Joined: Dec 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 3 Location: Houston Texas Karma: 6
The Good, The Bad and The Thirsty « Thread Started on Dec 19, 2008, 3:15pm »
Rated: R [Language and Violence.]
Standing at the edge of the forest next to what seemed to be an interstate, Richard's eyes fell onto the gleaming "Love's" sign. He had been travelling for a few nights now and he was thirsty. The beast within was beckoning and had to be answered. His thoughts still squirreled in his head, trying to make sense of the attack on his life back in Arizona. He was not a very connected man so finding answers would prove to be rather difficult for him. But still, the unanswered questions burned at the back of his mind as much as the need to feed burned in his veins. He knew of the existence of other kindred in Seattle, but none that he presumed would be able to dig anything up on such a matter. Most of the friends that he did have were more like him. Travelling their own way and not effecting the world unless the world effected them. "Time answers all." He mumbled to himself. Hardly believing the reverie, but using it as a safety blanket for his troubled mind.
A semi truck roared by, knocking Richard from his meditations and reminding him of the task at hand. Setting his navy bag on its end he untied the knot at the top and pulled out a pair of tattered cowboy boots. Soon, after wrestling them onto his feet, he began making his way to the truck stop, a good 100 yards from his current position. His mind still squirrelling, but not of the night in Flagstaff. But of his dark need. After so many years of slaughtering innocent settlers between Pampa and Elk City Oklahoma, Richard only preferred the blood of the vile, the wicked and his nose was working overtime to catch a scent.
Stepping out of the gloom and into the lighted truck stop Richard had to blink a couple times for his eyes to adjust. The smell of diesel and grease permeated the air like a thick fog, invaded his nostrils and made it almost impossible to pick through the several scents left behind by the truckers. He would have to go inside. There were plenty of trucks parked, some fueling, some parked to the side in what seemed to be a semi truck apartment complex. He made a mental note to check that area if he couldn't find what he was looking for inside.
The gravel crunched under foot as he strolled across the lot avoiding the coming and going of rigs and between the diesel pumps. A young boy gassing up a rig, stared at him as he made his approach to the truck stop entrance. "How you doing kid?" he grumbled, not even looking the boys way. The kid didn't answer, just stared with the hint of a smile edging its way to the corner of his mouth. Richard stopped,"Cat got your tongue boy?" He turned his head slightly, letting his red eyes fall upon the kid and in an instant the nozzle was on the ground and the rapid sound of gravel crunching could be heard as the boy ran for what he presumed was his life, blowing past a couple truckers who just turned to laugh at the child. A chuckle escaped his lips, Richard knew he was looking pretty....feral. He made a mental note to wash up a bit when he got inside.
Pulling the door open he heard a "chinga ling" from the bells that worked as an alert for the cashier that someone had entered. The store was warm. He could smell coffee and stale cigarettes as he made his way to the back. Following the restroom signs. The room was oddly silent. Richard looked around to notice everyone paused- some with food hanging from their mouth- and staring at him. I must look pretty rough, he said to himself. His boots clicking across the cheap tile in such silence sounded like gunshots. He nodded slightly to the few he passed by before rounding the corner. He pushed through the men's restroom door and locked it behind him.
Moments later he emerged looking like a new man. His face was clean, his hair re-braided in two tight Indian braids that draped over his shoulders. He was sporting a clean pair of jeans, ripped in the knees and a green Alice in Chains t- shirt that had more than its fair share of holes. He shouldered his brown leather jacket onto his person while peering through his aviator shades. It seemed the room had resumed as if he had never entered it at all. He chalked it up to this not being the first time a "vagabond" made his way to this establishment to use the hand sanitizer.
Navy bag in hand, he sauntered over to the counter. An older lady, looking to be in her early 50's was sitting on a stool, face glued to a small television watching the news. She held her finger up in a "just one second fashion" as she caught the end of a report on a downed helicopter somewhere in France. As they cut to commercial she stood up and turned, a warm smile swiftly followed. "What can I get for ya?" she asked for probably the thousandth time today. "A pack of lucky strikes please." She nodded, grabbed the pack and rang it up. Richard dug into his pocket producing a crumpled 5 and placed it on the counter. He didn't smoke, but he wanted to give the appearance of normality to lighten what bit of tension there might be left in the air. "Nice night out." Gretchen said, trying to make small talk. Richard grabbed the pack of smokes and tucked them into his jacket pocket. "Indeed." He stated as he turned and made his way to a booth in the eating area.
Tossing his navy bag in the empty side of the booth, he wumped down long ways, letting his right leg extend the length of the bench, his boot dangling at the end. His nostrils were flaring. Trying to find his prey for the evening. He could hear the heartbeats of the patrons inside. Could smell their blood. While, they may look rather gruff, he couldn't get even the slightest feeling of wickedness from these men. They were all hardworking and blue collared. But he must feed soon. He could feel the primal surge inside of him. He was on a balanced edge right now. If he didn't feed soon, he would become a monster. Most likely shredding everyone in this room to pieces for the hell of it. Then he heard the "chinga ling" from the door and his mouth would have watered if it could when he caught the scent.
A short man entered. His eyes were magnified by his window sized glasses. Balding and overweight the man through some money on the counter, told Gretchen the pump his rig was on and made his way back outside. Richard was on his feet in an instant- startling a man that was reading a paper- and scooped up his bag.
