Three Werewolves

The band had barely gotten through their post-show coma nap when they were whisked across town to a “surprise” fan-organized event—set up by the local promo team as a thank-you for playing in what Thane kept referring to as “the bovine apocalypse barn.”

The venue?

A themed restaurant called “Wolf Howlz BBQ & Arcade.”

Yes. Really. The sign out front was a neon werewolf holding a rib like a guitar. Its animatronic arm moved. Barely. It looked like it was dying of rabies.

Gabriel lit up like Christmas. “I love this place already.”

Cassie stared. “It has a moon bounce.”

Mark squinted at the sign. “It also has animatronics with mange.”

Thane muttered, “I’m going to start drinking again.”

---

Inside, it was even weirder.

The place was decked out in faux wood paneling, wolf-themed murals (bad ones), and weirdly sensual velvet paintings of howling beasts. Every table had pawprint napkin holders. The air smelled like brisket and existential crisis.

At the back of the dining room, under a blinking sign that said “FANGS & FRIENDS FAN FEST”, sat nearly forty people in custom-made Feral Eclipse shirts. Most looked fairly normal. Some looked… committed.

One guy wore fake fur ears and had painted claws. A woman in the front row was clutching a plushie of Gabriel.

Rico muttered, “It’s finally happened. We’re a cult.”

Gabriel leaned over to Thane. “If someone proposes marriage, I accept.”

---

The meet-and-greet kicked off with a mic that cut out every third word.

Fan 1: “Thane, what’s your inspiration when you’re—”
crackle-pop-zzt
Fan 2: “Gabriel, is it true you sleep upside down in a guitar case?”
Fan 3: “Maya, can I duel you for dominance?”
Maya: “Try it and I’ll beat you with a cheese grater.”

Jonah took a photo with a teenage fan who asked him to sign her prosthetic leg—he did it without missing a beat, adding “Drum on!” above his name.

Mark was asked if his fur was real.

He just deadpanned, “No. I buy it from Etsy.”

Thane was offered a ziplock bag full of “authentic werewolf hair.”

He blinked. “…This is dog hair.”

The fan nodded proudly. “But it’s husky, so it’s close.”

Gabriel was in his element — posing, hugging, signing whatever was put in front of him. He arm-wrestled a guy in a wolf kigurumi and lost—on purpose, of course. Probably.

Then came the fan art.
So. Much. Fan art.

Some of it was stunning.
Some of it was… anatomically confusing.

Cassie politely clapped.
Rico bit his tongue.
Maya visibly gagged at one.
Mark stared for a solid five seconds, then said, “Well. That’s a perspective.”

---

Eventually, food was served — BBQ nachos, fried pickles, and sliders the size of hockey pucks. A karaoke machine wheezed into life, and suddenly a girl in a hoodie was belting a surprisingly accurate cover of “Lunar Burn.”

Gabriel gasped. “She nailed my scream!”

Thane raised a brow. “Recruit her. Fire Cassie.”

Cassie: “I will set you on fire with a microphone stand.”

---

By the time the night ended, the band was half-asleep, full of grease, and emotionally overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of their fanbase.

As they stumbled back toward the van, someone tapped Thane’s shoulder.

He turned to see a small, quiet-looking kid with a sketchbook.

“Um… hi. I just wanted to say… your music helps. A lot.”

Thane’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

The kid handed him the sketchbook. “I drew your whole band. I made sure you all had claws and fangs… but you’re smiling. You don’t smile much in photos.”

Thane blinked, flipped through it… and genuinely smiled.

Gabriel leaned close and whispered, “Told you we’re more than a band.”

Thane ruffled the kid’s hair gently with one clawed hand. “You’ve got a hell of an eye.”

They left the restaurant not just with leftovers, but with warmth. Real warmth.

The band rolled into the venue lot covered in post-storm road grime, smelling faintly of old jerky, regret, and ozone. The GPS declared their destination with cheery finality:

“You have arrived at Red River Agricultural Expo Center.”

Cassie peered out the window. “This looks like a place where bands go to die.”

The “venue” was a giant metal building shaped like a warehouse had a baby with a livestock auction barn. There were tractors parked out front. A faded banner above the roll-up door read:

“SOUNDS OF SUMMER MUSIC SERIES – TONIGHT: FERAL ECPLISE”

Thane’s left eye twitched. “They misspelled our name.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Technically that’s still on brand.”

Maya leaned against the van door, scanning the parking lot. “Are we sharing the venue with a farm auction?”

“No,” Jonah said. “Worse. That cow over there just licked the mic stand.”

Sure enough, there was a Holstein standing dead center on the stage platform inside the building. A man in overalls and Crocs was trying to coax it down with what appeared to be a half-eaten corn dog.

Mark stared at him. “Is that our stagehand?”

The man waved. “Name’s Tyler. Don’t worry, she only poops when she’s scared.”

Thane’s icy glare could’ve frozen lava.

