Between States Box Set

Under a Confederate Moon The golden glow of the sunset painted in autumnal hues the thick trees that surrounded the Confederate encampment. On the outskirts of camp, beyond the pitched tents, Private Caleb Chilson leaned against his rifle, one of a handful of pickets posted to ward off the coming night and the threat of a Yankee attack. Since the sun had begun to disappear below the horizon, a faint, familiar ache had blossomed in his lower belly, a cramp not unlike hunger pains, a burning that seemed to grow more desperate with each passing minute. The change was coming over him, responding to the rising moon. He felt it in his bones. He had another hour, maybe two, before the rifle fell from his hands and he’d lose another good pair of pants to his damn condition. The last time it’d happened, the sutler laughed at the hole torn in the back of his dungarees. “You sure you caught this on a fence, soldier?” he’d sniggered, full of himself. “Or’d you just cut it out for easy access?” “I’d shoot you for that,” Caleb had replied, “if I had the lead to waste. Just give me a new pair, or a kit to mend these.” A particularly hard twist of his gut doubled Caleb over. He clutched at his stomach, closing his eyes against the pain. It was happening now, though the sun wasn’t yet completely down; he recognized the symptoms, he could feel his body begin to change. Already his mind roiled with a myriad of scents and wordless images—his heightened hearing categorized each of the soft sounds made by the camp as it settled in for the night, the crackle of firewood as it burned to ash, the scrape of metal utensils on metal bowls, the crunch of footsteps over dead leaves. His altered sense of smell picked out the clean, bland scent of boiling water, the sharp tang of gunpowder, the overpowering man-spore that filled the clearing. Glancing down, he noticed a sudden growth of pale blonde hair on the back of his hand…no. He shook his head to clear it, struggling to hold onto that small part of his mind still human. Not here, not yet, no. Suddenly a warm hand clapped his back and he staggered forward, almost tripping over the barrel of his gun. “You all right, Cal?” One of the other pickets—in his current state, Caleb couldn’t remember the man’s name. Another private, like himself, with a Southern drawl that marked him as a rebel. The stench of his unwashed flesh filled Caleb’s animal senses, nauseating him. He struggled for words, and when he finally managed to set them loose, they felt clunky and odd in his mouth. “Sick,” he gasped, the pain tearing through him now. He had to get away from this man, this camp, this place. He had to get free. He took a stumbling step forward and his comrade laughed. “Man, not you, too!” he chuckled. “Must be something in the water here, I swear. Half the camp’s out in the woods with the shits.” Numb, Caleb nodded. Yes, the woods. That was where he needed to be. The trees reached out for him, their limbs stretching to claim him as their own. He felt the leaves on his face like cool hands, brushing the blonde hair from his brow, smoothing over his face, as gentle as a mother’s caress. Bent double, Caleb hurried into the woods, eager to lose himself in their depths. He stumbled again and fell to the ground, out of sight from the camp. The hands that caught his weight were now paws covered in fur. As he watched, emotionless, his long fingers shrank into his palms as his nails grew into razor-like claws that retracted. His body compacted into itself, his thighs curving, his feet stretching, his toes taking his weight. His bones crunched with a sickening sound, reshaping themselves into the feral wildcat form over which he had no control. The rip of fabric filled the air as his coccyx lengthened and grew into a short, thick tail. As the last vestiges of his humanity fell away, Caleb moaned, then reared back and let out a flashing cry that tore through the quiet of the growing night. He shook his head, his cap falling aside as twin tufted ears pushed it off. Wiry blonde hair, as shaggy as the uncut mop of waves that covered his scalp, erupted along his body, covering him in a thick, tawny pelt. One long stretch and the buttons on his shirt popped open. The belt around his waist hung heavy on his now feline hips, but a good roll in the bushes relieved him of its weight. He kicked the pants aside, then wrestled with the shirt, nipping at the sleeves with long fangs that bit into the fabric until it hung in shreds around his forepaws. Unsatisfied, he cried out again, a raspy mew, and backed up, trying to get out from under the material encasing him. A sudden shot ripped through the air. The bullet passed overhead and Caleb froze, all senses alert. He smelled cloying smoke and a piercing man-scent he recognized all too well—fear. From the direction he had come, he heard humans scrambling to their posts. Someone called out, “Jack, did you hit it?” “Goddamn bobcat,” someone else muttered. They mean me, Caleb thought, bemused. “What the hell are we doing out here in these damn woods anyway?” The first voice spoke up a second time. “Shoot it again, Jack. Can’t hurt.” “Gimme your gun,” Jack replied, “if you want me to fire. I only got a handful of shot left.” A low growl filled the woods, raising the hair on Caleb’s haunches. Then he realized the noise came from himself. With one last gnaw at the sleeve of his shirt, he gave up. Stretching the feline body that had replaced his clumsy human form, he darted through the low underbrush and raced into the forest.