Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins Page B

belly and watched as a pair of humans—one elderly and missing his upper teeth, the other tall and heavy-built—pause beneath his hiding place in order to light their cigarettes.
    He watched the pair with hungry eyes. Although he’d recently fed, ago, his guts were already growling as if he hadn’t eaten in years. The larger of the two waved farewell to his companion and walked away, leaving the old one behind. Now was his chance. The aged and infirm always make for easier prey …
    Top Gum yawned, scratched himself and blew twin jets of smoke out his nose. It was getting late. Time to return to his cell and read a couple more chapters from that book his old lady sent him. Maybe write a letter before lights out.
    He paused, suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of a dog he’d owned as a kid. A shaggy little mutt called Booker. He frowned and shook his head. Damned if he didn’t smell a wet dog …
    Just as the thought crossed his mind something landed in the middle of his back, snapping it like a dry twig. There was only time and breath for Top Gum to voice an abbreviated cry of alarm before the thing atop him clamped its muzzle about his throat.
    He wanted to keep feeding, but the sound of running footsteps distracted him. Humans were headed his way, alerted by his prey’s death shriek. He stood up and turned to face them, growling a warning to stay away.
    The ones at the head of the mob came to a sudden halt the moment they saw him and began frantically backpedaling, only to be pushed forward by those behind them. There were angry shouts and swearing and the air became electric with the smell of panic. Smelling their fear, he lunged forward, tearing at those closest to him with his claws and fangs in hopes of a stampede.
    A half-dozen prisoners were trampled by their fellow inmates as they tried to flee the snapping, snarling, yellow-eyed monster set amongst them. Creighton, who’d come running the second he recognized Top Gum’s voice, was knocked to the ground and narrowly avoided being crushed against a railing. As the surge of bodies moved past, he found himself staring at a nightmare. The creature stared down at him, panting like a dog, its silvery pelt marred by a wet crimson bib. The brows above its yellow eyes momentarily bunched, as if confused.
    â€œKid?” he whispered in disbelief.
    The creature lifted its snout and tested the air, gave out with a high-pitched whine, and then turned and loped away. Creighton stared after the werewolf for a moment, then got to his feet and hobbled after his cellie.
    Stanton looked up from his girlie book and scowled at Tate, who was cleaning his nails with a pocket knife. “You hear that?”
    The younger guard cocked his head to one side and frowned. The sound of men shouting and screaming echoed up the corridor from the cell block. “Oh, shit!” he groaned.
    Stanton pushed himself away from the desk, fumbling for the keys to the riot gear locked in the closet beside his desk.
    â€œSounds like we got ourselves a situation in A Block!”
    Tate moved to stare at the bank of monitors connected to the closed-circuit TV cameras spread throughout the cellblock. Every screen showed inmates running frantically back and forth in what seemed to be a blind panic.
    â€œâ€˜Situation?’ It looks like a fuckin’ riot! Where’s Malone and Keller?” he asked as he searched the screens. “I don’t see them anywhere …”
    Suddenly both guards’ radios began to squawk and a panicked voice came on the line. “Officer down! Officer down! It got Malone!”
    â€œKeller! What’s going on?” Stanton shouted into the mike mounted to his shoulder as he frantically scanned the monitors. “Where are you?”
    â€œI’m near the—Oh, Jesus! It sees me!”
    â€œGet on the horn! We need back-up, pronto!” Stanton snapped as he hit the shutdown alarm and flicked on the