SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

The heat must have become suddenly obvious. Franco held his father close, his strength surprising the older man, while his hand had reached behind his back where he’d tucked the dagger stolen from the priest. As soon as the blade was free of the wooden scabbard, Giovanni had sensed the heat of the silver dagger.

Franco brought it around quickly, before his father could free himself of the embrace and flee.

But Giovanni didn’t attempt to flee.

Franco buried the dagger in his father’s chest, hitting the heart on the first try.

Giovanni screamed and the wound caught fire, as did his clothing around it, and the boy plunged the blade in and out several times, the reek of scorched flesh and blood enveloping them as they embraced one last time.

The creature within Giovanni began to manifest, the hair lengthening and his face beginning to change, his mouth becoming a snout, and Franco thought his father would take him along to hell. He twisted the knife cruelly within each new wound, each twist and each stab piercing vital organs and liquefying them in a flash of silvery heat.

Franco watched as his father’s form flickered from human to wolf and back again, his eyes bulging and finally exploding in a shower of blood and gore, and his hands – which were now claws and could still have raked Franco’s face and head – spreading in helpless surrender.

The boy stepped back and his father collapsed in a burning, smoking heap onto the marble floor.

“My son,” he cried in a sickly whisper through charred lips. “Grazie…” Thank you.

And then Giovanni Lupo’s body once again resembled that of a human, no breath left in him.

Franco left him in the ruins of their old home. He walked out with a new need in the pit of his stomach, his hand gripping the dagger with a renewed sense of purpose.

He had wolves to hunt.

Jester Jennifer R. Povey

It was a pretty ordinary sortie right up until Caveman bought it. Things went downhill from there, and the diminished squadron fled back towards the White Cliffs at full speed, pursued by a couple of Germans. Half-heartedly, because the Germans had no wish to tangle with British air defences during daylight hours.

Jester’s engine stuttered, its sound rough as it began to fail. It struggled back into life then faded out. He tugged the ejection handle, the canopy breaking away in a rush of wind, the chute threatening to pull his shoulders from their sockets as it tore him free. He knew he was going to come down closer to France than England, and hoping to come down very close - better to risk capture by the Germans than to drown. Prisoners of war could escape. Yes, that was his thought as he fluttered down into the shallow water. He cut the parachute free, leaving it to float in the still ocean, and scrambled ashore, making sure his sidearm was in his pocket.

His best chance was to find somebody connected to the resistance, some fisherman who could maybe smuggle him across the Channel. It had happened to others. A long shot. Especially once he looked around.

Jester had got lucky in terms of almost hitting on land, but not lucky in terms of the bit of land. No general would choose this place to land troops for the rumoured invasion. The beach was a thin strip of beautiful golden sand... but that was all before the vertical cliffs started. Or nearly vertical. After a moment, his eyes found a narrow trail leading upwards. He wasn’t sure if it was man-made. Looked more likely to have been created by sheep. Or maybe mountain goats. Staying on the beach, though... well, perhaps somebody would sail past. He contemplated the matter at some length; the tide was close to high, so the beach wasn’t going anywhere. At the same time, there wasn’t any food.

More critically, there was no fresh water. He checked himself for injuries, found nothing but bruises, and headed towards that horribly narrow upward trail where golden wild flowers dotted the slope above.

He could almost imagine there wasn’t a war on. Almost. He heard a buzzing overhead that was probably... yes... those German fighters returning to base. He tracked them, knowing they might see him and report his position. Or not. Either way, he probably didn’t want to be in this position much longer. With a sigh, he hiked the rest of the way to the top of the cliffs.

At the top, no fence blocked his way, but he saw a field full of cows to one side and a German pill box to the other. He didn’t voice the swear word, but ducked and ran for the cows, hoping to use them as cover if whoever was on watch spotted him. He was almost certainly going to be caught, but why make it easy for them?

He refused to sit out the war in a POW camp with a bunch of idiots who couldn’t come up with a good way to escape, and frankly, Jester’s luck lately pointed to that being right where he would end up: in the worst camp with the worst fellow inmates.