mother, my own mother, bit me like I’ll soon be biting that side of beef in the corner, with just as much hunger and not an ounce of regret.
Who’s to say, if given the chance, I wouldn’t do the same? If not to Tracy and my family, then to somebody else’s sister, or brother, or father or grandmother? I make that little throat rumble of mine, that new thing that is more wolf than boy, and slide the pin under my pillow.
It’s a test, really. If I can still find it when I’m all wolf, if I still have the presence of mind to remember where I put it, reach under my pillow, grab it, know what it’s for, stick it in the lock and work it until the door opens, then maybe, just maybe, I have enough control over my animal side to deserve the kind freedom Tracy was offering me.
But if I can’t, if I forget where I’ve put it, or what it’s for, or what to do with it or where to put it, then I’m just a stupid animal who deserves to eat a side of beef for Christmas dinner for the rest of his life. Forever.
I look back at the pillow after the deed is done, after I’ve talked myself into keeping it done. Then I turn myself around so I won’t look at it anymore. I face the wall across from my cage, sliding my fingers around two bars and gripping them tightly, if only to have something to do with my hands.
I can feel the moon coming now, my blood beginning to thicken and slug through my veins, my muscles growing sore, my bones brittle in anticipation of the many, many changes to come.
My little growl gets louder, deeper and as the change comes, I grip the bars tighter, fighting the intense desire to reach under my pillow and free myself. As my senses heighten, as my vision clears and the smell of the fresh butchered cow becomes more and more appealing, I hear music from the end of the cell block.
Christmas music. Soft, and low. Reggie. And Claudell, listening to my stolen CD. I strain against the bars, forehead touching the cold steel to get a better listen. There, just there… the strains of “Silent Night” coming from the cheap CD player in the guard room.
I chuckle, my voice unrecognizable to me as the changes come. I growl like an animal, and listen like a boy, until the song, and the words, and the meanings disappear and there is only muscle and bone and hair and flesh.
It’s coming, I can’t stop it and the only way I’ll know what kind of wolf I am is where I wake up on Christmas morning…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of over a dozen zombie novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry, Zombies Don’t Forgive, The Girl Who Could talk to Zombies and Panty Raid at Zombie High! Visit him at www.zombiesdontblog.blogspot.com to learn more and read tons of FREE zombie stories and poems just like this one!
The Werewolf On Christmas: A YA Paranormal Story Page 4
