Fear the Nobodies: Twenty-Three
Font Formatting:
>Through a combination of sheer luck, and a few well-placed garlic bulbs, you and your crew managed to leave the cheerleaders and Lydia in your wake somewhere on the side of the road, stirring in the wind like beaten flags
“There ain’t no laws against stealing shopping carts and pushing them around town,” you say, grunting with effort, “I see homeless people do it all the time, so quit ‘yer yappin’ up there. At least you don’t have to push.”
>Jenna’s head rotates on a loose swivel, her nose scenting the wind for the telltale signs of cops (coffee, plantable-crack, pepper spray, etc)
>“Just because homeless people do it, doesn’t make it legal, you know! Now c’mon, speed it up, fang boy. I think I smell a German shepherd somewhere.”
>You’re about to call Jenna a slur when Alex cuts in
>“Nah,” he says, voice easy and in command as he reclines at the ‘helm’ of the shopping cart
>His manager’s katana rests easy on his shoulder like a captured trophy as he says, “I have an acute sense for detecting class traitors. We’re cleaner than a bottle of fake piss right now, don’t worry.”
>The air is scented with sweat and garlic (two very unpleasant aromas to you), and the lingering scent of Jenna’s cherry blossom perfume
>Jenna shoots Alex a confused and disgusted expression in response, and yet…
>…the guy’s IS right
>Only a scant few vehicles motor past you, and none of them seem to care you’re pushing a human and a fox up a steep hill in a shopping cart like crackhead E.T.
>You drive forward with the last of your vampiric strength draining from your legs
>You amble your two friends, loaded into shopping cart, up a hill, like a mule pushing from behind instead of pulling forward
>Every step, every cold pull of air into your lungs is a chilling (heh) reminder that this type of shit is nothing like it appears in the cartoons
>Ripcurls of wind strip the nearby trees by the minute
>Bronzed leaves the size of your palms slap your face as you push your friends up the hill
>It’s grim, it’s gray, it’s… not even noon yet
>On the plus side, the leaves in the wind contrast sharply against the concrete skies that loom overhead, as if swelling with rain for a storm yet summoned
>Rich Autumn foliage played against a gathering storm makes for a type of organic fireworks that can’t be bought at sketchy roadside stands
>The… uncolored space…(?) between the orange and gray is… beautiful, but not in a way you can articulate
>Not like Sam could
>You wish you were Sam sometimes
>Well, not with all the poverty, the annoying speech impediment, the psychotic father, the gayness, the-
>How about this: you wish you had what Sam has, which is the ability see life as an art form
>You’ve always felt like you were ‘on the outside looking in,’ creatively speaking
>As if you take less from a movie, a song, or even a comic panel, than Sam or Anon do
>Anon sometimes writes poetry in the margins of his papers at school; Sam doodles with uncanny skill
>Why? Did becoming a vampire mute the urge in you to see the world for what it could be, as opposed to what it is?
>Was that urge ever there to begin with?
>Mammals like Sam… they’ve got flecks of gold in their bloodstream
>Sam, Anon, hell, anyone with a creative bone is somehow tapped in to a hidden layer of circuitry that sits beneath the bark of every mundane tree, the skin of every man, the puff of curl in every cloud
>You? Mike Sapone? You’re a caveman slathering blood and shit on the walls by firelight
>All of these musings you contain behind labored grunts, the shape of you two friends silhouetted against leaden skies
>Orange leaves like bursting fireworks flutter past you in the cold wind
>Your current state is less than poetic or artistic. You suck down frigid air, sweat stinging your eyes
“Listen, ‘navigator,’” you huff at Jenna, “how about you plot us a course to a hospital so I can have a drink, or at least somewhere with a fucking bench? I can’t keep pushing much longer.”
