Emmett crouched low at the edge of the snow-dusted clearing that marked the rendezvous point, his Grease Gun resting in his hands, barrel angled toward the dirt. His breath curled into the cold air, slow and steady. He glanced down at his wristwatch, its faint green dial glowing like an ember in the dark 01:20. Same time as the last time he checked. Time felt like it had frozen.

  Still nothing. No movement. No voices. No shapes moving through the trees. Just the low rustle of pine branches shifting in the breeze, and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere off to his left.

  He’d been here nearly a full day now. Set up in a defensible spot near the treeline, just like the mission plan said. Long enough for his legs to go numb and his patience to rot out. Long enough to accept the fact that no one else was coming.

  Emmett shifted his weight, the movement drawing a twinge from his ribs. Bruised, maybe cracked. He grimaced and leaned his shoulder back against a birch tree, the bark pressing into his jacket. The ache in his limbs was dull compared to the silence stretching around him. Thick, cold and final.

  It felt like a tomb.

  With a slow exhale, he unbuttoned his chest pocket and pulled out the folded map. He dropped flat to the ground and draped his poncho over himself like a blanket, using it to hide the tiny flicker of his lighter as he sparked it. The flame danced in the hollow of his cupped hand. He traced the black ink lines on the map, picking out familiar markers. Soviet patrol routes, German fallback positions, terrain features. He studied them like a gambler looking over a busted hand.

  Then came the sound, distant and sharp. Pops of gunfire, just on the edge of hearing, somewhere off beyond the trees. Emmett froze, holding his breath. He didn’t flinch, didn’t duck. He just listened.

  Seconds passed. Then silence again.

  Probably Russians pushing into a German holdout. Or maybe the other way around. It didn’t matter. Both sides were dangerous, especially to a lone American wandering around in the woods with no uniform identifiers and a mission stamped "doesn’t exist."

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning low in his throat. “Hell of a spot to be in,” he muttered. “Deep in Kraut country, no backup, and no way out besides walking.”

  He shut the lighter with a click and folded the map. The poncho came off with a rustle, and he sat upright, staring into the dark around him. “Where the hell is everyone?” he asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

  Gone. Dead. Scattered.

  He leaned back against the tree, jaw tight, running through the briefing in his head again. They were supposed to trail Soviet patrols until the wolfmen, Hybrids. Whatever, showed up. Then isolate and capture one alive using the tranquilizer guns. Bag it, drag it, load it into the crate near the airfield, and disappear.

  Only now, Emmett was it. Just him. And the crate would still be there. Another C-47 was scheduled to drop supplies in a few days. He could stash his gear, lie low, and claim he was part of the downed crew. Maybe bluff his way onto the next plane out.

  But the thought turned his stomach.

  He didn’t like quitting. He hated running. And he hated the idea of showing up back in England empty-handed even more.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, rubbing his glove against his temple.

  Then there were the Russians. Sure, they were supposed to be in the loop, briefed through back channels. But he’d heard how trigger-happy Red Army boys got. He’d look more like a saboteur or a stray SS than an Allied operative. Even if they didn’t shoot him, they’d sure as hell start asking questions.

  He opened the map again under the last glow of his lighter, eyes flicking to one of the secondary zones. Where Russians and Germans had been pushing. It was a few miles east. Close enough to reach by foot.

  He closed the map, shoved it into his coat, and drew out his compass. The needle danced before settling on north. He aligned it against the terrain in his head and made his decision.

  Maybe he’d get lucky and nab a hybrid. A straggler. A wounded one. One worth dragging into that crate. He had the tranquilizer gun. Twelve darts. Enough to try. Maybe enough to survive. Then he could squeeze into the crate with the unconscious creature and hitch a ride out of here.

  He stood slowly, feeling the stiffness in his legs. Adjusted the strap on the tranq gun. Readjusted the sling on the Grease Gun. Then turned east.

  "Well," he muttered, voice dry, "let’s see what kind of stupid luck I’ve got left."

  With that, Emmett Granger stepped off into the woods, vanishing into the dark tangle of pine and snow.

