It was chasing me. But this time I didn't care. It was daylight, I was ready, and I was armed freakin awesome. I stopped and turned as a hiss echoed behind me. Looking intently, I just made out the shape of a Chupacabra behind a bush, about thirty yards away.

"Bring it asshole," even as I said it, I knew it was corny, but I didn't care. The AR 180B seemingly raised itself, centering the crosshairs on the monster's chest.

Click.

Oh shit. The creature lept from behind the bush, and bounded towards me. I dropped the rifle and swept my Sig from it's holster. I pointed it towards the creature, now only a step away and pulled the trigger. Click, click, click, I felt the trigger as it went double action three times, not firing.

"OH FUU..." I started as it hit my chest.

I jerked upward in the bed, finishing the sentance, "UUUUUUH!" I stopped, panting heavily as I realized that the doctor and nurse in the room had just drawn handguns on me. Glocks. In my medicated state, I couldn't articulate any actions, or words that fast, but a slew of thoughts ran through my mind.

Oh shit, I'm gonna die. Not only die, but gonna be shot by a Glock, a GLOCK of all fucking things on earth. I'd rather be monster food.

My body dropped off the dream-fueled adrenaline rush and I fell back onto the bed. After a few seconds, with nothing happening, I tried to clear my head. Slowly things pieced themselves together. Okay, I just killed .....Chupacabra? But they're not real? I guess they are, assume they are for now. If they weren't, I wouldn't be bandaged within an inch of a mummy. And now two armed medical personal were in my hospital room.

I worked up the nerve, and glanced at the two glock-lovers, both of whom were now holstering their weapons.

"Jesus," commented the woman, "You about got yourself shot." She looked to be in her early thirties, her red hair held back in a severe ponytail. A scar ran across her jaw and continued down her neck, disappearing under the nurses gown.

Hmm. I wonder if she's the boss? I couldn't tell. She didn't look real old, her companion looked older than her. He was ugly. She's pretty, wait she was gonna shoot me, she's beautiful. DAMNIT I needed off these medications.

"Uhm. tha," my mouth couldn't seem to form words, and felt like it was full of mothballs.

"Agent Dixon. Get him some water," the woman said to her companion.

The man scowled at me from behind sunglasses and grabbed a bottle of water off a stand and with a lightning move threw it at me. It zoomed through the space between us and hit me on my injured left chest. "UNNGGGH", I let out. That hurt, asshole had a good aim, hitting me on my most sore part of my body.

"Dixon calm down," the woman snapped. He scowled and then stood against the wall, crossing his hands. Unlike his boss, he was brutish, over six feet tall, thick shoulders, and the picture of dumb thug.

I reached for the bottle with my right hand and popped up the top on the bottle. Taking several deep swigs, I then set it aside, and cleared my throat. This got her attention.

"I'm Agent Timber, this is agent Dixon," she said, "Are you Mitch Olson?"

Well, so much for introduction, "Uh. Yeah." I replied.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" she asked.

Aw shit. I knew that's why they were here. I had been hoping they weren't. It wasn't like I wanted to say "Hey, I just killed a ghoulish monster. No I'm not crazy. No, I didn't know it was a secret project" and that crap. I'd either get sent to a loony bin, or some holding cell to keep from blabbing.

"Uh... I think I got a bit into it with a badger." I knew it was a lousy attempt at lying, but it was worth a shot.

"Bull," she replied, "You know it and I know it. Now here's what everyone else will know."

She tossed a newspaper at me. The headlines read 'Man knife-attacked by drug-crazy illegal immigrant. Recovering in hospital'.

Hmm. I figured that meant they'd confiscated the chupacabra, took a dead illegal and planted him at the scene with a machete. Good way to do it. No one could look up his background, and no friends or family to dispute it. And once his body was given a once-over by coroners, the rural Sheriff's department would have no reason to look further.

"We talked to your parents," she spoke, interrupting me from my thoughts, "And they're playing ball. Here's the deal," she walked up to my bedside and leaned forward, putting her face inches from mine, "No newspapers, no talking, no chupacabras, and there won't be any problems. Got it?" Boy, was she to the point.

"Bullets. Lead bullets," Agent Dixon murmured in the background. Damnit, he was one-minded. Probably hadn't shot anything for weeks and was getting peeved. Not that I blamed him on that part, I got the same way, but I didn't like the fact that he would use me for said practice.

"Got it," I replied, "So...This thing very common? Creepy critters and all that crap I mean."

