacket slid in across from me. He was young, kind of scruffy, dressed like he thought he was a hard ass, and he kept an eye on everyone in the room.

“Sitting in the corner, large caliber under the left shoulder, knife in the left boot, and a folder tucked behind you. A hunter if I’ve ever seen one,” he said with a smug grin, “Judging by your general boredom, you’re waiting for your partner to show.

“Now see, I have a proposition for you. You aren’t old enough to be ranked journeyman yet, so no open-ended assignments for you. You’re on contract. Locate, identify, and beat up a spooky, right? I happen to be on a different sort of contract. I won’t bore you with the details, so the gist is that some magic type thinks that there is a stash of magic type baubles somewhere around town, and they are paying me to go grab it. The way I see it, magic baubles are catnip for the nasty boogeyman types, which is who you are looking for.

“I want a simple exchange of services. You help me find the ole nasty’s den, I help you clear it out. What do you say?”

I heard about this guy’s type during training. In-the-know mercenaries are always in high demand by wizards, summoners, cultists, even governments. They are notoriously fickle, prone to backstabbing, and generally overzealous in their methods. Our masters drilled it into our heads to always be wary of them and to never, ever trust them. Still, I was bored and couldn’t turn down the opportunity for conversation with someone in-the-know.

“How much do you know about the ‘nasty boogeyman type’ that lives around here?” I asked.

“Not much, just what’s in the local gossip. Some folks think that there could be a haunted mine. There are stories of some kinda something messing with farmers’ fields. And of course hunters talk about weird things in the woods. Oh, and a haunted house. You know, the usual.”

“So you have nothing.” 

“That is why finding the place is your half of the job.”

“You really never learned to hunt stashes by yourself? I can think of half a dozen ways you could do this job without having to deal with me.”

He leaned back in his seat. “I know two dozen ways I could pull it off, and it would be faster too. I’m just too damn lazy, especially for a low paying gig like this.”

“Too lazy? And I am supposed to trust you to have my back in a fight?”

He rolled up his sleeve to show me his U.S. Marines tattoo. “I’ve been in more than my fair share of knuckle bruisers.” He turned his arm over, exposing a burn scar from his wrist to his elbow. “Both magic.” He tugged at the top of his shirt, revealing a bullet scar. “And mundane.”

“But you expect me to do all the heavy lifting? That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange to me.”

“Let’s say I’ll owe you a favor.”

“A favor? From a random merc? No thanks.”

“Fine. Straight trade. You find it, I fight it.”

“You know what? I should give my overdue partner another day before I commit. Give me your number, and I’ll let you know.”

“I could do that,” he said thoughtfully, “Or I could just stop by the post office.”

I almost spat out my drink. He laughed, “Hunter handbook is nothing but predictable. And yes, I know about the government’s deals with hunters. I wouldn’t want to sleep in a post office, but who am I to judge?

 “I can also tell you what happened to your partner. Got picked up in Ohio on a weapons charge. Federal. He will get out once his master clears it all up, but it will take time. And I know one more thing. You are Jake Grant, first year on your apprentice papers, generalist training.”

My eyes grew wide. That was some incredibly sensitive information he spouted off. You needed major league connections to get that kind of access. I had to take control of this conversation.

I acted put out. “I hate being blindsided, and I hate being at a disadvantage.”

He smiled. “Trying to change the topic. Smart. I like it. And, in the spirit of cooperation, I’ll give you the rundown on me. Name’s Nathan. You can call me Nate. No last name, just Nate. I have been in-the-know since I was a kid, been fighting since I could walk. I’ve done work on both sides of the know, the law, and about any other line you can draw. Specialties are retrieval, protection, and target removal. Can use almost any weapon you toss my way, with reason of course, but I love guns and explosions. And that’s about all you need to know.”

I had to keep my jaw from dropping. When you deal with anyone who works on the magical side of things, information is a valuable commodity. People work for it, people trade for it, and people die for it. By giving his name, profession, background, proficiencies, mission, and implications about his connections, Nathan laid out enough information to put a down payment on a house.

“Fine. Meet me tomorrow morning at the post office.”

#

I spent the next morning leafing through the file one last time. It was all rather typical stuff. Locals reported petty thefts, vandalism, and missing pets, all unexplained. Classic markers of something spooky going on. Boyers had all the usual local legends, which Nathan had already covered.

