The wounded werewolf stood back up and let loose a growl that shook its entire body. The one on the older policeman stepped forward and dropped down on top of the bloodied man and began tearing into him, shredding clothing and flesh with powerful hands before sinking teeth deep into the wound and ripping away at what looked like part of a heart and a lung. The officer’s chest had bloomed like a bizarre flower that steamed in the cold night air.
The young cop was still screaming, bucking and trying to get away from the snarling giant that tore the wound in his shoulder into a lethal hole.
The woman was dead; her body sliding down as the werewolf pulled away from her, chewing at whatever prize it had pulled from her face.
George shifted into drive then hit the gas. The squad car jumped forward, slamming into the furry shape that loomed over the older cop and then driving over the dead man and the snarling nightmare alike. The tires spun against the cold, icy road and caught extra traction as they ran over both forms.
He wasn’t thinking at all, really, just doing his best to get away from the madness. The gun-wounded werewolf didn’t seem to see it that way. It lifted its good arm and brought it down with a hammer blow that caved in the front of the squad car’s hood and rocked the vehicle on its shock absorbers. The car decided at that moment that stalling would be a good idea.
George couldn’t have agreed less.
The beast roared again and rather than climbing on top of the car, stepped around to the side to get at George. It reached for the window and plowed through the glass with surprisingly little effort. Fragments of the broken window exploded into the interior and showered George, who was doing his very best to get out through the passenger’s side door at the same time.
He had just managed to open the door when the thing’s claws hooked into his foot and ankle. George yelped and kicked, trying to get free, trying to stop the pain that went running from his lower leg, when the door near his head was ripped completely away from the hinges.
There were snarling faces above him and below and George decided enough was enough. He cocked back his mauled foot and then drove the heel of his boot into the snout that was snapping at him. Something in the monster’s nose crunched and the beast pulled back, shaking its head violently from side to side.
The one near his head was reaching in to grab him and George returned the favor; even as the long, deadly fingers of the werewolf were grabbing at his clothes, the beast got close enough for him to drive his thumb into the left eye of the thing.
It tried to pull back, but George used his other hand to grab into the thick ruff of fur near its neck and forced his thumb deeper into the soft tissue, snarling himself.
He was as good as dead, so he decided to at least leave them knowing they’d been in a fight.
As the werewolf jumped back, George followed; his face in that moment was almost as feral as the ones on the wild things near him. The werewolf snarled and came for him, one eye closed against the furious tearing and, yes, the blood that was flowing from it. George drove his fist into its throat as hard as he could and was delighted to hear it let out a choking cough. He liked the effect so much, he did it again while the giant thing was hacking and trying to catch a decent breath.
The werewolf backed off, clutching at its throat and half growling, half whining. George moved forward again, determined to push his advantage over the unnatural monstrosity.
The weight that hit him from behind slammed him into the road with enough force to knock the wind out of him and to crack a couple of ribs. George grunted and tried to breathe again as the pressure increased.
“Get the fuck offa me!”
The one he’d struck in the throat fell to all fours in front of him and vomited a stream of blood. It looked at him with both eyes, one still red and swollen looking, and then loped forward until it was staring him in the face.
All the anger left his body even as he managed to draw in a decent breath. Out with the bad air, in with the fear. He’d hurt it, but the snarling thing staring into his eyes was far from out of the fight and another one was sitting on top of him, pinning him in place as it huffed warm breaths on the back of his neck.
As he lay there, waiting for the creature to kill him, the others came closer. Apparently they had finished their murderous appetizers and were now ready for the main course.
Mark Loman panted heavily in the deepening cold. The run wasn’t that long, only ten miles, but still he was exhausted and the arctic air was scouring his lungs with every gulp of oxygen he took in.
Not surprisingly he reflected back on the night he helped murder an innocent woman as he kept moving.
He’d thought Cullie was joking at first, and had said he’d take the head. It seemed like a good joke right up until the time Cullie started cutting.
He should have been disgusted. He should have knocked his friend on his ass and been done with it, but once the animal’s cries started, he found himself fascinated.
Mark had been a hunter since he was very young and he’d never once felt any regrets for his actions or pity for the creatures he killed. He’d been raised to believe that man was the ruler of the world by God’s decree; everything else was here for man’s use. His family had owned only a few pets, and in all cases they were servants as well. Hunting dogs. He’d never gotten close to any of the animals because his father had always believed that the dogs were tools, not toys.
So, no, there had never been any guilt, but he’d also always made it a point to make sure he had a clean kill. The animals were here for man to use, but not for man to misuse. None of God’s creatures were meant to suffer if it could be helped.
Until that night. Watching Cullie cut and abuse the animal hadn’t been as exciting as it had been fascinating. Okay, he was a little freaked out when he realized his friend was, well, getting into the torture a bit much, but Cullie had always been weird. That didn’t really mean much as long as he kept it to himself. He’d even decided to talk to Cullie about it later.
When George started puking his sad guts out, Mark turned to make sure he was all right. He only saw the transformation out of the corner of his eye, but seeing the mangled, wretched animal turn into a wounded woman threw him for a loop. Okay, to be honest, he’d freaked out. It was one thing to torture a dying animal, but something else entirely to hurt another human being. He screamed, and he staggered back, horrified by what he saw. He was just as horrified when he saw Cullie grab the — and here his mind tried to make the memory a lie and show him a wolf being maimed beyond all repair: he did not allow himself that luxury — woman’s bleeding arms and rip back with all of his strength. For one brief second it looked like Cullie was peeling away a shirt, and then the blood came, spilling from the bared muscles and tendons, the lacerated underlying layer of tissue that separated skin and the body beneath.
The woman (wolf, his mind insisted) had let loose a scream that still haunted him on nights when he went to bed sober. She’d sat up, for the love of God, and the sounds she made sent fever chills through Mark’s entire body. Her face was unmarred, and her wide blue eyes stood as far open as they could get as her mouth strained against the sounds escaping her.
For one heartbeat his entire world became terrifyingly clear. He heard the poor girl screaming, and under that he heard the sounds of Cullie grunting and whining in pleasure. In the distance, almost sublimated by those overwhelming noises, he heard George crying, sobbing into his own hands and then getting ill again.