New Reviews

Read Robert Andren’s ‘New Breed’

A werewolf story? Perhaps! You’re going to need to read this one to find out!

New Breed


Robert Andren

 New Breed image

Sheriff Bill Foley and Deputy Ted Swanson pulled their department car into the small dirt parking lot that had been carved out of a section of woods that bordered Route 108.  When they arrived the hunters were already there, coffee in hand, gathered around Dave Owens’ Chevy Caprice in the faint pre-dawn light.

Foley and Swanson were both dressed in jeans and flannel shirts over which they wore their Sheriff’s Department jackets. After parking, the burly, forty-something Foley and the thinner, late twenty-something Swanson grabbed their Remington 870 12-gauge shotguns and exited their car. They walked over to the hunters, all in their forties, guys Foley had known at least twenty years or longer. Ed Hanley, in his denim hunting jacket and wearing a cap with an NRA logo on it, handed a cup of coffee to the sheriff; Jeff Bollinger in his orange down vest did the same to the deputy, who noticed with amusement Bollinger’s cap sported a patch above the brim with a handgun on it, around which was emblazoned “I Don’t Call 911.”

After greetings were exchanged, Owens asked the first question.

“What exactly are we hunting Sheriff?” asked Dave Owens.

“A wolf isn’t it?” offered Ed Hanley.

“That’s what it sounds like from the descriptions I got,” replied Foley.

“’Sounds like’?” asked Bollinger.

“The few who saw it only got a short glimpse of it, saw it at a distance or saw it at night and they couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but they all said they thought it might have been a wolf. A couple of them said that it was bigger than a normal wolf with black and/or very dark fur,” said Foley.

A maroon Mitsubishi Galant looking at least ten years old pulled into the lot.

The sunlight had increased a bit and Sheriff Foley saw that the newcomer walking towards them was the thirty-something state biologist, Scott McDonnell, carrying what looked like an AR-15 rifle. Foley had consulted McDonnell the previous month about what kind of animal could be doing this. There had been hairs left behind on Fred Peterson’s gate, which it went through to get to his chickens. He had sent both samples to the county forensics lab, whose results were “inconclusive.” They did pass the samples on to the state biologist McDonnell, who at first said they appeared “lupine,” but he was sending them on to another lab to do more specialized tests. McDonnell told him he expected that lab’s report this week. Foley had mentioned the hunting party to him, but did not invite him, nor did the biologist ask to come.

“Good morning Dr. McDonnell,” Foley said.

“Good morning Sheriff, good morning gentlemen.”

The assembled hunters mumbled their greetings.

“I want to join your hunt,” said McDonnell.

“Really?” replied Foley, “I didn’t think the state biologist would be a hunter.”

“I’m not, but I did hunt once before, several years ago with some friends. One of them loaned me this rifle.”

“What did you hunt?” inquired Dave Owens.

“Quail,” replied the biologist.

“What we’re hunting today is a lot different from quail,” said Deputy Swanson.

“It certainly is and I want to see what this animal,” he replied, then turned to the sheriff.

“I received the report from the lab yesterday. The results showed that the animal you’re hunting is in the wolf family, but not technically a wolf.  There is a significant difference between it and ‘normal’ wolves.”

“Is this a new breed of wolf?”

“Possibly,” answered McDonnell.

“There has not been a wolf around here for about thirty years. The closest ones are about a three hour drive north from here, and there’s not that many up there to begin with,” said Foley, “and those are normal wolves, nothing new or strange about them.”

“When you say a significant difference between it and other wolves, how big of a difference is that?” asked Bollinger.

“Big difference,” answered the state biologist.

“If it’s a wolf or in the wolf family, we can kill it,” said Jeff Bollinger, lifting up his .270 Winchester bolt action rifle.

