Nowhere

Nowhere

(Warning, graphic content.  This is a story about Sabertooth from the X-Men comic.  More explanation found in the comments section.)

A blazing hot sun beat down on the lonely stretch of Arizona highway, the heat rising from the pavement causing a ripple to warp the view ahead of him.  It had been a long drive and the watery mirages which shimmered along the road were making him thirsty.  The tank was getting low anyway, so when he saw the rest stop appear over the horizon it didn't take much of a debate as to whether or not he'd stop for a drink.

Loose gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the old beater of a pick-up he was driving as he pulled into the lot, by-passing the gas pumps and heading straight for a parking spot at the diner.  Beer first, gas later.  Pretty much one of the laws of biology, really, and no sense fighting nature.  The truck's brakes squealed irritatingly as it came to a halt, making him glad he had been able to drive without so much as touching the brake pedal for the past four hours.  Sensitive ears and all that.

Slamming the door, he swore a few bits of rusted out metal fell from its bottom edge and maybe a few flecks of the faded blue paint as well.  He'd picked a winner with that one.  At least the engine had held up, but next time he'd be more choosy.  Maybe something flashier, like the red Camaro sitting a few spots down.  Something with style and speed.  A glance at the SUV sitting next to the sports car made him roll his eyes at just the thought.  No way in hell would he be caught dead in one of those ugly beasts.  Unless it was a Hummer.  The original ones, of course, not the yuppie-friendly civy versions they'd been pumping out lately.  There was a few other rides out there, but none of them any more impressive than his own.  Except less rust.

Stepping into the diner appropriately named "Nowhere", Creed paused to glance around.  Not surprisingly, there was quite a few others hanging around.  Probably because there wasn't anywhere else around for a hundred miles that you could get gas or food.  He picked up a total of twelve human scents floating around, two of them faint.  Probably had left hours ago.  A cook, the waitress, three college frat boys, a middle-aged guy eating alone — and eating a meal that couldn't possibly be good for his cholesterol — and some chick with her two bratty kids were within sight.  That left one more, who by the smell of it was in the can.  Victor's nose wrinkled at the stench oozing out from beneath the door.  There was a guy who couldn't handle his spice.

The waitress was the only on who paid any attention to his entrance and only because it was her job.  A hulking mass of muscle which wasn't exactly concealed by the plain white t-shirt he wore, he looked like he belonged on a football field, but despite the sparse clientele, everyone was too absorbed in their own business. Bunch of sheep, oblivious to the world around them.

Taking a seat at the first booth he came to, Creed stretched out one leg to prop his foot up on the bench opposite him.  They were padded, but it was worn and beaten down.  Judging by the god- awful floral print they'd probably been around since the seventies.  Better than solid wood or plastic, he supposed.

The waitress, probably pushing forty, approached almost nervously.  At least one of the sheep knew when a wolf was walking amongst the flock.  His wide-brimmed hat hid his eyes from her as he made his order, keeping it short and sweet. "Beer.  Miller if ya got it." As long as it was North American he'd be happy, but it seemed unlikely that they'd be stocking a bunch of European crap out in the middle of the desert.

Taking a moment to relax as the waitress scurried off and brought him a bottle of MGD — probably hoping to get him served and out of there as quickly as possible — Creed did his best to ignore the unholy smell coming from the bathroom.  For a guy who was used to the odour of rotting corpses, this was something beyond the pale.  As his extra-sensitive hearing picked up the sound of a few almost-explosive noises from behind that all-too-thin door, he happily sought solace in the scent and taste of his beer.

"Goddammit, did Mikey fall in or what?"

The plaintive voice from down the far end of the diner provided him with the name of the source of his discomfort, but otherwise went ignored despite the louder-than-necessary volume of the question.  The response, however, was harder to disregard.

"Keep it down, Logan, there's kids here."

Logan? Logan?! Creed's torso whipped around to look behind him, his feet sliding off the seat and into the aisle way.  How could he not have recognized Logan scent in a tiny little joint like this?  The obvious answer came straight to mind.  It wasn't that Logan.  Didn't matter, the name alone had been enough to put him in a foul mood.  Or fouler, given his irritation with the smells of the place.  With narrowed eyes gazing out from beneath the brim of his hat, he watched the three college kids for a moment, then stood, beer still in hand.

He took his time strolling down to their table, not wanting to attract undue attention.  He was a subtle guy, after all.  Draining the last drops from the bottle even as he sidled up next to their table, he lowered the bottle and sat it on the edge of the table before asking them in a gruff, but casual voice. "One of you guys own that Camaro out there?"

