Garou, Prelude

Run. Run. Run.

The only thought that ran through Meghan’s mind as she plowed through the woods was that she had to keep running. She had to keep running, or else that thing would catch her. That thing with the teeth, the claws, the fur. The terrifying thing that had thundered out of the trees as she walked to her car, that she had sprinted into the forest to get away from. The thing that had kept up with her through what seemed like miles of night-covered woodland, always a few steps behind, always chasing her.

Run. Run. Run.

Meghan’s lungs were on fire. Her legs ached from exertion. Her body was sending out signals, messages telling her she must stop running, must rest and catch her breath, but the sheer terror pounding inside her skull shut out the messages and kept her moving away from the thing crashing through the trees after her.

Run. Run. Run.

It was just like the dreams. The dreams she had had for nights before, in which a huge, dark, unseen thing plowed after her, always keeping up no matter how fast or far she ran and always, always fading to dim memory when she woke up, seconds before it got her.

Run. Run. Thud.

Meghan opened her eyes and for a moment expected to be met with the familiar sights of her bedroom, her face pressed against her pillow, the sheets soaked with sweat. This was where she always woke from the dreams, reassured that nightmares could not harm her.

But she was not in her bedroom. She was met not with the sight of familiar, comfortable things but with the feeling of dirt pressed up against her face. She became aware of a throbbing, dull ache in her legs and chest; a sharper pain pounded in her forehead. Rolling over, she touched a dirt-smeared hand to her forehead; it came away shiny and wet, and she smelled the tang of blood.

Panic again gripped Meghan as the moon, her only source of light, was obscured by some massive bulk. Attempting to scramble to her feet, she fell back to the ground as she struggled to free herself from a root which had snared her foot. Shrieking in terror, she reached to her side, groping for something to defend herself with. Her hand grasped something hard and cold at her side, and she hurled it at the thing blocking the moon.

The thing moved fluidly, dodging to one side and easily avoiding the projectile. As it looked to see what had been thrown at it, its head was partially silhouetted against the silvery crescent of the moon. For a moment, Meghan could make out the thing’s rows of jagged teeth; a thin tongue flicked around inside a short, square snout as moonlight glittered against its ebony eyes and outlined its tall, triangular ears. It reminded her of some weird cross between a bat and a deranged hyena. Then it turned to face her again, towering over her, and Meghan’s mind was paralyzed with fear.

The monster’s lips pulled back into a terrible grin, and Meghan began to scream. It ended in a muffled gurgle as terror constricted her throat, refusing to release any noise. The thing lumbered towards her, ears twitching, and the sounds of its breathing filled Meghan’s ears. She frantically swept the ground with her hands, trying to find some purchase, some weapon, a way to get away, a way to drive off this thing, this beast. Eyes wide in abject terror, Meghan could do nothing as the huge creature slowly advanced on her prone body.

It raised its paw, claws gleaming in the dark, ready to spill her blood. The paw rose high above the thing’s head, ready to descend in one deadly arc. But the blow never fell.

A dark form, smaller than the one before her but still very large in its own right, sailed over Meghan’s head and latched onto the thing’s upraised paw; the monster roared with pain. At the same time, a howl pierced the still of the night, a long, low, ululating call which seemed to hold a sense of anticipation. It seemed familiar, and it was almost comforting until Meghan felt a weight on her hand.

Struggling to pull free, Meghan looked to her side and froze when she found herself looking into a pair of amber orbs inches from her face. Nothing dawned on her until she felt warm breath on her skin. The surrounding darkness seemed to retreat a bit, but Meghan was totally oblivious to all but the animal in front of her: a frightening, if familiar, animal. A wolf.

Broad-shouldered and a deep gray against the black of the night; Meghan had seen this creature before. In her dreams, as she was chased, there were often wolves running alongside her, never acknowledging her presence but always with her, keeping stride perfectly. Their quiet presence had always seemed perfectly natural, and she had never given the wolves any thought until now. Yet here was one with a huge paw pinning her hand to the ground, keeping her from even getting to her feet, let alone escape the monster.

Stand up, said the wolf.

Meghan was taken aback. She had only heard the wolf bark, and yet from its inflection and its dimly moonlit posturing, she understood what it meant. No words had been exchanged, yet she knew that it wanted her to stand. The wolf exhaled noisily, a puff of warm breath blown at Meghan’s face.

