《Wailing and Gnashing》


 Prologue

    Prologue


    The chilling breeze that rustled the branches above told Cody it was going to be another cold night.


    With hands in his coat pockets, Cody scuffled down the sidewalk, muttering to himself. "Idiots. All of you. God judges you. His judgment''s coming, and you''ll all pay. Idiots. You''re all goin'' to Hell..."


    He took special care not to brush against or even make eye contact with the people he passed, for he knew that if he scared any of the young ladies out and about at dark he''d likely get pepper-sprayed. And many young men relished the opportunity to bully the homeless.


    Cody rounded a corner into an alleyway and produced from his pocket every cent he''d received that day. Upon counting out the nickels, dimes, quarters, and the occasional dollar bill, he found he had a total of $15.


    He cursed under his breath. $15 wasn''t enough for a hotel room for the night, and he''d long since been kicked out of the shelter.


    "Wasn''t my fault," he muttered.


    A man passing the alley turned to look at him. Cody kept his head tilted down and forward, but his yellow eyes rolled in their sockets to glare at the stranger.


    "Think you''re better than me?" Cody muttered.


    Whether the stranger heard him or not, he quickly averted his eyes and walked faster.


    "...Idiot... You''re all fired... fired..."


    A chill crept up Cody''s left shoulder, though there''d been no breeze to explain it.


    Footsteps approaching.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Cody snapped his head to the left to see who it was.


    It was a man dressed in a janitor''s blue jumpsuit. He had scraggly, blond hair, dark eyes, and five-o''clock shadow from just under his eyes down to his throat.


    Cody mumbled profanities under his breath and pulled on his oily beard. "What do you want, hmm?" He reached into his coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around a box-cutter he''d picked up a long time ago. He pushed up on the switch, and the razor blade extended. If this stranger meant him ill, Cody would be sure he''d bleed for it.


    And yet, those faint voices Cody always tried to ignore whispered in his ear, telling him to run. His hands shook, and he could feel his pulse beating in his own temples.


    The stranger drew closer, his eyes set on Cody''s. The homeless man couldn''t be certain, but he could swear this man hadn''t blinked at all since he''d arrived. Cody considered running, but being on his feet all day, only occasionally taking a seat on park or bus stop benches, his legs were too sore and too tired. Besides, sometimes even a man with nothing to lose needed to stand his ground.


    Cody widened his stance and readied himself for a fight. As far as he could tell, the man in the janitor''s uniform wasn''t armed with anything.


    The hairs on the back of Cody''s neck stood on end, and the only sounds in his ears were his own heavy breath, the stranger''s footsteps, and a dog barking in the distance.


    The stranger''s lips pulled back in a grin, and Cody''s blood froze at the sight. His teeth were like those of an angler fish; long and pointed.


    Cody''s call for help came out as a raspy choking sound. He turned to run, but immediately crashed into something dark and solid.


    Hands reached out and grabbed both his arms, the grip so tight he could feel his veins beating against the fingers, demanding release.


    Cody looked up into the face of his captor. Another stranger with pointed teeth. "No, please don''t!"


    The stranger''s maw opened wide, and he sank his fangs into Cody''s throat.


    At first there was no pain. Until the stranger clamped his jaw tighter and pulled away, taking flesh and cartilage with him in a crimson stream.


    Then Cody felt teeth tearing into his shoulder. The fangs hit the bone, and the jaws ripped away the flesh like a tender pot-roast.


    The last thing Cody heard before the world around him went black was the strangers'' lips smacking and tongues slurping.


    There are those whose teeth are swords,


    whose fangs are knives,


    to devour the poor from off the earth,


    the needy from among mankind.


    -Proverbs 30:14

 Chapter One Part One

    "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."


    -Matthew 5:9


    My name is Stephen Wall, and I am a peacemaker.


    Every summer of my adolescence I took that road trip with my family to Minot North Dakota, for the Woodhouse family reunion. My mother''s side.


    A most perilous journey indeed from the Colorado mountain town of Palmer Lake, for fear one might die of boredom.


    Oh, visiting with family was always exciting, sure. My grandfather''s corny and touchingly appropriate jokes were always a joy, as was the rest of the family''s more frank, honest sense of humor whenever he left the room. And, of course, adding just that extra touch, you had my grandmother, constantly giving us that look that she didn''t completely approve of that less appropriate talk she heard from us, but she was amused nonetheless.


    But Minot was on the furthest edge of North Dakota, so far it may as well have been Canada (the edge of my known world), and between Colorado''s mountains and the Woodhouse family reunions were endless fields of wheat, sheep, and corn. The land was so flat out there, that if you stared out at the horizon you felt like you might fall off the surface of the earth, right out into the blue sky just beyond the plains.


    Eternal construction slowed us down at every major highway. My father often joked the dead must have worked those roads, for he never saw a soul there. The construction zones were as ghost towns, save for the occasional police officer looking for an excuse to pull someone over.


    Finally, you''d reach the state of North Dakota, and that''s when the windows turned crimson. So many mosquitoes filled the air that we watched the green plains around us go by through blood-colored windows.


    Miserable as we were, my sister and I would turn on each other. Bickering and arguing constantly between the two of us.


    My father was certainly not inclined to hide his displeasure. In fact, he spoke in great volume about it.


    And my poor mother sat silently enduring it all. As if she were Jesus Christ Himself, enduring the cross that had become hers to bear. After all, the paradise of family lay at the end of that drive.


    One safe haven along the way kept us together for the trip. One place in the middle where we''d stop to enjoy ourselves. A restaurant simply named "Pizza Place," in Lusk, Wyoming. The owner of the restaurant was from New York, or so I was told. The way my Long Islander father described it, New York pizza was a slice of the food they serve the saints in Heaven.


    We''d pull into that town, with dust hanging in the wind, the early afternoon sun scalding my pale, introvert skin. No place to hide out here, not a bit of shade. I would have to endure that burning sun until we were inside again. All of us squinted, we''d step into the light, our muscles and joints aching from prolonged inactivity. I''d pray to see that first of safe havens on the long trip.


    I''d stretch out my twinging limbs, and when my eyes finally adjusted to the searing light, I saw the red sign with white letters.


    Conoco.


    My heart would sink at first, but I''d remember that this meant the next stop was our beloved "Pizza Place."


    Of course, the first rule of road trips was simply this: if you had a chance to use the bathroom you did it. Whether you had to or not. This preceded even packing a spare tire or making sure you had a map. This was the first of all rules.


    And so, every time we arrived I''d leave the back of the van to go use the Conoco restrooms. Which had always baked so thoroughly in the hot, Wyoming, summer sun.


    Then, as I came back out, I''d usually find the wind had picked up when it blew my long, dark hair into my face. One time, when I was sixteen, I came out to what seemed at the time to be a dust storm, because from the glass door up front I couldn''t see the minivan, which was still at the gas pump.


    I think that''s about where my bloody history began. Right there, looking for my family across a cloud of sand and dust.


    See, the road we were on that year was on the same route as the motorcycle rally in Sturgis, South Dakota.


    I couldn''t see the minivan, where my family sat waiting. But I saw a yellow motorcycle up close to the building, with "The Bandits" painted on the front. A cold chill crept up my spine as I recognized the name from my father''s old stories, and I craned my neck back to see if I could spot the rider outside and plan my way to avoid bumping into him.


    A dark shape appeared in the dust and stumbled toward the gas station doors. It was a tall, heavy-set man, covering his face with the sleeve of his leather jacket. I caught sight of his back just before he flung open the glass doors and ambled in.


    "The Bandits"


    "Probationary"


    He wasn''t an official member yet. I scooted back, toward the donut case, as he came in. According to my father, anyone who wanted to join The Bandits officially had to win a fist fight with a stranger in front of another gang member. As a shut-in, small-town boy who worked out in his father''s basement enough to look tough, but really had never won a fight in his life, a scuffle with a real gangster was the last thing I needed.


    So, I kept my distance from the probationary bandit who stood between myself and the front door. I silently prayed he wouldn''t even notice me, lest he decide I was an easy target.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    A scream from near the bathrooms snapped my attention away from the stranger, to the cold drink rack.


    She was a tan woman with black hair, wearing a leather vest and blue jeans. She held up her arms and stared at them in paralyzed terror as blood gushed forth from wounds down her wrists.


    "Sheila?" cried out the probationary bandit.


    The other customers milling about the gas station yelped at the sight. In their horror, they called upon God and cursed out loud.


    Having lost so much blood, Sheila grew faint and collapsed, just as the bandit arrived to catch her in his arms.


    "Call 911!"


    I''m still not sure who shouted it. Might have been me, for all I know.


    I just remember knocking over a pot of hot coffee, which smashed on the ground behind me, as I ran to Sheila''s side.


    The Bandit gave me a confused look as I approached. "You a... paramedic?"


    "No, I''m a peacemaker," I blurted out as I fell to my knees by Sheila''s side.


    He squinted at me and curled his upper lip. "What?"


    Razor-blade wounds striped Sheila''s wrists, though her whimpers seemed just as surprised as her husband''s slew of questions.


    I winced at the sight, then reached out and gripped her wrists with my palms.


    "What the...?" the bandit shouted, followed by a hard shove on my shoulder.


    Before my eyes, another wound opened up on her left wrist. Then another on her right. I blinked twice and shook my head to confirm that what I saw had been real.


    Sheila''s whimpers turned into screams once more, and she flailed and thrashed to escape my grip. Her booted foot caught me in the gut, and I held on tighter to her wrists.


    "I can''t let go or this won''t work!" I said.


    Her blood was warm and sticky against my palms, and the smell of copper filled my nostrils. Her flesh was cold and her bones trembling.


    A stabbing pain pierced my palms and shot up through both my arms, to my elbows. The nerves in my funny bone felt like they were being pinched in needle-nose pliers.


    The bandit flipped open a butterfly knife from his jacket pocket. He cursed at me and shouted, "Let go! Now!"


    "I''m healing her," I said. I didn''t expect to be believed, but it was worth trying.


    "No, you''re hurting her!" He bellowed again.


    I looked down at Sheila''s wrists to see if the blood had flowed back into her veins yet, but before I could get a good look, her furious husband seized me by the collar and brought my head down to the tile floor with a loud smack.


    My vision was a wash of colorful lights.


    But I held firm.


    Now I could feel the warm, sticky liquid rushing back into the gashes on her arms.


    "Harry!" Sheila cried out.


    And her husband called upon Jesus Christ in a sharp intake of breath.


    I released Sheila''s now dry wrists and forced myself to sit up. Both Sheila and Harry stared at her forearms, which were clean of all blood, with dark scars where the gashes once were.


    "It''s a miracle..." Harry breathed.


    I looked up, and a crowd had gathered around. Some holding tire irons with which to remove me from Sheila, and others with bandages and gauze in their hands. All of them stood in silence, their eyes wide at the sight.


    But my heart stopped when I saw the only one of them who wasn''t looking down at Sheila.


    He was a tall man in a tan trench coat and cowboy hat. With unblinking eyes, he gazed off, above the crowd, to the back door of the gas station. Just behind his head, my eye caught the round mirror high on the wall, showing both front and back doors. A figure in a bright red sweatshirt with the hood pulled up hurried out the back door.


    The man in the cowboy hat grinned, revealing rows of bony needles where teeth should have been.


    No... is that a gnasher?


    Though I''d never seen one, it was exactly how the book Pastor Dave gave me described it.


    My whole body shook, and everything grew cold. My heart screamed and tried to escape my chest. Terror became a jagged stone in my throat. I silently prayed, my words a begging mantra, that the gnasher wouldn''t thirst for my blood.


    I turned away from Sheila and Harry, hunching my neck and shuffling toward the front door.