I flipped through the local history, hoping to get an edge that way. Whoever wrote the file was equal parts thorough and boring. Farmers bickering over three feet of dirt. Drunk miners picking fights over nothing. Locals getting shot in a hunting accidents. Teenager falling down a big hole. Indian legends. Drug abuse. Tiny forgotten caves. An incredibly impressive collection of useless raw data without context. Only point of interest I could discern was the mines.

Way back, Boyers was the center of some major limestone mining operations. Eventually the mines closed, but they left a bunch of deep holes in the ground. Fast forward to today, the inevitable happened and someone figured out how to make money off the abandoned mineshafts. Now the old mines are used as secure storage. Antiques, documents, film. And a few magical odds and ends. The equivalent of a magical candy shop for an untrustworthy mercenary in search of magic baubles. That could become a problem.

A series of solid strikes on the door snapped me out of contemplation.

“For a minute, I thought the whole post office thing was a big practical joke,” Nathan said as he walked in. He eyed my sleeping bag in the corner. “Or that they all had sweet hunter digs.”

I sighed. “No. Just four walls and a roof.”

“Whelp, let’s not burn any more daylight. I am not a fan of waking up before noon, so don’t make me regret it.”

“Don’t look at me. The hunter files are a particular brand of useless.”

“Lucky for you, I haven’t let my time go to waste. About three a.m., I was chatting up this local drunk. Turns out, he does grounds keeping for one of the big storage caves. Anyhow, he was blathering on about Missy or Mindy or someone not appreciating him. In the middle of it all, this guy starts crying that his girl doesn’t believe him about the weird stuff happening at the caves. I don’t know how you hunters operate, but that sounds like a good place to start to me.”

This guy didn’t beat around the bush. He wanted in those caves. Those tunnels held everything from social security numbers to ancient magical relics. Clients ranged from the U.S. government to huge corporations to secret cabals to hoarding wizards. I even think that a couple hunter lodges store their old records here. So now, in addition to my actual job, I had to keep Nathan out of the stupid caves. This job just kept getting better.

“Fine, but when we get there, you have to follow my lead.”

#

I pulled my old black Suburban up to the facility’s main entrance. A single armed guard manned the front gate, and two others armed with bigger guns patrolled farther back. The fence was electrified and sported a crown of barbed wire. The gate wasn’t really a gate either; it was one of those raiseable barriers, more than capable of stopping a SUV dead. I handed Nathan a pair of aviators.

“Put these on and don’t say a word.”

The guard approached as we stopped.

“I need your name, business, and authorization papers.”

I pulled a badge out of my jacket and flipped it open.

“Agent Grant, Homeland Security. We have been chasing down a terrorist cell all over the northeast. Yesterday, we received credible information that this facility is a potential target. We need to check the grounds.”

The guard took another look at my badge. “I need to call this in.” I handed him my badge and he walked back to the guard booth.

“Now we’re screwed,” Nathan muttered, “It was a nice sell, but these guys always check.”

I ignored him. After a very brief phone call, the guard came scurrying back to the car.

“You’re all clear.” The guard looked a little pale. He gave back my badge. “Do you need access underground?”

“No, we don’t believe there has been a breach. The surface level will be adequate.”

I’m pretty sure I heard Nathan sigh.

After we passed the other guards, Nathan started jabbering again. “How did you pull that off? Does the government give you guys badges now? Did you hack Homeland? If so, how many favors would it take to get me a badge?”

I handed him the badge. “Put it in the glove compartment.”

He cocked his eyebrow and opened the compartment. Inside were about a dozen different badges, federal, state, and local.

“Okay, showoff, that’s not funny. Are any of these real?”

“They’re all real. It is amazing what people will do for you after you save them and their families.”

“No kidding. I see Homeland, CDC, two different state troopers…USDA? Does that come in handy, like, ever?”

“You’d be surprised.”

I pulled the suburban into the little visitor’s lot. I made a beeline towards the fence, but Nathan kept looking back at the cave entrance.

“What exactly did your groundskeeper say?” I asked.

“Not much, other than his blubbering about Mandy or Maddy or whatever. Just that he saw little people running around the fences at night, but they stayed out of the light and moved fast. Are you sure we shouldn’t check in the caves?”

