Four feral figures jumped down from the branches above. Each was black and furry like a wolf, but lacking a tail, and moved on two legs. Clawed hands gripped captured submachine guns. They dropped onto the backs of the tanks.
Kinkaid floored the accelerator; one of the creatures fell off the Sherman as it surged ahead. Then Kinkaid abruptly stopped, shifted into reverse, and backed up hard. The unexpected movement caught the beast by surprise and Kinkaid heard an agonized howl as the tracks rolled over him.
A second flung open the turret hatch. A snarling, shaggy head with a black canine snout, slavering yellow fangs, and glowing red eyes thrust inside. Cole grabbed the gaping jaws, struggling to keep from being bitten. He gagged on the brute’s hot, foul breath. Rosenthal snatched out his Colt. He quickly fired three times, the shots deafening inside the tank. Warm blood spattered Cole’s face and the monstrosity fell back out.
He reached up to close the hatch and saw that Jackson’s tank had abruptly stopped, the hatches open. Screams and a flurry of shots came from inside. Then silence.
Cole got on the radio. “Able Two Four, come in. Jackson. Jackson! Over!”
No reply. His blood froze as the turret began rotating towards him.
Cole issued terse orders. Youngblood swung the breech open and replaced the high explosive shell with armor-piercing; Robinson stomped the firing pedal. The cannon boomed. The turret of Jackson’s tank stopped, jammed in place by a damaged traverse. Unless the whole vehicle moved around it could not fire at them. Robinson’s second round blew off a track and immobilized it. Cole stood in the cupola, submachine gun ready.
A werewolf scrambled out the turret hatch. Cole peppered the creature with silver slugs and watched coldly as it tumbled to the ground, twitching. Cole waited for the last werewolf to emerge, but no one appeared.
“C’mon, Rosenthal, let’s make sure the bastards are dead.”
They climbed out. Thunder crashed; rain hissed down in sheets, soaking them to the skin.
The werewolf which had tried to get into Cole’s tank was found stone dead; the carcass had turned back into human form again.
The one Kinkaid had run over was still alive and in the guise of a wolf, dragging crushed legs as it crawled towards a dropped submachine gun. Already the bleeding had stopped; mangled bones and muscles were knitting back together at an astonishing rate.
Cole kicked the weapon away before the werewolf could reach it.
It glared up at Cole, fangs bared in a defiant snarl. “Heil Hitler,” it growled — and lunged for him.
Cole shot it, and the beast collapsed at his feet. Cole’s M3 was empty now, so Rosenthal handed him the Thompson and drew his pistol.
The pair cautiously moved up to Jackson’s tank, smelling death and cordite. Blood was splattered all over the white walls inside. Jackson and his crew had been ripped apart by the two werewolves before they commandeered the Sherman and tried to use it against Cole. The second werewolf was gone: the floor escape hatch lay open.
Rosenthal cautiously circled the tank and pointed. Wolf tracks led away. They followed.
As they passed an outcropping of mossy boulders the werewolf charged out of the gloom and smashed Cole across the head with a clawed hand, knocking his helmet off. Stunned, Cole reeled back, slipped on the sodden grass, and fell. His wet hands lost their grip on the Thompson and it skittered down a gully out of reach.
Wheeling, the beast pounced on Rosenthal, throwing him down and dashing the pistol from his hand. Broken spectacles fell off. The monster dove for his throat; he tried to block it and cried out as jaws clamped like a vise on his forearm. They grappled.
Rosenthal frantically fumbled for anything he could use as a weapon. Desperate fingers found the mechanical pencil. He stabbed the werewolf in the eye as hard as he could.
The creature howled and recoiled. It tried yanking the pencil out, but let go sharply as if just touching the pencil burned. It staggered a few steps before its knees buckled and it fell headlong.
Cole came to. He gaped at the dead werewolf and gave Rosenthal a questioning look.
“Sterling silver,” said Rosenthal.
They watched the matted fur fade away. Claws, triangular ears, and the canine snout retracted, muscles shrank to normal proportions, and the carcass slowly became human again.
Rosenthal stared numbly at the bite marks on his trembling arm. He felt dizzy and nauseous. He looked at Cole. “You know what to do.”
Cole nodded grimly and got to his feet. He picked up the Colt and made sure a round was in the chamber. Then he aimed at Rosenthal and pulled the trigger.
Project Lupine
Brian W. Taylor
An alarm blared — the nasal tone repeating over and over like a hammer beating nails into Rolf Alfredsson’s head. He heard but pretended like he didn’t.
“Yo, Red, get your ass up, man.”
Rolf groaned before opening his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Red?”
Lou ‘Sully’ Sullivan smiled, his teeth like headlights cutting through the darkness. “Shit, man, I can’t help your ginger complexion, or that the name’s already stuck.”
A light clicked on reflecting harshly off the white of the floor and walls. Everything was white in TriGenex’s classified laboratory, the actual labs, the living quarters, and even the bathrooms.
“C’mon though, for real. Dot will have our asses if we’re last to respond.” Sully rummaged around his footlocker and pulled out a fresh uniform — classic, black BDUs, with the TriGenex logo on the breast and back.
“Fuck Dot. And fuck you.” Rolf looked at the clock; he had only slept two hours. They weren’t paying him enough for this shit. Well, maybe they were, but that was beside the point. This job was supposed to be his ticket to early retirement.
A multitude of footsteps rushed along the hallways of the living quarters as scientists, technicians, and security personnel scrambled like ants summoned by their queen toward their duty stations. In this case, their queen was project lead Doctor Cecily Sturgess, a woman who was about as joyful as a dip in a frozen lake. She cared about her experiments and little else.
Something had to have gone wrong with the latest experiment if the queen had put out the call.
Rolf was beginning to think taking the security job at TriGenex had been a mistake. In truth he had only been employed a little over a month but in that short amount of time he had seen some ungodly shit — shit that already had him pondering early termination of his contract. Grunts like him weren’t supposed to ask questions or pay attention. In fact, they were paid to do the opposite. Rolf had always asked too many questions during his time in the United States Army; they had politely suggested he take his talents elsewhere despite his exemplary service record. His time at TriGen was turning out to be the sequel to a movie he wished he had never auditioned for in the first place.
Both he and Sully were suited, booted, and strapped in two minutes. They hurried from their quarters and followed the green line along the floor until reaching Lab One.
Consisting of five floors built into the heart of the Adirondack Mountains, the complex was shaped like a giant hourglass. Only the offices of the top floor were visible, while recreational, exercise, and cafeteria facilities dominated the second. The third and fourth floors housed the labs and associated personnel. Nobody ever talked about what lay below on five. Rumor had it that’s where they kept the test subjects.
Up until today, Rolf had considered himself lucky to have been assigned to the genetics half of the facility. He mostly stood around and watched over the scientists while they conducted their experiments on witless death-row inmates. Those same fool inmates had signed their lives over to science and their families received a nice sum of money. It seemed harmless enough until Rolf had seen what was left of the last batch of experiments. He guessed it would be better than waiting around in a cage to die though.