There were three of them, running together in a group, which was strange, usually they would separate, but not these three. It made the track all that much easier, six feet made for greater ground disturbance. He turned to the left, the two officers with him following about fifteen feet back, keeping out of his way while he worked it out. Up the hill, then around a small group of trees, their leafless limbs looking like skeletal fingers in the black of the night. Overhead the moon glowed white and full, its craters standing out in sharp relief.

Max's head snapped to the right, he had overshot, but just barely, the wind carrying their spore to the west. He followed, all his senses alive, on fire. He felt as good as new—no—better, far better. Was the sensation real, or was it just the thrill of the hunt after nearly three weeks of inactivity? Everything seemed so... bright and strong. His hearing seemed to pick up the tiniest sound, his eyes tracing the night's shades of black, gray and white that made things stand out even better than in the light of day. He could smell the rich greenness of chlorophyll, bleeding from broken blades of grass, trampled by the fleeing fugitives, and the dry dust laying low over their path after crossing asphalt or cement.

The two officers behind him were breathing hard, making as little noise as possible, they were slowing him down greatly. If he could leave them and go on his own, he would catch the men almost immediately. Still, they had gone a good distance already and the three must be getting tired. Besides, he could see the echo of flashing lights beyond the houses to the north. The other members of his master’s pack had sealed that avenue of escape. If they continued forward they would be captured, their only other option was to stop and hide. And once they stopped, they were his.

There was the muffled sound of a car door closing to the east, maybe two hundred yards away, he caught the scent a few seconds later, knew it was not the ones he was after, and ignored it. Two hundred yards? Could he have discerned it that well before the attack? No, he didn't think so. And the track was so easy, even with three of them, he shouldn't be able to move so quickly, so certainly. There were always cross tracks to check and dismiss, and places where little disturbance could be raised, spots where the wind obliterated their spore and others where it mingled them with other scents, making it a talent to decipher the correct ones to follow. But not tonight.  Tonight they seemed as clear as a trail lined with bits of food that he couldn't miss in utter blackness. He began to realize that he could even detect the differences of heat between the scents. This one cooler and old, this one warm and new. He felt incredible, as though he could go on forever. There wasn't a hint of fatigue in his muscles, his lungs were full and even, his heartbeat a steady thrum in his thick chest. The chill Autumn breeze feeling wonderful as it brushed his face.

Something moved behind a tree, he could hear its heart, its breathing, the scratching of its whiskers as it twitched its nose. A rabbit. He could smell its blood, pumping hot and strong just below the surface of skin and fur. Rich and thick and wet. He imagined tearing into its throat, snapping his head to the side and breaking its neck, then tearing it apart, ripping the skin from its bones and gulping the blood in a feral frenzy, the fresh meat sliding down his throat in red chunks.

He almost broke trail and went for it. The urge was so powerful, but training won out and he kept to the track.

He was close.

They came over the hill and descended into the small neighborhood of nearly completed houses that were still under construction. A large yellow bulldozer sat in front of a pile of dirt and he knew they had tried the door. He could smell them and there was even a fading sheen of heat that emanated from the metal, quickly cooling. Had his eyes ever before been that sensitive? No, he was certain. What was happening to him?

Whispers, coming from the northwest, it was them. He dragged his followers around the little avenue, past a trash bin filled with broken boards and slabs of damaged drywall and up to the front door of a house almost finished. The doorknobs were still missing and the windows covered in brown paper and tape, but the walls were all up and a number painted in white across the front siding. It was a two story with a basement, the window wells deep and lined in gravel. Max dipped his nose into each of the wells, taking in their fleshy smell and salivating uncontrollably. They were still here, in this house.

They whispered again, their voices like shouts in his ear. He could hear their fear. Their terror. Like the terror he felt during the attack.


He was just taking a break, marking the trees, scouting scents, fetching the ball his leader threw. Nothing unusual or dangerous. But then the ball rolled down the steep hill of the park's west slope, past the baseball fields and behind the small dugouts, to the brush beside the stream that meandered the far side of the spacious property. He grabbed it up just before it could roll over the edge of the bank and turned, ready to start back, when he caught the other's scent. It was hot and powerful and challenging, with no accompanying growl to try and ward him off. It sprung, teeth flashing in the night like silver swords, but Max was fast and agile. He slipped beneath the attack, fangs slapping the air above his throat, and dodged to the side, avoiding the smashing impact of the bigger creature's body. He dropped the ball and swung back instantly, his teeth slashing deep into the dog's left flank and bringing a howl of rage from the beast. And then came the staggering impact as the larger dog clamped down on his shoulder and snapped back with such power that it flung Max's seventy pounds of weight through the air as though he were nothing. Muscles shredded and tore as the momentum ripped him from the dog's grip. He spun twice then hit the hard earth with a jarring crash that stole his air and almost his consciousness. He dragged his head back around, the world spinning, and saw it coming for him, its wide yellow eyes filled with the blood lust, and he knew he was about to die. But then he heard the heavy boom of the leader's weapon and saw the stalking dog stagger back. There was another boom and another, each dragging the creature further back from Max's prone, limp body. The beast tried once more, its eyes screaming rage, but another bullet ripped into its chest and it turned and ran, diving across the stream and was immediately lost in the thick foliage that lined the bank and the inky blackness of night.


