It took little to no time for these creatures to infect others through their bites. Sometimes, the change came in minutes. Kerry had seen it herself once, during a raid on an abandoned church outside Ventura. She could still recall the way the bitten man—someone named Felix, new to the outpost—stumbled back from his attacker, clutching his shoulder, the blood pulsing hot between his fingers. He gasped for breath, confusion filling his gaze, then collapsed to his knees as if praying for relief.
Felix's breaths grew shallow. His eyes went wide, then glazed as the fever hit, sweat cascading from his brow. Kerry remembered the jerking spasms that racked his limbs, his hands curled into claws, nails splitting and blackening. The bones and tendons in his face shifted, jaws distending with a sickening cracking click. His body was like melted cheese being pulled apart. There was no magic, no curse—just the body betraying itself, flesh warping under invisible command. Felix howled, a wet, guttural cry that shredded language to ribbons. Tufts of coarse hair sprang across his cheeks and hands. He thrashed against the pavement, switchblade-sized fangs bursting from his gums, until with one final, animal wrench, he surged upright, eyes burning amber, no longer any part of the man they had known.
Afterward, no matter how much had been devoured, a person would still wake as something akin to a werewolf, but none of the lore around them proved fruitful. Silver? Wolfsbane? A pentangle? No effect, but they could be killed conventionally; they did not die easily, though. Killing one often involved wearing it down with bullets or lighting it on fire, but the only sure way to kill them was to take their heads once they were weak enough. They roamed in packs, so most ISH teams were taught to isolate them from the rest of the wolves before engaging. Even after death, they never regained their human form. This was not some ancient curse. It was a biochemical agent, and what made it more terrifying was that they seemed linked in some hive mind. It made them more efficient hunters, but it also meant that the hairy cavalry was never quite far away.
Rumors sometimes floated between outposts of rare survivors: stories of people who resisted the infection or endured a bite with only a fever and wild dreams, waking up unchanged. No one could say if they were true—no proof ever lasted long—but hope clung to these tales. ISH maintained quarantine protocols and experimented with treatments, testing new drugs and searching for anyone immune. Some believed the key lay in blood transfusions or a vaccine, though results were inconclusive or lost in chaos. Volunteers sometimes wore makeshift armor or carried experimental antidotes, but no one yet claimed a guaranteed defense. Still, every unexplained recovery sparked new determination in the teams, a sliver of hope that the tide could one day turn.