ONC 2022 shortlisted: The Emergence of a more virulent lycanthrope virus decimated civilisation. As a street scavenger, Gulliver Chase risks his life in his home city's derelict streets hunting for resources for his fellow survivors. But it isn't fo...
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Fire inside his skull. Tearing pain as if he were on a torture rack, ligaments threatening to snap, joints pulling from their sockets. He couldn't see through the agony. Couldn't hear beyond the thunder of his pulse and the screams locked in his windpipe.
A spasm hit. Not the first, but one of the worst. Thought fled.
For a moment, pain defined him, blinding and vast, until his body finally granted him the mercy of unconsciousness.
Blood.
He woke to its rich tang.
He'd bitten his tongue again.
Eyes clamped shut against the aches and fever racking his body, he waited for the terror to roll through him as it had every other time he'd regained consciousness. But what crawled up inside him to grip his throat was something else, something that made his gums burn and saliva pool.
Hunger.
He pried open his eyes.
Grey, muted shades. Wavering firelight reflected on shiny walls.
His vision failed to focus, but his nose told him enough. Damp earth, steel, and concrete. Blood, bodily waste, and rotten meat.
The elevator in the underground car park.
He was back in the lycans' den. Back in his cell.
He wasn't alone.
A faint thudding—a fast heartbeat a few feet away. Grating breaths, loud to his ears.
He made out a shape in the darkness, a partially stripped man slumped against one shiny wall. Rope bound his arms and trouser-covered ankles.
Gull lifted a hand. It felt like lead, and his bones ached, but unlike his cellmate, nothing appeared to restrain him. He was free, even of clothing; the only thing holding him back gnawing pain.
Pain that seemed to now centre around his stomach.
His nostrils flared, his cellmate's scent filling them. Warm, living flesh. Saliva flooded his mouth.
Ignoring the shivering protests of his body, he pulled himself forward on his belly. Every inch was a battle, his breaths shallow, his heartbeat jolting. Rage rolled up in a red wave as he clawed over stained carpet. Weak. He was weak. He needed to be strong. Fur and piss fouled the air: other predators in the darkness beyond the elevator's sunken car. He sensed them prowling, stinking of their own hunger.
Pack. He snarled even as a whine built in his throat. He wouldn't share the meat in his cell. It was his. Without it, he'd be sick and weak. Without it, he'd be prey.
Fury dragged him the last few centimetres.
"Gull!" Noise in his ears—sharp with fear, a siren song. "Gull, no! Stop!"
Hoarse, meaningless words. He paused at his prey's bare feet. Toes. They'd crunch nicely between his teeth, but he needed fatter, richer meat.
He lifted his gaze, focus swimming in and out—locked eyes on the rise and fall of a hairless belly. He swallowed, drool bathing his mouth. Juicy things lay within that skin wrapping. Liver, kidneys.
"Gull!" That noise again.
Growling, he shifted his stare to his prey's—froze.
Dark eyes, long and smooth lidded. Familiar.
Hashi: the word tumbled through his mind, but collected no meaning.
His stomach clutched—then rumbled painfully. He sliced his attention back to round, meaty flesh. Gripping grimy cloth, he dragged himself over bound, trouser-clad legs.
"Gull, stop!" The noise again—shouty now. Too loud.
He lunged at its source; stopped an inch from his prey's jugular. More words buzzed at him, quieter now, but still laced with fear. His head swam at the seductive scent of terror, sound fading to a drone as veins pulsed before his transfixed gaze.
Hot blood under taut skin. Life, rich and dark. A memory bloomed alongside hunger: red liquid filling a glass tube.
Disquiet woke as knowledge flickered. Someone he knew had ripped out throats and spilled blood. It hadn't satiated them.
It'd sickened them.
He withdrew a few centimetres, smelling a threat in his prey's familiar scent. Sinking fangs into this noisy meat would fill the hole gnawing his centre, but worse pain would follow.
Poison. This prey was poison.
"Feed." A voice like gravel rolled from the darkness above, jolting him about, commanding his attention. In the doorway of his cell, reflective eyes burned. "Pup, you'll need your strength for what comes next. It hurts less on a full stomach."
His whole body quivered, emotions tumbling: fear and giddy joy. Pack. Hearing this wolf's voice, he understood that word; wanted to roll in it even as he recoiled. This darkness watching him now with glowing eyes was pack, and it was strong. Alpha. He bared his teeth; fought the whine in his throat. Alpha could kill him. Alpha was death.
"Eat." A warning growl spawned a shiver—elation and dread. "Feed, whelp, or you will not survive your first Change."
His stomach contracted, its emptiness pain. Change? Yes, he felt it stretching inside him, pulling and yanking. A thousand needles pricked nerve endings, each stab counting down to transformation. If he was weak, he wouldn't survive to be reborn. He'd be Change's helpless prey.
No. Fury rolled over fear. Swinging back to his meal, he peeled back his lips, his gums burning as teeth and bone fought to lengthen. He would not stay weak. He would not be prey.
"Gull, stop! Don't listen to the bastar—"
He lunged. Fangs kissed flesh.
His prey froze under him, its heartbeat booming so loud, so wild, it made his own drum harder with excitement. He licked sweat-slick skin; tasted panic; anticipated hotter and sweeter things on his tongue. He opened his jaws, already strained muscles stretching toward agony—toward Change. He didn't have long. He inhaled his prey's scent—fear-filled and familiar. The hunger wrenching at his insides turned sharp and bitter. Poison meat. He should bite something else, but there was no time to hunt for—
A crack of sound punched his eardrums.
He recoiled; jerked his head up as another short blast rang out. Memory shoved through snarling confusion: M16. That had been a—
Noise erupted: frantic barking, scrabbling claws, and the ear-bloodying assault of an M16 rifle spitting out hot rounds.
