Alle Kapitel von werewolves : Kapitel 11 – Kapitel 20

The door hissed shut behind them, sealing out the camp’s noise and heat. Inside, the room breathed cold and clean. Benches bristled with glassware and clamps; a CO₂ incubator ticked softly in the corner; rows of monitors cast a medical-blue glow over microscopes, burets, labelled sera, and trays of capped tubes. It looked less like a garden annex and more like a secret ward of a university hospital that had decided to survive the end of the world.At a terminal, a man with jet-black hair falling past his shoulders hunched over a pair of screens. Soil flecked his open lab coat; a green smear of chlorophyll striped his cuff.“Hey, Mat,” Sara said.He spun the chair. One monitor showed a stylized botanical schematic pulsing in electric blue, the name LYCOTONUM flashing; on the second, a DNA strand rotated mid-splice.“Who’s your entourage?” he asked, smiling.“This is Kim, Tom, Leslie, and Jane,” Sara said. “Everyone—my husband, Mat Brody.”“Welcome to the madhouse,” Mat said, giving a f

The wall still smoked.Spent brass glittered along the catwalk like a river of dull gold; heat shimmered off the Vulcan housings as crews hosed the barrels. Out beyond the floodlit kill zone, the city seethed and went still by turns, as if the streets themselves were breathing.Inside the command tent, blue-white light washed over faces. Holo panes stacked the war in layers—thermal sweeps, drone feeds, heartbeat-thin telemetry. Private Pat Mau hunched over his console, flicking through views with surgeon-fast fingers. Captain Sorenson stood with one hand on the ops table, jaw tight. Zak paced. Jake watched the wall cam like it might start speaking English.A clipped shriek of radio static cut through. Somewhere along Sector East, a pod spun up and coughed out one last burst; the echo rattled the tent poles.Sorenson thumbed his mic. “All sectors, status.”“South nominal.”“West nominal.”“East hot but holding.”Sorenson exhaled, then keyed the general net, voice carrying like a hand o

The W.R.X. rolled to a low growl in the Michaels’ drive, engine hot from the run. The house hadn’t changed—white weatherboard, slate roof, neat beds—only the air had: a held breath over old memories.Please let them be alive.“Hey,” Tara said from the back, a hand to Jake’s shoulder. “You okay?”He wiped at the corner of his eye and lied like sons do. “Yeah.”Zak cracked his door, checked the street. “Ready? Moment of truth.”Gravel whispered under boots as they went to the porch. Jake’s knock met dead silence. Blinds hung still. He leaned to the sidelight—A scream tore the quiet.“Mum,” Jake breathed, and his boot hit the lock. The jamb shattered. He surged down the hall, rifle up.“Jake—dammit, wait!” Zak called, but the war had its own gravity.Hall—clear. Dining—clear. Kitchen—Leslie stood trembling, a bread knife flashing in her fist. In the blown window, a brown she-wolf crouched half inside, breath hot and rotten, eyes intelligent and hateful.“Out of my house!” Jake bellowed

The convoy rolled beneath the shadow of the outer wall—steel and concrete rising like a grey mountain. The octagon fence ran to every horizon, each corner crowned with a security tower bristling with robotic M61 Vulcan pods, the barrels angled out like a warning to the world.Twin gates yawed open. Sentries watched the coaches crawl through, rifles idle but ready. Inside was another country: tents stitched from tarps and bedsheets, fifty-gallon drums coughing fire, faces ash-pale and hollow. The city wasn’t dead, but it no longer remembered how to live.“Home,” Zak muttered, dust tracked across his cheekbones.They parked under the ragged awning of what had been the Shangri-La—now a command post and bunkhouse welded together with barricades and bad coffee. Zak killed the Hummer, turned to Jake, Kimberly, and Jane.“It’s not much,” he said. “But it’s safe.”Jake didn’t move. “Where are the hospitals?”Tara pointed toward the inner sectors. “Parramatta’s drowning. There’s a field ward n

Early afternoon, same day. The clatter of cutlery and the low thrum of lunchtime chatter filled the window-lit bistro where Jake had taken Kim on their first date years ago. Jake and Jane sat at a quiet table near the glass—menus up, nerves down. From the check-in counter, Dr. Kimberly Watkins spotted them and crossed with a bright smile.“Hi, guys!”Jane hopped up and hugged her, planting a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Kim!”Jake’s greeting was flatter. “Kim.” He didn’t stand. The sting of last night still worked under the skin.A waitress slid in with a pen tucked behind her ear. “I’m Mandy and I’ll be looking after you. Ready to order?”“T-bone, medium-rare,” Jake said. “Veggies.”“Burger, thanks,” Jane said, polite as a parishioner.“Just a salad,” Kim added.“Drinks?” Mandy asked.Kim didn’t hesitate. “Two lagers and a Coke.”As she moved off, Jane’s attention snagged on the door. Two couples came in—a biker-Matrix hybrid. Bald goatee; buzz cut; a redhead; a woman with jet-black