"I'd recommend not asking too many questions," she seemed to soften some, "Stuff like that attracts the wrong attention real quick. Let's just say....We work on it."

"We?"

"MCB," came the short reply.

"MCB?"

"Yeah. MCB." Apparently that was all I was getting.

"Okay," I was running out of anything to ask. I wasn't really a conversationalist.

"You're clear on everything?" Timber looked at me and agent Dixon rested his hand on his Glock.

"Yeah, Think so. Monsters're fairy legends, crazy druggies real."

She chuckled at that, "Right. Well, we're good to go. Agent Dixon." She nodded and the man sent a final glower my way and then moved to follow her to the door.

It opened in front of them, and a pair of men stepped through. Almost immediately, the tension inside the room soared again. The two pairs stared at each other for several minutes before Timber turned to me and looked into my eyes, "You'd do well to AVVOOIID," she emphasized the words almost dangerously," these guys." And then brushed past, out of the room. Dixon didn't turn but instead slammed straight between the two newcomers, brushing them aside like a pair of display dummies.

"Lovely man ain't he?" I said to them.

The largest man's mouth twitched and he replied, "Wait 'till you meet his brother."

The two didn't look like reporters. One was somewhat short, and forgettably normal looking except for the clothing. Combat boots and jeans didn't blend well with the loud hawaiian shirt and blaze orange ball cap he was wearing. The second was wearing all "tactical" clothing, styled after military gear, right down to his cap. He was large, and looked vaguely familiar. It took me a few minutes but I snapped my fingers.

"Gunshows. That's how I recognize you." I'd made a habit of attending any and every gunshow in the surrounding 200 miles. Although there were dozens of vendors and hundreds of attendees, after that long you eventually began recognizing "Regulars" that you almost always saw. This guy I'd seen at about every gunshow I'd been too, nothing else really, I didn't even know his name, just the face.

He chuckled, "Jack Andrews. This is Hawaii Joe, also known as Joe Orwell."

"Mitch Olson," I replied, "What do you want?" Medication must be wearing off, I was losing my mellowness and it was getting replaced by irritation. My legs and left side were starting to ache just slightly, and I could feel that it was going to hurt.

"Ah. Feds put you in a good mood eh?"

"If you're reporters I ain't got nothing to say," I replied.

"We're not reporters. And we know what really happened," Jack replied. That got my attention, I tried to maintain a hospitable front, I started to speak but the man held up his hand.

"Two Chupacabras. I know, the feds said to shut up and not say anything. I'll get to the point. We're professionals, we hunt these types of things for a living," I then interupted him.

"Living? How many of these freakin things are there?"

"Which ones exactly?" Joe seemed to get amusement at that, "Vampires, werewolves, zombies, water monsters, giant snakes or what?"

"Joe," Jack glared at the man.

"HE asked," came the reply.

By now I was thoroughly confused, "Okay," interupting the two, "Let me get this straight....All that stuff you mentioned is real? And you get paid to kill them?"

"Yes, quite well actually," Jack held out a business card, "We're part of the Montana team, our boss Stan couldn't make it, so he sent us."

I took the card and read it, then looked up, "So. What is this? A job offer?" I half joked.

"Yes."

That took me by surprise, "So, what exactly. The terms? Dates? wages?"

Dave pointed at the card, "Heal up. When you feel good enough, call that number and we can set something up. Sound good?"

By now my mind was almost running on auto-pilot. Everything I'd scoffed my entire life was actually real, and I was actually getting offered a job to help kill them. Sweet.

"Uh... Sure," I placed the card on the nightstand and held out my hand, "Well. I hate to force you out, but I'm beat."

Jack, then Joe took it, "No problems, we understand. Probably see you around."

They turned to go, but then Jack turned, "Oh, we dropped off your PUFF payment with your parents."

"Puff?" I asked.

"Let's just call it a bounty by the government. For those two chupacabras you nailed."

"Bounty? How much could they bring?"

"Normally around a thousand. But these two got a taste of human blood. Even had a couple of kills under their belt. Got up to $5,500 apiece. I didn't think you'd know about it, and the Feds wouldn't tell ya, so I applied you."

Wow. Eleven thousand dollars. Probably wouldn't pay for my hospital bills, but that was decent money. As long as I managed to not get clawed up.

"Well. Thanks," I was bordering on confusion again, "I guess I'll.... See you."

The two departed and I leaned back in my bad. Damn, now I was gonna have nightmares......