The Monster's Growl

by Roh Morgon

  The three guys I threw out of the bar.

  Uh oh.

  The agitated beast growls. I shove it down and walk faster. The hunter snaps to attention.

  The truck races past me and screeches to a halt behind my car, blocking it in.

  Oh, crap. This can't be happening.

  Struggling to maintain control, I stop and look out to the deserted street. I could run, but they'd probably trash my car. I can't let that happen – my survival depends on that car.

  So that leaves only one other option.

  Damn it. Damn them. I don't want to do this.

  As the driver's door opens, my anger blossoms and both the beast and hunter strain against their bonds. Control over them begins to fail and I focus on the demented beast, trying to tighten its leash. The calculating hunter slips free.

  The spike-haired punk steps out of the open door. Walking to the rear of the truck, he leans against the side and takes a cigarette from his jacket pocket. The other two join him at the tailgate, passing a half-empty bottle of whiskey between them. The bald one with the three-pronged goatee is pretty good sized, but even through his faded army coat it's obvious his muscle has gone mostly to fat. The other guy peers out at me from beneath a six-inch green mohawk as he zips his black leather jacket. His slight build might lend itself to some degree of agility, but I dismiss him along with his buddy and look back at Spike.

  He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, though, which do their best to avoid looking at mine. I go still and wait for one of the punks to make the first move.

  Tension ripples through the damp air as the fog swirls around us.

  A nervous cough from the tailgate tells me they were expecting me to do something else, like cry or plead or run. Spike takes a hit from his cigarette, his gaze darting to the street.

  "Well, c'mon, dude, thought you said we're gonna teach her a lesson, teach her some respect. What're ya waitin' for?" The guy with the goatee looks at Spike, then takes a step away from the truck toward me.

  The beast screams in rage and slams itself around in my head. My hold on it weakens.

  "Here, gimme that. She's just a stupid whore." Mohawk pushes off from the truck, grabs the bottle from Goatee and downs several swallows, then shoves the bottle back at him.

  "Call them off," I growl. "Before someone gets hurt."

  I stare at Spike through a red veil.

  Spike shifts and looks away. He glances at his buddies who seem to be awaiting direction from him, then back at me. A sadistic gleam brightens his eyes and he smiles and looks at the other two again.

  "Go for it. Show that bitch she don't call the shots around here."

  The two at the tailgate snicker and pass the bottle back and forth again.

  "Oh, yeah. Wonder what she'd look like without that pretty dark hair. Think she'd be as beautiful as me?" Goatee laughs, rubbing his shaved head.

  "We're gonna go for a little ride, bitch. And then when we get somewhere quiet ... we're gonna make you scream." Mohawk wipes his mouth, cracks his knuckles, and steps in my direction.

  "You don't want to do this," I rumble through gritted teeth, dropping my bag.

  The beast and the hunter take over and I feel myself lower into a crouch. A guttural snarl rips from my throat in a final warning, but the fools are too drunk and arrogant to realize what they are facing.

  Mohawk sneers and advances, while Goatee sets down the bottle and starts after him, chuckling. As I focus on the green-haired one in the lead, Goatee stumbles.

  The sudden movement triggers the beast. With a roar I launch and, landing inches from Mohawk, grab him by the front of the jacket. I pick him up, yank him to me, and stare into his terror-filled eyes through the red tinting mine.

  "Uhh-uhh-uhh!" His feet hammer my shins. His impotent attempts to loosen my grip only excite the killers inside me.

  No ...

  I heave him toward the back of the truck. He hits the tailgate and collapses into a heap.

  Goatee's still coming at me, a knife in his hand. I dance in and slash him across the chest with my nails. The fabric of his jacket splits and blood soaks the front of him. He looks down and shrieks.

  The beast flies into a frenzy at the sight of the flowering red. I wrench my eyes away from the blood to see Spike picking up the whiskey bottle.

  He cracks it against the bumper and amber liquid splashes as the glass shatters. Half crouched, holding the jagged bottleneck, he backs slowly along the side of the pickup.

  I tilt my head and his eyes widen and he turns and runs for the door. But the hunter is faster. His face smashes into the window as I slam him against the truck. He screams. The scent of his blood just inches away fills me, draws me in. Overpowers me.

  My eyes fix on the back of his neck. My hand grabs him by the hair, turns his head. Exposes his throat. His throat.

  An image of my daughter flares to life, a visual barrier to the insanity consuming me. It brings me enough awareness to realize what I'm doing – what I'm about to do. With a cry I throw myself off of him, landing hard on my butt. I watch as the punk sags, then slumps to the asphalt.

  Oh, crap. What have I done?

  Looking at the three men lying on the ground, I focus on breathing through my mouth – to keep from smelling the blood – and try to regain rational thought. The psychotic beast and the ferocious hunter whirl around in my head, threatening to tear control away from me yet again.

  I've got to get out of here.

  With a last deep breath through my teeth, I leap up, run and grab my bag, then dash back to the truck. As I step over the groaning Spike and reach for the door handle, an alarm goes off in my head.

  Fingerprints. Crap.

  I fish my gloves out of the bag and slip them on, yank open the door and climb into the truck. It coughs, starts, and I pull forward enough to clear the way for my car, then exit through the passenger door. The BMW purrs to life and I back out. Mohawk, green hair askew, climbs to his feet and staggers over to Goatee who's holding his chest as he tries to get up.

  Good. Didn't kill any of them.

  But oh, so close. Too close.

  Fear and guilt war with the anger coursing through my veins. Gritting my teeth, I hit the gas and screech out of the parking lot.

  Way too close.

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