Hunter in the Night

1923

I

The thick blanket of night watches over a lone cargo truck as it winds around the curve of an unmarked dirt road. The faded green paint on the vehicle is chipped and well worn with use. Tires spin languidly against the bumpy path. The headlights are turned off, relying on pure human eyesight to navigate between the trees leading into the Louisiana bayou. There are only two men in the truck, both on the lookout and feeling the heavy weight of the guns hidden away in their clothes. One of them is Harry "Husker" Jones, although there is only one person who ever calls him by the absurd nickname. He's still a relatively fresh hire at the Scarlet Room, but one thing is clear: he was built for bootlegging. Brute strength and tuned senses could get you anywhere in a gig like this one. Husk was big enough to charge in and come out with only a few scrapes every time. In comparison, his partner, Barney, is better at the whole "sneaking" thing than he is. The man is near forty years old, and supposedly working on the cheap for their boss because he's got a crush on her. He's a weasel of a man, looking gaunt on drugs and unremarkable besides. But he's relatively quiet, and keeps his sunken eyes and ears to himself— so a partner is a partner.

Once the compound comes into view, Husk kills the engine and leaves the truck half hidden in foliage off the beaten path. Crickets are humming from every direction, and the hiss of an alligator off to their left is a warning to stay away from the murky water. No need to tell him twice, Husk thinks, striking up a cigarette and hiding the faint orange glow with his hand. From here, they can see the lights of the building they're about to break into. It sits low by the river, at the bottom of a hillside. From there, it's almost entirely hidden with bushes and trees and blends into the bayou to near perfection. But if you looked hard enough, you might notice the chipping white paint and the yellow glow inside the windows. Some years ago, it was a boat rental shop. The little dock connected to it only had a few canoes tied up to it these days. You'd never guess by looking at it, but now the Blind Tiger used it as a warehouse. They smuggled in illegal booze by boat every month, hidden away here until it could be carted away by the truck load and transported to the speakeasy. Husk and Barney, aren't waiting long before the artificial coo of an owl drawls over the skyline.

"There's our signal... Let's move in," The older man says quietly. They barely make it two steps before a loud banging noise near the back of the truck draws their attention. Immediately the two men grab for their guns and aim towards the source of the noise. It was impossible that they should be discovered so soon after their arrival... Husk had checked and double checked that they hadn't been followed. And yet there is the tell-tale footsteps of a body jumping out of the bed of the truck and hitting the dirt soon after. He can even see the dark brown shoes from beneath the belly of the vehicle.

"We're armed, asshole— No sudden movements," Husk growls, gun trained critically at the point where he can see a human shaped shadow cast over the dirt. The figure steps around the back of the truck and Husk's eyes widen near to the point of popping out of his skull. It's Alastor. And he's holding both of his gloved hands up in cocky surrender. Standing under the moonlight offered, his eyes glow with a pretty red hue full of promised mischief. Now it makes sense that he could miss this when he checked the truck, Husk thinks with a grumble low in his throat— this is the one person who can always get over on him.

"Bonsoir, Husker, Mon ami!" His best friend sings at him with a wink.

"Oh Hell," Barney says as he all but throws his gun down in annoyance, "It's just the radio stooge..."

"Al, what the fuck are you doing here!?" Husk doesn't wait around, letting his gun down and marching right up to Alastor to glare down at him. There's always a cheerful grin on the smaller man's face, and now is no exception. Alastor holds both of his arms behind his back and meets Husk's intimidating stare without a care in the world.

"I stowed away, obviously!" the radio host says with glee, "You kept refusing to let me join you on one of these trips, so I figured I would just come along on my own."

"Urgh—I refused for a good reason, asshole! This is dangerous, and I can't protect your skinny ass in there if we get into trouble."

"Oh Husker, you don't need to protect me! I can handle myself in a skirmish."

"What are you gonna do? Bring your dinky hunting knife to a gun fight?"

