A Pack Of His Own (Ch. 07)

While he waited for the order to be made, he had time to think about what his Uncle Pavel had told him, somehow knowing that it all rang entirely true. When the impossible had been eliminated, only the improbable remained, no matter how farfetched it might be. And even when he'd been growing up, he'd always felt like his mother had been hiding things from him. He'd always assumed it was details about his father, but the idea of his father being something supernatural? While it was news to him, it also seemed to make things fall into place - the sudden attraction from women, his immensely increased appetites (both physical and sexual), his unexpected ability to intimidate people with only a glance.

The whole thing about being a werewolf might have been a step too far if he hadn't seen Pavel's hand transform into a massive, feral claw, covered in a dark black fur, immediately two or three times the size the man's hand had been before. It had happened so quickly, almost within the blink of an eye, but maybe just fraction of a second longer, so Will had seen the final bit of growth for both pelt and claws, and the man's claws had looked sharp and deadly and nothing to be lightly trifled with.

He looked at his own hand, curled his fingers inward and tried flexing, but nothing happened. He squinted at his own hand, trying to will it into a paw, into talons, into claws, but it seemed futile, nothing happening except feeling like he was squinting too long. That and the pimpled teenager beyond the counter staring at him like he was attempting to contact extra-terrestrials. Will decided to laugh and play it off like he was stoned. "You ever really look at your hands, man? I mean, really looked at them? They're such, like, little marvels of biological power. Like, the thumb, man. I just can't say enough about the thumb."

After a few seconds of that, the guy behind the counter stopped paying Will any attention and went back to see what was keeping his order from being done and them getting him out of their Burger King. Will suspected that the minute he was out that door, they might not see any more customers until lunch, especially if the weather didn't clear up any.

A couple of minutes later, the pox-faced employee returned once more, a large plastic bag in his hand, holding it out towards Will. He smiled, moved over towards the counter, grabbed the bag, did his best to tie it closed, dropped it inside of the thermal bag he'd brought with him, and then headed out the door into the blizzard weather.

On some level, Will was especially grateful that he'd done this walk hundreds of times, because the minute he set foot out the front door of the Burger King, it was like stepping onto the plain of Antarctica, nearly total whiteout conditions in every direction. He couldn't see across the parking lot, much less to the street just beyond it, but he knew that he needed to walk forward until he found the street itself, so some twelve paces or so and he could see a slight dip in the snowbank signaling where the sidewalk ended, and the street began. He turned left at a ninety-degree angle and began walking, feeling the inside gust of wind blasting in his face as he pulled his scarf up over his nose then tightened the hood of his jumper as close as he could around his head, trying to limit exposure to the blistering winds that were already threatening him with frostbite.

The walk home, he knew, was only a few blocks, but he was starting to feel like Robert Peary on his search for the North Pole, or one of those dolts who was climbing Mount Everest. Each step was a struggle, having to work hard to lift one leg then place it down again only inches further ahead. As glad as he was to have all the information about his father, his bloodline and his werewolf nature, he was starting to get a little worried he wasn't going to make it home to enjoy all of that.

Whatever blizzard warnings the television news had given last night, it wasn't nearly enough by half because Will was nearly a block away from the Burger King when he realized he wasn't entirely certain where he was. He felt like he was approaching the end of the first block and the next block would have apartment buildings on the left so he would know that he was right. With a few extra steps in towards where the buildings were, he could make them out with a bit of a challenge, even though they were only a handful of feet away. With a landmark identified, he stepped back those steps, realigned himself and started walking back down about where he thought the sidewalk was, although he wasn't certain by any stretch of the imagination.

The next block was as bad as the first, but at least it couldn't get any worse. That was what he thought anyway until he heard a horn from a snowplow just over his right shoulder, and he hopped to his left, making way for the truck to appear behind him, emerging from the snow, plowing the street enough to allow the salt and sand to take hold before disappearing once more, carrying onward and forward.

With the snowplow having come through, at least the streets themselves were more obvious, so he knew when to turn left, heading in towards his home. He was thankful for the guidance, as between the large amount of snow and the devastating winds that threatened to knock him off his feet each time he took a single step.

The final block felt as challenging as the first two put together, and Will was practically swearing off ever leaving the house again when he could finally see his front door and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.

He regretted that moments later when he felt a syringe being jabbed into his neck, a sudden spike of adrenaline running down his spine only to immediately feel it being swallowed up by a flood of fog, his eyes rolling back into his head as he felt down towards the snow, his breath catching as he swore beneath his breath.

"Now they fucking get it right..."