SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

He emptied the clip into the alpha. It howled again, but kept at him. Simmons grasped for the K-bar on the deck, fumbling for the knife. The alpha’s yellow eyes shone bright with hate. The last bit of its life seemed directed at annihilating Simmons – retribution for killing members of the pack.

The beast’s muzzle reeled about and snapped. As it closed in for the kill, Simmons found the leather handle of the K-bar. With a shout, he plunged it deep into the alpha. Right to the hilt.

The werewolf snarled, writhed in his arms. The warrior beast locked glances with Simmons. They stared into each other’s eyes. The proud wolf battled for its pack and the marine fought for his comrades. A somber moment between two enemies in combat.

As life slipped from the wolf’s eyes, it collapsed onto Simmons’ chest. For a moment Simmons felt sorry for the loss of a worthy adversary. He took a deep breath and tossed the creature aside. Lying on the deck, muscles weak, he took another deep breath. He sat up then scrambled back on his rear as the dead wolves began changing form.

Bones snapped. The bodies quivered and contorted. A crunching echoed through the building as the jaws and cheekbones diminished. Gas released from the corpses, fouling the air. Legs trembled as their haunches twisted and pulled straight. The tearing of flesh turned Simmons’ stomach as the claws retracted. Then the shaggy hair slowly receded, exposing human forms.

Dead men, naked, wounded and broken, lay sprawled upon the cold floor. The affliction had been indiscriminate. A tanned Palestinian lay not far from a dark-haired Frenchman with a long prominent nose. The well-muscled build of the alpha was covered in tattoos; the words inked in Slavic.

Howling broke the silence. Simmons pushed to his feet and peered out the window. Under the moonlight, the remaining pack circled the top of a distant heap of rubble.

Standing at the center, a man thrashed and clawed at the sky. Anderson. Almost Anderson. Huge clumps of hair protruded from the tears in Anderson’s cammos; his jaw and cheeks seemed… bigger. Ferocious.

Alone in the shadows, Simmons watched the proud wolves as intermittent light cascaded into the broken building. His heart raced.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the window and splayed his fingers against the glass, drawn to the moonlight and his howling pack.

The Fenrir Project David W. Amendola

“Got a mission for you, Moses.”

Second Lieutenant Moses Cole raised a black eyebrow. “Thought we were going back to Germany, sir.”

“We are. But something’s come up,” said Captain Hogue, his company commander. “G2 heard rumors of diehard Nazis holed up near Teufelsdorf.” He turned to a map tacked to the wall of the command post and pointed to the location. “Probably nothing, but the brass wants it checked out anyway. That area always seems to be cloudy and foggy, so aerial reconnaissance is useless. Someone needs to reconnoiter on the ground.”

Cole rubbed his mustache with a brown finger as he studied the map. “Not familiar with that town. Don’t think there was any fighting there.”

“No, but don’t expect any help from the locals. It’s the home town of SS-Major Rudolf Krebs, a wanted war criminal.”

“We’ll take care of it, sir.”

“Special Agent Rosenthal from CIC will be going with you.” Hogue gestured at a spare, attentive white man standing quietly off to the side.

Like all members of the Army Counter Intelligence Corps, Rosenthal wore no rank on his uniform, just an officer’s U.S. collar insignia. Spectacles perched on a thin nose, and a smoldering cigarette dangled from pale lips. He did not offer to shake hands, but simply gave a curt nod.

CIC detachments gathered tactical intelligence during the war. Now they hunted for wanted Nazis and investigated illegal activities and possible Nazi resistance groups.

Hogue turned around. “Rumors also said they might have a Jagdpanther, so be careful. Any questions?”

Cole saluted. “No, sir.”

* * *

Private Lewis shifted uncomfortably in the assistant driver’s seat in the cramped front hull of the M4A3(76) Sherman medium tank. “What’s a Jagdpanther?” he asked.

“Means hunting panther in German,” said Cole over the intercom, standing behind and above in the open turret hatch. “Tank destroyer built on the chassis of the Panther tank. No turret so it can hold a bigger gun.”

“Yeah, same eighty-eight millimeter as the King Tiger,” said Corporal Kinkaid, the driver, seated to Lewis’ left. “Slices through these tin cans like butter.”

“Oh.” Lewis fell silent.