Nick Pollotta - Full Moonster

VIP免费

2024-12-22 0 0 403.96KB 133 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

This ebook is published by

Fictionwise Publications

www.fictionwise.com

Excellence in Ebooks

Visit www.fictionwise.com to find more titles by this and other top authors in Science Fiction, Fantasy,

Horror, Mystery, and other genres.

Wildside Press

www.WildsidePress.com

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies

of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email,

floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International

An original publication of

WILDSIDE PRESS.

www.wildsidepress.com

Printing history: 1991, Ace Books, New York.

1995 Armada Press, Moscow

2002 Wildside Press, New Jersey

Games. www.TriTacGames.com

Join the “Bureau 13” fan club! www.Bureau-13.com

DEDICATION

With fond memories and warmest regards to the Philadelphia Science Fiction Society, and the Sunday

afternoon gang of crazies at Chestnut Hall: Oz Fontecchio, Barbara Higgins, Luke Thalmeyer, Frank

Richards, JoAnne Lawler, Larry Gelfand, Joyce Carrol, John Prentis, T-Burn, John and Laura Symms,

and especially to the vivacious Debbie Malamut.

Okay, who brought the pizza?

INITIATION

PROLOGUE

The scream came from out of nowhere.

Steadily, the howl of pain grew in volume until it split the forest night like an endless explosion. Rapidly

increasing, the raw-throated cry of anguish wavered and wassailed until it abruptly ended in a meaty

thump. In perfect harmony, the mountain cabin shook; pictures and diplomas went lopsided, mugs

danced off bookshelves and the glass door of a surgical instrument cabinet cracked.

Quickly rising from her easy chair by the fireplace, Dr. Joanne Abernathy threw aside the medical

journal and hobbled over to a window. Dear God, what was that horrible noise? Had somebody fallen

off Deadman's Cliff?

As she drew back the lace curtains, the panels of thermal tempered glass segmented her view of the

Canadian forest into tiny squares. Pressing her nose flat against the glass, the veterinarian frantically

glanced about. Illuminated by the full moon overhead, the trees were frosted by the silver light, making

green seem black and black turn invisible. Completely filling the northern horizon was the ragged gray

expanse of the MacKenzie Palisades, an irregular series of sheer angular foothills that bisected this

isolated area of the Yukon wilderness like an insane granite wall.

Then the howl sounded again, closer this time, and faintly overhead could be heard a jetliner streaked off

into the distance. An odd thought came to Abernathy. The old woman promptly dismissed it as nonsense.

Anybody falling out of a plane would be dead before they hit the ground from cranial blood loss. And

afterwards? Well, you'd simply fill in the impact crater with a bulldozer and put a tombstone any ol’ damn

place that seemed proper.

However, if the noise of the passenger jet had frightened some poor bastard into tumbling off the cliff...

Hurriedly, the retired vet retrieved her teeth from a glass of water set on the stone hearth, pulled on her

walking shoes and grabbed a flashlight. After forty years of birthing calves, inoculating sheep and fixing

broken bones for both man and beast, there was little she couldn't patch. If the luckless son-of-a-bitch

was still alive when she got there, he had a good chance of staying that way. As the closest thing to a

doctor in these parts, Abernathy was duty bound to heal even incompetent hunters who tumbled off

mountains. Darn fool was probably drunk. Frightened by a plane, indeed. Hurmph!

Pulling on a light cloth coat, she paused for a moment at the gun rack. This wasn't downtown

Whitehead. There were pumas and grizzly in this area, neither of which gave a hoot about her Hellenic

oath, but only how tasty old folk were. Bypassing the big bore 30.06 Winchester as too cumbersome to

use with her arthritis, she started to take the Browning .22 carbine, but then decided no. It was only a

varmint rifle and so incredibly lightweight that it floated if dropped in water. Obviously, a compromise

was the answer.

Yanking open the hall closet, she retrieved a bulky leather belt from a peg on the wall. Dutifully, the vet

strapped it about her waist and checked the load in the shiny clean Webley .44 revolver. She had never

fired the weapon except in practice sessions and once, only once, to put a rabid opossum out of its

misery. Afterwards she had burned the corpse and gotten royally drunk. As with all the women in her

family, Joanne hated to kill anything. Being a pacifist just seemed to run in her blood.

