The rail yard was a meandering catacombs of rusty, broken down train cars and junk parts. Hewitt dug his claws into a locked door, expanded his arms left and right and created an entry way of his very own.
Inside, the car was filled with rotten food and tin cans. Traveling hobos had been known to take refuge inside abandoned box cars. Dust and spider webs filled with wrapped up insects added to the ambience.
Hewitt looked up as footsteps clanked across the roof.
“Find anything?” Hewitt asked.
“No,” Becker said. “Caught his scent near the pig farm then it vanished.”
Hewitt bashed a new exit hole and stepped out just in time to see his partner land on the ground in front of him.
“That’s on the north side of town,” Hewitt said. “The little bastard could be half way to Iowa by now.”
“Damn it,” Becker said. “You don’t think Blythe expects us to go all night with this do you?”
Hewitt split open the next box car as if it too were a tin can. “You know how he is. He’ll expect us to search for as long as it takes.”
Both werewolves jumped into the car and looked around. Becker’s sniffer went to work.
“What is that?”
“Ugh,” Hewitt said. “Some lowlife must have shit his pants in here.”
Hewitt cracked the opposite side of the box car open and jumped out.
“These things have doors you know,” Becker said.
“Not as fun,” Hewitt replied. “Come on. We’ve got a long hunt ahead of us.”
The werewolves charged away on all fours into the night.
Back in the car, a pile of hay rustled. Miles stuck his head out for a second to see if the coast was clear, then pulled it back in just to be safe.
Bookshelf Battle 