“We’re going to split into two groups,” Foley said, “first group is myself, Dave, and Dr. McDonnell. Second group is Deputy Swanson, Jeff, and Ed. My group is going to enter the woods from here, and head east, Deputy Swanson’s group is going to enter from the other end of this lot and head west. Let’s get moving,” ordered the Sheriff, “keep your eyes and ears open, this hunt might be a little different than others you’ve been on.”                                                        #

It was almost a half hour when Deputy Swanson, Jeff Bollinger and Ed Hanley came upon the RV, parked in a small field off one of the very few service roads in the woods. A mid-sized one, it looked to have enough room to sleep about two or three comfortably. Various food items and other supplies were scattered around it; the rear door was open. As the three men approached they saw several red streaks on the vehicle’s white paint.

“That’s a bad sign,” said Hanley.

“Stay alert gents,” said Swanson, as the three moved closer but more cautiously, rifles and shotgun raised.

When they came within twenty feet of the RV, Swanson stopped.

“Hanley, you stay here and watch our back. Bollinger, let’s go see what’s in the rear.

As Hanley covered them, the two men walked to the back of the vehicle and peered inside.

“Holy shit!” yelled Bollinger, causing Hanley to jump and to hold his .30-.30 lever-action Marlin higher and tighter.

“What’s in there?!” he yelled.

His question did not register with them as they stared at the scene in front of them.  The rear of the recreational vehicle was a shambles, with clothes, supplies, and boxes scattered everywhere. The small couch on the side and a chair opposite it had been turned over and most of the stuffing strewn about. Next to them was the bloody body of a man in his late thirties lying in a large pool of blood, face down.  His clothes were in tatters. Large claw marks laced his back and legs, accompanied by equally large bite marks. Swanson bent down and rolled the body over on its back. More claw marks raked his front, and his abdomen had been torn open and it’s contents appeared to have been eaten.

“Jesus Christ,” said Swanson when he looked at it.

“What?” asked Bollinger, jumping up and into the back.

“What killed him did some snacking on him.”

Bollinger looked down at the body, his eyes widened, and he started turning pale.

He moved slowly to the rear door, leaned out and vomited.

“What the hell is in there?” Hanley asked, walking over after seeing Bollinger regurgitate his breakfast.

Swanson climbed down and stopped Hanley.

“You saw what Bollinger just did? You’ll probably do the same if you see what’s in there. Some poor bastard was torn up really bad. Let’s go around to the front, see if we can find any ID for him.”

Bollinger climbed down, straightened up and slowly walked with the other two to the front of the vehicle. Swanson put his hand on the door handle and hesitated.

“Gents, in case there’s something in this front seat, keep your weapons raised.”

They did so, and the deputy opened the door.

“Oh God, another one,” he said after he did so.

“Oh fuck,” said Hanley, who could see the body this time.

Lying across the front seat was a woman in her early thirties, bloody but not as mutilated as her companion in the rear.  Her eyes were closed. Swanson climbed in, and her eyes opened, fear shining through. She brought her left arm up defensively

“No, no, no,” she pleaded, eyes wide with fright.

“Hey, hey, easy, we’re gonna help you. I’m Deputy Swanson of the Sheriff’s Department. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

She looked at him for several seconds, realized he was not a threat, and lowered her arm.

“What happened?” asked Swanson, “who or what did this to you?”

Her eyes widened the look of fear returned.

“The wolf,” she said

“A wolf did this to you?”

“Big wolf…it walked…like a person.”

Bollinger and Hanley exchanged looks.

“It…opened the door,” she said, her eyes looking to the rear of the vehicle, came in…killed Roger, tried to kill me….I  sprayed it a few times and it ran off.”

She looked at the floor where Swanson saw a fire extinguisher. She continued looking at the floor, and then her eyes closed.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She did not respond.

“Hey,” he said, putting his hand under her cheek trying to turn her head. She still did not respond.

The deputy feared the worst and checked her pulse. He was right.

“She’s dead.”

