The Multi-Headed Werewolf

By Jason Earls, author of Cocoon of Terror & Red Zen

Rolf slammed his fist down on the table and his partner, Bjorn, standing by the door of the cabin, screamed "Odin!" for the fiftieth time that day. Rolf shot a glance out the window. Almost dark, big snow flakes cascading down. The trees outside looked hollow and brittle. He snarled at the harsh Siberian landscape that constantly flaunted its savagery.

"I'm ready when you are!" Bjorn yelled, adjusting the side flaps of his fur cap.

"Odin allows me to be ready at all times for robbing and pillaging," Rolf said.

The year was 1890. Rolf and Bjorn were hunters and petty criminals living in a hunting cabin just outside of Omsk, Siberia. Winter was hitting them hard. Their hunting was not going well. They desperately needed money and were preparing to go out on another robbery.

Rolf and Bjorn were the last of the true "berserkers," or at least they imagined themselves to be. The berserkers were warriors who used to psyche themselves up into murderous rages before going out into battle, and Rolf and Bjorn tried to adopt as many of the old-time berserker ways as they could, working themselves into states of almost insane fury before committing their crimes. Tonight, they would definitely need every ounce of demonic anger they could muster to help them endure the two mile run through the snow to the tavern where they planned to deprive the patrons of all their money, as well as put an end to their pathetic lives.

Rolf leaned over the table and picked up a small can of 'bog myrtle.' He pinched a tiny amount of the crushed powder between his forefinger and thumb, then flicked it carefully over the pitcher of beer on the table. Bog myrtle was a special tool of the true berserkers. An herb they used to help them become more aggressive, to help them reach a state of over-the-top, almost deranged violence. Rolf poured the bog myrtle laden beer into their mugs and yelled "Odin!" once again. They raised their glasses, slammed them together, and then drained them simultaneously.

"Let's go!" Bjorn roared.

Rolf turned, took his full length wolf skin off a big hook beside the door and put it on. The head of the wolf was still attached to the skin and the fangs hung down in front of Rolf's eyes when he wore it. Bjorn put on his own wolf skin, and when he turned around Rolf slapped him in the face and screamed, "Are you a true berserker!?"

"Yes!" Bjorn pulled his hunting knife from its sheath, raised it and slammed the bottom of the handle repeatedly into his own forehead, demonstrating his ferocity. Blood dripped down his nose and he released a high-pitched howl. Then Rolf stomped across the cabin floor, slapping himself in the face. "I am a real berserker!" He shook his fists and beat his chest. A few more minutes of this and they had succeeded in working themselves up into a satanic frenzy. "Odin!" they screamed, again and again, holding out the name, almost singing it, their voices modulating in and out of tune.

Slamming the cabin door behind them, they sprinted through the deep snow in the direction of the tavern, their wolf skins flapping, the bog myrtle and beer flowing through their veins and sloshing in their bellies. The cold of the Siberian winter and fatigue from running in heavy boots never phased them because of their berserker rage numbing the pain. They screamed oaths to Odin as they tore through the forest, their knives in hand and the light from the half-full moon above flashing off of the steel in the semi-darkness.

Black smoke poured from the tavern's chimney. The glow from a lantern shown in the window. The tavern was a log cabin not much bigger than Rolf's. They sprinted toward the door, still energetic from their rage, still bellowing, the thick snow dampening their loud utterances.

Rolf burst through the door first. He saw only a waitress and two trappers inside, the Siberian winters being lonely and bad for business. But they both knew a cook was lurking somewhere in the back of the tavern.

Rolf ran up and grabbed one of the trappers, got behind him, his knife at the ready and slammed the butt end of it into the man's throat five times, crushing his larynx. The trapper gasped, choking on his own blood, fell to the floor with red pouring from his mouth, spasming. Bjorn was already on the other trapper, a younger man reeking of whiskey and probably hoping to find female companionship in the tavern, even though he should have known there would be none. Bjorn stabbed the young trapper in the chest, then bit into his cheek. He didn't put up much a fight, Bjorn's rage was too fierce. The trapper merely sank to the floor.

Bjorn's ferocity always seemed to be more intense than Rolf's. He obviously loved being immersed in the berserker state, wallowing in its depravity. He attacked the waitress before Rolf was finished with his trapper. She was blonde, fairly thick and buxom. Attractive in a primitive Siberian way. Rolf watched Bjorn's attack and for a brief moment he hoped Bjorn would not kill the waitress, so they could take her back to the cabin and have their way with her. But Rolf listened to Bjorn's zealous growls - he was almost barking - and knew his berserker rage would not be quenched until the waitress was dead. The young trapper groaned and gurgled at Rolf's feet, choking on his own blood. Rolf winced at the sounds, leaned down and efficiently slit the trapper's throat.

