Category: Fiction Factor

Most of the runners snaked their way along the sidewalk of the city center, negotiating the course with relative ease. But a few – the few who couldn’t keep pace – weaved out onto the main road as they struggled to keep up.

“Get out of the street, you idiots!” squawked the man. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it is? Morons …”

Once a serious runner himself, Jeremy Browning had made it his mission to serve as something of a monitor, spending every Monday and Friday eyeing the crew from the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club – and yelling at them. The runners from the organization put in two mini-marathons per week, starting their journey under the cover of early morning darkness and finishing just as the city came alive with both human and vehicular traffic.

At the outset, they were often the only people anywhere near the street, save for the occasional dog walker or casual jogger.

Jeremy would give them a loose follow during the predawn jaunt, just to make sure they were staying in line.

His role as a keen observer increased dramatically, however, as they neared the end of their run. This was the point where many became tired – and careless.

“Hey, Pink Guy,” he bellowed at the pale, sweating man who was bringing up the rear of the line of marathoners. “Get your ass back on the sidewalk before you get run over.”

There was no acknowledgement, although once the runner side-glanced the slow-moving car as it moved past, he stumbled back toward the walkway.

“I can’t always be your eyes and ears,” Jeremy said. “At some point you have to show some common sense.”

Jeremy didn’t know the names of any of the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club members; there had been so many different ones over the years, it would’ve been difficult to remember them all anyway.

Instead, he identified them by their appearance.

“Pink Guy” had been around only a couple of months, and Jeremy didn’t think he was fully committed to the discipline and stamina needed to be in such an organization.

Then there was “Fish Britches,” the sobriquet he had given the man who always wore salmon-colored running shorts (and matching headband) and seemed more interested in fashion than exertion.

“Richie Rich,” “Sweaty Butt,” “Pencil Legs” … Jeremy was always able to identify a few who didn’t follow the rules of the road, and he wasn’t at all shy about shaming them when they got out of line.

“I guess I need to start calling you Road Kill instead of Sweaty Butt,” he shouted as the fellow with the perpetually damp shorts foundered toward the thoroughfare. “Mark my words … the next time you stagger out here on the asphalt will be your last. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Jeremy remembered another occasion when Sweaty Butt was clipped by a Honda Civic when he ran in front of the compact in an effort to keep pace with the rest of the group. The injury wasn’t serious, but Jeremy was livid.

He’d anticipated the event moments earlier and hollered as loud as he could to warn the runner. Sweaty Butt looked up in time to avoid a more serious crash, but had he been paying attention he could’ve steered clear of it altogether.

“Why don’t they listen?” Jeremy would often mutter to himself.

Of course, he had to believe they were listening, even if they might not even realize it.

They never so much as looked in his direction when he started vocalizing his displeasure, but somehow, he always seemed able to keep them out of harm’s way.

Yeah, there was Sweaty Butt’s incident with the Honda. And then several years earlier there was the guy – “Terrycloth Drawers” Jeremy remembers calling him – who was on a collision course with a minivan before darting out of the road and into a sticker bush.

Jeremy screamed with such force he was certain he’d busted a blood vessel.

When he thought about it – and it was basically all that he thought about – everyone in the Vista Knoll Fleet Athletic Club should thank him for what he did.

Every time they did their weekly runs, he was serving as their lookout. And when Monday and Friday were done and the same number of harriers who started also finished, Jeremy felt as though his goal was accomplished.

And that was a good feeling, albeit a bittersweet one.

Because if he’d had a ghost looking out for him all those years ago, maybe he’d still be alive today.

The captain stood at the head of the table, tapped his wine glass three times with a silver spoon, and smiled as the dinner guests took a break from their polite conversations.

“Thank you,” he said. “I just want to say how happy we are to have you on our Goldenrod Cruise Lines Pickleball Adventure. I know tomorrow is a big day with our competition beginning in the morning, and of course we’ll crown our champion at the end of the evening.

“So please … eat, drink – but not too much because we’ll be getting an early start – and enjoy yourself. We want this to be an experience of a lifetime for you all.”