Unbolting the front door, she clicked on the porch lights and stepped outside. The forest was strangely

quiet. Weird. Testing the wind with a damp finger, she guesstimated that the noise had come from the

direction of the old salt lick and started east. After a few dozen meters the trail angled off in another

direction, so Abernathy took advantage of a fresh bear tunnel to continue towards the cliff. She moved

fast and silent along the collapsed line of bushes that marked the regular passage of a large bear. A griz,

perhaps. Thankfully, the droppings smelled old.

Minutes later, she found the moaning creature buried under a pile of leaves by a copse of tall evergreen

trees. The white beam of her flashlight displayed little of the animal besides its hind legs, but those were

enough. Joanne knew a wolf when she saw one, and this was the biggest ever. The paws were large as a

grown man's foot. Enormous!

Laying her flashlight on the rocky ground to shine on the wolf, the ranger gently brushed aside the leaves

and uncovered the wounded animal. The beast whimpered at the intrusion, but offered no resistance.

Black blood was matted heavily on the chest, and there was reddish foam about its snout. Joanne

frowned. Damn. Possible internal bleeding. There wasn't much she could do for that here. Glancing

upwards, she was not surprised to see a leafy hole through the tree branches overhead. The ground here

was a flat outcropping of stone, torn branches and smashed bushes forming a natural cushion under the

dying wolf. Hmm, the angle was wrong, but the creature must have fallen off the cliff. What else made

sense?

Keeping well clear of the dagger-sharp teeth, Abernathy examined the beast more closely. The wolf was

shivering and panting, but its nose was bone dry. Trained fingers checked its ears and eased back an

eyelid. Damnation, the pulse rate was down, while the temperature was up. The wolf seemed to be

suffering from more than mere impact damage. Suspicious, the vet turned her flashlight directly on the

bloody chest and got an answer. Yep, it was also gunshot. But the wound in chest was only superficial,

made by a .22, or .32 at the most. Ye god, were the frigging poachers using poisoned bullets again?

Anything to save the pelt from additional damage. Damn them. There was a difference between hunting

for food and killing for fashion. Morally, ethically and legally.

Furious, Abernathy hoped that the slug hadn't hit any bones so the ballistics lab of the Royal Mounties

could get a good reading off the round. With any luck they would be able to track the poacher's by the

identifying marking from his or her rifle and slam the stupid sonofabitch into jail! Wolves were an

endangered species, protected by international law!

On the other hand, if there were massive internal injuries compounded by poisoning, there might be

nothing she could do to help. Tentatively, Dr. Abernathy drew the Webley .44. Unexpectedly, the beast

extended a shaking paw to gently touch the gun barrel and push it away in an amazingly human gesture.

In ragged stages, Abernathy holstered the handgun and knelt alongside the wolf to tenderly stroke its

head. A hot tongue licked at her wrist.

“Okay,lupin ,” she softly crooned. “No mercy killing. I'd rather not anyway. Somehow, I'll get you back

to the cabin and fix you proper.Qui, mon ami?"

There was no response. The wolf had fallen unconscious.

Realizing that time was now against her, the elderly vet moved fast. Placing her pocket handkerchief on

the oozing wound, she cinched her belt tight about the chest. The wolf stirred and mewed in pain, but did

not lash out with its deadly paws, and the bleeding slowed.

Using her belt knife, the woman split some of the fallen tree limbs and crisscrossed the branches through

the sleeves of her coat to jury-rig a drag. Gently, she rolled the huge animal onto the makeshift litter, and

the limp wolf actually seemed to assist in the task. She smiled at that. Either this was a hell of an intelligent

animal, or else somebody's escaped pet.

Buttoning the coat closed to keep the wolf in place, Abernathy grabbed the pockets of the garment and

began the arduous task of dragging the wounded beast through the woods. An hour of backbreaking

labor later, the panting vet and patient reached the cabin. Gasping, the elderly woman thanked God for

the new bear tunnel or else she never would have made it here. The colossal animal must weigh a

hundred kilos! Almost as much as a full-grown man. Maybe more.

