SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Ancient Ruins John W. Dennehy

The Amtrack amphibious assault vehicle grumbled over rubble during another hot summer night. Lance Corporal Simmons breathed the stale air and adjusted his flak vest, wondering when the Marine Corps would get around to issuing the Kevlar body armor he’d heard about. Packed in tight with twelve other marines, he jostled on the bench seat as the tracked transport creaked over crumpled buildings.

They were on routine patrol through the outskirts of the ancient city. Simmons had been on numerous others without incident. His helmet was set on the deck at his boots; the steel-pot similar to those issued in the last big wars. His M16-A1 rifle barrel was pointed down with the pistol grip turned away. Simmons held the stock tightly, even though he didn’t expect to use the weapon. As the Amtrack came to an abrupt halt, his stomach turned and his pulse quickened. The intercom crackled with static as his staff sergeant attempted to communicate with the Amtrack crew.

“What’s the hold up?” asked Staff Sergeant Watson.

“There’s a dog or something blocking the way,” the driver responded. “Some kind of animal.”

“What?” Watson snapped.

“All set. It ran off.”

The Amtrack lurched forward then came to another jerky stop. Watson swayed forward and back. As he reached for the intercom button ready to chew some ass, the fifty-caliber machine gun let rip.

Simmons felt the turret shifting to the left, then another volley of rounds.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Watson barked.

“We’re taking fire,” the driver responded. “We’re taking fire!”

Watson turned toward his marines. “Seems it may be the Palestinians. Our orders are to fire only when necessary.”

Simmons and the others stared at their staff sergeant blankly.

Watson looked back at them sternly. “You got that?” he demanded.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” they called out.

“So, what are we doing?” This from Corporal Anderson. “We’re just sitting here waiting to get nuked?”

Automatic weapons rattled away outside the Amtrack. A few dings sounded from the armor-plated vehicle. The fifty cal roared from the turret overhead. Between the blasts of the turret gun, Simmons tried to place the enemy position. The shooting sounded faint through the dense armor, likely off in the distance to their left.

The Palestinians were surely entrenched in a hillside. They were probably engaged in a firefight with ground troops, maybe the French. His routine patrol merely happened upon the conflict. Simmons doubted it would amount to much more than the Amtrack providing support for the Multinational Force.

“What are we doing just sitting here?” Anderson griped.

Staff Sergeant Watson waved him off. “Just hold tight. We’ve got rules of engagement, and we really don’t know what’s going on out there.”

Never expecting to disembark from the Amtrack, Simmons leaned back and took a deep breath. He thought about his new bride living back at the base. Then he saw Watson picking up the field phone.

Watson hung up the phone. “Listen up!” he barked.

Everyone’s eyes were glued to the staff sergeant.

“The captain has authorized us to engage the enemy. Palestinians are firing at friendlies from a nearby hill.” Watson looked them over. “We’re going to disembark from the assault vehicle with Marine Corps precision. You got that?”

The young marines looked up at him, baffled. Finally engaging the enemy?

Watson towered over them with both hands on his hips. Simmons had gone out on numerous patrols, and even heard the fifty cal light up a few times, but they hadn’t been authorized to engage. Ever.

“Do you hear me?” Watson screamed. “Because I certainly can’t hear you!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” they yelled. “Understood, Staff Sergeant!”

“Now lock and load,” Watson barked. “And don’t let me catch any of you using full auto.”

Simmons and the others pulled out ammo clips and slammed them into the receivers. They pulled back the charging handles. When they were released, the chargers snapped back, chambering rounds with an ominous clang that rang out in unison. Privates Collison and Harmon were to his left and Private First Class Wells sat to the right.

Staff Sergeant Watson eyeballed them fiercely. “And make sure your moonbeam lenses are set to red,” he snapped.

They all reached for their flak vests and checked the flashlights. Peering at the lens, Simmons saw that his was red.