---

Inside, the acoustics were… well, “agricultural.” Every sound echoed like they were inside a giant grain silo filled with tin foil and betrayal. The stage was lit by a single row of flickering overhead fluorescents, and the “dressing room” was just a corral behind the bleachers.

Gabriel spun in a slow circle. “I can feel my standards dying.”

Rico, tuning up near the tractor display, muttered, “Don’t look at the John Deere calendar. It’s judging you.”

Maya kicked at a bale of hay. “I’m allergic to this level of bullshit.”

Cassie found a crate labeled “LIVE BAIT” and sat on it, sighing. “On the plus side, I’ve always wanted to play a gig where the audience might include a chicken.”

---

Soundcheck was… chaos.

The main speakers crackled like haunted walkie-talkies. The mic cables were so short they had to stand in formation like a 1950s doo-wop group. Every time Mark adjusted the lighting truss, it squealed like a dying pig. Literally. They realized there was an actual pig somewhere under the bleachers.

“WHO BRINGS LIVESTOCK TO A SHOW?!” Thane shouted over the din.

Tyler yelled back, “It’s Bring Your Pet Night! We’re very inclusive!”

Cassie, deadpan: “…This is how I die.”

---

And yet…

When showtime hit, it was magic.

Maybe it was the absurdity. Maybe it was the hay-scented air. Maybe it was because chaos is where Feral Eclipse thrives.

The crowd—farmers, hipsters, toddlers in earmuffs, three guys in camo overalls, and an elderly woman with a ferret on her shoulder—went absolutely wild. A dude crowdsurfed in a horse costume. Someone brought a watermelon with “WE LOVE GABRIEL” carved into it.

Gabriel leaned into the mic. “This song goes out to my bovine sisters in the back!”

The cow mooed.

Thunderous applause.

---

After the show, they collapsed in the van, sweating, disoriented, and unsure if what just happened had been real.

Thane ran a hand down his face. “I will never recover from this night.”

Gabriel grinned. “The cow gave us a standing ovation. What more do you want?”

Mark cracked a soda. “Peace. Quiet. A venue that doesn’t smell like hay and existential dread.”

Jonah leaned back against his seat, grinning. “Nah, man. We’re living the dream.”

A beat of silence.

Then the cow outside the venue mooed one last time… like a benediction.

The next morning, the sky looked like someone had drop-kicked a blender full of gray paint across the horizon.

Mark, sipping lukewarm gas station coffee and staring up at the swirling cloud cover, muttered, “That’s not ominous or anything.”

Jonah climbed into the van with a breakfast burrito the size of his forearm and said, “I don’t know if it’s eggs or glue, but I’m committed.”

Rico slid into the front seat, glancing at the radar on his phone. “Uh… guys? There’s a big red blob headed our direction. Like, storm-chaser-big.”

Cassie leaned over. “Define ‘big.’”

“Like… biblical.”

Gabriel, already vibrating from his third can of Monster, grinned like it was Christmas morning. “Sweet. Let’s race it.”

Thane, who was trying to refold a road map with claws and mounting rage, growled, “We are not racing a tornado, Gabriel.”

Maya, buckling in behind them, smirked. “That’s what cowards say.”

---

The van rolled out of town just as the first fat drops of rain started to smack the windshield. The wind was howling before they even hit the state line. Lightning split the sky like angry punctuation. Thunder followed immediately after, rattling the dashboard and causing Jonah to choke on his burrito mid-bite.

They hadn’t even gone ten miles before a weather alert blasted through every phone in the van.

“TORNADO WARNING. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.”

Cassie, deadpan: “Great. Anyone bring a storm cellar?”

Gabriel, nose practically on the glass: “That cloud is spinning! SPINNING!”

Thane: “If you open that window I will rip the handle off.”

Mark’s voice came over the backseat comms: “Left side. Funnel cloud. Confirmed.”

A collective “SHIT!” rang out from every mouth in the van.

---

They found “shelter” in the loosest sense of the word: a crumbling roadside attraction called Big Pete’s BBQ & Gift Barn—complete with a ten-foot fiberglass pig statue, a half-toppled billboard, and one terrified old man in a rocking chair on the front porch who just nodded solemnly as the band spilled out of the van and into his life like a caffeine-fueled tornado of their own.

Inside, the decor looked like a pig exploded in a Cracker Barrel.

“Y’all here to buy jerky or die in the storm?” the old man asked.

Thane snarled. “Can’t it be both?”

---

The lights flickered. The wind roared. Something slammed into the side of the building—hard.

Everyone went still.

Cassie stared at the windows. “…Was that a cow?”

Jonah peeked through the blinds. “No. Worse. It was a porta-potty.”

The building groaned. The roof shuddered.

Mark, deadpan: “I’m not dying next to a shelf of bacon-scented candles.”

Gabriel, now huddled under a table with a bag of peanut brittle: “At least the WiFi works.”

Thane stood in the center of the store, arms folded, dripping wet, glaring at the sky through the warped glass like he was ready to fistfight the weather.

“I swear,” he muttered, “if that funnel cloud touches our truss rig, I will hunt it.”

