Not a Raccoon Dog—It's a Raccoon (3)

Dawn, on the morning of the hunt.

Every last preparation for taking down that punk raccoon was finally complete. Overnight, with the Water Resources Corporation's cooperation, the tunnel bulkheads had already been dropped into place. There wasn't a single rat hole left for the thing to squeeze through.

The Environmental Division's Section Chief had gone out of his way, too. Instead of a construction-site respirator, he'd quietly lifted a leftover civilian gas mask from the warehouse and handed it over. It reeked of rubber sharp enough to sting the nose, but that would still smell like perfume compared to the stench waiting inside the tunnel.

Officials from other departments had pitched in as well. Anticipating that smartphones wouldn't get a signal underground, they'd even tracked down a headset linked to the two-way radios the contracted workers used.

Looked at one way, it was a beautiful scene of public-private cooperation. In truth, it was what I'd gotten in exchange for giving up most of the bounty. Not that the rest of the world needed to know the behind-the-scenes.

Still, with everyone going this far out of their way, even walking in alone, I felt a little more grounded than I otherwise would have.

"All right, let's run a test."

The young official who'd been clipping the radio to my belt spoke into the headset to check the connection. A burst of static crackled through, followed by his voice.

"Loud and clear. But will you be able to hear me once I put the gas mask on?"

"That'll be enough."

Once the comms test was done, the Section Chief, who'd been watching in silence, stepped up and tossed me a dagger. It was a little different from the hunting or camping knives I was used to—sharper, better balanced. One look and you could tell it had belonged to a Hunter. Probably one he'd used back in his own day.

He glanced once at the dagger in my hand, then took the radio the young official had been holding and spoke into it.

"You're really going above and beyond, huh?"

Oh. So this guy's wife had been a Hunter too.

Instead of answering, I just gave him a wide grin and strapped his wife's dagger firmly at my waist. Then, without hesitation, I pulled on the gas mask.

A hiss, and my own rough breathing filled the inside of the mask. I checked the ammunition one last time and fed the rounds into the chamber. Then, slowly, I stepped into the dark of the tunnel.

Gas mask, radio headset, dagger at the hip. From the outside, I probably looked like some special-forces operative infiltrating enemy lines. The reality was a bunch of cobbled-together gear that didn't come anywhere close to a special operation.

There was no night-vision equipment to be had, so the headlamp stuck to my forehead was my only pair of eyes. This wasn't a situation where I could leisurely pull out a thermal camera and sweep the place. The Section Chief knew that better than anyone—which was probably why he'd pressed even his wife's dagger into my hand, just in case the worst came to pass.

That the punk raccoon had been causing people trouble all this time without seriously hurting anyone was only because it had been looking for food. Not because it harbored no ill will toward humans. It simply hadn't needed to. There was no chance the thing could be reasoned with, and no chance it was a good creature.

And now I was walking straight into its den. Neither I nor that raccoon had the slightest reason to go easy on the other.

That was when the Section Chief's voice came through the headset.

For a man who was usually such a talkative official, he was boiling it down to exactly what I needed to know. I found myself trusting him more than I expected.

Between the gas mask and the headset, almost no sound from the outside reached me. For all practical purposes, I was depending on my two eyes, the finger on the trigger, and whatever my whole body could feel. Maybe that was why, in the damp cold of the tunnel, my own ragged breathing and the hard pounding of my heart seemed to ring out so much louder than they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠should have.

With every step, filthy water seemed to climb over the tops of my work boots and seep in around my ankles. It felt disgusting—and yet, strangely, some corner of me was oddly reassured. Smell and hearing, two of the senses that mattered most, were bottled up. That meant touch and everything else were standing on end, trying to compensate. Proof that the rest of me was paying attention.

I had every nerve locked on the ground under my feet and the dark in front of my eyes when it happened.

At the far edge of the circle of light from the headlamp, a gray shape brushed past.

No need to hesitate. I brought the gun up on reflex and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

In a place like this, taking aim and picking out a target were luxuries. Unless I'd fired into empty air, whatever was moving in front of me had to be that punk raccoon.

The gunshot didn't reach my ears directly, thanks to the headset and the earplugs—but the impact itself seemed to travel all the way to my heart, a heavy thud that set it hammering.

A ragged scream tore out of the dark.

The raccoon, as expected. It must have been about to lunge at me from the shadows; the unexpected gunfire knocked it off balance, and it was thrashing on the floor. I pulled the trigger again without a second's delay.

Another heavy shock rolled through my chest, and the bullet buried itself properly in the thing's body.

A short, doglike bark, and that huge frame staggered. But it was living up to its size. Two rounds in it, and instead of going down it was writhing in pain, thrashing harder. The filthy muddy water it kicked up came at me like a waterfall and slammed into the gas mask.

In an instant the lenses were completely smeared over with murky filth. There was no way to aim cleanly like this.

And damn... this was bad.

The successive gunshots must have plugged the raccoon's earholes and its nerve in the same stroke. Forgetting the pain entirely, it started charging at me in a staggering run.

The blocked vision was a disaster—but if the thing was going to come at me head-on like that, it was doing me a favor. Offering itself up as a target. No reason to turn that down.

It was faster than I'd expected, though. The huge, blurred shape closed the distance in a heartbeat. Not a range where I could get the muzzle on it properly.

In that instant, I drew the dagger from my waist on instinct. Then I threw it with everything I had, straight at the charging raccoon's face.

It didn't lodge itself dramatically in the center of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the forehead like in a movie. But it seemed to fly true enough, burying itself somewhere around the face.

A screech, and the thing clutched at its face with its front paws and faltered.

That split second the dagger bought me. I collected myself, brought the muzzle back in line, and pulled the trigger again.

Bang!

With the last gunshot, the monster raccoon's huge body toppled over backward in a sprawl. And, filthy as it was, sewer water went splashing in every direction.

A gush of it dumped over me, and the dirty, cold shock of it actually seemed to settle my standing-on-end nerves back where they belonged. I wiped the filth off the gas mask lenses with the back of my hand, roughly.

I splashed the water pooled at my feet a few times with my boot.

This guy had apparently sized up the whole situation from sound alone, without even seeing it. Hunters really were hunters.

I walked over to the thing lying sprawled on its back. Under the headlamp, the dagger that had belonged to his wife was lodged neatly in its face. I took the handle, put some force into it, and it came out cleaner and easier than I expected. Hunter gear really was a different quality from the start.

Gotta admit, I was a little jealous.

Since I was already in here, I decided to look around—check whether the thing had any kits, or whether there were other variants lurking. A little deeper in, the nest where it had set up house came into view. A few pieces of fruit that looked stolen from farms. Bags it had shaken down off people, some of them already shredded to ribbons.

Anyone glancing at the scene would have taken it for some kind of man-eating raccoon, it was that grim. Looking closer, though, there were no traces of it having harmed anyone. Raccoons didn't live on that kind of thing to begin with... Just a few bones of sewer rats it had eaten, rolling in a corner.

I let out a breath, slung the mugged bags over my shoulder, grabbed the giant raccoon's tail, and started hauling it—scraping and dragging—toward the tunnel mouth where the light was showing. All that was left now was getting out of this filthy place.

When I finally stepped out of the tunnel, the morning sun and the outside air met me at once. At the scene, a few police cars had a cordon set up at a distance, officers milling around it, and onlookers who'd come running at the gunshots from early dawn were murmuring among themselves.

I let go of the punk raccoon's tail and dumped the giant pile of fur on the ground. Then, first thing, I tore off the gas mask.

A hiss, and instead of the filthy air filtered out of a sewer, I got a lungful of clear, cold outside air. I felt a good deal more alive. I shook my head a few times to fling off the moisture clinging to my hair, and someone clapped a hand on my shoulder.

"What, shooting a cover spread? Hand over my dagger."

I turned around. The Environmental Division's Section Chief had come up without my noticing.

"Please tell your wife I put it to good use."

When I held out the dagger smeared with blood and filth, he received it as carefully as if it were a jewel. He even pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, wiped it down thoroughly, and nestled it into a leather case.

"What?"

"No, it's just—you're handling that dagger like a luxury watch."

"This was the first gift I ever gave my wife."

"Oh~ How romantic~"

"Ahem. Anyway, good work."

He cleared his throat for no reason and changed the subject.

"How was it inside? Nothing blocked, nothing like that?"

"No, nothing. Just a few bags it'd shaken people down for, so I brought those out."

That was when the young official who'd been listening from the side cut in.

"Ah! So that's why the sensors thought it was blocked—it was that raccoon's body! It must've been sleeping with its nose jammed in the narrow waterway, and the sensors read it that way."

Having realized he wouldn't have to go into that sewer himself, a bright smile bloomed across his face.

"Anyway... I don't smell too bad, do I?"

At my question, the officials stared at me blankly.

"What? Smell?"

"They said if you come home from a sewer, the kids kick you out of the house."

It was a genuine concern, but one of the officials burst out laughing.

"Hahaha! Don't worry about that. That tunnel's just for flood control—no household sewage flows through it. You'll just have a bit of a fishy water smell, that's all."

That was a real relief. The scenario even more terrifying than getting bitten to death by a raccoon was not being able to walk into the house where the kids were because of the stench.

That aside, the onlookers gathered beyond the police cordon in the distance were pointing their smartphones this way, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. I could almost hear the clicking of photos being taken from here.

"Is this a show? What's so interesting about a raccoon with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a hole in its skull..."

At my blunt remark, the Section Chief snorted a laugh.

"The raccoon's not interesting. You walking out of that tunnel holding that raccoon's tail—that's the interesting part."

"Come on. Never seen a huntsman before?"

"Well? A beauty huntsman who's been on TV taking down a monster in person—that might be a first."

When the Section Chief put on that good-natured, uncle-like smile, I pressed the butt of the gun I was holding into this man's protruding belly. It sank in like a cushion, plump as he was, and he just laughed heartily.

"Careful. You might actually fire that thing."

"Please. A bullet wouldn't even leave a scratch on you."

"Anyway, you did well. I'll handle the scene, so you can clock out now."

"Haa... Yeah, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I will. The world's attention feels even stranger than a sewer, I swear."

I slung the gun over my back again and trudged toward my truck. Catching monsters was familiar enough. Those countless people's eyes were something I didn't think I'd ever get used to in my lifetime.