    In my peripheral vision, I watched the gnasher''s reflection in the round mirror.


    His head stared straight at the back door, where the figure in the red hoodie had vanished just moments ago.


    The dust still obscured my parents'' minivan, but I couldn''t wait any longer to leave the gas station. I pushed on the door, and it flew open, caught in the wind. Dust blasted me in the face. I ducked outside and behind a pile of firewood.


    Too much sand had gotten in my eyes. I couldn''t see.


    I removed my glasses and rubbed at my eyes, trying to get some of the grit loose and restore my own sight. The wood pile shielded me from the dusty gusts. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself staring back into the gas station. My vision slowly returned to normal.


    That sharp grin stared back at me.


    The gnasher in the cowboy hat stood inches from the window, and he looked down at me with the same, hungry smile he''d had when watching the back door.


    I jolted away and ran through the dust cloud.


    At first it was a blind run. For all I knew, I could be running into oncoming traffic.


    But then I saw the minivan in the cloud, and I dashed for the passenger door.


    Terrified as I was, there wasn''t a hurricane in all the world with enough force to prevent me from slamming that car door shut and locking it.


    "A little windy?" said my father with a chuckle.


    I coughed and nodded. "Dad... can we go now?"


    "In this?" He gestured to the sand blowing all around us. Blue sky was only visible when I looked up through the closed moonroof.


    But rather than focus on that one pane of hope above, I looked instead out the passenger window, toward the gas station.


    I could see the Conoco sign above it, but not the station itself.


    "We were listening to the radio just now, Stephen... are you paying attention, Stephen?"


    I turned my gaze briefly from the window to look my mother in the eye. "Mhmm..." A forced smile, and I returned my eyes to the Conoco.


    A dark shape in the dust cloud.


    I cursed the fact that we''d left Lucky with a dog-sitter.


    In my peripheral vision, my mother shrugged and continued. "Anyway, they said this is a freak storm, came out of nowhere. And they don''t know when it''ll let up."


    The figure drew closer, and I caught the outline of a brim around the hat.


    The gnasher!


    My palms grew slick with dread.


    "We ain''t going anywhere in this," said my father.


    Through the brown dust I could see his bared fangs and unblinking eyes. My breath froze in my throat at the sight, and my brain racked itself for anything I could remember about how to hurt or otherwise deal with gnashers.


    Why didn''t I pack that book?


    The gnasher was now within arm''s reach of the minivan, and my mind went blank with terror.


    He turned to my father and just as my dad turned to look up at the gnasher, the creature squinted as if it couldn''t see, closed its lips, and tipped its hat to us. My dad gave a half smile and a friendly wave, and the gnasher shambled off past us.


    I turned my head to watch out the back window, as he disappeared beyond the dust.


    My father groaned. "You said this isn''t due to let up any time soon?"


    "Yeah," said my mother. "On the radio they said it looks like it will be a couple hours at least before this lets up."


    My father cursed and rubbed both his eyes. "Ok, look at the map, see if there''s a motel or something close by." As my mother opened up the map and searched for the town of Lusk, my father muttered, "So glad we don''t ride to Sturgis anymore..."

 Chapter One Part Two

    About half an hour later, my father and I carried our luggage into a room at the Best Western motel in Lusk Wyoming.


    Two queen beds lay in the room, which meant tonight was sure to be unpleasant for my sister, who would have to endure my thunderous snoring from within arm''s reach. Likewise, I would suffer the same sensation one feels upon making contact with dry ice every time her feet touched me.


    My father and I set down the luggage on the floor near the television.


    Outside, the wind still howled, and bits of sand and dust pelted the window.


    "What do we have to eat?" my father asked.


    "Let''s see..." my mother looked through the snacks bag. "Box of crackers... and... some grapes."


    My father rolled his eyes. "Wonderful... ugh... that means Stephen and I have to go back out for more food."


    I tensed up at the sound of my name, immediately wondering if it was safer to stay in the motel room, where the gnasher I''d spotted might find me, or safer to be on the move with my air-force veteran father close by.


    I wrung my hands and raised an index finger. "Before we go... can I make a quick phone call?" I produced my cell phone from my pocket and flipped it open.


    My father gave me such a look that one could swear I''d asked him if I could stop by Venus on our way to Narnia. "Who you calling?"


    "Umm... well... I gotta call Dave."


    "Dave?" my father repeated.


    "His youth pastor," my mother said.


    The look of incredulity on my father''s face only intensified, and he folded his arms. "Why are you calling your youth pastor right now?"


    I would have loved to have told him the truth. To simply say, "There''s a gnasher in town, and it knows I''m a peacemaker. That means he''ll probably come after me," that would have made everything so much easier. But my father knew nothing of gnashers, peacemakers, or any of the other paranormal stuff going on in the world that I''d come to understand. And, for that matter, he clearly thought I was strange, if not outright insane, and hadn''t exactly kept those suspicions a secret.


    "I have a question for him... something from the Bible I''ve been pondering."


    "You''ve been pondering?" He smirked at my choice of words.


    Annoyed, but trying carefully to watch my tone with him, lest his amusement give way to anger, I said, "Dad, come on... can I call him or not?"


    I was operating blindly here. I knew what the monster out there was, but I had no idea how best to deal with it. Furthermore, there was something else going on in this town. Something which had caused that poor woman to spontaneously bleed in the middle of the gas station. As far as I knew, gnashers couldn''t cause anything like that.


    If I could talk to Pastor Dave, I''d at least have some idea of how to handle this situation beyond simply praying to God the gnasher wouldn''t find me.


    My father chuckled and shook his head at me. "You''re a weird kid, Stephen. You can call Dave with your theological questions or whatever after we''ve picked up something for everyone to eat."


    My heart sank. I''d have to go back outside, knowing a monster was out there, with no knowledge of how to deal with it.


    As my dad and mom talked over what was nearby that he might be able to make it to even in the dust storm, I tried to figure out how I would approach the problem of calling Dave. I could just call him while my father and I were in the car, but even just hearing my half of the conversation my father was sure to think me psychotic, and I didn''t want to go back on the pills.


    Under the circumstances, though, there didn''t seem to be a better option.


    Soon, the two of us were back in the minivan, and I sat in the front, passenger''s seat next to him as he drove slowly through the clouds of gray and brown. Pebbles and bits of debris snapped on the windshield and the driver''s side of the vehicle, eliciting near-profanities from my father''s tongue. "You buzzards... for cripes'' sake..."Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    I pulled out my phone and started dialing. The beeps of each button pressed drew my father''s attention, "What are you doing?"


    "Calling Dave," I calmly replied.


    My father made a sound which seemed almost like an impression of a leaking tire, followed by an eye-roll.


    The phone rang.


    Then again.


    And a third time.


    "Hello?"


    "Hey, Dave, this is Stephen... Stephen Wall."


    "Oh, hey, brother! How''s it going!"


    "Things are..." I glanced back at my father, whose eyes were glued to the road ahead of him. "Well, they are what they are..."


    "What''s that I hear in the background?" Dave asked.


    "The wind. It''s kind of storming here," I replied. "Listen, though, I need to ask you a question."


    "Oh, of course, brother!" Dave''s chipper tone told me he hadn''t yet read the sense of urgency or dread in my voice.


    I cleared my throat and tried to lower my voice a little, in the vain hope that the noise from the storm might obscure my words from my father''s ears. "You know that part in Proverbs where it talks about people with fangs like knives?"


    At first, silence was the only reply to my question. In a lower voice, Dave asked, "Yes or no, did you see a gnasher?"


    "Yes," I said.


    "Are you safe right now?"


    "I think so."


    "Good." He sighed with relief. "Can you speak freely?"


    "No."


    "Alright, so... do you have the book I gave you?"


    "I''m afraid not."


    A sigh from the other end. "Ok, here''s what you need to know about gnashers. They feed on human blood, first of all. They usually prefer to target the poor, homeless, and friendless because they''re easier targets. So, just because you saw one doesn''t mean you''re in danger. If your family was with you, he probably considers you too much trouble." He cleared his throat, then continued. "They''re afraid of crows and ravens, because those birds like to peck out their eyes. They can be killed by burying them alive, drowning--"


    "That doesn''t help me," I interrupted. As a peacemaker, I was incapable of taking life, whether human, animal, or monstrous. I''d stepped on spiders and ground my heel down onto it, only to watch it crawl away the second I lifted my foot.


    "It''s important to know anyway," he said. "In case you get help from someone who can kill it. Anyway, burying alive, drowning, stoning, and burning."


    "There''s something else too..." I thought for a moment about how best to describe what I''d seen in the gas station before I spotted the gnasher. I snuck a few glances at my father, who was still staring straight ahead at the road, his grip tight on the steering wheel. "Is there... umm... something in the Bible that might cause a woman to spontaneously bleed from wounds on her wrists? Stigmata, or something?"


    A snort from my father.


    "Stigmata is a myth," Dave replied. "But, tell me more. What did the wounds look like?"


    "Umm..." I glanced again at my father, hesitant to answer the question.


    Sensing my hesitation, Dave asked, "Like cuts? Long gashes down the forearms?"


    "Yes."


    "...And you don''t think she did that herself?"


    "No." I wanted to elaborate and describe Sheila''s surprise, as well as the new wounds that formed, but I feared that would raise too many questions.


    "Then you should check out Revelation 9:6."


    The minivan jolted to a stop. "We''re here," said my father, a hint of irritation in his voice. "Wrap it up."


    "I''ve got to go," I said. "Thank you so much for this."


    "Ok, just one more thing," Dave said. "The gnasher is probably--"


    My father reached over and closed my phone, giving me a stern look and a shake of his head. "Can''t we just have family time when we''re on a trip? Seriously, we barely talk at home because you''re always either busy with school, off with your churchy friends, or playing video games." I watched with inner agony as he took the phone from my hands and put it in his own pocket. "Tell me something, you''ve been going to that church youth group for a long time now... your pastor explained to you why God let evil in the world?"


    "So that humans have free will," I said flatly.


    "Tchh..." came my father''s vexed reply. "So, the whole Eden thing, with the evil apple and all that, that was just so people could have free will?"


    "Exactly," I said, trying my best not to let his cynicism infuriate me.


    "So, the supposedly all-powerful, all-knowing, perfect God couldn''t find a way to create free will without making evil an option?" His brow was furrowed, and the redness in his cheeks clearly showed he was getting angry the more we talked about it. "If your pastor can''t come up with a good answer for that I''m not sure why you bother."


    I opened my mouth to offer some sort of response, but even as I tried to form the words I feared that anything I said may make him angrier.


    We pulled into a parallel parking space by the side of the road. After an uncomfortable, silent moment had passed, my father said, "Anyway, let''s go." He unhooked his seat-belt and left the van, slamming the door behind him.


    I followed suit. The powerful wind blew my hair into my face again. Shielding my eyes from the dust, I looked up at the sign above us.


    "Pizza Place."


    "Dang it!" my father shouted. "They''re closed!"


    "Because of the storm?" I yelled over the roaring winds.


    "No, because it''s Saturday. Of course because of the storm!"


    I coughed and spat bits of grit out of my mouth.


    With a groan, my father said, "Alright, back in the car!"


    I scurried back into my seat and belted myself in. Now more frustrated than ever, my father slammed his door shut, put the vehicle in reverse, and peeled out of the parking spot.


    Boom!


    Whump.


    Whump.


    Whump.


    My father cursed God, then threw the car into park and said, "A flat... gah! Come on..."


    I unhooked my seat-belt again, and just as I prepared to step out of the minivan, I saw a pickup truck approaching. As I squinted, I noticed that the driver wore a wide-brimmed, tan cowboy hat, and a bandana over his mouth and nose.

 Chapter Two

    The dust beat on us as we stood outside our wounded vehicle.


