Marcus Graves's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

By dark the three rifles lay on the bar. Marcus set them in a row on the stained wood of the Grimewick. The gray military rifle. His own, that had killed the first beast. And the third, an AR15 cut with demon faces and sharp black lines. Three guns that could wound the pack. He had two men who could shoot them under fire. The farmer did not count. The problem was simple and it would get people killed. "One gun sits idle," Marcus said. "I need a third shooter." Garrick stood by the window. The old hunter had tracked these beasts for thirty years, and he had thrown his weight behind Marcus in the square that morning. He did not answer at once. He watched the tree line through the broken glass. "Then I shoot it," Garrick said. "You have your own rifle." "Mine's marked for one kind." Garrick tapped the demon-etched gun with one finger. "This one kills anything she cuts. Give it here." Marcus studied him. The claws on Garrick's belt said enough. He pushed the AR15 across the bar. "You've fired one of these?" "I've fired everything." Garrick checked the action without looking down. "You train men to talk about what they saw. I don't need to talk. I've seen enough." They walked out into the field behind the bar. Marcus set three cans on a fence rail. He put his two shooters at the left. He put Garrick on the right with the etched rifle. The light was almost gone. "On me," Marcus said. He gave the signal. The two veterans fired. One can jumped. The other missed twice before it fell. Garrick raised the AR15, exhaled, and put his can off the rail with one shot. Then he lowered the barrel and waited. He did not grin. He did not look at Marcus. "Three guns," Garrick said. "Three hands. Problem's gone." Marcus felt something settle in his chest. The idle rifle had a shooter now. The line could cover the field three ways when the pack came. He had a unit. Small, but real. Then the wind shifted. A smell came with it, wet fur and rot. From the dark tree line came a sound that was almost a voice, almost a word. A shape stepped half into the open. Tall. A man's face stretched over a goat's skull. Patchy hair down a long body. It stood on hooves and watched them with one yellow eye. Garrick went still. "That's the stalker," he said low. "Been circling for days. It's not with the pack." He raised the etched rifle, then stopped. "It's counting us." The thing turned and went back into the dark. It had seen three guns and three shooters. It had seen the whole line. "It'll tell the rest," Garrick said. "Now they know what we have."