Is the wolf in sheep's clothing?

Speeding down the highway, he was confident there was no one following behind. There were stretches of road this late that were completely empty, allowing him time to look for headlights matching his speed. None so far. Another evening of blood and terror, and he was on his way out of the state to lay low, and clean up his gear, his blades. Time to be "normal" again. Time to be a simple nomad, traveling across the US in search of himself. He leaned over to look at his darkened reflection in his mirror. His hair is long and dirty. So dirty, it was unclear exactly what shade of brown it was. He hasn't shaved in a few weeks, patches of hair covering parts of his face. His clothing is nondescript, dark colors that can be seen in different shades depending on the light. He was layered as well, not just for the freezing cold but to be able to peel a shirt off to look different. He thought of himself as a hunter with his "camo." He just preferred to hunt the one animal off limits, people.
And tonight, he had satisfied that need. Three times to be exact, the most he ever took in a single night. He will be riding this high for weeks. And then, it will be time to start the hunt again.
These thoughts were interrupted when his car was violently tossed into the next lane, the wind and freezing snow coming down harder each minute. He regained control, moving back into his lane. He needed to find a place to shelter for the night. He saw the answer on the side of the road...

Uncle Bayker's Truck Stop and Cafe
Open 24/7 5 Miles Ahead
Come Try Our Bayker's Killer Burger!!

With a smirk, he drove on.


"Turn it up!" exclaimed the trucker from Texas. "I need to see if I can head south when my 8 is over."
The TV on the wall in the cafe was tuned to local news. There were infographics with snowfall numbers, most already breaking records for this time of the year. There were images of radar scans of the massive system that was dropping snow and freezing rain across 4 states. Road closures were blossoming across the region. The map on the TV was more closed than open. Snow drifts could be seen piling up to the bottom of the cafe windows, which rattled consistently as the wind battered them.
"This storm is just getting started. No way anyone is going anywhere for 12 hours, at least," replied the waitress. She turned up the volume.
"There is no need to worry! We have plenty of food, our genie is in a shed so it's safe. We can shelter here for days without suffering at all!!" came a deep, loud voice from the kitchen. His voice was well-known amongst his regulars.
"We know Uncle. But this storm is crazy! It's huge and dropping more snow than the weather people can explain. They keep saying "It'll slow down at some point, it has to.'''
"Oh, it's just Gohone showing himself off. He'll quiet down soon enough," replied Uncle Bayker.
The truckers shared a confused expression on their faces prompting the waitress to add "Oh, he always talks about strange people and 'gods'." She said the last with air quotes.
"Nothing strange about it," said Uncle standing behind the waitress, causing her to give a small yelp.
"Sorry hon, didn't mean to sneak up behind you," Uncle told her with a friendly smile and a pat on her shoulder.
"Here is your bacon burger young man. Burned, just the way you like it." said Uncle as he slid the plate across the counter with his other arm to stop in front of the trucker.
The trucker took a moment to wonder at how quick and agile the old man was. His portly belly should have slowed him down alone, but he always seemed to get around with ease. He looked to be in his 60's, older but not old quite yet. His long, gray hair was pulled up under his cap. He knew he should wear one of those hair-nets, but he figured tucked under was good enough for his "clientele." With a smile of perfectly white, straight, and even teeth he returned to the kitchen.
The waitress picked up the coffee pot to make the rounds. She stopped at each of the few tables that were occupied. The one that gave her the most pause had a woman with two small children. She gave off every single red flag for someone running from abuse, or worse. She refilled her coffee, slipping two cookies to the children without a word. The waitress knew she needed time. Time to try to figure out where to go, what to do. Now that the storm had shut down the highway, she plenty.
The door chime and blast of freezing wind and snow stopped everyone. The door was opened just long enough for a single man to stumble in before slamming shut. He took a moment to collect himself, shaking snow from his shoulders and head. He looked to be just another of the sea of men without a place to call home. His hair was almost shoulder length and dirty enough the waitress felt better about skipping her shower before work.
"Wow, you are lucky!! That highway is closed north of here about 10 miles. The news says that the snow is so bad, lots of drivers have to just shelter in their cars. We have greasy food and plenty of coffee. Oh, our bathrooms are pretty clean too. Grab a seat wherever you want," the waitress told him.
