The werewolves all howled back to their new commander, running off in various directions, eager to comply with the order. The werewolf whose human form was known as Tony DeWitt was no different.
Before this night, Tony had been a 5'6", 125 lb accountant and nothing more. He'd only gone hunting with the rest of the guys to pacify his wife, who seemed perpetually eager to dress him down about not being enough of a man. It was easier to pacify her than to argue with her about yet something else, he realized.
Because of tonight though, she would have more than a little man to worry about. He was now 6'5" and 250 lbs of black-furred werewolf. He would have laughed, if werewolves laughed, at the look on her face.
But something unexpected happened, as the werewolf neared his house. An unusually thick bank of clouds covered the moon. For one of the more experienced werewolves, this would have proven no problem at all. But Tony wasn't an experienced werewolf. The new infection hadn't taken a total hold of him, and without the moon's light to keep his form fierce, the werewolf fell to the ground, shaking and quivering. Fur retracted, his body shrank. In only a minute or two, Tony stood up, a fraction of his former size and ferocity, once again just a balding man.
The orders he had been given were quite clear. He was to infect his wife Monica, and his daughter, Janice. He moved toward the house initially not questioning the order in his mind, but paused as his hand reached for the doorknob.
Did he really want to do this?