The pickleball cruise drew an older crowd, and one not afraid to spend money. While it included ocean views and standard tourist stops typical of ocean journeys, it was designed for people who took the sport seriously.

And few took it more seriously than Timothy and Kathleen Miasma.

To say the pair were popular players in their local pickleball club in Seaside, Florida, would be a falsehood. The retired pharmaceuticals executives were, in fact, reviled.

Both had tempers that would manifest in uncomfortable and often inexcusable ways, and they had plenty of smashed paddles and torn nets to show for it. Being sore losers was compounded by the fact that neither were very good players; when it was competition time, they were among the first to exit.

But their wealth helped build facilities and courts, and even funded a pavilion (called the Timothy and Kathleen Miasma Pavilion, of course) that made all-weather play possible. The joke was that they were a “necessary evil.”

This time, though, they were taking their talents to the sea, and had made it known that they intended to be crowned Goldenrod Cruise Lines Pickleball Adventure champions.

They were paired against Bob and Betty Shipley in the first round of competition, and made a point to seek them out after leaving their dinner plates untouched.

“My wife and I look forward to beating you tomorrow,” Timothy said to the Shipleys, who seemed caught off guard by the boast. “This is a business trip for us, and you’re the first order of business. Winning is all that matters.”

It didn’t take long for  the other passengers to realize the Miasmas were not the “fun couple” of the cruise, and any impromptu mini-social groups that formed made sure to exclude them.

As the drinking and feasting wound down, Timothy and Kathleen prepared to make their way back to the cabin – but not before one final pronouncement.

“This time tomorrow night,” Kathleen bellowed, “we will stand alone as champions. Mark my words.”

The Miasmas were up at dawn on tournament day, and after a leisurely early morning, they made their way to the courts on the main deck.

Trophies for first, second and third place were already set up on a table situated near center court, as well as ribbons that would be handed out to all the participants.

But while Timothy and Kathleen were already there when tournament officials arrived, none of the other players were anywhere in sight. And five minutes before the preliminary matches were scheduled to begin, the courts were empty except for the couple who had guaranteed victory the night before.

“Excuse me,” Timothy said, getting the attention of one of the tourney directors, Jan Edwards. “According to the rules, if the players don’t show up on their assigned court by the official start time, they have to forfeit the match. Well, the official start time will come and go soon and if the Shipleys aren’t here, we advance.

“Those are the rules.”

Edwards was more concerned with the complete lack of competitors than she was with the Miasmas’ tardy foes, but nodded in agreement.

“That’s correct,” she said. “But I think we have bigger problems than that. It’s not just the Shipleys who are late, so is everyone else – besides you. Something isn’t right.”

A half hour went by before officials noticed panicked waves from members of the ship’s crew. They scurried over to see what the excitement was about while the Miasmas looked on. Once the commotion settled, Edwards – following a subdued conversation with the ship’s captain – made her way towards them.

“I’m afraid I have some horrible news,” she said. “All of the rest of the competitors are dead. They were found dead in their cabins … every one of them.”

Timothy looked at the official with a gleam in his eye.

“Well,” he said. “We win the tournament.”

Edwards gazed at him in disbelief.

“There are over 30 people dead, sir,” she said, gritting her teeth as she choked out the sentence. “I don’t think anyone is thinking about pickleball championships right now.”

Kathleen walked over to the first-place trophy, grabbed it, and held it in front of her.

“I said we’d stand alone as champions,” she shouted. “And here we are.”

The victorious couple knew that in just a few days they’d be back in Seaside, and their trophy would no doubt be the envy of every other member of their club. They shared a quick kiss and then walked away with their hardware, discreetly tossing the flask of poison overboard.

Jimmy had looked forward to this day for as long as he could remember.

Year after year he had heard stories of others who reached the transformation age, standing under a bright, full October moon and finally morphing into their wilder selves.

So many myths surrounded lycanthropy, with humans thinking either it was a form of madness or – if they believed it to be real – the result of a horrible curse.

But for those in The Culture, it was simply nature taking its course, no different than experiencing a voice change or seeing hair sprout in tender places.

