DISCLAIMER: This is a horror novel. It has Werewolves (and other things).

  This chapter has graphic depictions of violence, blood, loss, death, foul language, and gore. It is not suitable for all audiences - though I do try to keep things PG 17. Sensitive readers may find this content disturbing or triggering.

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  City of brotherly love - only tourists believed in that.

  The locals knew better - it was more like an abusive relationship with an older brother. The city loved you, sure. It loved your money, your time, your sweat and tears, and it loved your tax dollars. But, if you were dying on the back streets you might get lucky with a kind passer-by. Maybe.

  Family units kept to themselves, and most folks moved too often to make friends of their neighbors. But.., once you did those, friendships were rock-solid. True ride-or-die types. The real test - would they call the cops to save you?

  Nobody liked the cops. Too much corruption. Too much racism and profiling made calling the cops un-safe. So most folks didn't. They "sorted shit out" on their own or kept to themselves.

  This neighborhood was one of those transient places - where nobody stayed long enough to care. So the thuds and growls were ignored. The weeping and screams were shrugged off. Even when things were thrown and slammed into the wall, a moment of hesitation made them consider it might be best to let things be.

  Just another situation-ship gone bad, right?

  Inside the trashed apartment a TV sat on the floor, ripped from the wall mount. Leaning against the wall at an angle, static flickered across the cracked screen throwing chaotic light into the shadows. The raging hiss of the static drowning out sobbing hysterics from the bathroom behind it. A massive shadow slammed into the bathroom door, and the tv shuddered. It blipped to life for a moment, the news anchor loudly declaring new advances in cancer research by a local business- FenMed-Tech.

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  A bloody couch cushion slammed into the screen sending it back to static. The shadow, slick as oil, spun and launched itself into the kitchen. For a brief moment, nude flesh and soft silvery fur caught the light of the tv. So too did the cybernetic wiring and harness gleam.

  The tv, for a brief moment, flickered to life. "New documents, leaked this, morning implicate several city officials in a secret private project contract -" Tzzzt. Static hiccupped, garbling the rest of the news anchor's words for a second, "- dating back seven years."

  The wet and not quite hollow cronch of bone silenced the enraged scream, "Die Motherf-". A pan shot from the defender's hand, as the thing rode the man to the floor behind the kitchen island. As it banked off the tv's frame and left a dent in the wall behind it, a scream shrilled through the wall that separated the bathroom from the living room. Static hiss back at the offending cookware, throwing the apartment back into flickering shadows and light.

  Sloppy thuds, like a dog shaking a large chew toy, rattled the apartment. From the bathroom, a name was choked out, "George! No!" Then, a brief silence filled only by the tv's static hiss followed. For several heartbeats, there was nothing else.

  Flashing lights, red and white, highlighted the window frame, follow by the fading cry of a fire siren moving away into the distance. Pulled by it's own weight, the tv shifted - now dangling by it's cord, it sputtered and blipped back on.

  “It’s another unseasonably warm winter night in Philadelphia. Meteorologists blame shifting jet streams—while conspiracy forums claim - "

  A grunt heralded the wet snap of bone. An disembodied arm slammed into the tv. Static sputtered again, but the tv's ominous voice refused to be quelled.

  “Police are still investigating a string of violent animal attacks in North Philadelphia. Witnesses describe - " more static as the tv slipped and the cord pulled tight.

  "- finding mutilated bodies. Authorities suspect feral dogs—though no animals have been captured.”

  A body is thrown into the tv set. The screen buckles, snaps, and with a spark the cord is yanked free of its outlet. Silenced, finally, the living room's shadows deepen without the flickering static. Then sudden stillness fills the room like an unwanted blanket. Even the sobs from the bathroom are gone.

  A soft, low, feral snarl echoed in the silence, followed by the whir of mechanical gears. A single thump of something heavy against the tile floor is followed by a softer, flesh-on-stone pat. Thud-pat, thud-pat, thud-pat, thud-pat, thud-pat - the thing walked past the windows, glancing outside.

  No sirens approached. No emergency lights flashed. No neighbors pounded on the ceiling.

  The tv, unplugged and shattered, flickered one last time - the image of a "missing child" pictured before it goes fully dead.

  One last cry for help.