Hanley and Bollinger were quiet a few moments, as Swanson checked the side and back pockets that were facing him for identification, coming up with nothing. He then rolled her over to check the pockets on her other side. When he did he saw that some of the flesh on that side had been torn away, and she had deep laceration on that side as well. Swanson climbed down out of the front seat.

“Time to check in,” he told the other two men.


“Oh Jesus,” Sheriff Foley responded after listening to Swanson’s account over his radio, and then added “we’ve got the same thing here.”

After walking about a mile into the woods, Foley, Dave Owns and Dr. McDonnell emerged into a small clearing and found a campsite in extreme disarray. Shredded remains of what had been three tents lay amongst various types of food and camping equipment that had been thrown about. Two shredded bodies were also amongst the debris. Both male, with large, deep claw marks on their upper and lower bodies. As with the unfortunate camper found in the back of the RV, one of the bodies here had his stomach torn open and eaten. His friend had not fared well either. In addition to deep gauges left by large claws, a leg was attached by only one ligament, one shoulder had been eaten away and on his left side enough flesh was missing that the white of two ribs could be seen.

After listening to Foley’s description, Swanson responded.

“Should we leave and come back another time with more men and more fire-power?”

“No, there may still be hikers or campers around, if so, maybe we can get it before it gets them,” Foley replied.

“Sheriff, I didn’t tell you something the woman said before she died because I thought it sounded too weird, but I think I should,” said Swanson.

“Go ahead.”

“She said the wolf walked on two legs.”

“It walked on two legs?” the sheriff responded incredulously.

Dave Owns stopped scanning the surrounding trees after hearing Foley’s comment, and approached the sheriff, as did McDonnell.

“That’s what she said,” Swanson replied.

“Might’ve been delusional after what she went through,” offered Foley.

“Maybe,” Swanson sort of agreed.

“Keep heading west, check in if you see anything,” instructed Foley, “and be careful.”

“Roger that,” came Swanson’s response.

“Someone said the wolf walked on two legs,” asked the state biologist.

“You heard that, huh?” answered Foley.

McDonnell nodded.

“Me too,” said Owens.

“She was moments away from death, she probably was delusional,” explained Foley, who continued.

“Since there are, were, what looks like three tents here, seems a friend of theirs,” gesturing towards the two dead men, “is missing,” observed Foley, “let’s get moving and find that person or what’s left of him or her.”


Foley, McDonnell, and Owens had walked about a mile from the campsite when a human voice broke through the normal sounds of the woods.


The three looked around, but could not see who had yelled.

“Over here! Up here!” the voice came again.

The men looked around and up, and then McDonnell pointed.

“Over there in the tree.”

Foley and Owens then saw a man waving to them from about a hundred yards away, standing on the branches of a tree about fifty feet up. They moved quickly towards him, and as they got closer the man spoke to them as he climbed down.

“Thank God you’re here, and that you’ve got guns.”

Once the three hunters arrived at the base of the tree the man started to climb down.

“Were you with the other two at the campsite back there?” Foley asked, pointing in the direction they had come from.

“Yeah. So you found Duane and Walter.”

“We did,” replied Foley, solemnly.

“Is what killed them the reason you were up there?” asked McDonnell.


The man dropped down to the ground, with a look on his face that was a mixture of relief and terror.

“It was a monster, a fucking monster,” he said.

“What’s your name?” asked Foley.

“Ted Carter.”

“Are you injured?”

“No, just scared shitless.”

“Tell us what happened Mr. Carter,” the sheriff said.

“I had gone to get wood for the campfire, Duane and Walther were starting to fix breakfast. I’m gone about five minutes and I hear, blood curdling screams coming from the campsite. I run back and as I’m almost there I see Walter covered in blood lying on the ground not moving. I see what I thought was a big man walking towards Duane, who’s on the ground, bloody, and trying to crawl away. He then tears open Duane’s stomach with its hands. I get closer and I see those hands are claws, and it’s not a man, it’s a monster.”

“Monster?” asked Owens.

