A story from the What If? #4 Anthology
In the days of the Roman Empire, a French peasant and thief
learns the true horror of what it means to be bitten.
Once bitten, twice shy
August 28, 45 AD Provincia Romana
Francois slips quietly over the villa’s wall, dropping softly
to the ground. Crouching, he looks along the wall in both directions and then
down the gentle slope from the wall to the edge of the woods. None of the Roman
guards are visible. They all must be searching the estate’s grounds.
Moving in the shadows, Francois cautiously makes his way
down the hill. He avoids the bright spots of reddish light from the ‘blood moon.’
We should have waited for the full moon to pass; there is too much light
tonight.
Wraith-like Francois disappears into the edge of the forest.
He holds his stolen treasure inside his loose-fitting shirt. The cool, hard
silver of the wine pitcher comforts him. This could feed the family for a
year. I hope Luc has taken something of equal value. That will get us through
the next year.
Silently, Francois follows the trail that leads to their
rendezvous spot, a small knoll that is almost a league away from the villa.
After half an hour, he gets the feeling he is being watched. The feeling stays
with him, so when he is more than halfway there, Francois stops and listens.
At first, he hears nothing, not even a night bird. It is so
quiet that all he can hear is his own breathing. The hairs on the back of his
neck start to stand up. His heart begins to pound. Then he hears it.
The breathing is heavy and, at the same time, rapid. Is
that a dog? Has that Roman set the dogs on me?
The longer he listens, the surer he becomes. If it is a
dog, it is huge. Francois slowly turns his head, trying to find where the
sound is coming from. He focuses on a copse of small oak trees to his right. Brush
and tall grass grow around the trees. The sound is definitely coming from them.
His vision zeroes in on the shadows between the trees, concentrating on a patch
of bushes and tall grasses.
A flash of reddish yellow, then it is gone. What was
that? Francois turns, facing the direction he is looking, and starts to
crouch, keeping his eyes on the spot where he thought he saw the yellow flash.
After a moment two yellow orbs appear, the moonlight adding a reddish tinge to
them. With the appearance of the orbs comes a low, rumbling growl.
Slowly, the yellow orbs move closer, and the growling gets
louder.
Francois draws his knife, taking up the fighter’s stance his
father taught him. He keeps his eyes on the approaching yellow orbs. As they
draw closer the drooling snout of a wolf comes out of the shadows and into
view. Its fangs are exposed, lips drawn back, and ears flat against the wolf’s
head. Drool drips from its mouth onto the ground.
Francois looks around, searching for more wolves. Wolves
always attack as a pack! But there are none to be seen or heard. Where
are the others?
As the wolf advances on him, Francois quickly considers his
options. I could run, but I cannot outrun him. If I fight, and I do not kill
it quickly, the other wolves will get here and kill me. My only chance is to
kill it quickly and find a tall tree to climb before the other wolves arrive.
Francois prepares to attack as the beast gets closer.
The wolf is about ten yards away now. Its coat might be gray
with silver highlights, but it is hard to tell because of the reddish light
from the ‘blood moon.’ It must be the biggest wolf to have ever lived. Francois
guesses that it is at least a hundred and seventy pounds. As it prepares to
pounce, Francois charges. For a moment, the wolf is surprised, but it recovers
quickly and races toward Francois.
Francois rushes forward in a half-crouch, ready to strike.
He realizes the wolf is going for his throat, so he leaps forward, going erect
at the same time. The wolf’s jaws do not slam closed on his throat. Instead,
they clamp down on the silver pitcher inside Francois’ shirt. He grabs the
wolf’s left ear with his left hand, twisting its head to the wolf’s right,
exposing the massive canine’s throat. Francois drives his knife deep into its
throat, all the way to the knife’s hilt. The wolf howls in pain and leaps
backward, away from Francois, wrenching the handle of the knife from his hand
as he falls to his knees.
The wolf moves a few yards away from him and sits down,
keeping his eyes on Francois. He looks at the wolf and watches ‘smoke’ rising
from the wolf’s mouth. That cannot be smoke, it is cold, it must be steam.
Francois looks closer and it seems to him the wolf’s tongue is burned.
While the wolf stares at him, it starts swatting at the
knife hilt with its left hind paw. With a few swats, it gets a ‘grip’ on the
hilt, pulling the knife free. The knife falls to the ground, and then the wolf
swipes it into the bushes with its left front paw. What strikes Francois is it
is barely bleeding. Blood should be gushing out of that neck wound! What the
hell am I going to do now?
Read the full story in the book:
https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO
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