Credits Special Thanks to:

Written By: Neal F. Litherland, Esteban Colon, Brendan Thank you to all the writers on this project. It took way
Detzner, Josh Heath, Joe Weinberg, John Morel, longer than I expected to get us to this point, and I
Michael Jacobson, J.C .Stearns, Justin Duncan, and appreciate your patience and enthusiasm.
David Kivi Jr.
Developed By: Josh Heath
Development Support: Debra Leonard
Layout By: Josh Heath
Copyediting By: J.C. Stearns, A Garou Thing copyedited

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by Debra Leonard and Scott Metzger
Art By: Andrea Payne

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© 2022 White Wolf Entertainment AB. All rights reserved. Vampire: The
Masquerade®, World of Darkness®, Storytelling System™, and Storytellers Vault™
are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of White Wolf Entertainment AB. All
rights reserved.
For additional information on White Wolf and the World of Darkness, please,
visit: www.white-wolf.com, www.worldofdarkness.com and www.storytellersvault.com.

2 TITLE OF THE BOOK

 Tales from the Moot

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Contents
Introduction 5
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Chapter One: Late Bloomer
Chapter Two: Bones
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Chapter Three: Shaggy Dog Story 25
Chapter Four: Atheist 33
Chapter Five: All Must Eventually Die 37
Chapter Six: Tail and Claw 43
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Chapter Seven: Healing 51

Chapter Eight: The Value of Stories 55
Chapter Nine: Escalation 59
Chapter Ten: A Garou Thing 63
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Chapter Eleven: Sins of Our Fathers 69

Section 1 3
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 Introduction

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By Neal F. Litherland

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Rasul drove with one hand on the wheel, and his other arm cocked into the slipstream out the open window. He’d
eased into the rhythm of the road over the past two days, and though he felt aches settling into the small of his back
and the swell of his right calf, they were old companions of his. He deftly maneuvered between the cracks and potholes,
dodging the places where nature had tried to break up the seam of black asphalt running across her skin. Trees reared to
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either side of the road, and he drove through the dappled shadows beneath their boughs.
His dark eyes flicked to the rear view mirror. Jessie was asleep in the back seat of the van, his battle jacket pulled
over him like a blanket. The wind whipped his mane of blonde hair around his face, but he didn’t so much as shift. The
road behind them was long and straight, empty of fellow motorists or hitch hikers. He hadn’t seen a cop in hours. He
knew from experience the cops were discouraged from coming this far our into the territory. Artemis turned a page in
her book. It was the third one she’d picked up during the trek, and she was already halfway through it.
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“Light’s starting to fade,” Rasul said. It was the first time he’d spoken since dinner last night.
“We’re almost there,” Artemis said, reaching out and patting his thigh without slowing her pace. “We won’t be late.”
Rasul snorted, shaking his head. That wasn’t what he was worried about, and she knew it. She was good enough
not to say so, though. He switched hands on the wheel, and rubbed the back of Artemis’s neck. She sighed, and leaned
into the attention, slipping the old, leather bookmark she used into the bodice ripper, and stowing it back in her bag.
The sun was smoldering just under the horizon when Rasul saw the turn off. It was a little dirt track, typically closed
off with a gate and a boring sign that gave contact numbers for the local game warden’s office and other, official-looking
information. The gate was open now, though, and inviting them all in. Rasul took his foot off the gas, and let the van
slow down. As soon as they dropped below forty, like some kind of magic trick, Jessie opened his eyes. They were bright,
blue, and awake.
“We there?” he asked, sitting up and pulling on his black denim. The spikes on the shoulders gleamed, and several
of the pins rattled as they clattered together.
“I’ll never understand how you do that,” Artemis said.
Introduction 5
 “Speed,” Rasul and Jessie said simultaneously. Jessie met Rasul’s eyes in the rear view mirror, grinning wolfishly.
Rasul’s dark complexion didn’t change, but there was amusement in his gaze.
“You owe me a kiss for that,” Jessie said.
“I owe you nothing,” Rasul replied, turning onto the rutted road. “Perhaps if you behave.”
“Well, or poorly?” Jessie asked.
“Have you ever behaved well?” Artemis asked, smiling despite herself.
“Going to one of these?” Jessie asked, his grin somehow growing wider. “Absolutely not.”
Rasul spun the wheel, and the van bumped off the crumbling asphalt. They fishtailed for a moment, then settled
into the ruts. The trees swallowed them up, and a silence settled over them. The familiar sounds of rubber on blacktop,

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and the sound of open wind, were replaced by the wickering of long grass against the undercarriage, and the whisper of
bobbing branches above them. A crow cawed somewhere off in the trees, and it was answered deeper down the road.
“The grandchildren got here early,” Artemis said.
“Get it all out now,” Jessie said, rolling his neck until it cracked. “You know how they feel about you calling them that.”

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“Just me?” Artemis asked, raising her eyebrows slightly.
Before Jessie could say anything, the van’s headlights caught a pair of eyes in the darkness. A wolf sat in the road, its
dark coat blending in with the shadows. The rest of its pack flanked the road, watching the van come. Rasul tapped the
brake, slowing. He let his arm dangle out the side of the van. Artemis rolled down her window, and did the same. Jessie
swung open the rear door of the van, half hanging out of the back. The wolves approached, sniffing at the newcomers.
One circled around to the open side door, putting its front paws in the back of the van as it evaluated Jessie. It growled
low in its chest. Jessie’s eyes narrowed, and he rumbled a reply low in the back of his throat. The wolf gave it a moment
before it hopped back out of the van, and disappeared back into the woods. The rest of the pack did the same, and soon
they were alone again.

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“Did he remember you, do you think?” Artemis asked, her tone bland.
“Nobody forgets me,” Jessie said, crossing his legs at the ankle as he lounged near the open door. “For better or worse.”
Rasul shook his head slowly, and let the van idle its way down the rough road. They bumped their way through the
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trees, until they opened up onto a clearing. Dozens of vehicles were already parked there, and they ran the gamut from
roadsters that gleamed in the twilight, to the bulk of old campers that looked like they were held together by duct tape
and happy thoughts. Rasul eased into the gap between a pick-up truck with mud stains halfway up the door, and a trio
of low riders with brain buckets hanging off the handlebars. Jessie grinned when he saw the distinctive paint job along
the bikes’ fuel tanks; red wolf fangs, and deep green eyes. He was out of the van before Rasul had finished putting it in
park, loping off toward the fires that were being lit, and the crowds of shadows moving between them. Artemis drew in
a breath to shout at him, then sighed and shook her head.
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“Why bother?” she said.

“Why indeed.” Rasul stepped out of the driver’s seat with a fluid grace that belied the amount of time he’d been
behind the wheel, spinning the keys on his index finger like a gunslinger. He came around, opening Artemis’s door for
her and offering his hand. She took it, and smiled. Her expression said it might take both of them to keep up with their
wild northern extrovert, but she was game if he was. They turned, and followed in Jessie’s footsteps at a slightly more
sedate, though no less excited pace.
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It was like coming home again. They clasped hands with people whose faces they knew, and whose names they’d
long forgotten. Artemis was enveloped in a bear hug from a woman twice her age and half her height, who was asking
questions before Artemis even managed to draw a fresh breath. Rasul gripped wrists with a man whose hat and tan lines
marked him out as a trucker, and whose smile said for once he was glad to be off the road. A bonfire flared, and rough
laughter rolled out as Jessie threw back his head and downed something caustic from a flask while a man with wild eyes
and a woman with a mane of red hair cheered him on.
More people arrived, and the mood swelled even higher. Banners on poles flapped in the breeze, calling like to like
from the jumbles of blankets, fire pits, coolers, and smoldering torches. Food was passed from hand to hand, chairs were
offered, and drinks were shared. Wolves prowled among the people, tongues lolling and eyes shining as they leaned against
legs and jumped up to welcome their two-legged cousins back into the embrace of the forest. There was swearing, shout-
ing, singing, and more as they came together in the darkness of the wild country to remember who they were once again.
None were sure where the howl started, but all heard it; a deep, powerful, full throated sound, it rolled over the gath-
ering like a tide. The wolves raised their heads to join, and the people did the same. Some of the latter shed their skins,

6 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 taking on their truer selves, raising their muzzles toward the rising moon. The sound rose to the heavens itself, echoing
from the stars as they held forth as a single, violent chorus. As the roar faded, swallowed by the night and the forest, the
great bonfire was lit. The flames leaped, pushing back the darkness, and revealing the countenances of those who stood
around the circle. White fangs flashed, and firelight danced over fur of a dozen different hues. Some held the shapes of
great wolves not seen since the ice ages, while others stood in the towering forms of war that combined the most savage
aspects of man and wolf. One or two still wore the skins of men and women, but it was easy enough to see in their eyes
they were far more than they appeared to be.
An expectant hush fell over those who had gathered. Steps shuffled closer, and heads turned. Nearly every set of
lips stilled as those gathered settled in for why all of them had truly come there that night. To discuss the challenges

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they faced, certainly. To air grievances, and to renew oaths to overcome their enemies, yes. But also to hear of what had
happened in the dark corners of the world. They had come to listen to tales of monsters, and of the guardians who still
stood against these horrors. How, even if the darkness loomed and all seemed lost, the garou would rage against the dying
of the light with everything they had.

