An excerpt from Quebecoiswolf’s story of the same title, published in WEREWOLVES VERSUS: HOLLYWOOD.
More of Quebecoiswolf’s work can be found here and here.
Every nerve on my body crackles with raw energy. I feel sweat on my forehead.
“Mom!” she yells. “You’re hurting me!”
I try to loosen my grip, but my fingers don’t work. I keep pulling Anna away, out of the side doors into the heat and the rotten air. The sun is too bright. Every breath feels like razorblades forced into my lungs.
“MOM!” She claws at my hand. “Your… your eyes. There’s something wrong with your eyes.”
I can taste blood in my mouth, harsh and metallic. My tongue brushes over one of my bicuspids, feeling it wiggle. Oh God… I know what this is. It has to be lycanthropy! I must’ve gotten too close to Henderson!
If I’m infected, I have to let go before I infect Anna. But my hand won’t open. Every joint in my body aches like a rusted machine forced into action.
“I’ll get a doctor,” says Anna, staring at me with wide green eyes. “No, we’ll go together. I’ll help you.”
The loose bicuspid drops free like a failed businessman stepping out of the tenth story window of his office. It’s in my mouth. I spit it out, but then another loosens and another and…
“NO!” Finally, I pry my fingers open and push Anna away. “Stay back!”
She reaches out with shaking hands. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m not afraid of that. Just-”
I turn on my heels and run. Hair grows from under my skin like needles being driven through flesh. My ears are stretched and stretched until they ring and throb in agony. The security guards have to be chasing me by now. Even if I sign their paychecks, it won’t stop them from using nets and cattle prods, the same as they would with any other werewolf.
I pass soundstages, offices, trailers, and craft trucks. Actors and crewmen scatter like deer. I spit out loose teeth. My tongue brushes over the sharp, predatory replacements that grow to fill the gaps. My shoulders push against the silk of my blouse as bones move under skin.
Something snaps. I don’t know if it’s bone, skin, or clothing. There’s too much pain to tell where it hurts. I fall. My shoulder slams into concrete. Every pain, every ache, and every throbbing nerve bursts into flame.
The world spins and spins and spins as if I’ve been drinking. I try to focus on one thing. One point. A tall cowboy in chaps with a revolver. In that instant, I know that I’ve stumbled into soundstage one, where they’re filming Waco Quick-Draw, a B-movie starting some idiot from the Oklahoma panhandle.
“Get back to work!” I shout.
Cast and crew gather around me like wolves closing around a kill, babbling with worry. I try to rise to my feet and escape, but my body won’t move except to mutilate itself. My fingernails fall away to be replaced by vicious claws. Cartilage stretches and my head feels like it’s being crushed. I can see it… my nose deforming, moving away from my face into a snout.
But the pain finally fades
The world goes black.
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