“It looked like a wolf, it had a snout, claws, but it was bigger than a wolf, and….it walked! On two legs to where Duane was. After it ripped opened his stomach it got down on all fours and started…eating him. It heard me, and looked up at me. I ran like I never ran before. It didn’t chase me. It must have gone back to eating Duane. When I could barely run any more, I saw this tree, with the low branches, and started climbing, hoping to God it couldn’t climb. I was up there for about three hours.”

“It walked on two legs?” asked Foley.

“I know it sounds nuts, but it did.”

“Did you guys park in the lot back there?” asked Foley.


“Okay Mr. Carter, we’re going to take you back to your car-

“Sheriff!” came the scream over the radio.

Foley grabbed his mike.

“Go ahead Swanson.”

“It’s attacking us!”

“The wolf?”

“Yeah, but- “

Foley’s group then heard screams in the background of wherever Swanson was. After several seconds, his voice returned.

“It’s not just a wolf, it’s a fucking wolf-monster. It killed Hanley.”

His voice stopped. Gun shots were heard in the background. Then Swanson’s voice came back.

“Bollinger and I are shooting at it. I hit it once. But it’s strong, big, and fast and it can walk on four legs and two legs.”

The deputy’s voice went silent again. Foley hit the transmit button.

“Swanson! Come in! Can you hear me?”

“We should get the hell out of here NOW!” yelled Carter.

Swanson’s voice came through the sheriff’s radio again.

“It got Bollinger!”

“Swanson, I hear you. It killed Jeff Bollinger?”


“Are you somewhere where you can hold it off?”

“I’m running!”

“Can you hold up somewhere?”

“No! I don’t see anything!”

“A tree, does he see a tree he can climb?” offered Carter.

“Is there a tree you can climb?” asked Foley.

“NO!” screamed Swanson.

Foley was at a loss for words. After a few seconds, he hit his transmit button.

“Do you still have your shotgun?”

“Yeah but I don’t wanna stop running to aim and shoot!” came the reply.

“You may have to find a spot and pump every bullet you have into it!”

“If you saw this thing you’d keep running too! Ahhhh shit!


“It’s getting closer!”

“Shoot it, shoot it!” yelled Foley.

“Okay! Okay…I can’t see it now. It’s…..ahhhh FUCK! NO!

Swanson’s voice cut off.

“Oh Jesus,” said Owens.

“Swanson!” the sheriff yelled.

No response.


Still no response.

“Goddammit,” he said after a few seconds.

“Please, let’s get going,” said a very agitated Carter.

Foley looked at him. He then reached for his holster and took out his Glock 17 nine millimeter, took the safety off and held it out to Carter.

“You may need this in a worst-case scenario. Just point and shoot. Use both hands.”

Carter took the gun.

“While we’re walking keep it pointed at the ground, your finger off the trigger. When you’re ready to shoot, make sure you’ve got a clear shot at the wolf or whatever the hell it is, then pull the trigger.”

“Okay,” replied Carter.

“Let’s get moving,” said the sheriff.


The remaining three members of the hunting party walked quickly through the woods, all their senses on high alert.

“Dr. McDonnell, how is an animal like this possible? How can a wolf, any kind of wolf be this way?” asked the sheriff.

“It’s a fuckin’ freak of nature,” offered Owens.

“Aside from a mutation, I don’t know, but there is a theory that might explain it,” replied McDonnell.

“I’m all ears, Doc,” said Foley.

“It’s called ‘punctuated equilibrium,’”

“Now that’s a mouthful,” commented Owens.

“What does the theory say?” asked Foley

“The theory is that a species will remain the same for a long period of time,” McDonnell explained, “then take a huge leap in evolution over a relatively short period of time. The new evolved version can be distinctly different from what it evolved from.”

“Interesting,” replied Foley.

“Sheriff, you mentioned there was a small population of wolves north of here,” said McDonnell.

