Free Hemlock by Kathleen Peacock

continued. “Now turn your heads to the left.” Automatic compliance from the spelbound audience. “Anyone in this room could be infected. The person you’re looking at right now might be one of them. You can never let down your guard.”
    The lights dimmed and Derby raised his hand, a smal remote held loosely in his palm. A picture suddenly filed the white wal behind him. A smiling redheaded woman and a young boy with light-brown hair and gray eyes. A family portrait.
    Click.
    A ripped jacket, the bend of a knee—those were the only clues that what we were looking at had once been a person, that it wasn’t just a pile of mangled raw meat. My stomach roled.
    “This, of course, is the woman from the first photograph.”
    Derby’s voice was calm and level. The glow from the projector cast sinister shadows across his face. “A group of werewolves broke into her home, kiled her two sons while she watched, and then kiled her.”
    “I think I’m going to be il,” whispered Serena. She closed her eyes.
    “Now,” Derby said, “let’s talk about the attack that occurred three nights ago.”

    UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    .....................................................................

Chapter 7
    “SO DO WE CATCH THE NEXT BUS OR DO WE TRY AND find jason?”
    asked Serena as we stood on the community center steps, surrounded by a restless crowd of pre-Trackers. Derby had done a great job of stirring everyone up, but without an outlet for their energy, people were just hanging around, reluctant to go home but not having anything to do.
    I shivered. The sun had set while we’d been inside, but on the edge of the grounds, the RfW raly was stil going strong—or as strong as a smal group of people with poster board signs could be.
    I didn’t see Jason anywhere; it was like he had vanished the second the meeting ended. “Do you mind if we check for his car?”
    Even though he lived just a few streets away, Jason had been raised in a house where the phrase oil crisis was considered obscene—probably because his dad owned a chain of auto dealerships.
    Serena shrugged gracefuly. “Sure. Though we may need a Serena shrugged gracefuly. “Sure. Though we may need a battering ram to get to the parking lot.”
    We started pushing our way through the crowd.
    “Traitorous fleabag lovers,” said someone behind us.
    I turned my head, but I couldn’t see who had spoken.
    “No right to be here,” added a second, female, voice from the front of the crowd.
    A girl and three guys—two of them in varsity jackets—broke away from the throng and strode across the parking lot. They walked up to the man who seemed to be in charge of the protest—
    a guy with a gray ponytail who looked like he had been at the original Woodstock.
    “This can’t be good,” I muttered.
    The girl said something and the protester shook his head. Even though we were too far away to hear the exchange, the people on the steps seemed to hold their breath.
    And then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, one of the varsity guys threw the first punch.
    The response was almost instantaneous. Half the crowd on the steps bolted, yeling anti-werewolf slurs as they ran for the protest like they were storming Normandy.
    Without thinking, I grabbed Serena’s hand and started running with them—not because I wanted to join the RfW slaughter, but because we’d be trampled if we didn’t move.
    It was like being in the mosh pit at the world’s most out-of-control concert. Serena gasped out a curse and held my hand in a death grip as we were shoved from al sides. It was impossible to know which way was out.

    know which way was out.
    Around us, punches flew, and then someone colided with me hard enough that I lost my grip on Serena.
    I yeled her name as we were swept in opposite directions.
    Trying to force my way to where I had last seen her, I bounced off shoulders and elbows like a pinbal. People were screaming