Page 43 of Wicked Hungry

My skin itches, my hands grow and my joints pop. I’ve got to get out of these clothes. I rip off the bandages with hands that seem more like claws with every passing moment. I pull off my shirt, trying unsuccessfully not to tear it.

Because it’s too quick. I fight the transformation, fight the hunger and the rage, try to think of the calming night air. But it’s definitely too late to relax. My hands claw at my jeans, then my eyes focus on the moon as I rip off my shoes. I throw everything in a pile under the tree.

It’s too late to count to ten, too late to think calming thoughts. I can’t. Inside, the stereo blasts pop music. Outside, I bring my head up and howl.

Behind me a dog growls, deep and low. My new aching canines want to turn and rip into its soft throat, but first I growl a warning, and as I turn around it runs off, its tail between its legs.

My h

airy limbs stretch; my mouth expands into a snout full of sharp teeth.

I run through the suburbs between houses, and their lights hurt my eyes. The air is cold around me, but my blood is hot and steam comes out of my snout.

What is it like to run with four legs instead of two?

When I was little I used to run up the stairs on all fours. But my legs are longer now, and my back doesn’t hurt. At least not from the running. Everything feels kind of raw and sore and itchy. I want to run my claws through a tree, or bite a deer in half.

I need to get off these suburban streets. The asphalt hurts my paws. I can smell the forest, not so far off. My body is dark and gray and sleek. Kids are out walking, but I elude them; if they see anything they’ll probably think it must have been a big dog, running in the night.

But I’m no dog.

I hear a scream then.

Never before did I realize that human fear has a smell.

I come upon an old woman and an old man. I can smell their rancid sweat and their panic. The woman screams again.

“Be careful, Mildred, he looks rabid,” the man says.

Forget them. I can smell the woods. They aren’t far away.

I growl once at the man, probably six times my age. Then I leap away, and I’m off toward the woods, leaving the people and their fear behind.

But what if they call the police?

Then the police better come prepared, because I’ll snap in two anyone who comes at me now.

In a moment I’m in the forest, running at full speed. There are evergreens all around me, and I run between them. My hot blood keeps me warm, and I sniff at the moist air; from far off behind me I can smell the old people and their fear. But that’s not all. I can smell everything. With a little imagination, I can almost smell Meredith crying back in her room at the party.

My fault. All my fault.

But I smell something closer. Something small and tasty, full of tender flesh and hot blood. Something to sate the hunger that has tortured me for weeks, months now.

A rabbit.

It runs, but it’s hopeless.

There is no way a rabbit can outrun a wolf.

My pursuit is relentless; we run through the evergreens lit by the light of the moon until the poor beast can run no more. It stands quivering in front of a tree just behind a house. The rabbit is so close, I can almost taste it. But there are also people in the house, and I can almost taste them, too. They are too close; they make it hard to concentrate on the rabbit.

I need to focus on the task at hand. The hunt. The hunger. My prey.

But what am I supposed to do now to this defenseless rabbit?

My mind says, Let it go.

My body leaps forward and my jaws snap, breaking its neck with my teeth.