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Order has donned his normal human attire again, his oversized jacket hiding his extra arms, and his bright blue eyes hidden by the sunglasses. Now neither he nor I can properly be seen in public, which quickly becomes an issue when we start to run low on gas.
“I’m going to pull over,” he says, spotting a rural gas station. It has an air of near abandonment, which I guess he thinks will help keep us safe from any mutants coming to hunt us. “Stay in the car,” he adds. “I don’t want you running off again.”
I say nothing, because I can’t say anything.
The pump is credit card based, which is handy because the little store attached to the station seems to be empty and looks like it has been for a while. I sniff out the window, which Order has obligingly left open for me, and I smell decay mixed with more than a little despair. I’m realizing suddenly just how worried humans always are. Order isn’t entirely human, and I can smell it on him too. He’s concerned about this, about that, about everything. Meanwhile, I am worried about absolutely nothing.
Until I am.
There’s a rumbling on the road as he starts to fill up. Trouble is coming. I know it before he does, and try to warn him, but I haven’t worked out my vocalization yet. I whine, but he doesn’t pay any attention to the sound. I don’t know if he can hear it properly. He certainly must be able to see the pack of bikers pulling up behind us, because they have come up faster than any road speed rules would allow. These are law breakers. Bad men. These are the kind of people I have always hunted one way or another.
The bikers are hairy and menacing, and their vehicles are obnoxiously loud. They make the entire gas station throb and pulse until they kill their engines and start to wait in the way a good half dozen bikers do, menacingly.
The sound they make arriving wakes up Obigor, who stares around in all directions with a wide eyed expression. He senses danger. So do I.
They could be chill and wait for a moment for Order to finish, but they’re not going to. They see a single guy in the middle of nowhere in a girly kind of car. They see prey.
One of the bikers swaggers over to Order, who in his disguise, looks like an average guy. The biker casts a glance back at his friends and awatch thissmirk appears on his rubbery lips.
I feel a growl rising in my throat, my lips drawing back in a snarl. If they try to cause my master any trouble at all, I will destroy them. My emotions are much more simple and much more intense in this form. Plus, I am starting to get hungry again. They don’t just look like big, mean bikers. They also look like protein and fat walking around on big, juicy bones.
I want to eat them.
“Nice dog!”
The biker is admiring me through the open window as I stare out at him. I can smell so many things now. I can smell beer, stale semen, and a trace of meth. I can also smell sausage and the intention to hurt Order. Wait. What? I sniff again and find the scent more clearly and quickly this time. Yes. Definite malevolence. There’s some greed, but there’s even more of a casual incentive to violence, like this man would enjoy hurting someone just for the sake of hurting them. This is a bad, bad man.
Obigor was way ahead of me on that conclusion. He is shrieking his head off, albeit while facing the steering wheel. I wonder if I should bark too, so as not to create doubt in the minds of onlookers that I might not be a real dog.
ARGH!
Alright. Okay. I’ve miscalibrated my bark. It also sounds a little too human. Also, I don’t bark, because I am a wolf. Instead, I fucking howl.
AWOOOO!
There we go. A deep, primal howl emanates from the depths of my wolf-chest. The big, tattooed, ill-intentioned biker takes several quick steps back. The rest of his pack bursts into laughter.
This makes the bad man very, very angry. He turns on Order. “What’s funny, punk?”
Order hasn’t so much as cracked a smile but that doesn’t matter, because bad and stupid go hand in hand. The biker needs more than ever to assert his cruelty, and he thinks Order is an easy target.
I want to eat him. I want to eat himso bad.
Order doesn’t say a word. The pump has finished filling the car, so he slowly and carefully lifts the nozzle from the tank and returns it to the pump station before screwing the fuel cap back on and closing the flap.
This is only serving to piss the biker off. He wants to fight. He does not want to be ignored. Obigor is still shrieking in the wrong direction, and his yaps are riling me too, the claws at the end of my powerful paws putting big scratches in the plastic cladding of the car’s interior. I used to be so proud of this car. Now it’s just a solid object in between me and this asshole’s jugular.
The biker takes a swing at order, and the smell of gross sweat is caught on the breeze as he lifts his arm, big meaty hairy knuckles aiming at Order’s face. Of course Order easily dodges the blow, moving with easy fluidity.
Again, the bikers laugh. The guy trying to fight Order is looking like a real dickhead right now, and he does not enjoy that one bit. So he lunges, closing the distance between him and my master so quickly Order cannot get out of the way.
I snarl and yap,
“What the fuck!?”
Order’s glasses have been knocked off, revealing his eight eyes to all the bikers. Absolutely none of them know what to do with this sight, and they know even less what to do when Order shrugs his jacket off, exposing an extra six arms, all the better to beat biker ass with.
He looks so dangerous, so handsome, so perfectly masterful with his dark hair blowing in the desert breeze, his blue eyes narrowed with sudden predatory intent, and his fangs dropped.