Simmons strapped on his helmet, then reached around and grasped the M-16 pistol grip. He thumbed the selector switch, confirming it was on safety. From countless exercises beginning on Parris Island, Simmons knew his rifle must be pointed down until he stepped from the transport.

“The first two fire teams will set up outside the ramp,” Watson instructed. “The second two will alight and set the perimeter. Then the first two will head for cover.”

“Understood, Staff Sergeant!”

“The ramp is coming down,” Watson said. “Ooh-rah!”

“Ooh-rah!” they all yelled. “Let’s kill!”

Simmons could feel the intensity in his own yelling, his adrenalin pumping. As the ramp lowered, Watson hollered: “Welcome to Beirut! Now, move!”

As the second marine down the ramp, Simmons swung his rifle into place and dropped to a knee at the rear of the Amtrack. Collison and Harmon rushed out of the transport and took up positions nearby.

As the last marines out set the perimeter, Simmons glanced around and saw machine gun fire emanating from a distant hillside. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. There was a pile of rubble about twenty paces from him, and he waited for the fifty cal to rattle away then ran hunched over toward the heap of debris with PFC Wells in tow.

Simmons slammed his back into the jutting blocks of broken concrete, the flak vest absorbing most of the impact. As other marines joined him, Simmons peered over the top of the mound. Gunfire erupted from the distant hill again. The enemy fire didn’t seem directed at them. The PLO might not even know the marines had hit the ground.

A few marines had their moonbeams out, red lights bobbing as a fire team flanked to the right. The flashlights would be noticeable to anyone watching, but minimal fire came their way. “Anderson,” Simmons yelled. “I’ll take my team left. You head up the middle with yours.”

Anderson grinned. “Roger that, Lance Corporal.” Anderson led, and the central fire team hustled after him, weaving through massive heaps of crumbled buildings. Simmons took his team to the left, crawling along open ground until they got to protective cover.

Glancing toward the hillside, Simmons realized they were closer to the city than he’d expected. Vacant buildings lingered in the backdrop of the battlefield.

Simmons further marked the enemy position by the hunter’s moon. It cast beams of light through the abandoned dwellings, illuminating the combat zone.

Rifle fire erupted from the hillside. Numerous rounds ricocheted off the broken concrete. “Get down!” Simmons yelled to his team. The shooting was erratic. Panic fire. It was mainly directed towards Anderson’s team, but Simmons ordered his squad to take cover in case of stray bullets.

When the shooting settled, he peeked around a collapsed concrete stanchion considering the scene. Only the Amtrack’s turret gun had returned PLO fire. The French were taking the rules of engagement to an extreme, if they were even out there in the vestiges of the embattled city.

Simmons strained his eyes to discern if anyone else was on the battlefield. No sign of entrenched allies. In fact, the enemy fire was so sporadic it didn’t appear to be honed in on any one location.

Scanning the heaps of rubble, he tried to spot marines closing on the Palestinian position. He expected his comrades to flank the enemy hill from the right, and plainly saw the red glow of moonbeams bobbing along.

Then he noticed movement down the middle. Despite Watson’s instructions, a couple of marines had forgotten to change their flashlight lens covers over to red. Simmons clearly saw the yellow glow of two moonbeams from Anderson’s fire team. They were huddled close together, likely hunkering down from the last barrage of machine gun fire.

After cutting back toward the center, and moving his fire team closer to the enemy position, Simmons and his troopers held up behind a mass of debris at least fifteen-feet tall, providing enough cover to get a bearing on the other teams.

After the fifty cal had settled down, there was a lull in the firefight. The night turned silent. Had the PLO just given up? The marines would have to abort the foot patrol if the enemy was no longer engaging but Simmons wanted to be sure that was the case before they withdrew. The Palestinians could merely be getting a better bearing on Multinational Force positions.

“You guys hunker down here,” Simmons said to PFC Wells. “I’ll worm forward and get a better handle on what’s going on.”

Wells nodded his understanding.