The shed at the rear of the cabin was on ground level, easy to get into, but unheated. So she nearly

busted a gut hauling the hairy giant up the inclined wooden ramp used for conveying fireplace logs into the

house.

As she closed the front door, Dr. Abernathy took a moment to catch her breath. Getting the poor thing

onto the dining table was out of the question. The surgery would have to be done here in the living room.

It would be messy, but the battered rug had seen worse. Her monthly poker game with the local Eskimo

tribe always added a few more beer and bloody-nose stains to the overlapping montage on the old Sears

two-ply. Someday, she really would have to give the rug a serious cleaning. Or maybe just burn it and

buy a new one.

Retrieving her medical bag from the hall closet, Abernathy loaded a glass hypodermic needle with a clear

liquid, tapped out the air bubble and injected the moaning animal with 10cc of morphine. Audibly, the

beast sighed in relief as the pain diminished. She followed with a wide spectrum antibiotic. The

bacteriological compound was an inexpensive sulfur mixture; trimethoprimsulfamethoxazole. The only

type she could afford. It wasn't as powerful as the new crystal silver formulas, but it didn't require

refrigeration after mixing and would do the job. Wisely, she decided that the distemper and rabies

vaccine could wait till later. Step one: get that bullet out.

Going into the kitchen, Dr. Abernathy threw an assortment of instruments into a sterilization steamer and

washed her hands. Returning to the living room, she switched on every light in the place. Grabbing a

jack-and-shackle arrangement from the top of a bookcase, Abernathy knelt to tie the animal's fore legs

to a plastic support. Carefully, she extended the framework to separate the legs and expose the chest for

ease of accessibility. Gently, Joanne removed the belt and handkerchief and washed the chest wound

clean with an astringent solution and white cotton cloth. The animal moaned weakly and she touched the

big vein in a stiff ear. Pulse rate was low, but steady. She had bought some time. Hopefully it would be

enough.

Rummaging in her medical bag, the elderly vet found what she wanted and used electric clippers to

tenderly shave the area around the entry wound bare. Next, the she packed the opening with #4 surgical

sponges, finishing just in time for the sterilizer to ding.

Racing over, she used potholders to handle the hot instruments and, returning to the living room, she laid

them down on a pristine rectangle of white cloth. Then, taking a slim steel rod in hand, Abernathy softly

spoke to the delirious animal as she began to judiciously probe for the bullet. Abernathy knew that wild

animals responded to words and could feel your true intentions better than most people. Many a fur

trapper faking friendship found that out the hard way. Wolves were smart.

Surprisingly, the elderly vet located the slug immediately, lodged just under the outer layer of fatty tissue,

directly between the main lateral pectoral muscle and the forth rib. A glancing entry. Thank God.

Extracting the probe, Dr. Abernathy used long-finger forceps to carefully remove the silvery blob of

metal. There came the expected well of blood with its removal, but that soon stopped. Wary of the

poisonous coating, she placed the slug on a cotton gauze pad and then into a plastic specimen bottle,

which she dropped into a pocket. There, the Mounties would want to see that. Odd, though. The bullet

didn't appear to be coated with anything, and the metal was surprisingly soft. The forceps had disfigured

the material. Definitely not steel, or cold iron. It resembled silver. That gave her pause. Somebody had

shot a wolf with a silver bullet? The breathing of the wolf increased and it moaned softly.

Shaking the wild thoughts from her mind, Abernathy pivoted to gather needle and thread from her

medical bag. But as she turned to suture the wound, the hole was already closed. Eh? Dr. Abernathy

blinked to clear her eyes of the illusion. Yet the impossible scene stayed the same. The wound had shut

by itself. Incredible!

Then as the dumbfounded vet watched, the bullet hole healed completely, without even the slightest

puckering or discoloration of the skin to mark its presence. The hair began to grow with fantastic speed,

filling the shaved patch in mere moments.

Horrified, the vet backed away from the undamaged thing lying sprawled on her rug and retreated to the

bedroom. She slammed and locked the door in an automatic response. With shaky knees, she dropped

into a chair.

