The Hunters

The body was not yet cold when Detective Hamish arrived at the scene. The tenth victim in the span of four months.

And maybe the last one of his career.

Hamish blew out a breath, turning to his assistant, Danny James. “What do we know?”

“John Doe, no wallet or ID, but a local student was reported missing just last night. We’re running the dentals now,” James said, rubbing his chin and looking at the body. Or what was left of it, anyhow.

Beheaded first, then burned.

James cursed under his breath, walking off to talk to the press while Hamish lowered himself to inspect the body.

It was barely human, charred and twisted, one piece sitting separately from the rest. Unrecognizable amidst all the other trash here. Hamish hummed, trying to piece together a motive.

Ten dead bodies that they knew of, all killed in various, cruel ways. The first had been a chap on Kiltcher Street, left in a garbage can. Shot, then covered in honey, marinating for about a week before being found. Then there was a girl on Linchens, also in the trash, stabbed with a sharp object through the heart.

The Garbage Man, the media called him. A serial killer who has outrun the trash police.

And Hamish’s personal downfall.

Not a single fingerprint, hair, video-recording. Useless witnesses too! And now there were ten bodies.

He prayed on the way over that this one wouldn't be his case, that this was some other murder he’d pass on to his colleagues.

But no, the Garbage Man it was. A cruel death and a crueler burial.

Damn it.

This was it, wasn’t it?

Hamish huffed and got back to his feet, a deep sense of resignation upon him. He had done all he could. He was a damn good man, an even better detective.

But one good man could not right all the wrongs of a bad world.

“James,” he called, snatching the boy’s attention from the journalists, motioning for him to wrap it up.

James nodded, fixing his glasses and saying something about promising progress to the hungry cameras before him. The lights kept flashing in his face, but he turned and ran to Hamish.

“Yes, sir?”

Hamish opened his mouth, closed it. What did he want to say? That he gave up?

He rubbed his neck, looking at James’s young and hopeful face—he’d looked just like that once.

“Son, look, I think we’ve—”

“Detective!”

Hamish spun to a red-faced policeman, a young man out of breath, no one he knew.

“Not now, kid.” He turned back to James. “The Garbage Man, or whatever name this devil carries, I don’t—”

“Sir!”

Hamish spun again, the annoyance slipping into anger.

“Kid, I said—”

“Sir, there’s a witness. They saw the murder, just two streets from here.”

Hamish frowned, hope and despair fighting for a place on his face. A witness.

But they’ve had witnesses before. They heard, they smelled, but never—

“They saw a face.”

He froze.

Well, damn him.

“Bring them here, now.”

“Yes, sir!” The young man sprinted off into the alley.

Hamish huffed a laugh, rolling his shoulders. If this witness truly saw the murderer, they jumped from ten steps back to two ahead. Isn’t it what they said: a serial killer always got sloppy from the high?

Hamish was afraid to hope.

“Sir?” James pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“What did you want to say, sir?”

Hamish blew out a breath, then threw the boy a wild grin.

“We’re going hunting, James.”

Alicia sucked on her finger, the iron taste of blood upon her tongue.

She popped the finger from her mouth—it pooled red once more.

Damn it!

You know what, it didn’t matter. She could manage with some blood.

Alicia stuck the needle back into the skin, then pulled. Then again, and again, all the way until she sewed the woman’s mouth shut. She pulled away to study her work, the corpse of the monster before her.

Its long hair spilled like ink upon the garage floor; the once-beautiful face turned into its natural form—a grotesque smile with glistening fangs.

It had been a hassle to find the Split-Mouthed Woman, an even bigger one to catch her, stab her, and now to sew her mouth shut.

But what choice did she have? If you left their mouth open they could talk their way out of the grave.

Alicia sighed, grabbing the corpse by the hair and pulling it to her car. She popped open the trunk, then paused. She’d have to pick her up, put her in, then drop her off into some trashcan.

And she was tired, so damn tired.

Alicia groaned, slapping her palms over her face and plopping into the trunk herself.

Where should she leave this one? The trash was easy, but now the local cops were going crazy over some serial killer. And she wasn’t—a serial killer.

It's just, what did they want her to do? Dig graves, too?

Alicia let out a long breath and jumped back to her feet, pulling up the stupid corpse into her car.

Vampires, she could handle, just the last one she stabbed through the heart on Linchens Street. Demons too, even if she had to chop their head and burn the body. Even the Honeysuckle! Did they know how difficult it was to cover a whole man in honey?

But not the solitude. She wasn’t sure she could survive it.

She closed the trunk with a wave of defeat, got into the driver’s seat, and started onto the road.

How could he leave her like this?

For what seemed like the tenth time today, her eyes began to sting. That damn Marcus. Was he ever a good mentor if he left and died on the job?

Who dies from a Wendigo?

A laugh burst through her, together with some snot.

She swatted her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, pretending the tears weren’t there.

Being a monster hunter wasn’t her primary choice of profession, but with Marcus, it was fine. Kind of fun, actually.

And she never had to deal with the bodies.

