It Wouldn’t Die

By Ryan L. Covey

I worked at a gas station just off route 20. Route 20 comes off the highway, it’s sort of a detour used by military convoys and such to get from base to base.

Once you get off of the interstate you follow route 20 about thirty five miles through empty open desert and you reach a little gas station. That’s where I worked.

I basically had the run of the whole store all night. I needed the money and Mr. Finch trusted me enough to give me the run of the place from ten PM to seven AM.

I would just sit there behind the protective glass and read a magazine, typically a nice skin rag I snagged off the magazine rack, what can I say I got needs too. I would turn on the pumps if a customer came in and paid for gas and operated the cash register if they wanted anything more. Otherwise I just sat.

It was going to be a usual night, I arrived at 10:30 and relived Judy off of her shift. Then I took stock of the shelves, refilled the drink machines, replaced the newspapers, and filled in any spots that were empty.

At 11 I sat down and opened up a copy of Penthouse I’d been eyeing all night and sat down in my chair, propping my feet up on a stack of boxes.

It was midnight when the man walked in.

He was a man in his mid to late thirties, couldn’t have been more than five feet eight inches tall. He had a round head, kinda egg shaped and he was going bald in the front, had that crescent moon-shaped patch of skin on the front of his hairline.

He was dressed up in a fancy suit, black coat, black pants, black tie, black loafers, and a neatly pressed white shirt. Clearly out of place in the desert, he looked like a businessman but I imagine he was probably some sort of traveling salesman.

To be honest I never learned his trade, or his name for that matter. He never offered and I never asked, and truth be told in all of the commotion it didn’t matter anyhow.

The first thing I noticed was how sweaty he looked. His skin was pale as the moon and he had dark red circles around the bottom of his eyes, he was panting madly and his hair clung to his neck.

His suit and pants were wrinkled, his tie loosened, and the first two buttons on his shirt had been torn clean off. This man looked like he’d been through hell, course that was mostly cause of all the blood.

He was covered, head to toe. There was blood had almost entirely stained his white shirt red, with the exception of a few small spots. His pants were a red tinged black, soaked clean through. His face was splattered, it was behind his ears, matted in his hair, there was even some caked underneath his fingernails.

I looked at the man and saw a man who had had a horrible car accident in the desert and had walked here looking for help, how he hadn’t collapsed from losing all of that blood I didn’t know.

“Here, sit down. What happened, where are you bleeding?” I asked, having him sit down on a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon that was in a stack at the front of the store.

The man looked up at me and began laughing. “What happened?” he paused and started laughing again. It was a very desperate, crazy sort of laugh.

The man looked at his hands, “Oh this? No this isn’t my blood, it belongs to that thing.” He said, he pointed outside but there was nothing out there.

“You see, I don’t know what it is. I just found it tearing some guy up. I shot it, I stabbed it, I ran it over with my car, but the damned thing refuses to die. I haven’t tried fire, I was wondering, can I borrow some gas?”

The look on my face must have matched the empty stare of many cows as trains plow into them at top speed. Clearly this was unlike anything I’d ever heard.

I reached behind the counter and grabbed the hand cannon.

The hand cannon was a .44 magnum revolver, just like Dirty Harry used. It would blow a watermelon to bits with one shot, let alone a human head if need be.

I played along with this crazy blood-soaked salesman or whatever he was. I figured he wasn’t right in the head so I’d play along until I saw what was really going on then I’d either capture him or blow his brains out through his asshole.

“Show me.” I said.

The man shrugged, “If it’ll make you feel better, but be warned, it bites.”

I followed the man outside to the overhead canopy. The fluorescents gave off a sickly greenish-blue glow that illuminated the parking lot in a horrid looking light.

“It’s in there.” He said, pointing to his car.

I walked up to an old green Lincoln town car; it was the color of pea soup if it were metallic. I peered in the back seat, nothing.

“I don’t see anything.” I said.

“Not there, in the trunk.” The man said.

I stepped around the car cautiously and reached for the trunk lid. I placed my hand against the metal surface and it gave beneath the weight of my hand. The trunk was open.