"Thank you, I'm so glad you guys are here and open. I almost lost it a few times just trying to make it off the highway!!" the stranger said in a practiced smoothness. He tried to be just the right blend of non-threatening and friendly. People never told the cops about the nice people...
"If you have a bit more in the pot, I'd love some coffee," he asked her with a smile.
"Great timing, this one is still hot," she said as she filled his cup. "The menu is right there, but we have all of the basics - breakfast, burgers, and chicken for dinner."
He chose a table closest to the kitchen, sliding into the booth as he took off his heavy jacket. He made sure not to jostle the loaded Glock he had in his waistband. Not how he preferred to handle his business, but still the best crowd control and motivator when he needed it to be. Press a loaded Glock under someone's chin or wave it around a group, they will do anything. He still had his fixed blade on him if he had to take that step. He grabbed the coffee cup and proceeded to add sugar and cream.
"Let me get the breakfast special, eggs scrambled."
"Coming right up."
As he mixed his coffee, he took in the room and its occupants. He saw the two truckers at the counter. The mother furiously typing on her phone, muttering as she did. So intent on that conversation, she ignored her two young children. They had moved under the booth table to color on the floor, forming their own space. The chubby guy working the store register near the cafe's. Any of them could be the next "victim of..." The thought made him smile as he lifted the coffee to his lips.
"Here you go," said Uncle as he placed a plate in front of him, the sudden sound of the plate clanking on the table and the appearance of the old man causing him to choke on his swallow of coffee. It took him a few deep breaths to regain his voice.
"I didn't order the burger," the stranger managed to say as he stared at the hamburger and fries in front of him. As he looked closer at the pile of food in front of him, he wasn't sure it WAS a hamburger. There was so much piled on the burger he could barely see the bottom bun.
"You just looked like you could use one of the best hamburgers in 5 states!. This is my famous Killer Burger, named for the cholesterol attack to your heart!! Everything on that is grilled or fried!! Enjoy young man, or it's on me. Just remember to eat it all in one sitting," he added the last with a smile and a wink before returning to the kitchen.
He freed the napkin from the silverware and reached his fingers under this monstrosity and studied it, turning it slightly from one side to another, looking for the easiest way to start. "Screw it," he mumbled and went in for the first bite. Before he could really concern himself with how much of it made it into his mouth compared to on it, the flavors started to hit. The peppers, as expected, hit with hot and flavorful sweetness, the lettuce/tomato/onions giving their standard burger flavor, and then the meat. The meat was amazing!! It was really tender with an almost buttery taste to it. He found himself chewing slowly to enjoy the strange complexities of a truck stop burger.
"Pow, pow!!" exclaimed one of the two children right next to him, pointing an imaginary gun at him. So focused on the burger, he did not notice the kid walk right up to him. But, wait, why the...? He reached a hand down to cover the butt of the Glock that had slipped into view as his shirt pulled open. The brief encounter had triggered an immediate rush of adrenaline. His body was going into fight/flight quickly. This was one of the many sensations he allowed himself to feed on when he killed and he was starting to get lost in it.
WAIT! He had to calm down. Not here, not like this. He forced a smile and made a shooting motion with his now trembling hand. The kid pretended to dodge the invisible bullet, running back to the safety of his fort.
The stranger sat there, not moving for a full 5 minutes. He worked through every single breathing and focus exercises he knew to calm his heart, bring his blood back into normal ranges. He felt clammy, realizing that he had been sweating for a moment, but was now getting cold. He saw the sign for the restroom as one of the truckers, the loud Texan entered it. He got up, trying to look as calm as he could and headed straight for the same.
The bathroom, being a truck stop, was geared more for men. It was large, with several sinks and even more urinals on the walls with a bank of stalls. The Texan was standing in front of a stall singing the latest Reba/Carrie/whoever country hit and urinating without using his hands. After all, how could he conduct the concert without them?
The stranger took this in as he went to the sinks, turning on the water to splash it across his face. He starred in the mirror at his wet face. The red of his eyes seemed to stand out a bit more; he was trying to think as the singing and the sound of the urine started to irritate him. No, not just irritate, he found himself hating this man in a way he hadn't felt since his first kill two decades ago. The night he killed his drunk dad.
The stranger shook himself out of this vivid memory, quickly grabbed some paper towels and went to a stall to get away from the trucker. As he closed the door, he saw the back of the man and an image flashed into his mind... he could easily take four steps, bring his left hand around to cover the mouth, and slip his blade into the man's back.