    With one tire blown out we were stranded, and with so much dust in the air it was unlikely anyone could see us.


    In the storm, I heard the song of a truck engine drawing near. For just a moment, I dared to look up at the approaching vehicle. It was a blue Toyota with a dent in the fender, and through the windshield I caught a glimpse of the tan cowboy hat.


    Holding the toolbox in both hands, I looked away, hoping the pickup would simply pass us by. Maybe, in all of this confusion, he wouldn''t recognize us. My cowering palms wept, and the toolbox started to slip from my grasp.


    My father worked at the jack to get the minivan off the ground so he could change the tire out for the spare we''d packed.


    I kept my back to the pickup truck and one hand on a wrench inside the toolbox, prepared to use it as a weapon to at least slow down the gnasher if he got out of the truck.


    As the blue Toyota slowly rolled by behind me, I caught sight of his leering eyes in the reflection in the minivan''s window. I felt his gaze on my back as if he were holding two daggers under my shoulder blades. Air came in quick, shallow breaths, and my pulse beat in my neck. My own heartbeat became a banging drum in my ears, a reminder of how delicious I must seem to the gnasher in the vehicle behind me.


    The pickup''s breaks creaked as it came to a slow halt just ahead of us. The truck turned to block the road forward.


    No no no!


    The door clicked open. My father looked up with a hopeful expression, as if he thought this stranger was coming to help us.


    But I knew better. In all this dust, no one could see us. He could kill us both in the middle of the street and none would be the wiser. I could already see the headlines, "Father and Son Mauled by Coyotes."


    The gnasher''s pointed-toe cowboy boots clopped down on the pavement, and he stepped out into the storm, his brown trench coat billowing behind him.


    All my fears of my father''s judgment and the side-effects of bygone medications melted away, giving way to one simple sentence repeated over and over in my brain.


    I don''t want to die!


    Without another thought, I dropped the toolbox with a loud clang and sprinted off in the opposite direction of the pickup truck.


    Sand whipped my face and dust filled my mouth and nose. I choked and coughed, but kept up my blind dash down the streets of Lusk.


    Behind me I heard an engine roar, followed by the screeching of tires.


    The low growl of pistons working overtime barreled after me.


    I glanced over my shoulder for just a second to see that it was, as I feared, the blue Toyota bearing down on me, the gnasher behind the wheel.


    In seconds I felt the heat from his engine touch the backs of my legs. In a panic, I dove off the road and onto the sidewalk.


    My knees smacked the concrete and the pickup tore past me.


    The shrieking of his brakes pierced my ear-drums and caused my spine to twitch.


    With a hand shielding my eyes from the dust, I searched my surroundings until I saw a back alleyway where his truck couldn''t follow.


    The engine roared again as he threw the vehicle into reverse. Then came that piercing scream of his brakes once more.


    The truck door opened and slammed shut again. As I ran down the alleyway, I heard his racing footsteps behind me.


    Still in a full sprint, though finding it harder and harder to breathe, I knocked over one of the trash-cans in the alley, hoping to slow him down. I didn''t dare look back to see if it had worked.


    I heard labored breathing.


    Mine or his?


    Hungry or desperate?


    His fingers fell on my shoulder, then immediately slipped off again.


    Laughter escaped his lips, a giddy giggle like a child enjoying a game of tag.


    Yet I could barely breathe.


    I''d never outrun him.


    Knowing this, I stopped dead in my tracks and immediately dropped to a crouch.


    His knees smacked me in the kidney. He toppled over me and crashed face-first into the dirt.


    With him on the ground in a heap in front of me, I turned and ran the opposite way, then darted down the sidewalk.


    I couldn''t run forever. I''d need somewhere to hide.


    Salvation came in the form of a glowing red and blue sign.


    "Open."


    I dashed through those doors and slammed them shut behind me.


    Inside stood the store clerk behind the counter, dozens of bikers taking shelter from the dust storm, and a few other customers. All of them turned to stare at me as I stumbled in, fighting to catch my breath.


    Good.


    The gnasher wouldn''t dare attack me with so many people watching. They might not be able to see his teeth, but they''d certainly see a middle-aged cowboy biting a teenage boy.


    The questioning looks on their faces demanded answers.


    "There''s a man..." I choked out between gasps, "...trying to hurt me..."


    From the crowd there stepped forth a familiar face. A bearded face, upon a man in his thirties with dark hair, wearing a leather jacket.


    Harry was it? The probationary bandit?


    He held out his hand to me and said, "Kid, I gotcher back," and he said a few things I didn''t completely understand. "Come over here," he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me further into the store.


    It was only then that I actually stopped to take in what sort of store this was. In the back I saw a man in a white coat behind a counter. All across the walls were advertisements with soft, calming faces and colors.


    Aspirin.


    Advil.


    Ritalin.


    Folgers Coffee.


    The street names of a multitude of drugs. Some I''d become addicted to myself.


    This was the corner drugstore.


    Harry walked me over to the pharmacy, to the machine in the back that measures blood pressure. There sat Sheila, her hair in a tangled bun atop her head. She turned to me and grinned. The dust on her face had the surprisingly flattering effect of bring out her green eyes and perfectly white teeth.


    "You found him?" The device released her arm and she rubbed the inside of her elbow.


    "Yeah, this is the kid," said Harry as he guided me to the chair in front of her and I took a seat.


    Harry sat across from me and held Sheila''s hand. She crossed her legs.


    "How''d you find him?" Sheila asked.


    Harry made the sign of the cross over himself. "Dude just wanders in, know what I''m saying? Freaking miracle!"


    He might not have said freaking.


    "Miracle..." Sheila repeated, "Another one."The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Dave had told me this might happen. peacemakers tend to do exactly what the name suggests they should. Make peace. They do so by closing up wounds. Everywhere he goes, a peacemaker will find allies.


    But still, how could Harry and Sheila, tough as they seemed, be of real help against the supernatural? "Doesn''t feel like much of a miracle to me." I shook my head. "There''s a man out there, and I think he''s trying to kill me."


    "I hear ya, kid." Harry nodded. "The store manager''s calling the cops, and we''ll keep an eye on you ''til they can make it."


    Only then did it occur to me that it would be a while before the police could arrive. Because of the storm, there were probably disasters all over town they had to deal with. "A freak storm," my mother had called it. None of these people were prepared for this just yet.


    Especially the various motorcycle clubs and gangs who''d just been passing through on their way to Sturgis.


    Now that I looked around, I noticed that many of the bikers present had the tags of different gangs on their collars.


    "The Sons of Darkness."


    "The Heathens."


    "The Sinners."


    The whole place was a den full of gangs who hated each other. A powderkeg from which smoke arose.


    Trying to keep my mind off the multitude of dangers around me, I looked for something else to focus on. My eyes spotted something yellow. A wet floor sign next to a mop bucket. The janitor dipped his mop in the bucket, then brought it out to scrub the floor.


    The janitor noticed me watching him, looked up at me, and smiled.


    My blood froze.


    Teeth like needles.


    And unblinking eyes.


    Then I caught sight of a man wearing a leather vest with a patch on it that said, "Air Cavalry," on the top and "Vietnam Veteran" on the bottom. A bushy mustache hung over his lips, and underneath those lips: fangs.


    Another gnasher stood near him, wearing a leather vest with the words "The Sinners" across the chest.


    Gnashers... Oh, God! Help! They''re everywhere!


    Another in a baseball cap and a t-shirt that said, "Jesus saved me, bro." His hair fell down ragged curls around his fearsome, piranha jaw.


    Another dressed as one of The Sons of Darkness by the candy rack.


    Another an old woman with a walker by the emergency exit in the back.


    And outside I knew there was the blinding storm, and the gnasher cattleman. I was surrounded.


    Harry and Sheila were my only hope of protection. Otherwise, being unable to kill anything, I was easy prey. But they couldn''t see the gnashers. How much could I get them to trust me about?


    "Hey, you spacin'' out on me, man?" Harry waved his hand in my face. "Or is something wrong? Spill it."


    I tried to return eye contact to him, but the predators all around me drew my gaze back to them every few minutes. The old woman snapped her walker loudly on the ground as she shuffled over to a sunglasses rack. The Sinner popped his knuckles one at a time, the sound echoing over the calming, jingling music in the background.


    Wind rattled the glass in the drugstore''s every wall. Pebbles cracked against it, leaving the tiniest of chips. A shadow passed by in the dust.


    "Honey," said Sheila, as she placed her hands on mine. My eyes leapt back to hers, and she locked on with me, saying, "You can trust us. You saved us, in more ways than you know." For just a moment, the roaring of the dust storm outside quieted, as did the sounds of the gnashers all around me. Sheila spoke to me with a tone of voice that felt like a warm blanket around my shoulders on a cold day. "Honey, our marriage has been rough lately. Years ago, used to be better. We thought a trip together would do us some good."


    "You know, bring back some old memories," Harry interjected, with a wink.


    "But until you laid your hands--" Sheila held out both of her scarred wrists to me. Both of which were only raised skin by now, all the darkness had gone. "--until you laid your hands on me, we were certain we were going to be divorced."


    Harry patted me on the shoulder. "Now, this is the part that might scare you."


    "Oh, it''s far too late for that!" I laughed.


    Harry brushed his nose with his thumb and sniffed. "No, you see, I ain''t believed in God for years. Then I see you, comin'' in... you grab my wife''s wrists, and at first I think you''re trying to hurt her. I was ready to kill ya. But then... the cuts closed up, kid. And you stand up with this... this look on your face like you knew that was gonna happen. Then you run off with this other look... like you just saw your ex or something."


    Sheila nodded, "When we couldn''t figure out where you''d gone, we came here. You know, so Harry can check me out, see if I''m ok. As far as we can tell, everything''s fine with me. Even my blood-pressure''s normal. Which it hasn''t been for years."


    Without warning, Harry pulled me into a tight hug. Despite the musky smell rising from under his arms, the embrace was surprisingly comforting. Until I looked up, past him, at the Son of Darkness gnasher playing with his pocket knife.


    My panic rushed back with a vengeance.


    But the gnasher''s eyes were not upon me. They gazed across the drug store to something red.


    I followed his gaze. It was a figure in the red hoodie. The same one from the gas station earlier? I couldn''t be sure. It seemed like too much of a coincidence.


    "Check out Revelation 9:6," my youth pastor had told me, just before my father took the phone away.


    Harry released me at arm''s-length again. "I ain''t never been so happy as when I had my baby returned to me, man. You restored my marriage and my faith."


    My eyes scanned the gnashers all around. All of them seem fixated on this figure in red. Sure, they''d glance at me, or others in the drug store. But their eyes always returned to leer at the red hood standing by the painkillers rack.


    "So, tell us, what''s got you so worked up," whispered Sheila.


    "Check out Revelation 9:6"


    Looking at Sheila''s face, all I could think about in that moment was "what caused her wounds to begin with?"


    Revelation 9:6...


    In my back pocket I kept a Gideon''s Bible, which included only the New Testament. I so rarely actually opened the thing up to read it, but even I knew where Revelation was. If I took my eyes off these gnashers I might only have a few seconds before they were upon me. Even with Harry and Sheila''s protection.


    "Hey, kid?"


    I eyed the grandma gnasher by the back door.


    Then the front door, where the gnasher cattleman''s shadow passed by again.


    The janitor gnasher glanced out the front door, at the cowboy.


    "Honey? What''s wrong?"


    Oh, God help me!


    They were hunting as a group. Coordinating the attack.


    Not only did this mean they could probably kill every person in this store if they wanted to, but it also meant that something about this person in red was more important to them than all the rest of the blood in here. Even mine.


    I had to know. I pulled out my Gideon Bible and started reading aloud, in spite of the confused looks on Sheila and Harry''s faces.