The old man took a sip of iced tea and added helpfully, “Tornadoes don’t like angry folks. They go where the vibes are bad.”

Thane didn’t blink. “Perfect.”

---

Thirty minutes later, the storm finally passed. The sky cracked open to blue like nothing had happened, as if the tornado had just been stopping by for a sandwich.

The van was still intact.

Mostly.

There was a single lawn chair wedged into the front grille, and one of the side mirrors now hung by a cable like a sad earring. But it still ran.

They all climbed back in.

Nobody spoke for five miles.

Then Jonah said, “…I dropped my burrito.”

Gabriel replied, “I dropped my soul.”

The sky was charcoal gray as Feral Eclipse pulled into the gravel pit that passed for the motel parking lot. The sign—half lit, half falling off—read “Rest Eazy Inn”, like it was a challenge.

Rico peered out the window and groaned. “There’s literally duct tape on the roof.”

Cassie leaned over. “Is that… barbed wire on the fence?”

Jonah pulled his hoodie tighter. “Yeah. Yeah it is. I think it’s there to keep us in.”

The band tumbled out of the van, road-weary and rain-damp, dragging bags toward the motel office—a foggy glass box that smelled like despair and cat pee. The desk clerk was a 400-year-old man with a nicotine-stained beard and a voice like a chainsaw filled with gravel.

“You the ones in 4A through 4G?” he rasped. “Don’t touch the mini-fridge. It bites.”

Gabriel blinked. “…what now?”

“No refunds,” the man added, tossing them seven keys with mismatched plastic tags.

---

Ten minutes later, Thane stepped into his room.

And immediately howled.

Not a metaphorical howl. A full-chested, claws-out, pissed-off alpha roar.

The bathroom light flickered like it was haunted. The tile floor was cracked and sticky. The mattress had one spring poking out and a suspicious stain the size of a dinner plate. And in the bathroom—three cockroaches were having a conference in the sink. One was wearing what looked like a piece of hair gel wrapper as a cape.

Gabriel opened the adjoining door between their rooms and instantly flinched back.

“Thane? You okay—”

“NO. I AM NOT OKAY.” Thane was standing shirtless in the bathroom doorway, holding a motel towel like it had personally offended his ancestors. “THERE ARE BUGS IN THE SHOWER. I SAW FANGS.”

Across the hall, Mark was calmly wiping grime off the inside of his window with a t-shirt. “Mine just smells like mildew and broken promises.”

Rico poked his head out of his room. “Mine smells like… cherry cough syrup and despair.”

“Mine has a dead cricket in the fridge,” Maya reported, stone-faced. “He had a tiny tombstone made out of a hotel mint.”

Cassie emerged, holding up a single flip-flop. “Is this blood? Or barbecue sauce? Or both?”

Thane stormed out of his room, claws out, fur bristling, ice-blue eyes blazing. “I swear to Luna, if another roach waves at me, I will burn this place to the ground with my bare fangs.”

Gabriel tried—tried—to be the voice of reason. “Thane. Deep breath. We’ve stayed in worse.”

“No,” Thane growled, “we haven’t.”

Mark strolled out behind him, still calm, still grumpy. “Mine came with a tiny Gideon Bible and a raccoon footprint on the ceiling. But hey—at least the lights work.”

The group stood in the parking lot for several seconds. Rain started to fall again. Jonah dramatically dropped his duffel bag in a puddle.

“I vote we sleep in the van.”

Everyone, including Thane, simultaneously muttered, “Seconded.”

They reloaded everything in grim silence and piled back into the van. At least it didn’t have roaches. Just old fries under the seats and Gabriel’s three empty coffee cups rolling around like soda cans in a washing machine.

Cassie pulled her hoodie over her face. “Next stop better just have bedbugs, not boss fights.”

The diner’s flickering neon sign buzzed against the otherwise quiet Oklahoma night, casting a soft red glow on the rain-speckled parking lot. A warped plastic letterboard proudly advertised “ALL DAY BREAKFAST – NO REFUNDS.” Perfect.

The van groaned as it pulled into the lot, all seven members of Feral Eclipse spilling out in various states of exhaustion, crankiness, and post-frat-party chaos. The scent of old grease, burnt coffee, and questionable decisions wafted into the humid night air.

Inside, the diner looked like time stopped in 1987 and nobody told it to start again. A jukebox in the corner played a suspiciously off-key version of Africa by Toto. A tired-looking waitress with a half-faded neck tattoo nodded toward the largest booth in the back.

Thane led the charge, coiled audio cable still looped around one shoulder like a warning sign. He flopped into the booth with a heavy sigh, clearly one wrong condiment packet away from a meltdown.

Gabriel slid in beside him, vibrating with residual caffeine and frat party adrenaline. His fur was slightly ruffled, shirt half-untucked, and he was still humming the melody of whatever chaotic song they’d covered last.

Mark took the edge seat near the window, his eyes scanning the parking lot like something might still explode. He muttered, “If someone orders avocado toast in here, I’m walking back to Oklahoma City.”

