Leaving the old man’s house behind, Glenn suddenly felt the prickle of unseen eyes boring into his back.
Almost instinctively, he lifted his gaze to the second floor of the residence across the street.
All was still and silent there; the windows revealed nothing but an impenetrable darkness, like hollow sockets staring into the void.
“Who dwells in that place?” Glenn muttered under his breath, the question directed as much to the air as to himself.
Rifling once more through his borrowed memories, he was certain he had never encountered the owner of the dwelling opposite the old man’s home.
A hoarse chuckle drifted from the gloom, pulling his attention back to earth.
He turned to see the old man seated in the foyer, half-shrouded in shadow, nursing his bruised pride.
“The fellow across the street is a wealthy one,” the elder rasped, a malicious glint in his eyes. “Perhaps you might consider payinghima visit.”
Glenn had no desire to entertain the suggestion of a man he had just robbed. “I will keep that in mind,” he replied flatly.
He made his way out of the town, retracing his steps to the site of the previous night’s ambush. His objective: retrieve the discarded revolver.
Now that he had crossed into this unforgiving world, survival was paramount. Comfort and morality could wait until his continued existence was assured.
The town appeared just as desolate beneath the daylight as it had under the moon. No danger lurked in the open—had it been otherwise, the body’s original, cowardly owner would never have survived this long.
He passed no townsfolk along the road, nor heard the chatter of birds; only the rhythmic crunch of his solitary footsteps disturbed the silence.
When at last he reached the clearing where he had awakened, the sight that greeted him sent his guard spiking.
The revolver lay where it had fallen, stark and metallic against the leaves. But the corpse of the bearded bandit had been reduced to a macabre scatter of flayed meat and clumps of hair clinging to strips of scalp.
A scavenger? Or a predator?A chill crept down Glenn’s spine.
He stooped swiftly to reclaim the revolver, intent on departing immediately—when a stench, fetid and suffocating, caught in his throat.
Unable to discern its source, he froze, scanning the shadows, his fingers tightening white-knuckled around the shotgun he had wrested from the neighbor.
He had checked the breech: it held three shells. Enough to handle ordinary beasts.
But the stench thickened, a miasma pressing against him, warning of something far more dreadful drawing near.
This place…His face remained composed, a mask of calm, but inwardly every nerve was taut as a bowstring.
A faint rustle broke the silence—the dry crack of a twig beneath cautious paws.
The sound drew nearer, so subtle it would have passed unnoticed had his hearing not become unnaturally acute.
Each step seemed to echo against the rhythm of his own pulse, until cold sweat beaded upon his brow.
Yet still, he could not pinpoint the direction; his eyes found nothing but trees and shadow. The helplessness of waiting for an unseen executioner gnawed at him.
Then, abruptly, silence returned.
The rustling ceased.
That, Glenn knew, was the worst sign of all.
Every hair on his body bristled; his spine turned to ice.
Behind me!
He cursed inwardly and rolled aside in a desperate blur—yet the anticipated strike did not fall.
Perplexed, he crouched low, eyes darting backward.
And there it was.
A beast as large as a warhorse, black-furred and lupine, save for the single, baleful eye glaring from the center of its forehead. Its skull was grotesquely oversized for its frame, its maw splitting wide toward the neck to bare jagged fangs that glistened with thick saliva.
The creature stood motionless, its solitary, cyclopean eye fixed on him, brimming with wary menace.
Quietly, Glenn raised the shotgun.Can lead kill such a thing?He had no memory of a monster like this in Dylan’s limited knowledge. Unless it struck first, he would not waste a precious shell.
Ropes of drool slipped from its maw, hitting the leaves with heavy, wet slaps. Its tongue darted out, ceaselessly licking its nose, the hunger palpable.
Man and monster stared each other down in a tense, silent standoff.
At last, the beast’s patience snapped. It edged closer, teeth fully bared, a guttural growl vibrating from its chest like a subterranean tremor.
Knowing he could never overcome such a brute at close quarters, Glenn fired without hesitation.
Bang!
Blood spurted from the beast’s brow, and it shrieked in agony.
But the shot had not pierced the skull. Through the torn flesh, Glenn glimpsed a flash of dull grey—metal, or perhaps bone as hard as iron.
He worked the action with lightning speed, firing again.
But the creature no longer offered a stationary target.
With an impossible burst of speed, it blurred aside, a shadow weaving through the trees, narrowly evading the second blast.
“Damn it!” Glenn snarled, swinging the barrel for a third strike—but the stench of blood and rot was already upon him, fangs snapping inches from his face.
“Back!” he roared. Abandoning the gun, he twisted his body hard and lashed out with a powerful roundhouse kick to the creature’s jaw.
Years of combat experience lived in his soul, transcending the limitations of the vessel he now inhabited.
The impact was like striking a wall of solid iron; his foot went instantly numb.
Yet the blow, driven by his enhanced musculature, sent the beast—weighing nearly a ton—crashing backward, flipping head over heels.
Glenn himself tumbled from the recoil, sprawling onto the grass, but rolled nimbly to his feet in a heartbeat.
The monster, chastened by the unexpected strength of its prey, did not rush in again. It lingered, circling, growling low in hesitation.
Glenn’s leg trembled violently from the impact, but he dared show no weakness. To falter now meant being torn to shreds.
Then, with a sudden, coiled bound, the beast lunged once more, heedless of the risk.
He tried to dodge, but its speed eclipsed his own. Jaws clamped hard about his ankle, and with a savage jerk of its head, the world whirled around him.
He slammed against the earth, pain roaring through his body as he was dragged like a ragdoll. As his vision cleared, he saw the gaping maw descending toward his throat, death closer than ever before.
In that instant, something dormant within him erupted.
The foreign force coursing through his veins boiled over, overriding his humanity, driving his body into a violent, agonizing metamorphosis.
By instinct, his right hand lashed out.
A sound like tearing canvas split the air, followed by the beast’s agonized scream.
Blood veiled Glenn’s vision in a crimson haze. Rational thought dissolved, replaced by a primal, overwhelming hunger—a hunger for slaughter, for blood, for ruin.
His disciplined will to kill fused with this new, raw savagery. With a snarl that was no longer human, he hurled himself upon the creature.
The two tore at one another in a brutal, chaotic struggle of claw and fang.
Strength matched strength, but Glenn retained the combat instincts of a soldier, and soon he pressed the advantage.
Within moments, the cyclopean beast was a ruin of mangled flesh and shattered bone, pinned beneath Glenn’s hand, whimpering in pitiful submission.
He raised his claws for the final, severing strike—but a flicker of clarity pierced the frenzy in his eyes, slowly steadying into full awareness.
Breath ragged, chest heaving, he stared at himself in bewilderment.
His hand, gripping the creature’s throat, was no longer human.
Coarse black bristles stood like steel needles along a forearm rippling with unnatural muscle. His fingers were tipped with claws that glimmered sharp as obsidian blades.
And below his gaze, jutting into his peripheral vision, stretched the elongated, predatory muzzle of a wolf.
He had become a werewolf.