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The first speaker stepped forward, and her words carried to nearly every ear as her story began...

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Introduction 7
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 Late Bloomer

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By Neal F. Litherland

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The cargo hold of the chopper was filled with lashed-down crates, a handful of soldiers, and an extra helping of noise.
It was like the wind outside was enraged that the Chinook was defying the natural order of things, battling against the
rotors to try to bring them down. Though the whirlybird took the occasional dip and tuck, none of the men in her hold
so much as looked up at the mild turbulence. They’d jumped out of planes in worse conditions than this, and a little
bump in the sky was barely noticeable to anyone who wore an airborne patch on their jacket.
Everybody was killing time in their own way. Jackson had an ear bud in, scrolling through his music collection until
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he found something he could groove to. Miller had his cap pulled down over his eyes, and his hands tucked into his
pockets. It was hard to tell if he was sleeping or not. Gonzalez was restlessly flipping through an old, dog-eared comic
book that he’d just about squeezed all the entertainment he could get out of, and Morningkill was leaning back in the
netting reading a letter. Gonzalez reached into his duffel, took out a pair of balled-up socks, and threw them at Mornin-
gkill’s head. He snatched the missile out of the air, and glanced up. His eyes were a shocking blue, their chilliness offset
by a current of mild amusement.
“I’m keeping these,” Morningkill said, raising his voice over the battle of the elements going on outside.
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“You’re welcome to them,” Gonzalez shouted back, laughing. He gestured at the crisply folded letter in the blue-eyed
soldier’s hand. “Who’s the girl?”
“Who says it’s from a girl?” Morningkill asked.
Gonzalez laughed again. “I can’t read it from here, but I never saw a guy could write that nice. So come on, what’s
her name?”
“Ilyena,” Morningkill said, stuffing the balled-up socks in his own bag.
“Oooh,” Gonzalez said, putting his feet on the deck and leaning forward. “So, anything good in there?”
“Death threats, mostly,” Morningkill said, folding up the letter.
Gonzalez frowned, confusion breaking out across his face. He glanced around, like he was checking to see if anyone
else got the joke. For a long second nobody said anything, then Miller raised his voice, his booming cadence cutting
across the noise.

Late Bloomer 9
 “That’s Hannibal’s mother,” the dark-skinned sergeant intoned. “She still pissed you ran away from home and joined up?”
“I had a choice to go home on leave, or get in this bird with the rest of you and fly over to the other side of Afghan-
istan,” Morningkill yelled back as he tucked the letter into his jacket pocket, “I got less of a chance of getting shot here.”
Everybody laughed at that. Miller doubled up, his hat falling onto the deck and revealing his smooth, bald head.
Gonzalez threw his head back, crowing with mirth. Even Jackson cracked a smile, which was unusual for him. Morningkill
laughed, but it was a tired sound that was more rueful than it was amused.
That was the moment everything went straight to hell.
Something slammed into the Chinook and an explosion ripped a hole in the chopper like it was made of paper. Mill-
er was torn to pieces by the blast, the meat of his body turned into a pincushion for flying shrapnel before it was sucked

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out into the howling void. Gonzalez’s laugh turned into a wet scream as he instinctively snatched for handholds to keep
himself from falling. Jackson flopped, blood running from rents in his clothes, his harness keeping his body anchored
in place. A splinter of steel sliced Morningkill’s cheek, punching into the side of the chopped next to his head. Another,
larger shard pierced his shoulder. The blonde soldier grimaced, but he pushed it aside; pain was the least of his concerns.

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The Chinook stuttered, staggering as it tried to stay in the air. Emergency lights flared, casting a burning red light over
what was left of the hold. Metal shrieked, trying to tear itself apart. The pilot wrestled with the controls, fighting against
physics to try to get control. One of the rotors screamed as it came apart, and the stagger turned into a lurch. Rather than
trying to pull against it, Morningkill leaped. He slammed into the wall, which was now the floor, gritting his teeth as he
dug his fingers under Gonzalez’s belt. Gonzalez reached for him, scrabbling, fighting inertia, gravity, and blood loss.
Morningkill snatched a nylon loop tied to the wall, wrapping it around his free arm and cinching it tight. Up and
down changed places one more time, whipping Gonzalez away from the edge and pulling hard on Morningkill’s arm. He
heard his shoulder pop out of socket, and white light flared behind his eyes as his nerve endings tried to report just how
bad the damage was. He gritted his teeth, trying to figure out if the weightless feeling was because he was about to pass

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out, or because the chopper had resumed crashing. Something was burning, but he couldn’t tell what.
Gonzalez fell on top of Morningkill as the Chinook spun again. This time he roared, giving vent to the pain. He
strained, and flung Gonzalez away from the hole, sending him toward the cockpit. His shoulder wrenched itself back into
place, and all of a sudden his head felt clear. More than clear, he felt awake. In all the chaos, with the wind screaming and
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the engine stuttering, he laughed. As the mountains reared up to meet them, Morningkill dug his fingers into the metal
fangs around the side of the hole, threw back his head, and howled.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Omar said, staring up at the fireball in the sky. Ibrahim slapped the skinny young man on the back, giving
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him a fierce grin. The older man’s teeth were square, and strangely bright through his thick, black beard. Omar winced,
his grip on the rocket launcher tightening. It took a second for him to realize the sound coming out of Ibrahim’s mouth
was a laugh, and not a roar of anger; it was almost as frightening, in its own way.
“Just like I told you,” Ibrahim said, biting off each word as he stood there and watched the chopper plunge out of the
sky. It went down behind a ridge with an echoing crash that shook the mountains. He waited, listening, but there was no
further explosion like you’d see in the movies. Nodding, Ibrahim plucked the rocket launcher out of Omar’s hands, and
slung the empty tube over his shoulder. He turned to the others in their squad, the humor bleeding out of his dark eyes
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as if it had never been there. “Come. Let us see what bounty Little Omar has given to us, eh?”
Ahmed nodded, returning Ibrahim’s smile in kind. There wasn’t much feeling behind it, but Ahmed had learned the
best way to avoid Ibrahim’s wrath was to hold up a mirror to show him what he wanted to see when his eyes fell on you.
Faruk glanced out at where the smoke was beginning to rise, and he pushed his steel-rimmed spectacles down his long
nose so he could squeeze the bridge. He reminded himself that he was almost done. That once he’d served his time he
could go back home, pay his debts, and begin the life he truly wanted.
“Did you see it, Faruk?” Omar asked, his voice an excited whisper. “Did you see?”
“We all saw it, Omar,” Faruk said. He tried to push down his irritation, and to summon a smile for Omar. The sickness
in Faruk’s gut at the violence showed through in his expression, though. Omar didn’t seem to notice, still caught up in
his achievement. It was his first brush with the enemy in the field, and it had been his finger on the trigger. Something
Faruk knew Ibrahim had done on purpose; once blooded, Omar would be his in soul, if not in body. “Let’s go. We don’t
want the others wondering why we’re lagging.”