Maya plopped in across from Gabriel, her boots thudding against the linoleum. “That party had more beer than brains.”

“Which is saying a lot,” Rico muttered, rubbing at a mysterious bruise on his shoulder. “I saw someone doing keg stands off a moving golf cart.”

Jonah, eyes red and hair in full post-headbang disarray, sat down and immediately faceplanted onto the table. “Someone wake me up when we’re famous or dead.”

Cassie was last to join, still trying to pull her phone charger out of a tangle of cables in her purse. “We are famous. Just… weirdly.”

A waitress named Debbie (or at least her name tag said so, though the “i” was replaced with a middle finger sticker) came over, chewing gum like it owed her money.

“What’ll it be?”

“Coffee,” growled Thane.

“Coffee and bacon,” Gabriel added.

“Bacon, eggs, toast, hashbrowns, and don’t skimp on the hashbrowns,” Maya said, glaring like Debbie might try.

“Just coffee. Black. Leave the pot,” Mark deadpanned.

Debbie nodded. “Y’all look like you’ve seen some shit.”

Rico blinked. “We are the shit.”

She blinked slowly at him and scribbled something on her pad that may or may not have been their order.

The group slumped in their seats while waiting, the diner’s low hum becoming a kind of lullaby.

Gabriel suddenly sat up. “Hey. Remember the birthday party show?”

Thane didn’t even look up. “If you bring that up one more time, I’m feeding you to Mark.”

Jonah raised a hand. “I still have frosting in places that aren’t medically recommended.”

They all burst into exhausted laughter.

The food arrived like a greasy miracle, and the band tore into it like they hadn’t eaten in a week. Gabriel dunked toast into his eggs with the precision of a man who’d done this many times before. Mark, despite himself, actually cracked a smile as he carefully deconstructed his pancake stack.

Cassie reached across to clink her coffee mug against Maya’s. “To surviving another night.”

Maya smirked. “Barely.”

Jonah stirred, lifting his face from the table with a syrup packet stuck to his cheek. “Wait. Where are we again?”

Rico, mouth full of bacon, just pointed toward the rain-smeared window. “Nowhere good.”

But the diner lights flickered. The jukebox glitched into a distorted version of Sweet Dreams. Outside, the rain eased into mist, steam curling from the pavement like ghostly applause.

And for one brief, weird, wonderful moment, everything was okay.

Even if only until the check arrived.

Because if one more guy says ‘play Freebird,’ Thane might commit a felony.

---

The sun was barely down when the Feral Eclipse tour van pulled up to what looked like the unholy spawn of a plantation house and a liquor store. Greek letters lit in mismatched neon screamed ΑΒΨ, and the thudding bass from inside rattled the siding like the building was trying to shake off its own shame.

Rico leaned out the window. “Oh god. I can already smell the Natty Light and Axe body spray.”

Gabriel grinned wide, tail already wagging. “THIS is more like it.”

Jonah peeked out from behind his hoodie. “I don’t know, man. I see four shirtless guys doing keg stands and one in a Pikachu onesie with a bullhorn. I don’t feel safe.”

Mark muttered from the back, “I haven’t seen this much stupidity since we let Gabriel mix vodka and cold brew.”

Thane killed the engine. “Alright. If we die, I’m haunting whoever booked this.”

---

Inside, it was absolute carnage.

A crowd of sweaty college students swarmed the main floor, red Solo cups in every hand. A kiddie pool full of Jell-O wobbled near the DJ booth. Someone had spray-painted “FERAL ECPLISE RULZ” on the wall. (Spelling optional.)

Cassie surveyed the crowd. “Jesus. They’re all drunk enough to think we’re the Wiggles.”

A frat bro in a backward visor and aviators stumbled up to Maya and slurred, “You guys do covers? Can you play like… Nickelback?”

Maya stared at him. “I’ll play your spleen like a banjo if you don’t move.”

The bro wandered off in confusion, still shouting “Photograph.”

---

Stage Setup: Frat Edition

• Thane was given one working outlet and a folding table that collapsed under the weight of a single mixer.
• Mark’s “lighting rig” consisted of three smart bulbs duct-taped to a ceiling fan.
• Jonah was told to set up “where the beer pong table used to be.”
• Gabriel got distracted for twenty minutes teaching a stoner how to hold a bass backwards.
• Rico tuned his guitar over the sound of a dude vomiting into a plastic plant.

---

Showtime.

Someone shouted “WOOOO!” and pressed play on the smoke machine—which was actually a humidifier filled with vape juice. A cloud of strawberry mango wafted across the stage like a bad dream.

Cassie grabbed the mic. “We are Feral Eclipse. Prepare yourselves.”

Someone shouted back, “PLAY SKRILLEX!”

Cassie ignored them and screamed into the mic like a banshee on fire. Rico ripped into a solo. Jonah knocked over a lawn chair with the sheer force of his kick drum.

Gabriel crowd-surfed for five full seconds before the crowd just sort of… forgot to hold him. He crashed into a beer cooler, popped up soaking wet, and howled with laughter.