"What the fuck?" the stranger said aloud, shaking as he found himself taking a step towards the trucker.
"Excuse me? What the fuck about what young man??" replied the trucker, not spilling a drop.
"Ah, oh, ah, not you. Sorry, I almost dropped something into the bowl." the stranger stammered in reply as he closed and latched the door. He sat on the toilet, wiping his face and starting the breathing exercises again. He had to get control. He had to calm down. He had no idea why he was having the kind of control impulses he had when he was young. Back then, you could get killed just for pissing him off. After a few close calls, he learned one of the cardinal rules was never to kill people you were easily connected to.
The trucker finished, flushed, and left. The stranger could kill him for not washing his hands, that alone would do it. An inner chuckle at his sick humor and he felt more in control again. He left the stall, checked his appearance in the mirror again and headed back to his table.
By the time he hit the cafe, he was feeling much better and in control. He walked towards his booth, turning to look at the trucker thinking to himself how lucky this man was when he walked into the back of a state trooper.
"Oof, watch out!" he exclaimed as his eyes and brain took a split second to register that his night might just be taking a turn for the worst.
"Oh, excuse me sir!! I'm sorry, I know I can be a bit of an impassable object at times," chuckled the officer, turning to greet, looking over at the stranger. "Another trapped traveler, and where are you coming from sir?"
"I was just heading north..." he attempted to reply when the power failed, throwing them into darkness.
"The genie better not be dead because you forgot to refill it!!" the loud voice of Uncle said from the kitchen.
The convenience clerk turned bright red, "There is no way I am going out into that!! I don't know if I can even get the door open, the snow is like 5 feet now!"
The stranger saw, and took the opening, "Hey, I can give you a hand. With the two of us, we can get the door cleared. We need power man, we can't just sit here in the dark freezing to death!"
The clerk took a deep breath, realizing he lost before he began, "Ok, fine. Let's just get it done. Go grab a shovel from our tools over there on aisle 5, in the back. Right past the knives."
The stranger turned to the officer that was still standing there, still staring at him, still doing what they do, and smiled. He hurried off to grab a shovel. As he moved by the glass display case of knives, he felt a chill. He wanted to stop, to take a moment to imagine them as they should be, using them as they should be. He saw several Native American inspired axes and tomahawks that he could have so much fun with. He picked up the pace and picked a shovel without really looking at it. He just wanted to get out of this section. He joined the clerk at the trucker's entrance, away from the car lot. They took a moment to button-up jackets, flip up colors, tighten up beanies. They nodded their readiness to each other and the clerk threw open the door and made a dash through it. The stranger grabbed the door to follow looking at the shovel he grabbed and its sharp, almost knifelike end and stepped into the storm.
The storm was what the news were calling a ten thousand-year storm. A storm so strong, dropping so much snow and ice that they said it only comes every ten thousand years. In other words, it's so strong we just don't know what to tell you was how he translated that. The two pushed their way into the wind, having to dig through deep snow. The howl of the wind was loud enough to drown out most sounds. As they pushed towards the shed and the genie, the repetition of taking each step into snow, digging your other out became a rhythm. As he focused on that task, he noticed that the howling wasn't just howling. He was starting to hear other noises in the wind. He could hear metal from any untied source beating against metal, but there was more to it than that. He could hear screams? No, that was the wind. But again, he could hear a sound in the wind, part of it, carried by it. And it was a sound he knew only too well, the scream of pain. The exquisite sound of agony.
"Hey, you can't use me for heat" exclaimed the clerk as the stranger walked into him. "I know how cold it is, but let's stay just cool ok?" the clerk shouted over the wind.
He felt a flush of embarrassment as he turned back and looked at the 75 feet they just walked. 75 feet he had no memory of.
"Come on, let's get the door cleared enough to get in," the clerk said as he started to dig at the snow blocking the door.
