“Run?” Miles thought to himself. “No thanks. I’ve done enough running.”
The young werewolf galloped along the left side of the last box car, jumped towards it, then dug the claws on his left paw into the metal. With his right paw he punched a hole in the box car, then used both paws to rip the steel apart until there was an opening big enough for him to jump in.
Inside, the box car was pitch black. That didn’t matter to Miles. He could still see.
But the smell of all that rotten zombie fleshed packed into that giant rectangular can was ungodly.
Groans and demands for brains filled Miles’ ears. He struck wildly, his claws ripping off zombie heads, limbs and other parts.
Like ants converging on an unattended sweet, the undead swarmed on the werewolf, knocking him down, biting and scratching at him.
Every wound the undead opened on Miles’ body instantly closed. The werewolf stood up and shook the undead off of him.
Miles bent his knees and, as if he were spring loaded, hurtled himself through the roof of the box car.
Slade was just about to step forward when Miles emerged from the twisted steal, his fur covered with zombie guts.
“I thought I told you to run!” Slade said as he looked up at the young werewolf, who was now towering over him.
All Miles could do was growl in response. Had he been able to communicate with Slade, he would have shared what he was thinking.
“Run? I’m tired of running. I’m a Goddamned werewolf. People need to start running from me.”