Fear the Nobodies: Part Fourteen

>You are Anon

>You are about to shit your pants

>Not out of love for the game, but because you’ve never had to run this far before

>Or this fast

>Every clumsy step you put, one after the other, drags hot agony into your overworked lungs

>When Stella took off after Sam, your first thoughts weren’t to flee, but to catch up with the rest of the crew outside

>The gut-spinning howl of wolves the size of cars echoing down the halls puts an end to your bold plan

>If you had to guess, given there are already vampires in play…

>…you know what’s next:

>Werewolves

>“Hey! Get your damn claws OFF ME you punks!”

>You can hear Stella somewhere up ahead hit the linoleum like a fat pancake; like that time Santa Claus tripped down your stairs at the tender age of six, shouting things that Santa would NEVER say

>And now here you are, feet churning under you, completing the look with scattered glances behind you

>They’re not cowardly glances, and this isn’t a cowardly flight from battle

>The Anon a few days ago would stash in an unlocked classroom, or try to find an adult to fix his mess

>But this Anon?

>He’s on a mission – operation Watership Down: find Sam and evacuate the premises… is

>or something

>A feral howl rips through the halls like percussive gunshot

>Then another another howl chases the first

>And another

>You throw another glance over your shoulder

>Three bulky masses of matted fur barrel towards you on all fours

>Athletic clothing – the odd Letterman jacket, a shredded lacrosse jersey – trail off the werewolves like comet’s tails

>Oh fuck

>You run but you can’t run near fast enough.

>Their fur, dark as night, eyes bright as blue sapphire, are just about to be within snacking distance

>Fucking just…

>Perfect

>You dig into your flimsy body’s small well of courage and beg it to endure a few seconds more of cardiovascular agony – if only you could say in your dying breath…

>…you tried

>You are granted your wish (not without protest) and your pace becomes a manic sprint for life

>You know this is all in vain, right?

>They’re going to catch up to you and feast upon your innards

>If you were Mike you might try to slow down and fight them

>Really go for the eyes

>Or, if you were Alex, you might try to befriend them and lead them on the path towards glorious revolution

>But you’re Anon, and you’re running, and…

>You have no plan, other than to keep running

>It’s times like these you wish you were born a cheetah, or a rabbit like Sam, then maybe you’d stand a chance at survival

>What are humans good for anyway?

>Thinking? cooperating?

>How are you gonna think and cooperate your way out of a werewolf’s jaw?

>You dash around a corner, shoes squealing and streaking across the polished floors

>The werewolves, being… well, fucking huge, and less dexterous than you, slide past like a bunch of drunken ice skaters, tripping and tumbling over one another, their mouths frothing madness

>And alone, at the end of the hallway, like a little brown smudge against the auburn-colored lockers, you see Sam in his hoodie and baggy jeans

>And at his feet?

>The Venus fly trap

>That cotton-tailed fruit actually did it!

>You open mouth, a smile contending with your desire to scream

“SAM!” You bellow, deep from your lower stomach, your plea ringing with impressive clarity and volume

>You think you might be a good singer if you live through any of this

>Sam looks down the hall at you, eyes the size of your fists

“SAM! RUN!” You say, not so much commanding as you are pleading to him

>“A-Anon?” He jumps to his feet with a start

“JUST RUN, THUMPER!”

>That rabbit – that little fucking bunny who you hated so much in the past, scoops up the venus fly trap and pounds down the hallway without a moment of hesitation

>You guess he is good for some things, namely running away

>You can only hope he finds the door and gets the fuck out of the school before the wolves do…

>And they are so close now

>So close you can smell the wet dog on them

>One of them reaches forward, too eager, clawed hands snapping at you

>These lads must have been jocks because DAMN they thicc

>In a quick blur of motion you move to the right — just enough so that the werewolf grabs onto empty space…

>…his inertia pitching him forward, end over end…

>…where he ends in a heap

>That’s one down — for now

>Just two more to go

>No problem right?

>Problem

>A maniacal shriek forces you and the wolves to a skittering halt

>What is this, a cartoon?

>“Oh my GOD. You know what? You CIA niggers glow in the DARK! But you’re not gonna get away – no. You thought you could sick your Israeli bio-wolves on me, didn’t you? Thought you’d get away with my crystals?!”

>That voice sounds like it’s coming from all directions

>But especially…

>Above you?

>“Well you’re in the jungle now, human. I can smell the ZOG on ya.”

>Oh fucking god damnit

>It’s this crazy bitch again

>“THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU TANGO WITH A LAZER LOTUS!”