"I do know how to shoot, you know~"

"Ugh..."

From far off, there's yet another owl hooting noise, and Alastor cranes his neck towards the building where it's coming from. Husk can feel Barney shuffling behind him, getting anxious now that their plans have supposedly been compromised. Husk can't bring himself to look away from his best friend though, brain trying to configure how to get him out of here and still accomplish what they came to do...

"What's the call, Jones?" Barney asks with impatience.

"You go on ahead and stick to the plan. We're already late..." he watches the other man start running through the trees, as silent as possible. But he inevitably has to look back to his current problem with a somewhat anxious swallow of, "Alastor, will you just stay the fuck here where it's safe—"

"You know I'm just going to follow you either way, right?" Alastor cuts him off to say, making a gun shape with his fingers and aiming it at his friend with an innocent tip of his head. Husk knows when he's beat. His cheeks are heating up redder just having to stare at the troublemaker this close up.

"Grr... If you screw this up for us, I'm gonna skin you alive. You little bastard..."

"Duly noted!"

The Blind Tiger was one of the best speakeasies in New Orleans. It was especially popular among the underground, and as such, their stock had to be top of the line. Every couple of months, a supply ship from Cuba smuggled booze into Louisiana under the radar. From there, it ended up fanning out all over the city. This building was only one such source of storage. And though Husk hasn't been to this particular hide-out before now, he's sure this is going to be a big one. Barney heads off towards the back of the building, to meet with their man on the inside. Husk takes the other way, on muscle duty after they locate where all the stolen goods are being kept.

Alastor is stuck close to Husk, watching his back with such a diligent eye that made it seem like he could almost do this for a living. Their corridor was a near perfect black. The only light at their disposal was coming in from the high windows along one side of the wall, casting shadowy prison bar shapes over them as they crept along beneath them. Husk doesn't want to admit how much he likes this feeling... of it being Alastor right beside him, despite all the danger that has the potential to cause. He's pretty sure the feeling is mutual, given how many times his friend has begged to come along on one of these elaborate booze heists.

Husk leads the way down what looks like the most obvious choice for a storage unit. Although, one he finds is a mere meeting room with a set of closet doors and a large table in the center. He has to wonder if the Blind Tiger uses this building regularly. There's no dust on any of the chairs or the table top. It's inconspicuous enough that they could be hiding the stolen alcohol somewhere, so he checks the room over top to bottom anyway. Alastor is looking around more leisurely in comparison, like a kid in a candy store perusing all of his options for sugary goodies.

They're put to a screeching halt as Husk hears the footsteps beyond the metal door. Without thinking, he dives at Alastor and shoves the man back into the nearest hiding space available—a supply closet. Husk slams his hand over the radio host's mouth, covering the protest that he knows will blow their cover otherwise. Once he's got Alastor safely pressed to the back wall of the enclosed space, he shuts the door behind to close them in. And just in time. Four people have come into the room. Husk closes his eyes and lets his senses take over. He can almost "see" them this way, like red silhouettes on a black and white screen. Sound bouncing off of their shoes. One step, two step. One click, two clicks. Ahah... So one of the people is actually a woman wearing high heels, but the rest are men in casual suit dress. They all remain standing in the small meeting room, though one of them sets a heavy folder onto the table with a flair of emphasis—

Husk suddenly feels something hot and wet against his palm—a sharp prick right through his skin— and he blanches when he realizes Alastor just bit him. It has the desired effect, as Husk removes his hand and just lets it hover there to sting as he takes in Alastor's self satisfied smirk. The flamboyant little radio star just doesn't like to be touched, Husk reminds himself. Trying to get the blush to leave his face, he's suddenly glad for the darkness closing them in. Message received though, Husk lays his palm on the wall next to Alastor's head instead. He shushes him with warning, but the smaller man is successfully quiet all on his own for once anyway. Husk knows he isn't as calm as he looks though. He doesn't have to be this close to feel it. The rapidly thudding heart beat of cornered prey... The shallow breathing of nervousness, and the smell of fear is subtle just beneath his pale creole skin... Husk takes a deep breath to keep himself calm. But his nails feel sharp against the wall, raking into the hard wood with unchecked strength. Luckily, the men in the room beyond give him something else to focus on.