10 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 Faruk put a hand on Omar’s back, guiding him toward the game trail they’d followed up to the rocky outcrop they’d
spotted the helicopter from. Ahmed and Ibrahim were standing near their animals, each checking their weapons. The
Kalashnikovs were old, but the dark steel glowered, and the wooden grips gleamed from where they’d been rubbed smooth
by the hands of dozens of wielders. Omar took the bolt-action rifle he was handed, deliberately checking the magazine and
chambering a round. Ibrahim gave the boy another, fierce grin. The grin vanished when his eyes fell on Faruk, replaced
by a brooding suspicion. Ibrahim jerked a Beretta pistol from the flapped holster at his waist, then offered it butt-first to
Faruk. Faruk took the pistol, knowing that any argument about whether he should carry a weapon would be fruitless. He
had no urge to feel the butt hit him upside the head, as it had the last time he’d explained that he was in the field to fix
wounds, not to create them. When Ibrahim didn’t look away, Faruk took out the magazine, examined it, then replaced

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it, and chambered a round just as he’d been shown. He deliberately pushed the safety on as well; a small act of defiance.
Ibrahim’s lips twisted, and he was about to say something when a sound came to their ears. It was a howl, distorted by
distance and reverberation, but it sounded like no animal they’d ever heard. The pack horse’s eyes rolled, and it stamped
a hoof nervously. The mule, normally a recalcitrant beast who showed no reaction to anything, stepped backward up the

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trail. The sound hung in the clear mountain air, and the men glanced at each other as it began to fade.
“What was that?” Omar asked. The boy tried to make it sound like he was just curious, but the casual tone of his
voice didn’t match his wide eyes, or his nervous hands.
“Just a wolf,” Ibrahim growled.
“It sounds big,” Omar said. Ibrahim rounded on the boy, his teeth bared in an expression that was not a smile. Omar
flinched, but didn’t step back. That much he’d learned, at least.
“So what if it is?” Ahmed said, injecting his voice into the conversation. “There are four of us, and we all have guns.
Stay focused, Omar. The only thing that might be a danger to us out there is anyone who survived the plane crash.”
“Just so,” Ibrahim snarled. He resettled his weapon in his hands and jerked his head at Omar. “Help Faruk with the

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beasts. We will need them to carry out any supplies we find.”
Ibrahim stalked past Omar, readjusting the sling on his rifle. Ahmed patted Omar on the shoulder, then followed in
Ibrahim’s footsteps, cradling his own weapon while letting his eyes comb over the land. Omar watched them go, before he
walked back toward Faruk. He patted the mule’s neck gently, and the beast lightly butted Omar in the chest for his trouble.
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“That didn’t last long,” Omar said.
Faruk shook his head and caught the pack horse’s bridle. He shushed the animal, gently petting her nose and trying
to calm her. She stopped stamping her feet, but her eyes were still wide, looking about warily. Faruk frowned. The animals
were born and bred to the region, and though he’d seen them wary before, he knew the sounds of gunfire, the stink of
blood, and the scents of predators barely seemed to affect them anymore, as long as they weren’t alone. He wondered
what the beasts had caught wind of that had made them so skittish. He realized that Omar was still talking, but he hadn’t
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been listening.
“Just do what needs to be done, Omar,” Faruk said, giving the horse’s bridle a gentle tug. She fought him for a mo-
ment, but then came reluctantly forward. “Your best is all you can do.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Omar grumbled. He stroked the mule under his chin, coaxing him forward. It took more
effort, but soon both the animals were moving in the same direction, though they were still casting suspicious looks all
around. “Your best would never be good enough, no matter what you did.”
Faruk didn’t know what to say to that. So, as he’d done since the day he’d been assigned to Ibrahim’s patrol over two
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weeks ago, he kept his own counsel. Omar looked like he wanted to say something else, to open his mouth and let what-
ever was roiling inside him out, but he kept his lips sealed as well. Faruk silently hoped that neither of them swallowed
enough poison out here to suffer for it later, though he suspected that was exactly what would happen.
It took just under an hour for the four of them to make their way to the wreckage, but even though they moved as
quickly as they could the light was starting to grow thin in the mountains. The helicopter had smashed through the trees,
and cracked open, practically bent in half by the force of its crash. Several crates had spilled from the interior, though
several were miraculously still held in place. While there was a puddle of spilled fuel, nothing had sparked it into fire.
Ahmed took cover crouched behind a rock and watched, his rifle held tightly to his shoulder and braced against the
stone. Ibrahim peered down from around the corner of another stone, a pair of scratched field glasses held up to his
eyes. Faruk and Omar stood slightly down the trail, catching their breath and keeping a hand on the animals. The horse
and the mule, for their part, were all too happy to go no closer to the downed aircraft. After a slow scan, Ibrahim crept
back down the trail, never taking his eyes off the helicopter. He gestured Faruk and Omar forward impatiently.

Late Bloomer 11
 “There are bodies down there,” he growled. “None moving.”
“I’ll get my kit,” Faruk said.
“Yes, do that,” Ibrahim said, scorn dripping from his voice. “Perhaps if we can trade one of them back to their masters,
you will not have been a waste of my patience.”
Faruk returned to the animals, removing the med kit from the horse’s saddlebags. He checked the contents quickly,
then slung the canvas bag over his shoulder. Behind him Ibrahim was instructing Omar to take up a position in the rocks,
and to fire at anything that looked dangerous. Omar was nodding. He may have been young and slender, but the boy’s
eyes were sharp, and his hands were steady. Faruk turned back, and found Ibrahim waiting for him. The bearded man’s
expression was grim, and there was a look in his eyes Faruk had seen before. They had gone blank and empty; they showed

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nothing and took in everything. They were a doll’s eyes; a killer’s eyes.
“You are with me,” Ibrahim said, turning and heading toward the helicopter.
Ibrahim tapped Ahmed on the shoulder, and the two of them approached the wreckage. Omar squatted down where
Ahmed had been, resting his rifle across the rock and angling the barrel downward. Faruk gently touched Omar on the

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shoulder, letting the boy know he was moving past him, before following in the others’ footsteps.
There wasn’t much cover as they approached the wreckage, but they kept low and made use of what was available. Ibrahim
went first, crouched low with his head and shoulders moving as a single unit to keep his weapon trained wherever he looked.
Ahmed came after, never following the exact same course just in case he was walking into a set of crosshairs. Faruk stayed
as low as he could, holding the pistol out to one side so he wouldn’t drop it or tangle it in the strap of his medic’s bag. He
was breathing hard by the time he joined the others at the base of the incline, but neither of them turned to look at him.
Ibrahim tapped Ahmed and pointed at the smashed cockpit. Ahmed stood and circled that direction, knees bent and
weapon up. He glanced in through the splintered glass, then shook his head. Ibrahim nodded, and made a motion for
Ahmed to circle around the other side of the aircraft. He nodded, and as he moved, Ibrahim headed toward the broken

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cargo area. Faruk watched, and for a moment he was aware of how clammy his palm was against the pistol’s grip. A breeze
blew against his sweaty forehead, and something moved out of the corner of his eye.
Faruk didn’t think; fear had taken a shortcut straight to his hand. He whirled, bringing up the pistol, and jerked the
trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed harder, but the gun refused to obey him. Gravity re-asserted itself, and he sprawled
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backward, still pointing the Beretta at what had drawn his eye. It was a piece of cloth, snagged on a thorny bush. Part of it
had snapped in the breeze when the wind had caught it.
Faruk swallowed, and took a slow breath. He looked down at the pistol, and realized he’d never taken off the safety.
He flicked it off carefully, then stood and approached the cloth. He held the gun in both hands pointed up at the sky, just
as he’d been shown, and peered down at the bush. Up close he could see it was the digital print camouflage of a military
uniform. It had been torn to pieces, as if animals had ripped at it. There was no blood on the cloth. No powder burns or
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char makings, either. The wind blew through again, and the cloth flopped over atop the bush. A Velcro patch above the
ragged pocket proclaimed who it had once belonged to: Morningkill.
The sound of stomping footsteps drew Faruk’s attention away from the cloth. Ibrahim stalked toward him, the sour
look back on his face. He didn’t comment on how Faruk had been standing out in the open, making an obvious target of
himself, but the contempt written across his expression said more than words could.
“The pilot is dead. There are two others in the back. Make yourself useful and see if you can do anything with them.”
Ibrahim turned his head and spat. “Be quick. I do not want to have to find our way out of here in the dark.”
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Faruk stepped around Ibrahim, heading toward the smashed open cargo area. He saw the men quickly enough. One
was strapped into his seat, even after the crash, his head hanging. The other was sprawled like a rag doll, blood staining his
clothes in half a dozen places. Faruk could hear the second man breathing; it was ragged, and phlegmy sounding. If the first
man was breathing, it wasn’t obvious.
Faruk decided it was better to go where his efforts could produce immediate good. He knelt next to the sprawled soldier,
shoving the pistol into the back of his belt and pulling out a flashlight. He touched the man’s neck, not wanting to move
his arm. The soldier’s pulse was clear, but erratic. Faruk had expected no less. Faruk lifted the man’s eyelid to expose him
to the flashlight. The pupil reacted how he expected. The soldier grunted weakly, but that was all. Faruk flicked his light
down to the man’s name tape, and then began speaking to him in English.
“Gonzalez, is that you?” he said, continuing to inventory the man’s wounds. He heard rocks scrabble down the slope
behind him, and a few moments later heard Omar’s panting breaths. “I’m going to help you, but I need you to meet me
halfway on this. Can you do that?”

