All Chapters of werewolves : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

36 Chapters

1 Arrivals

2 St Vincent’s ED

The automatic doors of St Vincent’s Emergency burst open with a hiss as a paramedic pushed in a gurney, his face drawn tight with urgency. He was broad-shouldered, grizzled, eyes tired from nights that never ended. The gurney rattled over tile, cutting through the hum of voices, the far-off sirens, the steady blip of monitors.“Motor vehicle collision!” he barked. “Male, fifties. Cardiac arrest en route—ROSC in the rig. Vitals unstable.”Dr. Kimberly Hall, twenty-six, sharp-eyed and composed, was scanning charts when the commotion reached her. Auburn hair in a neat ponytail, stethoscope hanging like a badge of office and burden, she pivoted and met the team outside Trauma Bay Two.“What have we got?” she said, already falling in beside the moving bed.“Multiple rib fractures—likely left-sided flail segment,” the paramedic said. “Suspected punctured left lung; decreased air entry, tracheal deviation at pickup. Left chest is dull and tight. Shattered femur—mid-shaft. BP trending down. H

3 The Call

The sun had already dipped behind the apartment blocks by the time Jake reached his street. He stood a moment at the gate, taking in the familiar bland façade—white concrete stained with time, cracked sills, hedges gone feral over a low wall. It all looked the same, like nobody had really lived here in years. Maybe nobody had.The name on the plaque still made him wince: Fellatio Heights. A bored developer’s joke from another era. It used to be good for a laugh—until Kimberly moved in and ribbed him about it every time friends visited. Now it just felt stupid. Empty. Another echo of something warm that had gone cold.He climbed the narrow stairwell. The handrail was cold metal under his palm. Bleach and cheap citrus cleaner stung his nose. The light above his door flickered in that same epileptic stutter. He paused, then keyed the lock.The apartment exhaled stale air.Same scuffed timber. Same dented leather couch. The TV remote exactly where it had fallen after a half-hearted argume

4 The Firebird

The dim concrete underbelly of the apartment block—oil stains, fluorescent flicker—hid something out of time.Amid the bland curve of modern sedans and anonymous SUVs, one shape stood apart: a low-slung form under a heavy grey blanket, dust piled thick as if it had slept for years.Jake clattered down the stairs, bootsteps echoing. His eyes found the familiar silhouette tucked deep in the corner.He grinned. “There you are.”He peeled the cover back. Dust swirled in the light like ash from a campfire. Beneath it, a jet-black 1985 Pontiac Firebird emerged—sleek, restored, and somehow still gleaming under months of grime. Midnight paint turned the fluorescents into a noir reflection; the gold pinstripe winked through the dust. Dead centre on the plates: HOT 1.“Hello, beautiful.”His palm skimmed the bonnet—reunion and ritual. He’d rebuilt this car bolt by bolt between deployments, welding steel and sanding down the parts of his life that wouldn’t keep.“Dad’s home.”Hood latch, click, p

5 Operating Theatre Four

As Jake pushed through the automatic doors to St Vincent’s Emergency, a floor above—behind sealed glass and cold white light—Operating Theatre Four thrummed at the edge of catastrophe.The room was a bright, frigid machine. Metal. Monitors. Breath made electric. Sterile drapes framed Tom Michaels, pale beneath the blue, tubes at mouth and arms, chest open under the hands of Dr. Victor Yuen. Beside him, scrubbed and steady, Dr. Kimberly Watkins worked as first assist; her eyes were sharp behind a fogged face shield, voice low and exact.“BP drifting—eighty systolic,” called the anaesthetist, Lindsay, eyes on the waveform. “Heart rate forty-eight and falling. Vent pressures up.”“Activate massive transfusion,” Yuen said, calm over the alarm. “O-neg on pressure. Get me TXA. Noradrenaline up to point-one.”“TXA in,” Lindsay replied. “Norad running. Crossmatched units en route.”Kim lifted a jagged rib fragment with forceps, careful not to shred the torn lung beneath. “Intercostal artery l

6 The Other Patient

A cool amber glow trembled at the top of Jake’s beer glass. The frothy head of Tooheys New danced as he took a slow sip—cold, sharp, the kind of bite that felt like comfort if you didn’t look too closely.Photo albums carpeted the coffee table: bent corners, sun-faded covers, time pressed flat between plastic sleeves. A younger Leslie with baby Jake. Tom at a backyard barbie, tongs raised like a trophy. Beach days. Birthdays. Split knees, patched hearts.A loose photo slid half out. He teased it free.Byron Bay at sunset—Kimberly laughing, auburn hair blown sideways, freckles bright. His arm was around her waist; the other held a melting ice-cream. He couldn’t help the smile that showed up before he could stop it.That had been a good day. No fights. No distance. No weight.What the hell went wrong?It hadn’t been a single blow-up. No betrayal. Just something unspoken creeping in like fog. One day she’d walked out, and he hadn’t followed. He hadn’t even known why.His phone buzzed.PR