"What do you know about the Rougarou?" A timid man asks, keeping his voice down as if they don't want to be disturbed. Little do they know, no amount of whispering could hide the words anyway. Husk swallows thickly. He can feel Alastor tense up though, obviously listening with rapt intensity. His brandy doe eyes practically shine in the dark, and Husk doesn't even have to look to see the vexatious red flicker in them. That means his curiosity is piqued...

"It's jus a legend that we use round here ta scare the kids, Ma Cher," a cool Cajun sound retorts, revering a feminine pitch even though the voice itself is deep. She sounds like a storyteller, or maybe even one of the fortune readers that set up their own stalls around the city.

"We had a great route through the Southern bayou for cargo transport—but this thing has killed five of our guys through there now," the supposed leader of the gang begins. He has an eloquent tone to his deep voice. He's obviously creole, probably born and raised here going by his accent. "It's drawing too much attention to us," he goes on to say, "We need to find this fucking thing and kill it."

"You got any proof it's out there?"

"Take a look at this photo—" the more nervous man says, accompanied by the flutter of papers changing hands and landing on the table again, "This is Lyle McCormick... Was Lyle McCormick..."

"Hmm... This man been mauled by an animal?" The woman scoffs, sounding highly unimpressed.

"A Rougarou," the leader insists, "My boy that was with 'im that night say it was a big giant man with the face of a wolf. It chased after them lightning fast and caught Lyle there."

"I can tell you serious..."

"What are you gonna do, Mademoiselle Delphi?"

"I need time to prepare. Ain't easy ta catch a beast, Cher."

"We don't got time! The full moon is a week away!"

"We do things my way, or I won't take up your job."

There's a sterile silence about the room after she says this with finality. Husk doesn't dare speak or even move a muscle. He can feel Alastor's heart beat as loud and persistent as if they're sharing a rib cage. Their closet hiding space is narrow enough that they almost could be sharing something, with just a few centimeters less of space. The radio host is staring at him, but Husk can tell it's a blank expression and that his attention is actually fixated on the conversation they're overhearing. He doesn't want to hear it himself. He'd rather be out there stealing the booze already. Being trapped in such close proximity to Alastor is making his head go all fuzzy and it makes it hard to think. He turns his face away and presses his nose into his sleeve to try cutting down the alluring bitter scent coming from him. When it only muddles it up some, he can't help a faint whimper from creeping up his throat. Luckily, it's not loud enough for the group outside to notice. But it does make Alastor perk his head towards Husk in the darkness, brow quirked in silent question.

"Fine," the leader breaks the silence to say, "Fine, we'll accept whatever terms you got. I just want this thing dead. You better be good on your word."

"I ain't failed anyone in over twenty years. Let's go—you show me where this last boy was killed. I need to see with my eyes what we are dealin' with."

"Right now!? It's night time! What if it's out there now!?"

"The beast won't be there tonight."

"How can you be so sure...?"

"I just am, Ma Cher. You gon' have ta trust that for now."

Husk waits out the rest of the meeting until his back starts to feel stiff from hovering over Alastor without touching him. At long last, the group of people in the room behind them decide to leave, door opening and closing and voices fading away down the hall. He's not sure it's entirely safe yet, but he's already left claw marks in the wall next to Alastor's head and he doesn't feel like explaining that away. He flicks the closet door open and both of them tumble back out into the cooler air of the meeting room. He's not even surprised when Alastor skips over to the table like a curious puppy. The gang left a single folder on the gray metal table there. The lithe little troublemaker flips it open with a single finger, pouring his eyes over the contents inside.

