Why Wolves Chase Us
by Damon McKinney
The young man burst through the underbrush. His clothes torn, and leaves clung to his pants. His disheveled brown hair was plastered to his forehead. He scanned the forest. A missing shoe and one muddy sock wrapped his feet. Scratches covered his arms from the thorn bushes and tree limbs. Tiny streaks of blood smeared his shirt as he ran wildly against the night. None of this mattered. His mind soaked in pure adrenaline. He struggled to catch his breath. Lights flickered in the distance, and the young man couldn’t tell how far they were. He looked towards the lights and ran.
Droplets of rain shook off McClane as she stomped into The Den. The guys sitting at the bar looked on as she made her way across the floor, leaving puddles in her wake. Nobody moved. No telling what her mood was like tonight, but she was usually full of piss and vinegar, swagger, and pomp. She pulled her coat off and dumped it onto a stool along the bar. As she plopped down, she raised a hand towards the barmaid. “Fat Tire.”
“How’s it going, Mac,” the girl behind the counter asked. She slid the amber ale pint down the bar towards McClane. A grimy hand stopped the pint and she practically threw it down her throat in one practiced motion. She shook the empty glass for another.
“It’s a Tuesday, Linda. I kill people on Tuesday.” A few guff’s and snickers escaped the guys from the other end of the bar. They’d heard it before, and it wasn’t Tuesday. Linda only nodded and slid another beer her way.
“Here’s to Tuesdays, Mac,” Linda nodded and downed a shot Jack.
McClane nodded back and drank the beer.
The door opened and there stood a young man, soaking wet and timid as a church mouse. He scurried inside to escape the weather and for warmth. And a bit of safety. “Y’all got a phone,” his voice cracked. “I, I, gotta make a call, get some help.”
“Lines are down,” Linda answered. “Storm done it.” As if that was answer enough. “Where are you coming from that you need help?”
“Down, down the mountain,” he replied through shivering blue lips. “No phone?”
“Nah, storm done it,” Linda told him again. “Mac, think you can help him?”
The boy turned towards McClane and he started to shake. She smiled and her teeth—coffee stained and cavity pocked—flashed a wickedness. He whimpered as she grabbed his arm, a vise grip of flesh and bone, and pulled him closer to her face.
“It’s Tuesday, Linda.”
Damon McKinney is an Indigenous writer from Oklahoma and he is the former Associate Editor for Likely Red Press, a former Contributing Editor of Fiction for Barren Magazine, and the Managing Editor for Emerge Literary Journal