Where the Bough Breaks

The two men moved through the rugged high desert of Nevada, their steps uncertain and breathing heavy. For two days, Jonah Williams and Eli Colton had been afoot, their horses torn apart in a night of terror.

They carried what they could salvage—their canteens, a Winchester, a Colt .45, and a growing desperation. The bristlecone pines, twisted and ancient, loomed around them, their gnarled branches like hands clawing at the sky.

Jonah glanced at Eli, who lagged, his steps faltering. “We need to find help soon, Eli,” he said, his voice rough with concern.

Eli wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a grim nod. “I know, Jonah. But there ain’t no help out here. Only rocks, trees, and death.”

They pressed on, climbing a ridge that overlooked a barren expanse. Below, scattered among a field of jagged stones, lay a figure.

At first, they thought it might be a corpse—a grim sight, but not unusual in the desert. Yet as they approached, they saw the man’s chest rise and fall faintly, though his clothes were bloody.

“Is he…alive?” Eli whispered, his voice trembling.

Jonah knelt beside the man, his fingers searching for a pulse. “Barely,” he said. “There’s not a mark on him, though. Not even a scratch.”

“Then where’s all the blood come from?” Eli asked.

“Don’t know,” answered Eli.

The two exchanged uneasy glances. Something about the man was wrong.

His face was pale, almost translucent in the fading light, and his eyes closed in unconsciousness, seemed to twitch as though trapped in a fevered dream. Jonah’s hand tightened on the grip of his Winchester.

“We can’t just leave him,” Eli said, though his voice quavered. “Man like that, out here alone? He won’t last the night.”

Reluctantly, Jonah agreed. They lifted the stranger onto their shoulders and took turns carrying him, their bodies straining under the weight.

Darkness fell, and they stumbled into a small hollow, where they laid the man down and built a fire from brittle pine branches. The flames cast long, flickering shadows across the rocks.

Back along the trail, another man—rough, grizzled, and armed to the teeth—was tracking them. Frank McGuffy had seen the carcasses of Jonah and Eli’s horses, their bodies mangled beyond recognition.

“The devil’s close,” Frank muttered to himself. His rifle rested easily in his calloused hands, and his eyes scanned the ground. He’d tracked the monster across half the territory and refused to let it slip away now.

As Frank followed the trail, the night grew colder. A full moon rose over the hills, bathing the landscape in an eerie silver light.

Jonah and Eli dozed fitfully beside the fire, their exhaustion overcoming the unease. The man they’d rescued, however, was not at peace.

His body twitched, his breathing grew ragged, and then, with a sudden, inhuman howl, he sat bolt upright. His eyes glowed with a feral light, and his teeth—sharp, elongated, and glinting in the firelight—bared in a snarl.

Jonah woke first, his hand reaching instinctively for his rifle. “Eli! Wake up!”

But it was too late. The man leaped with impossible speed, his hands—now claws—tearing into Jonah before he could fire.

Eli screamed and emptied his .45 into the creature, but the bullets only seemed to enrage it. Blood sprayed across the rocks as the beast turned on Eli, its jaws closing around his throat in a single, savage motion.

Frank heard the commotion as he crested the ridge. Below, he saw the camp in chaos—the two men’s bodies lifeless on the ground, the fire guttering, and the werewolf crouched over its kills.

Raising his Winchester, Frank aimed and fired. The bullet struck the beast between the shoulders, and it reared back with a deafening roar.

“Come on, you devil,” Frank muttered, chambering another round.

The werewolf charged, its glowing eyes locked on him. Frank fired again and again, but the creature barely slowed.

When it was nearly upon him, he dropped the empty rifle and drew his revolver, firing five shots in rapid succession. Each shot hit its mark, but the beast kept coming.

Frank backed against a boulder, his breath ragged. He had one bullet left.

The werewolf lunged, its claws outstretched, and Frank made his choice. Placing the barrel of the revolver under his chin, he whispered, “Not tonight, you bastard.”

The shot rang out, echoing across the empty hills.

The werewolf paused, its head cocked as though puzzled. Then, with a low growl, it turned and loped off into the darkness as the fire burned low, casting a faint glow over the carnage, and the desert night grew still once more.