Dr. Abernathy tried opening her mouth to speak, but no words would come. Frantically, the veterinarian

searched for a scientific explanation to the phenomenon, but none presented itself. Facing the mirror

above her dresser, she examined the conjunctiva/rectus under her eyes, extended a tongue, then checked

pulse and temperature. Mentally, she juggled a few algebraic equations, then nodded.

Okay, not ill or blatantly senile. Well then, what had she just witnessed? Magic? Preposterous!

Yet the folk who lived in the deep woods swapped stories about magical creatures they encountered.

Beings who talked, or changed shape, or couldn't be killed; human ghosts, angekok, Indian spirits, the

wendigo and countless sasquatch. But to actually encounter a ... a ... werewolf?

Without conscious thought, Joanne Abernathy reached into the night table alongside her bed and

withdrew a half-full bottle of Alaskan Gold whiskey. She pulled the cork with her teeth, almost losing her

dentures in the act, and proceeded to liberally administer a heroic dose of liquid courage to herself.

Just then, something crashed against the locked door and began clawing at the oak planks in a wild

frenzy of frustration.

Choking on the blended 90 proof, Abernathy dropped the bottle and took refuge behind her chair.Mon

dieu! The beast was moving already? How fast did this thing heal? Carefully, she listened to the noises

coming from the living room. It didn't sound as if the wolf was smashing furniture randomly. The animal's

efforts seemed to be directed against that door. But why? It must smell her and desperately want in. To

kill her?

Steadfastly denying that notion, the old woman grew adamant. No. The wolf was only disoriented from

the morphine and the operation. The animal could have no wish to actually hurt her. She had saved its

life!

Forcing herself to stay calm, Dr. Abernathy moved swiftly across the room and stood flat against the

wall alongside the trembling door. She had to try reasoning with the creature. Werewolves were half

human, so they must be able to think. A pause. Or could they? Which was the dominant half, man or

beast? The vet didn't know.

“Hush, it's okay,” Abernathy said in soothing tones. “There's only me in here. You're in no danger. I'm

the person who saved your life. I took out the bullet. Remember? The old lady with the white hair? I

found you in the forest and fixed your wound."

Silence.

“Remember? Please, remember!” she implored. “I'm your friend! Friend!"

A strident growl was the only response, and the door violently vibrated in the framework as a

hundred-plus kilos of muscle slammed against the stout portal. Again and again.

As Dr. Abernathy listened, the growls turned to slavering, a noise the vet had heard before in her work.

The beast wanted what every patient needed after some serious blood loss and an operation.

Nourishment.

She relaxed with the thought. Yes, of course. That was it. Hunger could make even the most mild of

animals crazy. Well, born and raised French Canadian, Dr. Joanne Abernathy had the solution to that

minor problem! However, getting to the kitchen was another matter.

The pounding on the door increased and the hinges started to rattle as Abernathy slid the bed in front of

the portal, then tipped over her dresser as an additional barricade. Screws popped from the jamb and

the door began to sag. Trying to control her panic with Lamaze breathing, Dr. Abernathy stood with one

hand on the light switch and the other on the latch to the hallway door. Any second now.

In an explosion of splinters, the first door collapsed. Abernathy cut the lights, threw open the kitchen

door, dashed through and locked it behind her. A moment later that door violently shuddered.

Moving fast, she raced to the freezer and unearthed a fifty pound slab of sugar-cured moose rump that

the vet had won with a royal straight flush. Thank God for wild cards. It was a tight fit into the

microwave, but she forced the roast in and turned the dial to maximum and high. Precious seconds ticked

away as the tremendous haunch of meat was electronically thawed and the werewolf clawed a hole in the

kitchen door.

With a musical ding, the microwave won the race. Yanking out the bloody roast, Dr. Abernathy

slammed it onto the kitchen table and scooted into the living room, closing the flimsy louvered doors and

slid the bolt. Designed more for decoration than protection, these wouldn't stop an angry human for very

long. But at least the panels hid her from sight.

“There,” she whispered breathlessly, as she pushed the sofa in front of the doorway. “That moose ought

to slack the appetite of anything this side of a lumberjack."

