Tom struggled to keep cool, squeezing a round into the beast's chest, driving it back. It stopped charging, recoiling in pain, howling and snarling ferociously at them. "Here you go, fucker!" Tom said, squeezing the trigger. The gun clicked, its chamber empty.
"Shit!" Tom said, realizing in his hyper-adrenalized state that he'd forgotten to keep track of his ammunition. He patted his pockets, and realized he'd run out of ammo. His mind flashed for a second, realizing the box of shells was still in his wrecked vehicle, far away from where it would be any use to him.
The werewolf howled loudly, rearing up on its hind legs, an undeniable sound of triumph in its feral call. Further down the hallway, more howls could be heard echoing, and they were getting closer. The wounded werewolf backed up; rather than advancing on them, it was blocking their easiest escape route.
"Quit this bullshit about not being a werewolf," Rebecca said, "We need to change; it's our only chance!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Tom replied, "I'm not one of those monsters!"
"Neither am I," she said, "I have control."
"Are you insane?" Tom asked, somehow able to handle how purely surreal the night had become. It was probably just his ability to handle stress. He was a problem solver, and Tom had much more important problems than convincing the stupid bitch that he wasn't a werewolf. Problems like staying alive.
They could see the shadows approaching the other end of the hallway. They were trapped, and without ammo. Two more werewolves emerged at the far end. "Fuck!" Tom said, "How many of these fucking things ARE there?"
Rebecca suddenly moved with an unnatural speed, grabbing him by the wrist with an unnatural force. "In here!" she said, dragging him through a nearby doorway.
"What the?" he asked as the doors slammed shut behind them. Rebecca hit a switch on the wall labeled "override", and a soft beep could be heard. Howling suddenly erupted outside the doors, which were metal, and dim thuds as the werewolves crashed futilely against them.
"Electromagnetic locks," Rebecca said, sounding both slightly relieved and slightly smug at the same time, "That'll at least buy us a bit of time."
"Where are we?" Tom asked.
"Don't tell me you're THAT naive," Rebecca replied.
Looking around, Tom realized why she'd said that. The walls of drawers and the tables and carts with bodies told him they were in the morgue.
"Oh," he said rather sheepishly. The werewolves continued a relentless assault on the door, continuing to pound into it. Tom wasn't sure, but it seemed as though the doors buckled in slightly upon every impact. He wondered if the lock mechanism could continue to hold up if they persevered.
Tom sank into a chair at the mortician's desk, his head in his hands. He couldn't get ahold of his wife, his daughter was out with these...things, these...monsters, and something had happened to his son. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as Tom tried to quiet the panic and desperation he was feeling. "Now what do we do?" he asked the girl, out of ideas. He hated situations like this; Tom thrived on having control, and now he really had none.
"Well," Rebecca said...