12 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 Gonzalez mumbled something that Faruk couldn’t understand. Behind him Faruk heard Ibrahim saying something
to Omar, but he couldn’t make it out. Faruk ran his hands over Gonzalez’s arms, pulling the damp shirt away from his
chest. He saw a dozen cuts, and some serious bruising, but most of the damage to his torso seemed superficial. There
were some lacerations on his forearm that looked almost like claw marks, but the skin had swelled enough to stop the
bleeding, so Faruk mostly ignored them. Footsteps approached from behind, and Omar peered over his shoulder.
“Is he still alive?” the boy asked.
Faruk felt the words no thanks to you rising to his tongue, but he managed to stop them before they came out. Instead
he said, “Surprisingly. Hold the light for me.”
Omar took the light awkwardly, and Faruk turned to see that the boy had a set of zip cuffs in his hand. Faruk glared

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at them, but wordlessly held up Gonzalez’s hands. Omar put on one cuff, then the other, but Faruk drew them closed.
He made sure they were tight enough to stay on, but not so tight he couldn’t pull them off if he felt he had to.
“There,” Faruk grunted, gesturing toward the man’s shoulders. “Put your weight on him there. Try not to press down
too hard, you might make the cuts start bleeding again. I’m going to look at his leg.”

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Omar readjusted himself, holding the light higher. Faruk drew a pair of scissors out of his bag, tugged the soldier’s
pants out of his boot, and slit the fabric along the seam. What Faruk saw in the light of the beam wasn’t encouraging.
The man’s leg was twisted, and while there were no bones piercing the skin that he could see, Faruk knew that it would
be a miracle from God himself if there were no breaks. He touched the skin gently, feeling for anything that shouldn’t
be there. The skin was tight and swollen, but Faruk hissed as he found something.
“What?” Omar asked.
“Be quiet, and hold him,” Faruk said. He wiped sweat from his palms and got a firm grip. He pulled, testing the
limits of the leg. The soldier whined like a sleeping dog whose tail was too close to the fire. Faruk counted quietly to
himself, then jerked the leg.

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The soldier’s leg popped as the knee was forced back into its proper arrangement. Gonzalez jerked, spasming as if
he’d been struck by lightning. The first buck flung Omar off of him, and the second sat him bolt upright. Time slowed
down, and Faruk stared into the man’s wide, brown eyes. There was no pain in them, despite what he must be feeling.
There was only fear; a raw, naked terror unlike anything Faruk had ever seen before. The soldier snatched Faruk’s shirt,
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yanking him to within inches of his face.
“Did you see it?” he asked, his words trembling.
“See what?” Faruk asked, trying to stay calm. He tried to pry the soldier’s fingers off of him, but it was like every joint
in the man’s hands had fused in place.
“El lobo,” the man said, his eyes going even wider, as if to punctuate the words. “The skin tore, and I saw it. It was
inside… inside him the whole time! It was…”
m

The soldier trailed off. His breathing, which had been erratic, leveled off. His face went slack, and his eyes rolled up
in his head. The death grip loosened, and if Faruk hadn’t caught him he would have slammed his head right into what
was left of the cargo hold’s metal deck. Faruk lowered him down gently. Then, almost as an afterthought, tightened the
cuffs on the soldier’s wrists a little more.
“What did you do?” Omar asked, pulling himself out of the debris.
“Hopefully made it so he’ll be able to walk again when this is all over,” Faruk said, stepping over to the soldier who
was still strapped into his chair. In the light of his flash Faruk could see his name tape read Jackson. “Dig through the
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wreckage. Find me two straight boards and some straps so I can make a splint for this leg. I don’t want him twisting it again.”
“So, you have one that’s still alive?” Ibrahim asked, ducking his head to peer inside. Faruk touched the strapped-in
man’s neck, checking both sides for a pulse. He rolled up an eyelid, flashing his light.
“One,” Faruk agreed.
“Too bad,” Ibrahim said, though whether he meant it was too bad that only one had survived, or that any of them
had, Faruk neither knew nor cared. “Ahmed, take the radio to higher ground. If there are others coming, I want to know.”
“It shall be done,” Ahmed said, shouldering the bulky radio they used to intercept communications among the
Americans. He adjusted his rifle sling and headed for a game trail that zig-zagged up to a ledge.
“Omar, get out here,” Ibrahim barked. “Grab a prybar and get these open. Let’s see if you shot down something
useful, eh?”
Omar jumped, shooting an apologetic look at Faruk as he scampered past him. Faruk clenched his teeth, and stepped
over Gonzalez, digging in the jumbled wreckage for what he needed. It took some time, but he managed to find two
Late Bloomer 13
 boards that would do the job. As Omar starting wrenching open the crates, and Ibrahim’s grunts alternated between
satisfied and irritated, Faruk stripped the belt from around the dead soldier’s waist, and used it to set the splint in place.
Gonzalez started twitching as Faruk cinched the splint, and the soldier’s eyes flickered open.
“Don’t say anything,” Faruk hissed, keeping his back to the opening in the wall. “Pretend you’re unconscious. It
will be better for you. Please.”
Faruk watched Gonzalez tense his shoulders, flexing his hands. Saw the way his eyes rolled to take in the cuffs, the
splint, and Faruk’s hands tying it in place. Faruk watched the wheels behind the soldier’s eyes turn as he took in the
dead man in the jump seat, and the sprawled form of the pilot. Finally, the man gave an infinitesimal nod, and went
limp. Faruk let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and picked up a torn tarp. He slid it around Gon-

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zalez’s torso, tucking it into place. Faruk wasn’t convinced shock wasn’t setting in, despite the man’s seeming lucidity,
but there was only so much he could do in the field under Ibrahim’s unfriendly eye.
By the time Faruk stepped out of the wreckage, most of the scattered crates had been opened. Field rations spilled
from one crate, and another was filled with magazines but no ammunition. Another had been filled with rough, wool

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blankets. Another with what looked like backpacks, canteens, and other field equipment.
“Well?” Ibrahim demanded, rounding on Faruk. Omar was leaning with his full weight on a short prybar, trying
to open the last crate that had tumbled from the helicopter. Nails squealed as they tore out of splintering wood.
“His name is Gonzalez, according to his jacket,” Faruk said. “His knee was dislocated. He might have cracked ribs
or other hairline fractures, and he certainly has his share of cuts and bruises. I set the knee and splinted his leg. He’s
unconscious, but Omar cuffed him as you wished.”
The lid of the crate gave way, and Omar fell into the dirt, the prybar clattering after him. Ibrahim frowned into
the crate, pulling out packing material. A moment later he hauled out a black ammunition crate. Popping open the
clasps, Ibrahim revealed rows of neatly stacked rounds, the tips and cases gleaming like soldiers on parade. Ibrahim’s

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lips curled into a wide, pleased smile. The expression turned Faruk’s stomach. The smile soured as Ibrahim pulled out
one of the cartridges, examining its markings.
“Useless without the right gun,” he snarled. “Omar, get off your ass. Grab the pry bar and find the weapons that
fit these.”
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Omar’s fingers had just wrapped around the bar again when a shout echoed through the canyon. Surprise, horror,
and pain were all twisted together in that one sound. It ended as suddenly as it had begun; dying with its throat cut.
Faruk felt his hair standing on-end. His knees suddenly felt weak, and his stomach like it was full of warm water. Omar’s
eyes were wide and staring, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. Ibrahim’s face was impassive, but that cold, empty
thing had crept back into his eyes.
“That was Ahmed,” Omar said, his voice barely above a whisper.
m

