Mage Hunter: The Sirens Swamp

Prologue

Sweat trickled down his brow, his hand felt slick as it gripped the old wood of the revolver. The dock creaked beneath his boots, waves crashed against the pier, and ropes and pulleys strained with the weight of their cargo. The un– –seasonable cold cut through his coat like a knife; but, it wasn’t the weather that had turned his insides to ice. The thing was getting up.

Twenty yards from where he stood, the dark form stretched its spindly limbs. It had black veins visible through translucent skin, blackened eyes, and coyote-like teeth slick with John’s blood. John’s hand quivered for a moment as he thought of how his blood had gotten there.

The wet, black streams dripping from its back slowed to a crawl as the bullet holes closed around themselves. 

“Suppose it’s too much to hope that you’d stay dead this time,” John said to the demon. His jaw clenched, warm blood trickled down his right arm as he stood straight and readied his left.

The beast growled a low and guttural cry as it charged towards him. Only three shots left in the cylinder and no time to reload. There was no way this would work… the plan was insane… but those dark eyes met his again, and it charged.

One.

CRACK!

The shot set the dock ablaze in light for half a heartbeat as the creature staggered for a step, but kept running. John could now definitely feel the dampness in the front of his shirt where its claws had grazed him. He gave his jaw a steely clench that he hoped reached his nerve.

Two.

CRACK! 

Dead on. 

Now weaving to evade his fire, half the demon's face was missing, but it didn’t stop. Fifteen yards. Ten. Five.

John raised his gun to the sky and gambled his last bullet straight up.

CRACK!

John held his ground to the last possible moment before diving to the side. The demon changed course to intercept his evasion, closing the gap between them in an instant. Then, the rusted tackle that John had shot snapped. As the creature lunged for John’s shredded vest-front, a single crate fell from the rigging, and onto the creature with a crushing, splintering crash. The sound echoed through the empty shipping dock.

John got to his elbows, shattered crate splayed out in front of him “You did surprise me,” he said to the bloodstained crate. “You can’t know this, but that is not something a lot of folks can claim.” Snow drifted down around them and he sighed. “And of course there’s snow… in New Orleans no less. That might be it this year,” John mused to the corpse. “Somehow blood always looks worse against fresh snow.” He paused out of a polite habit, but the bloody crate didn’t seem too keen on carrying it’s half of the conversation, “It’s gotta be the contrast. Never plan a bloodbath around a fresh snowfall,” he advised.

He felt a jolt as his leg was pulled towards the broken crate, a clawed hand was digging itself through the leather in his boot. To his horror he saw the thing pulling itself together beneath the splintered box. Pale flesh formed around bits of board that were too heavy to be pushed out of the way of the stitching body. This nightmare visage gargled and choked as its throat began to recreate itself. John screamed as he kicked it with his free boot, smashed it with his empty revolver, and tried with bloody fingers to pry its claws out of his boot, but the demon ignored his blows, rearing back to bite into his leg. Screaming again he grasped a wooden dowel laying beside his boot and plunged it into the creature's eye.

The monster roared in pain as it released his leg and grasped at its face. John retracted the dowel and pressed his advantage. The broken edge made the dowel sharp and mean-looking with a nasty jagged quality.

He stomped with his good boot to hold the thing down and plunged the dowel into its back again and again. It struggled as he fervently held his attack, until finally, it stopped. The dowel planted in its heart.

The adrenaline left in a flash as John collapsed to the deck, gasping for breath. The cold dark flesh of the creature began to gain color, the black blood turned red and the dark hair faded slowly to gray. He saw the creature change before his eyes. The unnaturally sharp cheekbones and jaw softened giving him a slight double chin, the dark gray color of its skin flushed to a more familiar leather color, human muscles were corded on the lean form of the athletic old man, a creeping dread came upon him as he recognized the more human features. It was Clint Walker… His friend—stabbed, crushed, and short one eye.