  Two German soldiers stood stiffly at the edge of the treeline, their figures barely visible through the early morning gloom. Snow clung to the folds of their greatcoats, and frost gathered on the rims of their helmets. Their boots were caked with frozen mud and ice, and the quiet crunch of movement gave away how long they’d been standing watch.

  One of them, younger and jittery, paced in place and hugged his rifle close, breath fogging in front of his face in short, shivering bursts. The other, broader and older, sauntered a few steps away and began unfastening his trousers with numb fingers.

  “I swear, it's so cold my piss is going to freeze me right to this tree,” he muttered in German, his voice broken with a chuckle and chattering teeth.

  “Ya, I wish we had thicker coats,” the younger one muttered, slinging his rifle over his back. “And yet, our Feldwebel says we must 'make do.'”

  The older soldier grunted as he relieved himself, and then let out a long sigh of relief before buttoning back up. “I have heard that phrase too many times. 'Make do.' With what? Frostbitten fingers and moldy bread?”

  “The biscuits are more stone than bread,” the younger man replied with a groan. “And I swear the last sausage I had was more hair than meat.”

  “You had sausage?” the older man barked a laugh. “Mine smelled like it died last summer. I buried it next to my dignity.”

  The younger soldier pulled out a cigarette, cupped his hand around the match, and lit it with a flick. The flame briefly lit his gaunt face as he took a long drag, exhaling smoke and vapor into the air. “Still probably better than what the Ivans are eating.”

  Emmett lay prone behind a downed tree a dozen yards away, watching, listening. He pressed himself deep into the snow, poncho wrapped tight, feeling the bitter cold creep through every layer. His breath was shallow, his jaw clenched tight to keep his teeth from chattering. Every so often, he scooped up a bit of snow and let it melt against his tongue. Keeping his mouth from fogging the air and betraying his position.

  Ahead, the edge of a halted convoy flickered with movement. Trucks idled, their engines humming low, exhaust drifting like ghosts into the winter air. Soldiers patrolled in small groups, watched by stiff officers trying to look important while shivering in place. Emmett had nearly veered off, circled wide. But then two stragglers broke off, wandering into the woods.

  Close enough to hear.

  And soldiers always talked.

  “I hate this damn country. I hate this war. And I hate this cold,” the older one muttered as he rested his rifle lazily into his arms, hands clenched into fists.

  His companion chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against a tree. “Ja, but best be careful with your complaints. The Oberst is fed up with hearing them.”

  “What’s he expect?” the older one scoffed. “We’re all freezing our asses off out here. We barely have enough munitions to hold a scarecrow line, and the Reds keep pushing like devils with fire at their backs.”

  The younger man nodded solemnly, but didn’t respond immediately. Then he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What do you think about the… creatures?”

  “The W?lfe des Reiches?” the other soldier scoffed. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around their existence.”

  The first one let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Like something out of a story meant to scare children. But they’re real. And they are certainly terrorizing the Russians.”

  The older man let out a mirthless chuckle. “Well, at least they’re on our side. Still, there’s much too few of them.”

  “I thought they’d be taller,” the younger soldier murmured, eyes narrowing. “They weren’t giants. Just... big. And wrong.”

  “They were big enough,” the older one replied, taking another drag. “And the way they moved… like wolves trying to pretend they were human. I kept thinking of that old book, Der Werwolf, you know it? They remind me of that."

  The younger man gave a shiver that wasn’t from the cold. “They smiled at us, you know. Like they were enjoying the discomfort. One of them still had blood on his muzzle." The man shuddered, before continuing. “And they report directly to the Oberst. Bypassed every officer. Straight in, straight out. Didn’t say a word to anyone else. You tell me what that means.”

  “I haven’t an idea,” the older soldier said, then he shrugged. “Still… as I’ve said before, I’m just glad they’re on our side. Even if they scare the hell out of me.”

  Emmett, still listening from the tree, felt the corner of his mouth twitch. If those creatures reported straight to the division commander, and the commander was in this sector… then those bastards were close. Very close.

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  “Thanks, Fritz,” Emmett whispered to himself through clenched teeth, barely audible.

  The conversation cut off as a third soldier emerged from the trees. Young, scarf wrapped high around his face. “We’re moving out,” he said shortly, then turned back toward the trucks.