Husk doesn't bother trying to stop the radio host, poking his head out the main door to peek down both ends of the hallway. The coast is all clear and they haven't been detected yet. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves and clear his head. Once done, he clenches his fists, ready to get back into action.

"Alastor, let's go," he insists. But there's a tutting behind him that suggests his friend isn't done snooping yet. Husk shuts the door quietly, padding back over with the intent to pick the smaller man up if he has to. But the intrepid radio personality merely waves a gloved hand at him, eyes pinned on the information in front of himself.

"Hmmm... What have we here~" Alastor swipes up the picture and examines it from various angles with a twist of his hand. Husk can see the excitement buzzing under the man's skin. He can see the picture in the reflection of his glasses, and his heart sinks into his stomach a little.

"Just put it down, we have to get out of here," he tries to reason.

"Relax... Those fellows are gone for now... What kind of monster do you suppose did this damage?" Alastor flicks the photo around in two delicate fingers to show his friend the image. Husk didn't want to see it, but now that it's right in front of him, he can't look away. The black and white image seems to be taken from police or P.I. film. It's a corpse, utterly torn and bitten by some kind of savage animal with very large teeth. The skin is white as a mannequin, you could even tell in the lacking color photograph. The man captured in it barely looks human anymore. Husk turns a glance at Alastor behind the picture, and grimaces at the juxtaposition of seeing that cheerful smile set so close to a gruesome murder.

"A bear? I don't fuckin' know."

"Rougarou they said... Like the Loup-garou..."

"What of it?"

"That's an age old myth around here, Husker," Alastor lays the picture back inside the folder and picks up the entire thing, "A myth—I say. Now why would those men think it's real?"

"Because they're idiots... H-hey! Are you stealing that?"

"They left it here so carelessly, clearly they won't miss it." Alastor grins, like the cheeky thing he is. Husk rolls his eyes, but supposes it won't do any harm. He's sure that he doesn't like that scheming look on his friend's face either way. Unfortunately, he's still got a job to do here and doesn't have time to reprimand the little nuisance just yet. Husk is on extra high alert now, ears tuned to every tiny noise echoing off the walls as they enter back into the hallway. As soon as they do, Husk picks up the distinct sound of gun fire coming from an unseen passageway.

"Better keep up with me, Al, it looks like Barney and Stephan got spotted."

"Say no more, Husker!"

Husk has to admit that Alastor is quick little shit. He stays perfectly in step with the bigger man all the way down the hall. A circuit of foresight zips through Husk's brain, and he aims his gun backwards over Alastor's shoulder just in time to shoot a guard trying to approach them from behind. It's a near direct head-shot, and the man falls over dead on the spot. Husk doesn't miss the impressed whistle that his friend gives him. There's no time to revel in it though, so he spins back on his heel to keep running. They end up at a staircase going upwards. Husk is hesitant to do it, depending on where it will lead. To his shock though, Barney is already standing there at the top of the steps with a bullet wound in his shoulder and his gun in his hand.

"Jones—we found the stash. We just have to finish loading up now."

"Okay. We'll take over."

Husk looks over the set-up there were able to create. There's a metal ramp laid out one of the windows, leading down to the forest below. Several boxes of booze are already laid in the grass at the bottom. This is turning out to be one of their best hauls already. Without being ordered to, Barney slides down the ramp out of the window and starts loading boxes into the get away truck. From there, Husk starts grabbing additional boxes from the cache along the wall and sets them down the metal shoot for him. All the while, Alastor watches the teamwork unfolding in front of him with piqued interest. Internally though, it's obvious that his mind is elsewhere. Already considering the truths of this "Rougarou" and what it could mean if it turns out the beast is truly real. Alastor himself has lived next to the Southern bayou for his entire life, and has never once spotted such an animal. Curious...