“Trunk is open.” I said as I opened it all the way, there was nothing in there but some broken ropes and a lot more blood.

“What?” the man asked, a look of true terror in his eyes.

“There ain’t nothing here sir.” I said.

Suddenly an ungodly howl rang throughout the parking lot. I don’t know what it was, but it sounded like nothing I had ever heard, not even remotely. I don’t even think it constitutes as a howl, but that’s the closest I can come to describing it.

I raised the hand cannon, looking around.

The salesman laughed, “That isn’t going to do anything but piss it off.” He said. “You’d be better of putting that thing in your mouth and pulling the trigger.”

We both turned to the sound of broken glass echoing from inside the store, whatever it was, it was inside.

I stepped cautiously toward the glass-fronted door, the lights inside that hadn’t yet been destroyed by whatever “it” was were flickering madly. I stepped inside, hearing noises.

It had torn the store all to hell. Shelves were laying on their sides, spilling candy bars and bags of chips all over the floor, torn magazines were scattered everywhere, and the drink coolers all stood open, bottles and cans littering the tile floor.

As I got closer I realized that the noises were the sound of something eating, whatever it was, it was hungry.

It was then that I spotted it, none of the lights were working around it but I got a slight look at it as it devoured the hot dogs that were in the cooker.

It stopped eating and raised its head, looking at the salesman and I.

I didn’t see much, and even if I did I don’t think I could describe this thing. It was big, taller than me, and it had great big claws, and great big teeth, and the meanest most despicable looking orange lantern eyes I ever saw.

It made a low growl and I fired the hand cannon, popping it in the shoulder. It squealed but quickly continued its growling as it walked toward me.

I shot it five more times; it would have been roughly twelve if the gun had had enough ammunition to accommodate my itchy trigger finger.

Still the creature stood and I backed away, falling over a Corn Nuts display and then crawling behind the counter. I shut and locked the door behind me.

The thing pounded at the window wildly, roaring and howling and just carrying on angrily. Then it looked at me, and looked at the door at the back of the room and its eyes glowed with grim understanding.

It walked away from the window and soon I heard it hammering at the door.

The door began splintering and falling on its frame, I was a goner for sure until I heard the salesman’s voice.

“Hey.” He shouted at the thing. I peaked over the counter to see him holding a bottle of vodka with a piece of newspaper sticking out of the top. He took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and lit it.

He hurled the glass bottle at the thing and it burst into flames as the flaming liquor fell all over it, letting out this ungodly squeal or howl or something. It was horrible.

I opened the door and ran past the counter as the salesman continued throwing bottles at the thing.

The fire had gotten in front of the door so I grabbed a magazine display stand and tossed it through the glass. The salesman and I both jumped out as the thing squealed and carried on in the back of the store.

I looked at the salesman and asked “Is it dead?”

The salesman smiled at me, “I think so.” He said triumphantly.

Suddenly two clawed hands grabbed him by the head and hauled him back into the store. I grabbed his legs and he kicked wildly as the monster made all sorts of roaring and growling noises and the salesman screamed.

I heard this sound like wet rubber being torn apart then, suddenly I was the only one pulling. I didn’t bother to look, I just shoved the legs in, figuring there was nothing attached.

I ran to the pumps and flipped the lever, I began spraying gas all over the parking lot until the whole place was covered, including the big tank in back then splashed some into the doorway of the store.

I hopped in the salesman’s car and drove out on route 20, I could feel the heat on the back of my neck as the place went up in flames and the tank blew the place to rubble when it caught.

I couldn’t help wondering what Mr. Finch would have to say about this.

Anyhow whatever it was, it was still alive, crawling through the rubble. I managed to catch it before it got up and threw a blanket from the salesman’s car over its head and put it in the trunk.

And that’s what brings me here; I have tried everything I can think of. Shooting, stabbing, burning, blowing it up, running it over, I even tried to drown it. The damn stubborn thing just refuses to die.

You wanna have a look? It’s in the trunk of the car out here. Oh… well will you look at that, the trunk’s open.