Running with the Pack

The Change began like a severe case of cramps, only it was all over my body at once, not localized to my belly. I wondered briefly if taking Midol or aspirin before the Change would help dull the sensations. I resolved to try it next time, just as my body convulsed and I lost all conscious thought to the pain.



When I uncurled my body from the floor and stretched my limbs, I knew something was different but I couldn’t place my finger on what it was. Perhaps it was because I no longer had fingers per se. I yawned, my jaws gaping wide, and I knew suddenly how sharp my teeth had become. I’d felt them, the night before, when Laura bit down on my hand.



And Laura. She, too, would have changed. I could feel her near me, the heat of her body picked up somehow through my new wolf’s senses.



I didn’t bother to look for her, but nosed open the apartment door we’d left ajar and ran down the steps. I was oddly comfortable in this new body, as if I’d lived in it once before. Perhaps being a werewolf was like riding a bicycle, a skill you didn’t forget. I jumped up and pushed open the outer door, which we’d blocked open with a rock, and ran out into the night.



This was nothing like riding a bicycle. This was like riding the wind.



I ran through the city’s streets, hearing the click of my nails on pavement, and the echo of Laura’s behind me, as we raced.



I remembered how one night a friend and I had gotten dressed in male drag and gone out. We were packing dildos in our jeans, and it gave us a glorious feeling of power. It made us feel cocky, in all sense of the word. We didn’t know where else to go, so we went to a gay bar, and we watched the men cruising each other, and were ourselves sometimes cruised, sometimes cruising, wondering what we’d do if one of these big men took us up on our offers, how they would react when they got us home and found out our dicks weren’t real. Would they want us to fuck them anyway? We never found out.



I remembered that heady sensation of power I’d felt that night, but compared to this packing was just playing a wolf in cheap clothing.



This was power. I could feel the energy coiled in my limbs as my silvery pelt stretched and moved across my wolf muscles and sinew.



This was taking back the night.



I felt the familiar anger begin to burn in my belly, a hungering for justice and retribution. I wanted a fight, to test my newfound strength, to redress the balance. The night wasn’t a safe place, only now it wasn’t as safe for the people who made it unsafe.



I could be shot, I realized. I could be knifed.



Only silver can harm a werewolf, a voice inside my head reminded me. Although I didn’t doubt that an ordinary bullet or knife would hurt like hell.



I prowled. My ears strained to pick up the sounds of a disturbance of any sort. The city seemed eerily empty of that sort of activity.



How come nobody warns you that being a vigilante is boring as hell most of the time? Where was a rapist when you needed one? Were they all off having a pot luck somewhere?



Laura seemed to know my restlessness and pulled suddenly ahead, leading me off on a new path. Had she heard something I’d missed, more accustomed to discerning stimulus from her lupine senses? Or did she just fear that I would attack some innocent passerby if I didn’t find release for this building anger soon? We passed a Dumpster with an enticing smell, but I didn’t stop to investigate. I loped after her, anticipation building as we dashed through the alleyways behind buildings. I had no idea where we were, and wondered if I’d even be able to recognize this part of town if I were on the street looking at the fronts of these buildings.



I heard a scream, and all musings ceased as my body took over. I sprinted ahead of Laura and into the alley, my body working on instinct as it leapt. A man crumpled beneath me, and I could sense another body, the screamer, nearby, cowering against the wall. His body collapsed beneath my weight, my jaws gnashing as they closed upon cloth and flesh. Even as I bit I thought of Laura’s pale thighs, like an atlas with blue vein roads leading towards the moist center of her sex.



And as my jaws locked on his shoulder and I shook my head back and forth, digging my teeth deeper into his flesh as he screamed, I had an epiphany, in the part of my brain that was still me and not fully animal: I must kill this man, or he, too, would become a werewolf, having been bitten. I must kill him or he would not merely run free, he would have this same power I now felt, use this force to attack others.



It was not hesitation when I released him, let him try to scramble away. I leapt on him again, and he twisted beneath me, rolling onto his back, his arms coming up to cover his face. My muzzle pushed through these weak defenses. My teeth sunk into his throat and tore and blood spurted into my mouth, warm and delicious, and I growled deep in my throat with the sound of the release of pleasure, as if I were coming, or had my face buried in the wetness of a woman who was coming.



