Greg felt terrible; all over his body he felt a rather numb sensation, a sort of generalized dull throbbing throughout every fibre of his being. He could hear voices, and he could vaguely make out shapes moving around him, though he couldn't identify them. He felt as if he was covered in a burial shroud, and the thought stuck with him. The shapes were his pallbearers, laying him to his final rest. It was so nice lying there, among his mourners, those who would miss him and those who would be joining him shortly.

     "...arm is broken...bed rest....How long?....days....any signs of....No, not yet....his friends?....when he is awake....do until....quiet around....phones....holding it...while longer....Why?....seven people...opportunity."

     He then slipped back into slumber, his dreams were strangely pleasant. He was in a field, a glorious field, without a single defect, and he was there with this girl, dogs all about them, and an omnividient face watching them lovingly from an omnipresent throne. He romped with her, the joy of the fresh day, the simple pleasure of rejoicing together in a wonderful creation - oh how he loved it. He wanted to be only with her, be with her in this field, day and night, every waking moment possible to stare into each other's eyes, to chase each other across those endless fields, and to bark in the sheer thrill of life.

     Bark?

     His thoughts of before flooded back to him in that moment. He ran as fast away from her as he could, running towards that omnipresent throne, prostrating himself before it, pleading for respite from that demons clutches. He saw about him as the field began to turn from beautiful flowers into lifeless husks, each one screaming at him, trying to bite him, and whip him with their branches. He felt the rasps of their leaves cut against his skin, his blood being lapped up by their roots, making them only more desperate. He extolled the omnividient for protection from the demon spawns, but he found no respite, no balm in gilead. Then like a pane of glass the sky broke into a thousand shards and as he screamed, they cut him to ribbons.

     He awoke with a start, his eyes darting about him, as he tried to raise himself up on his arms, but he felt a sharp pain from his left arm, and was unable to do so. Lying back down, he looked around. The room was rather comfortable, though largely unfurnished, dry-walled, painted a subtle blue, it lacked many furnishings other than the bed, a side-table, and a dresser with a mirror atop it. It was apparently a guest room, but for whom? Why was he here, he couldn't remember anything really. Then it slowly started to come back to him, bits at a time. He was in Barken, a town that was populated by demons who turned into dogs, and they were trying to add him to their number. Yet now he was lying in this bed, and his left arm looked like it was banged up pretty bad, and he felt something on his right leg. Lifting the sheets up a bit, he saw that it was a rudimentary splint. Great he'd broken his leg, and bruised his arm, and now he was at their mercy.

     Almost on queue, the door opened, and that girl came walking in, carrying a bowl that brought a mouth-watering scent to his nose. Her eyes brightened on seeing him awake and staring at her. She walked over and sat the bowl down on the side table.

     "It's certainly good to see you awake," she smiled towards him, trying to help him into a sitting position.

     "Where am I?", he asked her, his heart beating faster as he tried to retain his calm. He was talking with her! He must not lose control, he must retain an clear mind and heart to deal with this.

     "You're in our guestroom," she replied. "Oh.. you might want to know who I am. I'm Mary Beth Barclay, my friends just call me Mary." She held out a hand for him to take, and he stared at it for a second, and then reluctantly shook it. He expected her hand to be cold as ice, like that of a body uninhabited, but instead it was warm, moist, actually nice to the touch.

     "I'm Greg Finley."

     "It's nice to meet you Greg," she smiled amiably. She then picked up the bowl of what looked to be chicken soup, "You need to eat something good and healthy so you can get back up on your feet." She put the bowl in his lap, and gave him the spoon. She then sat at the end of the bed, watching him, while adding, "I made it myself."

     Greg gripped the spoon tightly in his right hand, nearly bending the handle, staring at the soup below him. It did smell very inviting, and it looked quite delicious, but he couldn't help but think of devil, the handsomest man, or the most beautiful woman, tempting and seducing all who would be captured in their physical beauty, forgetting that which on the inside is what counts. For all he knew, this bowl of soup might contain the formula that would turn him into one of them.

     However, his stomach won out, and he started eating it, rather gingerly at first, but more compulsively when he realized just how good it was. He stopped himself when he realized that he was licking it clean. He put the bowl down, shivers running through his body, and the sound of the spoon clinking against the sides seemed almost in slow motion for him. He had licked the bowl, they were winning, they were dragging him ever closer to the abyss that yawned wide before him, inviting with sensual reward, and earthly pleasures, but bringing only pain and eternal torment as the path to righteousness was sealed forever behind him. He did not jump into that abyss, he would not jump!

     "I see you liked my soup, most people do," Mary smiled. "I hope you are feeling better now. That was a nasty fall you took, you should be more careful next time you decide to look in a girl's window." She looked at him a little sidelong and winked.

     Greg pulled himself together. "You tempted me to it, you fiend!"

     "Fiend? I wasn't the one watching a poor innocent girl undress now was I?" she countered, getting off the end of the bed and coming around to his left side.

     Greg barred his teeth, nearly spitting between them, "How dare you! You tempted me to it, you demon spawn! You servant of Satan!"

     She looked completely ashen at that comment, backing away from him, a look of disgust on her face, "I am not a servant of Satan!" she denied vehemently, "I'm a Methodist. I worship the same God that you do."