Thane was screaming into his headset. “I SWEAR TO LUNA, IF SOMEONE UNPLUGS MY POWER STRIP AGAIN—”

Mark, calmly balancing a flashlight and a fog remote, triggered a strobe burst so intense it sent half the crowd into a spontaneous TikTok dance.

Maya’s guitar string snapped mid-solo. She replaced it mid-riff using a shoelace. Nobody noticed. She was too badass.

---

By the end of the night:

• Three frat bros had confessed to Gabriel that they now “totally get werewolves.”
• Jonah had somehow acquired a tank top with “DRUM DADDY” printed on it.
• Thane was threatening to electrify the beer keg.
• Rico had a fan in his lap asking if he “wanted to jam later.” Rico did not.

And Cassie?

Cassie stood on the roof of a cooler, bathed in red light, screaming the final chorus as the crowd howled like a wolf pack gone wrong.

---

Afterward, the band dragged themselves back to the van — soaked, deafened, and kind of amazed.

Gabriel flopped into his seat, still laughing. “Okay. That was a shitshow.”

Thane leaned back, wiping beer off his face. “Yeah.”

“But like… a fun shitshow.”

Jonah nodded, holding up his “Drum Daddy” shirt. “I’m framing this.”

Mark just downed another soda and muttered, “Next stop better have a damn theater.”

The tour van coasted through the tree-lined streets of Oakridge, a picturesque college town so charming it practically had a degree in wholesomeness. Brick buildings gleamed in the late afternoon sun, bike racks overflowed, and students wearing beanies and earbuds walked in clusters, sipping cold brew and quoting Nietzsche.

Thane squinted at the navigation app. “This can’t be right.”

Gabriel leaned between the seats, tail twitching with curiosity. “Says the event is at the ‘Simmons Cultural Auditorium.’ Sounds… fancy.”

Mark growled from the back seat. “If we’re playing next to a guy giving a lecture on butterfly migration again, I’m not responsible for what happens.”

The van turned onto a narrow service road and pulled behind an ivy-covered building. A banner flapped overhead in awkward, cheerful font:
“OAKRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESENTS: INSPIRING MINDS SERIES — TONIGHT ONLY!”

Underneath in smaller print:
Featuring Feral Eclipse

There was a pause.

Maya leaned forward, staring out the window. “…Please tell me that’s the name of a student poetry collective.”

Jonah slowly lifted his head off the window, blinking. “Oh no. They think we’re here to speak.”

Cassie, staring at the banner, deadpanned, “Well I do inspire minds. Mostly to run.”

Rico pulled a laminated event pass off the dashboard and read aloud:
“‘An immersive evening of empowerment, artistic expression, and the creative voice in modern society.’”
He turned to look at Thane.
“…Bro. We’re opening with Blood Moon Breakdown.”

Thane just muttered, “Kill me.”

---

Inside, things got worse.

The “green room” was stocked with vegan muffins, herbal tea, and a collection of pre-highlighted books on mindfulness. A student volunteer named Braeden with an undercut and ironic Crocs handed out personalized name tags.

“Just wear these on stage, yeah? Helps the audience connect with you emotionally.”

Gabriel’s tag read:
GABRIEL – BASS / TRANSFORMATIONAL ENERGY LEADER
He was thrilled.

Thane’s tag:
THANE – SOUND TECH / AURAL ARCHITECT
He immediately crumpled it and shoved it in his pocket.

Mark stared at his:
MARK – LIGHTING DESIGNER / EMOTIONAL CONTRAST SPECIALIST
“…I will burn this building down.”

---

Ten minutes before showtime, a soft-spoken organizer approached.

“We’re so excited to have you all. Just a quick note—no pyrotechnics, no flashing lights, and please keep the volume below 85 decibels. We’re still within library hours.”

Cassie stood there in full leather, mic in hand.
“…You know I scream for a living, right?”

The woman beamed. “That’s the spirit!”

---

Showtime.

They walked out onto a fully seated auditorium stage—no pit, no fog, no lights. Just polite clapping from two hundred students holding complimentary stress balls.

Gabriel took the mic and cheerfully declared, “We are Feral Eclipse—and we are not your usual lecture!”

Then he slammed into a bassline so filthy it made Braeden drop his reusable water bottle.

Maya launched into the rhythm guitar part like she was starting a riot.

Rico’s solo tore through the auditorium like a sonic earthquake.
Cassie let out a bloodcurdling scream halfway through the chorus.
Someone in the third row fainted.

Jonah, grinning like a demon, smashed through the bridge and howled into the breakdown. One of the professors actually stood up and cheered.

And Thane—offstage—cranked the mix past 100 decibels.
Library hours be damned.

---

Afterward, the event organizer approached, shell-shocked and smiling.

“That was… not what I expected.”

Cassie, still panting, wiped blood off her lip ring. “You’re welcome.”

Braeden handed Gabriel a tote bag. “Here’s your honorarium. Also, like… what are you guys doing later?”