    Revelation 9:6.


    "And in those days there are those who shall seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them."


    When I looked up from the pages, I was met with confused, and even somewhat terrified, stares from Sheila and Harry.


    "Ok..." said Harry, "Where did that come from?"


    I leaned in closer and whispered. "Ok, I don''t have much time to explain this, so please listen and don''t ask too many questions." I glanced back and forth across the room, and spoke in a low tone between my teeth. "A lot of the people in this room are basically monsters. There''s one outside too. The one chasing me. But most of them in here are after the... " I jumped at the sound of the granny gnasher''s walker smacking into the vitamins and supplements rack. A bottle of Flintstones tumbled to the floor.


    "After the what?" Harry leaned in closer, his brow furrowed in concern.


    "The person in the red hoodie," I whispered.


    I started to look up, but Harry hissed, "Well don''t look now..."


    His eyes searched in the opposite direction, then at his wife, then around the store to the figure in the hoodie.


    "Why?" he asked.


    I shrugged. It wasn''t a lie. I hadn''t really figured out what the Scripture meant yet.


    "...shall seek death, and shall not find it..."


    It looked to me like death was certainly about to find her. All these gnashers about, chomping at the bit to get her blood. All they needed was a moment to strike.


    I jumped at two loud thumps on the roof.


    Footsteps?


    Or just noise from the storm?


    "That looks like a kid..." Harry whispered, glancing again at the red hoodie.


    "Oh..." Sheila gave a look of recognition. "When you said ''monsters,'' you meant... oh, geez..." She went to stand from her chair, but Harry gently held her down at the shoulder.


    He looked from her eyes to mine. "I gotcha. So, obviously, we can''t let them get ''em."


    I nodded to him.


    "Ok." Harry scratched his head. "I''ll go see if I can talk to ''em."


    "No, you won''t." Sheila held her hand to his chest. "I''m gonna go see if I can talk to the kid in the hoodie. You might scare someone."


    Harry glanced around the drugstore, "Babe..." he groaned and gave her a worried look.


    "You keep an eye out," she said, gesturing at the strangers all around us with her eyes.


    Sheila leaned in and quieted Harry''s protests with a kiss, then turned and walked toward the red hoodie.


    Harry stood and his eyes did not leave her as she walked away. He kept his gaze low so bystanders might think him merely admiring her curves rather than watching her like a guard dog.


    "Which ones are bad?" he whispered.


    I braced myself for a slew of questions and doubt, knowing my list would sound insane. "The janitor, the veteran, the Sinner, Jesus shirt, the Son of Darkness, the granny, and outside there''s a cowboy."


    But Harry didn''t ask any questions about my strange list. He repeated the nicknames I''d given them under his breath. Not even the prospect that an old lady with a walker could be dangerous seemed a shock to him. "Janitor, Veteran, Sinner, Jesus Shirt, Son of Darkness, Granny, Cowboy... Janitor, Veteran, Sinner, Jesus Shirt, Son of Darkness, Granny, Cowboy... Janitor..."


    Sheila gave the figure in the red hoodie a gentle tap on the shoulder. Pill bottles crashed to the floor in a pile as red hoodie jumped and whipped its head to look up at Sheila.


    "Sorry, I didn''t mean to startle you," I heard Sheila say. She bent down to help pick up the medicine bottles from the floor.


    Three.


    Four.


    No, as many as seven bottles of different painkillers.


    Red hoodie trembled, and I caught a glimpse of long, blond hair wisping out from under that hood.


    A girl?


    Maybe not. After all, I myself had long hair.


    Then red hoodie''s hand raised to brush back the strand of hair. I was certain that was a girl''s hand.


    What was she so nervous about? Did she know about the gnashers? Or had she simply been caught trying to shoplift all those pills?


    As red hoodie turned, I saw her face. She was, indeed, a girl. Her nose looked like someone had pressed upward on the tip, exposing her nostrils. It was a cruel thing to think, but it resembled a pig''s snout. She had a slight overbite, which her upper lip barely concealed, and her eyes were a dark shade of blue with hints of yellow around the pupil.


    Thump.


    Thump.


    The banging on the roof made me jump again.


    Sheila and the girl in the red hoodie continued their conversation. The girl in red laughed at something funny Sheila said, and the two smiled at each other.


    Harry''s eyes darted around the drugstore, from one predator to the next. His right hand remained in his coat pocket, likely on the butterfly knife.


    I pondered how much I needed to tell him. His knife would only hurt the gnashers, it wouldn''t actually kill them. Maybe he needed to know that. But would he believe me? I had told him that the people in the drugstore were secretly monsters, but both he and Sheila seemed to think I meant they were awful people who preyed on children.


    But they had seen me heal Sheila''s wounds, and believed it was a miracle from God. If they were ready to believe in miracles and the Almighty, maybe they were ready to believe in curses, monsters, and the Devil too.


    I opened my mouth to speak to Harry, but before the words left my lips darkness fell over the store. The only light was what little shone through the dust storm outside, and the calming music was gone, replaced by howling wind. And heavy, wet breaths through mouths full of fangs.

 Chapter Three

    I heard the sound of Harry¡¯s butterfly knife flick open.


    My ears caught the shuffling of feet all around.


    Across the store, the clicking of Granny¡¯s walker, though she didn¡¯t seem to be moving in any closer.


    But noise made it difficult to listen to the gnashers¡¯ movements. The noise of the murmuring drugstore customers, all offering their rational explanations for why the lights had gone out.


    A click near me.


    And light shone in the darkness.


    Harry held a pocket flashlight in one hand and his knife in the other. He shone it at my face for a moment then turned it over to Sheila and the girl in the red hoodie, who squinted at him and gave a friendly wave.


    In the shadows behind them the Janitor¡¯s face illuminated, his mouth open wider than should have been possible, and his teeth over Sheila¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Sheila!¡± Harry shouted.


    As if her name had explained everything, Sheila slammed her elbow into the Janitor¡¯s nose.


    As the gnasher recoiled from the impact, Sheila reached into her purse, drew a small handgun, and pointed it at him.


    ¡°Stay back!¡± she yelled, followed by a slew of profanities.


    The Janitor raised his hands as if surrendering.


    Crash!


    My heart tried to leap out of my chest at the sound. I whipped my head around to see that Granny had knocked over the sunglasses rack.


    Sheila screamed.


    My eyes raced back over to her to see she was grappling with the Janitor. He had taken advantage of the momentary distraction and pinned her against a shelf of pill bottles. His teeth flashed in the low light, and strings of drool stretched between them as his jaws moved to cage her throat.


    Harry dashed over, dropping his flashlight in the process.


    The light rolled and spun on the floor, casting looming shadows on the walls and ceiling.


    A sound like a steak-knife slicing a sirloin.


    I felt a chill behind me, and when I turned Jesus Shirt pounced. His hands caught my shoulders and forced me back onto a shelf. The plastic bottles clattered to the floor in a cacophony.


    Screams filled the air.


    I shoved back against the gnasher, who encircled my throat in his rough, calloused fingers. Panic took me when I saw his mouth open wide, the rows of fangs exposed and thirsty.


    I kicked him in the knee.


    He barely flinched.


    Both hands on his shoulders, I planted my feet behind me and pushed off the ground as hard as I could manage.


    Jesus Shirt stumbled back, and we both crashed in a heap on the ground. His hands came loose from my throat. I made a fist and brought it down on his face.


    I yelped. Pain shot through my fingers, making me suddenly aware of all the little bones I¡¯d wrapped into a ball and brought down the gnasher¡¯s solid forehead. I wasn¡¯t sure if the crack I heard was from his face or my hand.


    My heart stopped at the sound of a gunshot. A boom far more deafening than anything you hear in the movies.


    The crowd stampeded out the front door in panicked screams.


    I looked up at Sheila, who held the smoking gun in her hand.


    The Janitor¡¯s body lay against the wall, a black hole in his forehead from which crimson oozed out in gobs.


    Fingers clasped around my throat again as Jesus Shirt recovered his senses.


    I tripped backward and tried to kick him away, but his hands refused to release me. In my stumbling, my thumb found a glass bottle on the ground. I lifted it by the neck and smashed it over the gnasher¡¯s head. His grip relinquished again, and orange juice flowed over his face.


    Another shot. The Veteran fell back, away from the girl in the red hoodie, who¡¯d crouched down onto the ground.


    Harry motioned me over, and I ran to his side.


    The Janitor stood again and reached for Sheila.


    Sheila turned just in time and shot him in the head again, causing him to fall back once more.


    ¡°Bathroom!¡± Harry grunted at us.


    Sheila grabbed the girl by the hood and yanked her along as the four of us scampered to the restrooms at the back of the store.


    The gnashers followed suit, every one of them charging across the store, knocking shelves out of their way.


    Ahead of us, Granny tossed aside her walker and sprinted toward the bathrooms to cut us off.


    Bang!


    Bang!


    Bang!


    Three shots to Granny¡¯s chest caused her to topple over backwards.


    ¡°Men¡¯s room!¡± Harry yelled.


    The blue background and white stickman had just become signs of salvation when we arrived. We burst through the door, then kicked it shut again behind us.


    Harry turned back and locked the deadbolt. ¡°Hope that¡¯ll hold for a bit.¡±


    Sheila shook her head at him as she ejected the clip from her pistol and reloaded with a second one. ¡°I shot that guy in the face,¡± she said, her voice wavering. ¡°Twice. He still got back up.¡±


    Harry turned to me, a confused look in his eye. ¡°That¡¯s right. And I stabbed him in the chest, but he just kept coming.¡±


    Slam!


    The door shook as something (or someone) crashed into it. Outside we heard the grumbling and snarling of the gnashers gathering around.


    Please, God! Please make the lock hold until the police arrive!


    The bathroom was almost pitch-black, save for the light coming in through the barred window on the other side.


    Barred window...


    We were trapped.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Harry snapped his fingers in front of my face to bring me out of my daze. ¡°Mind telling me what¡¯s going on? Those¡­ freaks out there¡­ they don¡¯t die.¡±


    Across the room, the girl in the red hoodie shuffled off into one of the bathroom stalls and closed the door.


    I looked up into Harry¡¯s eyes. There was no use trying to hide it anymore. I had to tell him the truth, whether he¡¯d believe me or not. ¡°I said before, those people are monsters.¡±


    Harry groaned and rubbed his eyes. ¡°Oh, geez¡­ you weren¡¯t kidding¡­¡±


    Sheila stared at me with wide eyes.


    ¡°They¡¯re called ¡®gnashers,¡¯ and they feed on human blood.¡±


    ¡°Like vampires?¡± said Sheila.


    ¡°Yeah, like that,¡± I said, scratching the back of my head. ¡°But crosses, holy water, garlic, none of that stuff works on them. They don¡¯t die from stakes to the heart either.¡±


    ¡°Or bullets to the face¡­¡± Sheila grumbled.


    Click.


    All our eyes snapped to the door as we saw the handle switch from locked to unlocked.


    The Janitor has a key!


    The door started to open and a hand reached inside.


    Without another thought, Harry and I threw ourselves up against the door. It smashed the wrist of the gnasher reaching in. Harry stabbed the hand with his knife over and over, until it retracted through the gap, allowing us to slam the door shut again. Harry gripped the knob to keep it from turning, then switched the lock back into place. The lock started to turn again, and just when it was half-way up, Harry twisted it into the locked position again, as violently as he could.


    Snap!


    Something metallic broke.


    The key?


    In any event, after the break, the deadbolt stayed in the locked position.


    On the other side of the door I heard the Janitor bellow with rage.