“Don’t get lax and let someone flank you. They could advance from that position.”

“We’ll move around to get a better visual,” Wells replied.

Simmons smacked Wells on the helmet and then stepped to the edge of the heap. There was a line of broken blocks running for about fifty yards, followed by a couple more mounds. He ran hunched toward the halfway point.

Glancing over the protective rubble, his squad had maneuvered close to the enemy hill. The ancient city loomed large behind them. All remained quiet, but the Palestinians had not called it off. He could hear them chattering nervously in the distance.

Simmons suspected they had sent a younger fighter to scout the rubble. The night was eerily still. A slight chill crept over the desert, bringing with it a sense of dread that caused him to shiver.

A scream.

Loud and fearful. Agonized.

And nearby.

The screaming was accompanied by growling and the macabre sound of… ripping; it was a terrifying noise — shredding clothing and tearing meat. Anxiety turned his stomach.

The growling seemed to multiply. The screams faded to a loathsome wailing. Then pitiful moans. Then ceased altogether. The tearing and chewing continued. The snap of bone pierced through the ruins. Something was feasting upon a soldier in the debris.

The carnage was occurring close to his position, just beyond a massive bank of rubble. The frenzy seemed to be winding down…

A shudder ran through him. I’m being watched. The rest of the squad was behind him. He glanced ahead at the top of the heap. A menacing set of yellow eyes stared directly at him. In the moonlight, the creature resembled a timber wolf: covered in thick fur, with a long snout and pointed ears, but larger than any wolf he’d ever seen. The neck was muscled and its torso extended into long hind legs, almost… humanlike. But that can’t be.

On all fours, massive hand-like claws crimped the rubble. The wolf snarled. Long fangs dripped with saliva. And blood. This was the creature who’d been feasting. A surreal apparition having no place on a battlefield, the ominous wolf seemed wrought from hell. Despite the M-16 in his hands, Simmons was horrified by the beast. Panic raced through him.

The wolf tensed, muscles rippling, ready to pounce but it snapped its focus to something down to the left.

A yell. Rifle fire. The unmistakable sound of M-16s. Corporal Anderson’s team had engaged the enemy. The muzzle flashes didn’t seem directed at the hillside. Firing was erratic. The wolf let out a long, bellowing howl that filled Simmons with dread.

The beast scurried down the rubble, rushing toward the fray. It was joining its pack, and Simmons needed to do the same.

He broke toward the melee. Glancing at the opposing hillside, he expected to see an outbreak of gunfire, but nothing came from the enemy position. The Palestinians were retreating to the desolate city.

Weaving through the rubble, he realized the fifty cal was quiet. The Amtrack crew probably didn’t want to risk hitting the marines with friendly fire. This conflict was small arms versus… beasts. Could the M-16s could take down the wolves, like a .30–06 drops a deer?

Entering the gauntlet, carnage greeted Simmons. His pulse quickened. Adrenalin pumped up his spine. It wouldn’t be that easy. A marine lay torn to shreds. Blood and gunpowder tainted the air. Another marine was firing his rifle directly at a charging wolf. Two more wolves had another marine pinned to the ground, clawing his flak vest and tearing at his neck — the marine was toast.

Rounds zinged about the narrow passageway, ricocheting off the debris. Simmons rushed toward the marine firing at the charging wolf. The creature took direct hits but didn’t slow. It closed the distance. Fast. When it was about ten feet away, the marine switched to full auto.

The magazine emptied into the creature. A yelp and it dropped to the ground, squirming. A stray bullet skimmed through Simmons’ cammies grazing a thigh as his comrade tried frantically to reload. Another wolf pounced. Knocked to the ground, the marine wrestled viciously with the beast.

Dropping to a knee, Simmons took aim and fired. The round had little impact. The fallen marine pulled his fighting knife and drove it into the creature’s belly. Simmons squeezed off two more rounds. The animal pulled away then scampered off.

