I'm Just A Small Town Shifter Page 2

  “Not as a cook,” I amended my thought. “As a sworn officer of the law, I might have a chance.”

  I had to take things one step at a time. Step one was to spit on whatever Trevor ordered, and then finish my shift.

  Chapter 2

  Second dinner was always a bitch. The fishermen could really put it away. It was great for the servers; most of whom were ladies. All they had to do was flirt a little, pour more beer, and show a little leg here and there. The men who’d been out to sea practically threw dollar bills at them. It wasn’t like that in the sweltering kitchen.

  “Mac, can we open the door?” I asked, as I flipped another burger and simultaneously dropped a fresh batch of fries in the bubbling oil.

  “No,” Mac snapped as he laid out buns for me to slip the burgers on. He had the condiments laid out before him; with ketchup and mustard in a pair of holsters on his belt like he was settling in for an old-western shootout.

  He was a weird guy, but he was the boss. This place was his livelihood, and something bad must have happened in the past if he wouldn’t crack a door and let some of the cool night air in. If I had to guess, he’d been mugged at some point. He had a revolver under the counter, and a shotgun leaned up against the wall next to the back door.

  Coming from rural Pennsylvania, I was used to guns. My dad had taken me hunting several times before he passed, so I wouldn’t blow my own dick off by accident. Still, we’d always locked up our weapons. We never just had them sitting out. I chalked it up to Alaska. Anyway, I didn’t have time to think about it. Every inch of my stove was covered in food, and I needed to concentrate to avoid burning anything.

  By the time the second dinner rush ended, I must have made three hundred burgers. The smell of medium-rare meat had soaked into all my pores, and I had a small burn on my arm from where the oil had splashed up when I dropped some fries in too quickly. For all that effort, spread over the last twelve hours, I’d made a grand total of eighty-seven bucks; plus, whatever Charlene had left for me.

  “Maybe I’ll hit triple digits today,” I sighed, as my circumstances weighed down on me.

  I removed my apron, but the lead weight in my gut, and the pressure on my shoulders, didn’t let up. Coming face-to-face with Trevor today had been tough. Not because the guy was an asshat. I mean, there was that too, but I was having a hard time seeing myself compete against him.

  Physically, I could hold my own. Like I said, I’d played football in high school, so I was used to getting hit. I’d also taken some boxing and jujitsu lessons. Nothing fancy, just enough that I knew how to throw punches without breaking my hand, and handle myself if I ever tussled with a suspect on the ground. Still, despite some of the training I’d done, mass and muscle always entered into the equation. That’s why boxers had separate weight classes. You could be the greatest featherweight ever known, undefeated, and KO’d all of your opponents. But the moment you stepped in the ring against a heavyweight, the dude would just wade through your punches and drown you with his sheer power. The featherweight might be able to dance around for a while, but eventually, the big guy always won.

  That was the situation I was in with Trevor. “I really hope he’s stupid,” I prayed. That would be my saving grace. He might be able to run a sub-six-minute mile, but if the dude couldn’t figure out proper police procedure, he’d be totally fucked.

  “Unless he’s already got it in the bag, and the whole application process is a sham,” doubt crept in on me again, and I had to shove it back.

  It was a possibility in a place like this. Nepotism was real. I’d seen it back home. In these small communities, people gave positions to the people they knew; even if they sucked ass at their job. Trevor might get the job because he was Serena’s boyfriend, former captain of the high school football team; or, because big daddy McCoy would put his foot down during the selection process. Anyone who thought one of the biggest tax revenue sources on the island didn’t have a say in how it was managed was incredibly naïve. I might not even have a chance to prove myself.

  I shook out my whole body to get rid of the defeatist mentality. “It’s just been a hard day,” I told myself. I’d go home, study for an hour, maybe hit the stationary bag I’d lugged up to my apartment, and then pass out for the night.

  That was the one good thing about always keeping my mind and body busy. I slept like a drunken baby.

  “Mac, I’m going to take the trash out and then head home. You need anything else?” I called.