When he stood up, he eyeballed Bjorn, still hunched over the waitress who was now sprawled out on the floor. Rolf could see only Bjorn's long wolf skin and the waitress's legs for the most part. He guessed Bjorn was still chewing on her neck and wondered why he wasn't using his knife to finish her off. Then he noticed that Bjorn's body looked much bigger. And his movements seemed unnaturally quick. Suddenly Bjorn turned his head to Rolf for the briefest instant and revealed his face.

It was not human.

He had the face of a wolf. Matted with fur, a long doglike snout protruding with his eyes glowing bright green. Yellow fangs dripped with saliva and blood.

"Bjorn!" screamed Rolf as he took three steps backward. "What the hell is wrong with -"

The cook ran bellowing out of the kitchen doors, holding a huge meat cleaver above his head. His white apron was stained with blood and his eyes were narrow and pitch black. His heavy boots clomped over the floor as he went after Rolf with the meat cleaver. He swung it at Rolf's face. He ducked but the head of his wolf skin stayed suspended in the air long enough for the cleaver to slice through the snout and one half of it rolled across the floor. Rolf charged and slammed his shoulder into the cook's knees. He still had his knife. After crawling atop the cook's body, he regripped his blade and started stabbing the cook in the chest. He stabbed him eighteen times shouting "Odin!" with each thrust. The cook's arms flailed for a few moments, his legs spasmed, and then his life faded away.

Rolf stood up, wiped the blood from his cheeks. He glanced around for Bjorn but only saw the waitress lying on her back in the middle of the tavern, her head tilted to the side, her eyes staring into the obsidian abyss of oblivion, her neck pouring blood and bile, a viscous pool of it surrounding her body in a crude 'P' shape. He looked until he found Bjorn standing at a table at the front of the tavern taking bills from a wooden cigar box.

Bjorn did not have the face of a wolf anymore.

He looked fully human as he stuffed bills into a leather pouch and tucked it into his belt. His berserker rage seemed to have fully subsided.

"Come on," said Bjorn. "We're finished here."

Rolf blinked and tried to think. He pushed the wolf fangs up out of his eyes. He couldn't understand what he had seen only a few seconds ago. Finally he nodded and followed Bjorn as he stepped over one of the dead trappers, and they went out the door into the darkness and the cold falling snow.

* * * * *

Mid afternoon in the hunting cabin. A lantern burned low next to Rolf's elbow. He wedged the tip of his hunting knife under his thumbnail. Out the window, he watched Bjorn tread through the snow toward the cabin. Bjorn entered, exhaled with irritation at the cold. He brushed snow from his coat and hung his 30-40 Krag on the gun rack.

Rolf continued cleaning his nails, working the blade at the tip of his middle finger. "See anything out there?"

"No. Not even a single caribou." He hung up his coat, turned and hunched down by the wood stove.

"I want to ask you something, Bjorn. It's about the robbery last night."

"All right," he nodded. "What about it?"

"Well, after I killed that trapper, I glanced over at you and your face seemed completely different. You had changed."

"Ha ha... That's what a true berserker looks like, my friend." He smiled, revealing black spaces between his teeth.

"No, it wasn't just the berserker rage. You looked like a wolf. You had the nose of a dog, long fangs, and glowing green eyes. Your face was even covered with fur."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bjorn stood up.

"I'm sure of it. Your body was larger than normal and you were moving quickly like a wild animal."

"That's crazy, Rolf. You were only seeing the wolf hide!" Bjorn made fists and gritted his teeth.

"No. It was more than that. But you don't have to get angry about it. I mean ... It sure seemed to me like you'd turned into a wolf. But maybe I was just seeing things." He rubbed his forehead and doubt about what he'd seen crept into his mind.

Bjorn smiled and hunched down by the stove. "I think you just put a little too much bog myrtle in your beer, my friend. You know how that stuff twists up your thinking."

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

"Also considering the stress and ferocity involved in the robbery, your imagination just went wild. You were only seeing the wolf hide. Forget about it."

Rolf's cheeks flushed. Heat washed over him and blood pulsed in his temple. He squinted out the window, watching the heavy flakes descend. "Maybe I was just seeing things... because of all the bog myrtle. And the intense killing frenzy I was in."

Bjorn grinned and stared at Rolf through squinty eyes, he rubbed his calloused hands together over the wood stove.