“If they were in the caves, there would have to be some kind of holes in the walls. That’s the kind of thing that even ordinary guards would notice. So, whatever these little people are, they haven’t made it into the caves yet. And that means we check the surface. Only.”

Nathan sighed again, but he nodded and followed me to the fence. I searched for signs of the groundskeeper’s little people. The fence was in good condition. Nothing could hide in the short cut grass, and a clear sightline for at least fifty yards made it impossible to approach undetected. The whole adventure looked like a dead end until Nathan yelped. I turned around and found him attempting to free his foot from a hole in the ground.

“What kind of radioactive gophers do they have around here. This hole is huge!”

I walked over and examined the hole. It was eighteen inches across and went two feet straight down before hooking into a tunnel system. There was some distinctly non-animal quality to it.

“Are you going to help me, or should I leave you and the hole alone for a while.”

“Alright, smart ass, on the count of three. One, two, three.”

I gave Nathan a shove backwards. His foot came out of the hole, and he tumbled back onto the ground. With his foot came my answer.

Nathan’s foot had pushed a single circle of cut sod into the hole. I picked it up. It was just thick enough to stay together, just thin enough to be pliable. The sod chunk was someone’s attempt to cover it up.

“That’s the kind of shoddy repair job you get when you have a drunk for a groundskeeper,” Nathan observed.

I looked back into the hole. “I don’t think your buddy did this. Look here. Claw marks, like an animal digging. But over here, these look like tool markings.”

“So, radioactive gophers with shovels?”

“Or ratmen. They would account for the little people the groundskeeper saw. It looks like they tunneled in and covered their access point.”

Nathan groaned. “Those squeakers are such a pain to deal with. Always stealing things with their grubby little hands.”

I grinned. “Pot, meet kettle. They aren’t that bad anyhow. They are always looking to cut a deal and drive a terrible bargain. I heard of one group who gave up their warren for a bulk bag of Skittles.”

“Hey man, taste the rainbow. Still, I’m not looking forward to chasing these guys down. We’re way out in the boonies. They could have little dirt holes anywhere.”

“Don’t worry. I know right where they are.”

“Really?”

“No. But I have some ideas. Turns out my file wasn’t so useless after all. We should wait awhile for them to go to sleep. You know the spot where Seaton Creek runs into Slippery Rock? Meet me there in three hours.”

#

I took my leave from Nathan to gear up. The most important part of a hunter’s job is preparation. We train for years to be ready for action, prepare dossiers before each mission, and choose pieces of specialized equipment before any type of confrontation. This was my first solo outing, which meant that I couldn’t rely on someone else’s better sense.

It also meant I wouldn’t get any grief for my more… unusual choices.

For hunters, every issue is divided along traditionalist or modernist lines. Scientifically guided training or classic physical regimens? Modern medicine or alchemical solutions? Internet research or ancient tomes? Guns or swords?

I consider myself the world’s first experimentalist.

I opened the big black chest in the back of my Suburban and picked through the assortment of hardware. Ratmen are generally not aggressive, but perceived strength is an important part of their negotiation process. I strapped on a short sword and kept my .45. Ratmen may not actually be rats, but they share many characteristics. For example, their eyes and noses are sensitive and exposed. I picked up a couple of cans of mace.

I looked at my alchemical concoctions. Potions for enhanced speed and strength didn’t seem right. Dulling pain and anti-poison were also wrong. One particular brew I had recently worked out enhanced my sense of smell. That was definitely a no. Finally, I spot a winner: Varilly’s Concoction. A classic recipe that keeps your eyes adjusted to the light. That would be useful underground.

Having chosen Varilly’s, I realized that the ratmen wouldn’t be able to adjust quickly to light changes. I dug out a pair of high powered flashlights and a pair of flashbang grenades to match. I slid on my favorite leather jacket, lined with protection runes, and pulled on my tactical harness. Time to meet up with Nathan.

As I worked my way through the woods to the agreed upon meeting place, I spotted Nathan stooped over, examining the ground. He evidently thought he was on to something and marched off without me. When I got to there, I did a quick search for whatever Nathan had been examining so intently. Footprints. Ratman footprints.

