SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Werewolf? Fuck that! Can you say serial killer with claws?

“George! Wake the fuck up!” His voice cracked as he screamed and George finally came out of his slumber, waking instantly.

Mark didn’t try to explain, he just pointed a finger. He saw the same realizations going through George’s mind that had gone through his and when he thought the troubles had cemented themselves, he asked, “What are we going to do here, George?”

George stared at Cullie for all of ten seconds, and then stepped toward the still growing beast on the pew and grabbed the closest limb, in this case the left foot, which had started sprouting fur.

George was not a small man. He was out of shape, but he was also big enough to make most people think twice about screwing with him. Mark stared with his mouth hanging open as George put his weight into it and practically hurled Cullie onto the fire.

Flames leaped and danced around Cullie as he hit the blazing collection of wood, and Cullie did more than scream now. He rose from the burning flames and roared, as the changes in his body accelerated.

Mark swallowed hard and shook his head, refusing to believe what his world had come to. The damned thing kept changing even as it burned, growing larger and more ferocious. The sounds coming from it were undiluted rage and pain and loud enough to leave him half deafened.

George didn’t stand by and wait for Cullie to die. He grabbed a board from near the fire and swung it as hard as he could, landing a savage blow across the side of its still burning head. The board shattered, and so did the back of Cullie’s misshapen skull. Cullie fell back into the flames, screeching as his hands were buried in the coals, and the flames licked across raw parts of his body that had not yet re-grown flesh.

George was screaming now, too, as he took the remaining length of wood and drove the edge into the monster’s back, pushing as hard as he could, ignoring the flames that threatened to ignite his clothing. The edge of the broken board was jagged and disappeared at least a couple of inches into the raw meat on the Cullie-thing’s back.

Cullie fell into the fire completely, his face buried in the ashes at the center of the blaze, and still George held him down, pushing with trembling arms. The sounds the half formed werewolf made would haunt Mark for the rest of his life; he knew they would.

Cullie pushed and fought back, but despite his changes, he was still too damaged to hold his own. One hand slid out of the pyre, scattering coals across the ground, and trying to reach George, but he was quick enough to step aside. Mark watched the fingers lengthening, watched the nails grow thicker, even as the heat started cooking the meat away from the bones.

George’s boots were smoldering, the laces on one of them already burning before he stepped back and left the board behind, sticking out of the spot where it had pushed through the muscles and possibly even through a couple of ribs.

George stared at Cullie and panted, his face smudged with ashes and seared to a light pink. He stomped his feet impatiently before he finally managed to put out the flames licking at his laces.

“You killed Cullie.” Mark shook his head, numbed to the point where he didn’t stop himself from opening his mouth.

George turned sharply on one heel and pivoted a scorched fist into his face, splitting his lip and snapping his head backwards with the force of the blow. Before Mark could recover, George bulldozed forward and hit him again, a third time and a fourth.

Mark fell back and crashed into the broken pews, once again completely unsettled by the events around him. He ignored the edge of wood that pressed into his back as he saw George stumbling around like a drunk.

Finally George settled himself against the far wall and drew into a nearly fetal position. Mark watched as the man he thought he’d known well enough to call a brother started crying, his head resting against his drawn up knees.

He had no anger left in him. There was nothing but a hollowed-out feeling and the pain of the scrapes that George’s fists had reopened. Mark eventually rose and limped to the closest opening in the side of the church before he dry retched a few times. The smell of cooking meat was overpowering inside the building. Even though the air outside was cold, it was purer, sweeter than the stench inside.

* * *

They did not speak as they walked through the deep snow. They merely kept moving. Mark’s feet were wrapped in the inner lining from his jacket to keep his feet warmer. Even that wouldn’t have happened if George hadn’t done it for him.

Mark was physically there, but nobody was home. That was just as well, because if he’d said the wrong thing, George might have killed him.

George didn’t much care about anyone or anything anymore; he couldn’t afford that luxury. He wanted to get out of this alive and he wanted to get back to his house and the world he’d left behind.