On autopilot, he started to help dig but his mind spun on the verge of going out of control. He couldn't understand what was going on. He didn't know if he was blacking out or just losing his mind. He spent years learning to control the urges, the blackouts. He worked hard to control the chemicals that his body produced when he hunted, killed. But tonight, he was still flooded with them despite this evening's earlier activities. His adrenaline was still pumping and his heart was going like a trip hammer. The breathing wouldn't do anything for him, he could feel that he was in the hunt. He could feel that his body was fully prepared to kill, the chemicals making him fast, strong, and deadly. As the snow was cleared enough and the door was being pulled open, he knew someone had to die. His body was giving him no choice. Maybe he could calm down after. The handle of the shovel felt very comfortable and looked more than sharp enough he thought as the clerk turned sideways to get into the shed.
Light flashed at his back, breaking the spell. He turned around to see the officer standing just outside the truck stop doors with his flashlight. He made a motion with his hands and shoulders. The stranger made an exaggerated node to show they were in and gave him a thumbs up. He turned and went into the dark, cold shed. The clerk was fumbling with a large gas can so he went over to help him get it lifted and poured. He remembered his burger, the one he didn't want but now was suddenly craving, yes his burger was getting cold!!
They completed refilling and restarting the genie. As soon as they were back in the cold, he saw the officer was still standing there, in the cold. The return trip, though still hard and difficult, passed without issue. They returned, shaking the snow from their clothes. As the officer began to ask something, the stranger interrupted, "Excuse me, but my burger is getting cold." He hurried to his table and sat down. His empty table.
"Ah, waitress?" he called out.
She came over, "Can I get you something else or just the check?"
He tried to remain calm as the flush returned, that feeling starting in his gut, "Where's my burger? I only had one bite."
"Oh that's Uncle's rule, you gotta eat it in one sitting. As in, no getting up. If you do, he feels that's cheating," she explained without knowing how condescending and rude she sounded.
"I had to help with the generator," he said through closed teeth, trying NOT to sound like death.
"Sorry hon, but its Uncle's kitchen, his stop, his rules. I can get you something else, but I think that was that last Killer Burger fix-ins till we get our restocks. Let me know if I can grab you anything else," she said as she walked away. He stared at her back, his hand touching the Glock. Uncle, uncle, uncle. He came to a decision, took a deep breath, got up, and headed to the kitchen.
He didn't care about the cop, the other people, he was in kill. He would use the blade, he wanted to feel this man's pain. He thought of the different places on the human body that would kill, wound, or even provide the most pain. He would have to see if he could make it last longer than a moment, even with everyone in the next room. If he had to, he would use the Glock. Take the cop, the rest would be easy enough. Trapped here, like fish in a barrel. This was not the plan tonight, but he was planning the massacre as he stepped quietly into the kitchen. He could hear Uncle Bayker humming in the back, making different sounds as he moved pots, plates. There was water running from a faucet, even the sounds of a dishwasher splashing around water.
He crept towards the sounds, removing the knife from his sheath on his waist. He made sure to get a solid, controlled grip on it. This was one of his favorite blades, scalpel sharp on one side, serrated on the other. He crept past the grill area making sure not to slip on the years of accumulated grease on the floor. He was close enough to make out more of Uncle's voice but the words were strange.
"Gdaa jiingwanitawaanaa," sang the strange voice.
The stranger came to a door that was slightly open, the voice coming from inside. He readied the knife again as he felt sweat soaking his fingers. He couldn't recognize any words and the tune he was humming sounded like folk music or something.
"Gdaa gikendanaa gikendamowaad" came the next verse.
The stranger's hand stopped at the knob, getting ready to throw the door open and surge into the room. He would be on top of Uncle before the man could make a noise. He noticed something in the corner of his eye, a reflection from the steel freezer. His brain locked up trying to understand how there was a skeleton with glowing red eyes standing behind him with its arms raised high. He tried to understand this and turn around as the first blow from the club fell on the top of his head. At this, his thoughts became sluggish, slow, and yet too fast to hold onto. He tried to open his mouth to say something when the side of his head was caved in from the second blow. The stranger was dead before his body hit the ground.
Uncle Bayker stood there admiring his kill. There were so few hunters in this modern world, he preferred to feed from the killers. And truck stops were a perfect place to let them come to him. He chuckled as he grabbed the foot, easily dragging the body to the freezer in the back of his kitchen. The one with a padlock on it, the one he told everyone had his best and most expensive meats in it. Once the door was unlocked and opened, he dragged the body past the meat grinder. The grinder he used to create his famous burger. The burger he made from killers. He tossed the body onto a steel counter, then closed and secured the door. He may be Baykok, but he liked to change with the millenia.


The End