ONE AGAINST THE PACK
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A group of werewolves in the little village of Wales kill a teenage kid named Leo's mother and only sibling. He declares war on the numerous werewolves after becoming enraged. He forces his uncle Marcus to teach him the sacred skill of werewolf hunting, and he sets off on a revenge-seeking journey while disabled. Nevertheless, while on this search, he meets spectacular Lydia and falls in love with her. He would eventually learn that Lydia isn't who she seems to be. If the very individuals our young warlock trusts—and least suspects—are his enemies-in-disguise, how will he manage to vanquish Lord Parco and his band of violent werewolves? And how could one engage in combat with his own blood, whom everyone thought had long since been away?
Sergeant Theodore Marcus stopped in his track when he heard the cry of the baby. The loud, wrenching bawl filled him with terror. He unstrapped and clutched his gun in a steel hand. The cry was coming from the whitewashed bungalow behind him, the household he was hired a week ago to guard.
He glanced at his luminous wristwatch: 12:09 a.m. The cry continued, floating towards him across the lawn and small gate. A light came up in the window.
‘No!’ he groaned quietly, his eyes wide with fear. ‘You mustn’t turn on the light. It’s a fuckin pointer.’
He thought of walking in and knocking on the door, to tell them but decided to call instead. It was quieter.
Put a boob into the baby’s mouth and turn out the light, for heaven’s sake.
He fiddled in his pockets for his phone. It fell from his back pocket and when he squatted to retrieve it, a hairy, animal- like foot rested on and crushed it. Theodore’s left hand froze midair.
‘Go on, look at my face,’ the creature said in a croaky human voice. ‘You can call me Elon and I shall take the honour of being the last face you’ll see. Look at me, I say!’
Trembling with the stench of death, the twenty- nine year old security officer raised his eyes and saw the face of a heavily bearded man, who bared his rotten teeth at him.
‘Any last words, mate?’
‘Leave the baby alone,’ Theodore answered. ‘Just go away... please.’
A throaty laughter erupted the night. Theodore saw his chance. His right hand which held the gun was tucked under his squat buttocks, away from the man- beast’s eyes. With the fastest speed he could reach, he pulled the gun and fired. But he was too slow for the man before him.
In the same instant that the bullet left the nozzle, a jaw full of needle like teeth closed upon his neck. The smoking gun hung limp in his hand. His eyes were wide with surprise and pain. He fell to his knees, unable to shout for the jaws dug deep and ruptured his vocal organ. His life flashed before his eyes and he struggled to keep his eyes open. In his ears were the guttural sounds as he was being mauled to death. He wasn’t alive to hear the other three men walk into the house. The last image in his head was not the face of his predator, but the moving scenery of a male lion holding a zebra in the notorious death grip.
One of the three men knocked on the front door of the house.
In the house, Mr and Mrs Greg glanced at themselves in horror. They had heard the gunshot and had seen the men through their window. Some of them looked normal while some were stooped low as though they had a hump.
Mr Greg gathered the baby and wrapped her in a shawl and handed it over to her mother. The child had stopped crying but he wouldn’t take any chances. He peeled off a patch of masking tape and lowered it over the baby’s mouth. The baby’s eyes dilated in surprise.
‘Go now,’ he said to his wife, leading them down an underground descent of stairs. The knock came again, harsher. He hurried them down until they disappeared down the door. He lowered the lid quietly and replaced the rug over it. He turned around and was face to face with a man who had too much facial hair. Other men stood behind him, and they were already throwing things around.
‘Well, hello,’ said the hairy man. His corner teeth were longer the others.
Greg was silent, feeling his bladder fill up quickly. His palms saturated with cold sweat.
‘No answer?’ The man shrugged, sauntering around the large bedroom, touching and sniffing things. ‘Ahh,’ he drawled and turned to Greg. ‘So, where are they?’
‘Who?’ Greg’s voice was barely audible.
‘The owner of this beautiful dress,’ he beamed, raising his baby’s sweater.
‘They... my wife had an appointment with her doctor. She’ll stay the night.’
‘But I thought I heard a baby’s cry. Or was that my old mind playing tricks on me?’ He sniggered and started towards the door and for a moment Greg thought it was over. Then he turned again, his eyes shining like snow. He moved towards Greg and placed a sharp object on his neck.
‘Where are they, motherfucker?’
‘I swear to God, they’re out in the hospital—Ah!’ The object on his neck pierced a centimetre into his neck. The blood quickly trickled down his neck and painted the collar of his pyjamas red.
‘Search the other rooms!’ the man ordered, and his men spread into the kitchen, living room, toilets and the store. They came out the next second, shaking their heads.
It was at this point that one of them suddenly fell to the floor and Greg watched with rising horror as his head transformed to a wolf’s. He began to sniff the floor in aggressive inhales. He crawled around on all fours till he got to the part where the trapdoor was concealed. He nodded to the rest and in the matter of seconds, they had torn off the rug and descended into the hole.
‘Don’t kill her if she doesn’t resist,’ the first man said as though they’d hear, or obey.
From beneath came sounds of struggling and shouts.
Less than a minute later, they were out again, but not alone. Nuzzled in the crook of one of the men’s arms was the baby, still wrapped in the peach shawl.
‘Go check on your wife, go,’ the hairy-faced man said and when the man hesitated and got teary, he roared at him, his face turning rapidly into a wolf’s. Greg plunged down the hole.
The men filed out to the pavement where the dead officer laid, stood over by his killer, their fellow.
‘Poor lad,’ the hairy man said to the corpse. ‘The parents did not give a single fight. So we kept them alive, to copulate and birth another child. Poor thing you don’t get to guard them anymore.’
He gave a sinister smile at the baby. ‘Do you think I’m crazy to speak to a dead man?’
The baby gaped into the deep set eyes. He traced his talon- finger along the tape on its mouth.
‘It’s a very crazy world out here, little one, and you’re welcome to it.’
Chapter 1 : Stella The News Reporter
It was everywhere in the small town of Wales and in the surrounding suburbs. It was the topic for hushed, whispered discussions in salon shops and bars. Clergymen on Sundays made subtle references to it. Mothers warned their wards never to step outside the front door when the sun went down. Fathers themselves moved about with daggers and pistols under their coats or cowboy hats, and they kept glancing over their shoulders.
Fear and excitement had been fed into the whole town that Sunday morning by just one story in the newspapers, which had been retold into different headlines.
A report written by thirty eight year old Mrs Stella Desmond:
‘THE NIGHT KILLERS: NOT HUMANS?’, SINISTER REVELATIONS ABOUT THE STREET KILLERS’, ‘THE BABY KIDNAPPERS FOUND!’, ‘WOMAN REPORTER VERSUS MAFIA LORDS?’ ‘THE NIGHT PROWLERS ENRAGED’
None of the newspaper headlines were bold enough to call the story (or the men) what they really were. It would cause public panic if they did. It
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