Dead Run.

The air whistled past my ears as I ran, my four paws beating and heart racing over the buried dead. Away from the unburied dead. I've not been a Shadow Seeker long and I am beginning to wonder if the shades we seek are our own.

As I reached my chopper I transformed back into my natural form, spitting the revolver from my mouth into may waiting hands. I could still had the taste of steel and powder on my tongue as I spit on some unknown grave. I stood in the darkness for I don't know how long, may have been a few seconds maybe minutes. I could feel the air on my naked skin, the wounds still fresh from the swords that slashed a cross on my chest, and the teeth that burrowed into my flesh. I could hear the howls that would haunt my dreams. I could feel the rage that coursed through my uratha veins. I could see the death rage of Taylor... the name was more than apt. These gashes and scrapes would not heal soon. I had to get home, lick my wounds so to speak, the beaten dog that I was. I needed some medical attention.

I dressed carefully, trying not to break the wounds open. Jenny had some nursing training under her belt, maybe she could help? No. I could not bother Mac's widow with this. Best not to get her involved. And what would I say? Oh these sword and bite wounds, its nothing just got back from the museum, apparently it comes to life like that movie. Heh, about as believable as the truth.

As I rode the streets of Sacramento towards my shit hole of a flat, my mind matched my form, it was a tortured and mangled mess. What now? My alpha is dead. If tonight's battle was any indication of what we we're in for we're not contenders. Hell we're not even in the same class. And much less so now, our damn Alpha's dead, and we're going to take weeks if not longer to heal from that encounter. I don't regret shooting at the bastards... I somewhat regret my bullets not blowing the lupine maws into tiny bits so they could howl no more. They did not deserve it. They may just have killed the rest of us and themselves...

Fuck! I'm coughing blood.

John spit gobs of blood onto the pavement outside his flat. Hopefully people will simply think it from the meat at the butchers he resided upon. Stumbling into his apartment, he kicked aside them empty bottles and refuse and collapsed on the couch without even locking the door. Pulling the cell out of his bloody pocket he dropped the dripping phone on his chest.

"Who in the hell would I even attempt to call" John muttered with a somewhat sadistic chuckle before falling into the embrace of a darkening torpor.

The next morning, John disappears from the city. No communication, no body, no items of his were left behind.