Where in the seven hells did he hide all the bodies?

Alicia swallowed a breath, letting the rest of the tears dry. Whatever.

She’d skip town right after she finished the job—she only had one other monster on her list.

“James!”

The young man ran up to Hamish, his breathing heavy, glasses askew.

“Sir?” he gasped.

Hamish chuckled. “Boy, take a break; we’ve been over the whole neighborhood, we’re done for today.”

Jame’s brow furrowed, cheeks pink.

“But sir—”

“No ‘sir’,” Hamish interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it tight, “we deserve a break. There’s a nice diner on Linchens, well, the streets’ kinda sketchy, but the fries aren’t. Let’s grab dinner and call it a night.”

James nodded, but seemed still unconvinced. Hamish sighed.

When James had shown up at the bureau a year back, Hamish had thought he was just a silly kid who wouldn’t last a week.

And he was. But now he was his kid.

“Look, I know you think we’re wasting time; I thought so too, but not anymore. The woman saw him—the damn Garbage Man. We know he’s got light hair, that he wore a hoodie with the words “Cali” on it. Damn it, we know he returned to this neighborhood after the crime! That’s enough, more than enough. We’ll find him.”

James nodded slowly, then whispered.

“I know we will.”

Hamish gave him a wide grin.

“That’s the spirit! Get in the car and let’s get to that diner, or I’ll be the one that starts killing.”

Alicia ended up shoving the Split-Mouthed Woman into the local lake.

It pained her to do so as she always wanted to go for a swim there—and it was disgusting to swim with a body—but if the trash was off limits, what else could she do?

Her truck rattled as she drove to her final destination, excitement and dread coursing through her veins. She’d be leaving soon—alone.

Alicia sniffled but refused to cry. She was on the job.

The truck finally came to a halt in a dark corner of the neighborhood, the keys clinking as she pulled them out of the ignition. Perk of the job—that monsters preferred weird streets and dirty neighborhoods.

If they killed some homeless dude, who would know? Who would go looking for the killer?

But when she killed them, the police went looking for her.

How utterly stupid.

Alicia got out of the car, walking through the street towards her prey.

If the police were truly smart, it wouldn’t be her they’d be hunting.

And they would know that monsters existed.

Alicia took a turn on the street, entering a small, crooked alley. Something scurried by her.

She shuddered.

Instead of thinking who, or what, it was, she grabbed her phone to double-check she was in the right place—her GPS said that she was. This last one, from what Marcus said before, was a skinwalker. He’d have to be shot with a white ash bullet or named by his true human name.

But a shooting would probably go faster.

She felt for the gun in her jacket pocket, sitting there with a pile of coins and an old receipt from the grocery store. She’d clean it out… one day.

She surveyed the place where the creature would be, a small restaurant with faint yellow lights illuminating the evening. The smell of oil and black coffee drifted from the doors. Alicia’s stomach gurgled.

Maybe she could grab a bite after killing this one?

Something ran past her once more. This time she saw it.

Rat.

“Ew,” she stomped to scare it off.

On another thought, dinner would have to wait.

“So, you like it?”

James choked on a laugh, or maybe on the fry.

“It’s good,” he mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Hamish howled, clapping the table and smiling.

“You’re a bad liar, but a damn good guy. Eating these shit fries with a straight face to be nice to an old man?” Hamish slapped James on the shoulder, and the boy spit some of it out.

“They’re not so bad,” he said through a cough, wincing once he swallowed the bite.

“Oh, they are. I know they are. But the sausages here really aren’t. Promise.” Hamish put a hand over his heart.

James looked like he was about to cry but nodded.

Hamish chuckled.

“Come on, it wouldn’t be fun to trick you twice! Let’s go for a smoke, huh? Mary here will bring out the food once we’re back, won’t she?” Hamish waved over to an old waitress who winked and nodded her head.“Thanks hon!”

He stood up from the booth and James followed, the two pushing out the door and taking a few steps from the diner before lighting their cigarettes. Hamish inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp night air and the first puff of the smoke.

“You’re in a good mood, sir,” James remarked.

“Yes James, I am.”

And if that wasn’t the truth. They might’ve not caught the killer, and his career might still be in jeopardy, and the world might still be full of shit, but now it was a yet. Well, all except the last one, but Hamish couldn’t do anything about it. Yet.

He laughed, pulling in another puff.

“Sir,” James started, voice uncertain.

“No need to worry, kid, I’m not on drugs or anything, just happy.”

“Sir—”

“I mean I’m not completely happy, if that’s what you mean, but—”

“Sir!”

Hamish jumped, surprised by the strength of his voice.

“Yes?”

“There’s something in the alley.” James threw his cigarette on the floor and stomped it, going quiet as he stalked towards a shadow at the end of the street.

“Leave it be James, it’s probably a tourist. You know they like to sulk in these streets huntin’ for ghosts or something.”

“No, sir, it’s—”

Bang.

A shot rang through the night air, the moment stretching in Hamish’s mind. It was all too fast and too slow, all wrong. And all he could do was watch.