There could be no turning back now.



I had tasted of the forbidden fruit, Adam’s apple, and I now had knowledge of good and evil.



MONGREL



MARIA V. SNYDER



They call me Mongrel. I don’t mind. It’s true. My blood is mixed like vegetables in a soup. I’ve lived in so many different places, and I never belonged to any of them. But the other homeless don’t know that when they tease me. Say I waste food on my mutts. That I reek of dog.



So what? I like the smell of dog. Better than people. Better than the others I hang with. Not that I enjoy their company, but they’re useful at times. Warned me about the police raid a few months back, let me know when the soup kitchen opened and the women’s shelter—not that I would live there without my pups, but a hot shower is a hot shower.



As long as no one messes with my stuff, I don’t care what they say. It’s mid-January and I need everything I’ve scrounged to survive. My spot is near perfect. I sleep under the railroad bridge and I share my blanket with five dogs. The term hot dog has a whole new meaning for me.



The others huddle around a campfire on the broken concrete slabs of the abandoned parking lot. We’re all trespassing on railroad property, but the owners only send the police about once a year to chase us away. So far, never in the winter. Nice of them. (Yeah, I’m being sarcastic).



That night, snarls and growls wake me. Animals are up on the bridge fighting. My lot is awake with their tails tucked under and their bodies hunched low. A yelp stabs me in the chest and I’m running toward the sound. Something rolls down the side of bridge, crashes into the brush, and lays still. Something large.



A wounded animal can be dangerous, but I’m next to him before my brain can catch up with my body. It’s the biggest damn dog I’ve ever seen. He lifts his head, but the fight is gone. He’s panting and bleeding from lots of cuts. I yank off my gloves and run my hands along his legs, searching for broken bones.



He’s all black except for the tips of his hair. They shine with silver like he’d been brushed with liquid moonlight. No broken bones, but a knife is buried in his shoulder. Up to the hilt.



I spin around and scan the bridge. Sure enough a figure is standing there, looking down at me. My pups catch the stranger’s scent and start barking and baying. I don’t hush them, and soon the person leaves.



The noise brings the others. They tsk over the injured dog, but will only help me drag him to my spot after I give them cigarettes and booze as payment. They laugh and lay odds on how long the dog will live. People disgust me.



When the others go back to the fire, I open up the good stuff—eighty proof. By now the big brute is shaking and I grab the handle of the knife. He’s either going to live or die quicker without it in him. I tug it out, scraping bone. The dog shudders once then stills as blood pours.



Staunching the wound, I use the eighty proof to clean it before stitching him up. He doesn’t make a sound as the needle pierces his skin. I count them as I tie the string. Fifteen stitches in all. When I’m done, I lay beside him with the pups nestled around us and cover us all with the blanket.



He’s still alive in the morning so I make my daily rounds, searching for food, checking Dumpsters, and my usual haunts. Wearing layers of grimy clothes, I’m invisible to the normals. Slush covers the city’s sidewalks and cars zip by, spraying water without care.



A couple businesses are aware of me, and once in a while, they’ll add a few extra leftovers to their trash cans. I chuckle as I score a dozen hamburgers still wrapped up like presents in the Dumpster behind Vinny’s Burger Joint.



Vinny doesn’t like me, wouldn’t help me if I was starving to death on his sidewalk, but he’s got a soft spot for dogs. People are funny like that.



I don’t linger long—Vinny doesn’t like that, but I spy a small terrier crouched next to the dumpster. Almost missed the little rat. She is trembling and wet. Dirt stains her white coat gray. I lure her with a bit of burger and have her in my arms in no time.



Back at my spot, I’m greeted with wagging tails and excited mutts that are all happy to see me. Can’t get that from people. Not for long. Eventually they ignore you or abuse you, then leave you.



I spilt the burgers among my pups, counting heads. I got to be careful not to keep too many and the ones I keep are the littles who have no homes. The big brute eats half a burger—a good sign. I think he’s one of those Irish wolfhounds or Scottish deerhounds I’ve read about.