Derek Brown pulled into the driveway of his mother’s house on Oleander Street at three-fifteen on a Sunday afternoon, and as he got out, he made a mental note to clean up the protein shake he’d spilled on the passenger seat two days ago. He’d been back in Bayou Mounds for six weeks now, freshly discharged after two tours in the Middle East. The Army had given him a rifle and taught him how to kill people. Now he was trading it for textbooks and a cybersecurity degree at Bayou Mounds University.

  His mother, Dr. Sheryl Brown, had insisted he move back home during terminal leave. Derek hadn’t argued. The transition from Baghdad firefights to college orientation packets was giving him whiplash, and having someone cook actual meals instead of microwaved ramen made the adjustment easier.

  He grabbed his gym bag and walked inside. The AC was running, the house cool and quiet. Sheryl’s white coat hung on the hook by the door. Her shift at Bayou Mounds Regional Hospital usually ran until six, but lately the ER had been sending people home early. Budget cuts, she’d said. Too many administrators, not enough money for the people actually doing the work.

  Derek dropped his bag in his room and checked his phone. Three missed calls from his cousin Karen. He’d call her back later. Right now, he wanted a shower and whatever leftovers were in the fridge.

  His phone buzzed. Mum.

  “Hey. You home?”

  “Just got in. What’s up?”

  “I’m leaving work early. When I get there, we’re cleaning that yard. I’m tired of pulling up and seeing a jungle.”

  Derek looked out the front window. The grass was ankle-high, weeds pushing through the flower beds. She wasn’t wrong.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  By the time Sheryl pulled into the driveway, Derek had already dragged the mower out of the garage and was checking the oil. She stepped out of her car wearing scrubs and an N95 mask, the kind everyone had been wearing since the explosion. The city was still under an air quality advisory a month later, though most people had stopped caring. Derek had stopped wearing his mask after week two.

  Sheryl grabbed a broom from the garage and started sweeping the driveway, mask still covering her nose and mouth. The afternoon sun beat down on them, turning the concrete into a griddle. Derek started the mower. The engine coughed twice before roaring to life, drowning out the neighborhood sounds.

  “Where’s your mask?” Sheryl called over the noise.

  “I’m fine. You’re fine.”

  “Derek.”

  “Alright, alright.” He killed the engine. “There’s a pack inside?”

  “Kitchen table.”

  He went inside, grabbed a mask from the box, and pulled it on. He didn’t like it; it smelled like synthetic fiber and made his face sweat. He walked back outside and restarted the mower, pushing it through the overgrown grass in long, even rows. Clippings sprayed out the side, sticking to his legs. They worked for two hours. By the time they finished, the yard looked like something people actually lived in. Sheryl stood on the front steps, surveying the work, mask pulled down around her chin.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. You usually half-do things.”

  Derek laughed. “That’s not true.”

  “The bathroom sink says otherwise.”

  They went inside. Sheryl showered first while Derek started dinner. Red beans and rice, a Sunday tradition that had survived his deployment and her rotating shifts at the hospital. By the time she came back out, hair wrapped in a towel, the food was done. They ate at the kitchen table, plates scraped clean, conversation light. Outside, sirens echoed through the streets, faint but constant.

  Two months after the explosion, Bayou Mounds still hadn’t returned to normal. The air quality advisory remained in effect, though the news had stopped covering it. Construction crews worked around the clock on the damaged sections of the facility, floodlights turning night into artificial day. And the attacks had started.

  Three so far. All blamed on wild animals. Coyotes, the police said. Maybe a pack of feral dogs.

  Derek wasn’t so sure. He’d seen what dogs did to people in Iraq. This was different.

  But he kept his mouth shut. He had enough on his plate. Enrollment at BMU was finalized. Classes start in two weeks. He’d picked up a part-time gig doing network security audits for a local firm, just enough to keep money coming in while he adjusted to civilian life.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Monday night, Derek sat on the couch watching football, volume low, half-paying attention. The Saints were getting destroyed by Tampa Bay. He heard the garage door open. Sheryl walked in, kicked off her heels, and dropped her bag by the door.

  “How was today’s run?” she asked.

  “Could’ve been better. My prep was trash.”

  “Oh, stop it. You always say that.”

  “Because it’s always true.”

  She smiled, tired. “I’m taking a shower.”

  Derek turned back to the game. The Saints threw an interception. He groaned and pulled out his phone, scrolling through Twitter complaints from other fans. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

  Then he heard it.

  A low sniff. Wet. Rhythmic.

  He muted the TV and listened. The sound came from down the hallway, near Sheryl’s room. Derek stood and walked to the hallway.

  “Mom?”

  No response. Just the sniffing, moving from room to room. He stepped into the hallway and froze.

  Sheryl was on all fours, crawling across the hardwood floor. Her spine was arched, head raised, nostrils flared. She moved like something hunting, sniffing the air near the dresser, the closet, the baseboards.

  “Mom?”