     Greg snarled at her, "Demon! Out in the name of Jesus, I cast you out. Do not touch me, protect me, Lord!" Greg then listening to himself realized what he was doing, and stopped immediately. He unclenched his jaw, and he felt the horror that had nearly escaped in his rage, subside back into its corner. He sat there relaxing, refusing to look at her.

     Mary was still there though, his efforts to cast here out had proved quite ineffective. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he flinched away at her touch. She leaned back against the dresser, her eyes about to spill over in tears. Greg tried not to be swayed by those imminent tears, but he found his resistance diminishing, much to his chagrin.

     "Why do you think were demon spawn?" she asked, her voice quivering in her sorrow.

     Greg felt his right hand ball up into a fist as he tried to restrain himself from bursting out irrationally again. "You all turn into dogs, what else is there to say?" "It's not wrong," Mary countered.

     "Don't give that which is holy unto the dogs; Do not defile yourself by lying down with an animal; It is not right to take the children’s food and toss it to the dogs," Greg returned, almost mechanically.

     "But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master's table, help their master in the hunt, are loyal to their companions to the bitter end..." Mary replied in kind. "You do not understand what you are saying."

     Greg could see that she had already shed a tear, and was about ready to shed more. He did not respond to her charge, instead he turned away from her, not looking at her, refusing to acknowledge her. She began to cry even more, and finally she ran from the room, the tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing rather loudly as she went. Greg scoffed, looking once again at the bowl on the side table.

     Greg looked back towards the closed door when he heard voices speaking. He could tell they were in the next room, but they were apparently whispering. Listening carefully he could make out their conversation with surprising ease.

     "Hmm.... his body wants to shift, but he is holding it back with all of his willpower."

     "Is there anything we can do about that?" he heard a familiar voice say.

     "Nothing Al, at least, nothing we can do," the first voice added. " This is something he must conquer himself."

     Al sighed. "How do you think it will take?"

     "For him to get well, or for him to overcome his personal demons?"

     "Both, Dr. Shishido.", Al replied.

     "Well, the fractured leg will take several weeks, but his arm should be fine in a matter of days. As for him, I can only speculate. It make take a few days, it may take months, or even years to cope with it. By the time he finally comes to terms with it, it might have already left his system," Dr. Shishido replied.

     Greg vaguely remembered the name Dr. Shishido. He'd seen it somewhere around town, not sure where as he hadn't seen any doctors offices. It then suddenly struck him, Dr. Shishido was the town veterinarian! Who knows what they had done to him during the time he was out! He had to escape now.

     "Well," Al interrupted Greg's thoughts, "We'll find out soon enough how things turn out. Have you heard any word on his friends, anything about them?"

     "Yes, one of them has changed already, no word on the other five though. We suspect a second, but it's unsubstantiated as of now."

     "It's only been five days, and already we have one, two or three possible, that's amazing!" Al was stunned.

     Greg was stunned too. Who could it be? Who among them had succumbed to this horror? Jason? Nathan? He couldn't believe it. How could they let it take them over, and destroy their very souls?

     "It affects some people strangely. We might not get any of the others for months, by which time they will have all left, but still, they might come back some day," Dr. Shishido replied nonchalantly.

     Greg strained to listen, his body arching forward in the bed, his ears perking up, twisting to hear what was being said better, he had a little trouble because he could also hear Mary still crying, and it was beginning to distract him. It suddenly dawned on him what he was doing exactly, he was trying to strain his ears so much that he was using what those demons offered, a dogs hearing. Forcing himself back onto the pillow, he tried very hard to cut off the sound, ignoring the conversation on purpose. He would not be a dog.

     He looked about the room. There had to be some way to escape. His eyes kept straying towards the window. It was shut, but he could see the desert sky through the panes of glass. Panes of glass, those panes of glass, he would use them. He would use them right now.

     He slid his body out of bed, trying to stand on his legs, the pain which shot up his right leg caused him to involuntarily moan, but he kept himself in check as he put more pressure on it. He could walk on it if necessary, and was it ever necessary. He began to step towards the window, each step firing a jolt of agony up his leg. He had to reach it though, it was his only chance for escape.

     When he was half-way there, the door opened, and turning he saw the Oriental veterinarian, and Al Barcaly. Dr. Shishido walked smoothly and lithely over towards him, his arms reaching out to him, saying, "You must stay in bed, do not put weight on that leg, you'll only make the fracture worse!"

     Greg backed away from him, and knew immediately that it was a mistake, as the pain was simply too overwhelming, and he buckled to the floor. Al and Dr. Shishido picked him up, and placed him back in the bed. Greg struggled with them, his left arm hurting all the worse. As they put him in bed, Greg could see Dr. Shishido pulling something out of his coat, and he immediately recognized it for what it was, a syringe, a hypodermic needle.

     Greg struggled more intensely against the two, with Al holding him down, and Dr. Shishido puncturing his arm ever so slightly, and injecting him with whatever foul concoction he had devised. Greg felt himself growing weaker, the world about his getting fuzzier. He looked through the open doorway, seeing the young boy watching with a bemused interest, and Mary, her eyes wet with tears, but no longer crying. With that image, he once again blacked out.