“Yeah, in the Beechmont Valley. There were more of them up there when I was a kid but their numbers dwindled. Last few years the winters have been brutal up there. Also a lot of the wild game they used to eat moved on or died off because of the weather or they were killed off by hunters,” said the Sheriff.

“Isolated population. Dwindling food. Harsh environmental conditions. Might have contributed to their ‘leap,’ if that is what happened. This “wolf” then would be the first to have that happen to it,” said McDonnell.

“And it moved out of the valley for greener pastures, so to speak,” said Foley.


“Over there, a cave,” said Owens, pointing.

The other two looked to where he pointed, and saw the mouth of a cave in a hillside about 200 yards away.

“Think that’s where it sleeps?” asked Owens.

“Maybe. I don’t want to check it out now though. Let’s keep moving,” said Foley.

They walked another two minutes and heard something move through a cluster of bushes fifty feet away. They froze staring in the direction the sound came from.

“Ah shit,” said Clark.

“We don’t know if it’s our animal,” said Foley.

“It sounded like a big animal moving. No big animals around here except for that thing,” observed Owens.

“Keep moving,” ordered Foley, “and let’s pick up the pace.”

“Why don’t we run?” asked Carter, nervously.

“If it is that thing, running may cause it to attack us sooner. Right now it could be stalking us, but not sure it wants to attack us, sort of feeling us out,” said Owens.

“Let’s hold up in that cave!” suggested Carter.

“When we run out of ammo we’ll be trapped and it’ll come in and kill us,” said Foley.

“We’ll kill it before we run out,” said Carter.

“Probably, but I don’t want to take a chance.”

There was another sound of movement, this time closer. They looked where the sound came from and saw bushes about twenty feet away shaking, as if an animal, a large one, had just passed through. They all raised their guns.

“Ah shit,” said Clark again, this time in a higher pitched tone.

“When we kill this thing, I want to have it stuffed and put in my den,” finished Owens.

“After I get to autopsy it,” said McDonnell.

“That’s fine,” replied Owens, “you take all the internal organs out during the autopsy, it’ll save me some money on a taxiderm-“

A large dark shape leaped out from the bushes onto Owens, knocking him to the ground, sinking its teeth into his neck, and not allowing him to finish the word ‘taxidermist.’ Carter screamed as the sheriff fired his shotgun. He missed, as it jumped off Owens a second before he squeezed the trigger and dove into a large patch of dense foliage. Carter fired four rounds from the sheriff’s Glock at the fleeing creature, with only the first one hitting it.

“Be careful with the ammo, only shoot when you got a clear shot at it!” admonished Foley, as he and McDonnell ran to where Owens lay on the ground.

“Shit,” Owens said, “that was like getting hit by a car. Is the wound bad? It felt bad when that thing was making it.”

“It missed your jugular by about an inch,” replied McDonnell.

“But is it bad?” Owens asked again.

“Yeah,” acknowledged Foley, putting down his shotgun and taking out a handkerchief. He then looked at McDonnell.

“Get up and cover us in case it comes back. You too Carter.”

McDonnell stood up, brought his rifle up, and began sweeping the surrounding area. He saw a wide-eyed Carter standing about fifteen feet away, gun pointed down at his side. He was staring at the fallen hunter and the sheriff squatting next to him.            “Carter!” McDonnell yelled.

Carter looked at the biologist.

“Get your gun up! Scan the area!”

McDonnell then saw a large dark shape step out on two legs from a tangle of dense foliage and stand behind Carter. It was about six and a half feet tall, with mostly black fur, probably weighing in at close to 300 pounds as it towered over the five foot eight inch man. Carter saw McDonnell’s mouth drop open and his eyes move slightly away from his, and realized the biologist was looking at something behind him. He spun around as the beast swung its right limb and its claw raked across Carter’s upper torso, creating five rivulets of blood.

