Never Change

Part I.

God called the light Day,
And the darkness He called Night.
But some loved the Night
And dwelt in the evils thereof.

    It wasn't his fault.  Years of ancestral bestiality had contaminated the bloodline, tainted his heredity.  He couldn't help what he was, but he was still blamed for it.  Jake was a werewolf.
    The Romans in their rampant paganism slept with the Wolf, and then their distant successors repeated their errors in the name of witchcraft and other abominations, so it was hard for the Wolf not to become a part of Man.  Not every one is infected, of course, but enough to raise the eyebrows (and guns) of the modern world.  Some called it the next stage of human evolution, some called it God seeking vengeance upon the third and fourth generations (or thirtieth and fortieth), and some just called it a disease, like acne or something.
    It was the age of America, of rock concerts, of the 45th president, of mad cow disease and cancer, not the age of the werewolf.  The ancient Relic, this Wolf-Man, could not fit in.  The modern world feared him as they always fear their own.
    The werewolf could change at will, but at the twilight of a full Moon, he changes involuntarily, and remains Wolf until dawn.  The werewolf could only be killed by silver bullets—and lead bullets, and knives, and suffocation, and decapitation, and about anything else that would kill the normal Man.  Night is his friend, Day being merely an acquaintance, a contact.
    Jake was an accountant of 25, short brown hair, brown eyes.  He worked in a tall edifice that stood as just another Sequoia in the forest of New York City.  Jake's desk was located inside a small, grey cubicle near a window, so that he could turn around and look at the view from up high.  It was 6:56, and he was about to close up.  Everyone else worked until about five, but Jake had nowhere to go and no friends to see until later that night, so he stayed longer.  He shut down his computer and pushed away from the desk, getting up.  He pushed his chair in so that no one would run into it when they arrived the next morning, even though he knew he would be one of the first ones there.  He checked his wall calendar hanging inside the cubicle, fingering the date.  Yes, tonight was the night.  A white Wolf stared back at him from the picture above the word "June"; Jake saluted it by pointing and left, passing the name "Jacob Carol" on the nameplate on the outside of the cubicle.  The parking garage downstairs was empty, save for a couple shabby pickups, belonging to the janitors, and his own luxury car parked facing the wall.  He put it in the correct gear and pressed the gas, only to shoot forward.  He quickly remembered that his foreign model had the "D" and the "R" backwards.  "I do that all the time," he muttered to himself.  Then he put it in reverse and backed away.
    His apartment on the 17th floor was dark except for a light radiating from the kitchen—he had left the freezer door open again.  "Blast," he said, as he reached for a Mexican microwave dinner.  "Oh, well.  Since it's already thawed, it won't be so long in the microwave."  He shut the door tightly and tugged a little to make sure it was secure.  Grabbing the remote, he walked into the living room and turned on the TV.  The light from the tube allowed him to find the light switch for the room so he could see where he was going—he didn't want another stubbed toe like the last two nights.  He changed the TV to a plotless drama where a convenience store clerk was caught murdering a client with a cash register.  Retrieving his newly warmed food, he sat down to enjoy his well-wasted time in front of the screen.  The TV dinner would tide him over till after the eleven o' clock news.
    The drama ended with the clerk confined to a prison, and sassy cops taunting him from the other side of the bars.  In the news, there was another report of trouble over werewolf rights in Germany and Britain, and some local hockey team won their first match of the season.  There was a new play coming to Broadway, starring the guy who was in that movie about the nun, and Parker Avenue would be closed from seven till nine the following morning for some quick pothole-filling-in business.
    Eleven thirty neared, and Jake turned off the TV and left, replacing the remote and snatching his keys in front of the microwave.  The apartment building parking lot was quite full compared to his company's lot.  A family three places down from his luxury car was pulling out in their minivan, heading off for a late-night beginning to a long vacation, he presumed.  He drove forward a little bit, then backed out from his parking place and headed west.  The City crept slowly out of view from his mirrors as he neared his country destination.  It would be another thirty minutes before he arrived.
    He took Exit 71A and then turned onto a back road into a wooded area many acres in breadth.  A small house appeared to his right, with a sign that said "Alcoholics Anonymous" in large red letters.  The first word was crossed out because it would be misleading to say that alcoholics met at this house—in reality, werewolves did.
    The building was a one-room log cabin with no porch and a door in the middle of the front side.  The back side, too, had a door, but it was large, more to the effect of a garage door; it opened vertically, sliding up and inward.  Jake parked his car in a miniscule gravel area directly adjacent to the house, put on the parking brake, and exited, his seat belt getting caught in the door as he slammed it.
He walked forward to the cabin door and knocked; a black man of 42 answered—short, greying hair, black eyes, a scar across the top of his left hand.  "Jake!" he said excitedly.
