Sitting in the shadows, his mind raced with dreadful thoughts. He’d witnessed wolves take fire and keep coming. They’d ruthlessly torn apart his comrades. The fight would be futile. These creatures weren’t ordinary animals. Some small part of him merely wanted to give up; but there wasn’t any other place to flee, and going outside again would mean certain death. We are marines, dammit! Have to protect Grimes. Simmons scanned the dilapidated dwelling; the lower floor had been a machine shop or garage. He was hunkered down in the old office, but the engine told of its utility. Taking stock, he found what was needed to pull the plan together. He would fight; he would have vengeance.
It was that part of him that began devising a plan.
Simmons reached for the K-bar strapped upside down to the shoulder of his flak vest. He withdrew the fighting knife then removed the clip from his Colt .45, 1911. He popped two rounds from the magazine then whittled the bullets down meticulously to fashion an effective weapon, Marion once again in this thoughts — he would make it home to her.
Reaching into the breast pocket of his utilities, he pulled out a cigar and his Zippo. The chrome lighter had been a gift from Marion; the Marine Corps emblem embossed on the front.
He bit off the end of the cigar and lit the damn thing. If this was going to be his reckoning, then Simmons was going out on his own terms, like a man, a marine. Puffing the stogie, he prepared himself mentally for the showdown.
The alpha wolf was the linchpin for the entire pack. Wounded and weary from battle, most of them would scamper if he could take their leader down.
He sipped from his canteen cup; thinking about his wife again… Simmons glanced at his wedding ring then removed the sterling-silver band. Perusing the ring, it was a reminder that Marion would be waiting for him whenever he returned from a deployment, whether walking the flight deck or in a pine box.
He wheeled an acetylene torch over to the iron engine block, praying the damn thing still worked. He quickly checked Grimes; the man was still out. Simmons breathed a sigh of relief when the torch lit, then heated the empty basin of a combustion chamber. Once the iron was hot, he kissed the silver ring then dropped it into the chamber with a metallic clang. The torch heated the iron quickly, but the ring sat there unchanged. Fuck! Just as Simmons began to doubt whether the plan would work, the unmistakable thud of a large four-legged creature landed on remnants of the top floor.
Moments later, two other sets of paws padded around the vestiges of the third floor. They must have crossed from an adjacent rooftop. Two sets of glowing yellow eyes peered through the aperture of the bombed-out flooring.
The wolves circled their perch, staring down, stalking their prey. The alpha was leading two others.
Simmons glanced down into the engine chamber; the ring was now liquid silver. He turned off the blow torch, and reached slowly for a .45 caliber round. No need to alert the things. Dipping the bullet into the silver, he quickly coated the tip then retracted it from the chamber and dipped it into the canteen cup, sizzling.
There was a thump onto the second floor. Their treading grew more frenzied. An attack was imminent.
He hastily dipped the other round into the silver then cooled it off. A small amount of the liquid remained in the combustion chamber. Simmons grabbed his K-bar and coated the tip. As he worked the silver over the blade, the wolves descended to his level.
All three beasts trotted back and forth just beyond his makeshift barricade. They began to growl and snap. Long white fangs reflected in the scattered moonlight. A couple of the beasts shook their heads, whipping saliva about.
Simmons trembled, breathing deeply — these weren’t ordinary creatures. Dread of losing the battle with the wolves morphed from utter fear to a momentary paralysis. But the thought of failure, even death wasn’t as daunting as not pressing forward. Giving in wasn’t the Marine Corps way. Like all young marines, he was indoctrinated in the heroics of marines pushing forward against insurmountable odds: the Chosen Reservoir, Tarawa and Iwo Jima. He shook off fear and doubt. Simmons began to feel numb to the thought of death, as the hard mettle of his months on the island solidified. He was a marine. Ooh-rah!
Simmons loaded the magazine with the silver bullets. He placed them halfway down the clip, allowing him to fire a couple of shots before and after releasing the deadly rounds. Lull the bastards into a false sense of security
A wolf edged its way toward the barricade like a scout searching for the weakness in a fortress.
The alpha remained in the background. Simmons couldn’t dispense with the silver ammunition on the lower-echelon beasts before getting a crack at the leader. Another wolf limped slowly forward.
Simmons raised the M-16 and thumbed the selector switch to semi-automatic. He shouldered the rifle, held his breath and eased the trigger. The rifle fired a volley, striking the lame creature in the right front shoulder. It scampered like a dog being struck with a newspaper. Although the shot struck home, it didn’t have a lasting effect.
The two wolves cowered slightly at the sound of the rifle blast.
PVT Grimes flinched at the sound of the M-16 firing, his breathing heavy. The man was still alive, and Simmons intended to keep it that way.
The wolf checking the perimeter lifted its nose over a filing cabinet.
Simmons aimed and fired two rounds in rapid succession. It ducked below the barricade and whimpered. The creature was sniffing out signs of weakness, allowing a sense of confidence to grow. The alpha howled, loud and ferocious in the confined space, and the other two wolves turned and rushed the barricade, jumping over the table and filing cabinet. Simmons let loose with the pistol shooting three rounds at the lead wolf. It dropped in its tracks, but the other kept coming.
Simmons took up the rifle and flipped the M-16 to full-automatic and emptied the clip into the advancing beast. It squealed but continued its charge.
The wolf lunged at his throat. Simmons held up an arm to ward off the ravaging beast but it knocked his arm aside. He grabbed it tightly with both hands by the scruff of the neck, struggling to lock his elbows and keep the wolf at bay. Spittle and phlegm splattered Simmons’ face as the beast thrashed and tore at his flak vest.
Simmons wrestled with the wolf as it flailed and shred his utilities. Can’t let this thing bite me. He feared death less than the alternative. In his gut, he knew what they really were.
Everything slowed. Simmons felt the heat of the werewolf’s breath on his face. He locked his elbows, holding the beast back by its neck. Saliva dripped from its elongated fangs. Numbness from shock began to set in. Pressed into the concrete floor, there wasn’t any place else to go.
He expected the wolf to lunge at his throat, finish him off, but it paused for a moment. It’s making way for the alpha.
Peering beyond the bloodied, matted coat of the wolf bestride him, the alpha approached.
Do or die. Simmons unsheathed the K-bar and plunged it into the beast standing over him. It howled. Simmons instinctively retracted the fighting knife, pushing the beast aside. He dropped the K-bar on the deck and drew his pistol.
The alpha leapt.
Descending, the wolf bared its fangs, extended its claws.
Ready for the kill.
Simmons fired the .45 into the wolf’s chest. A jolting yelp of pain resounded like a shriek within the room, but pain seemed to drive it. The alpha landed on Simmons biting at his throat. Its claws cleaved into Simmons’ arms and legs.