A gunshot.<br/><br/>She had no idea what was happening.<br/><br/>Lower Westchester was a quiet area – not so quiet as its cousin upper, but nonetheless. Woods dominated outside the suburbs, old and tall growth, separated by roads and a broad parkway. Of itself, it was both prime and subordinate territory. New York’s busyness meant lights, people and cameras at all times, a constant state of watch in the towns, where hunting would eventually become noticed. Weirdness could be lost in throngs, however, and there was a societal decree against snitching. So in that manner, supernaturals could go unnoticed. The colonial farms in wilderness could be prime, however, as none would immediately notice an elderly couple disappeared, or a young family simply gone. She expected those as their hunting grounds, the fringe places, and not the middle of nowhere.<br/><br/>What she saw was unanticipated too. Just as she slowed against a pine tree, she spotted a body, twitching in fresh death. She was yards from the trashed RV, it appeared, and there had been more than a single shot. More, more. Hillbillies? Saving human life was the priority, she ignored what ever else went on, for now. She dipped through shadow in eigengrau camouflage, crunching almost silently. Behind trees, through bushes, to the RV’s misshapen back, and under. She crawled on elbows and toes, to the naked woman, instantly searched for her pulse. Warm blood deluged, Scarr’s mouth watered at the meaty, metallic odor. A hole was in her skull. Direct…and deadly. She turned her face with a gloved hand, waiting for a sign of healing, heat, flesh pulling together – there was none.<br/><br/>“Fuck.”<br/><br/>And there were wolves. NV goggles latched onto them, the last – a male – just finished changing. They were in frenzy, one side attacking another, it seemed. Dust and dander rose, jaws clapped between gurgles and snarls. Did she have time to wait for backup? There were only four hunters, in comparison to the whirlwind. Part of a good-sized pack, at least, in killer mode. Instinct made her reach for a rifle two-folded on her back. She righted the barrel and set the scope lightning fast, powered the heat-seek sights, and aimed. The fray was hard to delineate, she breathed thrice before locking on and snapping the trigger. A blinding bullet raced in silver glory for its mark, and purchased a lupine temple. Liquid silver gushed with a painful screech, the wolf was down. Scarr found a second, trailed, steadied, and shot. That was a hit in the neck, and caused suffering. The beast wouldn’t be felled by the puncture, but by the silver flooding hotly and painfully within, leaking into its body. It roared, she saw it thrash, collide with another wolf, driven mad by silvered agony.<br/><br/>Onto the third, the wolf she aimed at saw her. They both froze. Even with two decades of hunting under her belt, fear remained tangible. Werewolves were fictional beasts come to horrid life. Ancient nightmares plaguing full moons and forgotten peoples, replicating past bloodshed in the present. For so long, they needed to be eradicated, and for so long, they weren’t. They terrorized, they devoured, they changed and added to their numbers. Her throat always tightened when one laid eyes on her, when she became their predatory focus. She set between its sockets and inhaled, but another bullet took it from behind. While her rounds were silver-stuffed, the others were akin to grenades, and exploded with the potent metal, showering those in the dead’s vicinity. Howls and screams climbed for the sky, more shots hit other wolves and sprayed. Six were down in less than six seconds, and Scarr was on her feet.<br/><br/>Her backup had arrived, and gunshots overtook rumbles and growls.<br/><br/>Seven were killed. Then eight.