>Stella explodes from the ceiling panels, her face sufficiently painted in strange, spiraling patterns of makeup, adorned with crystal and gem piercing and earnings

>She drops like a sack of wet concrete, her arms spread wide, claws glistening in the pale light

>A steady drip of froth seethes from her shivering maw

>Without a shred of hesitation, she descends upon her target like the world’s shittiest spider

>You see she’s stripped herself down to only her underwear

>Fat and fur spills out over the waistband of her camouflaged panties stretching her… generous… frame

>The only proper piece of clothing on her is her useless gemstone jewelry

>“Alphabet agencies can’t put your heart back in your body once I drink from it!”

>Her feral swipes come dangerously close to the hulking werewolves,

>The two remaining stagger-step backwards

>“CHARGED IN THE FOUR CORNERS UNDER A FULL MOON, BEHOLD, THE POWER OF MY ROSE QUARTZ! BLAST”

>Stella shakes her head with self-assured violence, the heavy stones dangling from her ears becoming tiny wrecking balls

>Jesus Christ she’s even crazier than the werewolves are

>It occurs to you (with all the speed of a Xan’d out tortoise) that this is your chance to make a run

>It’s a chance you take…

>…in silence, that is, thankful for the janitor’s unhinged rant on star sigils masking your retreat

>When you turn your head the rant has clearly become an argument, as Stella – at least two feet shorter than one of the werewolves, invokes her inner linesman and football tackles him to the floor, shredding into him

>Oh god, the sound is horrendous

>It’s the sound of meat rending and fur torn from its follicle, accented only by the panicked yelps of a werewolf whose intestines are in serious danger of of being evicted from its body

>You swallow hard and keep running, acutely aware that there’s only two werewolves are on your trail versus three

>And then there’s Stella, after she… finishes with the poor football player-turned-werewolf

>Gotta play this smart

>You’re nearly outside now

>You can see the lunchroom and the carnage that the wolves undoubtedly left behind

>And just nearby, sweet, sweet salvation, shining with the glowing light of the morning, ike a quest item in a video game:

>The door to the parking lot, etched into the glass walls of the lunchroom

>You can almost TASTE the cold air, rich on your tongue, glassing your lungs

>Naturally, because life loves raw-dogging you in the ass, you don’t power through the door with infinite grace, but rather crash through the door as a werewolf barrels into you, its hulking arms crossing around your midsection in a kind of death-hug

>A storm of glass and metal follows

>You’re fucked now

>You are farmer Alex

>You are un-alienated from your work by capitalism as you happily rip white lilies from the school’s communal garden

>You glance over to the massive, white pile of flowers sitting nearby and decide ‘Yeah, that’s enough.’

>In fact, you’ve torn nearly every white flower out of the garden

>So it’s probably enough

>Gathering your haul, you start the trek across the open parking lot to Anon’s car with a bit of a merry skip,

>His car is the most recognizable one because it’s a dented piece of shit with a collapsed front hood from where Sam’s dad became a victim of the motor lobbyists

>And one of the only ones in the parking lot

>Mikes sits in the driver’s seat, the car idling, heat blasting, despite instructions to wait by the lunchroom doors

>God this is taking awhile, and it’s pretty fucking cold out here

>You aim your head towards the lunchroom doors

>Wonder when they’re going to get back? Surely it can’t take that long?

>In a sudden burst of noise, Sam explodes through the doors at break-neck speeds

“Hey, there’s our Thumper. Over here, dude!”

>You wave to the rabbit, but the look of sheer terror on his face says your efforts are in vain.

“What the hell, Sam?”

>His heavy feet pound into the black grit of the empty parking lot as he shoots over to Anon’s shitty car at the far end of the lot

>Hmmm

>Really activates the neurons

>Moments later, Anon shoots through the glass lunchroom doors

>Or, rather, Anon is apart of a human-werewolf cannonball that blisters through expensive glass doors and spreads a crust of glass everywhere

>Anon and a roided up wolf untangle on the asphalt, a spent heap

>That doesn’t look like any wolf you’ve EVER seen

>Not even in the olympics

>It looks like a wolf crossed with the The Incredible Hulk

>And all the tattered clothes stilling hanging onto the wolf make you think something FUCKY is going on here

>Hmmmmm

>Anon’s scream cuts across the parking lot as the wolf – on its feet now – grabs Anon by the sneakers and drags him like an unwillng toddler

>Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm

>A SECOND wolf tumbles from where the door once was, tripping over metal and shards of glass

>HMMMMMMMMMMMM

>In a daze, the student lumbers to its feet and glances around the parking lot, eyes wary

>Its sapphire-blue eyes, burning with feral need, settle on you like two heavy and malevolent orbs of hate

>HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

>You are Anon

>And you are NOT going back into that school

>The werewolf’s feral claws rip into your leg, drawing blood, the wolf’s grip tightening,

>This furry FUCCBOI will not consume your delicious flesh

>Not today!