  There was no answer.

  “Mac?” I called again, and stepped out of the kitchen with four, heavy, black bags clenched in my fists.

  The owner was standing and staring out of the front glass window. Charlene had taken to writing the specials on the glass with some cute doodles so anyone coming in would know what Mac and I were whipping up on any particular day. Normally, he grumbled to himself as he cleaned it up every evening, but not tonight. He was just staring into the blackness.

  It was almost midnight, and the only light outside the diner was the streetlamp across the street. It bathed a small area in yellow light, but I wouldn’t want to be caught walking around the warf area all by myself around this time. Especially if I was a woman.

  For the most part, there were good people here. But no place was perfect. People who lived hard lives had a higher propensity to drink and do drugs. This place was no exception, and with three bars within spitting distance, this neighborhood could get a little rough after dark. It wasn’t Chicago, drive-by-on-the-Fourth-of-July rough, but when you got the shit kicked out of you, it didn’t really matter what the circumstances of your surroundings were.

  “Mac?” I called for a third time.

  “Huh,” the old man finally snapped out of whatever he was thinking about.

  Mac was the kind of guy who could be fifty or eighty. He just looked old. He was thin, but you could see the hard muscles on his hands and forearms from a lifetime of running a kitchen. If I met him in an alley, I wouldn’t want to fuck with him; but, I could see how people would mistake him for an easy target. I pitied that fool.

  “Garbage,” I held up the bags, and I felt the burn as my shoulders strained from the hundred-plus pounds of half-eaten meals. On the bright side, I wouldn’t have been able to do that a year ago. That was progress.

  “Yeah,” he grumbled. “Take the twelve gauge.”

  I’d already started to turn when I stopped in my tracks. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him correctly. “Take the what what?”

  “Take the shotgun by the door,” I’m pretty sure he grumbled “city kid” under his breath. Even though I was no such thing.

  “No one is going to mug me walking behind the diner. What are they going to get? A number six special soaked in skunked beer?” I laughed, but the old man didn’t share in my amusement.

  “Full moon,” he grunted, and if I hadn’t heard him yell orders in the kitchen, I would have sworn he was part caveman. “People get weird.”

  “I think I’ll be fine,” I replied.

  “Take the twelve gauge,” he repeated.

  I knew that tone. It was the same tone he used when I suggested putting mayo on one of his signature sandwiches. I thought he was going to fire me on the spot.

  “Fine,” I sighed, and tried not to sound like I was whining.

  Most people might think stuff happening on a full moon was pure superstition, but I knew there were some numbers to back it up. Women tended to go into labor more on a full moon. From a law enforcement perspective, shit just tended to be an extra dose of crazy that one night a month. I didn’t know why, but I guessed the moon really did effect humanities biology; at least a little. I wasn’t sure if Mac was genuinely looking out for me, or if he didn’t want to have to deal with workman’s comp if I got injured on the job. I liked to think it was the former, even if it was more likely the latter.

  He turned back to the front window, and I headed toward the back. Health codes said I shouldn’t be taking the trash
through the dining area, even though it significantly cut down the walk to the dumpster. I’d made that mistake before, and Mac chewed my ass out for it. The old man was a stickler, especially when the health enforcers were looking for any reason to shut a place down.

  I didn’t want to make their job any easier. Politicians were warring about COVID shit, but I just wanted to make rent next month.

  As it turned out, juggling four bags of trash and a three-foot firearm was the toughest thing I’d done all night. If you’ve ever tried to open a door with your hands full of things you desperately did not want to drop, you knew what I meant. Now, just add the means to apply lethal force to the equation. It was a lot of picking up and putting down the bags, while trying to secure the shotgun under my arm or chin. I looked like an idiot.

  I prayed none of the cops I wanted to join walked by at that moment. First impressions were a big deal, and if their first sight of me was mishandling a weapon . . . I’d be persona non grata right off the bat. There was nothing law enforcement hated more than someone who didn’t know how to handle a firearm. They’d all seen too many self-inflicted gunshot wounds to take a chance on some unknown newbie they’d seen cradling a shotgun between his chin and chest.