“I am overjoyed your ears still work,” Ibrahim said, shifting his rifle back into his hands. “Omar, take the doctor
and find out what happened. Two shots into the air if there is danger.”
“And what are you doing?” Faruk asked.
Ibrahim favored Faruk with a smile that was curdled malice. “I will watch the prisoner. So make haste. It would
grieve me if something happened to him while you were away.”
Faruk was keenly aware of the pistol pressed against his back, the metal greasy and warm through his shirt. For
a moment he considered pulling the weapon, raising it up, and putting a bullet through the mask of humanity that
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Ibrahim wore. In his mind he could see the surprise on the man’s face as his brains leaped out of the back of his skull.
But then Faruk remembered how quickly Ibrahim could move. How utterly without mercy he could be when he de-
cided something was a threat. Faruk stepped back into the helicopter and retrieved his bag. He glanced at Gonzalez,
and saw the light glimmering off his slitted eyes. Gonzalez motioned with his head, then closed his eyes again. His
breathing stayed slow and steady, the pulse in his neck never changing. Faruk stepped back outside just as Omar was
retrieving his rifle.
“Go with God,” Ibrahim said. He stepped into the deeper shadows of the wreckage, pulling a crate in front of him
to use as cover before hunkering behind it.
Faruk took the lead, fumbling the pistol out from behind his back as he walked toward the path he’d seen Ahmed
take. He grunted, calves burning as he grabbed hold of scrub trees to help him clamber up the slope. Sweat beaded on
his brow, despite the cool breeze blowing through the mountains. Once they were out of sight of the wreckage, Faruk
paused a moment to catch his breath. Omar, for his part, didn’t even seem to notice the climb. He was practically

14 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 vibrating with nervous energy, his head swiveling around like a bird of prey, his hand shifting on his rifle’s grip. There
was fear lurking around the edges, too, but it was only dancing on the surface; a testament to Ibrahim’s conditioning,
Faruk thought.
“There’s Ahmed’s mark,” Omar said, pointing at a rock. The vertical chalk line with three horizontal ones through
it was plain to see.
Faruk didn’t waste breath talking. Instead, he sucked air into his lungs and pulled himself toward the rock. He ran
through a list of what supplies he had in his bag, and a list of the hazards that could have befallen Faruk. He might have
slipped and gone over the edge. He might have been hit by a tumbling stone. Someone might have survived the chopper
crash, snuck up behind Ahmed, and put a knife into his back. Faruk swallowed and tried to push those thoughts out of

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his mind. Images rose unbidden behind his eyes though: the torn jacket, Gonzalez’s terrified eyes, and the howl they’d
heard echoing over the mountains. He shook his head, trying to banish the sour feeling of dread clinging to him. He had
to focus on the task at hand, otherwise he would be of no use to Ahmed when they found him.
Faruk stepped around a bend in the path and froze. The smell registered first. The thick, coppery stench of blood

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mixed with the scent of piss and shit crawled up his nose, trying to gag him. Blood spattered the stones in wide arcs, all
of them pointing to a crumpled form in the middle of the trail as the source of the carnage. Faruk recognized the clothes,
torn and bloodstained as they were, but it was hard to associate what was left of the body inside them with Ahmed. In
the back of his mind, Faruk realized that Omar was bent over, his hand braced against the stone as he violently threw up.
Walking forward on autopilot, Faruk crouched down near the body. Ahmed’s throat hadn’t just been cut, it had been
completely torn out. Faruk could see splintered bone through the hole, and he realized Ahmed’s neck had been shattered
by some powerful trauma. The upper portion of his skull had been crushed to pulp, and it made his jaw distend in a silent,
bloody scream. His body cavity had been rent open, and his guts strewn around like dirt from a dog’s hole. His rifle was
nowhere to be seen, and the radio lay in a crumpled heap against a rock. It had been flung aside hard enough to shatter

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the casing, leaving it surrounded by a ring of its own innards. Given that it was a durable model, meant to withstand
wear and tear in the roughest terrain, Faruk had no idea how hard it would need to be thrown to be damaged like that.
“Who would do this?” Omar croaked, coughing as he hacked sour spit into the steaming puddle of sick at his feet.
“Not who. What.” Faruk peered at the wounds. He frowned, taking in the deep gouges along the flesh, and the way
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their edges had been torn rather than cut. “This was not done by a man.”
Omar looked at the sprays of blood surrounding the body. He looked at the smashed radio. He looked at what was
left of Ahmed. The wind rushed across the stones, blowing away the scent of death just long enough for them to take a
few breaths of clean air. With the smell of the kill lessened, though, Faruk noticed something else on the air; the damp
scent of fur, and hot, bestial breath.
“What sort of animal could do this?” Omar asked. His voice was very small, and very scared.
m

A chill went up Faruk’s spine that had nothing to do with the wind, and he wiped his clammy palms on his pants.
He gripped the pistol harder, and for once found some comfort in the cold steel beneath his fingers. He licked his lips,
stood, and resisted the urge to glance around. He could feel the skin between his shoulder blades pebbling. Something
was watching him.
“We have to get out of here,” Faruk said softly.
“What?” Omar asked, his senses still dulled by how sick he’d gotten. Rocks shifted on the ridge above them, bouncing
down. Omar glanced up, and Faruk saw the boy’s eyes go wide with shock, his face going pale with terror. Something
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above them howled, and Faruk’s knees tried to buckle.

“Run,” Faruk hissed, shoving Omar. “Run, damn you!”
Omar stumbled, his feet sliding as he bolted back the way they’d come. Faruk was practically stepping on the boy’s
heels as something heavy leaped onto the path behind them and gave chase. It howled again, and that sound filled Faruk’s
limbs with terrified adrenaline, sending him barreling back down the hillside.
Faruk was squinting almost as soon as they’d ducked back behind the curve of the path. The shadows had grown long,
and they coated the hills in darkness. Worse, his glasses kept trying to fog up as he panted. Soon he was pelting through
a world he could only half see, his arms and legs scything as he tried to keep his balance. Roots snatched at his feet and
his pant legs, and rocks threatened to turn underfoot, but Faruk managed to stay upright. If Omar was having the same
difficulties he wasn’t showing them. The boy’s legs pumped, his rifle moving almost like an oar as he raced back the way
they’d come. Both of them were pouring sweat by the time the downed helicopter came back into sight.

Late Bloomer 15
 As they crashed down the hill, racing the fading light to the heap of twisted metal, Ibrahim peered out at them. Faruk
wanted to shout at him, to tell him to shoot whatever it was that was following them, but he didn’t have the breath for it.
He tried to concentrate on running as he built up momentum. He and Omar hit the ground almost in unison, putting
on a last burst of speed as they all but flung themselves into the remnants of the broken helicopter.
Faruk lay on the cold grating, his face pressed against the twisted metal as breath tore in and out of his lungs. His
veins were on fire, and his heart was beating so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything. As his pulse slowed, and
the darkness edged back from his field of vision, he heard Omar gagging, trying to get his own breathing under control.
What he didn’t hear was the harsh, staccato chatter of Ibrahim’s weapon. When Faruk found the strength to look up
he saw the bearded man staring down at him, his rifle slung casually to one side. Ibrahim stepped forward, and kicked

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Faruk in the stomach hard enough to expel whatever breath he’d managed to regain.
“Well?” he growled. “What happened?”
“It killed him,” Omar sobbed in between rasping breaths. “It tore him to pieces. Why didn’t you shoot it?”
“Shoot what?” Ibrahim demanded, rounding on Omar. “All I saw were you two idiots trying to break your necks on

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the rocks.”
Faruk clutched his stomach, turning to look back the way they’d come. At first he saw nothing but the night coming
down, settling over the valley like a dark blanket. As he stared, movement caught his eye. He blinked, frowning. His
glasses were still smudged, and had fog clinging to them, but even that couldn’t account for what Faruk saw. It was some
kind of animal, but that was as far as his conscious mind could understand it. The head was lupine, with a thick ruff of
fur that stood out almost like a lion’s mane, but it didn’t look right. The teeth were too big, and the jaw too long, more
like a child’s nightmare of a wolf than any real creature. The thing stood, and that was when Faruk realized it had the
hind legs of a beast, and a twisted parody of a man’s torso. Muscles rippled with raw, primal power, and as the last of the
light bled out Faruk could see the creature’s silvery pelt was streaked with patches of dark crimson. As it moved, Faruk

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felt himself fall away, the image spider-webbing as his head dropped onto the metal grating. Just before the fog claimed
him he realized he’d broken his glasses.

