Unnamed (As of Now) - A Warm Welcome by Jonathan

Late October…the brilliant reds and oranges of the autumn leaves dulled to a murky brown by the starry night. The only sounds around me are the dull rumble from traffic on the nearby highway and the crunch of dried leaves beneath my converse hi-tops. A light mist was swirling close to the ground, making my feet almost invisible. The only source of light was the full moon, high in the sky.
The wind picked up a little, billowing the tails of my warm, waterproof duster around my legs. Thankfully it kept most of the wind out, I thought to myself. I glanced up, catching sight of the large grove of trees up ahead. Silently I shuddered—that blasted grove of trees (a forest more like), sent a chill down my spine nearly every time I went through it.
I really need to find a better route to walk home, I thought to myself.
I pressed onward anyway, trying my best to look scary and intimidating. I was about halfway though the grove…my intimidation scheme seemed to be working, if there was anything hiding out there.
Snap
My insides froze over. I stopped dead in my tracks and my head jerked in the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from a thick patch of foliage off to my left, but I couldn’t see anything. I swore silently. Going down into a crouch, I reached my gloved hand inside my duster and pulled my trusty semi-auto .380 out of my shoulder holster. Reaching deeper into my duster, I pulled out a long, heavy silencer and screwed it onto the end of my barrel. Pausing for a second longer, I quietly racked the slide, popping the first round into the chamber.
Never hurts to be prepared.
Now moving swiftly and silently, I made my way through the underbrush, careful not to make any noise. As I approached the general area the sound had come from, I felt the nasty squish of mud beneath my sneakers. Crouching down once again, keeping my weapon out in front of me, I studied the muddy ground in the moonlight, and I did not like what I saw.
Tracks.
Wolf Tracks.
Not just any wolf tracks, mind you. These tracks were bigger than my outspread hand. That could only mean one thing.
Werewolf.
Even worse, the tracks were heading the opposite direction I had been heading. Meaning that quite possibly, the fuzzy beastie was standing right behind me.
I hate it when that happens.
I quickly spun around, just catching sight of a pair of glowing green eyes dart back behind the thick trunk of a tree. I don’t know if you have ever seen a Werewolf’s eyes, but let me tell you, they scare the hell out of you. They make you feel like you are a little kid again, seeing scary shapes in your closet, terrified it might be something that will jump out and eat you…only a Werewolf could jump out and eat you.
Even so, I could tell that there was something not-quite-right about this whole situation. Why the hell wasn’t that Werewolf using my femur as a toothpick right now? Werewolves aren’t usually the stalky-type. Well not for long anyway. Usually by the time you get a good look at one, it’s from the inside of its belly. Something was up…and I didn’t like it.
After pondering this for a few seconds, I realized just how terribly right I was. I heard the suppressed thud of a silenced weapon, and dodged off to the right. In mid dodge, the bullet that was supposed to go into my skull slammed through my left shoulder. Damn. Now I had to get my duster cleaned again.
Once I hit the ground, I rolled onto my stomach, hoping I would blend in with the ground if the shooter couldn’t see my pallid face. My left arm was now completely numb, but I knew that the blissful lack of pain would only last so long—especially with me rolling around and such.
Spotting a large tree nearby, I crawled on my belly through the thick loam, putting the massive wooden behemoth between myself and the shooter, who was still firing off random shots in the dark.
Who the hell was this guy? I was so confused! I hadn’t done anything to piss anyone off….recently…that I knew of anyway. Silently I sighed to myself and then took a peek around the corner of the tree.
As the random shots continued to fire, I scanned the woods for signs of a muzzle flash. Then as a bullet thwacked the bark about a foot away from my head, I spotted him. He was about sixty, maybe seventy yards away high up in a tree. Damnit, how in the world was I going to get out of this mess? The shooter was way too far away for me to return fire—not when he had a rifle at least.
My shoulder started throbbing. I knew that I was losing a lot of blood, and needed to take care of this business before he could properly clean it out and dress it. In the meantime, I reached into my duster pocket and pulled out my razor-sharp tactical knife. Using this, I cut off a strip of my shirt and pressed it into the wound. It burned like Hellfire! But I grit my teeth and pushed the pain aside in my mind. Time to get to work. .