A/N: This is the much-lauded Hunter story I'm trying to get going. Want in? Drop me a line.
Hunter: the Reckoning- Nightmare
Chapter 1
I never expected this, not in the least. There I was, standing behind the counter in the dying days of summer at the diner where I worked. I was trying to work up some money for college working at this grease pit on the edge of town -and I use that term liberally- near the interstate. It wasn't pleasant in the least... the place was little more than a deep fryer, a few gas pumps and some whores waiting around outside. The only people that came by were truckers. The pay was crappy, but there were plenty of hours. So, at any rate, I was there, late Tuesday night, dreaming of far away college and its beautiful women. It was pouring like something else, and there were only a few people in the place. A couple of the hookers had come inside for a cup of coffee, but most of them had gone home. A few truckers sat in stalls, looking outside. It was near midnight, and my shift had been done for ten minutes. I had been grumbling for twenty, but the owner (stereotypically named Red, no less) wouldn't let me go.
So I'm standing there, staring at the cash machine with blurry eyes, right. I look up, and there's a trucker just walking in. I really couldn't have cared less. I'm practically asleep on my feet, and my vision drifts back down to the machine. Suddenly, the numbers on the display flow together. The little green bars read "HE IS NOT ALIVE". I blink, and the message is gone. When I looked up, there he is.
I don't know how I couldn't have seen it before. The "trucker" looked dead. I don't just mean pale-like-a-cheesy-goth dead. I mean DEAD. The flesh was hanging on his face. I could see it sag. I could see the eyes turning yellow, and I could see the little holes in his rotting skin. His plaid shirt, caked in what I thought were grease stains, was actually soaked in blood. Well, not blood. Ichor is a better word. It looked like Chunky soup six days old. I did a double take, and looked around to see if anyone else was seeing what I was. He held a tattered dollar bill forward with a scraggly arm, repeating his order with a rasping voice. He asked if I was listening, but I wasn't. I recognized the bill...Sandy, one of the hookers around here, kept it as a souvenir of better times. It was a bill printed in 1920. Her father gave it to her. He was giving it to me. She was dead. I realized it before the rot realized something was wrong.
I just got so angry...I knew Sandy. Sandy was almost a friend. She hadn't hurt anyone, and this THING had killed her! It was the only way she would have given it up. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached over the counter, and I slugged it. The shock of the impact shot up my arm, hurting more than it should have. I was impressed by the results, though. The zombie went flying backwards, lower jaw sent tumbling through a window. It screeched in agony and rage, cheeks shredded and hanging limply to cover something that wasn't there anymore. Blackened, diseased gums held but a few teeth...something unremarkable for a trucker or a dead man. Everything erupted into chaos at that moment. Red was going for the Ruger over-under shotgun he kept beneath the counter, one of the whores was going for a her purse, the rot was stumbling backwards, and everyone else was dashing for the exit. They scrambled over and around each other, fleeing into the rainy night.
Stumbling into some tables, it pushed itself back up, flying towards me and Red with hands -more claws than anything else- reaching towards us as Red brought the silvery 12-gauge to his shoulder. He fired the top barrel, hitting the thing in the chest. Putrid meat exploded backwards out of the thing's chest, spraying bystanders. Its steps faltered for a moment as Red stared in shock. He fired the second barrel, hitting in the shoulder and tearing the left arm off, leaving it dangling from but a slim cord of flesh. A shard of bone jutted sharply out of the stump. Red unflinchingly broke his shotgun open, emptying the spent shells as the thing kept advancing, holes in its decaying chest closing themselves before our very eyes. I just stood there, anger growing and growing. I should have been able to do something to save Sandy, I thought. Done something, spent something... she was a good person. As the rage and guilt built up, I felt something tear. This weird fog started to seep out of me, drifting towards the Thing. I saw the angry hooker holding a flaming dagger, bring it down into its back. The fog touched it, and the rancid flesh shrivelled up and turned to dust.
Each and every second the fog came out of me, I felt worse and worse. It screeched and swung its arms through the mist, but all it did was make things worse for itself. Finally, I slumped over, barely holding onto consciousness. Through half-closed eyes, I watched the crazy bitch stab the Thing as it collapsed, legs barely anything more than bones. It's claws swung at her, driving for the throat. I heard Red's command clearly...a shout of "STOP". The Thing's arms stopped moving inches before her throat. It looked up, perplexed for the second before Red ran up and reduced the Thing's head to a smear near a crater on the floor and the hooker's blade drove into its heart.
I fell to the floor, utterly exhausted. The truck stop was silent except for the wind howling through the shattered windows and the rain and blood slopping together on the white tiled floor. I looked around, realizing just how much had changed. The place was a shambles. Our lives, for that matter, were reduced to slim shades. Odds were that we were going to be blamed for Sandy's death. Red helped me, throwing one of my arms over his shoulders and helping me out of the wrecked restaurant. He still held his shotgun in one hand as he helped me out to his pickup. The streetwalker had taken off already. I passed out just as he slapped a seatbelt on me.