    Harry breathed a sigh of relief, but kept his back against the door to hold it shut. ¡°Ok, we¡¯ve slowed them down a little more, but they will break through eventually. Cops probably won¡¯t be here yet. How do we kill ¡®em?¡±


    ¡°They can die from stoning, burning, drowning, or being buried alive,¡± I told him. ¡°But I can¡¯t do it. I¡­ well, you know how I can heal? The other side of that is I can¡¯t kill.¡±


    Harry gave me an incredulous look. ¡°So, bullets and knives won¡¯t kill ¡®em, but rocks will?¡±Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°...Yeah¡­¡± it hadn¡¯t yet occurred to me why this might sound strange.


    ¡°Oooookay, then,¡± Harry said, ¡°Do we have any rocks in here?¡±


    We both looked down at the floor, at the concrete floor.


    ¡°Will that work?¡± Harry asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± I said.


    From within her purse, Sheila produced a small bottle of hairspray and a cigarette lighter. She smirked, then opened her mouth to say something, but Harry groaned and doubled over in pain, gripping his stomach.


    ¡°Harry!¡± Sheila cried and ran to his side.


    Harry retched and vomited blood, which splattered on the bathroom floor and splashed up against my legs.


    I ran to Harry and held a hand against his stomach, trying to heal him.


    Slam!


    Slam!


    The gnashers were at the door again. Perhaps drawn either by the smell of the blood or the sounds of Harry¡¯s suffering.


    The stall in the corner swung open, and out walked the girl in the red hoodie, her face paler even then before. ¡°What happened to him?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I said, holding fast to Harry¡¯s stomach as he flailed and thrashed around. ¡°Sheila, I¡¯ve got him! Guard the door!¡±


    Sheila reluctantly let go of Harry and picked up her hairspray and lighter again. She faced the door, holding both at the ready, saying prayers under her breath.


    The girl in the red hoodie stood with her back against the wall and stared in horror as Harry convulsed and seized, his eyes rolling back in his head.


    I closed my eyes and widened my palm over Harry¡¯s stomach, until he finally stopped shaking and his breathing returned to normal. Stabbing pain shot up through my palms, up to my elbows.


    Slam!


    Slam!


    The gnashers¡¯ unsuccessful onslaught on the door continued.


    Sheila glanced back at Harry, joyful tears pouring from her eyes when he gave her a look that told her he was all right again.


    ¡°Did you swallow some pills?¡± asked the girl in the red hoodie.


    Harry shook his head and gave her a questioning look.


    For a brief moment, I could swear I saw a look of guilt on the girl¡¯s face.


    Crash!


    The outer wall exploded inwards and white dust filled the air. Tiny shards of glass peppered us all as we crouched and covered our heads with our hands.


    The roar of an engine pulling away.


    I turned to see the demolished outer wall of the drugstore restroom, and beyond it was the cowboy¡¯s blue Toyota. The cattleman gnasher sat behind the wheel, flashing his terrible smile. He revved up the engine, a wild look in his eyes. Those malicious pupils locked on me, and he shifted the car into drive.


    All four of us shouted different incoherent things as we scurried into the corner furthest from the truck. The blue Toyota crashed through the demolished remains of the wall, shattered the first two sinks, and finally came to a stop half-way into the bathroom.


    The broken pipes on the walls sprayed like fountains.


    With the driver¡¯s side door up against the wall, the pickup¡¯s passenger door popped open, and just under it I saw leather riding boots hit the floor.


    ¡°The children!¡± he demanded, his voice low and scratchy. He slammed the passenger door shut and stood beside the truck with a machete in his hand. ¡°Surrender the young¡¯uns and you two live.¡±


    The girl in the red hoodie looked at us with a pleading, desperate expression.


    Sheila jumped to her feet, flicked her lighter, and sprayed a stream of flame at the Cowboy.


    The sound from the gnasher¡¯s throat was more animal than human, but the suffering in that voice still haunts me. The Cowboy thrashed and stumbled around, until he fell head-first through a stall door and into a toilet.


    Steam and smoke rose from the stall, but the Cowboy was still and silent.


    Crack!


    The door bent inward around the middle.


    The gnashers would be through soon.


    ¡°Get in the truck!¡± Harry shouted.


    All four of us clambered over rubble and debris, coughing on the dust and smoke.


    Sheila climbed in first and took the driver¡¯s seat.


    The girl in the red hoodie was next, and she clambered into the cramped back seat.


    Harry gestured for me to go before him, so I did, and I too clambered into the claustrophobic back seat.


    The door crashed open, and the Sinner was the first of the gnashers to stumble in, followed by the Son of Darkness and Jesus Shirt.


    Harry hopped in the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.


    The Sinner threw himself on the truck¡¯s hood and crawled toward the windshield.


    Sheila shifted the vehicle into reverse.


    The Son of Darkness ran for the passenger door. Harry locked the door just as his fingers found the handle. The gnasher¡¯s fist cracked the side window.


    The engine roared and the truck flew backwards. The gnasher on the hood slid off and hit the ground with a hard thud.


    The brakes screeched as the truck came to a halt. Sheila jerked the wheel as far as she could to the left, then shifted the vehicle into drive.


    All of the gnashers rushed out through the collapsed wall, shrieking and jeering as they drew close.


    Thump!


    A dark shape fell from the drugstore roof, and the truck jolted up and down as something heavy hit the flatbed.


    I looked back just in time to see a gnasher in hunting camouflage crawling on all fours. He held in one hand a metal pipe. With one swift motion, he smashed the truck¡¯s back window in, sending shards of glass scattering inside.


    I yelped. The girl in the red hoodie screamed. Harry turned his head to see.


    Sheila stepped harder on the gas, and the truck accelerated. She peeled around the corner and the truck jerked up and down as its tires touched the asphalt of the main road.


    The gnasher in the back reached his arm in through the broken window. His fingers grasped at the girl in the red hoodie. She shrunk back against the wall and slashed at the gnasher¡¯s hand with an exacto-knife she¡¯d pulled from her pocket.


    Harry reached back and stuck his butterfly knife into the gnasher¡¯s forearm. The whole length of the blade sunk in, until only the handle was still visible.


    I picked up a shard of glass and stabbed under the gnasher¡¯s armpit.


    The gnasher bled, but seemed otherwise unaffected by the onslaught. His index finger and thumb caught the girl¡¯s red hood and pulled it into his grip. Once his grip was firm, he yanked on her hood, causing her to tumble forward, towards me.


    I wrapped my arms around her and held tight.


    Harry dug through Sheila¡¯s purse, pulled out her pistol, and aimed it at the gnasher.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I cried out, terrified that he¡¯d miss his target and hit one of us.


    Bang!


    The ringing in my ears persisted long after the deafening shot.


    But the gnasher fell back and lost his grip on the girl¡¯s hoodie.


    Sheila drove the truck over the curb and onto the sidewalk.


    The sudden bump threw the gnasher out the back of the truck with a sickening crack as his body hit the pavement.


    All of us took a moment after that to catch our breath as Sheila drove on, into the dust storm. None of us could see much of the road ahead, but it was bound to be safer than what lay behind us.


    We sat in silence, none of us really sure which direction we were going. We just followed the road in the stolen vehicle.


    Soon, what little we could see of our surroundings looked less like the town of Lusk and more like rural landscape.


    Harry finally broke the silence when he offered his hand to shake the girl¡¯s. ¡°I¡¯m Harry. I didn¡¯t get your name.¡±


    The girl in the red hoodie stared up at him from her corner, her face still pale with shock. The silence was just long enough to make me wonder if, maybe, this girl couldn¡¯t really speak.


    ¡°Candice,¡± she said, finally breaking the silence and taking Harry¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Good to meetcha, Candice,¡± said Harry.


    Candice forced a smile, though it fled quickly from her face.


    Harry pointed with his thumb to Sheila, ¡°This is my wife, Sheila.¡± He pointed to me next, with his index finger. ¡°And this is Stephen. We met him in Lusk.¡±


    Candice looked at me and gave a slight wave.


    I scratched the back of my head. ¡°So, I¡¯m guessing you¡¯d like an explanation for all that? You know, all that happened back there, in the drugstore.¡±


    Candice opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and merely nodded her head.


    ¡°Ok, this is going to sound crazy, but--¡±


    ¡°Crazier than what I just saw?¡± Candice interrupted. ¡°All the freaks with the¡­ those monstrous fangs¡­ and they were all after me¡­¡± She shuddered and pulled her knees in closer to her chest.


    My eyes widened with surprise. ¡°You could see their fangs?¡±


    She gave me an incredulous look. ¡°How could I not? They were enormous!¡±


    I turned to Harry and Sheila, ¡°Could either of you see them?¡±


    Harry shook his head. Sheila said, ¡°No, I couldn¡¯t. But I could see them trying to bite us.¡±


    I turned back to Candice. ¡°Usually, most people can only see the gnashers¡¯ fangs if they intentionally let their guard down. See, they put out this¡­ it¡¯s like a signal. It causes most people who look at them to see something ordinary. Sometimes, though, they turn it off. Usually so they can scare their victims.¡±


    Candice rolled her eyes. ¡°But what are they?¡±


    ¡°Monsters, basically,¡± I said with a shrug. ¡°I don¡¯t know for sure where they come from. If they¡¯re born that way, cursed to become that, or if they¡¯re made by other gnashers, but they¡¯re monsters. They drink blood. Human blood.¡±


    ¡°So, why are they after me?¡± Candice asked. Though, by the nervous look on her face, I suspected she already suspected the answer, and desperately hoped her suspicions were wrong.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure.¡± I bit my lower lip. I knew the question I had to ask her, but it was such a delicate one to approach that I had to be careful in my phrasing. ¡°Earlier today we were at a gas station and Sheila started bleeding from her wrists.¡± A look of recognition crossed Candice¡¯s face, and she glanced away. ¡°Sheila, what did you cut your wrists on, if you don¡¯t mind me asking?¡±


    Sheila shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s just the thing, I didn¡¯t cut them on anything. All of a sudden, gashes appeared and I was bleeding.¡±


    ¡°So glad you were there,¡± Harry said, reaching back and patting my shoulder.


    I saw the confused look on Candice¡¯s face, so I told her, ¡°I healed Sheila¡¯s wounds. I¡¯m what the Bible calls a ¡®peacemaker.¡¯¡± Candice flinched at the mention of the Bible, as if it were a curse. ¡°Anyway¡­ so, when I was there, I saw a gnasher there too. The one who drove this truck. And he had his eyes on you. Well, I think it was you. Were you at the Conoco earlier?¡±


    Candice tensed up, her eyes wide, as if she¡¯d been caught stealing from her mother¡¯s purse. ¡°Umm¡­ yeah¡­¡± she mumbled.


    I continued, ¡°Then, at the drugstore, I saw half a dozen gnashers, and they were all watching you. As you know, all heck broke loose--¡±


    Candice smirked. ¡°Did you really just say ¡®heck¡¯?¡±


    Harry chuckled.


    ¡°You know what I mean!¡± I snapped, now too frustrated with her to be as gentle as I should have been. ¡°You were shoplifting pills when we found you.¡± She opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off, ¡°Don¡¯t start. I know that¡¯s what you were up to, because when we were locked in the bathroom Harry started convulsing and vomiting.¡± I pointed an accusatory finger at her face. ¡°You came out of the stall and specifically asked if he had taken any pills.¡±


    A look of recognition, followed by the sting of betrayal crossed Harry¡¯s face.


    Candice shrunk back further into her corner and pulled her hood forward, until it concealed her eyes.


    ¡°Tell the truth now,¡± I said, my tone still far harsher than it needed to be. ¡°Did you swallow a handful of pills when we were in the bathroom?¡±


    For a few seconds, the only sounds in that vehicle were the howling of the dust storm outside and the occasional rattling of the partially-dislocated bumper.