His eyes wide with fright, Carter stumbled back and fell, which caused the wolf-creature’s second swipe to miss his head. It took a step towards Carter, who overcame his shock, raised the Glock, and fired the remaining three shots at it, one missing but two hitting their mark. McDonnell added to the fuselage with his rifle, two of his shots hitting it, before it went down to all four limbs and jumped back into the dense thicket.

Carter scrambled up with a wild look into his eye, the blood from the wound now starting to saturate his shirt. He looked at the sheriff’s gun in his hand, and then tossed it away.

“Fuck this,” he said.

“Hey Carter, you and the Doc wounded it, maybe it’ll stay away now,” the sheriff said, holding the now blood-drenched handkerchief against Owens’ neck.

“Maybe?” Carter responded, “maybe’s not good enough!”

“Hold it together Carter!” Foley said sternly.

Carter ran to where the sheriff and Owens were and grabbed the hunter’s .30-06 Winchester bolt action rifle which lay next to him.

“FUCK THIS!” Carter yelled, and started running back the way they had come.

“Be careful with my rifle, I might need it,” Owens said weakly with a smirk.

Foley stood up and started running after the panic-stricken Carter, then realized he would be leaving Owens, McDonnell, and him more vulnerable if the thing made another appearance. He stopped.

“Carter! The way out is this way,” he yelled, pointing in the direction they had been walking.

Carter stopped and looked back at him.

“We’ll never make it! It’ll get us before we get out! I’m going to the cave!”

“Your wound!” Foley continued, “you’ll bleed to death if you don’t get to a hospital soon!”

“I’d rather bleed to death from this then die getting torn apart by that!”

“It will get you before you get to the cave!” McDonnell added.

“It might come back for you instead!”

He turned and resumed running.

“You’ll be trapped in the cave!” yelled Foley.

“Then I’ll climb the first tree I can!”

Seconds later Carter disappeared amongst the trees and brush. They turned and walked back to Owens.

“How many bullets you got left?” he asked McDonnell.

“Five,” he replied.

“Let’s pick Owens up. You take an arm, I’ll take an arm and we’ll walk him out as fast as we can go. It comes at us, drop Owens and start shooting,” Foley said.


Foley scanned the surrounding area as he continued in a lower voice.

“Dave may die from the blood loss before or as soon as we make it out, but I don’t want to leave him here.”

“I heard that,” said the wounded hunter. I appreciate you not wanting to leave me here, but you’re right. If you do drag me outta here I’ll die from blood loss soon after, as I doubt I’ll make it to a hospital,” he said, taking the drenched handkerchief away from his bleeding neck. “Leave me, get out. You try and get me out, you’ll probably die too from blood loss, extreme blood loss.”

Foley hated to admit it, but Owens was right. He looked at McDonnell and the look on his face told him silently that he also agreed. As they looked back at Owens, the same dark shape stepped out of the brush, again on two legs, bent over and grabbed the wounded hunter. The thing that might have evolved from a wolf lifted him up and dragged him back into the bushes. It happened so quickly that the sheriff and biologist looked at each other, stunned. Foley ran to where Owens had laid and picked up his shotgun. As he was about to plunge into the brush, Owens screamed. Foley had never heard anyone scream that loud before, and when it was cut off abruptly, he knew they would not be carrying him out. Shotgun leveled, the sheriff backed away from where the beast had entered and stood next to McDonnell.

“How much further till we’re out of the woods Sheriff?

“About a twenty minute walk.”

“The cave is a lot closer,” said the biologist, “that’s about a two minute walk, less if we walk fast, a lot less if we run.”

Foley realized that, all things considered, right now that was the best choice.

“We run, not so fast we won’t see it coming up behind us or from the side, but fast enough to get there in one minute,” he told McDonnell.

“Let’s get moving,” replied the state biologist.