  Then she stopped. Her body went rigid. A tremor ran through her shoulders. She blinked once, twice, and stood up as if nothing had happened.

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “You were just…” Derek gestured at the floor. “Crawling.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom, you were on your hands and knees, sniffing the floor like a dog.”

  Her expression shifted. Confusion, then irritation. “I was looking for my earring.”

  “On all fours?”

  “It rolled under something. I don’t know, Derek. I’m tired. I’m weird, no judgment.” She walked past him toward her room. “Go back to your game.”

  The door closed. Derek stood in the hallway for another minute, staring at the spot where she’d been. Then he went back to the couch and unmuted the TV. The Saints were down by three touchdowns.

  “Hopeless.” He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until he drifted into sleep.

  The headline hit his phone before he finished breakfast.

  Mother of Four Found Dismembered in South Winds Park

  Derek clicked the link. The article was sparse on details. Authorities believed wild animals were responsible—coyotes or feral dogs. The victim had been jogging at dawn. Her body was discovered by another runner an hour later.

  Derek set his phone down and finished his eggs. The park was three miles from their house. He’d run there a dozen times since coming home.

  He pulled on a BMU hoodie and drove to campus to finalize his class schedule. The enrollment office was packed with freshmen asking the same five questions over and over. By the time Derek got out, it was past noon. He grabbed lunch at a food truck near the student union and drove home.

  Sheryl’s car was in the driveway when he arrived. He walked inside. She was sitting at the kitchen table, still in her scrubs, staring at her phone.

  “You okay?” Derek asked.

  “Long day.” She didn’t look up. “Multiple fatalities.”

  “I saw the news. That woman in the park.”

  “Yeah. She came through the ER before they called it. Nothing we could do.” Sheryl set her phone down. “They’re saying it was dogs.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  She stood and walked to her room without another word. Derek heard the shower start. He sat on the couch and turned on the TV. Some cooking show. He wasn’t paying attention.

  Ten minutes later, Sheryl walked out wearing her scrub top and underwear. She dropped to her hands and knees and started crawling again, sniffing the air in long, deliberate pulls. Her movements were fluid, like she’d done this a thousand times.

  Derek stood. “Mom. Not this again.”

  She didn’t respond. Just kept crawling, circling the couch, moving toward the hallway. Her fingers flexed against the tile, nails scraping.

  “Mom!”

  She stopped. Turned her head toward him. Her eyes were different. Unfocused. Vacant.

  Then she blinked and stood up, confusion flashing across her face. She walked back to her room without a word. The door closed.

  Derek waited. Five seconds. Ten.

  Then came the crash.

  Wood splintered. Something heavy hit the floor with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the wall. Derek ran to her door and threw it open.

  The dresser was facedown, drawers split open, clothes scattered everywhere. The bathroom door was closed, and water was running.

  “Mom!”

  From behind the door came a sound that made his skin crawl. A roar. Deep. Guttural. Somewhere between a lion and something human trying to scream through a mouthful of broken glass.

  “Mom!” Derek shouted, rushing in.

  The water shut off. Her voice came back, raw and irritated. “I’ll pick it up!”

  “You can’t lift that by yourself.”

  The growl came again, vibrating through the door, rattling the hinges. Derek stepped back. His hand went to his pocket, feeling for his keys.

  “Derek, get out.” Sheryl’s voice was strained, barely recognizable. “Get out now.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed his jacket, his wallet, his keys, and walked out the front door. Got in his truck. Started the engine.

  Sheryl stood in the bathroom, hands gripping the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Sweat dripped from her hairline. Her pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the brown of her irises.

  Her skin felt too tight. Like something underneath was trying to push through, trying to reshape her from the inside out.

  She turned on the cold water and splashed her face. It didn’t help. The heat in her chest was building, spreading outward through her limbs, into her fingertips, down to her toes.

  Her jaw ached. She opened her mouth and felt along her gums. Everything felt wrong. The smell of everything was sharper.

  She looked at her hands. Her fingers were longer than they should be. Nails are darker and thicker.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

  The heat intensified. Her spine arched involuntarily, vertebrae popping one by one. She dropped to her knees, hands slamming into the tile. The grout cracked under the impact.

  Bones shifted beneath her skin, visible through the fabric of her scrub top. Her shoulders broadened. Muscle swelled along her arms, thick and corded. Fur began to sprout in patches along her forearms, dark and coarse.

  Sheryl gasped. Tried to scream.

  What came out was a growl.

  Her jaw unhinged with a sickening crunch. She felt her teeth fall out, replaced instantly by fangs that pushed through her gums with wet pops. Her face pushed forward, nose and mouth merging into something animal. Her skull restructured with sounds like meat being torn off bone.

  When it was over, she wasn’t human anymore.

  What stood in the bathroom was eight feet tall, covered in black fur, with yellow eyes that glowed. Claws scraped against the tile as she moved, testing her new body, feeling the power coiled in every muscle.