Full Moon Blues (Puppyville Pack) by Fel Fern

Chapter One
    M y faithful old red Toyota gives out one last shudder and dies. Stops right there. In front of a bright sign that says ‘Welcome to Puppyville’. For a second, my heart wouldn’t stop hammering against my chest. For a second, I think I’m having a mini heart attack, but it soon passes. I take deep breaths, and roll down my window. Above me, the bloated moon rises over the bright night sky.
    Full moon. A shiver creeps down my spine.
    “This fucking day can’t get any worse,” I whispered to myself.
    I’m gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. At twenty-two, I’m dead broke and burned out quickly from my stressful job back at the agency. With a mountain of school debt and an apartment I couldn’t afford, I decided on impulse to take the coward’s way out. My trunk contained most of my life’s belongings. I wasn’t running away. I like to think of it as a sabbatical to clear my head.
    Destination? Anywhere and nowhere.
    I planned to head into a charming little town. Get a room at an inn, then head out to a roadhouse or bar, get drunk and be ridden by a cowboy or some drool-worthy redneck. Labor day means plenty of fish in the ocean, and not-so-picky fish at that, and I’m not exactly drool-worthy material, just an average guy hoping to score.
    So here I am. Car dead on an empty one-way road that led to a town most sensible humans would want to avoid. You see, despite the big reveal of the supernatural world, most folks don’t go rushing into a town ruled by a vicious pack of werewolves. Oh. The town isn’t cut off. Nothing like that, but the local human authority here is just for show. This land is essentially, Puppyville pack territory and rumor has it they don’t take well to outsiders.
    It doesn’t help being out on a full moon is close to suicide. Werewolves don’t become slaves to the call of the moon, but I hear their inner beasts are more difficult to control at this time of the month.
    “Only two types of idiots go out on a night like these,” my momma (bless her heart), used to say. “Those who ask for it, get a thrill out of being bait in the hopes of banging a werewolf. And the second sort? They are the folks who don’t value their lives.”
    A loud rumbling howl comes from somewhere in the woods surrounding the town. All the hairs on my arms rise as more growls answer the leader’s call. The sounds come closer and I nearly unleash my bladder. I try to calm my shakes and slow my heart because that’s the only logical thing to do when facing a savage predator. Don’t be afraid, except it’s hard to keep still. Whatever courage I summon splinters and I had little to begin with.
    Only the headlights of my car illuminate the path ahead of me. One black shape darts towards me at a full rampage.
    “Oh my Lord,” I whisper. I’ve never been a praying man, but all the prayers I learned during Sunday school begin spilling from my lips. The Big Guy upstairs must have heard my prayer, because the shape darts past me. “Momma, I swear I’m going back to church after this.”
    The promise is short lived because a second blur follows the first. Then another. My human vision catches sight of glowing yellows eyes, sharp fangs and canines dripping with God knew what. I’m beginning to hyperventilate. My chest threatens to explode, although a detached part of me marvels at the deadly beauty of these nightmares come to life.
    “Screw this. I’m going to live,” I say to myself. Sagging to my seat as the last of the herd passes me, I breathe a sigh of relief. Needing air, I stumble out and end up on my hands and knees. Tiny stones and gravel bite into my jeans and creates small gashes on my palms.
    “I’m alive.” I repeat the two words over and over until they sink home. Feeling the heavy weight of someone watching me, I twisted my head. Seeing the enormous sandy-colored beast a couple of meters from my sprawled figure jump starts my pulse. Its narrowed amber eyes watch me