Those That Were

Chapter 1

It was ninety eight degrees outside, or it was something like it anyway, according to the weather channel that had come on earlier. Felt hotter than that due to the blood-boiling humidity that seemed to always wet the air in Tuscumbia. It was the kind of muggy air that persisted even all through the night on most nights. Even still, Bryson Fairbanks watched from his car as a tall, broad-figured man walked out of the Shell station in a black leather jacket. A damn jacket. In this  weather.

The man's arm was curled around the waist of a blonde girl --the type of girl who showcased long tan legs from a short skirt and paraded around in cowboy boots all summer. It was all Bryson could do not to shake his head at the pair as they hopped in a truck that sat way too damn high off the pavement.

He knew even without smelling him that the man was like him --a werewolf. Bryson snorted, noting that the similarities ended there. It was like a plague these days. All the supernaturals were now nothing but big pussies, using once-amazing capabilities to bend to the fanfiction that was all the rage now, seemingly.

Even some of the older supernaturals were starting to take to the fad. Werewolves took their other werewolf friends and made make pretend "packs", while vampires made their "covens". Both packs and covens were easily spotted, even from a mile away. Most of the men wore clothes like the gentleman he'd just spotted, shiny leather jackets and pants that were just way too fucking tight. The women, well he'd only ever classified their chosen attire as thus: trash. Boobs and legs everywhere. Ah, he guessed he didn't mind that as much.

The best part about it was that, now, instead of acting like normal people... both groups were now not only ridiculously-dressed hooligans, they were ridiculously dressed hooligans that had taken to street-fighting. And why? Well, because according to the books, the two races are sworn enemies or something like that. Or supposed to be, anyhow. And what a crock of bullshit that was. Before all this shit, neither race had had any grievance with the other. Bryson himself had never had a problem with the vampires. Hell, he'd even made love to a couple before the world went apeshit.

Ah, it didn't matter. Bryson took himself out of his thoughts as the guy in the truck finally  stopped making out with his girlfriend or "mate" or whatever the hell he called her to get into her panties.

Once the wolf man hit the gas a mite too fast and drove completely away from the gas pump, Bryson turned the steering wheel of a less-than-picturesque 1987 Buick to pull up at the now-empty pump . And, because his muffler was long since gone, everyone knew he was there too. In fact, there were a couple people that turned to look at him as his car purred loudly in the lot.

He didn't look back at them, only squeezed out of the small car and fueled it.

From his left, Bryson heard a small chuckle. He knew it was probably aimed at him, but that didn't anger him. He was a laughable sight and he knew it. After all, what was a six-foot-two, bulked-up and broad-shouldered man doing getting out of what could have arguably been his grandma's tiny car. Who was he kidding? It had been his grandma's car before she'd passed, only it worked a hell of a lot better when she'd driven it.

It had been a newer car then, though. And damn, had it already been nearly twenty years since the disease took her? Bryson shook his head in disbelief at the side-thought as he heard the giggling continue from the parking lot.

He turned to where he'd heard the laugh, and saw a teenage girl walking beside who Bryson assumed was her father. Oh yes, she was looking at him. She stopped laughing immediately when he looked over, as if she were intimidated by him, but he only smiled a little and acknowledged that yes, his car indeed sucked.