>After your Vietnam-style ‘tactical retreat,’ you’re sweaty, exhausted, your nerves are fried, and you’re getting hungry
>Not just for blood, either
>“Where are we even going?” Alex says, looking back at Chief Navigator Jenna Orthorn
>The vixen snaps an answer at Alex, though she appears just as exhausted as you are, the weight of her worry like concrete cinders for shoes
>Her sharp ears are pasted against her skull, likely to guard against the wind, but also because her plan…
>…she might not have consulted you first
>“You guys know the white oak door church at the top of Daniel’s Park, the one by the train tracks?” She says at last
>Though Jenna Orthorn carries the same rigidity and nimbleness of a freight train, she’s still a lot smarter than you or Alex
>“I thought we could camp out there for a bit and lay low. The place has been abandoned for at least fifty years by now, and I guess…” she looks back at you briefly and pushes an apologetic smile to her lips, “…it seemed thematic?”
>“I like it,” Alex hums, mulling over the idea of an impromptu urban camping trip, “it’s a good home base for our spiritual jihad against the goth kids.”
>You just push onward, worries steadily mounting
>Some hundred years ago, a few hard-nosed Catholics around town built the white oak door church at the top of a steep hill, one ear the edge of what would become the ‘unpleasant’ side of Ranchview
>Back in the day, the crisp, white clapboards practically branded your eyes with the holy spirit on a sunny morning
>The church’s steeple, stretching some thirty feet into the peerless sky, would gather throngs of humans for Sunday mass with a resonate chime
>Those chimes have long since dulled, lost in the hum of train horns and cars drifting by on empty streets
>Nobody can remember when the last time the church bell rang
>And when the town approved the rail lines practically right next to the church, that was when the building truly began to die
>White walls slathered in fresh paint became egg-shell and flakey with age and neglect
>Old construction shifted in the building, giving the place an unnatural – almost conscious – groan
>Like the church knows it’s dying, but can do nothing to save itself
>Now the only traffic it gets is from the freighters that rumble by in the night, just down the hill, their horns louder than God’s sermon
>It’s an old and unpleasant reminder of the town’s heritage, one having more in common with the decrepit, stooped houses of Ranchview’s outskirts than its neatly-landscaped and gentrified interior
>Now only teenagers come up here on ‘ghost investigations’ or to drop acid
>Sometimes both at the same time
>Once you’ve at least surmounted the hill, you hang a left on the only other road up here that doesn’t take you back down
>Instead of squat houses lining the road, you get skeletal woods – ancient oak, willow, aspen, and maple, their branches trembling in the wind, stripped of leaves
>After one more right that takes you through a tunnel of dead, overgrown trees, you see it:
>The old white oak door church
>The building sits at the end of a small, cratered parking lot at the edge of the hill it was built upon
>Lines that once directed parking in the small lot are stripped away by the relentless march of careless decades
>The few lamps that hang above the sad strip of asphalt probably don’t work any more either
>“Woooooahhhh,” Alex leans forward on the cart, “this is SO aesthetic. Like straight out of New England!”
>You open your mouth to shout at Alex and Jenna to both get the fuck out of the cart now that you’re here, but the words catch in your throat
>A strangled gag crawls from your mouth, and the rush of vertigo that often precedes vomiting slams into your chest
“I- I don’t feel-” you try to gasp out a sentence, but your stomach has other ideas
>Between the garlic and your proximity to the church’s towering crucifix on its steeple, you can’t go any further than the edge of the parking lot
>It would probably take a lot of exposure over time to get closer to the church
>“Come on, ‘Michael,’ just a little closer,” Alex says with dumb gales of chiding laughter
>‘Michael’
>With one final effort, you shove the cart forward, sending Jenna and Alex coasting across the gritty blacktop
>“Mikkkkeeee!” Jenna cries, her paws clapping on to the side of the cart as it Tokyo drifts towards the white oak door church
>You physically can’t watch them crash, even though you wanted to
>Instead, you keel over right as an explosion of rickety metal, a fox, and human’s scream reach their crescendo
>Just the…
>…thought of garlic all over the church’s front steps makes you gag, until…
>Vomit pours out of you in a series of violent eruptions
>You’re so busy bowing down on the asphalt parking with a hose of blood and bile coming out of your throat that you don’t notice the fox standing over you
>“So it’s true then, isn’t it?” Jenna says in a quiet voice
>Her tone is heavy with resignation, as if you’ve ejected all the proof she needs into a black puddle gathering at her feet
>With the acrid bile of your stomach’s contents – mostly blood – still clinging to your tongue, you manage to lift your head a bit
>Jenna stands over you, green eyes heavy with defeat, predatory ears plastered back against her skull
>Her tail sits tucked beneath the legs of her jeans
>Your claw-like fingers scrape against asphalt older than all of you combined
>A hot spark of anger, stemming from Jenna’s sudden belief, ignites a powder keg in your chest
“What more proof do you want?!” you bark at her, eyes glowing hot with anger (and a little embarrassment), “Lydia Penferth just made a snack out of your engine block. Demonic cheerleaders chased us halfway across town. The moon’s been full since LAST FRIDAY!”
