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Interactive Case #5: The Beast of Bozeman (Part V)

By Hugo Pecos

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The werewolf—in Bozeman to retrieve its mate—has torn up the local morgue. After a brief debate, you decide to try to bring down the creature with a tranquilizer dart. Read on and see what happens in the latest installment of the Beast of Bozeman.

Date: September 21, 1962
Place: Bozeman, Montana

You and retired agent Earl set up shop on the roof of the Federal Trust, a three-story brick building across the street from the morgue. A couple of local cops cordon off the area to keep people and traffic away. Luckily, it's late at night, so you don't expect any intrusions.

Since Earl has Parkinson's Disease, you decide you'd be the best candidate to take the shot with the tranquilizer. You load the rifle with a single dart—a long, smudged metallic cylinder with a barbed needle on one end and a cluster of feathers on the other—which looks like something a high school kid made in metal shop. You wonder if it has any chance of flying 50 yards through the air, penetrating the werewolf's thick hide and releasing its powerful opioid drug.

You take your position against the rooftop wall and watch the morgue. It's a tense few minutes. Across the street, an occasional dull crash is heard from inside the morgue. You heart rate jumps with each noise.

Finally, a crash of glass is heard from a window on the alley side of the morgue. You and Earl peer into the darkness as another crash follows; and another, after which you see what appears to be a chair smashing through said window.

All is quiet and still, until you witness a sight you'll never forget: the werewolf poking its massive head out the shattered window and glancing up and down the alley, its narrow snout twitching. It ducks back inside for a moment, and then you see the carcass of the dead werewolf being pushed out through the opening, head first. Slowly, the slack body emerges until it falls heavily to the ground, where it rests like a moldering carpet.

Moments later, the live werewolf emerges, squeezing its powerful shoulders through the window, oblivious to the shards of glass still hanging on its frame. It then pounces to the ground and rises up on its hind legs, drawing air into its barrel-like chest.

"Jesus Christ in heaven," Earl mutters while you gaze in awe. It's a towering creature, all torso and shoulder musculature, with a dark coat—not silvery, like you had envisioned.

Satisfied that the coast is clear, the werewolf gently picks up the carcass of its mate and starts down the alley, away from you, its head tilted slightly to the side. You regrip the rifle, raise it and peer into the sight at the end of the barrel.

Alleyway next to the morgue
©Nik Rowell

You remember to steady yourself—just like your father taught you to do with your first .22 rifle—take a breath, let it out slowly, then pull the trigger.

Crack!

There is the sharp report of the rifle, the fading whisper of the dart. You look past the sight just in time to see the werewolf flinch and drop its mate.

"Didja get it?" Earl asks, whereupon the beast goes absolutely ballistic, slashing the air with its front claws and thrashing its head about. It then lunges onto a chain link fence, shaking it violently as it throws its head back and unleashes an unearthly howl. You see lights go on in houses down the street as the beast leaps off the fence and contorts its body, trying to remove the dart from its back.

For some reason, Earl lets out a loud "whoop!" The werewolf stops, looks up and spots you. It curls its muzzle into a terrifying sneer.

In just a few bounds it crosses the street. You roll over and try to load another dart into the rifle, but your movements are spastic and you drop it; you're choking under the pressure.

"Hurry," Earl pleads.

You hear claws scraping metal at the back of the building as the werewolf bounds up the steps of the fire escape.

You wheel around just as it hops onto the roof, with only about 50 feet separating you. It stands slowly, like a growing tree, before throwing its head back and howling once more. It then drops its front claws to the rooftop floor and rakes the tiling like a bull ready to charge.

This is it—the end. If you're lucky, it will kill you quickly.

However, you get a reprieve: the werewolf's movements slow. It takes a couple of wobbly steps in defiance, and finally collapses under its own weight.

You and Earl look at each other and let out a conjoined sigh of relief.

You cautiously approach the limp creature, which is breathing in a labored manner. It's the size of a large grizzly, but much leaner and with long, narrow feet.

"We got about five minutes," Earl warns, looking at his watch. "Let's wrap him up."

The two of you work quickly to tie up the front and rear paws and roll out a large canvas mat. With great effort, you manage to flip the massive body onto the tarp, which you then wrap around the sedated beast.

"Don't forget this," Earl adds, handing you a large leather muzzle. He then walks off to check on the crane brought to retrieve the wolfman from the roof.

You position the muzzle at the end of the werewolf's drooling jaws. Gaping suddenly, they snap shut on your left hand, in one final act of vengeance. In one swift motion you yank the limb away and leap back as the beast lapses back into the void.

