Eric Cord stood there, holding a dead man's sunglasses and hat. The bitter irony of it all struck him.

Julian Farrow kidnapped Alamo Joe, put my blood in him, gave him my curse.

Farrow gave that to Rogan, said the cure lay in Rogan's blood. Even if that were true, it doesn't matter now…

Alamo Joe was dead, shot to death just a few hours ago in a random encounter.

And I'm back to where I was before.

No hope at all…

He stared fixedly at his right hand, seeing the Sign literally etched into his palm.

And, very soon, I'll be a ravening beast.

Again…

He set Rogan's hat and sunglasses on the table, sat, keeping his head low. The pain…the twisting of nerves and muscles…hadn't started yet. But it would. Eric Cord would become the Beast…

In a place full of innocent people who only came here for a steak and beer…

Fortunately, Avery Scanlon had other ideas.

"You!" he growled; gun aimed at Eric Cord's head. "Traveling with Rogan, were you?"

"Uh…yeah…" Cord nodded, and briefly he wished the bullets in Scanlon's gun were silver. "I guess I was…"

"An…associate…of his?" Scanlon sneered.

"I suppose so…"

Cord was grabbed and unceremoniously dragged into the kitchen. He caught brief glimpses of terrified people, patrons and staff, hurriedly getting out of the way.

Now, he was alone in the kitchen, with Avery Scanlon, and two of Scanlon's…associates.

And Cord could feel the Beast within.

Coming up…

As usual, there were the cramps, horrible, almost backbreaking in their intensity; and the…fire…erupting inside his skull, erasing rational thought…

…..

The Beast rears up, roaring its awful rage, claws raking across one man's throat, hurls another man out from the kitchen.

Avery Scanlon has the sense to run out from the kitchen. The Beast follows them out; is met by gunfire as it clears the kitchen.

If any bullets hit, the Beast doesn't feel it. Most miss anyway, pocking the metal freezer door, and the door handle.

The beast roars, and the men flee outside, along with a few of the customers, the Beast hot on their tail.

The Beast ignores the fleeing customers, focusing on Scanlon's men, and its bloody slaughter out in the parking lot.

Scanlon's alone now. The others are all dead, rivers of blood literally streaming into the gutters. The Beast only has eyes for Scanlon.

Somewhere, deep in the creature's animal brain, there lies the notion that Scanlon killed a friend, someone who mattered to the Beast. Someone deserving of the Beast's loyalty.

The end is quick. The beast pounces, mighty jaws clamping down on the man's neck. A simple shake severs brain and spinal column, leaves the skull crushed at the back.

The Beast turns looking back at the Roadhouse, at the terrified people watching inside. It howls, and those witnesses will afterward state that they had never heard such anguish before, in either man or beast…

Then, the Beast flees into the darkness…

…..

It was evening now, several police cruisers, and ambulances too, parked outside. MEs thronged the parking lot, trying to deal with all the torn bodies outside. So intent were they on the bodies, that they all missed the naked man who stole quietly into the back of a GMC pickup. He reemerged a few minutes later, fully clad, and ready to face whatever came.

Eric Cord quietly walked back into the diner.

"Hey! You came back!" the bartender exclaimed. "Can't blame you for running like that. Almost everyone else did."

The lone exception was Harmon Teller; and the reason wasn't far to seek, his walker lying against the table.

Cord turned his attention to the freezer, and the police there, one of which was just beginning to operate what looked like an Arc Welder.

"One of those bullets damaged the lock mechanism, so they're trying to jimmy the door open however they can…"

He sighed as he continued.

"So, they can get to the body…"

Eric Cord sighed too.

Alamo Joe…

He turned to the table, saw Rogan's hat and shades. He picked them up, feeling such anguish. Stetson crushed between his fingers, Cord wanted to howl his grief, the way the Beast had.

If Farrow hadn't…done what he did, Rogan would still be alive…

"Aha!" one of the police said. "Got it!"

The door opened, and he slipped inside. Then…

"Oh, my god!" panic in that man's voice. "We need a medic! He's alive"

Cord shoved his way to the now open freezer door, looked inside.

Alamo Joe on hands and knees, shivering uncontrollably, looking up dazedly…

Without conscious thought, Eric Cord strode into the freezer, knelt by Rogan, too stunned for words.

You're alive…

"C-Cord?"

"Right here…"

"How did I…"

"Later," Cord temporized. "Let's get you out of here…"

On his knees, Rogan's hand lifted, touched the drying bloodstain on his shirt, literally spread across his chest.

"What the hell happened?" The Bounty Hunter lifted his eyes to meet Eric Cord.