Hopefully, the woman added privately. If not, she had a whole hickory smoked hog in the shed that was

almost as big as the wolf itself! Odd noises came from the kitchen and she peeked in through a crack of

the slats to see.

Standing in the middle of the floor, her patient dominated the appliance filled room. Towering some

seven feet tall, the beast was much more human in its manner and stance than before. Must have

disguised itself as a common wolf as a purely defensive measure, she deduced. A monster? Me? Sorry,

mate. I'm just a timber wolf. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Padding to the table, the beast picked up the warm red slab of moose and sniffed at it appreciatively.

Hesitantly, it gave the morsel an inquisitive lick. An expression of disgust crossed its bestial features and

with a snarl he threw the massive roast away. A meaty cannonball, the haunch plowed aside pots and

pans to careen off the spice rack and smash through the curtained window. In a shower of glass, the

moose returned to its natural habitat and disappeared into the night.

Empty hands clutching at air, Dr. Abernathy backed from the door, cold terror chilling her bones. No.

The wolf didn't want just any food. An old kill held no interest. It wanted fresh meat. Human meat! It

wanted her. Alive.

A massive shadow darkened the louvered doors.

"Bon appetite, lupin!"Dr. Abernathy screamed, drawing the Webley .44 and emptying the handgun at

the dimly seen figure. In spite of her fear, the veterinarian aimed high, trying to frighten the creature.

Chunks of wood the size of saucers were blasted out of the slats, and the animal on the other side

howled in fury.

But as the hopeful woman holstered the revolver, a huge paw rammed into one of the holes, sharp talons

clawing at the aged hardwood as if it was cardboard. When the cavity was large enough, the beast

looked directly at the old woman, and it grinned.

Self-preservation overwhelming her natural reticence, Abernathy moved fast to grab the Remington

twin-barrel shotgun off the wall rack and, without bothering to see if it was loaded, rammed both of the

barrels into the wolf's face and pulled the two triggers.

The double explosion hurtled the man-beast from the ruined door. Blindly, the animal staggered about

screaming and clawing at its face. But as the smoke of the discharge cleared, Abernathy saw the

werewolf shake its head and the lead pellets scattered outward as if the beast was merely shucking water

off fur.

Merde!Desperate, the oldster lowered the shotgun and glanced about the room. Damn few weapons

here. Never needed them before. Pistol empty, shotgun same, no time to load the 30.06 rifle. Used the

dynamite for fishing. Having little choice, the elderly woman ran out the front door. It latched shut behind

her.

In the nighttime cold, without a coat, her choices were even less clear. Escape on foot? Fat chance. Her

horse, Tramp, was in the corral. No good. She had never learned to ride without a saddle. Yes, the jeep!

But no, the keys were on the hearth inside. Damn! Damn! Damn!

The full moon clearly illuminated the yard around her cabin with a silvery-blue light, and she cursed the

orb in acidic French using a few choice phrases learned from a U.S. Marine who had accidentally cut off

his hand with a chainsaw.

The woodshed!

Frosty ground crunching beneath her shoes, Dr. Abernathy hurried across the few meters separating the

cabin and the shed. Once inside, she swung the single thick door shut and dropped the big locking bar

into place. A cord of split wood was neatly stacked along a wall while a few dozen smoked meats hung

from the ceiling like so many condemned prisoners. The shed was a hundred years old, built to serve as

an ice house in summer and to be a last refuge for settlers to hide in from attacking Indians, British troops

and American Old West desperadoes. The walls were solid stone a good meter thick and the door was

a seamless expanse of solid oak with four iron hinges. Although werewolves had not been in the original

design specifications, it would serve. Then again, maybe they had been. How long had these things been

around? Since prehistoric times? Which came first, the were or the wolf?

A bellowing roar of rage thundered in the night, closely followed by the sound of screeching metal, and

the woman knew the beast was loose.

Praying silently, the vet backed into a corner, pushing her way through the dangling assortment of salt

haunches, homemade sausage and dried birds. She took a position by Big Boy, her prize dead hog.