    ¡°Did you?¡± I insisted.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Candice spat and swore. ¡°Yes, and in the gas station bathroom I cut my wrists. Are you happy?¡±


    ¡°But you didn¡¯t die?¡±


    ¡°Oh, this one¡¯s a regular Einstein!¡± Candice snapped. ¡°No, I didn¡¯t die!¡± She swore and cursed again.


    ¡°How many times?¡± I asked. ¡°How many times have you tried to kill yourself and failed?¡±


    Candice folded her arms. ¡°What do you care?¡±


    ¡°You wanted to know why the gnashers are after you.¡± I leaned forward, making it harder for her to avoid looking at me. ¡°I do too. Now, tell me, how many times have you attempted suicide?¡±


    Candice paused a moment longer, glancing between me and Harry. Both of us stared intently. Harry was clearly enraptured in this mystery now, silently begging her for the answer.


    She licked her lips, then finally spat out. ¡°Six! Six times!¡± Harry and Sheila both drew in sharp breaths at her confession. ¡°Slit wrists, toaster in the bathtub, pills, running car in the garage, jumped in front of a speeding semi-truck, and hanging. Every time, my injuries healed up instantly, like I¡¯m in a comic book or something, only my life¡¯s Hell.¡±


    After a moment of stunned silence, I said, ¡°Revelation 9:6. And in those days people will seek death and not be able to find it.¡±


    ¡°Is that for real?¡± Harry asked. ¡°I mean, is that really what it says?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m paraphrasing a little,¡± I told him. ¡°But the gist is the same. People wanting to die and being unable to. Candice, you are one of those people.¡± She groaned at this and buried her face in her folded arms. ¡°You can¡¯t die, and others suffer the wounds you inflict on yourself.¡± A chill washed over me as the pieces connected in my mind. ¡°And that¡¯s why the gnashers want you so badly. If you can¡¯t die, they can feed on you forever.¡± I trembled. ¡°It¡¯s why they want me, too. I can heal people, so they want me to heal their victims so they can feed on them again. Candice, you said your life was Hell before, but if they get a hold of us they¡¯ll give us a real taste of Hell.¡±


    ..........


    ¡°Behold, I set before you today a blessing and a curse: the blessing, if you obey the commandments of the Lord your God which I command you today; and the curse, if you do not obey the commandments of the Lord your God, but turn aside from the way which I command you today,¡±


    -Deuteronomy 11:26-28

 Chapter Four

    Chapter Four


    As if the stress of driving in a dust storm while not knowing which direction you¡¯re headed after having just left a town full of vicious gnashers wasn¡¯t bad enough, blue and red lights flashed behind us, followed by three whoops of a siren.


    Harry turned and looked back. ¡°Cops? We can¡¯t possibly be speeding¡­¡±


    ¡°We are driving a stolen truck,¡± Sheila said, her knuckles white around the steering wheel.


    I looked out the back window. I could see the car, but the driver was obscured from view.


    Harry put a hand on Sheila¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Relax, babe. We can just explain--¡±


    ¡°Pfft! Yeah!¡± Sheila snapped. ¡°Tell the cops all about monsters and demons. Biblical prophecy and all that stuff. At least our excuse will be original.¡± She rolled her eyes.


    ¡°We don¡¯t tell them that!¡± Harry snapped back. ¡°What? You think I¡¯m stupid! No, we just tell ¡®em some wacko tried to kill us with a machete and we escaped in his truck.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll lock us up!¡± Sheila yelled. ¡°We¡¯ll be sitting ducks!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think God¡¯s looking out for us?¡±


    ¡°God helps those who help themselves!¡±


    ¡°We have a peacemaker!¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°All will be well!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that!¡±


    ¡°Have a little faith!¡±


    Their arguing grew more and more heated, and I cringed at every insult thrown between them. My stomach felt sick, listening to this otherwise loving couple fight, and I tried to tune it out.


    All the while the blue and red lights flashed behind us. The police car followed, but did not draw any closer.


    ¡°Guys!¡± Candice finally yelled over the two of them. ¡°Guys! Just pull over! Gah!¡±


    Sheila sighed and turned the wheel to direct the truck to the side of the road. She tapped the break, and the truck screeched to a stop.


    Behind us, the police car stopped. Its lights still turned, and the silhouette behind the wheel bent down to pick something up.


    ¡°He¡¯s not looking,¡± Sheila whispered. ¡°If I floor it I can lose him.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t see jack in this and you want to floor it?¡± Harry hissed.


    In the distance, I heard the sound of two motorcycles heading our way.


    The nauseous sensation in my stomach grew stronger. ¡°How many bullets do you guys have left?¡±


    Harry raised an eyebrow at me. ¡°Five. Why? You think the cop¡¯s a¡­ whatever... one of those monsters?¡±


    I looked out the back window at the police car again. ¡°This whole thing feels like a trap.¡±


    The roar of the motorcycles drew closer.


    Who rode a motorcycle that fast in a dust storm?


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you have a gun?¡± I asked Harry.


    Harry pointed to the patch on his leather jacket, the one that said, ¡°Probationary.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not allowed to carry a gun while wearing Bandits colors yet,¡± said Harry. ¡°Haven¡¯t earned my place.¡±


    ¡°So, I carry one,¡± said Sheila, her eyes still fixed on the rearview mirror. ¡°Bit of a loophole.¡±


    The cop car door opened, and out walked a man in the blue uniform of the Lusk police department. He wore a pair of sunglasses, and covered his mouth with his hand.


    My heart raced. ¡°He¡¯s covering his mouth! He¡¯s a gnasher! Floor it!¡±


    ¡°He might be covering it because of the dust,¡± said Harry in a low tone. ¡°Stay calm.¡±


    By the sound of it, the motorcycles were right on top of us. In my panic I wanted to run from the truck into the field on our right, but when I shifted in that cramped space I was reminded that there were no backdoors in this truck. If I was to get out, I¡¯d have to climb over either Harry or Sheila.


    Or out the back window, but the not-yet-dry blood upon the shards of broken glass jutting every which way warned me of my fate should I try that.


    From the clouds of brown and gray, two dark Harley Davidsons zipped past us, going far faster than any sane person would. Both riders wore helmets with visors completely covering their faces. In a blink, they were gone, into the distance ahead of us.


    I breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, they were reckless idiots, not gnashers.


    I glanced out the back window again, just in time as the police officer took off his sunglasses and removed his hand from his mouth. In an instant I recognized his face.


    ¡°The Janitor!¡±


    He grinned, exposing his pointed teeth.


    Without a word, Sheila shifted the car into drive and slammed on the gas.


    Sand kicked out from under the vehicle, causing the wheels to spin in place for a second.


    The Janitor, now disguised as a police officer, drew his pistol and pointed it at the back of the truck.


    Bang!


    Sparks flew from the raised tailgate.


    The truck lurched forward as it finally caught enough traction to move.


    Bang!


    A second shot, but this time from much further away.


    ¡°What did I say?¡± Sheila shouted at Harry, leaning forward in the seat in a vain attempt to better see the road ahead of them. ¡°What did I say?¡±


    ¡°Fine! You were right!¡± Harry snapped back. ¡°You happy?¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°Stop arguing!¡± Candice yelled and smacked the back of Harry¡¯s head. ¡°We got bigger things to--¡±


    Whatever Candice was about to say was cut off when Sheila jerked the steering wheel to the right. The brakes screamed and the tires screeched as she tried to avoid the hazard in the road.


    I looked up, and saw two spike strips laid across the road. In spite of Sheila¡¯s efforts, we rolled right over them.


    Pop!


    Whump.


    Whump.


    Whump.


    My head smacked the back of Harry¡¯s seat, then the back wall of the truck, as the Toyota left the asphalt and plowed through the tall grass.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Straight ahead was a barbed wire fence.


    The truck jerked up and down with every bump in its path.


    Crunch!


    The truck rolled over the fence.


    Pop!


    Another tire torn asunder.


    A herd of cows scattered out of our way as we bulldozed through the fields of tall grass.


    Motorcycle engines roared.


    A police siren howled.


    The truck finally came to a stop when the bumper hit a rock hidden in the tall grass. Candice and I smacked against the backs of the seats in front of us, and then against the truck¡¯s back wall.


    Harry pushed open the door and fell out.


    Sheila did the same, but landed on her feet.


    Candice started climbing over the space between the seats, and I did what I could to help get her foot untangled from the upholstery.


    Once she was out of the way, I started my attempt to climb out, squeezing through the narrow spaces. The center console caved in under my weight, and my chin hit the stick shift. The horn wailed when my knee hit it, and I tumbled out of the vehicle on the passenger side, landing on my face in the grass.


    Harry reached down and picked up a rock the size of his fist. He tossed it to himself a few times, and stared at the approaching bikers.


    When I finally managed to clamber to my feet, Harry pulled back and chucked the stone, like a baseball.


    Crack!


    I looked up as one of the bikers flew backwards off his motorcycle and smacked down on the gravel behind him. The bike sailed forward on its own for a moment, then fell to one side and spun out of control.


    On the other side of the truck, I heard Sheila spray another plume of flames at the other biker. When I turned my head, the other gnasher blew past her, shielding himself from the fire with his arm.


    The fallen biker, in the Sons of Darkness jacket, pushed himself off the ground and sat upright.


    Harry picked up another fist-sized stone from the ground and charged at him.


    Before the Son of Darkness was fully to his feet, Harry tackled him and smacked the rock against the visor of his helmet, splitting it in two.


    The Son of Darkness wrestled with Harry, but the bandit forced the gnasher¡¯s hands away and smacked him again with the rock, this time breaking through the visor.


    Desperate, the Son of Darkness seized Harry¡¯s throat and squeezed.


    Harry brought the rock down again, this time on the gnasher¡¯s exposed face.


    The Son of Darkness went limp, but Harry wasn¡¯t satisfied. He beat him over and over again with the stone, a savage holler escaping the back of his throat.


    The other biker, in the Sinners jacket, had disappeared into the dust in the distance. But we heard his engine rev as he turned around and came back. He kept one hand on the handlebars, but in his other he held a meat hook.


    Sheila dropped her bottle of hairspray, drew her gun, and fired at him three times.


    The third shot tore his front tire. The bike flipped, throwing the gnasher forward.


    Sheila and Candice tumbled out of the way as the Sinner crashed onto the ground, bounced, rolled, and finally came to a stop.


    The police car pulled up in front of Harry, who was still staggering after his last fight. Illuminated in blue and red lights, the Janitor stepped out of the vehicle, drew his pistol, and pointed at Harry.


    Bang!


    Harry fell flat on his back.


    Sheila and I both screamed, and she started toward her husband.


    Then, to my shock, Harry rolled up and grasped his thigh with both hands, groaning and shouting. Blood gushed from a hole in his thigh.


    The Janitor pointed his gun at Sheila. ¡°Stop!¡± She stopped dead in her tracks, her face pale with terror.


    Where had Candice gone?


    The Janitor turned to me. ¡°Come on, now, heal your friend.¡± He walked closer to Harry, though he was sure to stay just out of arm¡¯s reach. ¡°He¡¯s been shot in the femoral artery. If you don¡¯t act soon he¡¯ll die.¡±


    The gnasher didn¡¯t even pretend this wasn¡¯t a trap, but I couldn¡¯t help myself. If there was even the slightest chance of saving Harry¡¯s life I needed to take it.


    As I approached, I heard the sound of another engine drawing near. Not a motorcycle or a truck. Something else.


    I fell to my knees at Harry¡¯s side.


    ¡°No¡­¡± he groaned. ¡°Run, kid! Run!¡±


    I placed both hands on his thigh. ¡°Shut up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not worth this¡­ I¡¯ve robbed, I¡¯ve lied, I cheated on Sheila¡­ I deserve this. Don¡¯t waste your time on--¡±


    ¡°I said shut up!¡± I yelled and held his thigh tighter.


    Harry groaned in pain, but I could feel the wet, sticky blood under my fingers flowing back into his body.


    The Janitor drew closer, his ankle just outside Harry¡¯s reach.


    I held fast to Harry¡¯s wound, and prayed that the moment he was healed he would throw the gnasher to the ground and kill him, like he had the Son of Darkness.


    Throbbing pain rose up my palms to my elbows. I lifted my hands just for a moment. The wound was sealed.


    The Janitor aimed the gun at Harry¡¯s face and pulled the trigger.


    The world went silent as I watched Harry¡¯s head smack the ground and a stream of blood explode upward from his forehead.


    ¡°No!¡± Sheila screamed.


    When I looked back, the Sinner had her in his grasp, and held the meat-hook to her throat.


    Tears welled up in my eyes and I stared down at Harry¡¯s lifeless body. The Janitor let out a cackling laughter, and the Sinner followed suit.


    A white van pulled up beside the road and parked in front of the police car. When the side doors opened, Jesus Shirt and the Veteran hopped out. Behind the wheel sat Granny, her unblinking eyes watching us from behind gaudy, pink-rimmed glasses with rhinestones.


    The Janitor crouched down in front of me, sitting like a frog on a lily-pad. He held his instrument of murder so casually. ¡°You gave us a good run, boy. Hey! Look at me!¡±


    I reluctantly brought my gaze up to meet his. I could barely see his face through my own tears. For so long, I¡¯d been so proud of being a peacemaker. Nothing felt better than healing the wounded. But now, the burning hatred within made me wish I could give it all up, just to bash this monster¡¯s brains in.


    ¡°This is nothing to feel ashamed about, boy,¡± said the Janitor, his voice chipper and friendly. ¡°You played our little game, and you and your friends even managed to kill three of us. You should be proud, even though you lost.¡±


    The Veteran and Jesus Shirt lifted Harry¡¯s body off the ground and carried him back to the van. They unceremoniously tossed his limp body into the back, a trail of blood leading from where he¡¯d fallen to the white vehicle with no side windows.


    The Sinner dragged Sheila over to the Janitor. Tears and mucus ran down her face as she wept and sobbed with the hook at her throat.


    The Janitor looked up at the Sinner and held out a pair of handcuffs to him. ¡°Put her in the back of the car.


    The Sinner snatched the handcuffs and clicked them closed over Sheila¡¯s wrists behind her back, then pushed her over to the back of the cop car. She struggled, thrashed, and screamed, but he forced her into the back and slammed the door shut.


    ¡°Fraid we¡¯re gonna have to cuff you too, boy.¡± The Janitor feigned sympathy, and not especially well. ¡°You can try to run again if you want, but I¡¯ll just shoot you in the leg. Or you can try to fight and we¡¯ll hurt the widow.¡± He casually pointed the gun at the police car. ¡°Or you can just surrender. Come on, boy. There¡¯s no point in fighting.¡±


    ¡°You believe in God, kid?¡± Jesus Shirt snickered. ¡°peacemakers usually do. If so, just consider this the lion¡¯s den and you¡¯re Daniel.¡±


    I had never felt so much hate boiling inside of me. I imagined smashing every one of their faces with stones. Or lighting them on fire and relishing the sounds of their screams.


    But there was nothing I could do. Even if I was capable of taking life, there were too many of them and I was unarmed.


    I wiped the tears from my eyes, and stood before the Janitor. After staring at him with fury on my face, I turned my back to him and held out both wrists behind me.


    ¡°Smart boy,¡± he said as he clasped the cuffs around my forearms. ¡°Find the girl!¡± he yelled as he escorted me to the back door of the police car. ¡°She can¡¯t have gone far. She¡¯s in a red hoodie, bound to stand out, even in all this.¡± He forced me into the back seat and slammed the door shut behind me.


    Through the window and the dust, I watched as the gnashers wandered the fields, keeping their eyes cast low for any sign of Candice.


    Please, God, don¡¯t let them find her. Please don¡¯t let them find her. Please don¡¯t let them find her¡­


    The Veteran stopped next to the blue Toyota, then crouched down, reached underneath, and dragged Candice out by her ankle. She thrashed and kicked and screamed, but the other gnashers hurried over and wrestled her into submission. The Janitor, apparently out of handcuffs, used zip-ties on her wrists and pressed his gun to her back. He said something to her I couldn¡¯t hear, and she looked up at the police car¡¯s back seat, where Sheila and I sat in silence. An expression of defeat and despair on her face, she started marching toward the car.


    The Janitor opened the door and said, ¡°Both of you, scoot over.¡±


    Sheila and I shifted, allowing Candice to take her seat beside us.


    The Janitor jumped in the front seat, with the Veteran riding beside him. He started the car, turned it around, and began the drive back to Lusk.


    The Veteran turned around in his seat to face us. ¡°Y¡¯all gave us so much trouble, but I think this is gonna be worth it.¡±


    The Janitor giggled like a little boy who¡¯d just broken a pi?ata. ¡°But it¡¯s worth it! The chase was fun, and we¡¯re set for life. We¡¯ll never have to worry about starving again.¡±


    ¡°What kinds of movies you kids like?¡± asked the Veteran, his voice surprisingly friendly. ¡°I mean, you need something to do when we¡¯re not feedin¡¯ ya know?¡±


    We said nothing.


    The Veteran shook his head at us. ¡°C¡¯mon, now. Don¡¯t make those faces. It ain¡¯t gonna be all bad. Sure, we¡¯ll feed on you as we need to, but we ain¡¯t gonna kill ya. After the first couple months you¡¯ll get used to it all.¡±


    ¡°This is your new life now,¡± said the Janitor.


    Again, none of us spoke a word. Sheila stared at the ceiling, her lips moving to silent prayers and her tears drawing lines in the dirt on her face. Candice stared at the floor, biting her lip. I glared at the two gnashers, praying God would bring down his hand of judgment to crush them.


    But at that moment, God seemed further away than he¡¯d ever been.


    The smile disappeared from the Veteran¡¯s face. ¡°Now, if y¡¯all are gonna be that way about it, looks like we gotta start out doing this the hard way.¡±


    Why do You stand afar off, O LORD? Why do You hide Yourself in times of trouble?


    -Psalm 10:1

 Chapter Five

    Chapter Five


    My tears have been my food day and night, While my enemies say to me all day long, ¡°Where is your God?¡±


    -Psalm 42:3


    By the time we reached our destination it was hard to tell exactly where we were. Through all the dust, it seemed we were somewhere on the outskirts of Lusk, in a neighborhood where the houses had fallen into disrepair. Paint chipped off the walls, fences lay broken on the ground, old cars rusted in the yards, and rottweilers on chains barked at us as we passed. Every sign we passed said ¡°No Trespassing,¡± ¡°Beware of Dog,¡± or ¡°Go ahead, make my day¡± with a picture of a hand holding a revolver underneath.


    Exactly the sort of place where the neighbors keep their heads down and stick to themselves. Some people move to small towns so they can be in close-knit communities. Others go there so folk will leave them alone.


    The Janitor slowed the car down as we approached a small, tan house with boarded up windows, a chain-link fence, two large, dead trees in the front yard, and a sign on the gate which said, ¡°Trespassers will be shot.¡± The Janitor turned the vehicle, and stopped the car right in front of the gate. The Veteran hopped out and opened the gate wide for us, and the Janitor drove through, into the back yard.


    I glanced between Sheila and Candice. Sheila stared straight ahead in silence, her eyes wide and her face a mess from crying. Candice still fixed her eyes on the floor and rocked herself back and forth. I wanted to say something, anything at all that might give them hope, but in such a situation I couldn¡¯t even imagine a reason to hope. Everything within me had turned to despair.


    When the car came to a slow stop, the Janitor stepped out and came around to Sheila¡¯s door. The Veteran opened Candice¡¯s door and seized her by the front of her sweater. ¡°You struggle, we hurt you. Don¡¯t get cute.¡±


    The Janitor walked Sheila and the Veteran walked Candice, away to the back door of the house. Jesus Shirt came to get me. He grabbed me by my long hair and yanked me out. I whimpered as the strands tugged on my scalp.


    ¡°Quit your whining,¡± he hissed and shook me violently. ¡°The more you cry, the more I want to hurt you.¡±


    As he pushed me along, toward the back door, I looked over at one of the houses nearby. A robins-egg blue house with flowered curtains in the windows. An old woman stood at the window, watching me. I gave her a pleading look, silently begging for her to do something.


    She pulled the curtains closed.


    Why did I expect anything different?


    Jesus Shirt marched me up the three, rotted wooden steps leading to the house¡¯s back door. He reached past me, and opened it. With another hard shove from my captor, I was inside the house, where my eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness.


    The first room was the kitchen. An old stove, stained dark red and brown stood crooked against the wall. There was no refrigerator, neither was there a table in what should have been a small dining room. Further in, I could see a couch with ugly flower patterns on it, covered in clear plastic. There was also a rocking chair with the same pattern, similarly covered in plastic.


    Jesus Shirt marched me around the corner to what looked at first like a coat closet, until he opened the door and I saw a wooden staircase leading down into a pitch-black basement, with a trapdoor standing ajar over it.


    I stumbled on the first step. Jesus Shirt pulled me in closer and hissed in my ear, ¡°Walk right or I¡¯ll push you down the stairs, got it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± I muttered, knowing it was better to simply agree than try to explain that I was clumsy.


    I walked carefully down those stairs, which is especially difficult when you¡¯re held by your hair and your hands are cuffed behind your back. By the time I got to the bottom, my eyes had adjusted to what little light came down through the open trapdoor. Sheila and Candice were both chained to a concrete wall by their wrists. The Janitor and the Veteran stood in front of them, satisfied smirks on their faces.


    I stepped in something both sticky and slick on the floor. With the smell of copper wafting into my nose, I tried to imagine that what I¡¯d stepped in was anything but blood, but reason won out in the end. There was no point trying to deny the horrors we were about to endure for the rest of our lives.


    Jesus Shirt pushed me up to the back wall and the Janitor bent down to fasten chains around my ankles, bolted to the wall. The Veteran unlocked and removed my hand-cuffs.


    The sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs drew my attention to Granny and the Sinner. Both descended with hungry looks on their faces.


    Once they¡¯d reached the bottom of the stairs and their shoes clicked on the cement floor, the Janitor clasped his hands together and said, ¡°Now, let us discuss a few rules. I know peacemaker blood is succulent, but it¡¯s important that you never feast on the boy. We need him to keep our other meals alive and fresh, and while he can heal wounds this does not extend to his own. If he suffers a fatal wound, that¡¯s it, he¡¯s gone.¡±


    My stomach felt like it was about to boil over, and spill my guts on the basement floor, though I hadn¡¯t eaten anything in a long while.


    The Janitor continued. ¡°The two females here are the ones we¡¯ll be feasting on every day. Any time you feed on either of them, make sure the peacemaker is standing by to heal the woman. Any time we bite the girl, the woman will probably bleed for it. Then again,¡± he chuckled, ¡°I suppose it¡¯s possible the neighbors might bleed instead.¡±


    All of the gnashers giggled.


    Candice choked out a sob.


    My skin crawled.


    ¡°If the boy here refuses to heal the woman, beat him,¡± said the Janitor. ¡°In the stomach, on his legs and arms, never the head. If he still refuses to heal her, beat the girl next. Oh! And don¡¯t forget to give them food and water once a day. Any more than that and they¡¯ll refuse it, but give it only once a day and they¡¯ll be hungry enough to eat out of your hands. If we take good care of these three, we should be set for life, and have just enough variety to avoid boredom. Any questions?¡±


    Jesus Shirt waved to get the Janitor¡¯s attention, then folded his arms. ¡°Does this mean we can¡¯t hunt anymore?¡±


    The Janitor waved a dismissive hand. ¡°No, of course not. We can still hunt all we want, as usual. This just means we don¡¯t have to. Our survival is secured.¡±


    Granny raised her hand. The Janitor grunted in irritation and pointed to her. ¡°Can we feed now?¡± she asked, her voice like worn leather. ¡°I¡¯m hungry, and we haven¡¯t eaten since the cop at the drugstore.¡±


    The Janitor shook his head. ¡°Let¡¯s not feed on these two just yet. Remember, we have the man who tried to defend them in the van still? Bring him here, and we¡¯ll drink him dry.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°No!¡± Sheila screamed, suddenly snapping out of her trance. ¡°Please, no! Don¡¯t!¡±


    The Janitor turned to her and snickered. ¡°Looks like I found a nerve.¡± He pointed to the Veteran and the Sinner. ¡°Go get his body and bring it here. We¡¯ll make her watch.¡±


    As the two of them ascended the staircase, laughing to themselves, Granny walked over to Sheila and grasped her face in her gnarled, talon-like hands. Her long, painted nails lightly clawed at Sheila¡¯s skin. ¡°Make no mistake, honey,¡± hissed Granny, ¡°you will watch this.¡±


    Sheila flinched and tried to pull away from Granny, but the gnasher held onto her, grinning wider every time Sheila fought and failed.


    Candice kicked Granny¡¯s leg out from under her. The old gnasher stumbled for a moment, then turned and smacked Candice across the cheek with the back of her hand. Both Sheila and Candice grunted in pain.


    The Janitor lunged at Candice and seized her by the hair. He jerked her back and forth, eliciting more sounds of pain from both her and Sheila. ¡°Don¡¯t try that again!¡± he snarled. ¡°Next time, we¡¯ll hurt you worse.¡±


    Candice spat in his face.


    Footsteps resounded from the top of the staircase as the Veteran and Sinner started their descent, bringing Harry¡¯s body with them.


    ¡°No, God, please, no¡­¡± Sheila pleaded through sobs.


    I shouted every profanity I knew at the gnashers, and pulled against my chains. Having grown up on stories of Samson, whom God had given abnormal strength, and such movies as Disney¡¯s Hunchback of Notre Dame, there was a faint part of me that held out hope that I¡¯d somehow find the strength to break the chains, or tear the bolt from the concrete wall.


    ¡°Oh ho?¡± Jesus Shirt mocked. ¡°Are you actually trying to escape?¡±


    The Janitor strolled over to me. ¡°Oh, this ought to be good.¡±


    I stretched out for him, but found he was just outside the reach of my fingertips.


    ¡°You¡¯re cute, kid. You know that?¡± said the Janitor. He reached into his pocket and produced a keyring. He held it out on the tip of his index finger, dangling it in front of me. ¡°Tell you what, if you can make the bolt in that wall move just enough to get your hands on the keys you get to choose one person to unlock. Yourself, the woman, or the girl. Everyone else stays. Sound fair?¡±


    While the Janitor mocked me, Granny held Sheila¡¯s face again and forced her eyelids open. The other gnashers gathered around Harry¡¯s body, each taking a limb in their hands and opening wide their fang-filled jaws.


    Sheila wailed. ¡°Stop! No! No!¡± She fought against Granny¡¯s grip. The gnasher¡¯s long nails slipped and jabbed Sheila in the eyes. She screamed as blood oozed from her slashed irises. Granny cursed Sheila for ruining her game.


    I roared and yanked against the chains with all my might. The steel edges of the shackles dug into my ankles, cutting my flesh and wearing it raw. But the bolt in the wall didn¡¯t budge. My fingertips fell just short of the keyring.


    At the sound of the gnashers¡¯ teeth rending Harry¡¯s limp body, Sheila bawled until her voice came out in hoarse croaks. I didn¡¯t dare look. The slurping and the satisfied grunts were sickening enough.


    Jesus Shirt licked his lips and looked up at me. ¡°Come on, now, boy. I thought you believed in God. If your faith was the size of a mustard-seed you could move mountains, right? Yet here you can¡¯t even break your chains? What¡¯s wrong with you? Don¡¯t you believe?¡±


    The Veteran stood from Harry¡¯s body as well and turned to the Janitor. ¡°You know, this man¡¯s blood is good and all, but he¡¯s dead. Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ like drinking from someone still breathin¡¯. Let¡¯s feed on the woman.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± Granny croaked.


    The Janitor carried the keys over to a hook on the wall, just beside the staircase, then reached up and closed the trapdoor. The last bit of light left in my world was gone, and all around me was pure darkness. I was blind.


    In the void I heard the gnashers shuffling their feet and gathering around Sheila. No sounds came from her, except for ragged breathing.


    Strong, calloused fingers clasped my wrist and brought my right hand out to rest on Sheila¡¯s shoulder. The Veteran¡¯s voice said, ¡°If ya don¡¯t heal her, she¡¯s gonna die.¡±


    Then there was that terrible sound of the gnashers¡¯ teeth rending her flesh, grinding against her bones. She gasped and sobbed, but had no voice left to scream anymore. Candice and I were the only ones screaming. Sheila¡¯s warm blood poured over my hands, leaking between my fingers.


    But I had resolved myself. I wasn¡¯t going to do their bidding for them. The blessing I had, the ability to heal people, it was to create peace, not to keep someone trapped in this sort of Hell. She¡¯d lost her husband, and now these monsters fed on her in the dark, a dungeon from which she¡¯d never escape. By now, I couldn¡¯t imagine she still wanted to live.


    So, though my hand never left her shoulder, I refused to heal her. I held back the warmth from within me, and let them feast upon her, praying they wouldn¡¯t notice that I had chosen to let her die. This seemed far more merciful than prolonging her suffering. And, maybe, if they saw that I wouldn¡¯t heal people for them they¡¯d decide they had no more use for me, and end my life too. I hated to leave Candice behind in all of this, but there was nothing I could do for her anymore.


    The slurping and chomping continued on, with gasps and moans of delight from the twisted, evil creatures.


    After several minutes, the Janitor let out a shocked gasp. ¡°No pulse! No pulse! She¡¯s dead!¡±


    Harsh fingers yanked my hair again and jerked my head back and forth. ¡°You think this is funny?¡± Jesus Shirt roared. ¡°She¡¯s dead because of you!¡±


    ¡°In a better place,¡± I said under my breath.


    ¡°What was that?¡± he bellowed.


    ¡°She¡¯s in a better place!¡± I bellowed back and spat where I thought his face might be.


    Jesus Shirt shoved me away. ¡°What do we do?¡±


    ¡°You heard me before,¡± the Janitor said, ¡°Beat him. Then the girl too.¡±


    A high-pitched howl from outside made my heart leap into my throat.


    Is that a siren?


    Then came an electronic voice. ¡°This is the police! We have your house surrounded. Come out with your hands above your heads. Now!¡±


    ¡°What do we do?¡± asked Granny, her voice betraying just a hint of fear.


    The Veteran snickered. ¡°I think we can handle a few more cops.¡±


    The Janitor groaned. ¡°Well, after this we won¡¯t be able to stay in Lusk anymore. Follow me.¡±


    I heard them hurry up the steps, and for just a moment white light flooded the basement again as they opened the trap door. Then it was gone, and darkness surrounded us once more.


    I listened to them thumping around upstairs.


    A slew of gunshots followed.


    Whatever police officers were left in the town of Lusk had come to fight the gnashers, though they likely didn¡¯t know what they were up against.


    ¡°Please, God!¡± I said out loud. ¡°Please get us out of here! Please help!¡± I begged over and over, repeating those words as a mantra. My fate was so far from my hands now, it was in the grasp of those who had never seen gnashers before.


    A sound like thunder shook the house above us.


    Something odd wafted in the air. I sniffed, trying to discern what it was, beyond the stench of blood in that basement.


    ¡°Smoke!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Candice said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you smell that? It¡¯s smoke!¡±


    It was not just wood burning either. A stench like rotting eggs and a sour odor also hung in the air.


    Sweat beaded up under my arms as the basement rapidly grew hotter, and more smoke flowed in. Every breath felt like needles in my throat. I hacked and coughed, as did Candice.


    ¡°Help!¡± she cried out. ¡°Someone help!¡±


    I cried out too. ¡°Help! Help!¡± But after shouting twice the pain in my throat was too much, and every time I tried to yell again I choked on the toxic air all around me.


    Bits of the trapdoor started to glow as the fires burned down to the bottom. The basement was concrete, so I knew the fire wouldn¡¯t get to us, but the heat would, and soon we¡¯d lose all air.


    My vision blurred, and my head felt dizzy. Knowing I wouldn¡¯t be able to keep my balance much longer, I laid down on the blood-soaked floor. Still the room spun.


    This place, this dark, bloody basement, was about to become my grave. Terrible as that was, it was better than letting it become my Hell. Feeling I would surely die soon, a smile took its place on my lips.


    Crash!


    The trapdoor collapsed, and the embers fell onto the wooden stairs.


    In the haze, I saw a bright orange and yellow figure tromp down the stairs, an axe in hand.


    Upon the wicked He will rain coals;


    Fire and brimstone and a burning wind


    Shall be the portion of their cup.


    -Psalms 11:6

 Epilogue

    I sought the LORD, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.


    -Psalm 34:4


    I spent the next 24 hours in Niobrara Community Hospital, in the care of small town doctors.


    Most of what happened over the course of that day was a blur. I remember seeing my family¡¯s concerned faces staring at me as the nurses rushed me away on a gurney. I remember the doctors checking me all over for injuries, and applying ice to the bumps on my head.


    I also remember the last time I saw Candice as she was hurried away to a different room in the ER. At that moment, watching her disappear around the corner, it hit me. When faced with a life of never-ending suffering, I, like Candice, had chosen death. Worse, I had chosen it for someone else. The gnashers were right, Sheila died because of me. And rescue arrived just minutes later.


    I wanted to stay in Lusk a little longer. I wanted to speak to the fire fighters and see how many bodies they found in the fire. That might have put some fears to rest. Then there was Candice. If I¡¯d had my way I would have stayed another year at least to see how she¡¯d do. Would she look at her life now, free of the gnashers, as a blessing? Or would this just make her problems worse? I¡¯d never know, and always have to worry about the traumatized girl who disappeared around the corner.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Because two hours before the hospital released me, the wind died down, and the dust¡¯s wrath was quelled once more. My father and mother were desperate to get me out of Lusk. I had to beg them to continue north, to the Woodhouse family reunion, where I could take some solace in the comfort of family. We¡¯d return home on a different route in two weeks¡¯ time.


    The last thing I recall of Lusk Wyoming is sitting in the seat furthest back in the minivan, still in my hospital clothes, staring out the back window as the last, gray building disappeared over the horizon.


    At my request, my family and I never really talked about what happened in Lusk. I told them it was too painful to discuss. I¡¯m still not sure whether or not that was a lie.


    Now, everywhere I go, I see the flash of a fanged smile. Gnashers are everywhere. They feed on the blood of the innocent. They devour the downtrodden from the face of the earth. They thrive on spreading terror wherever they go. They are the gangsters hiding in alleyways, and they are the teachers at our schools. They are the mailmen who travel our neighborhoods, and they are the rich and powerful people who seem a world away from us.


    The janitor.


    The veteran.


    The sinner.


    The man in the Jesus shirt.


    The son of darkness.


    The granny.


    The cowboy.


    ¡°Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.¡±


    -1 Peter 5:8