1 (Being hunted down by a pack of werewolves. )

Chapter one:

Clay Fuller ran through the dark woods, arms raised before him to protect his face. Branches slapped against his bare forearms, stinging and drawing blood. He was too focused on surviving the next few minutes. His heart pounded in his ears like thunder. The only thing that he could hear was the thrashing of leaves as he dodged tree trunks and tried not to get his feet tangled in the underbrush. If he tripped and fell, he was a dead man. But if he slowed down, even a little, he would also die.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't, he thought. It was far from a comforting observation.

It was early November in Indiana, but the night air felt winter- cold. The trees around him formed a canopy that blocked much of the moonlight. His body shook, but whether from cold, terror, both, he didn't know. Something else he didn't know, which direction he was running in. He could be running deeper into the woods, and if that was the case, he was well and truly screwed.

He kept running but the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and his legs felt like heavy iron weights. Each step became an effort. Despite his determination, he started to slow down.

No! he thought. No, no, no, no!

He couldn't hear them coming after him, but he could feel them. The back of his neck tingled, as if someone- many someone's- were watching him. He caught glimpses of swift movements at the edges of his vision. But whenever he turned to look he saw nothing.

He realized then that the going was becoming easier. The trees were fewer and farther apart here, and the underbrush was sparser. He was coming to the edge of the woods. The relief was so strong that it nearly brought him to his knees. He pushed on, no longer feeling weary. He was exhilarated, and his body now seemed light as the air itself. He said going to make it! All he had to do was get out of the woods, and it would all be over. He'd be free, and more importantly alive.

The ground sloped upward, and he could see an edge of black asphalt lining the ridge at the top of the hill. A road. He had no idea which one, but it didn't matter. Out of the woods was out of the woods. He'd be free once he reached the road, and he'd pick a direction and start walking. Someone had to come by eventually.

He was halfway up the hill when the first one attacked. He caught a dark blur of motion out of the corner of his left eye, and then he felt a hard impact on his left shoulder. The blow staggered him, but he managed to remain on his feet. An instant later, the pain hit him a white- hot agony that made him clench his teeth and draw in a hissing, pained breath. He took a quick glance at his shoulder and saw his shirt had been shredded, and blood poured from a series of deep cuts in his flesh. There was no sign of the creature that had tagged him.

It seemed to have disappeared, but he knew it was still there, along with the others. They could bring him down at any time, so why were...

Then he understood. They were playing with him.

Terror brought with it a fresh burst of adrenaline. He attacked the slope with grim determination. This was his chance. He saw nothing this time, but he felt an impact on his right calf, and the leg crumpled beneath him. He landed hard, the impact knocking the breathe from his lungs. Fire blazed to life in his calf. He didn't want to look down and see what had been done to his leg. Besides, he didn't need to look to know how serious the wound was, given the amount of blood that had already filled his sneaker. The wound would be deep, skin torn, the muscle exposed, shredded.

His surge of energy waned as quickly as it came, leaving him weak and shaky. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and rest. But if he did, he'd never open them again. He gritted his teeth and began crawling. He had almost reached the road when he heard growling. Soft at first, but quickly growing louder. It came from multiple directions- his right, his left, behind him- and he knew that the hunt was over.

They stepped into his view then. There were three: two males, one female. At first glance they appeared human, but then he noticed their bestial teeth, curved claws, and animalistic eyes- eyes that shone with savage anticipation. Their posture was an eerie blend of human and animal. They stood on two legs, but they were hunched over, heads thrust forward, nostrils flaring as they scented the air. They held their claws at the ready, fingers twitching.

Clay had never been a religious person. He'd never thought much about what, if anything might lie beyond this life. He'd figured that if there was any sort of afterlife, he'd find out about it after he'd died. But now, looking up at these three monsters- their snarling mouths dripping with frothy salvia- he hoped there wasn't any life after death. If there was a Heaven and Hell, he had a good idea which one he was going to end up in.

The trio of monsters rushed towards him. When he screamed, the sound could be heard for miles.

Amos Boyd rumbled down Brewer Road in his pickup, the words Boyd Fix- it painted on the doors along with a smiling cartoon fish wearing a baseball cap and holding a wrench.

He was a rail - thin man in his sixties - a widower these last three years- and he spent most of his time working. It kept him busy, so he didn't think about how much he missed Emily. And, if he was being honest with himself, he still took on handyman work and odd jobs mostly so he had people to talk to. It could get lonely in his little house on the outskirts of Bridge Valley.

Amos had just finished dinner at Biddie's diner and was headed to the neighboring town of Cradock to install a new sink for a client. He didn't mind working late. He liked to keep busy, and besides, what the hell else was he going to do? Instead of taking the highway, he'd opted to take Brewer Road.

Brewer ran through a large stretch of woods, and he took this route whenever he could, especially in fall, whenever the leaves became a riot of oranges, reds, and browns. He drove with the driver's window partially down, enjoying the cool night breeze. Emily had loved the outdoors. He always felt close to her again when he drove through here, almost as if she was sitting in the passenger's seat, smiling at the beauty surrounding them.

He was thinking about his wife and that whenever she was, she was thinking about him too, when a man flew out of the woods and landed on the road in front of him. Amos jammed his foot down on the brake and gripped the steering wheel tighter as his truck skidded to a stop.

What the hell?

Amos wasn't aware that he'd spoken. His nerves were jangling from shock and he couldn't think clearly.

He didn't immediately question why the man had come flying out of the woods as if shot from a catapult. Nor did he wonder why the man didn't stand up but instead lay on his back, looking up at the sky, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to speak but couldn't manage to get any words out. He didn't notice the man's clothes were torn to shreds and that he was covered from head to toe in some kind of thick red paint, but Amos had no idea where the man had found so much paint in the woods, let alone how he'd gotten it all over himself.

His brain kicked into gear then, and he realized he was looking at a severely injured man that had jumped- no, had been thrown- from the woods onto the road. He was about to dial 911 when three figures darted out of the woods.

They moved with a swift grace, and first Amos thought they were some kind of large animals: wolves or mountain lions. But when the three gathered around the fallen man and were illuminated in the wash of headlights, Amos saw that they were people. Sort of. Blood dripped from fangs and long claws- the man's blood-, no doubt- and they stood like animals prepared to attack. They fixed their gazes on Amos, beast eyes gleaming, lips drawn back to more fully display their teeth. They glowed in their throats, a deep, dangerous warning. This is our prey. Keep your distance.

Amos dropped his phone on the seat next to him, opened the glove box, and removed his Smith & Wesson revolver. He opened the driver's side door and climbed out so he could get a better shot at his targets.

He stepped to the front of the vehicle and raised his weapon.

Get the hell away from him!

Amos mouth and throat were dry. His words came out as more of a croak than a command, but since he was the one holding the gun, he figured it didn't matter matter.

The lunatics continued growling, but while the man remained still, the woman started to walk toward him. No, not walking, slinking, moving with the fluid grace of an animal. Amos was about to warn to stay back or he'd shoot, but then he saw her fangs and claws- really saw them this time- and her inhuman, hungry eyes fixed on him.

Without thinking, he fired three rounds in quick succession. One in the shoulder, one in the stomach, and one in the chest. She made oof sounds as each round slammed into her, but while blood blossomed from each wound, there wasn't as much as there should have been.

The woman's bestial smile was hideous, and she made a snuffing canine sound that Amos realized was laughter. She continued toward him, but one of the males let out a growl and she stopped. She gnashed her sharp teeth, her claws clicking together as her hands clenched and opened, clenched and opened, as if it was taking al her will not to rip out his throat.

They stood like that for a while longer- the woman snarling, Amos aiming his gun at her- and then he fired once more. The round missed the woman, and then, moving faster than his eyes could track, she spun around and raced back to her companions. She plunged a claw hand into the wounded man's chest - causing him to cry out one final time- and removed his still- beating heart in a thick spray of blood.

And then the woman and the two men disappeared into the woods, leaving Amos standing on the road, gun still raised, body trembling, a fresh corpse lying only a few feet away.