They made it to the cave in just under a minute. McDonnell felt it had been the longest minute of his life. As they ran they heard gunshots and attributed them to an unfortunate Carter. Their refuge was about twenty feet across and about eight feet high. Sunlight provided dim illumination for the first thirty feet, beyond that, blackness. Foley collapsed about fifteen feet in, breathing heavily. McDonnell, breathing as heavily, brought his rifle up and looked out. He scanned the wooded area intently, but could not see the creature.

Foley began to get up and noticed a booted foot, with no leg attached to it. He tried to remember if Carter was wearing boots like that. A few feet away he saw the bloody leg, large teeth marks on it.

“Sheriff, I can use your eyes up here,” said McDonnell, “and your shotgun.”

Foley rose and turned to walk back to the cave opening and saw a hand attached to a forearm on the ground, the hand holding a Glock, his Glock.  Carter, he thought, you should have stayed with us. We might have had a chance. He bent down and pried his gun from Carter’s severed hand. He stood up and re-holstered it, and then a thought struck him: did the creature kill Carter here in the cave, and then come back and grab Owens? Impossible he realized. Nothing, even this thing, was that fast. It was only seconds after they saw Carter running for the sanctuary of the hillside cave that the thing emerged from the brush and grabbed Owens. It definitely could not have then run to the cave, kill Carter, and then ran back to where they were and then chase them, not in about ten seconds.

“Sheriff, it’s here.”

Foley turned and walked quickly back to McDonnell and the opening. The wolf-thing was less than a stone’s throw way, standing on two legs. They had wounded it, bloody bullet holes on its torso and one leg attested to that. Foley raised his shotgun, and then addressed McDonnell.

“It’s a little too far way, you might miss, and my shotgun would not do as much damage at this distance. We have to conserve our ammo.”

The thing went down on all fours and began moving slowly toward them. If an animal could have an evil look in its eye, thought Foley, this one had it.

“When it gets to about thirty feet away, shoot. If we wait till it’s much closer than that, given how fast it is, we might not have a chance to get more than one shot off, which I don’t think would be enough to kill it,” he said to McDonnell, who nodded in agreement.

Talking about how fast it was reminded Foley of what he saw behind them in the cave.

“What’s left of Carter is here.”

“What’s left?”

“He’s dead. Torn apart.”

As the two men continued to watch the creature approach, it dawned on McDonnell that something about what the Sheriff said didn’t make sense.

“Wait,” the biologist said, “right after Carter ran away we saw it drag Owens away, then we ran and it followed us. How the hell could it have killed Carter here and seconds later…”

A disturbing thought began taking shape in McDonnell’s mind. The creature was now about forty feet away, and stood up on two legs. McDonnell raised his AR-15 and aimed.

“Another ten feet,” Foley said, raising his shotgun.

From behind them they heard something: movement. The biologist’s disturbing thought seconds earlier began to increase from disturbing to terrifying. Both men turned their heads and saw a pair of eyes appear in the near darkness of the rear of the cave, about two feet off the ground. Part of Foley’s mind hoped this could be just a big coyote or a wild dog. When the eyes began to rise higher and stopped at about six feet, he knew it was not a coyote or dog.  McDonnell saw his terrifying thought from moments ago solidify into reality as the pair of eyes stepped forward out of the blackness, revealing them to belong to another of the wolf-monstrosities. To their horror a second creature stepped out of the darkness, followed by a third. McDonnell now remembered: wolves are usually in packs. And they always have a den.

Foley and McDonnell both turned and looked out of the cave. The creature outside was now about twenty feet away and moving closer on four limbs. Foley looked back at the living nightmare in the cave, starting to move towards them. A thought entered Foley’s mind: he was glad he had extra ammo for both his Glock and shotgun. A fraction of a second later, a second thought popped in: he doubted he would get to use that extra ammo.

About The Overseer (1669 Articles)
Author of Say No to Drugs, writer for Blumhouse, Dread Central, Horror Novel Reviews and Addicted to Horror Movies.

2 Comments on Read Robert Andren’s ‘New Breed’

  1. great story!!!! and a seriously cool graphic to go with it too!


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