Jenlisa Smuts (Jentop)

The Werewolf

Lisa's Pov

Jennie is cute. Five foot six, a petite build, more of the short, curvy girl-next-door type. Curly black hair, dark eyes. She looks hot in her ranger uniform, especially when she violates regs and unbuttons the top two on her blouse.

We're park rangers, or were. I'm Lisa. Jennie and I worked out of the main ranger station at Henety Lake State Park, assigned as partners on the same patrol. She was really shy – maybe mousy would be a good word – but if you got her to loosen up she was fun. We weren't an item. I wouldn't say the thought never crossed my mind, but, you know, that's usually a bad idea when you work with a partner.

So we were out one day, just doing the regular patrol route in the park, talking about our plans for the weekend. I pulled over at the side of the road for a moment because I thought I spotted an abandoned backpack, and we got out. Turned out it was a cardboard box for a camping stove that somebody had wadded up and shoved into the end of a fallen log. I was just going back to the car for some more trash bags when I heard Jennie scream. "Lisa!"

It was a wolf. Not really a big one, though they don't make small wolves. It came from nowhere – maybe it was sleeping inside the log – and it had her by the forearm. Jennie panicked, and was screaming and trying to get loose. I cursed and sprinted to the car to get my pistol. It's required uniform for the senior ranger to always wear it, but in the car it always bumps against the belt buckle fastener and I'd never needed it before...

In the few seconds it took me to get back the wolf had let go of Jennie and was running away through the woods. She wasn't too badly hurt, but I bandaged her bite up and took her to the hospital before she went into shock.

Yeah, I got in a shitload of trouble. They started Jennie immediately on an anti-rabies regimen of vaccine injections. My boss chewed me out for not wearing my firearm, and for not shooting the wolf so that it could be examined for rabies. I deserved the suspension, too – Jennie could easily have been killed. Anyway.

So I'm at home the next day sitting on the couch, watching TV and trying not to think about the incident, when an assload of cops and EMTs in hazmat suits show up. They drag me to the hospital for quarantine. Turns out that, no, the wolf wasn't rabid. It was carrying lycanthropy.

You know, the werewolf disease. Nobody much gets it these days; it's almost eradicated. Last reported case was in the late sixties in Idaho, apparently. But the wolf had been carrying it, and now Jennie had it, and, naturally, they figured that I might have been exposed.

* * *

"She's fine," said my doctor quietly to someone out in the hall a couple days later. The intensive care quarantine unit is not really a noisy place, and I think they thought I was asleep. "She's clean. No exposure. Good thing, too. I don't envy her partner."

I couldn't hear what the other person said, but I could feel the guilt like a kick in my guts.

The doctor rustled around some papers. "The immunoglobin treatment for the rabies Jennie didn't have reacted unexpectedly with the lycanthropy virus. Turns out that she had the recessive futanari gene, and the interaction may have triggered it."

Some muttering.

"Difficult to say," came the doctor's voice. "Oh, she's still female, all right. But if her condition progresses her clitoris could develop relatively quickly into a functional penis. She's already begun developing a Skene's sac in her lower abdomen, so in theory she could produce semen. Hopefully nothing will push her over the edge, though, and her condition will remain stable."