  The older man groaned, rolling his eyes. “Come, let’s get back before they leave our sorry hides behind.”

  The younger man gave a weary chuckle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Their boots crunched against snow and dirt as they trudged away, their silhouettes fading into the fog and exhaust.

  Emmett watched, and listened to the chorus of movement. The grinding transmission of an overburdened hauler, the metallic clatter of weapons being stowed, the crunch of boots as men hurried back to position. A final shout rang out, barely audible, then the line began to roll, engines revving louder as they pulled away down the crude forest road. It wasn’t long before their noise dulled into a distant murmur, swallowed by the trees.

  Only then did Emmett shift. He rose slowly to a crouch, muscles groaning, blood returning to frozen joints. He glanced once toward the road, then melted deeper into the forest. His boots crunching softly against the frozen ground.

  When he reached a dark hollow beneath a thick stand of spruce, he stopped and dropped to one knee. The faintest glow of dawn touched the treetops. Gunfire cracked again in the far distance. Sporadic, angry.

  He slung his Grease Gun over one shoulder, then reached into a side pouch with trembling fingers. The small brown pill bottle clicked dully in his gloved hand. With a practiced motion, he shook one tablet free into his palm and tossed it into his mouth, swallowing it dry. The painkillers didn’t kill the cold or the dread, but they dulled the sharp edge of the bruises blooming across his ribs. And the lingering, pulsing throb of his damaged face and the socket where his eye used to be. It still ached in the cold, raw and deep. Even with the help of the medication. It did however take the edge off.

  Next, he pulled a small pouch from an inner coat pocket, containing his scent cover. He smeared a bit onto his palms, then rubbed it behind his ears, under his collar, and along the exposed edges of his jacket. He took his time, methodically layering it on, pressing it into the fabric, knowing that any hint of unnatural smell might be enough to give him away if the wind shifted wrong.

  Satisfied, he put away the small bottle. Pulling free his map, and flicked open his compass with stiff fingers. He adjusted his bearings, eyes narrowing at the sector where the convoy had headed.

  “Alright,” he muttered, tucking the tools away and standing. “Let’s find these damn wolfmen.”

  A full day had passed since Emmett Granger had encountered the German convoy. Since then, he’d found a gap in the German lines. Poorly covered and thinner than expected, and slipped through under the cloak of night. It had been a little easier than he’d anticipated, but with the Wehrmacht stretched to the breaking point, it wasn’t exactly shocking.

  Still, he’d moved with the same caution he always had. Every footfall placed with care. Every shadow treated like a threat. And now, after a long, nerve-rattling push, he’d finally reached the outer edge of the Russian lines.

  He was nestled in a fold of terrain beneath a tangle of fallen logs and drifted snow, camouflaged further with pine boughs and a dusting of frozen earth. It gave him a clear view across a frozen streambed toward the Russian position. And just as important, a narrow but open escape route behind. Tight, low, defensible. Just the way he liked it.

  He adjusted his poncho, the fabric stiff with frost, and flexed his gloved fingers. Slowly, he pulled out the pouch of scent cover. He didn’t know what the hell was in it. Pine tar, maybe deer piss. But Halloway swore by it. Emmett dabbed more onto his collar, sleeves, and neck, wincing at the chill of it on his skin.

  A breeze rattled the trees above. He held still for a moment, then pocketed the scent cover.

  The tranquilizer pistol was nestled beside him, within easy reach, but he kept the Grease Gun in his hands, his finger resting lightly against the trigger guard. He wouldn’t switch to nonlethal unless the odds were perfect.

  Ahead, the Russian lines flickered in the gloom. Their camp was spread across a rough cut in the terrain, dug into shallow fighting positions with sandbags and splintered sleds for makeshift cover. Low fires burned behind snowbanks and tarps, contained but just bright enough to cast flickering halos over the huddled silhouettes squatting beside them.

  The soldiers were wrapped in heavy greatcoats, scarves tight around raw faces. Rifles leaned against logs or hung loosely from shoulders. Some gnawed at crusts of black bread, others traded cigarettes with trembling fingers. The trenches weren’t meant to be held long. Hacked out fast with picks and spades, but reinforced well enough to take a sudden push.

