In the seventh century, an Alexandrian physician named Paulos Agina decided to develop a descriptive list of the symptoms of werewolfism for his fellow physicians. Naturally, in today's medicinal world, that sentence probably sounds really, really stupid. In Agina's time, however, lycanthropy was a serious and spreading epidemic that had baffled the medical community for countless years.

Pale skin. Weak vision. An absence of tears or saliva, making the eyes and tongue very dry. Excessive thirst. Ulcers and abrasions on the arms and legs that do not heal, caused by walking on fours. An obsession with wandering in cemeteries at night. Howling until dawn.

Naturally, with the exception of the last one, none of those symptoms applied to our now escaped Lawrence. Agina also - and this was pretty much to be expected by this point - neglected to mention that a werewolf has the strength to throw a deputy through an oak door and then punch a hole the size of a Dodge through the outside wall of his room.

Now, detecting a werewolf may seem complicated, because...well, it is. Killing the creatures, that's a whole different story.

"Okay, the man we're hunting is extremely dangerous," Agent Gerald Sobieski stated in his gruff, cigarette-singed voice. The SHIELD agent had arrived only two hours prior, and he was already giving orders like he ruled the whole damn state. The assembled deputies of the Canaan police force, ten in total, were almost too preoccupied with loading their various rifles and shotguns to pay much mind to anything else, but there was something about Sobieski that just commanded attention. It wasn't that he was that great a speaker, it was more the attitude that he gave off. He was obviously confident in his duties, and it came through loud and clear. "The suspect is one Jack Russell, who's believed to be responsible not only for the twenty-seven dismembered bodies you boys pulled out of the forest last night, but also for a series of gruesome murders in New York City a little under six years ago. He is exceptionally strong, and incredibly fast. Even when wounded, he is to be approached with extreme caution and only with back up."

"I think exceptionally strong is an understatement, Agent," Sheriff Kaplan scoffed up, slapping a clip into his service revolver, "considering he tossed one of my deputies through two walls." Jimbo, the aforementioned deputy that had been given an impromptu flying lesson by our escapee, was bruised up, but that was about all. He was resting in the county hospital along with Gary Lester, the forensics officer that had attempted to take the fingerprints of the man I'd taken to calling "Lawrence".

"I'm not going to beat around the bush with you boys," Sobieski said, rubbing a large hand through his cropped, gray hair, "and I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking that Russell is a monster...a werewolf. Well, excuse me if I don't think an assault rifle filled with silver bullets is warranted for this investigation. SHIELD has reason to believe that our man Jack is a mutant, a term I'm sure most of you are familiar with. But keep in mind that, despite how ferocious and powerful he may seem to be, Jack Russell is still a man...and if he puts up any more of a fight, a bullet to the temple will put him down for the count."

With that statement fully implanted in the men's minds, they moved almost as one, gathering the guns and supplies that would probably be needed in the harsh cold that was the nighttime Colorado forestry. I reached down to the table in front of me, having stayed silent throughout the entire debriefing, and suddenly every eye in the room was planted directly on me.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, doctor?" Sobieski asked, his eyebrow cocked in a funny little way.

"I'm going with you," I said calmly as I gripped onto the handgun, "I'm the only one who's had an insight into Lawr - I mean Jack's - mind. I know how to use a gun, I won't be a liability...and you're not leaving here without me."

I had to suppress a chuckle as the cops just stared at me, that deer-in-headlights expression never ringing more true than at that moment. "Giddy up, Doc," Sobieski replied with a wink.

The cops returned to their gathering ritual, leaving me silent once again. I have to confess, I didn't agree to go along simply out of concern for Russell's well being. I knew that the SHIELD agent was wrong. The man that I'd spent the two days prior examining was no mutant. I was the only one that knew the truth...the only to realize that Jack Russell was a...