Yet another wolf stalked towards a fourth marine whose rifle appeared to be empty. The marine pulled his sidearm — Anderson.

The wolf sprang at the fire-team leader. Anderson fired, stepping aside to avoid the lunging wolf.

Simmons rushed into the fracas and took aim, adding fire to the wolf attacking Anderson. The marine’s forty-five elicited a yelp from the animal. It turned and swiftly climbed the broken blocks of a decimated building. Simmons fired two rounds into its side, but the wolf leapt nimbly into the darkness.

The scene stilled. From the sounds Simmons heard during the first attack, he’d anticipated two or three wolves, but now it was apparent a pack was roving the ruins of the ancient city. Most of them were a little smaller than the one he’d initially spotted.

The alpha wolf hadn’t been among those wounded in the fray.

Simmons rushed to assist the knife-wielding marine; kneeling beside him, Simmons pressed a hand to the throat wound and noticed a huge wolf stalking them. It showed no fear, intent only on finishing off the prostate victim.

Simmons slung his rifle over a shoulder and yanked a canister from his belt. Pulling the pin, he counted two seconds then lobbed it near the animal.

He snatched the marine’s flak vest and furiously backpedaled, dragging his fallen comrade with him.

The incendiary grenade exploded, igniting the wolf.

The creature tore off into the darkness, ablaze. Ears ringing from the blast, Simmons watched the creature burn; its agonized yowling pierced the shrill of battle. Soon it was gone.

The injured marine’s Colt .45 lay in the dirt and Simmons pocketed the pistol then turned.

Anderson was missing. The injured attack wolf was gone. Simmons unslung his rifle and raced down the corridor of wreckage. He glanced back at the injured marine — no wolves lurked.

Weapon raised, Simmons turned a corner and spotted the alpha wolf trotting away, its muzzle clenched around Anderson’s neck, dragging the man behind like a rag doll. A wounded wolf limped alongside them. There was no sign of struggle from Anderson, and taking a shot now would just attract attention.

Simmons returned to the fallen marine.

The young man was groggy but alive. Adrenaline was beginning to power down. Simmons took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. The kid looked familiar. He was from their infantry unit — the 1/8 out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. A quiet guy; Simmons didn’t know his name.

Simmons checked him over carefully; no sign of bullet entries, but there was a nasty gash to his neck, leaking blood fast.

Blood also oozed from the graze on Simmons’ leg; a bullet fragment from a ricochet, but that didn’t stop it from hurting like a son-of-a-bitch. As the battle settled down, his adrenaline rush subsided. Aches and pains resonated all over his body.

Simmons removed the web-belt from his trousers and fastened it around his leg, then used his K-bar fighting knife to cut a piece of green t-shirt. He pulled a field first-aid kit from a cargo pocket, and dressed the wound, then tied it off with the strip of cloth. He checked the kid’s dog tags: Daniel Grimes, PVT.

It was only when he was done patching up Grimes that Simmons noticed how quiet it had become. A deafening silence.

The lull was interrupted by voices from his right. Mumbled French. The Allies had been here after all. He expected the marine fire teams would join with the French to collect the wounded–

A burst of machine-gun fire disrupted the night.

Scanning the battlefield, a Thysasen Henschel UR-416 had rolled into position. The antiquated German assault vehicle appeared like a relic from The Great War. It was merely an old Mercedes truck frame loaded with armor-plates; the nose of the vehicle protruded, resembling an aardvark.

A Browning thirty-caliber machine gun was mounted on top manned by a freedom fighter. He sprayed Multinational Force units with round after round. There was a horde of ground troops rattling off AK-47s as they swarmed through the ruins.

The Amtrack returned fire as the marine rifle squads advanced. The French flanked in support of the marines. This was going to play out for a few more hours.

Simmons hoisted Grimes off the deck, carefully loading the injured Marine into a fireman’s carry as he held his rifle at port arms. Although the fire teams were engaged, Simmons planned to double-back and catch up with his unit.