Gabriel blinked. “Uh. Sleeping?”

Rico took the bag, peeked inside, and muttered, “Cool. They paid us in granola bars and bookstore gift cards.”

Mark just stared at the ceiling. “We should’ve played the frat party.”

Thane, arms folded, nodded. “Next time someone offers us a ‘cultural engagement opportunity’—we say no.”

Gabriel leaned on him, grinning wide. “But we did inspire minds.”

“Yeah,” Thane said. “To invest in better earplugs.”

Somewhere between Red Pines and the next town—wherever the hell that was—the van was in full-blown gremlin mode.

Jonah had taken over DJ duty from the passenger seat and was abusing it.

“I SWEAR TO GOD,” Maya shouted from the back bench, “IF YOU PLAY THAT ‘TRUCK YEAH’ SONG ONE MORE TIME I’M THROWING YOUR IPOD OUT THE WINDOW.”

“It’s not even an iPod,” Jonah grinned, cueing it up again from a busted knockoff MP3 player with duct tape holding the battery in. “It’s a Moozic Rockz.”

Gabriel, sprawled across two seats with Randy the Possum in his lap like a war trophy, snorted. “Let him live! This is his villain arc.”

“I’M the villain if this keeps up,” Maya grumbled.

Up front, Thane had a clawed hand white-knuckling the wheel.

“I swear, one more plastic bag flies across this road looking like a raccoon ghost, and I’m putting the whole state in park.”

Cassie was next to him, sipping gas station coffee through a Twizzler straw like it was a lifestyle. “You know we’re all slowly mutating in this van, right?”

From the back cargo section came a thud.

“…What was that?” Rico asked, slowly turning his head.

Mark’s voice came from the very rear, half-buried under guitar cases. “A bag of Funyuns just fell off Jonah’s amp and hit me in the throat.”

“Is it your bag of Funyuns?” Cassie asked.

“No. And now I have questions.”

The van hit a bump. Jonah yelped. “MY MOOD SWINGS CD JUST FLEW OUT THE WINDOW!”

“Good,” Maya muttered.

Gabriel reached down into a questionable cooler and fished out something in a crinkled foil wrapper. “Guys… who brought gas station sushi?”

The entire van went silent.

Thane didn’t even turn around. “Gabriel. Put it down. Slowly.”

Gabriel stared at it. “…It’s warm.”

“OUT. THE. WINDOW.”

The van hit another pothole. Cassie spilled her Twizzler-coffee. Jonah accidentally hit play on a ten-hour YouTube loop of screaming goats that he had saved for reasons.

And somewhere in the chaos, Randy the Possum fell over sideways, seatbelt and all.

Mark spoke again, voice calm and low: “If we crash, I want it on my tombstone that this was not my idea.”

“Noted,” Thane grunted.

Eventually, the screaming goats stopped. Jonah ran out of cursed playlists. Maya ran out of ways to threaten him without physically leaping across the van. Gabriel fell asleep with a bag of sour worms stuck to his chest, and Cassie began drafting the setlist on a napkin with a broken eyeliner pencil.

Peace, as fragile and temporary as ever, returned.

And then Rico said, “Hey, has anyone seen my left boot?”

The van erupted again.

The air outside the Red Pines barn was thick with post-show heat, bug spray, and the kind of giddy madness that only follows a musical exorcism. The makeshift parking lot had become an impromptu fan zone—pickup trucks pulled up with tailgates down, beer coolers cracked open, headlights on for ambiance. Someone had lit a citronella candle on the hood of their Ford and called it a VIP table.

Feral Eclipse filed out one by one, still dripping, still riding that adrenaline high.

Cassie was immediately mobbed by a group of teens who looked like they’d lost a bet with a thrift store. “YOU SAVED ROCK AND ROLL!” one girl cried, holding up a homemade poster that just said HOWL MOMMY in glitter.

“Sweet,” Cassie grinned, signing it without breaking stride.

Gabriel, tail flicking lazily behind him, posed for selfies with fans who dared get close—though one kid ran off squealing, “HE WINKED AT ME AND MY SOUL LEFT MY BODY.”

Jonah stumbled toward the van, but two fans intercepted him with a battered snare drum and a sharpie.

“You were like an angry wizard back there, man,” one said.

“I blacked out after the second song,” Jonah replied, scribbling his name upside-down. “Glad it worked out.”

Rico was holding court near the folding merch table (which was actually just a milk crate and a flatbed trailer), showing a young guitarist how to do a hammer-on while simultaneously swatting mosquitoes. “We play loud enough, they usually leave,” he explained.

Meanwhile, Maya had cornered a guy who asked if her amp “came in pink.”

“Does your ribcage come in rearranged?” she snapped.

Thane stood to the side, arms crossed, watching it all with a tired, satisfied grin. His black polo shirt was damp with sweat, his jeans dusted in hay and stage gunk, and his claws still faintly glowing under the weird pink light of a bug zapper.

Mark appeared beside him like a silent ghost, passing him a lukewarm bottle of water.

