Tommy got up and left in a hurry, head stooped, clutching his arm. He headed out into the trees. Some looks went around the campfire. I was finished dinner, so I figured I could take this one. I stood up slowly, and picked up my machete.
Graham nodded too, from across the fire. He went to the RV, and came out with the one remaining gun we had bullets for, a big heavy revolver. I didn’t have to ask how many shots were left. We all kept count in our heads: 11. We saved them for each other.
There’s fire all around and too much smoke to really see, but habits are habits, and Sam Yamato’s body has done this dozens of times. It’s not that he’s not hopped-up on adrenaline and terror. It’s that he is used to being hopped-up on adrenaline and terror.
Don’t get too close! He’ll see us.
Devon turned to look over his shoulder. The street was empty. Of course it was. There’s not a lot of people out a 5am. Street lamps, store fronts, and whole lot of pavement. He kept walking.
What was that? said another voice. The first one had been cold, but the second was sharp, anxious.
Nothing! He’s an idiot. It’s fine.
He lead me down the alley with the promise of a kiss. Not the most romantic spot. My hands were shaking. I hoped he would assume it was excitement. It was raining. His hands were firm on the sides of my head. His lips were cold. Afterwards, he pulled back and smiled. I’d never actually seen a wolfish grin before, but this one was. It was predatory. That’s when he opened his mouth, dug his nails into my cheeks, and sunk his fangs into my neck.
This story started as a tweet, and I decided to expand it: