I staggered into the kitchen, almost fell in the pool of blood from the body sprawled on the hickory floor, and then I had to shove the man’s body out of the way to get the refrigerator open. The tactical light showed me that a few rounds of buckshot had passed through some of the supplies we’d brought with us. Somehow, the gallon of orange juice survived. I took out the juice, opened the bottle, drank a fourth of it in one pass. Returning the plastic bottle to the shelf, I looked for the coffee pot. Another round had shattered the carafe and cooling coffee spread across the countertop.
Well, that sucks.
Something dripped into the sink from the overhead cabinets. Noticing the aroma of bourbon, I frowned and opened the cabinet door, the one with the buckshot hole in it. The Makers Mark bottle had shattered and at least half a liter of good Kentucky bourbon had dripped into the sink.
“Damn it,” I cursed. I saw the flask hadn’t been touched and I picked it up and shook it. It was full. I dropped the flask into a pocket, no point in risking my shooting it next time.
Giving up on getting coffee, I turned the faucet on and let the water run fast. I cupped my hands and dunked my face into the water. When I raised my face, I saw the water in my hands was red. Fuck! I splashed more water on my face until the red was down to a faint tint in the sink. Then I grabbed a handful of paper towels, wiped my chest down, and dried my face. I tossed the towels into the trashcan and staggered back to the table.
I made it without falling and dropped wearily into the chair. Shining the light around the rest of the cabin’s main room, I examined the damage. Detritus littered the floor below each of the openings from the ceiling’s wood and insulation. All of the cabin’s chairs, except the one I sat in, were scattered about. Moonlight poured through a bullet hole in one shutter, meaning I’d have to replace some windowpanes. The floor was heavily scratched from the claws of the weres and in several places; the hickory flooring was splintered from either .45 slugs or buckshot.
Man, Dad’s going to be pissed!
Checking the contents of Gail’s first-aid kit, I found several types of pain relievers and settled on a single tramadol. Anything stronger and I’d risk passing out. I didn’t have the energy to retrieve the bottle of orange juice, so I swallowed the tablet dry. I’d hoped to find a stimulant to help me stay awake, but she didn’t have any stocked. If I was going to keep this up, we were going to invest in some strong stimulants.
I found the bottle of poultice Gail had used on my chest wounds. After cleaning my fingers on a piece of my pants that weren’t bloody, I dipped out as much as she had used and spread it over both my new and older injuries. When I finished the bottle was half empty. It looked like Gail was going to run out of poultice before we ran out of werewolves.
I slid my chair next to the bed to check on Gail. Except for a few drops of blood, I wasn’t sure if it was mine or one of the werewolves, she was unmarked. Lifting the edge of the belt of tape above her navel, I slid one of the silver medallions out long enough to check where it contacted her skin. While her skin had been smoking from the contact earlier, she’d apparently healed the injury as soon as the burning stopped.
Damn, I could sure use that healing ability about now.
I scanned each of the holes torn in the roof with the light but still saw no motion. Leaning back, I played the light over each of the bodies. All were young, hardly older than I was. One of the men had a dark tattoo, just visible beneath the blood on his chest.
Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled myself erect and carefully moved to the body in the kitchen. I shone the light on the man’s tattoo and then yanked a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. Holding onto the counter with the hand in which I held the light, I bent and wiped across the tattoo. When it was clear, I shone the light back on it. The tattoo was a stylized image of a wolf’s head silhouetted against a full moon. The moon was yellow and the beast black, save for its yellow eyes. It wasn’t an enormous tat but was about three inches high.
I moved to the body of the other man and rolled him over. At least one of the forty-five rounds had destroyed the artwork on his chest, but I could tell it had been a copy of the wolf and moon.
Going to the girl, I avoiding looking directly at the crater the shotgun had made of her head while I rolled her over. She’d been lying in a pool of blood and I had to use the paper towels to wipe the left side of her chest clear. There on the inside swell of her breast—the wolf and moon.
Fuck, they had a gang tat.
Something about the tattoo seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Maybe when I had a chance to rest it would come to me. I glanced from one to the other. Three werewolves, were there more out there? I’d like to go outside and turn the power back on, but if there were another of the damn things out there; it would finish kicking my ass.
I craved sleep, perhaps it was the blood loss, or maybe it was coming down from an adrenaline high. Either way, all I wanted was to lie down beside Gail and sleep. Hell, even if I