For Mature Readers Only

#9
October '03

Strange Tales Presents

Werewolf by Night

Drop the Leash
Part Three of Four

Written by Chris Munn

This Issue Dedicated to the Memory of Warren Zevon

"So, what's your story, Doc?" Sobieski asked as we trudged through the snow. We'd been hunting Russell for about two hours, having split into two groups. Sobieski had insisted I go with his group, leaving Kaplan to take five of his deputies into the Colorado wilds alone. I hoped Steve would be okay, but something deep inside me knew he wouldn't be.

"What's your meaning?" I asked, the beam of my flashlight bouncing off the trees ahead of me as I fought my way through the two feet of snow. "That's kind of a broad question, after all."

"Okay, then I'll rephrase. What's so important about this guy that you're willing to come out and risk either a) death by exposure or b) death by mauling? This isn't your job, you know."

"Russell's an alleged murderer. That's why I'm here."

"No, that's why I'm here. That's why there's nearly a dozen police officers in these woods tonight. Now, unless I'm mistaken, you're not a law enforcement official. Therefore, you're a liability to us out here."

"Jack Russell was my patient," I sighed, "and to be honest...I don't think he killed anybody."

Sobieski stopped in his tracks, and at first I kept walking. Finally, once I'd made it a few feet away, I stopped as well. "Was it something I said?"

"Dr. Zevon, I'm only going to say this once. Jack Russell is the prime suspect in a mass murder that happened only a short distance from here. When we find him, there will be no arrest made, no Miranda Rights read, because I'm going to kill him on sight. Now if your belief in his innocence forces you to get in my way...well, let's just say I won't have any problem considering you hostile."

Our eyes locked in the moonlight, the cold stare shared in our animosity toward each other. I had no doubt in my mind that Sobieski would not hesitate in implementing his threat. Hell, I was surprised he hadn't done it already.

"Don't press the subject, doctor," Sobieski warned as the shouts from the policemen in our group broke the cold stillness between us. Sheriff Kaplan's voice scrambled through the walkie-talkie in the SHIELD agent's hand, but the spy felt the need to hold his stare with me a moment longer before answering. "What is it, Sheriff?"

"Follow my men, Agent," Steve said, "we've found something you're gonna want to see."

The sign was half buried in snow, covered during the storm that had raged on and off for the past two months. Somebody had taken great pains to hide the identity of the burned out location that Kaplan had accidentally stumbled upon, a set of inter-connecting houses that appeared to be at least a hundred years old. Kaplan silently signaled his men to search through the ruins of the compound, and I decided that the best place for me to be was near the entrance.

A ten-foot wall encircled the place, almost like a castle's fortifications. Like somebody had been trying to keep someone out. Sobieski whistled lightly, a sound that carried far in the eerily silent forest despite his attempt at staying quiet. As I approached, the agent was knelt down, brushing the snow off the broken sign I'd passed only moments before.

"I think this was some kind of leper colony." I whispered, kneeling down as well, reading the words on the sign. The Clinic of Night. Sobieski's eyes narrowed as he contemplated my comment.

I couldn't tell if the chill running down my spine was caused by the wind or by the strange mood that seemed to hang in the air. Sobieski stood, leaving the impression of his knees in the drift of snow. I gripped the gun in my coat pocket, the drugs in my system making me nervous and paranoid. A tickle at the base of my neck was warning me of danger. My own little "spider-sense", as I like to call it.

"We need to find Kaplan and the others," Sobieski stated coldly.

"Why? Are we in danger?" I asked.

"The bodies that were pulled out of that pit," Sobieski bit down on his lower lip, a sign of nervousness. "I think they came from here."

After that rather cryptic statement, Sobieski pulled out his walkie-talkie. Hesitating for a brief moment, the SHIELD agent collected his thoughts and addressed the police squadron that had spread throughout the abandoned compound. "This is Sobieski. I want everybody to meet me in the main courtyard in five minutes. Agent out."

"I think I'm gonna take a look around," I said confidently, ignoring the agent's penetrating stare. "I'll meet back up in five."

"Be careful, Doctor," Sobieski warned as I traipsed off through the snow, "you never know what's out there."

I shrugged off the spy's comment as I headed deeper into the compound ruins, examining the devestation around me. It didn't appear as if the fire had been accidental, as every building I passed was gutted and torched. The destruction had been deliberate and methodical, showing quite a bit of rage splattered across the charred remnants of whatever society had taken residence there.