>Jenna takes a cautious step backwards, and it looks like she’s going to back away to the safety of the church all together, when she stops, gathers her courage in a breath, and speaks
>“I’m talking about you, sparkle boy,” she says, voice hush, softer than her down fur
>All at once you feel disarmed, so all you can utter back is a confused, “Huh?”
>Jenna turns her eyes up at you, green, glittering with tears of concern and fear
>“When you were acting all weird outside my house the other night, you tried to tell me that there was something wrong with you. While I knew that already, I just thought you were on drugs or something,” she says, lowering her gaze to her feet, “I wasn’t listening to you that night, in part because…”
>You stand to full height and spit a wad of vomit and blood onto the tar
>Your heat-ringed eyes lock with Jenna’s own, but you issue her no command
>Jenna… Jenna is a good friend who, with the help of ANOTHER good friend, bailed you out
>You know who your enemies are
>“…vampires… go against every natural law, scientific principle, and rule of common sense. I’m struggling even now, and yet the proof is right here,” she says, meeting your eyes with determination, “you’re real, and you’re right in front of me. And that matters.”
>God, you just wanna sit on the stoop of the church with her and talk about this and everything
>Fuck, you’d talk about ANYTHING with her
>It doesn’t have to be supernatural bullshit
>You just…
>…you think this is an anthro girl you want to get to know more, in spite of swearing off fuzzy women
>“Alex told me everything – at least everything he knows. It’s hard to believe there are really vampires, demonic cheerleaders, werewolves, dark rituals, and evil goths,” she says with a cautious smile, “but I’m willing to believe – for you.”
>You cock your head in confusion
“For me?” You parrot, not quite registering the gravity of her statement
>Jenna, registering the gravity of her statement, replies with a nervous blush and quickly throws her head to the side
>The stammered explanation following only makes things less clear
>“A-And Alex! And Anon. And Sam,” she offers, her nerves forcing her voice to tremble
>She turns her neck and shouts behind her
>“Alex! Stop messing with the door and come over here!” Jenna barks
>Your enhanced hearing and Jenna’s finely-tuned ears pick up your friend’s response
>“Alright, alright, alright! One second!” Is Alex’s reply
>The lanky human appears in short order besides Jenna, the katana loose over his shoulder
>His long brown hair – covered by the yellow beanie – is more a sweaty, disheveled mop, and there’s sweat stains on the armpits of his flannel
>“You guys are really lucky – this sword CAN cut clean through shitty steel! All that lock took was a few dozen swings!”
>“Alex!” Jenna cries, distraught, “you should have told me the door was locked! We can’t just break in and squat here! That’s illegal!”
>You smirk at Alex’s ability to show up and change directions in a conversation entirely
>Like the human version of a palate cleanser
>“What? Why? That lock hadn’t been touched in like a century. We have every right to use the church, as God intended, or something. And when we get Anon and Sam here, we’re gonna need a home base anyway,” Alex replies
“Anon and Sam…” you hum those two names like the words to an old song you know by heart
>God, you really kind of miss them both right now
>Anon’s ability to generally keep up with you verbally and intellectually…
>…and… you guess you miss Sam’s social retardation
>Especially the way it flusters Anon
>Those little pieces of your past life?
>You want them back
>Jenna slits her eyes at you
>“Mike… now might be a good time to tell us what happened to Anon. Last time I saw him, it looked like he was mauled by a bear,” she says
>Your eyes pass between your two companions
>The sight of the cross on the steeple behind them makes you wince, but when your eyes return to the vixen’s…
>…a sense of safety washes over you
“Why did you come looking for me?” You respond, trying to avoid the question
>Jenna’s posture stiffens, even as her face glows red with heat
>“Because I was worried about you,” she says in a soft voice, “you were acting so strange for so long… I couldn’t stand the thought of you sulking around in so much pain…”
>She aims a claw at you, “AND you’re so reckless, and I was so scared you’d hurt yourself!”
