Lizardian
by Melissa R. Mendelson
* Lizardian
* Amazon
“Riders on the storm. Riders on the storm. Into this house we’re born. Into this world we’re thrown…”
“What’s with The Doors music?”
“Jim Morrison is in the kitchen.” He laughed at the look on the other man’s face. “The cook’s name is Jim Morrison. He looks a little like him too.”
“Okay,” and he shook his head. “How’s the wrist?”
“It hurts. How’s the rib?”
“Fractured. What are we doing here, Tom?”
“Drinking coffee.”
“I’m being serious. We should be at the station right now, regrouping.”
“We are, Jim. That’s why we’re here.”
“At Country Diner?” Tom’s smile disappeared. “What are we doing here?”
“Hello, boys. Everything good?” Heather now stood beside their table with a coffee pot in her hand. “Want a refill?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
“No,” Jim said.
“Thank you,” and Tom watched her pour him another cup. He held her gaze and shuddered at the cold look in her eyes. “Rough night last night?” He took a sip of his coffee.
“Nothing I can’t handle. What about you,” and she gestured toward his bandaged wrist. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“And you?” Heather turned toward Jim. “How’s the rib?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Small town,” and she walked away from them. But Jim stared after her.
“Time to call in the big guns.”
“What?” Jim turned back toward the sheriff.
“Your agency. Call them in.”
“And tell them what exactly? That a giant human lizard kicked our ass? They won’t believe me.”
“What’s the real reason?” He continued to drink his coffee, but Jim could tell that he was studying him like a bug under a microscope. “Why did they really send you up here?”
“I told you, Tom.”
“You’re full of shit, Jim. You don’t want to bring in your agency? Fine. That’s your choice, but I have eight… Seven deputies at my disposal. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Call in the military.”
“Forget it.”
“Tom…”
“No! I’m not going to have them come here and tear my town apart, looking for this thing. It’s out of the question.”
“And you think my agency would operate differently?”
“No. I suppose not, so where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know. On our own, I guess.”
Just then, Old Man Moseman walked into Country Diner. It was warm outside, so he had his black coat draped over his right arm. He glanced at the few customers inside and even nodded in the sheriff’s direction, but the sheriff did not nod back. Instead, he glared at him as Old Man Moseman made his way over to the counter, waiting for his order. He glanced at his watch and signaled over to Heather, who was serving an elderly couple nearby, but she pretended not to see him.
“Is she okay?”
“Who?”
“Heather, Tom. Is she okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“What! What the fuck do you want, Old Man Moseman!” The diner fell into a hush. Only The Doors kept playing, singing, “Don’t you love her madly? Don’t you need her badly? Don’t you love her ways? Tell me what you say?” Old Man Moseman’s mouth hung open. He searched for words to say, and Heather grew impatient, crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t own me! You don’t own Country Diner! Now, get the fuck out! Get out,” and Old Man Moseman hurried out of the diner, followed by an applause from those still inside. “Somebody should kill him,” and now Heather stood beside their table. “Maybe, I will,” and her eyes flashed yellow.
Tom reached for his gun but grimaced at the pain that snapped through his wrist. He watched Jim do the same, but Heather laid a hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. His face twisted into the same pain that Tom felt. His gaze rushed over those in the diner, but nobody seemed to notice. What could he do? Nobody would believe them, and then, Jim Morrison left the kitchen. He was in striking distance, holding a butcher’s knife in his hand. “Heather,” he forced himself to say, and she smiled coldly in response. “Let go of Jim’s shoulder,” and to his surprise, she did. “What’s with Jim Morrison and the butcher knife,” and now Jim noticed the cook, who stared intensely at the two of them.
“I told him about last night.”
“Last night,” Tom asked.
“Yeah. How I came over to your place to take care of you and your wrist, and you just lost it.” She turned her face to the side, revealing a small but ugly bruise.
“That’s bullshit,” Jim said.
“Nobody’s talking to you, moose. You shouldn’t even be here. I gave you a chance to leave, and you blew it.”
“Where’s Heather?”
“I’m Heather, Tom.”
“No. You’re not. Where is she?”
“Do you really have to ask,” and again, her eyes flashed yellow. “You blew your shot with her, Tom. So many opportunities to sleep with her, and you blew it.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“No, Tom. You and Jim are not.”
“Why not,” and now she looked at Jim.
“Because I’ll be leaving soon, and you’ll never see me again. And if you do…” She leaned close to Jim, and her tongue flickered through her lips. “It’ll be the last thing that you will ever see. Now, I suggest that you boys enjoy your coffee.” Tom looked down at his coffee and then quickly pushed it away from him. “It’s just coffee, Tom. Why don’t we all just forget about this, about me?”
“No.”
“No, Jim? What are you going to do? Call that agency of yours that we both know is punishing you for something, something that you will not disclose to the sheriff here.”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Maybe not, Jim, but you and Tom are no match for me. And you both know that, so I am going to walk out of here. And if you two follow…. Well, Jim’s ready to use that butcher knife of his,” and she stepped away from them.
“This isn’t over,” and she glanced at Tom. “This is far from over,” and he watched her disappear into the kitchen. “Fuck,” and everyone around him jumped. Even Jim Morrison, who waved the butcher’s knife at him before backing into the kitchen.
“Tom,” and he looked over at him. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know, Jim. I don’t know.”
“Heather, you okay?” She fell into his arms. She was ice cold. “You’re shaking.”
“Take me home, Jim,” she whispered into his ear, and he peered out of the kitchen at the two men, who were still looking back at him.
“One moment,” and he walked over to the open walk-in refrigerator. “Barry? Barry!”
“What, man? Jesus,” and Barry exited the refrigerator with a crate of food. “What is it?” He looked from Jim to Heather. “What’s going on?”
“I have to take Heather home. Cover for me.”
“Only if you take the trash out.”
“The trash, Barry? Really?” Barry shrugged in response. “Fine. Heather,” but when he turned around, she was gone.
“Maybe, she went to have a cigarette.” Jim grabbed the big, black garbage bag nearby in response. “Can I turn that music off now?”
“After this song, you can,” and Jim stormed outside.
Jim didn’t see Heather. He hurried over to the large, blue dumpster and propped open the lid. He was about to close it when something white caught his eye. He reached in and grabbed it. It was sticky, but it felt like… Skin. He lifted it up into the air, and just as he did, he noticed that there was something underneath it. He forced himself to push the rest of whatever it was to the side, and that’s when he saw her face, Heather’s face. He spun around, and something flashed before him.
Heather watched Jim crumble to the ground. Blood sprayed out between his fingers. He gurgled for help, and then his hands fell away, revealing the gaping hole in his neck. His head then tilted to the side, causing her to smile as her eyes flashed yellow. As she stepped away from his body, she began to whistle. She whistled to that Doors song that floated out of the diner and into the back, where Jim Morrison laid. “This is the end. Beautiful friend. This is the end. My only friend, the end…”
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