* * * * *

A week later, Rolf and Bjorn had already spent all the money they had stolen from the tavern. Gambling, drinking, carousing with degenerates in a small town ten miles south. Now they needed more money. They also wanted another violent adventure to help appease their bloodthirsty natures. Especially Bjorn's.

A General Store lay seven miles away. A considerable distance. Too far to travel in a state of berserker rage. They knew if they psyched themselves up in their cabin most of their energy would be dissipated by running seven miles through deep snow. So for this particular robbery they decided it would be best to travel six and a half miles, build a fire, drink some beer and bog myrtle, work themselves up into a Satanic frenzy there, then sprint the rest of the distance to the store and start pillaging.

Because the store would of course become off limits to them after the robbery, and because the townspeople of Omsk would most surely try to hunt them down, they knew they would be forced to move to another village afterward. But a robbery still had to be made and the General Store was their last financial opportunity.

* * * * *

A fire half a mile from the General Store popped, crackled and ate falling snow flakes. Rolf drained his mug of beer with bog myrtle as Bjorn pounded his own chest and growled. Rolf didn't feel quite right. He'd flinch everytime Bjorn made a sound, worried that his friend was growling more than usual, thinking he could change into some hideous wolf creature at any moment, still leery about what he thought he had seen at the tavern not long ago.

Rolf threw his mug into the fire and tried to shake off the bad thoughts. "Odin!" he yelled, attempting to stifle the sound of it a bit. He was worried someone at the General Store would hear him and it made it difficult to psyche himself up into the required berserker state.

Bjorn had no trouble though, no inhibitions. He pounded the sides of his head, cursed, stomped his boots in the snow, beat his chest, did anything violent to reach berserker transcendence and immunize himself against the pain of the upcoming fight. "Odin! Give us power!" he roared. "Odin! We are nothing without you! Let us be vessels for your omnipotence and omniscience!" Then he slapped Rolf on the back and screamed, "Let's go!"

He sprinted off through the snow. Rolf, not yet in a complete berserker state, followed him as the fire continued to burn and release black smoke that floated up toward the half-full moon.

They burst through the General Store door and found it relatively full. A married couple in their twenties. A thin elderly man in a fur coat so large it almost swallowed him. And the owner, Sven Johansen, a gruff, fastidious, bear of a man who would fight to the death if provoked. With their hunting knives drawn and held high they blitzkrieged into their assault, whooping and growling, their wolf skins flapping on their backs, the fangs from the wolf's jaws hanging over their squinty eyes.

The young woman screamed and darted behind her husband upon seeing the wolfskin clad berserkers. Bjorn jumped into the air and cross body blocked the husband, sending both him and his wife who was cowering behind crashing to the floor. Bjorn snickered and quickly slid the knife blade across the man's jugular vein, blood spraying up and landing on his wife's screaming face who was pinned below.

Sven Johansen ran behind his counter, grabbed his 12-gauge and cocked it. Rolf sprinted and jumped on his back, started jabbing his hunting knife into Sven's shoulders, stabbing and chopping and screaming "Odin!" until Sven went down without squeezing the 12-gauge's trigger even once. Sven lay on the floor, his eyes half way open, then Rolf bent forward and hacked his head completely off. He raised the severed head high in the air, Sven Johansen's dead lips parted, his dead eyes staring off to the left, blood dripping from his beard and neck, and Rolf slung the head against the wall as hard as he could, where it slammed against a crude picture of Sven Johansen's family, then landed on the counter beside the cash register.

Rolf glanced over to Bjorn. He was still hunched over the woman on the floor. Rolf hoped he hadn't killed her yet. He wished he wouldn't kill her at all. There weren't too many females in their part of Siberia, and Rolf, just as with the woman at the tavern, had the desire to take her back to their cabin. Also he wondered why Bjorn seemed to have no need for women, it wasn't natural.

He listened to the woman gurgle a pathetic death squall. And although he could not see what Bjorn was doing, he knew the young lady would be dead within minutes, if she wasn't already.

The elderly man in the big fur coat was heading for the door. Somehow Rolf had almost forgotten about him. He must have been hiding in a corner. "Bjorn!" yelled Rolf. "The old man is escaping!"

Bjorn leapt on the old man and started choking him. The old man didn't make much noise, didn't have much fight left, he was probably ready to die. Bjorn didn't even have to use his knife to kill him.

Rolf didn't watch the attack. He went behind the counter to the cash register and opened it to find sixteen dollars and some change. Four people murdered for sixteen dollars and thiry-five cents. But they would load up as many supplies as they could carry. He fished out the cash and stuffed it into a small leather pouch on his belt.

Then Bjorn's growls grew louder.