The two policemen came up behind him, the leader letting the leash go slack. Both men had their guns drawn and were moving cautiously. The cover officer took a step back off the porch to get a look at the upper windows when there was a horrific blast from upstairs. Glass shattered and the officer dropped heavily to the dirt, blood streaming from his face and shoulders.

"Shotgun! Shots fired! Officer down!" screamed the leader into his radio. He dropped the leash and ran to his friend, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him back. There was a series of shots and the dirt around the leader erupted in spouting geysers of dust.

Max saw a puff of blood explode from the leader's neck and he crumpled over the other officer.  Fury shot through him. He was a pack animal and one of the strongest drives for such as he was to protect the leader of the pack. Fire burned through his blood, racing along his veins and slugging through the muscle of his heart. He dove into the door, smashing it back and bounded up the stairs at lightening speed. He knew exactly where they were and jumped into the bare bedroom that overlooked the porch in a giant leap.

Two of the men turned at the same time and fired. Red flames and sparks showered Max, dense hunks of metal tearing into his chest, belly and face. The concussion upset his balance and he crashed into the wall beside them, bouncing off and falling to the floor in front of their feet. Blood pooled from numerous wounds. One bullet pierced both lungs and bubbling froth spit from his panting lips. The third man turned and pointed a handgun at Max's head.

"Poor doggy," said the man. Then he laughed and pulled the trigger.

Max heard a thunderous roar and felt something smash against his ear and then everything went blank. When he opened his eyes he saw the last of the men running from the room. The others were racing down the stairs, their feet thudding on the wooden steps.

A rage like nothing Max had ever known filled him. He stood to his feet but something was wrong. He felt different, and there was pain, so much pain, but it felt good at the same time. It felt like… power.

He stretched one paw, the bones bulging horribly, the stubby paws lengthening, the nails growing thick and curved and long. The muscles at his shoulders humped up and then knotted like balls of twisted metal. His legs cording like ropes of steel. He screamed out in pain and ecstasy and the sound was a massive roar as deep and primal as the first wolf. Its timber shook the walls.

His head was growing, the skull becoming huge and thick, his snout and muzzle swelling out. Inch long canines growing to over half a foot. Bones and tendons snapped and popped and crunched in a terrible chorus of agony. The pieces of lead that trespassed his body and brain squeezed out and fell to the floor, the wounds sealing shut, leaving no scars.

Max stood on his hind legs, having to crouch to keep his head and ears from scraping the ceiling. He charged, his shoulders smashing through the narrow doorway and leapt over the railing, hitting the floor on all fours, just as the last of the villains reached the front door.

The man turned, the shotgun still in his hands. Max lunged, gripping him at the junction of neck and shoulder, his teeth crushing in, pulverizing bones in a spray of arterial blood. He ripped back, tearing an enormous section of the man's body free, leaving a ragged triangle of emptiness from the man's ribs up past his neck and shoulder. His head tottered for an instant then fell heavily to the side, severing his spinal cord. Max gulped down the flesh and then ran outside, seeing the other two turn the corner. He made it to them in three leaps, smashing into their bodies and scattering them like twigs before a storm. One of them rolled and came up with a gun. He thrust it at Max, who towered over the man, his lips quivering, pulled back from deadly fangs, drool streaming in ropy strands. Max swatted at the man, and the gun as well as his hand and wrist went spinning into the dark in a shower of blood. The man screamed, looking at the jutting stump that had been his hand a second before. Max ripped him in two, mangling his body beyond all recognition.

The third man was still lying on his back in the dirt, propped on his elbows, a gun dangling loosely from numb fingers. He was trying to inch back away from Max, his eyes wide and his teeth chattering.

It was the man that had called Max a nice doggy.

There were sirens sounding in the distance, coming closer and closer, but even they couldn't cover the sound of the man's screams.


Max could smell death on the officer that had been hit by the shotgun blast, but the leader was still alive, his blood pumping in a dwindling stream from the hole in his neck. He would be dead very soon. Max looked up at the burning orb of the moon its hollow light like cold fire. Yes, he was very different now. Better. But he was still a pack animal and his first duty, his overwhelming primal drive was to protect the leader.

Cars were rushing to the scene, very close now. Max bent over the leader and sunk his teeth deep into the wound, letting the saliva mix with the leader's blood, feeling the hot wetness flow over his tongue and down his throat. Then he raised his face to the sky and howled, long and powerful and full of life and lust.


When the first cars arrived on scene they found Max standing over his handler, licking at the trickle of blood that still seeped from a bullet wound to the throat. He was unconscious, but with a good heartbeat and breathing well. It was a bad injury, perhaps even career ending, but at least he would live.

The ambulance attendants allowed Max to ride with them to the hospital, marveling at the K-9 handler's vitals. They improved by the minute.

One of the paramedics scratched Max between the ears, calling him a "nice doggy". He grinned at his colleague and gave him a wink.

Max considered ripping out the smiling man's throat, it would be so easy, so delicious. After all, the moon was still full and he could feel the ability surging through his blood, begging to burst forth. But the leader had to come first, so he smiled and panted, his tongue lolling and his ears erect. Because it wouldn't be long before the leader was ready and until then Max could wait.

The End  (LEADER OF THE PACK, first appeared in Alienskin Magazine in 2005)