Stand up, cub! It growled, posturing more forcefully. Meghan frowned, confusion and anger welling within her. Here was this beast, probably weighing more than she herself, deliberately standing on her arm, and demanding that she stand up!

What’s wrong, little girl? The wolf’s growls and barks had taken on a scornful edge. Meghan’s anger grew. Can’t you stand up? Or are you too weak? The last growl was punctuated by an increased pressure on her arm. Meghan flinched. She could feel the wolf’s claws digging into her skin.

“I am not,” she spat, “a weak little girl!” She struggled to face the wolf and propped herself up on her free elbow.

Is that so? The wolf’s body language was downright mocking. If that’s true, and you’re not as weak as you look, then why don’t you prove it? Stand up, weakling!

Meghan took a swipe at the side of the creature’s head. It ducked the blow easily. She bared her teeth and yanked her hand out from under the animal’s big paw. The wolf danced away, yipping with delight. Ha ha ha! That’s it! But your leg’s still caught! Ha ha! Can’t get up!

Meghan sat up and began to tear fiercely at the root holding her foot. She was still oblivious to the fight going on a few yards in front of her; the wolf that had saved her had latched onto the monster’s wrist and was being clawed and shaken viciously in an attempt to dislodge it. Finally, the thing shook the wolf loose and threw the smaller creature into the underbrush. Blind with rage and pain, it advanced on Meghan, meaning to finish what it had begun.

Clawing at the entrapping root, Meghan noticed something strange: her hand wasn’t quite a hand anymore. It was growing, bulging with muscle as her fingers lengthened and sprouted what looked like fiendishly sharp claws. Meghan looked at the rest of her body. Her other hand had undergone the same metamorphosis, and her arms were growing thicker, bursting through her sleeves. Sinew appeared, rippling under her now furry skin. Meghan saw her shirt ripping under massive strain as her chest tore through the fabric, thick hair and flat muscle where only bare skin and breast should have been. Looking down her nose, she saw it lengthen and widen. Her anger almost gave way to confusion when she found herself looking down a snout, very much like her own dog’s. Her whiskers twitched.

Ha ha ha! That’s it! Stand up, bitch!

Meghan’s confusion was immediately forgotten. Rage welled within her, rage at the taunting wolf, at being called a bitch, and most of all at the thing that had chased her and terrified her for so long and which only now came back into her thoughts. She snarled, bared her teeth, and slashed the root apart, freeing her leg. Fury rolled over her like a wave, crashing into her brain, blinding her vision. A blood-red fog fell over her eyes, and she howled, long and loud, as she let in to her rage.

Two men sat a safe distance away, brushing dirt from their clothes and picking twigs out of their shoes. “You okay, Olie?” the shorter of the two asked, eyeing a big gash down his brother’s side. “Looks like that fucker got ya pretty good.”

“Eh, it’ll be all right.” Olie poked tentatively at the long gash and decided to leave it alone. “Ya missed all the fun, though, Lars! I haven’t had a fight that good for months!” The larger of the brothers looked back to where the giant black thing and the large, transformed Meghan duked it out, trading and ducking bites and claw swipes. The dark creature raked its claws across Meghan’s chest; she fell back and rushed forward again to land a savage slash across the beast’s face. It howled in pain. She ducked its clumsy retaliation and tore into its belly, gore flying from her claws. “Shit! Look at her go!”

“Well, somebody had to piss her off enough to make her shift. And I doubt she would’ve had the guts to attack it if I hadn’t gotten the little bitch to frenzy. Tell you what,” said Lars, watching Meghan land blow after blow on her dying foe. “The next time we find a cub like this, I’ll hit whatever’s attacking ‘em, and you can try to make ‘em flip out.”

“Whaddaya mean, try?” Olie punched his brother on the shoulder, and began to lope away. “I bet I’ll make ‘em frenzy in half the time it took you!”

“Fat fuckin’ chance, Olie!” Lars sat for another few seconds, grinning and panting as he watched Meghan make a final slash at the dark creature. Her claws came away holding its throat. She howled mightily. Lars grinned and turned away to follow his brother. “You know what, Olie?”

“What?”

“Being a werewolf kicks ass!”