NOWHERE: By Chad Case
Thursday, February 25th, 2010LYCANTHROPY CONTESTANT
“Why is this place called Nowhere?” the dark haired man said to me.
I sat my cup of coffee down. Looked at the white mug that had the word NOWHERE imprinted in bold black letters. Then I took a moment and glared at the man. He was a handsome fellow that looked as though he stepped right off of the cover of a GQ magazine.
His raven hair and murky-green eyes meshed nicely with his tight-fitting black t-shirt, that showcase a muscular physique. And with a boyish smile like his… I am sure that he’d broken many of young girl’s hearts.
“Because that’s where you are, young man,” I replied, licking my aged lips. “Is Nowhere. A place that doesn’t exist on maps. A place that nobody ever talks about. Because it’s a place that nobody has ever left.”
His jaw clinched. “What do you mean that nobody has ever left?”
I sighed with thick breath that smelt of stale coffee and cheap cigars. I hated it when people walked into my little rustic store and asked me stupid questions. Like Why is this place called Nowhere? or Why can’t I find this place on my map? I really wanted to just grab them by the neck and squeeze them until they turned blue. But I always restrained myself because I knew that the ruffians would take care of them for me.
There was a hint of rage in his voice when he rebuffed, “Ruffians?” He snarled his nose and raised his massive chest. This was the moment that I realized that the young man had some fight in him. A gumption that the other unfortunate tourists had lacked. Most of them at this point were cowering and crying to God for help. But not this man. No. This man was ticked-off and ready to kick some ass. He probably had military background but I never asked him.
“Yes, the ruffians,” I replied. “They’re a group of deadbeats that’s lead by a scrawny waste-of-a-cumshot named Lurkin.” I rolled my wheelchair over to the window and peeped out. All was clear… for now. “I’ve seen Lurkin’s group rip apart a whole family of five in less than three minutes. Hell, one time I even seen ‘em take care of school bus loaded-up with a whole football team. Those strapping young boys might’ve beat Fairvale by thirteen, but the ruffians whipped their asses then ate ‘em ever so slowly.”
The dark-haired fellow began to search the store. I knew what for, so I decided to help him. There was just something about him that I liked. It could’ve been his attitude, his grace, or his demeanor. Or it might’ve been that the man reminded me of myself when I was his age.
“You’re gonna need this,” I said, rolling back over to the register. I opened a secret compartment and pulled out a .357 Magnum.
“What about you, sir?” he asked, taking the gun.
I smiled and shook my head. “The ruffians don’t bother me, young man. I am, after all, the person who gave them life.”
He looked at me, as though, I was a madman. And, well, he is probably right.
I also handed him an old wooden box with a faded cross upon it and said, “You’ll need these too.”
He opened the box, examined the contents, then gave me a dumbfounded look. I nodded slowly as he pulled out six silver bullets and put them in the chamber. “Thanks,” he said, putting the remaining bullets in his pocket.
“You need to get out of Nowhere as soon as possible,” I said, grasping his forearm. “The myth about werewolves and a full moon is just that… a myth. They can change form at will, and they will as soon as you leave.”
I locked the door after he left, rolled over to my record player and put on an album. Then fell asleep listening to Hank Williams sing Your Cheatin’ Heart.
***
The next morning, I awoke to pounding at my door. I opened it and there stood Lurkin. His slender, unshaven face flushed red with anger.
“Problem?” I taunted.
“Yea, how’d that man end up with your gun?”
“He stole it from me,” I lied. “Even took what little money that was in the register.”
Lurkin leered at me like he knew I was lying. “That bastard killed nine of my men,” he scolded, chewing at his bottom lip.
I shrugged. “I can’t help it if he stole my gun.”
He paced around in a circle, let out a low growl and rebuked, “He better have, old man, or I’ll kill…”
“You’ll do nothing,” I barked, eyes narrowing. “You can’t kill me, Lurkin! Nobody can kill me! I made myth a reality in 1951 when I became a real werewolf! And, unlike you and the other ruffians, I am immune to silver and the other bullshit methods about killing our kind. There’s only one way to kill me, and I’m the only one who knows how.” I gave him a quick told-ya-so smile. “Now, did that man make it out of Nowhere?”
Lurkin lowered his head. The word came out of his mouth like it hurt, like it was laced with razorblades and barbed-wire. “Yea.”
I gave him a look of great disappointment, but I was smiling on the inside. I huffed, and closed the door on him. Then smiled big-time as I rolled over to the record player and started it up. Knowing that I was going to live forever, or at least, until Hank Williams himself rose from the grave to kill me, I decided to listen to ole Hank sing I’ll Never Get Out Of This World Alive.
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©2010 Chad Case
Chad Case lives in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, with his wife, Melissa. He enjoys writing short horror fiction in his spare time. To date his works have been published on MicroHorror.com, The New Flesh Blogzine, Flashes In The Dark, Flashshot, and in the anthology: Toe Tags.