  Emmett observed it all through his binoculars, a strip of canvas tied over the lenses to block any reflection. He scanned slowly. Carefully. Machine gun nests, guard rotations, crates marked in Cyrillic.

  The Russians looked dead on their feet. Hardened, seasoned, half-frozen. Not sloppy, just spent.

  Just like him.

  A violent shiver rattled his spine. He clamped his jaw tight and forced himself still, reaching for another handful of snow to press into his mouth and keep his breath from fogging. Three days in this hellhole, and it felt like the cold had seeped into his marrow. He was starting to forget what warmth even felt like.

  The hours dragged.

  The sun vanished behind steel-grey clouds, and the wind picked up again. By midnight, his toes were numb and his fingers ached with stiffness. He was just reaching for the scent pouch again when he heard it.

  Faint.

  A sound. A whisper. Something moving.

  He froze. Shifted his one good eye to the left. It was awkward, he had to tilt his whole head but he scanned the treeline.

  Nothing.

  Then movement. A flicker between trunks. A shape, low and deliberate.

  He pressed more snow into his mouth and went still. Every nerve taut.

  The silhouette crept forward, crouched like an animal stalking prey. It carried an MP40, cradled with expert ease. It reached a thick pine and leaned against it, slowly rising.

  Emmett saw it clearly now.

  Wolf’s snout. Upright ears. A glint in its eyes.

  It wore a poncho over its uniform, the hood draped back over its neck. Its breath steamed softly in the freezing air.

  His chest tightened. Just for a moment, he was back in the Vosges. That freezing night when everything had gone to hell. The night his face was torn apart.

  The socket of his ruined eye throbbed at the memory.

  The hybrid sniffed the air, its nostrils flaring. It froze. Then turned its head slowly, scanning toward Emmett’s hide.

  Emmett didn’t breathe. Didn’t twitch.

  The creature stared a moment longer, then gave a faint shake of its head and returned to watching the Russian line.

  Alone. So far.

  Maybe this was the shot.

  His hand slid through the snow toward the tranquilizer pistol. He curled his fingers around the grip, brought it up slowly, quietly. The hybrid was ten feet away, maybe less.

  If it moved closer, if it turned he might be able to dart it, tackle it. If the sedative hit fast. If there weren’t more…

  Then movement.

  Another figure slipped through the trees behind it.

  “Shit.” Emmett mouthed.

  Another one. The second hybrid crouched beside the first. His voice was low.

  “Are we ready?” It asked it’s companion in German.

  “Ja. Eira is in position. Everyone else is waiting on her signal.” The second one said with a hand motion.

  “Gut.”

  The first paused. His head swiveled back toward Emmett’s direction.

  “Dieter, what is it?” the second one asked.

  “I think I smell something…”

  Then the night shattered.

  A rifle cracked across the snow. Another barked a second later. Russian voices rose in alarm. The hybrids didn’t wait.

  “Los!” The first one snapped.

  They dropped low, fired short bursts of chattering submachine gun fire, then sprinted past Emmett’s position like ghosts. Low, fast, and vanished into the black.

  Emmett’s finger tightened on the tranquilizer trigger. His jaw locked.

  Too late.

  The chance was gone.

  He let out a long, slow breath and lowered the dart gun. Watching the snow settle in their wake.

  Then, under his breath, with a bitterness that burned hotter than the cold.

  “Next time.” He said, fighting off another shiver.

  From his vantage point beneath the snow-laced tangle of pine and timber, Emmett Granger watched as the wolfmen descended on the Russian position like a scythe.

  They came fast… too fast.

  Like shadows with claws, they burst from the treeline in coordinated bursts, weaving between snow-heavy trunks, their movements a blur. Muzzle flashes snapped like lightning in the dark, staccato bursts of fire cutting through the silence. Then they vanished again. Gone before the Russians could return fire.

  Emmett blinked. Tried to count. ten? fourteen? It only felt like more. They never stopped moving. Each burst came from a new angle, a different spot.

  Illusion of numbers. Classic trick. And it was working.

  Russian machine gun fire tore through the night. The forest around Emmett erupted in wood chips and powdery snow as a burst lashed in seemingly every direction. Some stray fire chewing into the log in front of him. He flattened down, swore under his breath.

  “Christ.” Emmett snarled, baring his teeth. He wondered if he really was far enough away from the action. He adjusted slightly, debating a reposition, but stayed put. No sense leaving his position, and possibly being noticed by the Russians, or the Wolfmen for that matter.

  Back in the trenches, one of the machine guns fell silent as it ran dry. Smoke rising from the barrel. The crew scrambled to reload. Emmett saw a hybrid step from the woods, arm cocked back. The grenade sailed with impossible force. Fifty yards, maybe more. It hit, bounced once, then detonated.

  The blast shredded the position. Men were hurled backwards, screaming. One flailed on the ground, his coat shredded. Another crawled toward the ruined weapon, dazed and limping.

  Emmett raised his binoculars, cloth still tied over the lens. The wounded man gripped the machine gun, just as a single rifle shot cracked. His skull split open in a mist of red and he crumpled.

  Then another shot. A man, likely an officer was mid-yell, gesturing wildly, then he jerked, and looked down at the blood blooming on his chest, and toppled forward into the snow.

  “Sniper,” Emmett muttered.

  The remaining crew barely had time to react. A second grenade dropped among them. Two tried to dive clear. One made it. The other didn’t. The blast knocked the survivor sprawling, and as he rose to his knees, a burst of fire from the treeline stitched through his chest.

  Emmett scanned the treeline, trying to figure out where the sniper was. No clear sign. Just the brutal precision of someone changing position constantly. One or two. Either way, they were damn good.

  The Russians were breaking. Men ran for cover, or broke entirely. One turned and opened fire on his own, cutting down two fleeing comrades before a machine gun chattered and dropped him mid-roar.

  It was unraveling.

  The hybrids pressed harder. Grenades rained in like thrown stones. Pinpoint, relentless. Emmett saw one charge straight through the frozen streambed, launch a grenade mid-sprint, and vanish before the blast. Three more Russians died screaming.

  A shriek snapped Emmett's attention left. One of the Russians had bolted. Panic incarnate, running straight for Emmett's position.

  "No… fuck you, not over here, Ivan," Emmett hissed.

  The man was wild-eyed, bloodied, half-crazed. He stumbled blindly through the snow, sobbing, boots slipping. Unarmed, undone.

  Then something came through the trees.

  A blur slammed him down, snarling. A hybrid, fully committed. The Russian screamed, clawed at the earth. The wolfman straddled him, calm as ice. It dropped its MP40 into the snow, then grabbed the man’s head in its clawed hands.

  There was a pause, just a beat. Like it was weighing something.

  Then, crack. The neck snapped like a twig. The man gurgled and went still.

  The wolfman exhaled, steam curling from its maw. It nodded once, satisfied, picked up its weapon, and disappeared back toward the fight.

  Twenty minutes. That’s all it took.

  Bodies littered the trench like broken puppets. Fire flickered from shattered crates and ruptured drums. Smoke drifted in lazy ribbons. Emmett scanned the ruins, heard low moans, sobs, the occasional wheeze.

  The hybrids moved slowly now, confident, deliberate. Their ponchos were soaked, stained with blood and snowmelt. Steam rose from their shoulders and breath. They combed the position, checking bodies, destroying gear.

  Less than fifteen of them, by Emmett’s count. And they’d routed sixty.

  A cry rang out. A survivor.

  Then pop. One shot. Silence.

  Emmett spied more movement. Two hybrids hauled a young Russian from the trench and dumped him in the snow. He looked barely old enough to shave. He scrambled, tried to rise.

  One of them leaned down. Spoke to him. Russian.

  Emmett couldn't hear it all, but he got the gist.

  The boy nodded frantically. Then bolted. Running for his life. No one stopped him.

  The hybrids watched him disappear. Then, one by one, they set to work torching supplies, smashing weapons, kicking in crates and dousing what they could in fuel. The position became a grave.

  And then, they left.

  No words. No signals.

  Just turned and vanished into the black woods like wraiths.

  Emmett watched until the last tail disappeared.

  Nothing left now but the wind and the slow crackle of dying flames.

  He let out a breath. Shook his head.

  "Well… fuck."