    "Hello, Samuel," Jake replied.  Samuel vacated the entrance so he could make his way in.  
    In the corner of the room, directly to his right, stood a small filing cabinet with a sharpened pencil on top; this was the only furniture in the room.  Nineteen people sat cross-legged in the center of the room in a circle.  Many of them looked up toward him and smiled, some greeting him.  They widened the circle for their new arrival and they all sat, Samuel to his left, Marcy, a Korean of 37, to his right.  The man directly across from him, the one facing the door so he could see immediately who comes, said, "Welcome, Jake; welcome, all."  Jake did not regularly attend their meetings, so they were happy to see him there on this fine Tuesday night.  The man across, called Stet, a white of 39, dirty blonde hair, dark blue eyes, began his usual discourse, with a touch of flavor for variety: "As you know, this night is not a full Moon—if it were, we would have changed long ago.  Tonight we meet for to fellowship one with another.  To grow stronger in the bonds of packhood."
    Jake sort of zoned out.  He didn't need to be told why he was here.  Unaware, Stet continued: "In a few minutes we shall change, and we shall set off on a hunt.  The woods around and behind this house are full of game, and there are cattle in field that neighbors our forest."  Many of the people in the circle closed their eyes to picture it.  "The food of Man grows old in our stomachs."  Hmm, so we'll eat it raw, then? Jake thought.  He saw all the extra ceremonial stuff that Stet added was trash.  He just wanted to have fun.
    "The food of the Wolf awaits us.  Brothers and sisters, let us now change to enjoy the fruit of harvest."  It's meat, Stet, meat, not fruit.  Stet eyed Jake, knowing that there was some sarcastic thought flowing through his mind.
    The group stood up and spread out randomly, some turning around, as the change can be frightening to newer Wolves.  Jake erected himself with them and signaled the change.  The Wolf inside him was deep down.  It was just another part of his conscious mind—easily called, easily illuminated.  Fur sprouted from his body and he fell forward as his arms became legs.  His pants sagged off his body as his waste shrunk, revealing a newly formed tail.  In seconds, the change was complete, and he shrugged off his clothing.  He was Wolf.
    Jake looked around.  Samuel, whose slow, reckless changes were always a treat to see, was just finishing up.  Snow white fur now covered him, and as he fell to all fours, he misjudged the speed and intensity of gravity, and fell flat on his face, tail in the air.  However, when he was finished, he was probably the Wolf whom all others envied, because of the striking purity of his white coat.  He and Marcy were grey Wolves, and Stet was black.  The ones facing the corner turned around to see that everyone else had changed.
    Their Alpha Wolf, Stet, gave a short yip, the signal to go.  The garage door at the back of the room was left open most of the time, and the pack ran through it.  Samuel and Jake exited at the same time, the former catching his front left paw on the metal bar at the bottom of the doorway; it bled anew.  His fur never stayed white long.
    Smells shot to his nose as Jake recognized his newfound freedom.  As a Wolf, he could run swiftly, see through the darkness well, and smell everything his Man nose would have missed.  Being Wolf was a fresh release after being Man for most of the week.  Jake had missed the last two pack meetings due to laziness, and he suddenly realized what he had missed.
    He ran this way and that, hither and thither.  Stet galloped along side him for a minute and joined another pair of Wolves behind him.  He was like a father to the pack.  He had started it, bought the land, located some werewolves in New York City, and congregated them all here years ago. It was a place far from civilized Man, where the werewolf could be who he really was, where he could let free all emotion and just . . . be.  Jake was very grateful for this, even if his attendance showed otherwise.
    They met every Tuesday and Friday, not because of necessity, but to show each other they were not ashamed, that they felt like the Wolf was a gift, not a curse.  They met because they liked it.  Also, on the days when the Moon was full, they would meet here early and change, whether naturally or willed.  It was those Nights, when the Moon ruled the sky, that the Wolf could truly enjoy his nocturnal world.
    Jake ran free, keeping his nostrils alert to whatever scents might attract his lupine consciousness.  The smell of a deer entered his olfactory receptors; a Wolf behind him noticed it, too.  But he quickly determined that the scent was old and moved on.  It was not long before a fresher scent trampled through, though.  Deer again.  This one he followed.
    He set off at a trot, and Marcy sped past him, silver fur gleaming in the little Moonlight.  The deer was there, and she had seen it.  He ran to join her in the attack as she leaped for its neck, grasping it with her teeth and swinging right under its head to the other side, where she released her grip.  The deer never had a chance to run; Jake barreled through, knocked its font legs out from under it, and whipped around to get a bite out of the gut.  It was as good as dead, and the others of the pack ran to the feast.
    Uncharacteristically of Alpha Wolves, Stet stood and watched as his children ate.  He would stay late on into the morning and eat then, but he watched out for his packmembers, as their fulfillment was his life.
    Dawn loomed nearer, and they spent the rest of the time galloping freely, letting steam out, enjoying their time as Wolf.  But before the sun rose, they all knew they had to be home, for they each had jobs to attend.  Thus, they all made their ways back through the garage door, changed, and dressed.
    Some carpooled, but those who didn’t walked to their own cars and left, waving and saying their "See you next time"s and carrying on.  Jake wrestled his door open (for the seatbelt caused him some pain) and got in.  He released the parking brake, drove forward, and then backed up.  He took the highway back to his apartment.

Part II.

The Wolf and the Lamb shall feed together,
The Lion shall eat straw like the Ox,
And dust shall be the Serpent's food.
But those times are not these times,
And those truths are not these realities.
It is the age of Strife,
And the time of Death.
The battle begins.

    Jake was the first one in his office that morning.  His boss, a not-so-young Mr. Allison with baggies under his eyes, a man of 49, was the next to arrive; as was the morning ritual, Allison greeted Jake in a sterile, professional manner: "Good morning, Carol."
    "Good morning, sir."  Jake turned around in his chair and stood to shake hands.
    "Long night last night?" he asked.  "Got some baggies under your eyes."  He walked off toward his office.
    Indeed, Jake had not slept last night, for he had been in the forest with his friends.  But everyone on the floor knew what he was, so this came as no surprise.  That's why he had no friends at work.  Everyone was civil to him in conversation, but as soon as his back was turned, they expressed their deepest hate toward him.  He was different.  He was Wolf.  He was not human.
    Werewolves were hated by most of the known world.  Many European countries, which have been having the most difficulty with werewolves, had posed restrictions and bans on werewolf presence in certain areas; for instance, due to the concern of public harm by werewolves, they have now been banned from shopping centers, restaurants, and especially banks.  They have had no reason to impose such measures, as no werewolf has ever used the Wolf as a threat for money at a bank, and no Wolf has run into the kitchen at diners to wolf down their foodstuffs.  A minority in the European community, werewolves included, are outraged at something like this.  They equate it to barring blacks from bars.  They are just more Jim Crow laws—but, of course, not being American, they express that in different terms.  On the other hand, however, the majority of the public has lobbied for the legislation and enforcement of these ridiculous restrictions.  They fear the Wolf.  But the Wolf fears them not.  And why? The Wolf is them.  You become what you most despise.  But they are slow to learn.  Slow to understand.
    But Jake reformed his thoughts.  He did have a friend at work.  His boss' assistant, a skinny, greying black man of 53, always sat with him at lunch and made small talk.  His name, Saktorisch, meant "Strong One" in whatever language, but Jake always thought he made it up.  It was always a humorous sight to see on his ID the words "Saktorisch Jones."  Jake just called him by his last name.
    The two were presently sitting in the cafeteria three floors down, at the empty end of a table.  Jake prodded his macaroni suspiciously as the other end of the table erupted in laughter at some joke just told.  He'd caught a feather in his food before; as the Wolf, feathers didn't bother him much, but the human taste buds didn't like it, so he chose not to eat feathered things.
    Jones did not fear him.  On the contrary, Jones thought it would be nice to be a Wolf, to run freely and experience new things besides getting his boss coffee three times a day and taking messages for missed calls.  Jones always asked about Jake's Nighttime adventures.  "So what did you do last night?"
    "Went home and watched TV."
    "No, I mean . . . you know."
    "Oh, that," said Jake, not wanting to go into it.  "I went out and ate a deer."
    "Does it taste different raw?"
    "Yes, it sort of has an . . . uncooked taste."
    "Fascinating."  He leaned forward.  "Then what did you do?"
    "Just run around."  He took a bite of the macaroni and pulled a long hair out of his mouth as he chewed.
    "Was it fun?"
    "Loads."
    "Do you see in black and white?"
    "I've never really thought about it, you know."
    "I wish I was a werewolf," he said rather loudly.  Others at the other end of the table looked askance at him.
    "No, you don't."
    "Sure I do."
    "No, you most certainly do not.  You may wish to be Man, or you may wish to be Wolf, but not the combination.  Being a werewolf means you are feared and hated and discriminated against and laughed at and, yes, even sometimes, killed.  In Russia, I hear, if they find out their kids are part Wolf, they boil them.  Yes, boil.  It's supposed to get the demon out of the house if they do that.  Can you imagine being a mother and listening to your kid cry with every ounce he has for you, but you can't come to him and rescue him.  You can't hug him and kiss him.  You have to be a moron and rid the house of evil spirits, because it's their fault the kid is different.  Only demons could cause such an abnormality.  I've heard stories of adults in Iran who have been boiled, too.  Where do you find a pot that big, much less the nerve to murder a fellow human? Being a werewolf can be fun at times, but it can be a great burden.  I would not wish this on anybody, even my enemies."
    "But maybe if your enemies—the rest of the world—were werewolves, they could understand."
    "They could never understand."
    Silence.
    "Sorry."
    "It's not your fault.  It's not my fault.  It is the fault of people I never knew and never will meet.  People from a past long forgotten."
    Silence.
    "So what does cow taste like when it's fresh off the bone?"
    Jake sighed.
    The rest of the day went by quickly.   Lucille, age 31, two cubicles down from him, brought him some papers to calculate and record in the computer; she always smiled at him when she came by.  Jake didn't know why, but he always appreciated a look other than a scowl.
    By six o' clock, Jake was getting tired, so he went into the break room to poor some coffee, though knowing it would not agree with him.  Werewolves don't take well to coffee.  They are creatures of the Night by choice, not by caffeine.  Nevertheless, he chugged down a cup of it, refilled it, and brought it to his desk, just to spill it on the papers given him by Lucille.  He rolled up his sleeves so as to keep them clean, and on his wrist was visible his identification number: 1567332.  A similar registration number and computer chip implant is given to every werewolf newborn after the tests read positive.
    But he tried to keep his mind off the government's nonsense.  There were two papers soaked in the brown fluid, and he removed the top and put it between two paper towels.  The second had a sticky note attached, with a message smeared across it.  Jake struggled to interpret it, but it was beyond comprehension.  He detached it and threw it away, and then placed the second paper between two more paper towels.  After a couple of minutes, he took the first paper and began to record that data written thereon.  When 6:30 arrived, he finally realized he had already entered this data, a few days prior, so he started on the second sheet, only to find its contents safely stored digitally also.  Curious of her to give me old entries, he thought as he disposed of the papers.  All that trouble for naught.
    At 6:58, Jake went home to his apartment and threw in a microwave dinner.  After noting on his list that he needed more dinners, he stubbed his toe, turned on the light, and watched TV.  This time, there was a hospital drama on.  Some guy came in to the emergency room seeking help, and he puked all over the triage desk.
    The news came on soon, and the anchor reported that the star of the new play had been murdered in his own apartment this morning.  The police were still investigating it, but they said they had some leads.  Nothing else in the news interested him.  He was tired, so he went to bed.
    Over the next couples of days, more reports came in concerning the murder.  Friday came too slow though, and Jake found himself driving out to be with his brothers again.  He arrived earlier this time, and he walked in with others.  Stet was greeting everyone at the door as they entered.  A couple new people were in their midst this time, including a teenager, Fela, of about 15, and her mother of 43.  The group changed, went out, and this time killed a cow in a neighboring field.  The flesh was delicious on their lips.  Fela got cut by the barbed wire as they left the field, and she bled some ways into the forest.  Some packmembers helped lick her wounds.
    Jake didn't have to go to work the next day, and he was too lazy to fill up his car with fuel, so he stayed home with some ramen and popcorn and chocolate and watched the stupid movies they normally play on Saturday afternoons.  On Sunday, he went to church after refueled at the station next door.  As they passed the tray around, he got gasoline on the piece of cracker he broke off.  He ate it anyway.
    Monday came too soon, but it was a good Night, so he had something to look forward to.  ToNight was the day of the full Moon.
    Jones didn't hesitate to bring this up at lunch.  "So where're you going toNight?"
    "Out."
    "It should a nice Night toNight—not a cloud in the sky."
    "Or so the weather guys say."
    "Yeah, they're not always right, y'know.  I tell you, last year, when they said we would get three inches of snow, and we got ten instead, I was—"
    "Yes, I'm sure we all have a hint of hatred when we remember that day," he said sarcastically.
    "A day that will live in infamy."
    "Quite."
    "So do you morph before the Moon makes you, or do you just let it run its course?"
    "Whatever feels good at the moment."
    "Well, on a regular basis, what do you do?"
    "I suppose I change first."
    "Wow.  Y'know, I—"
    "No, you don't."
    "You don’t even know what I was going to say."
    "I had a pretty good guess."
    "Oh, really?"
    "Yeah.  Something about you wanting to be a werewolf?"
    "You are very shrewd."
    "Flattered."
    "So what're you gonna eat toNight? More cow?"
    "I'm not sure."
    "Don't you decide beforehand?"
    "Not really."
    "You don't consider it a little?"
    "It's not exactly like we're handed a menu."
    "I s'pose not."
    "Yeah."  Jake checked his watch and made his leave.  He returned to his cubicle, sat down, and ran his fingers through his hair.  The screen blinked for the password when he touched the mouse.  He typed it in.
    Quite a workload followed lunch that day, as many people came with their stats and figures to calculated.  Cally, Alexander, Smote, and Lucille all brought papers, only the last of whom made any notice of Jake's being there.  Jake casually and obediently entered the numbers and performed a few equations, and sent the results off to each of the aforementioned.  He was working so hard and so long, that he guessed he must have dosed off.
    He was awoken by a poking sensation in his right arm.  It took him a minute to realize that it was claws digging into his crossed arms.  He lifted his head and saw that they were his own claws.  The sun had set, and the change was occurring.  "No! Not here! Blast err—!" he exclaimed, but his human vocal cords were replaced with that of a Wolf.  In a few seconds, Jake stood on all fours, covered in fur.  And he was still at work.
    How could I have let this happen? he thought angrily.  He was in no condition to drive home, much less out to the forest.  After a minute, though, his fear and anger subsided, as he concluded that only a few janitors were left in the building, and they were probably leaving soon anyway.  Jake shed his clothes, and, wholly Wolf, explored the building from his new point of view.  It soon got old though, so he slunk back to his cubicle and slept by the window.  His head on his paws, he slept for a good part of the night.  
    He awoke again, but this time to strange noises coming from the stairs that lead to that floor.  It was the sound of heavy, quick breathing.  He crept over to the door and listened intently as a voice spoke, exasperated, on the other side: "Must . . . warn. . . ."  It was a feminine voice, but a deep one.  The knob turned, and in fell Lucille.
    But, she wasn't her normal self.  She was Wolf—partially, anyway.  He saw she had stopped in mid-change.  She had a Wolfish head, and her body was fur-covered, and she had a tail.  In fact, she was basically a full Wolf, save the fact that she was still bipedal.
    And she could talk.  "Jacob!" she screamed airily.  He soon noticed why: Her left lung had been punctured.  As he continued to size her over, he saw she was bleeding in many places.  She was lying on the ground now in the doorway, and a pool of blood now surrounded her.  "They came! They killed them!"  One of her wrists was covered in peach-colored paste.  She was a werewolf, and she had used blush to disguise her identification number.
    He gave a whine and nudged her.  She tried to continue: "They attacked.   Killed Stet.  Killed all of them.  Farmer there."
    A sudden wave of shock hit him.  The teenager had left a trail of blood from the dead cow to the cabin where they met.  The full Moon was toNight, so anyone wanting to attack them all would know to come then.  The filing cabinet in the cabin contained the information on each of the packmembers: name, home address—workplace.  They would be here any minute.
    He prodded her sympathetically, wanting more information.  "Killed actor.  All over news.  Werewolf, too."
    He had yet to find out who was behind it, so, seeing she had little life left, he licked her chest wound.  "Thirty, maybe . . . fifty people.  Came with guns.  Burnt the cabin.  Tracked down . . . absent . . . absentees."
    Jake knew what he had to do.  He focused his mind on reversing the change, and, because he knew he couldn't return fully to Man, he would become like Lucille was—bipedal, and with the ability to speak.  His legs thickened and his chest grew, and soon he was on his knees.  He tried to speak: "Whoooo . . . whoooo . . . who was it?"
    "Don't . . . know."  The sound of breaking glass rang out downstairs.  Angry voices filled the stairwell many floors down.  "Coming! They're . . . coming!"
    "C'mon."  He assumed a squatting position and picked her up, taking her over to the table in the break room.  The blood trail would be obvious.  Lucille let out a long breath and died.  "Aarrrgghhh!" he growled.
    The angry voices grew louder, so he waited by the door for them to come.  He picked up a computer monitor and stood poised.
    The first one came, and he lobbed the monitor full strength toward him, toppling him over into the rest of the men on the staircase.  He stepped over them, kicked them, and ran down the stairs.  A floor down, gunshots ricocheted off of the handle as sparks lit up the dark area.  The men yelled various things like "Get the mangy thing!" and "Kill 'im!"  More were waiting at the bottom of the stairwell, and he quickly fought his way past them.  The full force had evidently split up, for there were maybe ten people total who had tried to attack him.
    Jake ran to the parking garage and found his tires slashed.  He got in, ripped some cords out from under the steering wheel to hotwire it—his keys being upstairs—and drove away.  He didn't know where to go, but he needed to go somewhere.  They couldn't get in his apartment building very easily, being armed with guns and all, so he decided to head there.
    The news was appalling.  The police and news crews arrived at the forest—but the police got there second.  The station claimed exclusive footage of the massacre.  The teenager Wolf was wrapped tightly in barbed wire, suspended from a tree with numerous bullet holes piercing her body.  Samuel had had a stake or branch run through his chest into a tree, where he also now hanging.  Stet's disembodied head had been cleaved in two.  The rest of his body had been shot and pounded to an unrecognizable pulp.  The others were also mutilated in various gruesome ways.  The last image of the newsreel showed Marcy, hung upside down by barbed wire.  But the thing was, she was moaning.  She was crimson in color now, rather than her beautiful grey, and she whined pathetically—still alive.
    A reporter came on after the piece, live at the scene.  Police lights danced in the background, and many Wolf bodies could still be seen in the background, accented in the red and blue light.  The reporter said the reason for the attacks was unknown, but it was definitely connected with the recent death of the actor in the play.  She mentioned a couple of anti-Wolf groups in the City whom the station had conversed with, and she said none of them claimed responsibility for the attack.  An officer in the background cut down a barbed-wire-wrapped carcass, and it hit the ground with a sickening thud.
    No, Jake thought.   This doesn't happen here.  This only happens in Europe.  Only in Russia.  We don't have attacks here.  They hate us, of course, but they would never. . . . How could this happen? It doesn't happen here, it can't.  "They can't do this! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!"
    But it was.

Part III.

Benjamin is a ravenous Wolf;
In the morning he shall devour the prey,
And at Night he shall divide the spoil.
But answer me this:
Man massacres Wolf—
Now who is ravenous?

    Jake was shaken from his reverie by noises coming from outside his apartment door.  His heart pumping faster than ever, he hurriedly switched the TV off.  He was now alone in the dark of his living room.  The noises grew closer, and too soon were they stationed right outside the door.  A few gunshots rang out, and the doorknob vibrated.  A hand pushed the door open, and in came the stench—he could smell their hate.  They were twenty feet from him, and he could feel the emotion pouring from them, emanating from their persons like the smell of puke or urine.  It only made him madder.
    "The lights are off, maybe he's not here."
    "You idiot, do you think he's too dumb to hide, after all the racket you guys were making coming up here? Why'd you have to shoot the clerk anyway?"
    "Shh! I heard something."
    The men all entered and walked through the kitchen to the living room.  One flicked the switch on, and, knowing his cover was blown, Jake growled a warning and raised himself up from behind the front of the couch.  "RRRRRWHAT DO YOU WANT?!" he roared.
    A cocky man with a cigarette answered.  "We're just here to get rid of you scumbags."  The men opened fire.  Their first shots went far too high, barreling through the wall behind him, into the next apartment; a child's yelp came hence.
    Jake ducked and rolled to his right, to the edge of the couch.  Back against the wall, he coiled his leg and released the force into the couch.  The wood shattered and the couch swung over into the cancerous man.  He released a large amount of air as the back of the furniture hit his diaphragm, and the cigarette fell down between two cushions, only to be put out immediately.
    The Wolf took advantage of this incident and darted forward into the next room, his bedroom.  He upending his bed against the door way to block their entrance.  The three men, another in the lead, shouted to each other to get after him.  They ran to the barricaded door and sent off a few shots.  The lead easily penetrated the mattress, ricocheting off the springs on the other side, generating sparks.
    "WHO ARRRRE YOU?!" Jake bellowed, pointing his voice to the new, bullet-made whole in the bed.  He stood next to the bed, leaning on the same wall the bed was.
    "Your worst nightmare!"
    "If you desire to kill me, then dispense with the cliché phrases and let me know who my murderers are!"
    A thoughtful pause.  Jake used the time to pick up a coat rack from the corner and, clearing two coats and a hat off of it, he stood ready to swing at whomever came though with the base of his weapon.
    "All right, I s'pose that's fair.  We're the Christian Movement for Blood Purity.  You—you monster—are a result of a sinful and malicious—" His skull caved in as he pushed down the bed from the doorway to enter.  Jake pulled in the coat rack and held the man down with his foot to remove it from his face.  A squishing sound came, and a gaping whole appeared, for he had pushed his face through to the other side.
    "RRRRWHO ELSE WANTS SOME?!" he screamed, moving back against the wall.
    The two remaining men flicked on some more lights out in the living room.  Wait.  No, the light was too jumpy to be electrical.  "Let's get out of here.  He can die in the—"
    "No, we finish what we came here to do," gasped the man with the blackened lungs.  "We purge them all."
    Jake stepped onto the bed, in front of the doorway and swung hard downward, catching the man by surprise and freeing his gun.  The insides of the dead one's head sprayed from the hanger, sprinkling the wall and floor.  "YOU NEVER CHANGE!!"
    The rifle hit the ground, and the man tripped backwards.  The other man started to run, but Jake was too fast.  The werewolf picked up the piece and, within an instant, the rifle pierced his back and came out the other side; he screamed in agony as he fell forward onto the couch, which was now aflame.  The cigarette had evidently not been put out.
    The remaining man, the one who had set the fire, struggled to get up, but a Wolfen foot caught him between the legs before he could rise.  Jake felt something burst when the kick met its target.  The pureblood scooted some feet backward by inertia, into the blazing couch.  His jacket caught fire, and he thrashed about wildly in attempt to relieve himself of it.
    A shadow appeared in the door to the apartment.  Without a pause to think, Jake quickly ran for the nearest thing to throw, which was the TV.  Dropping the coat rack and sliding  forward, he ripped such from the wall and lobbed into a not-so-graceful arc.  It shattered against the wall beside the front door.  The stranger stepped into the kitchen, into the firelight, unharmed and untouched.  "Whoa, friend, I'm here to help!"
    He was tall, and he was a Wolf.  Jake let out an exhausted sigh and rose.  The other was, like Jake, in a form that was part Wolf and part Man.  He was grey with dirty fur, a little taller and maybe a year older than Jake.
    "They're all over the city.  I saw some of them come into this building with their guns blazing, so I tried to stop them.  They've already destroyed my home."
    "I think I've taken care of them."  
The grey stranger stepped closer and eyed the burning corpse with a gun through his chest.  "Rather violent, weren't we?"
    "Did you come to criticize?!" Jake yelled.
    "No, it's just—"
    "They have guns, stranger! If they weren't dead now, I would be!" The cancerous man writhed in pain, still alive, but barely.
    The other simply shrugged.  "I'm Marlow."
    Jake panted.  After a minute, he replied, "Jake."
    The flames were now reaching the carpet below and the ceiling above.  "Let's go, Jake.  There's nothing left here."  The two made for the exit.  The last man threw breathless curses on them as their shadows disappeared through the doorway.  The flames surrounded him, and he gave in to the solemn slumber.
    The hall outside was no less chaotic than anything else they'd seen.  Blood smeared the wall in a streak of about ten feet, and a gym bag with rifle rounds, pistol clips, and a few grenades lay outside the door.  A woman from the apartment next door say on her knees in her doorway, weeping over her son before her.  "He was just ten! Too young, just ten!" The boy was leaking blood from a bullet hole in his head.  "Just jumping on the bed, and it came from the wall! Through the wall! Just ten years old!" She burst into hysterics, and the two Wolves moved along to the stairs, trying not to notice her.
    The lobby on the ground floor consisted of a bleeding corpse leaning on the counter, a few people sitting in chairs with bloody magazines in their laps, and werewolf suspended in midair against the wall above the water fountain.  She had been thrust through, impaled on a street sign.  Her Wolf eyes were open, but unseeing.
    Minor fires, car fires, garbage fires, had broken out on the dark streets.  Some people were running around in a panic.  Marlow sighed.  "I've never seen anything like this.  It's like all the anti-Wolf groups in the state got together to kill us all."
    "Where are you fr—?" Jake started to say, but Marlow answered him before he finished.
    "I'm from the City, like yourself.  Did you think you guys were the only pack in the vicinity?"
    It was true, he had thought that, but upon consideration, it seemed foolish.  He shook his head untruthfully and said, "We should look for others.  There may be someWolf that needs help."
    Marlow nodded his agreement and turned his head toward the east sky.  Smoke billowed from between buildings.  "Times Square."  The pillar of smoke rose like a stormcloud, transcending even the highest of edifices.  Near the top of the tower, winds came in from the sea and caught it, pushing it, spreading it, covering the Night sky above them.  The darkness encompassed the city like a shroud.
    "What's going on there?" Jake asked, his voice a few tones higher.
    "This is the next Holocaust, friend."
    Jake's jaw dropped in horror.  It was too much.  It couldn't be happening, it just couldn't! "Shouldn't the police do something about this?"
    "They are."
    "Then why are we being systematically tracked down and annihilated?"
    "Where do you think these various anti-Wolf groups got their weapons? Who in the city has more firearms than the police?"
    Jake rubbed his forehead and diverted his gaze.  He could no longer look at the pall that was devouring the heavens.  He didn't even want to fathom it.  "We should look for others," he repeated.
    "I know of a pack that meets a couple of blocks down," Marlow offered.  "They might have already been raided, but. . . ."  He let it hang.
    Jake and he changed into their Wolf forms, dropping to all fours and setting off at a run, heading north.  As he passed side streets, he glanced down to see what pandemonium might be breaking loose.  This was ridiculous.  Everyone and his brother was out here killing his fellow man, and the authorities were trying to cover it up—and assist.  They were complicit in the crime! On his right a trampled pure-blood lay, her skirt torn and her jaw hanging at an unnatural angle.  Shotgun shells and empty clips were scattered about here and there.  The murderers would scour every crack and crevice until they found enough Wolfen to satiate their bloodlust; discarded weapons and lifeless bodies would adorn the avenues for a few days, before they could all be cleaned and rid of the waste.  This Night was utter destruction.  The fetid aroma of death engulfed the air.
    That's it, growled Marlow.  He followed the other's gaze to an office building ten or twelve stories high, lights on only on the top three floors, and the base of which was about five hundred feet away.  The pair slowed their gaits and crept up to the shadows of the sidewalk.  Human voices could be heard, and four humans could be seen coming from the main doorway.  Between them they wrestled a small female werewolf; she bit and struggled, but they had her, two grasping each arm, and she was therefore no match, even with the added strength of being what she was.
    Jake growled in anger.  We can't let this happen, he barked.
    Then let's go, Marlow replied.
    Jake exploded forward and ensnared the first man's shin with his maw.  The bone crunched pleasantly, and the man let go, grabbing his leg in pain, but freeing the hand of the captured Wolf.  She dug her claws into the face of the second man as Marlow sprang upon the back of the third.  The first man swatted at Jake's face with his fists, but Jake just bit down harder; his upper jaw could soon feel the teeth from his lower jaw, and vice versa.  He gave a sharp yank and tossed the leg away.  The man rolled on the ground, clutching his bloody stump.
    The other three men were disposed of by now: the first decapitated by the female, the second decapitated by Marlow gnawing through his neck, and the third running in fear.  Marlow set off after him and soon tackled him.
Jake changed back to his bipedal form.  "Are you okay?"
    The female groaned, and he noticed a red stream running from her neck.  A distance away, Marlow ripped the fourth man's arm off, and in it still was a short, crimson-stained knife.
    "NO!"
    "Thank . . . you," she said airily, falling forward.
Jake dropped down to catch her, and held her face up, tucking her in to him slightly for warmth and comfort.  "Don't talk, don't talk," he consoled her.  "You're gonna be fine," he lied.
    Marlow returned and, seeing the destruction wrought by the men on this woman, cursed all of mankind in growls and snarls.  What have we done to them? Why do they torment us?
    A slight smile passed through the sheWolf's face as she bled on Jake, and her head rolled backward limply and hung.  He set the body down gently, as if not to wake her, and sighed.  "We were too much like them."

*          *          *          *          *

    There was no one left alive in the building there or in the surrounding blocks.  Every Wolf had been shot, beheaded, or captured, and every body had been mutilated, desecrated, or taken.  Nothing remained of Wolfkind that they could find anywhere.
    Curiosity got the best of them, so they made the short journey to a building overlooking Times Square.  As the cheery sun peaked weakly over the horizon, they looked down on the absolute genocide before them.  From the roof, two pairs of Wolfen eyes stared in horror as the last flames died and the last smoke cleared from a gargantuan heap of corpses.  A good part of the square had been conquered by the overflow of bodies.  Most were blackened or simply ashes now, but it was the sheer magnitude of the destruction that took one's breath away.  The horrible stench saturated the air, and the atmosphere was foggy with the smoke.  Men still danced around the burning bodies, some in blue uniforms, some not.  But all had a look of hate and triumph in their eyes.
    On the news, the president would later call it an "unfortunate incident," and the bodies would be dumped in mass graves or maybe even the ocean.  No funerals were held for the deceased.  No memorials were erected for their loss.  No number was tallied of the Wolfen killed.  No one knew about the massacre, and, most of all, no one cared.
    Some survived, yes, but they were fired, shunned, and exiled from the city.  Marlow would later be imprisoned upon false charges; he would die in a penitentiary within three years, a murder by incarcerated Wolf-haters.  
    Jake was lucky enough to escape this fate, as he moved out to the country far from the populace of the City.  He would go to a small town once a week to buy food and fuel, but that was the most he saw of purebred humans.  Every once in a while he would return to Stet's place and run free, but too soon was this denied him, also, as the land was cleared for farmland, and the cabin remnants and the prey vanished.  
    Within ten years, the government would pass laws to discriminate against every werewolf in the country in manners unprecedented.  Wolves were charged cruelly high taxes every year following, and they were denied entrance to all public places like football games, weddings, and grocery stores.  Multitudes were charged untruthfully with made-up crimes or crimes that apply only to Wolves, and were locked away for no reason, and for life.  These would either sit it out or go out murdering fifteen or so of their fellow inmates, so they wouldn't have to commit suicide themselves.  Many moved to Canada to escape persecution, but too many others ended their lives at home on their own, sometimes clawing their jugulars out with their own claws in a bipedal Wolf form, just to vex the anti-Wolf workers that would clean them up.
    The point was, as Jake saw it, that they would soon see their wrong.  They would soon find out that they were too alike the Wolf to be different.  They would soon see that in ravaging and raping their prey, they would become just like the wild Wolf.  In fact, their savagery oftentimes surpassed their wild brothers'.
    So Jake waited it out patiently and put up with Man for the time being.  However, it would take him his whole life to learn the Man never changes.

Therefore a lion from the forest shall slay them,
A Wolf of the deserts shall destroy them;
A leopard will watch over their cities.
Everyone who goes out from there shall be torn to pieces,
Because their transgressions are many;
Their backslidings have increased.
Indeed, the Wolf will haunt them for their sins.





Home