“They love us,” Mark said flatly.

“They’re insane,” Thane replied.

“Same thing.”

Then it happened.

A man in overalls and a mullet that defied physics approached, cradling what at first looked like a wrinkled pillowcase.

“I made this for y’all,” he said, proud as sin.

He opened it to reveal… a full-sized, taxidermied possum.

Wearing a tiny leather jacket.

With “Feral Eclipse” scrawled on the back in puffy paint.

The crowd erupted.

Gabriel lost it, laughing so hard he dropped his soda.

Maya recoiled. “Is it… blinking?”

“It’s just the gloss,” Cassie whispered, eyes wide.

Jonah whispered, “It’s got tiny sunglasses…”

“His name’s Randy,” the fan explained. “Thought he’d look good on y’all’s merch table.”

Rico gently accepted the offering. “He’s… perfect.”

Mark deadpanned, “If I wake up and that thing’s on my pillow, I’m setting the van on fire.”

Thane finally chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay. Okay. That’s it. Show’s over. Let’s load up before we inherit anything else.”

As they packed up the van, Gabriel buckled Randy the Possum into the front seat.

“Randy rides shotgun now,” he declared. “He’s earned it.”

Thane just muttered, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

And with that, Feral Eclipse rolled out of Red Pines, headlights piercing the night, Randy’s tiny shades catching the moonlight.

Ready for the next chaos, claws and all.

The lights dimmed—or tried to. One flickered like a moth on its last wing while the rest buzzed angrily like they owed someone rent. But the crowd in the “Red Pines Pavilion” didn’t care. They were already half-drunk, half-hyped, and whole-heartedly rowdy.

A dude in the front row screamed, “SHOW US YER TEETH!” right before pouring Coors on his own head.

Backstage, Thane’s headset buzzed with static. “Mark, I swear—if the foggers fire during the opening line again, I will bite the fuse out of them.”

Mark’s reply was bone-dry: “No promises. The breakers are doing Morse code and I think they’re asking for help.”

Cassie stood by the curtain, microphone clutched like a dagger, hair wild and eyes burning. “This is gonna be one for the FBI files, isn’t it?”

Gabriel bounced on his heels, bass strapped low, coffee in one clawed hand, absolute chaos dancing in his icy blue eyes. “I love this already.”

“Y’all are feral,” Maya muttered, adjusting her guitar strap (duct taped for extra faith).

“Damn right,” Rico said from behind his battered lead guitar, running a pick down the strings with a flick that sparked pure mischief. “Let’s burn this barn.”

Thane barked into the headset, “Standby, lighting—”

BOOM.

The foggers exploded at once.

Every VL2B Mark had managed to coax into life fired a hellbeam of red down into the fog, slicing through the room like the wrath of a disco demon.

A beat of silence.

Then…

Cassie screamed the first lyric.

And the barn went berserk.

---

Gabriel launched into the bassline like he was possessed, claws shredding across strings, tail whipping, head thrown back as he roared into the opening chorus. Fans screamed back. Some howled. One tried to climb the stage and was immediately tackled by a bouncer who looked like he used to wrestle gators.

Maya shredded rhythm guitar like it owed her child support. Her eyes blazed with fury as she stomped across the crooked stage, body angled into every chord.

Rico let loose with a solo so intense, sparks flew from his amp—or maybe that was the faulty wiring. Either way, it added to the aesthetic.

Jonah was a demon behind the drums. At one point, he flung a stick into the air and caught it with his teeth like some kind of heavy metal seal. The crowd lost their minds.

Cassie’s vocals ripped through the rafters—pure power, raw rage, and zero chill. She hit a note so hard it made one of the beer signs fall off the back wall.

Thane, stage-right at the board, fur dripping, headset half-fried from sweat and panic, was manually rerouting power while shouting into his backup mic: “YES, MARK, I SEE THE STROBE—NO, DON’T AIM IT AT THE DANCE FLOOR—TOO LATE, NEVER MIND!”

Mark, from the back truss, was cackling into comms while running a rapid-fire combo of red-white-red that turned the crowd into a sea of seizure-dancing cowboys.

Someone crowd-surfed in a hay bale.

Two couples started line dancing in the pit.

A fight broke out over whether Gabriel was “part bat” or “just built different.”

And through it all, the band crushed it.

---

By the time the final song hit, “Red Moon Rising,” the air was thick with sweat, fog, and unfiltered Oklahoma chaos. Cassie belted the final chorus. Jonah hit a crash so hard the snare jumped. Rico lit up the last solo like a pyromaniac on a sugar rush.

Gabriel dropped to one knee, bass held like a holy weapon, and howled into the crowd.

The crowd howled back.

Thane, drenched and exhausted, hit the final cue. Every light Mark had left flared blood red one last time.

Blackout.

Silence.

Then the barn erupted.

---

Backstage, chaos still buzzing in their ears, the band collapsed into mismatched chairs, breathing like they’d just run from a pack of demon possums.

Mark passed around bottles of water.