Now, I’m no slouch at hiking, but Nathan covered ground like a deer. He kept his mind to the ratmen’s trail, and his body handled the rest. He kept inching farther away, until he slipped from sight entirely.

I followed the ratmen’s trail until I found Nathan’s flat cap in the dirt. That’s when I heard Nathan yelling.

“Back up. Back up. Should have backed up. Anybody else? That will be a headache. Back up. Come on now.”

I cursed under my breath. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

I followed Nathan’s voice to a big hole in the ground. Shaped like the smaller tunnel at the storage facility, this one was about four feet across. It also had a Nathan sized mud smear where he slipped and fell in.

I quaffed the Varilly’s and slid down the tunnel entrance. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Nathan’s path of destruction. Ratmen were sprawled all over the place. I took a moment to see if Nathan left any breathing. They all were out cold. Nathan didn’t want a blood bath, but he was being liberal with some blunt instrument.

A ratman battle cry, or perhaps squeak, arose from deeper in the warrens. Part of my plan was to get in while most of the occupants slept. Thanks to Nathan, they weren’t asleep anymore.

I picked up the pace while navigating the twisting and uneven tunnels. The commotion kept growing louder and louder. Signs of habitation grew more frequent: ramshackle furniture, random junk from the surface, crude handicrafts, general detritus, and several varieties of more pungent refuse.

The tunnel opened into a big chamber; it was a nexus for the tunnel system, with half a dozen dirt tunnels and one large passage through limestone. The cavern itself stood ten feet tall and was about half the size of a football field. A few torches gave the space an eerie orange glow. A trail of unconscious bodies marked Nathan’s wake. He now stood across the room, wielding a blackjack against the final resistance.

The few ratmen still fit to fight were staging a last stand around a heap of stolen surface junk. The ratmen arranged the pilfered items in an elaborate display. And it was all centered around some stone carvings. Like an altar.

“Oh, crap.”

Nathan spun at the sound of my voice. When he was half way around, the cavern shook with an ear-splitting roar.

I raced through memories of half-learned lessons. Ratmen join together in their little warrens, but sometimes they come across a creature much more powerful than themselves. At that juncture, they have three options: move, serve, or die. This warren clearly chose to serve. The problem was they could be serving anything from a really big ratman to a dragon. No way of knowing until it stormed into the chamber.

We weren’t kept waiting. A hulking mass of dark grey fur lumbered into the chamber and let loose a second roar. It looked like an upright, nine-foot-tall mole with short arms and a pair of seriously large tusks. The warren served a buggane, the polar opposite of ratmen. Huge, mean, and fearless, they were normally handled in a tag team battle by pairs of journeyman hunters. At least I had Nathan.

“What kind of radioactive gopher is that!”

While Nathan flapped his gums, the buggane charged. Nathan leaped to the side, but he was too slow. The buggane slammed into Nathan, who then flew into the wall. He collapsed to the ground, out cold. So, just me then.

The buggane bellowed again and rushed at me. I stepped back into my narrow tunnel. The buggane crashed into the wall, snapping at me through the opening. Unfortunately, ratman craftsmanship doesn’t amount to much. The tunnel collapsed behind me.

I was stuck in a little crevice, sealed in by giant, thrashing jaws. There wasn’t enough room to draw my sword, and his skull was too thick for my .45. I reached for my harness.

I popped the lids off both cans of mace, spraying one in the buggane’s eyes and the other in his mouth. The buggane was not a fan. He reeled back, losing some of his intimidation factor as he yelped. I took my opening and started shooting.

The first shot bounced off his ribs. The second shot dug into his shoulder. The buggane got back on his feet. The third shot hit square on the sternum, but failed to elicit a reaction. The fourth shot struck at the exact same spot, to the same effect. The buggane growled and rubbed his eyes. The fifth and sixth shots struck his arm. He started moving back towards me, slightly warier. My seventh shot buried in his belly.

That shot actually did damage. I knew that because it pissed off the buggane. He chased me away out of my alcove and into a corner. Then he tried to gore me with his tusks. Training kicked in and I slipped to the side. And again. And again. Finally, the buggane decided enough was enough. He let lose another roar and lunged with full force.

I don’t think either of us predicted how that was going to work out. Both tusks were embedded in the dirt wall, with me between them. Fortunately, he had to lower his head for that attack. That kept me out of his reach. Unfortunately, I was still stuck.