* * *
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Omar saw Faruk’s head fall, and he turned to see where he’d been looking. When he saw the creature running at
them out of the night, Omar jerked his rifle around and fired. The bullets dragged a bloody groove through the creature’s
shoulder, and it barked something that sounded almost like a laugh. Ibrahim wheeled, his finger already on the trigger
and his rifle spitting hot lead. The round cut through empty air, and the monster dropped onto its clawed hands, loping
at them with its head down.
m

Ibrahim’s rifle jammed, but he didn’t seem capable of tearing his eyes away from the onrushing horror. He just stared
at it, like an animal caught in the flashing head lamps of a vehicle. Omar screamed at Ibrahim to move, and give him a
clear shot, but he just stood there, his brows drawing down like a sleepwalking man who wasn’t quite awake yet, but who
knew he wasn’t in his bed. The creature hit him like a truck, slamming Ibrahim to the ground.
Part of Omar knew Ibrahim was dead, but he jerked the bolt, raised his rifle, and fired again. In the narrow confines
the report was deafening, and the bullet ripped through the creature with enough force to snap it up from its victim.
Blood fountained as its teeth ripped out of Ibrahim’s neck, leaving the man twitching on the ground. Omar found
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himself staring into a pair of icy blue eyes that pinned him in place as surely as if he’d been a bug on a collector’s board.
The monster stood, filling the gutted interior of the helicopter as it took slow, deliberate steps toward Omar. Its mouth
moved, and sounds that almost sounded like words came from its fanged maw.
Omar fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded. He watched as the bullets punched through the creature’s chest, its
stomach, and its outstretched hands. Blood and fur flew, spattering the inside of the wreckage as Omar screamed a war cry
filled with rage and terror. Then he pulled the trigger again, and all he got was a hollow click. He worked the bolt, sweaty
fingers slipping on the metal, but all that came was another click. He threw the gun aside, baring his teeth as he stared up
at the monster. The creature looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to grasp what it was staring at. It sniffed, like
it was trying to remember his scent. Then it raised one bloody hand, and made a growling, coughing sound in its throat.
“Stop,” it said. Omar felt his mouth falling open. The fact that this thing, whatever it was, could utter even a single
word in Farsi was like a splash of cold water in his face.

16 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 The creature half fell to one side, grunting. It coughed, spitting a thick glob of bloody flesh onto the floor at Omar’s
feet. The monstrosity closed its eyes, and every instinct Omar had told him to run. To break out into the open air and
find somewhere small that this thing couldn’t follow him. He could no more have done that than he could have conjured
bullets from the air, though. The thing’s muscles bulged, bunching as they flexed… and it began to shrink. The creature,
whatever it was, drew into itself like a man putting on an unfamiliar suit of clothes. Its silvery fur grew thin, receding
from sun-tanned skin. The massive claws pulled back in, melting away into fingernails, the distended paws becoming
hands again. The beast’s snarling raised in pitch, becoming a very human-like groan of pain. Omar could scarcely breathe,
watching as the naked man fell to his hands and knees, shuddering as his skin pebbled in the evening chill. When he
looked up, Omar saw he was young, but that the eyes were still the same.

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“I am sorry,” the man said, still speaking Omar’s language. He swallowed, turned his head, and spit out what looked
like a chunk of tooth. It rattled and bounced along the grating. “It was my first time.”
“What are you?” Omar asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
The man stared at Omar, as if he hadn’t heard him correctly. Then he laughed. It was a quiet sound at first, but it

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grew in volume until he was shaking with the force of it. Gasping, holding his ribs, he glanced behind him. Faruk was
starting to shift, as if coming awake from a dream, and the soldier with the hurt leg was groaning, his hands pawing at
his splint as wakefulness returned to him.
“Would you help me find some clothes? I’d rather not freeze to death out here after everything that’s happened.”
“There were some blankets in one of the crates outside?” Omar said, pointing toward the hole in the wreckage.
“That’s a start,” he said. The man stood, and offered a hand to Omar. “My name is Hannibal.”
“Omar,” Omar said, taking his hand and allowing the man to pull him up.
“Well, Omar,” he said, picking up Faruk’s pistol from where it had fallen as he made his way through the debris.
“Unless I miss my guess, you are far more unique than you know. Which means that you and I are going to have a long

“What about?” Omar asked. e

talk before we leave the mountains.”

Hannibal laughed again. It was a strong sound, and it made Omar smile almost despite himself. Hannibal drew one
of the blankets out of the crate and wrapped it around himself. It was silly, but Omar thought it made him look like a
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painting of the old kings, with their hard eyes and chiseled chins.
“Patience, my young friend,” Hannibal said. “As my mother tried to tell me, all good things come to those who wait.”
m
Sa

Late Bloomer 17
Sa
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 Bones

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By Esteban Colon

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George opened the guitar case and pulled out a piece of old, yellowed paper. He could barely make out the faded
song lyrics, the ones speaking of love lost and a desire to live in the past. They spoke of the same feelings described in a
million better songs, but somehow more vague, with less self or soul. George couldn’t help but smile. Here he was staring
at the personal effects of a dead man, the sorts of things people trembled to share about themselves, and all he’d learned
was that the man wrote derivative songs without ever learning how to put any of himself into it.
Part of him wanted to tease his brother Rafael about how he ‘finally discovered where Raf had gotten his writing
m

skills from,’ but Raf had failed to show up. George had been looking forward to seeing both of his brothers, despite the
circumstances. He stood up slowly. He was a built like a bowling ball, and being in the closet of his dead father’s apart-
ment didn’t give him much room to maneuver.
“George, what’s in the closet?” Emilio called out from the nearby living room. His voice was slightly more somber
than normal. As the oldest of the brothers, he ‘d gotten to know their father best. George paused to answer, almost not
recognizing the question without the random ribbing normally flowed from his older brother. Emilio was the sort to say
something like ‘George, what’s in the closet, besides you?’ or ‘George, can you see what’s in the closet, or are you too big
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to fit?’ Then they would laugh, together, in the way of brothers. But not today. Not with so many of their father’s things
to go through.
“I found his guitar,” George called back. “It was under that old replica sword.” He didn’t want to share the terrible
songs he found. Emilio was years older than George and actually remembered their father. If he found out there were
songs, Emilio would suggest they go to George anyway, hoping that they would convey some spirit of the old man to him,
and because George was always the artsy one of the boys. He’d take them anyway, maybe give them a reread in a week
or so, and discreetly get rid of them.
George walked out of the closet with the acoustic guitar. His short, thick legs and round belly made him look one
well-groomed mustache and a sombrero away from being a mariachi. George would be the first to point out that he wasn’t
Mexican, but he was also the most likely of his brothers to be mistaken for Mexican. The Puerto Rican blood running
through their veins left the oldest brother Emilio very dark skinned, and his other brother Rafael exceptionally light skinned.
“We should call Raffy,” George offered.

Bones 19
 Emilio walked to the far side of one couch and set his pistol on the nearby table. George couldn’t remember his
brother going anywhere without a firearm.
“Or you could get your fat ass over here and help me with this couch.” Emilio said it with a smile, and George was
quick to head over and help his older brother move the couch, but it was the wrong smile. Emilio had a smile that couldn’t
help but cross his lips when he was having fun at your expense, and he had another, tighter smile that he used to hide his
worry and his pain. This smile was the second kind. Most people couldn’t tell the two apart, but brothers are brothers.
“I haven’t seen or heard from Raffy since dad died, and he was as close to dad as you were,” George said, ignoring
Emilio’s attempt to change the topic, even as they carried the couch down the narrow stairs. “Wasn’t he supposed to be
here helping us out today?”

