I stepped outside to get something to eat. A gloomy morning greeted me. A small yard, with a workshop on the right and a garage on the left. The car was parked in front of the garage. I'd left it there yesterday—I was too tired and just needed to sleep after the trip to the city.
I walked over to the closed metal barrels by the workshop.
I started to open the lid of one, then froze. Through the open gate, I saw three strangers approaching the house. Dirty, in worn-out clothes. Two had shotguns, the third a pistol. Their eyes were full of hate and a thirst to kill. Three convicts, escaped from the nearby prison.
I didn't move. They were too close. They crossed the gate line.
"Leaving the gate open? That was your mistake."
The tallest one pressed a shotgun to my head.
"Buddy, we want meat," he said in a hoarse voice. "Take us inside. Show us what you've got."
Inside, he smashed the butt of his shotgun into my face, knocking me into a chair.
"We'll stuff ourselves, kill you, and move on. The car run?"
The other two opened the fridge and whistled:
"Beast, look! What the hell? He's got nothing!"
The leader glanced at the empty fridge, then turned to me.
"Buddy, where's all your food?" he asked.
I lifted my head, bloodied from his blow, and looked him in the eyes.
"It's all here."
A large, dark shape shot out from the far end of the room. The one with the pistol fell, his throat split wide open, blood spraying everywhere. His friends spun around in horror. The dark figure reappeared from the other side, and the second bandit dropped—cut clean in two. The silhouette froze. Two fires burned in its face, and fresh blood dripped from long claws onto the floor.
The leader screamed and raised his shotgun, but I was already beside him. With my clawed hand, I tore off his head. Turned his face toward me—and while he was still conscious for a few last seconds, I said:
"We want meat."
Then I sank my fangs into his face.