Wolves had great vision, but they tracked by scent. With any luck, lost amidst the dozens of smoked

meats, her bodily odors would be masked. However, it was a feeble hope.

Even through the thick stonewalls, Abernathy could faintly discern the destruction of her jeep and the

screaming death of Tramp. A tear welled in her eye, and she used a sleeve to wipe it away. Unable to

find her, the wolf was going on a rampage of destruction. Oh God, what had she unleashed upon herself?

This was a nightmare! It seemed obvious now that the werewolf must have fallen from that passing

jetliner, and only the granite ledge had stopped it from forming an impact crater in the soil. If not, then the

people who shot the beast would still be in pursuit. They had silver bullets! She only had the useless slug.

Oh Lord, oh God, what could an old woman with arthritis do against a creature that took a 20,000 foot

drop onto solid rock and was merely stunned?

Until tonight, Joanne Abernathy had never believed any of the wild stories told around the campfires.

Monsters? Creatures of the night? Ridiculous! But now she desperately racked her memory for any detail

that would help her in this fight for life.

Ghostly images of movie monsters filled her mind and Abernathy fought to rid herself of the nonsense

and concentrate on what she had heard. Werewolves were ... what? People cursed by gypsies, or

victims bitten by a werewolf? They only appeared during a full moon. Well, the moon was definitely full.

Wolfbane! They couldn't stand wolfbane! Yes, but what was it? An herb? A root? A long drawn howl

sounded from outside. Unfortunately, the encyclopedia was in the kitchen and that was no longer a

proper environment for scholarly pursuits into toxic botany.

Resting her cheek against the cold stone, Dr. Abernathy let the rich flavored scent of wood and meat fill

her lungs like a healing potion. Scenes of her youth flowed into her mind, but Abernathy forced herself to

concentrate on the present. She wasn't dead yet. Think, Joanne, think. Wait a minute, silver killed

werewolves! Or was it only silver bullets? The vet shook her head. That didn't matter. She certainly had

no silver bullets, and the slug in her pocket was too distorted to be used without being melted and

reformed. Okay, any silver in the house? Silver knives? Goblets? Hell and damnation, this was a Yukon

cabin, not the Montreal Hilton!

Wait! Digging into her pants pockets the vet found a fistful of change. Most of it dime and quarters!

Those were made of silver ... no! Furious, she dashed change to the ground and tromped on the coins.

Darn money was only a copper disk with a thin electroplating of silver! Utterly useless.

Suddenly a throaty laugh came from the door of the shed, and Dr. Abernathy knew the beast had found

her.

The entire cabin shuddered from the impact of something on the other side of the barred portal, the cord

of wood toppled over and the hanging meat danced a ghastly jig. In heart-pounding fear, Abernathy

glanced about the enclosed structure, but there was no place to run or hide. She was trapped. This was

it. Tonight was her final day. Here was where she'd die. That foul beast would be the last thing she saw

before death.

A great calm came upon the elderly woman, similar to the emotionless elation she experienced when

performing a delicate operation. So what would be the final act of Dr. Joanne Gertrude Abernathy upon

this Earth? Cowering submission? Hysterics? Suicide?

Several minutes later, the oak beam barring the door finally cracked and the wolf stooped over to enter

the shed. Appended on a length of chain, the hundred kilos of hickory smoke, sugar cured, Big Boy hog

slammed the beast in the face. Roaring in annoyance, the werewolf ripped the giant hog off the steel

support hook and tossed the carcass into the litter filled yard. Behind the werewolf, the cabin was on fire.

The dancing flames cast eerie shadows inside the darkened shed, but the wolf could still clearly see the

old woman standing brazen. She held a machine thing in her hands.

“Okay,lupin , you want me?” Dr. Abernathy snarled. “Then come and get me!” With a snarl, she tore a

piece off the machine.

The bold defiance puzzled the man-beast for a second, but as the elderly female did not hold the

booming-device-which-killed, the wolf steadily advanced.

Yanking on the starter cord again, Abernathy got the chainsaw to come to deadly life. In a stuttering

roar, the linked array of carbide-steel teeth moved in a thundering blur of speed, great billowing clouds of

exhaust spewing from the rusty side-mounted muffler.

