Grits, Guns & Glory - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 2 by John G. Hartness

Author:John G. Hartness [Hartness, John G.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Falstaff Books
Published: 2015-07-21T04:00:00+00:00

The End

Casket Case

A Bubba the Monster Hunter Short Story

By John G. Hartness

“I hate cemeteries, Skeeter,” I muttered as I climbed out of my Ford F-250 and approached the back gate of the cemetery. Three and a half hours of driving through the mountains at night had left me with a crick in my back, and now it looked like I was dealing with a conscientious caretaker in a town of barely anybody in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee. Sure enough, I got to the gate and saw a bright shiny chain with a big new Master lock hanging from it.

“It’s locked, Skeeter.”

“Well, what do you expect, Bubba? A welcome mat?” Skeeter’s high-pitched, nasally voice came through my earpiece way louder and clearer than I really wanted it to. “There’s been half a dozen graves robbed all over Telford for the last couple of months, so I’m not surprised they’ve beefed up security.”

“I didn’t say there was security, Skeeter. I said it was locked.”

“Well, that’s about what passes for security in the middle of nowhere, East Tennessee,” Skeeter replied.

I couldn’t argue with him, or with the caretaker. After all, what was somebody gonna steal in a cemetery? A dead guy? Of course, that’s exactly what had been stolen six other times in recent weeks, so I reckon that’s where I come in.

“I still hate cemeteries.”

“We’ve been over this before, Bubba. You hunt monsters. Monsters hang out in cemeteries. Ergo, you gotta go to a lot of cemeteries.”

“I know, but I ain’t gotta like it.”

“You gonna cut the lock?” Skeeter asked.

“Nah, it’s one of them shrouded jobs, and heavy-ass chain, too. I ain’t got a pair of bolt cutters with me that’ll get through that. The fence ain’t real high. I’ll just go over and have me a little look-see.”

I walked back to the truck and strapped on some gear, just in case I found something interesting or irritable in the graveyard. I already had Bertha in her shoulder rig under my left arm with two spare magazines under my right. I added a Judge revolver to a paddle holster at the small of my back, all five chambers loaded with .410 shells packed with silver shot. On my left hip, I strapped a Cold Steel Gurkha Kukri with a blacked-out blade, a solid foot of sharp edge and bad attitude rigged for a cross-draw, and on the right, I slipped a spike-ended tomahawk, just in case I needed a little additional persuasion. I slipped the caestus on my hands that Agent Amy got me for Christmas and gripped the top of the wall. I heaved myself up the eight-foot wall, my Wolverine steel toes scrabbling for purchase on the uneven rock. It wasn’t pretty, and I was real glad I didn’t have an audience for it, but I got my big ass up to the top of the wall. I sat there for a minute, more to scout the situation than to catch my breath, really.

It wasn’t a very big cemetery, but Telford wasn’t a very big town.

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