Blood Of The Pack

The Field

Sunlight woke him.

Not gentle. A blade of it, cutting through his eyelids. Max opened his eyes. Sky. Clouds. Trees above him.

He was lying in tall grass. n***d. Cold.

He sat up too fast. His head pounded. His left arm burned – the bite mark. He looked at it. The wound was closed, but the skin around it had turned dark. Almost black. Veins spread from it like cracks in glass.

"What the hell..."

He didn't remember leaving the woods. Didn't remember anything after the bar. The whiskey. The girl. Then pain. Then nothing.

He stood. His legs shook. Grass brushed against his thighs. He looked around – a field, maybe a mile outside OSLARD. The city's rooftops were visible in the distance, hazy in the morning light.

His clothes were gone. His wallet, his phone, his knife – all gone.

He found a torn shirt twenty feet away. Ripped. Covered in dirt. He put it on anyway. It hung to his thighs.

No shoes. No pants. No dignity.

He started walking.

The streets of OSLARD were quiet at this hour. A few cars. A man walking a dog. No one looked at him. Or maybe they did, and he just didn't care.

He kept his head down. Arms crossed over his chest. The shirt did almost nothing.

The Drowned Fox came into view. The bar from last night. Wooden sign creaking in the wind. He pushed through the front door.

The bartender was there. Same thick arms. Same unsmiling face. He looked at Max – shirtless, barefoot, dirty – and raised an eyebrow.

"Rough night?"

Max ignored him. He walked to the back, found the restroom, and locked the door.

The mirror showed him what he already felt. Pale. Dark circles under his eyes. The bite mark on his arm was worse – the black veins had spread up toward his shoulder.

He splashed water on his face. Dried it with a paper towel.

When he came out, the girl was there. Ella. She was wiping down the counter.

"You look worse than last night," she said.

"I feel worse."

She studied him. Not suspicious. Just curious. "You need a place to stay?"

"I need pants."

She almost smiled. Almost. "There's a motel two blocks down. Cheap. They won't ask questions."

"How do I get there without getting arrested?"

She disappeared into the back and came out with a pair of old sweatpants. "These belonged to my dad. They'll be big on you."

Max took them. "Thanks."

She shrugged. "Pay it forward."

The motel was called The Wanderer. A faded sign, a cracked parking lot, rooms that smelled like cigarette smoke and regret. The man at the front desk didn't ask for ID. Just cash.

Max paid for three nights.

His room was at the end of the hall. Number 12. The lock was loose. The bed sagged. But there was a shower, and the water was hot.

He stood under the spray for a long time. Watched the dirt and dried blood swirl down the drain.

The bite mark didn't wash off.

He spent the afternoon on his laptop the one thing he'd kept in his jacket pocket. The jacket was gone, but the laptop had been in his backpack at the bar. Ella had held it for him. She gave it back when he got the sweatpants.

He searched: “animal attacks OSLARD”. Nothing recent.

“Cryptid sightings”. A forum popped up. People talking about things that shouldn't exist. Werewolves. Skinwalkers. Things in the woods.

One post stood out. A user named “GrayWitness” wrote:

"OSLARD isn't just a city. It's a door. Things come here. Things that hunt. If you're reading this and you've seen something you can't explain, don't go to the police. Go to The Drowned Fox. Ask for the old man. He won't help you, but he might point you to someone who can."

Max read it twice.

The old man. The bartender? Or someone else?

He closed the laptop. His arm throbbed.

That night, he dreamed of red eyes.

A figure stood in darkness. Large. Hunched. Not human. But it spoke.

"You're mine now."

The voice was familiar. Too familiar.

Max woke with a scream stuck in his throat.

His hand was on the wall. Claws ,actual claws had gouged three deep lines into the plaster.

He stared at his fingers. The nails were longer. Darker. The skin on his palms was rough, like bark.

He pulled his hand back. The claws retracted. Slowly. Painfully.

"What am I becoming?" he whispered.

No one answered.