They'd already looked up at him at his approach, wondering what he wanted.  The question actually seemed to put them at ease.  It probably wasn't unusual, really.  Brand new, expensive car like that probably got a fair bit of attention.  The one sitting in the back laid proud claim to it.  "Thanks, now I know which corpse to search for the keys." Creed gave a maleficent grin, showing off the sharp points of his teeth while the trio gazed up at him in confused shock.

The next instant the scent of blood filled the air, though it was only a hint of what was to come.  Simultaneously slashing open the throat of the guy who'd admonished Logan about his volume with his right hand and reaching across to grab the car's owner by his wavy brown hair with his left, he quickly brought his two hands together, sandwiching the latter's face between them.  While the one guy gurgled on his final breath, the second had his nose cartilage rammed up into his grey matter.  They were both already dead and just didn't know it.

The last one, Logan, had barely responded, frozen with shock and terror.  There was a strange kind of satisfaction for Creed in seeing that, but his enjoyment was cut short by the sound of first one woman screaming, then a second as the young mother's attention was drawn from her bickering children.  Victor gave her a wicked smile and picked up his empty beer bottle.  She had some brains at least, as she was already grabbing her kids' arms and dragging them from their seats.  She had every intent of getting the hell out of their post-haste.  Too little too late.  She should've left soon as he'd walked in the door.

The beer bottle flew with remarkable precision, given it's complete lack of aerodynamics, shattering with the force of the impact on the back of her skull.  She dropped to the floor in a heap and lay still.  Not dead yet, but down for the count.  Her kids — obviously too stupid to live — stopped to cry over their fallen mother.  They were maybe six and seven.

"Harold!  Get the gun!"

The waitress' shrill, panicky voice went all but ignored.  Harold, presumably the cook, may or may not have had a gun.  Probably did, but that made little difference to Victor Creed, who settled himself into a crouch between the two children.  With one hand on each of their shoulders, he spoke in a low, frighteningly soft voice.  "Don't worry, kids.  Soon she'll be going to a better place.  ‘Course, you'll already be there waitin' for her." A quick motion and a single claw slashed through each their carotid arteries, sending blood spraying across the floor even as their sobs came to an abrupt halt.

The middle-aged guy was nearly hyperventilating with panic, but he was making a dash for the doorway anyway.  Kudos to him for the effort, but Creed was faster.  With a bounding leap he launched himself at the man, intercepting him a few paces from the door, landing on top of him.  Dazed from cracking his head against the ground, the man couldn't focus his gaze at the mutant squatting over him, but that was probably for the best.  Fifty-two years old he may have been, but he wasn't yet ready to face death.  Death, unfortunately, was ready for him.  Digging his claws into the man's torso, Creed spread his arms in violent fashion, slicing the man's chest to ribbons.  The shock killed him before the blood-loss ever could.

It was then that the pot-bellied cook, his greasy white apron doing little to make him look intimidating, burst out of the back carrying an old double-barreled shotgun.  Creed stood up to his full height, turning to face Harold just before the man fired.  He felt the buckshot tear into his flesh, the searing pain of a nearly point-blank twelve-gauge, but it faded just as quickly, the wounds already healing themselves. The cook stood in frightened awe as the blast had done little more than shred Creed's shirt and maybe knock him back a step.  Slack-jawed, Harold started back-peddling.  Too late. "Should've given me both barrels, Harold." He lunged forward to grab the barrel of the weapon, yanking it out of the cook's hands before slamming the stock down into the man's forehead with superhuman strength.  The sickening crunch sent another body to the ground.

Still holding the weapon by its barrel, Creed slung it up onto his shoulder like a baseball player stepping up to the plate.  He lifted his free hand to adjust his hat which, while it had gotten cock- eyed, had somehow managed to remain atop his head.  With his hat back in its proper place, Victor turned towards the waitress.  She was like a deer in the headlights, frozen in one spot as he advanced on her.  Her eyes, wide with fright, shimmered from the tears that welled up within them only to escape down her cheeks.  Unlike her tears, however, there was no escape for her.  The best part, in Creed's mind at least, was that she knew it.  Knew she was going to die and knew there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.  Couldn't run, couldn't hide and certainly couldn't fight back.