7 St Vincent’s

The hospital foyer was a maze of pale-blue uniforms, antiseptic, and the low hum of overworked air-con. Jake cut through the sliding doors, boots ticking on tile. Four lines curled toward triage—ice packs to cheeks, twisted ankles, bloodied hands. The usual chaos, moving unusually fast.He queued behind a man with a shoulder out and scanned the room. His heart thudded—not nerves; urgency.At the desk, an older nurse with a tight grey bob typed without looking up.“Excuse me, I’m looking for Tom Michaels,” Jake said.“Hold on a moment, sir,” she replied, eyes on the screen.Jake leaned in a little. “What about Kimberly Watkins? Nurse—maybe a doctor now?”That made her look up. “Who?”“Kimberly Watkins,” he repeated.“I’m sorry,” she said, tone sharpening. “No one by that name works here.”Jake’s stomach tightened. “Great. Wrong hospital,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. Then—“Wait, what about a John or Jane Doe? Anyone brought in this morning from a car accident?”A sigh, t

8 Jane Wakes

Jake grimaced at the coffee machine, stirring a Nescafé sachet into hot water that smelled like burnt tyres.“Ouch,” he muttered after a sip, wincing.Footsteps. Dr. Kimberly Watkins slid past, eyes on a tablet, lips moving as she read. “It’s impossible to have a heartbeat like that…”“Hey, Kim. Got a moment?” Jake said.She stopped, looked up. He looked wrecked—jet-lagged, strung out, running on fumes.“I thought you’d gone home,” she said.“Mum just left. She’s staying with Mark and the kids.” He lifted the sad cup. “You want one? Black?”AShe eyed the machine like it might bite. “Sure. Thanks.”Jake worked the paper cups and sachets with the ceremony of a field ration.“So… are you back for good?” he asked, handing one over.Kimberly took a cautious sip. It was terrible. It was warm. “Yeah. Feels different this time.”“What are you going to do?”“I don’t know yet.”A scream ripped down the corridor.“Help me! Get these things off me! Help me!”Jake dumped both coffees onto the benc

9 Code in Room 24

Night settled hard over St Vincent’s, the corridors thinner, the air colder.Paperwork for Jane’s temporary discharge sat half complete on a trolley outside Room 24. Inside, Jane thrashed in tangled sheets, a storm brewing behind closed eyes. Her bedside monitor ticked along at 70 bpm—steady, ordinary—then began to climb. The numbers smeared upward. By the time it hit 700, the machine lost its mind and screamed.In her dream, wolves tore beneath a crimson moon. Shadows collided, teeth and claws and breath like smoke. Blood spattered snow. Bones snapped. Gods at war. Jane’s back arched off the mattress. A heel whipped the IV pole. Metal clanged; the saline bag burst with a wet pop. She fought something no one else could see.At the nurses’ station, a shriek ripped through the central monitor. Baz, broad-shouldered and mid–Brendan Fraser rerun, jolted upright. “Shit.! 40 CODE IN ROOM 24!”He dropped his coffee, eyes latching onto the screen. DOE,J. Heart rate: 1000 bpm. He grabbed the r

10 Imaging

St Vincent’s, late night.Jane lay motionless on the flatbed of the CT scanner, arms at her sides. The gantry hummed and drew her inward on polished rails, the motion smooth and retrograde.Behind leaded glass, Dr. Kimberly Watkins watched the bay through the window and on the monitor, finger poised near the talk button.“Just relax, Jane. You’re doing great,” her voice came, warm over the intercom.Foam earplugs. Noise-cancelling headphones. A trickle of ’80s comfort—The Cars, maybe Cyndi Lauper—muffled the sterile hiss. Jane’s eyes stayed closed, face soft in the fluorescent wash.“I’m starting the scan,” Kim said, softer now into the headset. “Stay very still.”The ring began its orbit. A chorus of beeps, clicks, gentle mechanical breaths. On the workstation, thin slices assembled into form: skull, sinuses, mandible; vertebrae like pale coins; lungs expanding in ghostly shades of grey.Kim leaned closer.There—clear as daylight—sat a second set of canines, deep and oversized, crown

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