"I remember...I remember being chased. The ghost...the ghost tried to help me. The fire and the blood. Those are my memories."

The memory hit me like a shovel to the face, forcing me to do a mental double take. Lawrence...Jack Russell...those were some of the first words he'd said to me upon his admittance at the hospital. The thought stopped me dead in my tracks, immersed in the shadow of a blackened bunker - if Russell was responsible for the fire here, as his earlier statements implicated, then he was more than likely responsible for the pit of bodies as well.

My entire belief system seemed to crash down around me, forcing me to question my own judgement as a doctor. I'd taken the trip into the woods, despite the inherent danger involved, for the sole reason that I believed Russell to be innocent of the charges. I'd went along to keep Sobieski from murdering an innocent man. I hadn't considered the possibly that Russell could in fact be guilty...that he could be a murderer.

As I trudged through the snow, surveying my surroundings, I came upon one of the compound's buildings, now simply a charred husk in the middle of the barren landscape. Standing at the door, I felt an unnatural shiver down my spine, one that came from a different origin than the numbing temperature outside. With a cautious hand, I pushed open the door, flooding the burned interior with light from the full moon that hung overhead. The large room that rested beyond the door had a clear intent, despite the damage throughout…that of a laboratory.

The beam of my flashlight cascaded across the broken bottles, the melted computer monitors, and the blackened tabletops. I marveled at the extent of the damage and the thoroughness of whatever blaze had stricken the facility, until finally my handheld illumination came to rest on a book, sitting forthright on a table in the corner. As I walked toward it, I noticed that the book had amazingly remained whole (if a little charred). With the flashlight cradled between my neck and raised shoulder, I picked up the book, careful of its fragility, and began to read. What I discovered chilled me to my bones.

From the Journal of Dr. Elias Cobain, Dated December 28

A breakthrough has occurred, heralded by the arrival of the wellspring. Jack Russell, better known to us here at the Clinic as Jacob Rossoff, came to us by way of strange tidings, given our location by the benefactor's aide, Mr. Stolanetti. His arrival comes on the heels of our two recently departed guests, and it did not surprise me to learn that Mr. Russell was in fact looking for them. It appears that he had a confrontation with the couple not long ago in Europe, and has been hard on their trail since his return to the States.

Fortunately, another such confrontation between them will occur much later than now, preserving the tranquility of my Clinic for a least a little while longer. My patients are becoming increasingly manic as their conditions continually worsen despite my best attempts at finding a cure. It has come to the point, I'm afraid, that I feel compelled to lock myself in this very building when darkness falls. Being the only "normal" individual in the Clinic is indeed starting to wear me down.

The gift promised me by the couple in a mere two months time seemed, at first, to be a godsend for my work. A sample of pure, genetic material of the Russoff line was too important, too essential to my search for the cure…but the arrival of Mr. Russell, oh yes, that has changed everything. Long believed dead, the direct descendent of Grigori Russoff could provide the breakthrough I need to conquer this horrible condition of lycanthropy to which I have dedicated my life. Had Gregor simply adhered to my wishes years ago and allowed me to take a sample from him, perhaps this would be a moot point and I could be relaxing in some tropical location at this very moment. Instead, I am here, shivering from the intense cold and continuously startled by the howling I hear outside my very door.

From the Journal of Dr. Elias Cobain, Dated December 29

I do believe I have upset our Mr. Russell. Despite my best intentions on concealing from him the true nature in my studies, he confronted me earlier with the explicit knowledge of my innermost secrets. Funnily enough, he claims that it was his father that apprised him of this during the previous night, despite the fact that I know Gregor died nearly two months ago in New York. Jack is clearly hiding something from me, namely the identity of whichever patient decided to confide in him over the night…the idea of which strikes me as equally preposterous, however, when I take into account the anti-social behaviors of my guests. None enjoy speaking about much at all, as their feral natures are striving to overtake them. Coupled with the fact that Mr. Russell has not been seen as favorable to my patients makes this notion nearly inconceivable, but obviously not as much as the thought of the man having a conversation with his deceased father.

The argument that occurred between Russell and myself also smacks of irrationality, as he claims that my goal of a scientific cure to lycanthropy is unattainable. According to him, the origins of the disease lie not in genetics, but in the area of the occult. The thought that a book, not matter it being named the so-called "Book of Sins", being able to bring forth biological changes in a branch of humanity is simply unacceptable to one such as myself. "Werewolves", as he so lovingly calls those afflicted with the malady, are no different than those unfortunate souls our society has a branded as "mutants".

My thoughts are turning now, despite my wishes, to the creeping dread that seeks to overcome me. The howling that haunts my every night has grown more pronounced since Mr. Russell's arrival, and I must admit to being worried.

And now the sounds of scratching at my door…

The journal ended there, abruptly and ominously. As I lay closed the book, returning it to where I found it, I could almost imagine Cobain sitting here writing, hearing the howl of wolves carried on the night air.

Imagine my surprise when I heard exactly that.

I bolted from the room with as much urgency as I can bring forth, my footfalls bearing down heavily on the thick snow outside. The sounds of gunshots and screams rang out from the center of the camp, a sound echoed by the walkie-talkie that hung from my belt, letting me know that I would be too late to give my fellow hunters the information I'd just discovered. I rounded the corner of yet another burned building, turning toward the center of the compound. What I saw was something I'll see in my nightmares until the day I die.

Of the ten Canaan County police officers that had followed us into the forest, only three were left standing, their guns firing at the beast that stood before them. My fears had been confirmed, as the monstrous wolf-creature snarled and grunted with each bullet that pierced its body. It seemed hardly affected by the gunshots, but that wasn't enough to discourage Sheriff Kaplan. His wide-brimmed cowboy hat long dislodged from his head, he could only watch as the werewolf leapt forward, pouncing upon one of his deputies with an undreamed of ferocity. While the wolf satisfied himself with the flesh of his captive policeman, Kaplan and the other officer discharged the last of their rounds into its back.

"Goddamn you, you fucking big dog!" Kaplan shouted, tossing his empty revolver into the snow. He reached down and removed a large hunting knife from a holster on his boot, deciding then to kill the monster in more personal manner. Following his action, the remaining deputy removed a smaller knife from his belt, but proved to be too slow. The creature, blood on his maw from the cannibalization of eight other Canaan policemen, pivoted on his hind legs, a massive arm swiping in one fluid arc across the man's face. When he fell to the ground all that remained of his face was a red smear, his features hanging from the werewolf's gory claws.

"Steve, fuck!" I shouted from my relatively safe distance. "Run! Run goddamn it!"

Kaplan turned for only a moment, but in that time our eyes met…and I knew what was going to happen. The Sheriff turned back toward the monster, and this time he leapt forward, the knife gripped firmly in his hand. Realizing that my friend had accepted his inevitable fate, I decided that it was one I didn't particularly care to share with him. Before I turned to run, I took one last look at the scene of the slaughter…nine men dead, and Kaplan made ten.

So where was Sobieski?

Kaplan's screams of pain and profanity snapped me back to reality…and I ran. I ran into the forest, unsure just where I was going, hoping to find at least place of refuge from the creature that I was sure could follow me just by scent alone. I trudged through the snow, the exertion wearing down my pace after only a hundred yards. I made it fifty more before I collapsed from exhaustion.

The pain from my lungs made standing an impossibility, so I just lay in the snow, crying softly when I heard the slow footsteps coming from behind me. Would I be killed quickly for not putting up a fight, or would my death come slow as a result of my own cowardice? Obviously, I wished for neither.

Suddenly, I was struck by an epiphany. I listened as the steps in the snow came closer, holding my breath as much as I could until the attacker was almost on top of me…and I then I rolled over, the pistol that I'd kept in my coat pocket gripped tightly in my shaking hands. With my eyes clenched nearly shut, I fired as I rolled, three shots. The first two missed, but the third…

"Fuck!"

Hmm…didn't sound like a noise I imagined a werewolf would make. I opened my eyes slowly, but instead of the toothy snarl of a monster, I was met with the grizzled grimace of my missing mental patient. Jack Russell slowly walked toward me, his right hand pressed against the gunshot wound I'd given him on his left shoulder. "Chill out, Zevon," he said with a smile, "I ain't gonna hurt you."

"You…you killed them!" I stammered out, the gun still shaking in my hands. "You killed them all!"

"No, I didn't," he replied calmly, "but look, we can't debate this out here. We have to get somewhere safe, and we have to do it right fucking now."

"You're a goddamn werewolf!" I continued to shout. "You want to eat my skin and bury me in a mass grave, just like the people that lived in that compound!"

A howl was heard on the wind, causing me to instinctively raise my head skyward. With an audible sigh, Jack lunged forward, his fist on a collision course with my jaw.

I was unconscious before I hit the snow.

"Welcome back to the world of the living."

I groaned slightly as my blurred vision began to come back into focus, the first thing I saw being a smirking Jack sitting across from me. A small fire separated us, the light reflecting off the walls and ceiling of wherever he had taken me. It was a cave, and he was sitting between me and the only exit.

"Who knew a man of your doctoral stature would have a glass jaw?" he asked with a slight laugh, the question followed up by the lighting of a cigarette.

"Where did you get those?" I asked wearily, still not fully integrated back into reality.

"Oh, I lifted 'em off one of those dead cops back at the Clinic of Night. You guys really shouldn't have gone up there, man…some bad shit went down at that place."

"I know," I replied, sitting up slowly as to diminish the dizzy feeling that I was trying to fight, "I read Dr. Cobain's journal. It was a hospital for werewolves, that much I ascertained."

"It was a goddamn science experiment," he explained, "one that was set up as a way to help 'cure' people of lycanthropy through medical means. Cobain was a fucker that used the money and research tools my father paid for to do tests and experiments on the people that went to him for help. He was a fucking mad scientist in every sense of the word."

"I take it your memory has fully returned?" I asked rhetorically.

Smoke filtered out of Jack's nostrils as he scowled, not at me but more to himself. "I almost wish it hadn't. The cops were right, Doc…I did kill all those people last month. It was me that buried them in the ground. I was half crazy myself when it happened, but I remember why I did it…"

"Why…is that?" I asked, my increasing nervousness impossible not to notice.

"I did it to save the people in your town," he answered remorsefully, "Cobain had driven his patients to the brink of insanity. They were murderously violent, and when the full moon hit while I was staying at the Clinic…they were consumed by bloodlust. I waited until the day after the first night, after I'd seen what they'd done to a few campers out in the woods, and I set the entire compound on fire. As the wolves came of the buildings, I shot them with a rifle loaded with silver bullets. They never stood a chance."

"What about Cobain?"

"He was dead already when I found him. I dunno who killed him, probably whichever one of those patients that managed to escape my trap."

"One…escaped?"

"The one that massacred your buddies, I'd imagine."

A long silence crept between us after that, an uncomfortable pause that only heightened my nervousness. "Jack, I think you should know," I finally said, "there was a man with us from New York that said you'd killed a bunch of people there a few years ago. He was from SHIELD."

Russell said nothing.

"Jack?" I continued. "Is that true?"

"I wish…" he finally answered, "I wish I could say 'no' and not be lying."

"Oh," was the only word I could choke out.

"Look, that's not the issue right now," he said, stamping his cigarette out on a nearby rock. "Whoever that wolf was that attacked you is gonna try and find you again. He has your scent now."

"Does that mean he's coming here?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so. I made sure we traveled upwind of him, and I don't think the wind's changed. What we need to worry about is what's downwind of him right now."

"What's that?"

Jack looked down at me, his eyes filled with sadness. "Your hospital."

Next Issue: In the conclusion to "Drop the Leash", Jack and Dr. Zevon return to the Silver Springs Sanitarium for a final showdown with a deranged werewolf, a very pissed off SHIELD agent, and…the Foolkiller!