The blast of the bullet was deafening. There was a wet splatter, then the Demon’s body slumped onto Chase’s chest like a spiky, stinking blanket. He opened his eyes. A collection of grey brain matter and bits of cartilage and bone stuck to the ceiling. Black blood dripped onto Gramps’ bed. The street outside the apartment was in chaos, but compared to the last five minutes of horror, it felt virtually silent.
Chase was bleeding, and quite seriously. The Demon’s body slid off as he got up, scraping down his left side. He cried out in pain after trying to use his right arm. Gramps and Acidettol lay next to the bed, crumpled together but, judging by Gramps’ rising chest and Acidettol’s twitching leg, still alive.
“Gramps!” Chase called. “You alright? Talk to me, come on.”
The old man grumbled from beneath Acidettol’s cape. “Soon as I get this bluddy…thing offa me.” He fought for purchase on the slippery yellow latex. “Fucken tighty-whitey-undies-over-the-top bastid. C’mere, boy, rip this thing off and hurry up about it. Christ’ sake.”
“It’s alright, Gramps. I gotcha. Easy does it.”
Chase rolled Acidettol onto his side and extricated his grandfather. He pulled the old man to his feet and set him back on the bed, avoiding the wet patch of demonic mess on the baby-blue doona cover.
Gramps pointed at the Demon. “You shot it? How the hell’d ya manage that?”
“Coated the bullet in Monster Solvent,” Chase said. He contemplated the finer workings for a moment. “Must’ve eaten into the bullet and…I dunno, fused?”
“I see.” Gramps took in the scene. “Clean up the bullet hole before more rescue folk get here. They won’t take kindly to an unlicensed eighteen-year-old firing an old man’s unregistered Luger.” He pointed out the ruined door. “Hide the gun back where it was.”
Chase stared at the dead Demon lying before them. “How the hell do I clean the bullet hole?”
“Get rid of it, I meant.”
“What, chop its head off and chuck it in the bin? With what knife? Kitchen ones won’t do shit.”
Gramps just grunted. “Work it out. Ideally before he wakes up.” He gestured to Acidettol, who was starting to stir.
Chase noticed the final dregs of Monster Solvent about to drip out of its canister. He picked it up, looked at the Demon, and connected the dots. When he poured it on, the Demon’s head fizzed and spat like a frying steak, its horns popping out of their sockets and clattering to the floor. Chase wrenched them free of any final connective tissue and tossed them on the bed next to Gramps. He’d harvested enough Demon horns during Raids to know they were somewhat valuable. The smell of the whole operation was unpleasant enough to resuscitate Acidettol.
“Who the hell is cooking?” he cried.
**************
Once the Dungeon Break debacle was contained, Chase and Gramps were sent through a hospital and housed in a Two City shelter along with the other displaced Nine Town residents. Chase had a thick wad of bandages around each puncture wound, and it took two procedures to fix his hearing. The doctor told him he should be thankful for modern medicine.
Chase sent a message to Brad, his Raid Manager, letting him know that he was alright but would be taking a few days off work because he was homeless and looking after his ninety-four-year-old grandfather. Brad replied with a sternly worded message that, if not for the corporate-speak, basically read as: Don’t be a wimp. Get back to work, or we will replace you.
Of course, reporters swarmed the shelter like flies to shit. There were nearly as many people holding microphones, cameras and notepads as there were displaced people. Acidettol made an appearance, ushering Chase and Gramps toward any and all cameras. In return for staying quiet about the Luger, Chase told reporters that the Hunter saved them in a heroic battle and that, due to his valiant efforts, his charges should be erased and forgotten.
Three days after the Break, a stage and podium were erected in the large common area of the shelter. There was an announcement over the speaker system that a representative from the Guild Regulation Authority would address them in two hours, if they could all please attend and listen quietly thank-you-very-much. When Chase and Gramps arrived at the appointed time, a large man in a tailored blue suit and a wide red tie stood behind the podium, gripping the sides with both hands and glaring into the crowd.
He tapped the microphone twice, then spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to begin by offering my condolences. This is a terrible, terrible tragedy, and one which the GRA does not take lightly. We will be conducting a thorough and complete investigation over the coming months, however I thought it would be best to make a preliminary addressal to you all.”
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Someone in the crowd started shouting and hurling insults, but they were quickly subdued by those nearby.
The representative paused until the crowd settled. “At this time, we are treating the Dungeon Break as an act of terrorism. We have discovered a coordinated effort between two defected employees of the GRA and its partner organisation, the Embassy for Dungeon Oversight, as well as a member of the public who has since left the country.”
Low murmurs rippled through the crowd. Feet shuffled.
“Our understanding is as follows: A Guild was registered using fabricated records with the assistance of a GRA employee. This Guild placed a successful bid on the Dungeon in question, granting them exclusive access rights. The GRA employee coerced the Embassy employee into hiding the fact that the Dungeon was not cleared within an appropriate time, which caused the Dungeon Break. It should never have happened. On behalf of the GRA and the Embassy, I am sorry.”
