AWOO: Chapter One
AWOO: The Association of Werewolves and Oppressed Otherlings
By E. D. Jones
Part 1
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
W.B. Yeats
Chapter 1
Clothes torn to rags, taste of blood and fur in his mouth. Robert Vincent spat, and a piece of what he could only assume was a rabbit’s pelt fell out of his mouth.
Robert examined himself. Scratched to holy hell with a few deep gashes on one arm, but thanks to his supernatural metabolism, they were mostly healed. And thankfully, his pants were intact enough to protect his dignity. Barely.
Second full moon. How the hell am I supposed to do this?
He stood, a little woozy, and blinked at the sunrise, squinting as his eyes adjusted. Trees. Nothing but trees. Big lodgepole pines mostly. Wincing as his bare feet hit pine needles and twigs, Robert picked a direction at random and started walking. His mind swirled with wolf memories: all snarling and anger and teeth and a blinding need to tear into the flesh of anything that moved.
He stopped under a tree, which looked a lot like all the other trees in the forest, and looked around.
“You ok buddy?”
Robert jumped and yelped as a voice of deep gravel revealed a tall man with a face half made of metal.
“Whoa, easy there, didn’t mean to terrify,” said the man.
“Who?” Robert said, squinting at the stranger, emphasis on the strange, trying to wrap his head around what his eyes were seeing.
“Name’s Clyve.”
“Clyde?”
“Clyve. With a v.”
“Oh,” said Robert. He tried his damnedest not to stare as the semi-robotic man spoke to him.
“You look shaken up. Where you need to be?”
“Um,” Robert began, still not really focused on Clyve’s words. “Did…did you see a rickety old cabin somewhere around here?”
Clyve nodded, the sun glinting off the metal half of his head in ways that just didn’t look right to Robert.
“Yeah, it’s that way.” Clyve pointed that way. “I’ll take you there.”
“I don’t want to bother you,” said Robert.
“No bother.”
“Thanks.” Robert paused, and then attempted to let his curiosity override his tact, although his mind mostly stopped his mouth from making an absolute ass of himself.
“Uh, what’s up with the…” He flailed stupidly at Clyve’s metallic features.
Clyve laughed, and it echoed metallically. “Long story.”
“I see,” said Robert. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“’Sokay.”
The two walked in silence for a few minutes before Clyve piped up again.
“So, why’re you out here like you got too close to a tornado?” Clyve asked as the two of them set off toward the cabin.
“Um,” Robert started. Well, I’m a werewolf, and I woke up this morning lost in the woods after tearing through some local wildlife overnight, and now I’m trying to figure out where I stashed my stuff. Robert said none of this, of course, but just sort of furrowed his brow at Clyve.
“Well, that’s ok, it’s your business, but I’d be careful walkin’ these woods, especially at night. Crazy things around. Some say even werewolves.”
“Werewolves?” Robert’s voice cracked as he said the word. Wait, what the hell does this cybernetic weirdo know about werewolves?
“Yeah, you know, full moon, howling, stink like wet dog?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Robert, hoping he sounded convincing.
“See, here’s the thing,” Clyve said, “I’m a friend of werewolves.”
“Cool,” Robert said.
“What?” he added.
“I’m just saying, if there was a werewolf round here, he might want a friend. Maybe lots of friends. I might know where to find them.”
“Ok?” said Robert.
Clyve clearly wanted Robert to get something, but Robert didn’t have the brain space for whatever Clyve’s deal was. Right now, Robert only wanted to get a few concrete things: get home, get cleaned up, get some sleep.
Robert saw the cabin ahead. “Hey, look, it’s the cabin. Listen, thanks for the guidance. Gotta go.”
Robert jogged to the cabin, not looking back to notice whether Clyve followed him. He walked into the cabin’s bathroom and grabbed his rucksack, rummaging in it. Thank God. His wallet and phone were both in there, along with his change of clothes. He removed the mangled chains dangling from the sink basin, wincing at the amount of blood splattered around the area. He had no way to clean that up.
Stronger chains next time.
He looked down at the floor, and fear hit him cold in the chest. Muddy boot prints led from the entrance straight to his rucksack, and then back out of the cabin. Someone else had found his stuff. Why didn’t they steal anything?
He stared at the prints for a moment longer, but he quickly realized he couldn’t do anything about them right now. He cleaned up as best as he could, hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulders, and left the cabin.
Clyve was nowhere to be seen.
Robert shrugged and trekked back along the path to where he’d stashed his car. He was looking forward to a hot shower and coffee maybe some sparkling water and antacid to clear the roiling nausea in his gut.
Folding himself into the driver’s seat of his Subaru BRZ and thrumming it to life, Robert thought about what had led him here.
Two full moons ago, walking out to the parking lot at the end of a long day working on the new lunar shuttle at the Ursula K. Le Guin Space Research Center, breath steaming in the cold wet of a Portland early spring evening. The huge, slavering creature. The stench of its carrion breath. The bite on his arm. The creature running off.
And the pain, surprise, and terror he felt when his body reconfigured itself for the first time, 28 days later, on the next full moon. His consciousness darkening into a series of impulses: feed, eat, kill.
Being a man of science, Robert hadn’t wanted to believe what his own senses told him, but also, being a man of science, he’d had to acknowledge the evidence.
And he’d had to rethink a lot of what he believed about the world.
Robert pulled into his parking space outside the sleek vintage motel in which he’d bought his newly renovated condo. He loved the place, with its kidney bean pool, Atomic Age neon sign that the new owners had preserved, and just the class mixed with kitsch that the complex exuded. Unfolding himself from that tiny classic sports car that he loved but which was not exactly the most comfortable car in the world, Robert took the spiral staircase up, put the key in his door, and entered his apartment.
Familiar sights and smells of home immediately comforted him. The rumpled brown leather couch. The steamer trunk coffee table. Robert’s apartment décor served as a contrast to the mid-century aesthetic of the motel-style complex. He wanted comfortable, plush, and eclectic, and his place reflected that.
Robert walked into his kitchen, squinting a little as the automatic bulbs flickered on. He noticed, not for the first time, the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink and the snacks left out on the counter. He grabbed the coffee, poured an amount into the coffee machine, added water, and started the coffee going.
A knock at his door. Who the hell?
“Yeah?” he called.
“Bedbug inspector,” said a woman’s voice from outside.
Robert furrowed his brow, shrugged, and opened the door, where he faced a pistol pointed directly at his head.
Next Chapter ————>