Most took on a wolf-like appearance and hunted under cover of darkness, joined by their parents and friends. And just as wolves rarely attack people, neither did members of the The Culture – although deer were fair game and raccoons occasionally found themselves on the wrong side of sharp teeth.

There was also an unfortunate incident several years earlier involving the Star Trek cosplayer dressed as a Tribble, but that was rarely talked about except during Star Trek conventions and the Strange But True Animal Attacks podcast.

Following the first kill, the newly transformed would usually wake up in tattered, bloody clothes, with only a spotty memory of what happened the night before. Over time, though, they’d learn to retrace their every move and gain complete control of the beast within. As adults, they would become valued and trusted leaders of the pack.

On this particular night, only Jimmy’s parents – Leonard and Mavis – were around to oversee his ceremony.

They had kept their nocturnal activities out of their son’s sight. It was standard practice; a rule of thumb was to “never show what they will become until it’s time to become the thing never shown.”

“I don’t see anybody else,” Jimmy said as he walked with them toward the clearing where the ritual would take place. “From what I hear at school, the newly transformed in The Culture make it a big party. And everybody wears robes.”

Leonard and Mavis had no robes. They were dressed in their usual garb – blue track suits, reflective running shoes and fluorescent yellow headbands.

“No, honey,” Mavis replied. “It’s just us. It’ll make more sense to you later. Just stand in the circle we drew there and we’ll go ahead and get started.”

Leonard stepped forward, produced a piece of paper from his left pocket, and began to read the sacred words:

By the light of the moon, and the power of the night

It’s the eye of the Tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight

A Survivor lyric might seem out of place

Buy you’ll forget all about it once fur’s on your face

Enjoy the journey, it’s about to begin

Oh, Didelphimorphia, take over this skin!

With that, Jimmy felt a strange sensation, as though his head was becoming elongated and his ears were growing larger. Although his eyes began to blur, he noticed gray fur popping up on his arms and felt his teeth rearranging in his mouth.

And then, he passed out.

Hours later, the morning sun pierced the window in Jimmy’s room, and the young man groaned as he rolled out of bed. His clothes were mostly intact, although he appeared to have dog food splattered on his shirt and he smelled of week-old garbage.

He remembered little of the night before, although he did seem to have a slight recollection of hissing at a cat.

He rose to his feet and prepared to head downstairs when he heard a perfunctory knock signaling the entrance of his parents.

“Mom, dad … what happened last night?” he wanted to know.

“Sit down, son,” Leonard said. “It’s time we told you everything.”

Jimmy plopped down on the edge of the bed while his dad took a knee.

“Jimmy,” Leonard said. “I know how much transforming means to you. And I know you thought this was all part of becoming part of The Culture … those who claim to be well-bred. But that’s just not who we are. And that’s never who we’re going to be.”

“Son, we’re Possum Folk.”

Jimmy had heard of some kids turning into dogs – even coyotes – but manifesting as a marsupial was rarely even whispered about.

“I thought on transformation night we all go on this great hunt,” Jimmy said. “Is that not what happened?”

Mavis walked over and sat on the bed next to her child.

“Well, I guess it depends on how you define ‘hunt,’” she said. “Your father and I knocked over a garbage can and found some Chinese food. You ended up wandering over to the Jemison’s porch and eating some of their dog Ringo’s food. We ate, and then we came home. Really, things went pretty well, all things considered.”

Jimmy had imagined running wild in the forest, wind slicing through his fur and eyes glowing as he moved in for a kill – apex predator-style.

Instead, when the full moon rose and he transformed, he’d most likely hit a top speed of four miles per hour, and only then because he got spooked by a motion-activated sprinkler.

Jimmy shook his head and sighed.

“This is such a huge letdown,” he said.

“It shouldn’t be,” Leonard stressed. “The important thing is that you wake up every day being the best Jimmy you can be and – when it’s transformation night – just be the best werepossum you can be and never be ashamed of who you are.

“Do that, and your mom and I will always be proud of you. We only ask one thing.”

Jimmy looked at them, fighting back tears.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Mavis smiled. “Stay out of the road,” she said. “It can be really dangerous … especially after dark.”