I decided to keep with what worked: pissing the big boy off.

I grabbed both flashlights, set them on flicker, and held them an inch from his eyes. The buggane ripped his tusks out of the wall and stumbled backwards.

Dazed and blinking, he swatted at the floating spots in his vision. Instead of taking advantage of the opening, I did absolutely nothing, astounded that something that stupid had actually worked. Then I remembered I was fighting for my life.

I picked my pistol up off the ground and aimed for his belly. I pulled the trigger. The gun made a pitiful click.

“Count the shots. Count the shots.”

I reloaded as fast as I could, but the buggane recovered faster. He let out one more howling roar. How was he not hoarse by now? He charged.

Before he reached me, I leapt to the side. And I tripped. I ended up flat on my stomach and watched as my now loaded gun fell five feet farther away. The buggane walked over, confident and gloating. He raised his clawed hand for the killing blow. That was when I discovered that the pistol wasn’t the only piece of equipment I had dropped.

One of the flashbang grenades had torn free. It went off not four feet away with, well, a flash and a bang. In such a small room, the noise was deafening. Luckily, the Varilly’s I took shielded me from most of the effects of the light.

My sparring partner wasn’t so lucky. He fumbled around, unsure where I was. This time, I took my opportunity. I lunged for my gun, and knocked it farther away. My momentum carried me to the wall. I decided the gun was a lost cause, spun, and drew my sword.

My sword wasn’t anything fantastic, just an old European hunting sword. Pointed, one sided, and with a blade about two feet long, it wasn’t made for heavy duty fighting. In this case, I thought it would work better than my fists.

At that moment, I decided it was time to try something even more stupid. I rushed the buggane, sword in hand. He was still getting his bearings as I reached him. I threw two powerful slashes at his legs. They definitely broke the hide, but neither was deep enough to do real damage.

Remembering my experience with the gun, I stabbed at his lower back. With no bones to impede the blow, the entire blade length worked its way into the flesh. The buggane spun around swinging.

Though he couldn’t see, I was right in his arm’s path. The blow knocked me on my ass. At least I held on to my weapon this time. The blood matted fur ball faced me and belted out another one of his annoying roars.

It was time for incredibly stupid plan number two. I pulled the other flashbang off my harness and threw it. At his face. At his stupid mouth.

As luck would have it, the grenade plopped right in. The buggane shut his mouth and swallowed it. Reflex? Intimidation tactic? It didn’t matter. The grenade went off halfway down his throat with a muffled sound.

Flashbangs, while nominally non-lethal, make noise and light through a controlled explosion. That means that there is still shrapnel and extreme heat. No one warned the buggane.

He yelped in pain, and smoke started coming out of his mouth. The room filled with that heavy, sticky odor that only comes from burning flesh. The buggane’s obstinacy finally ran out. He collapsed to the floor. I gripped my sword, walked over to the gasping heap, and provided the coup de grace.

#

Nathan took an hour to come to. He halfway sat up and looked around. By that time, most of the ratmen had awoken and skittered off. I was hard at work, wrapping the buggane’s remains with a rope net from my car.

“Where are the little squeakers?”

I patted the buggane. “I killed their god. This whole area is cursed as far as they’re concerned.”

“Is that a radioactive gopher-mole… -elephant?”

“Buggane. Big nasty brute. You missed quite a fight.”

“Great. Now I am the merc whose ass got saved by a hunter.”

“I won’t tell. If…”

“If I owe you a favor.”

“Several, actually. Life-debts aren’t as cheap as they used to be.”

“I thought you were too good for my favors.”

“I wouldn’t take your favors as upfront payment, but I’m always ready for a good life-debt. How do you think I got all those badges?”

“Fine. But first, I have a contract to finish.”

Nathan stood up, wobbled a bit, and walked over to the ratman shrine. He picked through the assorted junk, pulled out a couple trinkets, and stuffed them in his jacket.

I was confused. “That’s it? I already looked through that stuff. It is all complete junk.”

He shrugged. “They have sentimental value. You know wizards. Full of all kinds of emotions.”

“And you get paid how much for this?”

“Next to nothing. I’m paying off a few favors.” “Always about the favors with you. Speaking which, my first is getting this behemoth back to the Suburban.”