"I'll explain…" relief shuddered its way through Cord's body. "But we need to let a doctor see to you…"

…..

The hospital was a local county hospital. The doctors decided to keep Alamo Joe Rogan under observation for two days.

Rogan hated it. But after Eric Cord's explanation of what went down at the Roadhouse diner, he could sort of see the point.

"You absolutely sure I was dead?" he had asked Cord. "No chance of a mistake?"

"Scanlon shot you right through the chest" Cord was firm on that point. "Even if the freezer had kept you alive, that kind of injury would've taken a long time to recover from. Rogan…you died."

"Does that mean…" sudden fear jolted through Rogan. "Does that mean I'm a werewolf?"

"Only in the most technical of senses," Cord sat next to the hospital bed. "In all the time we've been traveling together, you've never Changed. Not even once."

Cord paused, bowing his head.

"Rogan…" he looked back up. "I think we should seriously consider the possibility that Dr. Julian Farrow might be right about you. That your blood might turn out to be a cure. Maybe not right away. But down the line, as your body adapts to it."

Lying there, on the hospital bed, looking into Eric Cord's eyes, seeing the new-found hope there, Alamo Joe could only agree that the possibility was there.

I died…Then I came back to life a few hours later…

"Maybe…" he finally said. "Still doesn't mean I won't kick Julian Farrow's ass when I find him."

…..

Three weeks later

Andrew Cole wondered why a rich man like Harmon Teller wanted to contract his services.

Cole was a private investigator, and far more likely to be hired by spouses suspicious of their Significant Other's loyalty. Or to find hidden assets in divorce cases.

It wasn't the career he had planned for when he left the Air Force. But it was the career he had ended up with. And, now, with his wife so ill, he needed all the jobs he could get, just to pay the medical bills.

Here in a salon in Teller's lavishly appointed mansion, he waited for the Great Man to make his appearance.

The sound of a powered wheelchair brought him around. Harmon Teller, accompanied by a slew of people…an attorney or two…and what looked to be a doctor, had arrived. Teller looked ninety years older than God, wispy gray hair doing little to cover the man's almost translucent skull; leaving bluish veins clearly visible.

The alive dark eyes, almost hidden in a nest of wrinkled flesh, looked up at Cole.

"Andrew Cole," Teller spoke as if reciting facts from a file. "Forty-five years old, Honorably Discharged from the Air Force twelve years ago, now a private investigator, with a very ill wife… Breast Cancer, isn't it?"

"Looks like you've done some research on me…" that sent chills down Cole's spine. "So, you know all of that is true. Why do you want me?"

"You know a Joseph Rogan? Called Alamo Joe by his friends?"

"Yes," that startled Cole. "We served in the Air Force together."

The man was a pretty decent pilot…

"What about Rogan?" Cole brought his attention back to Teller.

"He has something…very important…to me," Those dark eyes, almost black, gave nothing away. "I want it. To that end, I will pay anything for it. Firstly, I will pay you one thousand per day, plus expenses, with a juicy commission upon success. Also, I will assume all financial responsibility for your wife's medical care, and I shall spare no expense. Provided you accept my…assignment."

Andrew Cole stood there, pure amazement almost stopping his breath.

What did Rogan do to catch this guy's attention?

"Excuse me, but…" Cole stopped to clear his throat. "What could a guy like Alamo Joe have that you need? And what if I say no?"

"I'll answer your second question," Teller chuckled softly. "If you say no, your wife shall be dead, within the year, I would say. And you…you will go on, searching for infidelity at the behest of those who think themselves your betters, like a good little dog. Take this job, and you can retire a wealthy man, with your wife, alive by your side."

There is that, Andrew Cole reflected bitterly. I can't do this forever…

"All right," he finally sighed. "I'll do this."

He signed the contract provided by one of Teller's attorneys, and, as he signed his name, it occurred to him that he might be making a deal with the devil.

But Adele, my beloved angel, is dying.

…..

After Andrew Cole departed, with promises to start right away, Harmon Teller looked around, at his attorneys, and his doctor.

"Soon, I'll have what I've been searching for."

The doctor, Lester Finn, stirred.

"Are you…sure?" Finn asked.

"I saw a man shot right through the heart, shot dead right where he stood," Teller rasped. He hated the wheezing notes at the back of his throat, deep in his lungs. "My guards saw it too. We saw the body dragged into the freezer. And, two hours later, we saw him walk out of that freezer. Sure, he looked rather the worse for wear. But he walked out under his own power. Maybe he has the Philosopher's Dream in his blood. Immortality may lay in his blood, and I want it."