Turning on his heel, the way was impeded by a set of glowing yellow eyes.

His pulse raced. The wolf was marking them, waiting to make its move. Simmons reached for his M-16 slung under his shoulder.

Swinging the rifle into place, he fired off a round while holding onto Grimes. It struck the injured wolf in the shoulder. A lucky shot. Before Simmons could get off another round, the wolf dodged behind the rubble. The beast was quick.

Considering options, the deserted buildings were closer than the Amtrack, and Simmons was uncertain if the battle cut them off from the transport.

He made his way toward the burnt-out dwellings. Under Grimes’ weight, each step caused a jolt of pain from his wounded leg. The moonlight guided his way, but a surge of dread crept up his spine as he waited for the wolf to bring them down from behind.

Peering over his shoulder, Simmons searched for the creature. Nothing. Then he saw it. Lingering in the shadows — a hunter tracking its prey. The beast was wounded and alone. It would likely wait for the right moment to pounce… or wait until the pack could join it.

Although the nearest dwelling was now only about a hundred and fifty yards away, the distance seemed vast. Simmons pushed on; striving to save himself and Grimes from Anderson’s fate.

Inside a vacant building, he placed Grimes on the deck, and found an iron bar to brace the door shut. Simmons scanned the room; the place was vulnerable. Numerous broken windows and a bombed-out roof provided access. The place was anything but secure.

Maybe the fighting had whittled down the size of the pack and worn away its resolve, but the injured wolf could easily track them to their refuge. He had to prepare against an attack.

Simmons found a corner walled in by a concrete block and moved Grimes into the niche. Dragging an old iron engine block, discarded filing cabinets and a table, he fortified the marine’s position then sat with his back against the wall, his M-16 held tight, a new clip in the receiver. A stack of fully loaded magazines rested on the deck beside him.

The pistol lay ready as well. If they could hold out until daylight, they’d get through this. Moonlight shone through broken windows in the upper stories, cascading through bombed-out flooring that opened for three levels. If the wolves came that way, they’d be exposed, but a shot would be difficult. The creatures held the advantage.

Simmons thumbed his wedding band, thinking about his young wife. Marion. Their wedding had been back home in Vermont, outside on warm spring day. A full contingency of marines assembled along the aisle with crossed swords. He kept thoughts of Marion close as he hunkered inside the building for close to an hour. He hoped the worse was behind them.

A wolf howled from the ruins outside. Sounds like it’s summoning the others. Simmons feared a conflict. The wolves could easily access the building. He wanted to engage the enemy, close-with and destroy, but the creatures seemed impervious to their weapons. They seemed to be more than mere wolves. What were they doing here in Beirut? And what could they actually do to him? Waiting in the ruins for an almost certain demise, Simmons preferred the engagement of the earlier firefight.

Sitting in the shadows, his mind raced with dreadful thoughts. He’d witnessed wolves take fire and keep coming. They’d ruthlessly torn apart his comrades. The fight would be futile. These creatures weren’t ordinary animals. Some small part of him merely wanted to give up; but there wasn’t any other place to flee, and going outside again would mean certain death. We are marines, dammit! Have to protect Grimes. Simmons scanned the dilapidated dwelling; the lower floor had been a machine shop or garage. He was hunkered down in the old office, but the engine told of its utility. Taking stock, he found what was needed to pull the plan together. He would fight; he would have vengeance.

It was that part of him that began devising a plan.

Simmons reached for the K-bar strapped upside down to the shoulder of his flak vest. He withdrew the fighting knife then removed the clip from his Colt .45, 1911. He popped two rounds from the magazine then whittled the bullets down meticulously to fashion an effective weapon, Marion once again in this thoughts — he would make it home to her.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his utilities, he pulled out a cigar and his Zippo. The chrome lighter had been a gift from Marion; the Marine Corps emblem embossed on the front.