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Emilio said something about concentrating on the couch, but the two of them had moved more than their share of
furniture. George sat in his silence, letting it fill with the sweat of adult brothers carrying a sofa through awkward turns
until it weighed even more heavily on the moment.
Emilio looked over at George. “Dad,” Emilio paused. His brother knew George had never had more than a passing

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curiosity about their father. Emilio probably didn’t want to push them further apart, especially now that they’d never
have a chance to grow closer. He continued anyway.
“I’m pretty sure I know why Raffy’s not here. Dad, belonged to one of those secret society things, and Raffy does
too. I know I said he had a heart attack, but he didn’t, and if I say any more than that, they’ll know you know and you
won’t be . . .” Emilio paused to find the right word. “. . . free of the whole thing. It’s not the mafia, but it’s like the mafia.
If you’re in, you’re always in, and if you’re not, you can do whatever you want without them asking favors, or worse.”
George shifted his weight and began to smile. Only his eyes showed his feelings of betrayal.
“Fuck you!” He said before throwing his arms up in the air and marching towards his car.
“GEORGE!” Emilio yelled out, chasing after him, which wasn’t like Emilio. He was the sort to let you walk off, deal

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with your emotions, then return. George didn’t bother turning around, too angry to honor the communication, only to
get speared to the ground from behind.
Emilio was the sort to tackle on short notice.
“I can’t believe I didn’t expect you’d do that,” George groaned out, face-down.
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Emilio began to stand up, offering his little brother a hand, “I can’t believe you didn’t expect that either. I’m serious.
I need your help.”
Soon they were back upstairs in the small apartment. George was hungry for what Emilio was about to share. It was
the only thing that kept him there, and kept his real fear at bay. The idea of ending up in a similar apartment, devoid of
decoration, or personality, of dwelling in an almost-living embodiment of meaning nothing to no one, would have been
too horrible otherwise.
m

“Dad was a lot healthier than he let on, and he asked me to house sit the place for him right before he died. He’s
never asked me to house sit for him in my entire life. The place was just like this, except, I took his books home to look
through them. They were all crosswords and stuff. I keep thinking that maybe he wanted me to know something or find
something, but I haven’t been able to. I figured, you obsess over dumb shit, you might be able to look through his stuff
and find something I didn’t.”
The sane response would have been to go home, maybe offer his older brother the number of a therapist, and maybe
call Raffy to see if their father’s death was making him a little crazy too, but Emilio was scared. Emilio never let anyone
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see him scared. He had always been too proud. Pride had always been a bit thick in their family. George nodded.

* * *

Rafael tore his shirt off and tossed it aside. Rafael was always losing his shirt. He had never been the sort to pull his
top off to show his abs, or to flex when pointing something out, he had just been so comfortable in a t-shirt and boxers,
or just boxers, that he didn’t think about other clothes until he had to put them on. He’d live his whole life in his boxers
if he could. Not an option today. Today, Rafael had arrived in a shirt, a button-up, freshly ironed. The tie still clung to
his neck, but it was much looser than it had been before. Instead of a shirt, he now wore the fresh claw marks above his
ribs like a red vest, slowly stretching towards his belt.
He took one step back to help with his balance. He threw his hair back with a flick of his neck and looked into the
eyes of his assailant.

20 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 “That tickled,” he offered, despite his own heavy breathing. The room didn’t look much better than he did. When
he’d caught Daniel and used his own momentum to flip him across the room, the flying body had snagged on the old
couch and ripped one of the arms away. Turnabout was fair play, and Daniel had caught him by the leg mid-kick, only
to slam him into the metal frame of the couch. Rafael had destroyed the table knocking Daniel over with a schoolyard
rush. When Daniel transformed into a nine-foot nightmare of teeth and claws, he’d grabbed the loveseat and used it like
a makeshift club. With his first missed attack, he’d pounded the desk by the window into splinters. The second swipe
only caught Rafael a glancing blow, but the wounds bled profusely.
If anyone was there to watch what was going on, they’d assume this wasn’t a good moment, but Rafael began laughing.
The laughter deepened. Then the sound pulled further into his throat till it finally fell into his chest, exploding through

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a massive set of vocal chords that were as much wolf as man.

* * *

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“Ok, so, no bullshit, Dad didn’t die from a heart attack,” Emilio said, taking a serious moment with his little brother.
George waited, looking into his brother’s eyes. He was half convinced this was a joke too terrible for even Emilio, but
waited one second, three seconds, ten seconds in complete silence before accepting it.
“So, what exactly?” George began. “He died working for this secret gang, mafia…thing?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Like what, gang or mafia? I mean he was too old to be on some real gang shit.”
“Neither of them—”
“But it was the sorta thing he couldn’t let anyone know about, right?”
“Right.”
“Like a cult.”
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“He wasn’t in any sort of cult.”
“He sure as hell wasn’t FBI or something like that.”
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“Shut up,” Emilio exploded, “for fuck’s sake. Let me explain.” George crossed his arms, waiting. “Dad was part of a
spiritual eco-friendly group—”
“So, an earth cult?” George interjected again.
“No! No, well . . . no.” Emilio sighed. “You remember how Raffy and I used to fight all the time, then we finally
stopped?”
George nodded. He remembered this well. It was before Rafael moved out but was marked with months of strange
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tension between the two that no one spoke of. This was the first time Emilio had mentioned it, and he’d never been the
sort to address hard truths.
“Yeah,” George offered, like an invitation for his brother to continue.
“He’s a werewolf.”
“Goddamnit,” George interrupted, throwing his arms up. “I really fucking believed you there.” Before he could say
more, Emilio lifted his shirt to reveal five massive scars down his gut. It looked like the claw marks of a saber-toothed
tiger. There was nothing on this planet with claws that big. George immediately shut up.
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“That one time we got into a fight so bad that mom sent me off to Dad’s and Raffy went to the hospital? None of
that actually happened. What happened was that he turned into a werewolf and tore me open. I went to the hospital
and mom told me that we were from a family of werewolves, that dad was one, that they’d teach Raffy how not to hurt
anyone on accident again.”
“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me anything!” George rose up, eyes heavy and wet with a thick layer of conflicting
emotions and betrayals. His fists clenched and unclenched as he began to pace, legs needing to move.
“I was always bigger,” Emilio began, “Raffy figured you wouldn’t believe it if we told you I was the one in the hospital.”
“I always thought you stopped taking your shirt off because you started getting a gut,” George blurted out, still pacing.
He laughed.
“Hey!” Emilio laughed too. “The point is, that werewolves exist. Dad was one, that Raffy is one. Something happened
to dad, Raffy came here to check it last night, and disappeared. Even his werewolf friends don’t know where he went.”
George looked back at Emilio, and the worry and fear in his brother’s eyes. His face hardened, and he took off his shirt.

Bones 21
 * * *

Rafael crashed into the wall and stretched his arm out, grabbing the nearby nail gun on the ground to pin his guts
back into his body long enough for him to get back into the fight. The entirety of his life was one fight or another. As
soon as he and Emilio had been walking, they were trading punches. While Rafael was quick to make friends, he was
much slower to tie himself to anything he didn’t believe in. This offended the gangs, and led to a variety of ass kickings.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to fight. It was more that Rafael was gifted with the ability to bounce back quickly, and
an inability to know how much of a bite he could chew. This twisted werewolf in the room with him, this collection of fur

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and fangs, all scales and decaying stench, fought with the sort of brute force as Emilio. It was something he was familiar
with. He might be used to it, but as the fight continued, it seemed to be something he was slowly being outclassed by.
Daniel roared out a burst of flame. Rafael was waiting for that, and dodged underneath the spray to spear Daniel
through the wall and into the next room. Rafael stood up with a bit of Daniel’s torso in his teeth. While it wasn’t the

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smartest fighting technique for someone Rafael’s size, he was quite a fan of going tit for tat.
“How’d that feel,” Rafael asked with a smirk, seeing Daniel’s digestive tract struggling to stay inside of him.
Daniel burped out a green sulfuric bubble.
“It tickled.”
Rafael used that moment to rake out the beast’s eyes. He knew it’d regrow them soon enough, but he needed every
advantage available to him considering how the fight had been going. Daniel swung his massive arms wildly, knowing
that Rafael wouldn’t let the fight reach outside where normal people might see it, knowing that in such a small room,
there was no way that his nails wouldn’t dig into Rafael, and they did. Rafael howled.

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Rafael fell to his hands and knees, letting his body parts crack and twist again, till he became a massive dire wolf,
something much closer in size to a fur covered hipopotomus than a dog. He wrapped his maw around Daniel’s waist,
drawing blood and cracking bone as he bit, then bit again, then bit again, shaking and twisting his thick skull.
Daniel clawed Rafael’s back but now it was a battle of attrition and Rafael had always won those. It was as if his body
was created to suffer, and sustain more suffering. He flung his head side-to-side, his vision starting to blur. He could taste
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Daniel’s bone marrow. He could also feel Daniel’s claws tearing into his own.