  Thankfully, no officers on patrol walked by as I rounded the corner to the big, metal dumpster. Unfortunately, I wasn’t alone. The bin was open and someone was rustling around inside it. With the streetlight blocked by the building, all I had to work with was my limited night vision. It didn’t help much.

  “Hey, buddy, there’s a shelter about two blocks over. Go there, get a warm meal, and a bed to sleep on tonight. It’s going to be below freezing, and our food ain’t good enough to go dumpster diving,” I called out.

  Most people might just yell at the homeless vagrant rooting around in their trash, or brandish their gun, but not me. I wanted to be a cop, and that meant serving the community . . . all of it. Even the homeless. A lot of times they were veterans, people with mental illness, or just poor bastards down on their luck. Since I was one missed paycheck from joining them, I had sympathy. Empathy was going to be part of my job, so I needed to exercise it in everyday life.

  The rustling stopped, and a dark shape slowly extracted itself from the smelly box. Then it stood up . . . and up . . . and up . . .

  “Fuck,” I whispered, and froze in my tracks.

  It wasn’t some bum. It was a fucking bear . . . and a big one at that.

  This was what I was talking about. No dude in New York, Philadelphia, or D.C. had to worry about running into a bear when they were taking out the trash. A rat, or racoon, sure; but not a fucking bear. And it wasn’t any ordinary bear. I’d done my research before moving to Alaska, and there was only one type of bear it could be. It was the type of bear the island was named for: a Kodiak brown bear.

  As the thing turned and rose up to its full height, I knew I was in deep shit. As one of the largest bears in the world, it had to weigh close to a thousand pounds. As my eyes adjusted to the light and adrenaline focused my senses, I saw the bear was on the skinny side; which explained why it had ventured into town to check out our local delicacies. Even emaciated, it out-massed me five-to-one.

  The wild animal made me feel small in a primal way that had nothing to do with ego. Shit, it would have made Trevor feel small. The bear had to be pushing nine feet as it took a step toward me and I caught sight of the dirty claws on its hubcap-sized paw

  “Shit . . . shit . . . shit,” my mind scrambled for what to do.

  I’d done some basic wilderness research before I got here so I wouldn’t immediately die if my ride broke down outside town. I remembered reading something about bears, but in the moment, with one staring me down, I couldn’t remember shit.

  “Do I freeze? Do I slowly back away? Do I make myself big and try to scare it off? Do I climb a tree . . . or a telephone pole?” I stood there frozen as I considered my options.

  Whatever the right answer was, I didn’t do it. The bear let out a threatening rumble, and dropped back down on all fours. Even on all fours, it was barely shorter than me. Then, it started advancing.

  One thing I did remember about bears was that they were faster than they looked, and this one put even my wildest expectations to shame. I thought it would still be a lumbering giant that had to pick up speed, but from one blink to another, I felt like it was nearly on top of me.

  That’s when I saw its eyes. They were hazel, and full of pain, anger, and madness. Foam dripped from the bear’s jowls, and I could tell it wanted to kill me. Not eat me. Kill me, just for the pleasure of seeing me dead. Its eyes didn’t even wander to the smorgasbord of food in the trash bags. Its eerie gaze was entirely focused on me.

  There were so many things wrong with what I’d observed, but I didn’t have time to consciously think about them. My survival instincts had kicked in. I didn’t even try to run. There was no way I was going to get away from the beast. Before I registered what was happening, I’d dropped the trash bags and raised the shotgun. God bless Mac. If he’d never suggested taking the gun, I’d be dead for sure.

  Even though the shotgun was a beast of its own, it looked small and feeble next to the charging animal. I just hoped Mac kept the weapon clean . . . and loaded. I hadn’t even checked when I grabbed it from its spot against the wall. Stupid me. That was the first thing a responsible firearm owner did when they handled a new weapon; check if it was loaded and the safety was on.