The shadow was no longer just that, it was moving, running, in their direction. It was swift and lean and fast, and it hit James.

James.

He was hit.

James was hit!

By the time Hamish reached for his gun the shadow was upon him, grabbing James by the hair and shoving him into the wall.

“James? Josh? Jeremy?” the shadow snarled.

Hamish took out his gun and shot.

“Shit.”

The bullet woozed past but the shadow stopped its assault, grabbing James by the throat and pulling him close, using him as a human shield.

“Drop the weapon and release him!” Hamish yelled, barely recognizing his own voice. He pointed his gun at them. At the shadow. At James.

“He’s not who you think he is,” it snapped.

“Release him or I'll shoot!”

The shadow seemed to weigh its options, then shook its head. With it, the hood they were wearing fell. And it wasn’t at all a shadow.

Short blonde hair stuck out in all directions, a face, a young girly face, appeared before him. He was momentarily stunned. Unable to move, to pull the trigger.

And then it clicked.

Light hair, dark hoodie, the sketchy street.

Hamish would bet his career that if she released James he would see the word “Cali” written on her hoodie.

“The Garbage Man,” he whispered.

The girl wrinkled her nose.

“Monster hunter, but you wouldn’t understand.” She raised the gun to James’ head.

No!

He fired as fast as he could, aiming for her head. The girl cursed, ducking and hiding behind James. And James, poor James, turned as pale as snow. His glasses had fallen off sometime in the scuffle, his shoulder a deep red from where he was hit.

“You fool! He’s a monster!” the girl yelled from behind him, her form hard to make out in the dark.

“I said, let him go!”

She stopped, then peeked out from Jame’s shoulder. “You know how a skinwalker survives? They feed on the emotions of a human. Their emotions, then their blood. And when they’re done, they take your form and—”

“I don’t give a damn! Release him!”

She stopped talking, face twisted in what almost looked like disappointment.

“Fine, as you wish.”

She released Jame’s throat and pushed him forward.

The boy fell right into Hamish, his good arm enveloping him in an embrace.

“James!” Hamish pulled him upright, searching for the girl behind him before she ran. “James I just need you to—”

“Sorry sir,” he whispered.

“Nonesense, just move a bit so I can—”

His teeth sunk into Hamish’s throat, piercing skin, then muscle, then his very soul.

No, was the first thought.

Impossible, was the second.

And the world went dark before there was a third.

Alicia nudged him. Once, twice. The man’s lashes fluttered, but did not open.

She should go, a reasonable voice told her.

What if he died? A more annoying voice nagged. She couldn’t leave him like she left Marcus.

“Fine, this one’s on you,” she muttered, raising her palm and slapping him in the face.

The detective gasped, eyes fully open as he took in the sight before him. The dark alley, the dead skinwalker, Alicia’s ruffled face.

On the last one, his eyes widened and he tried to pull away.

“The Garbage Man,” he whispered, hand reaching for a gun that he wouldn’t find.

“Just Alicia, and I took your gun.” She raised it into the air.

He looked stunned for a moment, then afraid. Then his eyes fluttered closed.

“Do it.”

Alicia blinked. Once, twice.

“What?”

“Just get it over with.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” she blurted, almost confused.

The man opened his eyes, blinked.

“Why not?”

On second thought, she probably should’ve left him.

“Because I… don’t kill humans?”

The man looked even more confused, and she felt the need to explain.

“Look, I only kill monsters, like the dude here, well, the one—”

“James,” he said.

“—uh yes, James. He was a monster, so I killed him. Sorry for using you as bait. But you were really insistent I let him go, and skinwalkers regain energy by feeding, so I knew that—”

“James was a monster?”

Alicia shut up. Maybe it was something about his voice, the hopelessness in it, or maybe she was going soft, but this man needed an answer.

“Yes.”

“And he tried to kill me?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded, slow and careful, eyes suddenly distant.

The alley filled with an awful quiet, and before she knew it, Alicia began to talk.

“Look, he would’ve killed you anyway. That’s how skinwalkers work. They choose a mark, follow them, drain their emotions, then drink their blood, then take their shape. It’s much easier to kill them while they’re irrelevant. What if one of them got to the president, you know how hard it would be to kill? So yeah, I killed him before he took your form.”

The man still looked lost, but somewhere along her speech, his eyes had drifted to her, now sober.

“And you’re the Garbage Man,” he said slowly, almost working it out, “but not a man. And not a serial killer?”

Alicia cringed. “Something like that.”

“And my assistant was a skinwalker?”

“Mhm.”

The detective took a long breath, then slumped against the wall, acceptance filling his features. Or maybe despair—Alicia found it hard to differentiate.

It got quiet again. Alicia shifted.

“And you saved my life,” he finally said, somewhere between question and statement.

“I— yes?”

He nodded, then took another long breath. “I think I need a new assistant.”

A laugh burst through her. She slapped her mouth shut.

How silly, she needed…

And then it clicked.

“You know,” she started slowly, “I’m somewhat in need of a mentor.”