Concrete Wolf
Even with all his strength, he felt like a crane fly being pulled apart one limb at a time. Razor sharp jaws clamped on his inner thigh, which instantly went numb, and Brant found himself thrown high into the air. Being two-fifty pounds of muscle meant nothing to the creature that tossed him aside. He landed, rolled, and kicked backwards with his good leg until he had his back against the wall. Using a metal refuse cage for support, clung on with one arm, reeling from the pain and shock. The wolf snapped his exposed elbow with a mouth so large his entire forearm vanished inside. Pain exploded along his arm as his bicep was pierced by jagged molars and a fang impaled his wrist. Blood frothed from between its lips, gusting into his face on rancid breath. It held him still, as expertly as a martial artist applying a lock. Two gold eyes transfixed him. His hand protruding from its mouth, tendons pulled so that it pointed accusingly at him. It threw him into the road, and his heel caught the cluster of bins behind, crashing lids together like cymbals. A lid rolled close and he managed to grab it. The creature dropped back, sniffing the air in the direction of the dead man. The man that Brant had folded in two with a length of scaffolding. One of the two that had killed his girlfriend and meant to kill him. The creature hesitated, then it’s muzzle wrinkled into a snarl. Saliva splashed to the pavement scattering like coins. He picked up another dustbin lid, and used them as shields. It changed direction, stalking. Low to the ground, the underside of its fur brushing the pavement. It came in low and fast and sprang. Brant threw himself sideways and struck. The metal bent over his fist with the force, and nearly wrenched it from his grasp. He struck again with his other hand, though it felt like he was hitting a lamppost. Snarling, the beast hooked one gigantic paw over his barrier and talons clawed down his arm. Using every pound of muscle, Brant fought against the crushing weight, managing to keep his feet. The claws scrabbled for purchase. With snapping jaws and spittle above, Brent went down. He punched the creature’s stomach with the other lid, now so battered and misshapen that it enclosed his hand like a glove. It yelped. Brant was fading fast. Gunshots hurt less. He pivoted and the wound on his leg opened like a second mouth. He stumbled. It flew in again, this time he managed to deflect the scissoring jaws, losing the collar from his coat. It retreated, sensing that it was only a matter of time. The wolf retreated snuffling, watching him, waiting for him to bleed to death. His arm was beginning to tingle. He could barely clench his fist and his fingers trembled against his palm. The metal handle cut into his hand. The wolf came in strong, impatient, with its mouth wide. He was faster. He struck it across the side of the head, using his weight and the creature’s momentum to angle it against the wall and pin it there. He grabbed a handful of fur, smashing with his other hand against the side of its head once - twice. It bucked, trying to throw him off, but it couldn't get enough purchase to directly counter his hold. With his numb leg, he forced his knee against its neck, even though it’s claws shredded his trousers, raking through skin and muscle. With each wound inflicted, Brant continued to pummel. His legs could give way at any time. One of the wolf’s ears came away, and now its blood splashed against the wall. Until at last the body became limp within his grasp. He let go, dropping to the floor next to the carcass. It was changing even now, turning human. Fuck. He looked down at the tattered remains of his leg. The flesh resembled ground mince. Blood poured from the torn landscape of his thigh, and by the kaleidoscope of colours that radiated across his vision, he knew it was a femoral bleed. The ragged wound, pulsated weakly, blood welling over the torn edges. He managed to feel inside to find the source of the pulse and press down. Might save him, might lose a leg. Most likely he would die. Bizarrely he was thinking about a childhood story of a boy and a dam, not the two assailants who had tracked him and killed him for trying to find the missing children. With his other hand, he fumbled his mobile onto his lap, but it slipped through his fingers like a bar of soap. His vision started to receded and the shadows lengthened, consuming him. Going... Going... ...Gone.
White lights. Stench of disinfectant. Voices. Doctors maybe? “The wound isn’t infected. No primary. No secondary.” He hurt like a bastard. “So, he’s clean?” “No. The wound isn’t infected because he already carries the infection. Hereditary, born like it.” “That’s impossible.” “Not impossible, improbable. The trauma should have triggered a change, but it didn’t. I’m inclined to say, he can’t.” Soft laugh. “So it might not be such a problem after all. We let the boss know and leave it at that. We’ve his bloodwork to refer to, if need be. Worst case he’s latent. A future problem.” “You sure? He took out two with his bare hands. He got chewed up pretty bad, but you can’t tell from looking at him. Once he comes around, you want to chance a fair fight?” “He’s not our enemy. We leave him, might even do our work for us. Besides, I don’t like kicking a man when he’s down.” “What do we do now?” “Leave him, he’s registered under an assumed name. Let him recover. Leave him to his revenge.” Revenge. Brant heard the word, just as he was slipping toward unconsciousness. Yes, revenge. Not yet. But soon.