Brushing aside the brandished log-cutter, the wolf racked a paw at the woman's throat, but Dr.

Abernathy raised an arm to block. The claws shredded cloth and flesh. Blood sprayed everywhere.

Writhing in agony, Abernathy went sprawling upon the floor, trembling fingers trying to staunch the flow

of blood from her slashed forearm.

The drooling beast came closer. Then from underneath, the old vet swung the small hand axe used to

split kindling. The attack was so pitiful, the werewolf paused in astonishment. It was only for a single

moment that he saw the tiny silver slug neatly impaled on the edge of the axe blade.

This was an impossible gambit and Dr. Abernathy's very last chance for life. A wild gamble on a

possible flaw in the gypsy legend. A werewolf could only be killed by a silver bullet, that was stated plain

and simple. No if, ands, or buts. Yet nowhere did it say the monster had to getshot .

Guided by the expert knowledge of a trained veterinarian, the axe blade sank into the chest of the beast,

directly between the fifth and sixth rib, missing the sternum entirely and driving the misshapen silver slug

deep into the animal's heart.

Galvanized into immobility, the wolf screamed in an amazingly human voice, and its eyes rolled into its

head until only the white showed. Dropping to its knees, black blood gushing in horrid amounts, the entire

body began to shake.

In reverse motion, the full coat of hair withdrew into bare pink skin. The snout retracted and teeth

blunted. The ears moved down the side of the changing skull, talons became fingernails. The Z-style joint

of the lower canine legs twisted around to become a single knee. The body shortened, a face formed.

And in mere seconds there lay on the floor of the shed a naked dead man with an axe in his chest.

Finished wrapping her plaid shirt around the gash in her arm, Dr. Abernathy climbed shakily to her feet

and glared down at the would-be killer.Sacre bleu, it had actually worked. Momentarily, she wondered

who he was and what his story had been. But Joanne Abernathy realized she would never know. He was

dead and that meant she was safe. Safe!

Then the elderly woman frowned. Of course, she had the minor problem of a nude corpse on her hands

and a home that resembled Quebec after the riots. But those were minor matters compared to the

singular implications of her wound.

Deep as the slash was, the blood was slowing in an unnatural manner, which highly raised her suspicions.

If the legends held true, and they had so far, then a bite from a werewolf made you one as well. But did

getting clawed also result in the cursed transformation? Even if you killed the first werewolf? Was it an

event chain that could be broken, or a series of isolated events each alone and independent? Dr.

Abernathy didn't know, and wouldn't. Not until the next full moon.

Exiting the bloody shed, the exhausted woman stumbled into the yard and sat on Big Boy. The

possibilities were endless and frightening. Every month to lose her humanity and become a non-sentient

animal. To roam the woods and back alleys of towns searching for helpless people to slaughter. Then to

eat.

Calmly watching her home burn to the ground, Abernathy came to a decision. No. It would never

happen. She would not let it happen. She would wrap herself in chains every month. Get drunk. Use

illegal narcotics to stupefy herself. Anything! But she would not kill again. Ever.

Facing the starry sky, Joanne Abernathy made a solemn vow. Doomed as an immortal slayer, a cannibal

beast, the retired veterinarian would not rest until she found a cure for this artificial disease of

lycanthropy. Shewould find it. Even if she had to move Heaven and Earth to do so!

Or even Hell.

INFORMATION

CLICK “Good evening and here now the news. Today, the president announced that..."

TOPSECRETTOPSECRETOPSECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRETTOP

SECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRETTO

PSECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRETTOPSECRETT

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

ThisebookispublishedbyFictionwisePublicationswww.fictionwise.comExcellenceinEbooksVisitwww.fictionwise.comtofindmoretitlesbythisandothertopauthorsinScienceFiction,Fantasy,Horror,Mystery,andothergenres.WildsidePresswww.WildsidePress.comCopyright©1991,2001byNickPollottaNOTICE:Thisworkiscopyrighted.Iti...

展开>> 收起<<

Nick Pollotta - Full Moonster.pdf

共133页,预览27页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Nick Pollotta - Full Moonster

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: