It
swipes at him with one clawed handyes, he can see it is a hand, however hideously
misshapen, a hand, the boy was right-and lays his throat wide open. Blood jets over
the truck's windshield and dashboard; it drips into the bottle of Busch that has
been sitting tilted against Constable Neary's crotch.

The werewolf's other hand snags in Neary's freshly cut hair and yanks him half out

of the Ford pick-up's cab. It howls once, in triumph, and then it buries its face

and snout in Neary's neck. It feeds while the beer gurgles out of the spilled

bottle and foams on the floor by the truck's brake and clutch pedals.

August