>From your short distance you can see her eyes glassy with concerned tears
>You stare like some star-struck idiot
>Is she actually crying…
>…on your behalf?
>“All of us were worried about you, dude. Even Anon,” Alex chimes in with a shy, weak voice, “don’t you remember on Monday night? He kept trying to get a hold of you. None of us could.”
“I- I lost my phone when I was running away from the Lydia-” you stammer in response
>Jesus, you feel like you’re on trial right now
>You really fucked up, huh?
>“And when you came back to Anon’s house, and you scared the hell out of us? You should have seen Anon’s face when he first saw you. He was so… relieved,” Alex says, now looking behind you, scanning the dead trees for something to make you realize…
>…they actually care about you
>Yeah, you really fucked up
>You hurt a lot of people – physically and emotionally…
>…and maybe financially, too, since you practically cost that poor convenience store clerk her job
>And Jenna her van
>Speaking of
>“Answer the question,” Jenna commands, still unable to look at anything but her shoes, “did you hurt Anon?”
>You can hear the knot in her throat as she fights tears
“Yes,” you say without a snarl, without anger, without contention
>Just… honesty
>You still feel like you’ve got a hole in your chest
“I did,” you say
>A brief moment of silence fills the space between you and your friends, like the deafening absence of noise after a bomb drops
“We fought. I thought he would be a stronger fighter, so I guess I kinda kicked his ass.”
>“Why?!” Jenna shouts, now with tears cutting into her orange fur
>The pain in her voice is enough to make you feel like you deserve to be hanged
“Because I thought he could cure me! I thought he could stop me from becoming a vampire – but he didn’t. He basically told me he pissed away my entire future, and… I lost it.”
>Your attention flicks between the vixen and Alex
>Alex gives you a hard, damning stare
>You don’t like seeing him like this. It’s not his natural state to have opinions that make sense
>But it’s no less than you deserve
“I hurt him. And I’m sorry,” you continue, “I wish I could take everything back, but I can’t. The damage is done. The damage is…” you trail off, casting your gaze skyward, into the featureless clouds, “…done.”
>The wind rips through the three of you like you someone shot you full of holes
>You’re all cold – and the chilled air sapping what little warmth your vampire body can cultivate
>Nobody speaks. You all just sit there, shivering, waiting for someone to say something
>It feels like there’s nothing to say
>At least, not until the lone anthro among you, her voice resolute despite the tears splitting down her fur, speaks
>“Don’t apologize to us,” she says, as she extends her phone to you
>Her face is hard, not out of anger, but determination
>“Apologize to him.”
>“Anon, y-you’re h-h-hurting my h-hands,” Sam says with a girlish whine
>You don’t care
>You REALLY don’t care
>You’re never going to let go of this faggot bunny
>Which is what you tell yourself, as you drag him like an unwilling puppy down the hall
>You constantly check over your shoulder
>Why didn’t they follow you out of the gym?
>You highly doubt they got lost in the tunnels for this long
>The goth kids are cooking up something, and you can smell it
>Your heart skips as you mull over the possibilities
“What’s your next class, Sam?” You demand, as you try to distract yourself from your sweaty palms
>You focus on the task at hand:
>Protecting this rabbit
>“Sc-science?” Sam stutters, as if unsure of his own class schedule “It’s in r-room 185, b-b-but-”
“Good. I’m going with you,” you say resolutely
>“Why? I-I don’t know if the t-t-teacher will be o-okay with tha-that…” he sounds like he almost doesn’t want you there, which is weird
“Science with mister Bolm?”
>“Ummm… y-yes?” Sam replies
>You cut him off
>There’s no time for his whimpering
“Good. Mister Bolm knows me personally. I’m sure he won’t have a problem with me hanging out in the back of the room. Attendance scores be damned.”
>You can miss your next class; you’ll take the GPA hit for ditching math
>Hell, you don’t even have your backpack with you
>You left that in the car
>What’s the point of even going to class this week, anyway?