Rolf pushed up the jaws of his wolf skin to see better.

Bjorn was still bent over the old man, for a long time now. He saw Bjorn's body now twice its normal size. His wolf skin looked like a dish towel hanging from his back, which was now covered with fur and rippling with muscles.

Rolf took a step away from the cash register, raised his finger and pointed. "There it is! I knew I wasn't seeing things! You're a wolf!"

The wolf creature that used to be Bjorn turned around with unnatural speed. It had two large heads now, side by side. They were both snarling with its mouths pouring yellow foam.

"Oh. My. God," said Rolf.

Then the two-headed wolf bent and ripped a huge chunk of meat out of the old man's back. It chewed some of the flesh with both mouths, glared at Rolf, and spit out the rest.

"Bjorn!" Rolf yelled, stepping backwards. "What's going on with you? You've got two heads! They're wolf heads!"

The wolf creature yowled and leaped off of the old man's corpse. It lunged toward a set of shelves on the wall, busted them when it hit, sending sacks of flour and jars of jam and pickles to the floor, then propelled itself even higher, up into the ceiling, its shoulders slamming against the wood, cracking it, and landing on the floor on all fours. It's two heads growled at Bjorn. It clicked its sharp teeth, snarled as it stalked menacingly toward him. Then the wolf spoke in a deep hellish voice: "Odin is still my God, Rolf. He will change me back into a man after I do what he wants me to do."

Rolf backed up against the wall slowly, his hand on his leather money pouch. "What does Odin want you to do?"

The two-headed wolf raised both its heads and roared, its scream transforming into a long menacing howl. Rolf's entire body shook as chills traversed his skin. Then the wolf turned and jumped through the still open door of the general store, the wolf skin flapping on his back. Rolf ran after it, wondering where it would go.

A full moon. Rolf couldn't help but stare up into the gray craters of the celestial body for a few moments as it glowed light gray and yellow. Finally pulling his attention away from the moon, he glanced through the foliage but couldn't see where the two-headed wolf had ran. Then he heard fast gallops through the snow, turned, and the creature that used to be Bjorn caught him hard in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

Pushing its forelegs into Rolf's stomach, the wolf pinned him to the freezing snow. It lowered both its heads, mouths open, and Rolf watched the blood and saliva drip from its oversized fangs. The wolf scratched and teased its huge teeth across the skin of Rolf's neck.

"No! No!" he screamed, flailing and trying to break free.

"I won't kill you," said the two-headed wolf, his voice a raw buzzing sound. "Even though part of me wants to rip your guts out, the other part says you are still my friend."

Rolf trembled and stared into the wolf's four red eyes, eyeballing the wet end of its two long snouts and its jutting fangs. The wolf stepped off of Rolf's stomach, took three lunges, stopped and reared back on its hind legs, howling for almost a full minute. In the middle of the bellow, Rolf watched as another head popped out between the wolf's shoulders and quickly grew to the size of the other heads, making three mouths and sets of fangs to kill with.

He leaned up on his elbows, astonished by the multi-headed werewolf, and he watched it run and leap onto the roof of the General Store. The wolf creature ran through the snow atop the roof and disappeared over the side.

Rolf slowly got to his feet.

He stared at the wolf's silhouette, sprinting and dodging through the trees of the mountain side until it vanished.

* * * * *

He walked for two hours before returning to his cabin, pondering Bjorn's transformation and everything else that he'd witnessed. He thought of their allegiance to Odin, their devotion to the old time berserker ways and their frequent consumption of bog myrtle and beer. He thought of all the robberies they had committed over the years and all the people they had killed, finally deciding that it was all of these things that had contributed to Born transforming into a werewolf; and realizing it would only be a matter of time before he was next.

So Rolf had to change.

He knew he had to quit everything and find a new way of life. He realized he would have to move away from Siberia as soon as possible.

Rolf walked on with his head down, trying to decide where to go, and he saw in his mind the image of a heavily-muscled gargantuan werewolf with over ten heads located in various places on its body, sprinting through the woods, traveling from village to village, howling and killing every living thing in its path.

-end-

Jason Earls is author of the books Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Red Zen, Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); } and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Yankee Pot Roast, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover's books, Wretched & Violent, Mathworld, Chiaroscuro, Switchblade, Dogmatika, Neometropolis, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG's Speculative Fiction, AlienSkin, Escaping Elsewhere, Werewolf, Recreational and Educational Computing, Thirteen, Theatre of Decay, Nocturnal Ooze, Prime Curios, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, The Swallow's Tail, and other publications. He currently resides in Texas with his wife, Christine.