Shit!

You shake your hand, cursing under your breath. You check the palm, and the wrist. Nothing.

You then look at the back of your hand, and notice a drop of blood.

NO!!

Frantic, you suck the blood out and spit it away—again and again—until you feel Earl's hand on your shoulder.

"You okay?" he asks, oblivious to your mistake.

What will you do?
(Tap or click your choice). Note that there is no right or wrong answer, only a different outcome.)

 

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Lab Rat

When you tell Earl about your bite wound, he offers reassurance, but behind it all you detect a sense of resignation. "What if I'm infected," you ask. "You're not infected," he answers. "It's just a little nick. We'll give you a booster shot, just to make sure."

After you help deliver the tranquilized werewolf to the holding cell, a couple of agents show up. They take a look at your wound, which is red and swollen, and give you a shot to your shoulder. It doesn't take you long to realize that the shot wasn't a booster; it was a sedative. You fade out, but not before you hear Earl say to you, "don't worry, son. I'll stay with you."

And he does, at least for the first few days of the transformation. You don't see much of him after that. You don't even get to enjoy the freedom and power of the werewolf life because you're pent up in a cage, where you are poked, prodded and tranquilized, always with a running movie camera trained on you that stops only when they need to change the film magazine.

You eventually become lethargic, refuse all food, and die, but your legacy lives on in dozens of cans of film stored in the bowels of the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta: the first and only cinematic record of a transformation from human to werewolf in U.S. history.

A New Life

You help Earl truss up the werewolf, take it to the ground and load it into the truck. From there, you transport it to a holding cell, where you watch it groggily awaken.

Within hours, word of the capture has reached the highest levels of the agency. Officials start arriving to Bozeman's small airport just after dawn. About a dozen of them gather at the holding cell to gaze in awe at the magnificent beast pacing inside the cage.

In all the excitement, no one notices that you're looking a little pale and unsteady on your feet. No one except Earl, that is. You keep catching his eye, and finally he asks you if you're feeling alright. You tell him you're a little tired and say you're going to go home for a quick nap.

When you get home, you scrub the wound on your hand, take some aspirin and a couple of antihistamine pills and crash on the couch.

You toss and turn for hours, haunted by fever dreams. The phone rings a few times, but you're in no state to answer it. By the time you awaken, night has fallen. You're sweating and your bones ache, and most alarming of all, you notice that the stubble covering your face and neck is considerably tougher than your normal five o'clock shadow. You can't even get your razor through it.

The phone rings again and you pick it up. It's Earl, checking in. You make small talk and deflect questions about your health.

An hour later, you hear several vehicles roll up outside your place. You look out the window and see a couple of police cars and a van. This is it, you think. They've come for me.

You slip out of the basement bulkhead, leap a fence and cross a field. Once you reach the highway, you hitch a ride from a truck driver to the beginning of the Gallatin wilderness, where you get out and run up into the hills. You feel faster and more agile than ever before, and by morning you're well up into the mountains.

You set about building a den and preparing for your new life. It takes some time to get used to your powers. At first, all the noises and smells feel like sensory overload, but you gradually learn to filter them out and focus on the most important stimuli.

You retain memories of your old life but experience little regret. There is a freedom out here that is unlike anything you've ever experienced. You hunt big game, drink from lakes and mountain streams and occasionally howl at the moon, hoping someone of your kind will answer.

Through it all, you know they are searching for you. And you will be ready. Armed with the knowledge and experience of an FVZA agent and the extraordinary powers of a werewolf, you like your chances.

A Brave Sacrifice

You had to do it. Once you saw that the werewolf’s bite had broken your skin, you knew that transformation was inevitable, and you didn’t want to be around for it. Maybe it was impulsive, but you’ve always been that way. Make a decision and live—or in this case, die—with the consequences. Of course, there was a moment of regret as you fell toward the ground, and it sure hurt like hell when you landed, but a strange peace comes over you in your final seconds. Do not go gently into that good night, better to burn out then fade away, etc. From your first day at the Academy, you knew that your life might be cut short too soon, and now that death is here, you’re ready for it.

As you lie broken on the pavement, Earl rushes to you and cradles your head. “Tell my parents...,” you say, and then your voice trails off as Earl nods solemnly.

Meanwhile, the werewolf is taken away to be studied. It grows morose and stops eating, like all werewolves in captivity, and dies within a few weeks.

In honor of your sacrifice, city officials name a park in Bozeman after you. The inscription reads: “To a man who gave his life to protect others.” There is no mention of werewolves.