"Al! Behind you! DUCK!" Husk calls out to break him out of his thoughts. He does as he's told, dropping to his knees just in time to miss a bullet whizzing past his ear. They have the high ground, but a couple of armed gangsters have discovered them making their way up the staircase. Alastor rolls towards the wall to avoid being in the line of fire. And as soon as one of the men runs up the steps, a knife is slid effortlessly through his throat. The blood spray is covered only as the dying man reaches up to his throat to touch the cut, but it's already too late. The plus side to this is that his body slumps over and down the stairs like a log and ends up blocking the others from coming up right away. Husk meanwhile tosses the last of the boxes down the ramp. All of them safely in the truck, Barney honks the horn to let them know.

"Alastor, let's go!" Husk shouts. The man doesn't move right away though, so Husk runs over to grab him with an arm around his skinny waist. He leaps out the window, sliding down the ramp with his small friend in his arms. They land in a heap over the grass. From there it's a quick jaunt to hop into the bed of the truck along with all the boxes of stolen booze. Their assailants have made it up to the window by then, following them with much heavier gun fire. Alastor ducks down into the truck for cover, Husk doing the same even as the tires spin out and the vehicle starts moving.

The whir of engines breaks through the quiet of the night. Two black jeeps following after them from a garage door near the compound. Husk aims over the side of their own green car, one eye squeezed shut in concentration. He's a pretty good shot in his own terms, but the bumpy terrain makes it difficult for the bullet to find it's mark. It takes a few tries to hit the front tire, but once it does, the jeep swerves successively into a tree and smashes the hood. Sparks of fire pop off over the skyline like golden fireworks. Barney's driving weaves them between the trees enough to throw off the other vehicle. Though it's not out of sight even as they reach the actual road back into the city. The gun shots keep coming, aiming for their own tires or for the two men in the bed of the truck. One of them zings too close to home, shredding a bloody line as it grazes Husk's arm. The bullet itself doesn't make more contact than that, but he can feel the burn as blood drips off of his skin.

Husk is thoroughly surprised when he spots Alastor peeking over the back of the truck with a gun in his hand. Both eyes wide open, the supposed radio host takes a shot. It whistles through the air and smashes clean into the glass windshield of the jeep following them. Directly into the driver's forehead. Without a proper driver, the jeep takes a sharp turn and dives into alligator infested waters. The screams of the other two men in it's confines shriek out into the air at the same time of thrashing water. Husk turns to his friend for an explanation, but Alastor merely winks at him. He has no idea where the man got a gun, or if he just had it hidden on him the whole time. But he's thankful that they aren't being followed anymore. It gives him a chance to lean back against a stack of boxes and breathe. Though before he can fully rest, he peeks up front and notices that they're one man short.

"What happened to Stephan?" Husk calls up to the driver, catching his breath as much as he possibly can.

"Didn't make it..." Barney states, solemn, "He went down, and some guys dragged him away. There was nothing I could do."

Husk says nothing to that. He didn't know the man very well, but losing one of their own was always a tough break. There's a small shuffling from beside him as Alastor joins his side. There's a small white cloth in his gloved hands, and Husk allows Alastor to lift his wounded arm for inspection. He gently ties the cloth around it to stop the bleeding. He can tell that Alastor is concerned. It's not even showing on his neutral smiling face. But Husk can feel it all the same, like a subtle vibration right through his blood stream.

"Thanks..." he mutters. His hand moves on it's own, tempted to brush the speckles of blood splatter off of Alastor's cheek. He knows the touch would be unwelcome though. He'd been bitten, kicked, shoved, and punched enough times to know better. When those big brown doe eyes look up to meet his though, his heart stutters. Even without the electricity of senses bubbling within his core, he can see the worry clear as day in those eyes.

"A...Alastor... I..."

"Husker," the radio host says before he can completely form the thought of what he wanted to say himself, "I'm going on a hunt. Will you be my partner in crime?"