He bit off the end of the cigar and lit the damn thing. If this was going to be his reckoning, then Simmons was going out on his own terms, like a man, a marine. Puffing the stogie, he prepared himself mentally for the showdown.

The alpha wolf was the linchpin for the entire pack. Wounded and weary from battle, most of them would scamper if he could take their leader down.

He sipped from his canteen cup; thinking about his wife again… Simmons glanced at his wedding ring then removed the sterling-silver band. Perusing the ring, it was a reminder that Marion would be waiting for him whenever he returned from a deployment, whether walking the flight deck or in a pine box.

He wheeled an acetylene torch over to the iron engine block, praying the damn thing still worked. He quickly checked Grimes; the man was still out. Simmons breathed a sigh of relief when the torch lit, then heated the empty basin of a combustion chamber. Once the iron was hot, he kissed the silver ring then dropped it into the chamber with a metallic clang. The torch heated the iron quickly, but the ring sat there unchanged. Fuck! Just as Simmons began to doubt whether the plan would work, the unmistakable thud of a large four-legged creature landed on remnants of the top floor.

Moments later, two other sets of paws padded around the vestiges of the third floor. They must have crossed from an adjacent rooftop. Two sets of glowing yellow eyes peered through the aperture of the bombed-out flooring.

The wolves circled their perch, staring down, stalking their prey. The alpha was leading two others.

Simmons glanced down into the engine chamber; the ring was now liquid silver. He turned off the blow torch, and reached slowly for a .45 caliber round. No need to alert the things. Dipping the bullet into the silver, he quickly coated the tip then retracted it from the chamber and dipped it into the canteen cup, sizzling.

There was a thump onto the second floor. Their treading grew more frenzied. An attack was imminent.

He hastily dipped the other round into the silver then cooled it off. A small amount of the liquid remained in the combustion chamber. Simmons grabbed his K-bar and coated the tip. As he worked the silver over the blade, the wolves descended to his level.

All three beasts trotted back and forth just beyond his makeshift barricade. They began to growl and snap. Long white fangs reflected in the scattered moonlight. A couple of the beasts shook their heads, whipping saliva about.

Simmons trembled, breathing deeply — these weren’t ordinary creatures. Dread of losing the battle with the wolves morphed from utter fear to a momentary paralysis. But the thought of failure, even death wasn’t as daunting as not pressing forward. Giving in wasn’t the Marine Corps way. Like all young marines, he was indoctrinated in the heroics of marines pushing forward against insurmountable odds: the Chosen Reservoir, Tarawa and Iwo Jima. He shook off fear and doubt. Simmons began to feel numb to the thought of death, as the hard mettle of his months on the island solidified. He was a marine. Ooh-rah!

Simmons loaded the magazine with the silver bullets. He placed them halfway down the clip, allowing him to fire a couple of shots before and after releasing the deadly rounds. Lull the bastards into a false sense of security

A wolf edged its way toward the barricade like a scout searching for the weakness in a fortress.

The alpha remained in the background. Simmons couldn’t dispense with the silver ammunition on the lower-echelon beasts before getting a crack at the leader. Another wolf limped slowly forward.

Simmons raised the M-16 and thumbed the selector switch to semi-automatic. He shouldered the rifle, held his breath and eased the trigger. The rifle fired a volley, striking the lame creature in the right front shoulder. It scampered like a dog being struck with a newspaper. Although the shot struck home, it didn’t have a lasting effect.

The two wolves cowered slightly at the sound of the rifle blast.

PVT Grimes flinched at the sound of the M-16 firing, his breathing heavy. The man was still alive, and Simmons intended to keep it that way.

The wolf checking the perimeter lifted its nose over a filing cabinet.

Simmons aimed and fired two rounds in rapid succession. It ducked below the barricade and whimpered. The creature was sniffing out signs of weakness, allowing a sense of confidence to grow. The alpha howled, loud and ferocious in the confined space, and the other two wolves turned and rushed the barricade, jumping over the table and filing cabinet. Simmons let loose with the pistol shooting three rounds at the lead wolf. It dropped in its tracks, but the other kept coming.

