Night at the Museum - A Bubba the Monster Hunter Novella Read online

  Contents

  Special Thanks

  Title

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Appearances

  About the Author

  Also by John G. Hartness

  Title

  The Gem of Acitus

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Special Thanks to my Patrons!

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  Scott Furman

  Theresa Glover

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  Salem Macknee

  Trey Alexander

  Candice Carpenter

  Jeff Kershner

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  Rebecca Ledford

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  Acknowledgements

  A very heartfelt thanks to Melissa Gilbert of Clicking Keys for her all her help.

  Night at the Museum

  A Bubba the Monster Hunter

  Novella

  By John G. Hartness

  Falstaff Books

  Charlotte, NC

  Chapter 1

  One of the greatest things about living on the side of a mountain in Georgia miles away from civilization, aside from pretty much everything, is the freedom to build a shooting range on the bank of the creek behind my house. There’s not a whole lot better than an afternoon with my girlfriend sewing hundreds of rounds of ammunition into the targets with a twelve-pack of beer sitting in the creek to stay cold.

  So that’s exactly where I was on a warm April afternoon, up to my ankles in cold mountain runoff, the sun beating down on my bare shoulders, wearing nothing but a pair of cutoff overalls and a shoulder holster, raining fiery death upon a dozen spinner targets I had spaced along the opposite bank, some fifty yards away. I was blaming all my misses on using Agent Amy’s 9mm pea-shooter instead of my more familiar Desert Eagle, Bertha. I was indeed putting a lot more slugs into the dirt in front of the targets than I was into the targets themselves, but the eight empty beer cans littering the sandbar behind me might have contributed to that situation as much as overcompensating for the lighter weapon.

  “Sumbitch!” I spat as another plug of dirt exploded three feet in front of the untouched target.

  “I hope you still own a necktie, Bubba, because another couple of misses and you’re going to have to take me somewhere nice for dinner. Like, maybe Atlanta nice.” Agent Amy Hall mocked me from her shooting spot ten feet to my left. She was the other reason for my distraction, standing there in a bikini top and a pair of cutoff shorts that would have given Daisy Duke concern for her modesty. I’m pretty sure there was more pocket hanging below the waistband of those shorts than there was denim, and I’d made it a point to look pretty hard all afternoon. Her blonde hair was tied back in a high ponytail that bounced as she laughed, which was a lot this afternoon. These were the moments that I really loved, the times we could forget all the shit we’d seen and lived through, forget about my psycho brother and the other monsters in the world, and just be normal people, drinking beer and shooting shit on the side of a creek in the springtime.

  “I’ve got a tie somewhere, but it might be taking the place of the fan belt on Pop’s old tractor. I’m sure it’s fine, though. I’m only down about fifty bucks.” I grinned at her.

  “Math isn’t your strong suit, is it big guy? I’m ahead by seven, and at twenty-five bucks a shot, I think that smells like about one seventy-five. And since you’ve only got four rounds left…”

  “Five,” I said, raising the pistol and squeezing off five quick shots. Each report from the pistol was followed by a quick spang sound as the slug found the center of a four-inch hanging steel disk.

  I holstered the pistol and turned to Amy. “I had five rounds left. So I think that leaves me down fifty bucks. And that means we can eat local. I’m thinking sushi.”

  Amy laughed, and all sorts of interesting things shook in her top and shorts. “Sushi, huh? Has Mr. Kim recovered from your last trip through his all-you-can-eat sushi bar?”

  “Mr. Kim and I have come to an understanding. If I just want a snack, I pay regular price, and he decides what’s ‘all I can eat.’ If I’m hungry, I pay double and he’ll keep rolling fish in seaweed until I get tired of eating or his hands give out.”

  “That sounds fair. I can do sushi, and it’ll be good to see Lee Kim again. Let’s get this crap cleaned up and head home.” I liked hearing her call my place “home.” Amy had her own apartment in Washington, D.C., where she worked for DEMON, the federal Department of Extra-dimensional, Mystical and Occult Nuisances, and yes it always sounds like somebody wanted to call it “DEMON” real bad. She spent most weekends with me, either at my cabin just outside of Dalton, Georgia, or on a case with me.

  I picked up the spent shell casings scattered all over the bank and the sand bar, tossed the brass into a backpack along with the shoulder holster and empty pistol and magazines, and pulled out a tattered “Austin 3:16” t-shirt. Just as I got my shirt on and was looking around for my flip-flops, I heard the buzz of an engine.

  “You hear that?” I asked, moving toward the tree line. The throaty rumble of the motor sounded like an ATV of some type, probably a four-wheeler given what the local hunters liked.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” Amy picked up on my posture right away and shimmied into a t-shirt and a pair of Tevas. The engine was getting closer, and moving fast.

  “You got any ammo left, or are you for real out?” I asked.

  “I’ve got one mag. What’s up?” she asked again, more serious now.

  “Load up and get to the trees. Cover me. I found a patch of weed in the woods last week and the owners might have reason to be unhappy with me.”

  “You didn’t turn it in?” she asked.

  “Nah, it wasn’t hurting anybody,” I said. “But I did cut it all down and leave it to rot with a note saying to stay the hell off my property.”

  “Subtle.”

  “Yeah, subtle ain’t my strong suit,” I agreed. “But it’s no secret who lives here, so if they’re looking for me, they’re probably gonna want to have a chat about that crop.”

  “How much weed did you cut down?” Amy asked, pulling her pistol and slamming home a fresh magazine.

  “Twenty or so plants, I reckon. I don’t know how much money that is, it’s been a long time since I smoked, but I figure it was enough to be upset over.” I picked up a four-foot branch lying at the base of a pine tree and gave it a couple experimental swings. The roar of the ATV came closer, until Father Joe, my handler for the Catholic Church and my best friend Skeeter’s uncle, burst through the brush at the top of the trail and roared down to the creek where we stood.

  Joe pulled up to where I stood staring at him and turned off the four-wheeler. It was one of those real fancy ones, with seating for four, like a big-ass golf cart with a roll cage and a beer shelf on the back. I reckon somebody somewhere might find something else to put on it other than beer, b
ut it was the first thing I thought.

  “Hey, Bubba,” Joe said, stepping out of the four-wheeler. I just stood there, gawking at him. “Where’s Amy?” he asked.

  “I’m right here, Joe. How are you?” she asked, stepping out of the woods and slipping her pistol into her backpack.

  “I’m good. Been trying to reach Bubba for two days, though. He doesn’t answer his phone anymore.” Joe gave me what was probably a withering stare to his parishioners, but I was still poleaxed by my preacher friend rolling up in a twenty-thousand dollar hunting ATV when as far as I knew, he’d never been hunting a day in his life.

  “Where the hell did you get that thing?” I finally found my voice and pointed at the ATV.

  “This? Oh, I borrowed it from Lincoln. You know him, he’s always got to have the latest thing for his hunting trips. I told him I thought I knew where you were, but I couldn’t get there on my bike, so he let me borrow this. It’s kinda fun. I might get one.”

  I laughed a little bit at the picture. Joe looked just about right in a pulpit with the robes and sash and all that, and honestly, he looked pretty much at home on his Harley, too, with his kinda-long hair flying over the collar of his leather jacket. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture him with an orange vest over a set of camouflage coveralls and a Carharrt hat and Wolverine boots stomping through the woods and climbing a deer stand at five in the morning trying to find a comfortable way to sit with a chemical hand warmer tucked under his taint so his nuts don’t freeze off.

  “You taking up deer hunting, Joe?” I asked.

  “No, it’s just a lot of fun to ride around in,” he replied, blushing a little.

  “You might want to ask Lincoln what these things cost before you go trading in your Harley, pal. But what’s so important that you’ve got to come all the way out here and track us down?”

  “Well, we’ve got a job,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, but it’s Sunday. Your Sunday job is looking after the metaphysical well-being of a couple hundred people in the Church of the Holy Redeemer down in Dalton. My Sunday job is drinking beer and wishing it was football season, and Amy’s Sunday job is—”

  “If you say a word about cooking or dishes, you will never see me naked again,” my spectacularly hot girlfriend interrupted.

  “Amy’s Sunday job is getting a pedicure or whatever girls do when we’re drunk.” I corrected my course in mid-sentence.

  “All that may be true, but I’ve been trying to reach you since Friday afternoon.” Joe leaned on the fender of the four-wheeler, then reached around to the cooler Uncle Lincoln had bungeed to the luggage rack. Joe pulled out three beers and passed them around.

  “I stop answering that phone Friday at four. It keeps me from getting pissed off when you get a last-minute call and ruin my weekend. This way I don’t get pissed off until late on Sunday. See how well this works?” I popped the top and sat down on a rock. Amy followed suit, and Joe sat sideways on the seat of the four-wheeler.

  “It works great, except we need to be in Orlando tomorrow at the latest. So now instead of flying, we have to drive, and we’ll probably have to drive all night to get there,” Joe said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “There’s a few things I don’t get here. One, Orlando ain’t but about eight hours from here, and that’s driving like Skeeter’s mama, God rest her soul. Two, there’s a whole bunch of ‘we’ in that sentence, and last I checked…” I looked over at Amy.

  “Yeah, babe, I’ve got a meeting with a couple of Senators tomorrow, so I’m on a chopper back to DC at six in the morning,” she said.

  “So, are you coming along as my backup? Because if that’s the deal, we gotta talk about the traveling music.” Joe was one of about three people not called Bubba that I’d let drive my truck, and I hadn’t met the third one yet, but if I had to listen to Taylor Swift’s 1989 on repeat the whole damn way to Orlando, I might as well just drive my F-250 right into the Atlantic Ocean.

  “You can control the radio, Bubba, but I am coming with you. This case has some personal connections for me, so I want to be there to help.” Joe had a set to his jaw that told me not to push, so I figured I’d adhere to the bro code and let him tell me about his feelings when (1) there weren’t any womenfolk around, and (2) when he damn well felt like it.

  “Okay, then. I reckon we oughta get home and get packed. If we’re driving through the night, I’m gonna need some Red Bull, ammunition, and pants,” I said, standing up.

  “Don’t be in no hurry, hillbilly. We need to have us a conversation.” A new voice came from behind me, and I turned to see three men step out of the woods. Two of them carried shotguns and were dressed for the woods in flannel, jeans, and work boots that had seen some wear. The one who spoke held a pistol in one hand and looked a little like a misplaced yuppie, with an expensive haircut and a polo shirt. His boots were new, his jeans were clean, but he carried the gun like he knew what it was used for, and his eyes were cold, like a snake. The two thugs with him were third-generation trailer trash twin brothers Bart and Marty Turner. I knew them in grade school ’til they flunked enough years to finally drop out. Word was they got most of their money running dog fights, selling a little dope, and working protection for some gangster out of Atlanta, making sure his shipments didn’t get jacked.

  Looks like I found the owners of that little patch of weed I wrecked.

  Chapter 2

  “Well, howdy, stranger, what can we do you for?” I asked, putting on my biggest “stupid redneck” grin. It was hard to see under all the beard, but it usually got city folks to underestimate me a little. All Yankees think if you sound like Foghorn Leghorn, you must have an IQ to match, and all city folk think if there ain’t a sidewalk in front of your house that you probably ain’t figured out indoor plumbing yet. This was one of the times I thought I might use people’s prejudices against them.

  “Hey, Bart. Hey, Marty.” I nodded to the brothers. We’d been friendly back when we played Little League baseball and rode the school bus together. We even got spankings together in Mrs. Dickson’s third-grade class for tying bottle rockets to the class turtle and trying to make it fly. I think with a couple more fireworks we could have got there, but that poor turtle was so damn stressed after our experiment that he didn’t come out of his shell for a month.

  “Hey, Bubba. How you doin’?” Marty asked. Bart just grunted. He was always the less vocal of the brothers. In fact, I’m not sure I’d ever heard Bart actually speak.

  “I’m okay. Just doing a little target practice, you know. How’s your mama? I heard she’s been down.”

  “Aw man, the doc says it’s her heart. Congestive heart failure, he called it. I think it’s when fluid builds up around the heart and makes it hard to pump. Makes you tired as shit all the time.”

  “Shit, son, that’s terrible. Is there anything they can do for her?” I asked.

  “The doc told her she had to quit drinking, quit eating fried food, and quit smoking, even weed. He told her if she did all that, she’d live another twenty years.”

  “That’s rough,” I replied.

  “Yeah,” Marty said. “When the doc told her that, she looked that old sumbitch right in the eye and said, ‘If I can’t drink, eat, or smoke, what’s the damn point of being alive?’” We shared a good laugh, then his face went still. “I reckon you know why we’re here, Bubba.”

  “Your boy there has some objection to me chopping down them marijuana plants I found growing on my property last week, I reckon,” I said, looking up the hill at the skinny man with the pistol.

  “Do you have any idea how much money you cost me, you ignorant redneck? I oughta just take it out of your ass, but I’m a nice guy, so I’m going to give you one shot to come up with my money. You pay me what I’m losing out on that patch, and maybe I decide not to kill your stupid ass.”

  “Well, I’m not a fan of getting shot,” I said. “It’s happened once or twice, and it’s never as much fun as it looks li
ke on TV. How much money do you think I chopped down in those, what, twenty plants?”

  “Yeah, twenty plants. I can get a pound out of a plant, and I sell an ounce for a hundred bucks, so that’s what, sixteen hundred dollars a plant?” I love how drug dealers become math professors when it comes time to talk money. “Twenty plants at sixteen hundred a piece comes to something like twenty-three thousand. Add in the irritation of not having supply for my customers, and potential lost business, and we’ll call it twenty-five grand and I let you walk out of here.”

  I laughed at him, then pointed at my cutoff overalls. “Where the hell do you think I’ve got twenty-five cents in this outfit, much less twenty-five grand? Now I’ve got some cash back at my place, and we can go get that, or you can start shooting, but you know Joe over there is a preacher, right? You kill him and there’s no way you don’t go to hell when you die.”

  He stepped forward and pressed his pistol into my gut. He almost had to break his neck looking up to glare into my eyes, but he managed. “You think I give a shit about heaven and hell, redneck?”

  “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing, son. I’m proud to be a redneck, and I reckon these boys are, too.” I pointed at the Turners, who glared at their city-slicker friend.

  “I don’t give a shit what you like, asshole!” He fell into that old Yankee habit of talking with his hands, and as soon as he waved that pistol off to my left, it was on like Donkey Kong. I wrapped my left hand around his, gun and all, and brought my right fist down on top of his head like I was pounding a fence post into the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground.

  I plucked the gun from his lifeless fingers and looked at Marty Turner. He held his shotgun low to the ground and didn’t look too thrilled with the idea of shooting me, or getting shot, so I figured he was the one to talk to. Also, Amy had his brother on the ground with her service weapon in his ear, so Bart was out of the fight. I love a woman who can kick ass.