>“I-Is everything o-okay?” Sam says, looking around. “A-And w-where’s G-Gloria?”
>Your grip tenses
“I’ll… tell you everything. In time,” you say
>You toss another glance over your shoulder
>There’s nobody but other students behind you, a river of them moving in a stream of hormones and bright colors
>Oh, and the jocks from earlier
>Two, to be precise
>Wait
>One human, rugged dark hair and a face carved out of wood
>And then there’s his buddy – a gray wolf, his fur bristling with barely-contained rage, his ears flat against his skull
>Both of them are stereotypically dressed out in red Letterman jackets
>The swing of their arms, the synchronization of their steps…
>…you’re just being paranoid, is what you tell yourself
>Yet, you can’t help but move a little bit faster than you’d normally move
>Or, as much as your damage allows you to
>Yessir, you’re justtttt being nervous, this is totally normal
>Those jocks are walking to class like normal students
>“Anon, I t-t-think those g-guys want to talk to u-us,” Sam squeaks
>You look over your shoulder again
>Oh
>Fuck
>How did you not notice it before?
>The two jocks’ eyes are bright white, like glacier cores had been drilled into their skulls
>They narrow hateful glances at you, and it’s only then do you see that the human has a dark bruise on his cheek, swelling up like rotten fruit
>Ah yes, your knuckles still ring with pain from having belted that particular disguised werewolf in the face
>Well, it’s time to run now, isn’t it?
>Your muscles tense up
>Internally your unathletic soul groans in agony
>You’ve done so much running already
>You’re tired
“Sam, when I say run, I want you to start sprinting as fast as you can down the hall, okay?” Your voice is barely beneath a whisper
>Sam’s ears twitch like two sensitive antennas reading your frequency
>“O-Okay,” he says after a moment of hesitation
>It’s like you touched upon some kind of inborn sense of trust that Sam once shared with someone else – the kind that believes you when you say there’s trouble
>“I tr-tr-trust you…”
>You tighten your grip on Sam’s paw
“Good. On three. Are you ready?”
>The bunny nods and pushes his hair back with his free hand
“One.”
“Two…”
>Suddenly there’s commotion as no less than four students descend upon the pursuing jocks
>It’s a group of punks
>How can you tell? Well, they make it obvious
>They’ve got ‘teenage rebellious phase’ practically patched on their studded denim jackets
>And it’s all humans
>Plus, punk kids tend to converge in packs
>Harmless on their own, but in groups they’re formidable
>With howls of fury, the mowhaked gang of students leap out from the shadows, swarming the jocks like ants on a rattlesnake
>Two punks per hulking body
>Eight pairs of fists and eight pairs of kicking, stomping boots swing wildly
>A circle emerges as the two groups duke it out
>The assailed jocks roar with frustration and manage to pry off the skinny vegan anarchists from their bodies
>Their counterparts throw wild swings at the disguised werewolves
>Anonymous, this is the PERFECT opportunity for you to make an escape!
>And escape you do, by calmly walking Sam to his class
>When you get to the door, you realize that your hand is still interlaced with Sam’s
>Feeling a little more than gay, you gently untwist your fingers from his and smile at him
“See? Safe and sound. Now, let’s get you in there-”
>You pause mid-sentence
>Your phone pulses in your pocket
>A phone call? Right now?
>The caller ID reads ‘Jenna Orthorn (Fox from Science)’
>Ah, that’s right, you had a project with her earlier in the semester
>You flick open the phone and put the receiver your ear
You mouth to Sam, “I’ll meet you inside.”
>The bunny looks reluctant to go on his own, but after a moment of silence, he nods
>Sam lets out a huge knot of air held in his chest
>Relief is plain across his features as his shoulders slump and head droops, lacking tension to keep it rigid
>The rabbit quickly opens the door and slides inside, letting it shut behind him
>You’re not exhausting him, are you?
>Like, he’s not tired of you, hopefully?
>Ah fuck it. He owes you big time for saving his life (even though he has no idea you did)
>You clear your throat to answer Jenna
“What’s up Jenna. This is Anon.”
>“Anon?” A male voice crackles on the other end of the line
>Your heart skips in your chest
>You know who this is
>“It’s Mike.”
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall