Blood Of The Pack

Max woke to screams. His eyes snapped open. Darkness. The air smelled like copper blood. Then the screams stopped. Something else started: a wet, heavy dragging noise. Coming from downstairs. He grabbed the flashlight beside his bed. Crept to his door. Opened it a c***k. The hallway was dark, but the living room light flickered below, throwing jagged shadows on the walls. His heart pounded. He stepped out. Bare feet on cold wood. The dragging stopped. Then breathing. Deep. Guttural. Not human. He moved to the stairs. Looked down. His father lay at the bottom. Twisted. Wrong. Eyes open, frozen in a permanent stare. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading slow across the floor. Max couldn't breathe. A shape moved in the living room. Large. Hunched. A silhouette against the flickering light. It turned. Red eyes. Glowing like embers in the dark. The thing moved fast faster than anything that size should. Max turned and ran. He slammed his bedroom door. Locked it. The thing hit the door once. Twice. Wood splintered. On the third hit, the door exploded inward. Max raised the flashlight. Swung. The creature caught his arm. Claws dug deep. Then teeth sank into his left forearm white-hot fire tearing through muscle. Max screamed. The pain swallowed everything. Then black. White lights. A ceiling. Max blinked. Hospital. Bandages wrapped his left arm from wrist to elbow. A nurse called a doctor. They told him his family was dead. Mother. Father. Older brother. "Animal attack," the doctor said. Max remembered the red eyes. The shape on two legs. He said nothing. The funeral was three days later. Three coffins. Flowers wilting in the sun. Relatives hugged him, said things he didn't hear. He stood numb. Didn't cry. After the funeral, police came. Detectives took him to a gray room with a table and two chairs. "What did you see?" the man asked. Max thought about the red eyes. The claws. The thing that breathed like nothing human. "A dog," he said. "Big and dark." Because he knew no one would believe the truth. "Are you sure?" the detective pressed. "Yeah. I passed out." They let him go. He stayed in a motel. Small room. Thin walls. He sat on the bed with his laptop, researching animal attacks. Wolves. Anything. He found a forum about cryptids monsters that shouldn't exist. One post stopped him: "OSLARD. A city in the South. Myths walk its streets. If you want answers about things that don't belong in this world, start there." He packed a bag. Clothes. Cash. A knife. His bus left at midnight. He didn't know a full moon was rising in two nights. The bus dropped him in OSLARD. Foggy streets. Old buildings. People walked with their heads down, minds on their own business. The air felt thick not with humidity, with secrets. He found a bar. The Drowned Fox. Wooden sign, creaking in the wind. Inside, he sat at the counter. The bartender had thick arms and no smile. "Whiskey," Max said. "Yes, please," the man replied, pouring. Max drank. Burned going down. A girl sat two stools away. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. She looked at him like she could see through his skin. "You're not from here," she said. "That obvious?" "People here have a look. You don't." She smiled. Not warm. Curious. "So what brings you to OSLARD?" "Looking for something." "Everyone here is looking for something." She stood. Put cash on the bar. Slipped him a small card. "You'll need this." Then she left. Max looked at the card. A phone number. No name. He finished his whiskey. Left cash. Walked out. The pain hit in the alley. Stomach cramping. Arm burning. The bite scar throbbed like a second heartbeat. He stumbled against a brick wall. His knees buckled. Then his body started changing. Bones cracked. Muscles tore and reknit. Claws sprouted from his fingertips. He caught his reflection in a puddle his eyes flickered yellow. White fur pushed through the skin on his cheeks and palms. He ran Into the woods. Branches scratched his face. Clothes tore. The moon hung overhead not full, but close. Close enough. He fell to his knees. A sound came from his throat. Not human. The transformation tore through him. The last thing he saw was the moon through the trees. Then nothing. He woke in a field. Naked. Shivering. The bite scar on his arm was darker now almost black. The sun was up. Birds sang. Like nothing had happened. He couldn't remember anything after the woods. But something lingered in his memory. A shape. A deer. Or a person. And blood. He stood. Found a torn shirt in the grass. Put it on. He needed answers. What he was becoming. What had killed his family. And somewhere in OSLARD, the thing with the red eyes was still out there. He wasn't alone. And he was running out of time.