Semua Bab werewolves : Bab 1 - Bab 10

The automatic doors of St Vincent’s Emergency burst open with a hiss as a paramedic pushed in a gurney, his face drawn tight with urgency. He was broad-shouldered, grizzled, eyes tired from nights that never ended. The gurney rattled over tile, cutting through the hum of voices, the far-off sirens, the steady blip of monitors.“Motor vehicle collision!” he barked. “Male, fifties. Cardiac arrest en route—ROSC in the rig. Vitals unstable.”Dr. Kimberly Hall, twenty-six, sharp-eyed and composed, was scanning charts when the commotion reached her. Auburn hair in a neat ponytail, stethoscope hanging like a badge of office and burden, she pivoted and met the team outside Trauma Bay Two.“What have we got?” she said, already falling in beside the moving bed.“Multiple rib fractures—likely left-sided flail segment,” the paramedic said. “Suspected punctured left lung; decreased air entry, tracheal deviation at pickup. Left chest is dull and tight. Shattered femur—mid-shaft. BP trending down. H

The dim concrete underbelly of the apartment block—oil stains, fluorescent flicker—hid something out of time.Amid the bland curve of modern sedans and anonymous SUVs, one shape stood apart: a low-slung form under a heavy grey blanket, dust piled thick as if it had slept for years.Jake clattered down the stairs, bootsteps echoing. His eyes found the familiar silhouette tucked deep in the corner.He grinned. “There you are.”He peeled the cover back. Dust swirled in the light like ash from a campfire. Beneath it, a jet-black 1985 Pontiac Firebird emerged—sleek, restored, and somehow still gleaming under months of grime. Midnight paint turned the fluorescents into a noir reflection; the gold pinstripe winked through the dust. Dead centre on the plates: HOT 1.“Hello, beautiful.”His palm skimmed the bonnet—reunion and ritual. He’d rebuilt this car bolt by bolt between deployments, welding steel and sanding down the parts of his life that wouldn’t keep.“Dad’s home.”Hood latch, click, p

A cool amber glow trembled at the top of Jake’s beer glass. The frothy head of Tooheys New danced as he took a slow sip—cold, sharp, the kind of bite that felt like comfort if you didn’t look too closely.Photo albums carpeted the coffee table: bent corners, sun-faded covers, time pressed flat between plastic sleeves. A younger Leslie with baby Jake. Tom at a backyard barbie, tongs raised like a trophy. Beach days. Birthdays. Split knees, patched hearts.A loose photo slid half out. He teased it free.Byron Bay at sunset—Kimberly laughing, auburn hair blown sideways, freckles bright. His arm was around her waist; the other held a melting ice-cream. He couldn’t help the smile that showed up before he could stop it.That had been a good day. No fights. No distance. No weight.What the hell went wrong?It hadn’t been a single blow-up. No betrayal. Just something unspoken creeping in like fog. One day she’d walked out, and he hadn’t followed. He hadn’t even known why.His phone buzzed.PR

Jake grimaced at the coffee machine, stirring a Nescafé sachet into hot water that smelled like burnt tyres.“Ouch,” he muttered after a sip, wincing.Footsteps. Dr. Kimberly Watkins slid past, eyes on a tablet, lips moving as she read. “It’s impossible to have a heartbeat like that…”“Hey, Kim. Got a moment?” Jake said.She stopped, looked up. He looked wrecked—jet-lagged, strung out, running on fumes.“I thought you’d gone home,” she said.“Mum just left. She’s staying with Mark and the kids.” He lifted the sad cup. “You want one? Black?”AShe eyed the machine like it might bite. “Sure. Thanks.”Jake worked the paper cups and sachets with the ceremony of a field ration.“So… are you back for good?” he asked, handing one over.Kimberly took a cautious sip. It was terrible. It was warm. “Yeah. Feels different this time.”“What are you going to do?”“I don’t know yet.”A scream ripped down the corridor.“Help me! Get these things off me! Help me!”Jake dumped both coffees onto the benc

St Vincent’s, late night.Jane lay motionless on the flatbed of the CT scanner, arms at her sides. The gantry hummed and drew her inward on polished rails, the motion smooth and retrograde.Behind leaded glass, Dr. Kimberly Watkins watched the bay through the window and on the monitor, finger poised near the talk button.“Just relax, Jane. You’re doing great,” her voice came, warm over the intercom.Foam earplugs. Noise-cancelling headphones. A trickle of ’80s comfort—The Cars, maybe Cyndi Lauper—muffled the sterile hiss. Jane’s eyes stayed closed, face soft in the fluorescent wash.“I’m starting the scan,” Kim said, softer now into the headset. “Stay very still.”The ring began its orbit. A chorus of beeps, clicks, gentle mechanical breaths. On the workstation, thin slices assembled into form: skull, sinuses, mandible; vertebrae like pale coins; lungs expanding in ghostly shades of grey.Kim leaned closer.There—clear as daylight—sat a second set of canines, deep and oversized, crown