Copyright (c) 1992
                             RUNNING LATE
                            by Michael Hahn
                              
        It never fails. The problems always crop up right before I'm
    supposed to leave. This time it was garbage characters appearing
    on the checks--at two minutes before eight. That's the down-side
    of being the lead operator on this shift, I guess.
        Jerry and I got the problem squared away, more or less. It
    was mostly a matter of finding a programmer at home that could
    authorize leaving the run until tomorrow. No one was going to
    come back in on a Friday night--they'd much rather slide in on a
    Saturday after the hangover fades. Anyway, I didn't get out to
    the parking lot until almost eight forty-five, more than half an
    hour behind schedule. I had a feeling I'd be spending this Friday
    night away from home.
        This time of year it gets dark around seven-thirty, and my car
    was parked in the corner of the lower lot, well away from the
    nearest streetlight. As I slipped the key into the Camaro's door
    lock, I was trying to remember where the nearest park was. That's
    why I didn't notice the three punks until they'd surrounded me.
        The leader was wearing black leather and waving an
    illegal-looking switchblade at me. A stocky boy to his left had a
    baseball bat with a couple of nasty-looking steel bands on the
    barrel. The third was a nervous-looking kid with terrible acne.
    His hand was hidden inside his jacket--I imagine he had a sweaty
    palm wrapped around the butt of a gun.
        "Give us the keys, asshole!" the leader snarled.
        "Listen, guys," I said, backing away slowly, "I really have to
    get out of here. I'm late as it is, and this is an appointment I
    can't afford to miss."
        "Yeah, shithead, you're gonna be real late if you don't give
    us the fuckin' keys." He moved closer, the switchblade glinting
    in the moonlight.
        Moonlight. The full moon was rising over his shoulder,
    lighting up our little tableau. I could see the eyes of all three
    widen with fear as I changed. The leader had time to mumble,
    "What the fuck . . ." before I tore his throat out. The other two
    turned to run, and I downed the kid with the baseball bat before
    he took two steps. A swipe of my paw took off his left ear and a
    patch of scalp; I caught his neck in my jaws, snapped it with a
    shake of my now black-furred head.
        The third kid had backed against a tree and pulled his gun.
    His aim was shaky, and the first shot went wide. I heard glass
    shatter behind me, then his second shot passed through my left
    flank. The lead left a burning trail in my flesh, but no damage
    was done. He never got off a third shot--I tore his arm from its
    socket, smelled bladder and bowels let go.
        I dragged the bodies well back into the woods, feasted for a
    time. The teenagers probably wouldn't be found for a few days,
    and by that time the full moon will have passed for another month.
    I trotted back to my car, pawed the scraps that used to be my
    clothing. I nosed my keys out of what was left of a pocket,
    caught them between my teeth, and carried them to the base of a
    tree.
        The sweatsuit I kept in the car was going to come in handy in
    the morning--it wouldn't do to be caught driving home naked. The
    kid with the gun had managed to shoot out the Camaro's right front
    window; I suppose I'd have to see about getting it fixed tomorrow.
    I slipped back into the bushes at the edge of the lot, curled up
    for a little nap.
        At least I'd gotten a meal out of the whole mess.
                                   END