  I closed my eyes in fear as the bear reached me, which I knew was a dumb thing to do, but I didn’t have control of my own body. I never saw the bear’s swing coming, and it connected half a heartbeat before I pulled the trigger.

  Pain blotted out my vision as the boom of the shotgun overwhelmed all my other senses. I thought snap, crackle, and pop were just the names of those Rice Krispies elves. I didn’t think a body could actually make those noises.

  I felt my body break from the raw, naked force of the blow.

  Next thing I knew, I was on the ground. The shotgun had been ripped from my hands, and five lines had been drawn across my torso in molten, hot magma. I struggled to take a breath, and it felt like the bear was sitting on my chest. My vision was still shit, but I tried to concentrate.

  The bear had backed off a bit and was tossing its head back and forth angrily. It hit me before I hit him, but the shotgun still got a piece of him. Judging by the blood, the twelve gauge wasn’t loaded with birdshot.

  “Just go away,” I pleaded. Everything felt sluggish, and the adrenaline rush I’d had was long gone.

  It was as if the bear heard me, and turned its head to face me. The hate was still there, and it definitely wasn’t going to let me go after I shot it.

  “Come on!” I groaned, which turned into a cough, which painted the alley red with blood. “That’s not good.”

  What was even worse was the bear raised its claws to its mouth and slowly licked off my blood.

  “What the fuck?” I thought as the beast seemed to shiver with ecstasy.

  When the bear turned its head back to me, I could tell it wanted more. I’d invaded its territory. I’d interrupted its meal, and I’d wounded it. Apparently, that was the trifecta to induce homicidal bear rage.

  The big beast reared up again to its full height, and smashed its clawed feet down at me. I saw the move coming and rolled. I almost made it. The bear’s full weight smashed down on my outstretched arm, which just wouldn’t move when I wanted it to move. I screamed as bones snapped, and claws ripped it to fleshy ribbons.

  By now, there was a lot of blood; and most of it wasn’t the bears.

  Somewhere in the delirium of pain that had taken over control of my mind, I spotted the shotgun laying close to the alley wall. I focused every ounce of mental energy on keeping the weapon in my sight, and every ounce of strength I had left went to moving my arms and legs to crawl toward it.

  Of course, the bear caught on. I felt its jaws clamp down around my calf, and I guessed this was what it must ha
ve felt like to get caught in a bear trap.

  “Get it, bear trap,” I giggled as I went mad from the pain. That was all in my head. In the real world, I screamed my throat raw.

  I reached out for the gleaming bit of metal, and barely snatched the hot barrel before the bear started to drag me back down the alley. Not toward the street. It was taking me into the shadows where it could tear my face off and feast on my guts in peace.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t down with that. “Fuck that shit!” a final surge of adrenaline streamed into me. Most streamed right back out through the various holes the bear had poked in me, but there was just enough of the hormone for me to do one last thing before I clocked out.

  As the bear dragged me toward my doom, I brought the barrel around. I tried to sit up, but the river of fire that had taken up residence across my chest nearly made me pass out. I did the only thing I could. I aimed the weapon where I thought the bear would be, and pulled the trigger.

  A second boom ripped through the alley, but this time, I heard the satisfaction of the bear roar in pain.

  “Ha. Ha ha ha!” I laughed as the gun slipped from my fingers.

  The bear whipped its head back and forth, with me still clenched in its jaw. My back slammed into the wall, there was a sickening crack, and then I was flying through the air. For all I knew, the beast had bitten my foot clean off. At the moment, I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t care about living. I didn’t care about dying. I didn’t care about being a cop. I sure as shit regretted not talking to Brianna more when I had the chance, but life was a cold-hearted bitch.

  “Beam me up, God,” I gave into the overwhelming exhaustion and waited for what came next.

  There was no white light for me to walk into, and I didn’t grow cold as death settled around me. In fact, I was hot. I was fucking roasting above a roaring spit. I felt like I was back in Mac’s kitchen, in the middle of June, with all the burners going, and all the windows closed. I’d never been hotter in my entire life.