* * *

George walked around the place again, posture straightened. He looked at a spot on the wall for a moment. Emilio
watched, trying to figure out what was going on. George walked into their father’s old bedroom and started looking around.
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“Hey, titties. Why’d you take off your shirt?” Emilio picked up his pistol and put it back on his waist as he followed
his little brother. George didn’t answer. He stared into the closet before reaching in and pulling out a replica sword in
its sheath. He drew the sword and looked at it. A small piece of paper fluttered to the ground. George picked it up, and
tilted his head at the gibberish that appeared to be written on it before showing it to Emilio.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Emilio took the sheet, voice filled with awe. “It’s written in code, symbols they use, mixed with Spanish.” George let
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his brother keep it. Emilio knew Spanish, but his own grasp on the tongue was as limited as a foul-mouthed toddler’s.
Emilio looked up at George confused as George started putting his shirt back on. “How did you know dad hid a
message in this sword’s sheath? You barely knew him.”
“I had no idea where dad would want to hide things, but I figured if he and Raffy were working for the same guys
then he’d have left something for Raffy to find him in case things went wrong,” George responded.
Emilio let out a short laugh. He knew there had to be something informative around here and was hoping that
George might stumble across it on accident, but never imagined it would happen so quickly.
“I mean, once the shirt was off, I could think like Raffy and when have you ever known our brother to pass up a
chance to play with a sword?” George clarified.
The two of them had a laugh until Emilio finished deciphering the note, then put in a quick text.
“We’ve got to go. Now.”

22 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 * * *

Rafael blinked, trying to figure out how much time had passed. He struggled to get his feet under himself. If he was
just waking up, there was every chance Daniel got the best of him. He realized his arms and legs had been bound, which
confirmed the suspicion. His head swam around as if he were drunk. He couldn’t see anything, which meant he’d either
been knocked blind or he was confined somewhere dark. Rafael closed his eyes and attempted to shift into a wolf, but it
was too hard to concentrate.
“Alright Raf, think,” he whispered to himself. He was on his side and the area was cramped. The rumbling meant
he was moving; it was another trunk. Rafael had spent many of his teenage years riding in trunks or on the tops of cars.

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It was a familiar feeling. He reached his foot up to see if they had made the mistake of not removing the emergency latch
release. They hadn’t.
This was alright. The break in the action was giving Rafael a little time to think. His mind fell back to earlier in the
day. He’d meant to surprise his brothers by coming into town and helping them take care of their father’s things.

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“Shit,” he let out like half a sob. He’d been moving so fast, he hadn’t let himself process his father’s passing. He hadn’t
let himself wonder why his father would have left a note for him, a less experienced werewolf, if he knew this was the sort
of thing that might kill them.
“You found a note with some addresses on it and didn’t bother to think,” he whispered. “You just rushed in.
Like you always do.” Rafael had always thought better out loud. He could never figure out how that worked, but his little
brother would make fun of him whenever it came up.
There was a loud sound and gravity shifted. His whole body bounced off the metal side of the trunk. The sound of
screeching steel filled the air around him. The car then heaved violently, as if it were going to flip on him. Rafael laughed.
He’d fought spirits and evil werewolves. He’d been shot and stabbed and had his guts ripped out, and now he was
going to die in a car accident.”
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“What the fuck!” Emilio yelled, holding onto the emergency handle in the passenger seat.
“I know what I’m doing.” George tried to project confidence, but he could tell Emilio knew he was lying. “I’m telling
you.” George swung the steering wheel towards his brother so quickly the car threatened to leave the ground and dance
in the air, till their bodies spun like maple seeds falling towards the earth, before cranking it in the opposite direction and
sending their car into violent contact with the car next to it. This was a first for George. It wasn’t the first accident he’d
been a part of, but it was the first one he’d caused. Lot of firsts going on, it seemed.
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What he hadn’t told his freaking out, screaming older brother when the vehicle was approaching them, was that he’d
recognized one of the license plate numbers Emilio’s contact had told them to look out for. He hadn’t told Emilio that they
were driving down the main road that would have led to the third location on the list they had uncovered from the sheath
of their father’s prop sword. George didn’t mention that it turned with them twice on the way towards the second location.
He slowed down slightly, as the other car veered drunkenly in front of them, trying to remember the way that cops
on TV hit cars near the rear to get the driver to lose control. He figured it was worth a try when Emilio pulled his head
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down. Glass shattered as thunderous gunfire rang in their ears. Perhaps George wouldn’t have to tell Emilio that they’d
found the bad guys after all.
“Fuck these guys, ram ‘em.” Emilio spit out, finally on board with what was going on. George slowly raised his
head, one arm up as if that would block any flying glass from embedding itself into his eyes.
“Here we go,” he whispered to himself, and tried smacking the back of the car. The car he smashed into fishtailed into
a pole, skidded sideways for a moment, the passenger side raising into the air before the driver regained control.
Emilio pulled out his pistol and shot through the back window, hitting the passenger with the gun. They cheered for
a moment, before the trunk of the car flew off and revealed a nine-foot man-wolf monstrosity with a cluster of hypodermic
needles sticking into its back like the quills of a porcupine.
“Holy shit!” George screamed as the massive wolf man looked him directly in the eyes, then tilted his head.
“That’s—” Emilio began before he was cut off by George screaming. The wolf man’s response was to immediately jump
towards the car and George had no intention of letting him make contact. He swerved out of the way and hit the gas as
the werewolf bounced down the road, body twisting and turning from the violent impact.
Bones 23
 “Stop!” Emilio yelled and hit him on the arm. “You gotta stop!”
“Did you see that thing, why the fuck am I going to stop, and I think we’re losing the bad guys and how are we going
to find Raffy if we don’t follow them,” George yelled without listening to anything Emilio was saying.
“Stop this goddamn car, I can’t believe you let him smash into the street, I swear to God I should have let them shoot
you.” Emilio gestured behind them like George was a moron and somehow missed the giant monster. “That is Raf!”
George slammed on the brakes and stared at his brother.
“That’s Raf,” Emilio repeated, hoping to get through to his younger brother. Emilio realized he was still holding his
gun and put it away.
“I remember,” George stammered, nodding. “You said?”

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“That’s Raf,” Emilio repeated. George tried to focus. “That werewolf.”
“You said…”
“He was a werewolf,” Emilio said.
George shrugged, and put the car in reverse. By the time he looked into the rearview, Rafael sat at the side of the

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road, bare-chested and holding his head.
Emilio opened the door. “Get your shirtless ass in the car.”
Rafeal smiled and slowly climbed to his feet. “How the hell did you two find me?” He slid into the backseat, together
with his brothers for the first time in a long time.
“I took off my shirt,” George offered with a laugh.

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24 TALES FROM THE MOOT

 Shaggy Dog
Story

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By Brendan Detzner
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I answer the phone, and it’s his voice. He doesn’t have to announce himself; I know who it is. I’d known who it was
the first time I’d heard him speak six years ago, far from home, out in the woods in the middle of a pitch-black night. I
know that voice now.
“Come home.”
No need for passwords or codes. I know exactly who’s talking, and what he means, and as often as I hate his guts,
which is often, I know that he would never betray me. The idea that there’s someone holding a phone to my father’s ear
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with one hand and a gun to his head with the other is just silly. It’s ridiculous enough already, just picturing him talking
on the phone. I can imagine the poor soul who had the job of pressing the buttons on the evil Weaver-box, putting it on
speaker and pushing it as close to the big bossman as they dared, hoping they wouldn’t lose a hand.
I haven’t known him for very long, but I know his voice counts for something, and the words he chooses even more
so. He didn’t say ‘be careful.’ He didn’t say ‘me and the boys have been talking and we’ve got a few things we’d like you to
think about.’ He didn’t say ‘start wrapping things up.’ He told me to get the fuck out of here. That means now.
It’s a tradition in all human societies to celebrate transitions. You’ve got your graduation parties, your birthdays, your
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quinces, your b’nei mitzvah, the gathering at the bar to celebrate when the big deal gets closed or the job is quit or the
job is gotten. I’ve been living in this shitty apartment for a year under an assumed name. It’s been a time of my life. My
transition from this whole way of being to whatever comes next is the two minutes it takes for me to throw on a pair of
jeans, tie my shoes, and grab my jacket and duffel bag on my way out.
As I’m closing the front door behind me, I’m mostly going over my exit, making sure I’ve got the whole plan laid
out in my head and hoping that I haven’t forgotten anything. While I’m doing that, I’m also devoting a little bit of space
backstage to wondering what it is that’s happened. Maybe I made a mistake, maybe some kind of new threat has revealed
itself, maybe someone decided that I was useless where I was and they might as well bring the whole thing to a close.
So I’m thinking about two things at once, and that’s one too many. I snap out of it just in time, realize what I’m doing,
and try to focus before I leave my building. Calling it good timing is giving myself too much credit. I get lucky.
I cast my magic spell. That’s still how I think about it, no matter how much effort has gone into teaching me different.
For the last year, I’ve kept to the physical form that I was born in. I haven’t ventured into the spiritual world, not that I’m

Shaggy Dog Story 25