Simmons took up the rifle and flipped the M-16 to full-automatic and emptied the clip into the advancing beast. It squealed but continued its charge.

The wolf lunged at his throat. Simmons held up an arm to ward off the ravaging beast but it knocked his arm aside. He grabbed it tightly with both hands by the scruff of the neck, struggling to lock his elbows and keep the wolf at bay. Spittle and phlegm splattered Simmons’ face as the beast thrashed and tore at his flak vest.

Simmons wrestled with the wolf as it flailed and shred his utilities. Can’t let this thing bite me. He feared death less than the alternative. In his gut, he knew what they really were.

Everything slowed. Simmons felt the heat of the werewolf’s breath on his face. He locked his elbows, holding the beast back by its neck. Saliva dripped from its elongated fangs. Numbness from shock began to set in. Pressed into the concrete floor, there wasn’t any place else to go.

He expected the wolf to lunge at his throat, finish him off, but it paused for a moment. It’s making way for the alpha.

Peering beyond the bloodied, matted coat of the wolf bestride him, the alpha approached.

Do or die. Simmons unsheathed the K-bar and plunged it into the beast standing over him. It howled. Simmons instinctively retracted the fighting knife, pushing the beast aside. He dropped the K-bar on the deck and drew his pistol.

The alpha leapt.

Descending, the wolf bared its fangs, extended its claws.

Ready for the kill.

Simmons fired the .45 into the wolf’s chest. A jolting yelp of pain resounded like a shriek within the room, but pain seemed to drive it. The alpha landed on Simmons biting at his throat. Its claws cleaved into Simmons’ arms and legs.

He emptied the clip into the alpha. It howled again, but kept at him. Simmons grasped for the K-bar on the deck, fumbling for the knife. The alpha’s yellow eyes shone bright with hate. The last bit of its life seemed directed at annihilating Simmons — retribution for killing members of the pack.

The beast’s muzzle reeled about and snapped. As it closed in for the kill, Simmons found the leather handle of the K-bar. With a shout, he plunged it deep into the alpha. Right to the hilt.

The werewolf snarled, writhed in his arms. The warrior beast locked glances with Simmons. They stared into each other’s eyes. The proud wolf battled for its pack and the marine fought for his comrades. A somber moment between two enemies in combat.

As life slipped from the wolf’s eyes, it collapsed onto Simmons’ chest. For a moment Simmons felt sorry for the loss of a worthy adversary. He took a deep breath and tossed the creature aside. Lying on the deck, muscles weak, he took another deep breath. He sat up then scrambled back on his rear as the dead wolves began changing form.

Bones snapped. The bodies quivered and contorted. A crunching echoed through the building as the jaws and cheekbones diminished. Gas released from the corpses, fouling the air. Legs trembled as their haunches twisted and pulled straight. The tearing of flesh turned Simmons’ stomach as the claws retracted. Then the shaggy hair slowly receded, exposing human forms.

Dead men, naked, wounded and broken, lay sprawled upon the cold floor. The affliction had been indiscriminate. A tanned Palestinian lay not far from a dark-haired Frenchman with a long prominent nose. The well-muscled build of the alpha was covered in tattoos; the words inked in Slavic.

Howling broke the silence. Simmons pushed to his feet and peered out the window. Under the moonlight, the remaining pack circled the top of a distant heap of rubble.

Standing at the center, a man thrashed and clawed at the sky. Anderson. Almost Anderson. Huge clumps of hair protruded from the tears in Anderson’s cammos; his jaw and cheeks seemed… bigger. Ferocious.

Alone in the shadows, Simmons watched the proud wolves as intermittent light cascaded into the broken building. His heart raced.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the window and splayed his fingers against the glass, drawn to the moonlight and his howling pack.