He was almost out of the store. Gretchen was glued to the TV once again as the news was speaking of a murder in the forests outside of Flagstaff Arizona. The suspect was said to be armed and dangerous. He was almost through the door when a sketch of him populated the screen. She turned to eye Richard, but was only met with the chingaling of the door bells.
Richard walked around the corner of the store, into the shadows and stripped off his boots and shades. He tucked them into his navy bag and hid it next to an old oil drum. He could see the rig of the vile man, it being the only new one fueling at the moment. Now was a good time. No one else was around. But just as Richard was about to make his move the man went rushing to the door of the truck stop, he whipped it open "CHINGA LING!!" and shouted at Gretchen that there was a "big ass" pool of diesel accumulating near pump 6. Richard hopped up onto the roof of the building and slowly made his way to the center, just above the door. The pool of diesel was rather large and wormed its way around two pumps. The man emerged from the store, grumbling under his breath with Gretchen and the gentleman whose rig was being topped off in tow. The smell of his blood was strong. Richard was borderline starving to death. It was all he could do to not jump off the roof and feed from his veins in front of Gretchen and the angry trucker. He kicked the idea around. Almost justifying to himself that killing Gretchen would be doing her a favor, freeing her from the clutches of the evil TV land and the other trucker wouldn't have to worry about his rig if his throat was ripped out, everyone wins....right? He shook his head. From what he saw on the TV, he had enough heat on his trail and this would just bring whoever it was closer to his location. No, he would wait. "Patience." He said to himself.
The three stood at pump six, talking about the mess and the fuel boy that is now missing. Gretchen shook her head a look of despair crossing her face. She told the men of the news report and how she was sure she saw the suspect in the store not 10 minutes ago. Tears welled up in her eyes as she ran into the store to call the police. "But what about the fuckin fuel!?" the ponderous wicked man spat at her from behind. The driver of the other rig went inside after Gretchen for what Richard presumed was to calm her down. Now was his chance! He hopped from the roof to the shelter above the pumps, purposefully landing with a loud thud. "What in the hell?" the prey stated as he walked out from under the shelter, trying to get an eye at what had made the noise. He looked up and perched right above a neon Love's logo was a rather large horned owl that greeted him with a "who." The man was marveled. He muttered excitedly about grabbing his camera and rushed to his rig. As he opened the door and made his way to the cab in the back he was greeted by none other than Richard. "What the fuck? What the hell are you doing in my..." Richard tore into his neck like a wild beast. The mans arms shook vigorously as he gurgled on his blood.
Moments later Richard dropped the drained lifeless body to the floor board of the cab. He could feel his strength returning. He could feel the hunger abiding. He was sated. He slipped into the drivers seat of the rig licking his lips and shut the door. Looking to the ignition he noticed there was no keys. He turned, dug through the lifeless man's pocket and produced a set of keys with an odd key chain that looked to be a man having sex with a lady. There was a lever at the bottom that was used to set the key chain into a doggy style motion. Richard let out a sigh of disgust as he started the rig and through it into gear. He rounded the pumps, tearing the nozzle from the gas tank and sending even more diesel into the air. Gretchen came running out, screaming about the pump and the cops being on their way. Richard grinned and turned to the side of the truck stop. He was out and back in the cab brandishing his navy bag before Gretchen could shout her next obscenity. Tossing the bag into the passenger side floor board he mashed the gas pulling the rig around the truck stop and onto the black scar of the land, or a road as others seem to call it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then reached down to pat the trucker's lifeless body. "Thanks for the ride fatty."
A good 30 mins down the road Richard noticed a sign stating Medford 35 miles. He had to ditch this truck and be rid of any evidence. It was bad enough that Gretchen had noticed him and called the police, but that can still be played off as an old lady putting in too many hours and needing more rest. The last thing the cops needed to find was a man with his throat torn out in a Semi that had just left the establishment. Richard noticed an off road and took it.
The road winded deep into the forest, the pavement ended and a dirt road took its place. He bounced along down the road for a bit until he noticed an open pasture to his right. The truck roared into gear as he whipped it to the right. Tearing through the ditch and barbed wire fence. The trailer almost flipped but teetered back into position as he brought the rig to an abrupt halt.
"Well, it was a good run buddy." He stated as he pulled the pack of luckies from his jacket pocket and tore them open. "But this is where we must part ways my chubby friend." Pressing the cigarette lighter in the truck Richard leaned down and ripped a sleeve off the lifeless figure's flannel jacket. He sat for a moment patiently until he heard the click of the lighter. He took out a single cigarette, lit it and through the rest of the pack into the floorboard. "Ugh, I don't see how people can smoke these things." He muttered while grabbing his bag and exiting the cab.
Taking the sleeve he mopped up some of the diesel that had spilled onto the rig's tank and steps during his exit at Love's. Once saturated he tucked the sleeve into the gas tank, leaving a good foot of it dangling out. Puffing the cigarette a couple times until the cherry was long and orange he stood back about ten yards, judged the shot and flicked it onto the makeshift wick. It took flame and began following the length of the sleeve into the gas tank. Richard was already deep into the forest when he heard the explosion.
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