Now the insults and curses began. Chase appreciated the honesty, but he couldn’t resist throwing out some colourful language himself. The GRA and the Embassy were supposed to protect society and organise Guild operations, not succumb to infiltration and coercion. People threw food at the representative, painting his suit red and brown with assorted muck and mixed-up concoctions before security dragged him out of the spotlight.
Again, Chase felt bad for the guy and appreciated his effort. But a mob is a mob, and you don’t admit defeat when they’re looking for a head to roll.
A few days after that, Chase and Gramps were shipped out to temporary housing in Three City, just near the Dungeon that Chase was working at when the Break happened. The Dungeon was gone by then, and traffic sailed straight through the section of road that would’ve sucked them into a monster-infested cavern less than a week ago.
The new house was a significant bump up. Comparing Nine Town to Three City was like comparing a swamp to a palace. The rent was unholy, and far outside their price range, but the GRA coffers subsidised the increased cost so that they were paying the same as they used to. They would be shipped back to Nine Town once repairs to the city had been made and insurance claims worked out. As far as Chase was concerned, there was no rush.
“That gun,” Gramps started, pulling the CPAP mask from his face. “Where’ve you put it?”
“Back in the console table,” Chase said. “The new one. Sorry we couldn’t get yours. The Demon really fucked it up, apparently.”
Gramps fiddled with the photo of Chase’s mum and dad, holding it close to his chest. The frame was shattered and had to be thrown out, but the picture survived. “That’s alright. We got what matters.”
“Indeed,” Chase said. “Look, I’ve gotta get to work — Brad will fire me if I miss another day — but if you need anything, message me. I can get a nurse from the shelter to come round and check on you if you’d like?”
“You think I need that shit?!” Gramps replied, ripping his mask so far from his face that the straps looked fit to snap. “Been livin’ like this for damn near thirty years! ‘Fore you were a twinkle in your father’s eye!”
“I was just asking,” Chase replied. “We’ve been through it, Gramps. It’s not a crime to get some help.”
The old man grunted and settled down into the couch. “If you want someone to check in, I guess once would be okay. Late afternoon — I don’t want to be woken from my nap.”
Chase gave him a thumbs up and went out the door. His backpack, usually containing just a drink bottle and a spare set of overalls, was heavier than usual and clinked with the sound of glass on glass. It was reminiscent of the ‘camping trips’ he and his friends used to go on, the ones where they had pushed the limits of how many beers could be jammed into one sports bag.
Unlike those beers, the bottles in Chase’s backpack were to be filled, not drank. His experience with the Luger and Acidettol’s Monster Solvent had given him an idea that he felt was worth trying out. There was already a proof of concept — the dead Demon with the hole in its head saw to that — so all Chase had to do was make his results repeatable. He may not have been a certified genius like some of the S-Rank Hunters running about with their magically enhanced brains, but he knew the scientific method when he saw it.
That day’s Raid was at a sports stadium in One City. Chase arrived through double-wide automatic glass doors which admitted him to a luxurious foyer. The whole room was built of marble and gold. Two pot plants by the front desk literally waved to him when he walked in. A receptionist got up and guided him through the complex. Her hair was done up in a tight bun without a bobby pin in sight or a single loose tendril.
When they entered the main stadium — which mainly served as a soccer pitch and moonlit as an everything-else field, right down to Aussie rules — Chase started laughing. The Dungeon Gate, though reasonably sized, looked comically tiny amongst the huge expanse of grass and grandstands. The usual line of supply trucks was already there, however they parked off the side just along the boundary, no doubt to preserve the grass.
Chase joined a crowd of Haulers. They were bunched up behind their fleet of Monster-Retrievers, shovels and wheelbarrows. Some new faces had the first-time jitters, but most were just bored and ready to start work. Marla, the lady he’d thrown his orange safety hat to, was amongst them. She handed back his hat and donned a yellow one, demoting herself to her usual position.
“Thank God you’re back!” she cried. “I thought I’d be wearing that thing forever! The stress of it all was just…goodness!”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Chase agreed. “Looks like everyone’s here, though, and with all limbs intact. You must’ve done alright.”
Marla adjusted her hat and blew a piece of hair out of her eye. “I guess. We only did two raids in the last six days, though. After the Break, the Embassy called in a bunch of Ultra-Hunters and paid them bonkers money to clear every Dungeon around, just in case. I heard they even got Miss Sanabria and her team to come over from Spain.”
Chase raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Multiple teams of Ultras? I’m surprised the GRA and the Embassy, even put together, could fork out that much cash, especially on short notice. Sounds like a sad week for Haulers — I’m guessing it was all get-in-and-get-out?”
Marla nodded. “Not a single monster-part to be harvested. Anyway, here comes Jenny. She’s watching you, see? Probably wondering why you’ve got a huge-ass backpack on. Why is that, by the way?”
Chase laughed.
“You’ll see.”