The Vituperator (NaNoWriMo 2015)

nineteen \\ alburtis

YOU'VE REACHED ALBURTIS, says a rustic wooden sign when Bryson and I zip past some crows on the side of the road, following closely behind the dodge. As evening approaches, the sky around us grays. With the fog rolling in from the distance, it's difficult to tell where the sky ends and where the fog begins — the gray was so flat that it seemed almost depthless, the only thing indicating that it is a real space and not some solid, wispy being up above is the occasional bird flying by. As we enter, the salty scent of the ocean gets stronger — until I notice it, and then adapt. If Alburtis was more land than water (which it isn't, and it's quite difficult to tell), then my guess is that the area would come off as an almost barren wasteland of some sorts — somewhat haunting and not a single person on the streets yet seen so far. The only thing I hear over the roar of the motorbike are the rare cries from birds and soft waves up ahead.

By the time we pull up in the parking lot of the inn, we've passed a majority of this dreadfully small town. There's a harbor, with only just a few boats docked; a small coffee place; a couple homes; and a deadbeat-looking diner. We've finally seen some people; here and there in their respective lots, going on with their lives.

Chiron's Cave, almost in the exact middle of town, is certainly eye catching. You'd think, with all that neon, that the receptionist's desk would just be a stage for exotic dancers doing what they can to make a living. The neon pink sign up above, in smooth cursive, glows in the light fog; just looking at it I can close my eyes and feel misty nights, meeting strangers and forgetting their names after they come and go — nobody at this inn uses a real name anyway, I think.

I slide off the bike ungracefully, taking my first steps in this new place, this place that I can guess will end up seeing some shit while we stay here. It's not the question of good or bad shit — just the intensity of how bad the things we bring here are. Whatever happens, though, from the look of this inn and the way it works, I quite sure the walls here have seen way worse shit nonetheless.

Bryson, after standing the bike, turns me around towards him. I scowl, but let him do it anyway, seeing no point in being crabby. Wordlessly, he brings his hands up until the tips of his fingers brush against my chin. Instinctively, I hit his hand away and send him a look of bewilderment.

"Just let me help," he smiles gently, looking pointedly at his helmet strapped to my head.

"I can do it myself," I say behind gritted teeth, unfastening the strap on my chin hastily.

He huffs, sticking out his jaw and looking away exasperatedly. I'm finally starting to test his patience.

"Never mind," he mutters, walking past me and towards the others. I turn around, watching the other three emerge from the dodge, looking tired and cramped.

Bryson nods at Nick, "Pop the trunk."

"Yeah, in a sec," Nick grunts out, doing a cat-like stretch, "my ass is numb from all this driving."

Sasha snickers at that and walks toward the trunk. I head over to the rear of the car, standing with Sasha in wait for it to open.

"Nice ride?" Sasha smirks at me, raising an eyebrow. She crosses one leg in front of the other, leaning against the side of car trunk.

"A little cozier than I preferred it to be," I scowled, not at her in particular.

"I'm sure it was," her voice suddenly dancing along the lines of sing-song territory. It's entertaining when she's this way, but god, I wouldn't wish it upon me.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, Sasha," I say, monotonous with a hard expression. My eyes flit over to Nick, who was still having a stretch while Bryson was talking to him. When is he going to open up the back so I can get my bag and leave this conversation?