>You’ve got a goat to fuck over, some cringe goths to stop,, and a bunny to save-

>Wait

>NO, YOU’RE JUST BEING NICE

>NOT SAVING

>You kick and thrash your legs, forcing all those gay thoughts into the bend of your knee as your leg explodes directly into the jean-padded crotch of the werewolf

>You strike gold

>Or more appropriately, jewels

>A sudden, pained sqeual whistles from the werewolf as your tennis shoe SMASHES into his tender nuts, forever sterilizing the bastard

>Like a snare opening wide, his grip fails, and you’re free again — and on your feet in a few painful seconds

>You check to see if the snapjaw bled you

>That’d be another kick in the dick for him

>Crimson blood seethes from two sizable gashes in your pants

>Though he managed to ribbon your shirt, there’s no blood

>The beast hunches over in pain, whimpering and gagging on what must be post nut-annihilation-nausea

>You scowl and tighten your fists with all the blood, annoyance and anger you’ve got inside of you

>Which, compared to Mike, is not a lot

>But it’s enough for you to do what you’re about to do

“Herrrreeeee doggy,” you say with snarl and smirk, “be a good boy and bring your pretty face to my fist…”

>The werewolf raises its head, and for a split second you lock eyes

>This might be someone you know, who you never had problems with

>Could even be that they had no choice but to undergo lycanthropy

>Is this really the right thing to do?

>Fuck it

>You belt the werewolf in the fucking face so hard that the regret hurts more than your swing

>Bone crunches beneath your hands as pain explodes like a live wire running up your twiggish arm

>JESUS your hand is ringing with pain

>That might have been a mistake

>The werewolf stumbles to the side in a near drunken stagger

>He doesn’t fall, but slackens, just barely standing upright, a thread of drool thick like honey rolling down from his open mouth onto the cold asphalt

>You shake open your fist like it was on fire

>God. that was painful

>You think you struck bone on that one

>But Anonymous?

>You know what?

>That was so god damned cool

>you wish someone had seen-

>The werewolf stands tall, straightening its back like it was bending a steel rod

>A savage growl booms from its chest

>Its jaw drops open like a leaden weight, revealing a row of bloody teeth – courtesy of you

>The werewolf starts forward, very slowly, trembling with hate

>Anonymous, do you think its mad at you?

>…perchance…

“Mikkkkeeeee? Sammmm? Alllexxxx?” You call out, taking slow steps in retreat

>Now is a perfect time for someone to come and rescue you

>But Alex sprinted inside, drawing the other werewolf with him

>Maybe a little bit of cowardice is a good thing?

>You want to run, but you don’t have to anymore

>In one massive swing of its burly arms, the werewolf catches you in the chest, sending you sailing through the brisk morning air like a badly dressed superhero

>Unsurprisingly, you don’t stick the landing, because you land flat on your back, even rolling several times because God hates you for masturbating too much

>The asphalt doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would

>What stings more is the shame of having been caught so cartoonishly off-guard

>You manage to sit up, but perhaps that was a mistake

>The werewolf is closing the distance between you and him, something close to a smirk playing out on his face

>Welp, this is it

>You’re going to get mauled to death out here

“Listen, listen. I don’t know what they did to you, but you don’t have to do this to me. You can still walk away from this.”

>The werewolf issues a hateful growl in retort

“I know you’re in there, whoever you are. I’m sorry I socked you in the face.”

>Silence… for a moment

>Well, diplomacy was worth a shot

>Your hands dumbly search the asphalt for something to use as a last-resort weapon

>A rock

>Some glass shard

>FUCKING ANYTHING COME ON

>You come up with a good, fist-sized chunk of asphalt that looks like a burnt potato

>This will have to do

>Man, fuck what you thought before

>You are NOT going to die out here

>A very shameful part of you is thankful for the courage buff that Vanessa gave you, because it enables you to do otherwise dumb things like attempt to fight a seven foot tall werewolf with a rock

“Come closer you knife-eared mutt, I’m going to make you choke on my coc- I mean, rock.”

>And those might as well be your last words, as the wolf bears down on you, its jaw flying open to rend your flesh

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