Coming to stand before her, towering over her by more than a foot of height and easily twice her body mass, Creed looked down into those watery eyes and smiled.  She didn't even know he'd moved until after she'd already felt his clawed fingertips sink deep into her belly, lifting her into the air.  With the same smooth, powerful motion he sent her flying back into the kitchen to crash against the wall.  Small, gasping sobs came from the woman's prone form even as her white and powder-blue uniform was dyed a dark crimson by the blood spilling from her eviscerated stomach.  It was music to Creed's ears.

Watching her for a long, quiet moment, Victor gave a sniff, inhaling the sweet scents of blood and fear that now permeated the small diner.  Turning back towards the far end of it, first with his head, his body then following, he walked slowly back towards where the man named Logan was cowering beneath his table.  He paused as he came up to the bodies of the two kids, their unconscious mother sprawled on the floor between them.  He dug the toe of his boot into her side and rolled her over onto her back.  She was kind of cute, but he wasn't really in the mood for that particular kind of action, so he gently placed the sole of his hiking boot across her throat and wait for her to breathe out.  The instant before she would've inhaled he quickly shifted his full weight onto her throat, crushing her windpipe.

Continuing the motion to step past her, he continued on towards the back of the diner, even as the woman suffocated behind him.  Now it was "Logan's" turn. "Y'know, kid," He spoke in his usual gruff voice, but there was almost a hint of laughter to it, telling of just how much he was enjoying the carnage he'd wrought.  "I know a guy named Logan.  Biggest pain in the ass I've ever met and the little shit just won't die."  

He stopped as he came up next to the table, knowing full well that the frat boy was cowering beneath it.  Hiding behind his dead buddies, no less, the smell of urine marking him as clear as day.  How sad was that?  Crouching down to balance on the balls of his feet, Creed set the shotgun down behind him then hunkered down low enough that he could see the collegiate's face.  The wide-eyed terror was quite satisfying.  "I can't begin to tell you how much I hate that name."

"Y-you k-k-killed them... ‘cause you hate m-my name?"

Disbelief filled his voice, but even it was washed under by the raw fear that filled him.  It smelled glorious.  Grinning, Creed snatched the young man by his ankle and dragged him out into the open.  Kicking and screaming was a lot more than a simple allegory in this case, as Logan did his best to cling to the table's single, central leg.  Still, his desire to remain beneath the false protection of the table was far outweighed by Creed's feral might and there was little contest in bringing him out into the light.  Victor gave that wicked grin again as he jabbed his clawed fingertips into Logan's chest and stood, hefting the man up into the air.  "Naw," He laughed, a sound that came out more like a growl.  "I would've killed ‘em all anyway.  I just would've waited until after a couple more beers."

A quick swipe from the claws of his free hand was followed by a equally fast back-slash, promptly reducing Logan's face to a bloody — screaming — mess.  A moment later he slammed the kid back-first into the floor with enough force to break several ribs.  The audible crunching sound was accompanied by a spray of blood erupting from his mouth.  The young man wasn't dead just yet, but he soon would be.  Creed saw no reason to speed the process.

Retrieving the shotgun, Creed stood back up and let out a deep breath.  He felt better now, but there was still one loose end to tie up.  He sauntered over to the bathroom, his clothing torn up and stained with blood both his own and that of others.  The flimsy door was still shut tight, but Creed could hear the rapid, heavy breathing from within.  All those screams, the gunshot, the crashing and banging around... and this guy was content to hide on the crapper.  At least he hadn't made a mess of his pants like the other one had.

Leaning close to the door, Creed spoke in a loud whisper, as though he were telling a secret when no one else was around.  "Hey, Mike, you in there?"

"... Yeah?"

The voice wavered, unsure if he should speak.  He still wasn't willing to unlock the door, like it would've mattered.  "Lean close to the door, I need to ask you something."  There was a moment of silence, then faint sounds of movement before any spoken response.

"O-okay... "

"What d'you say when you claim the front passenger seat?" There was another long pause, partially from confusion, partially from trying to figure out what he was talking about, but the kid finally came up with the answer.

"Shotgun?"

"Heh.  Exactly." Lifting the barrel of the shotgun to aim it point blank at the door, he pulled the trigger for the second chambered round.  The twelve-gauge buckshot tore through the door in a heartbeat and then through Mike, only a few inches behind it.  Creed cracked up laughing, discarding the weapon as he stood.  "Now that's comedy." Still chuckling, Victor made his way back towards the kitchen, the carnage around him not even earning a glance.

Ten minutes later he was back on the road with a bottle of beer in his hand, glad that he'd brought an extra set of clothing.  He wouldn't want to get blood all over the interior of his new Camaro, after all.  At least not yet.