The creature stared down at him, drooling, it's eyes gleaming with hunger. The werewolf looked ridiculous in Madame Thornhill's gown, but Mark wasn't laughing. He groped in his jacket pocket for the silver bullets, although he had no idea what to do with them.
Then the werewolf pounced.
Mark saw a quick flash of teeth like shredder blades. Because it didn't matter what he did now- no way would he live to see another sunrise- Mark only did one thing he could think of. He punched the werewolf.
His fist hit Voracia Thornhill in the chest and went deeper than he expected. Much deeper- because although the wolf was alive again, it's wounds had not yet healed entirely. Mark's fist went through the hole in the monster's chest, and the werewolf shrieked like a dog in pain.
Instead of devouring him, the werewolf froze like a statue amd carshed to the ground.
Mark realized why. In his clenched fist, now buried in the monster's chest cavity, he was holding the silver bullets. He's clutched the bullets instinctively, so hard that his knuckles hurt, as if a part of him knew they were his last hope.
Gingerly, Mark opened his hand and pulled it free, leaving the bullets inside. The werewolf did not stir. It was dead. Again. Re-dead, instead of undead.
He climbed the fence once more, this tume much more carefully, and left the Perpetual Rest Memorial Park.