Gabriel looked at his claws. “I think I dented the fretboard again.”

Jonah was still panting. “I think I need new lungs.”

Maya muttered, “I think that one guy tried to throw his boot at me.”

Cassie grinned. “We’re never gonna top that.”

Thane just laughed—low, hoarse, and a little wild.

“Oh, we will,” he said. “Just wait till we hit Arkansas.”

The moment Gabriel set foot on the stage—a spray-painted plywood riser with “Rock It, Cletus!” still faintly visible beneath the black paint—his clawed foot stuck to something.

“Either that’s a stage booger,” he muttered, “or crawfish juice is way more adhesive than I expected.”

Cassie pointed to the stage-left monitor. “Why is that wedge covered in duct tape that says ‘DO NOT SING HERE’?”

Thane checked the patch bay and grimaced. “Because if you do, it feeds back so hard it calls the dead.”

Jonah was crawling under his drum setup—wedged between what looked like a folding table and a fake cactus—to figure out why one of his toms was wobbling like a nervous chihuahua.

“Uh… guys?” he called. “There’s a mouse. Just… chillin’ in the kick drum. I think it’s judging me.”

Mark was high up on a shaky scissor lift made from an unholy mix of rebar, rust, and prayer. He had managed to secure two surviving VL2Bs to the flimsy truss overhead.

“Don’t bump the fogger,” he called through comms. “It’s directly wired into the breaker for the snack bar. Again.”

Maya let out a full-body sigh and glared at her mic stand, which had all the stability of a Jenga tower in an earthquake. “If this collapses mid-set again, I swear on every string I’ve ever broken, I will eat it.”

Gabriel was mid–bass thrum when one of the fluorescent lights above them fizzled, sparked, and then flickered back to life—revealing that the venue ceiling still had disco balls from the skating rink days… and possibly a squirrel nest.

Cassie laughed. “This is either gonna be the best show we’ve ever played or a paranormal crime scene.”

Thane barked into comms, “Let’s get it over with. Line check. Pray to whatever gods are listening.”

---

Five minutes into soundcheck:

• Maya’s strap broke and she did try to play with her teeth.
• Gabriel tripped over an extension cord and almost took out a full speaker tower.
• Rico knocked over a paper crawfish mascot that somehow burst into flames.
• Jonah’s snare stand collapsed and the mouse retreated, unimpressed.
• Cassie shredded her throat trying to sing over the venue’s popcorn machine whine.
• The lighting rig shorted during the fog test, cutting power to the bouncy house next door—mid-birthday party.

Mark, from his post near the breaker box, sighed. “Congratulations. We’ve broken everything. Including childhood.”

Thane slowly lowered his headset mic. “I’m starting to miss the birthday party gig.”

Gabriel, sweat-soaked, claws covered in stage grime, looked up and grinned. “Still better than Tulsa.”

The band collectively agreed.

Even the mouse seemed to nod.

By the time Feral Eclipse limped into their next destination, the sun was setting over Crawdad Crossing, a place so small it had a church, a bar, and a feed store—all in the same building.

The town sign featured a giant smiling crawfish giving a thumbs-up, with a crudely added “NO FURRIES” spray-painted beneath in dripping red letters.

“Oh great,” Thane muttered, leaning over the steering wheel with a scowl. “We’re already famous.”

Gabriel, still emotionally wounded from the gas station fan ambush, peeked up from behind his clawed hands. “Please tell me they don’t have Wi-Fi.”

Jonah checked his phone. “They have 3G and a Facebook page last updated in 2014 with a photo of a dead raccoon holding a Bud Light.”

Mark grunted. “At least it’s not a possum. That’d be culturally aggressive.”

The venue? A hollowed-out skating rink now used for “Community Events, MMA Fights, and Weddings.”

Inside, a dusty banner hung above the stage: CRAWDAD FESTIVAL KICKOFF – Featuring THE ECLIPSERS.

Cassie tilted her head. “Did they just… pluralize us?”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that’s a different band.”

A man in an American flag tank top approached with the swagger of someone who’d once punched a vending machine for stealing his Snickers bar.

“You them… Eclipse boys?”

Thane sighed. “Feral Eclipse.”

The man blinked. “Right. That’s what I said. Y’all the ones with the fursuiter?”

Gabriel’s tail bristled.

Before he could lunge, Maya stepped in, guitar case slung over one shoulder like a bat. “Say that again, cowboy. I dare you.”

The man backed off fast. “Hey now, no need to get spicy.”

They entered the venue to find… an actual kiddie pool full of boiled crawfish next to the merch table.

Also at the merch table?

A freshly printed stack of Team Pupslut shirts.

Gabriel’s soul left his body.

Thane picked one up and held it up with a smirk. “You approve of the font at least?”

Cassie howled with laughter.

Rico grabbed one and spun it like a prize wheel. “Who’s responsible for this?”

A young local girl in a homemade “I ❤️ Werewolves” hoodie peeked out from behind the folding table. “I saw it online. I thought it’d be cute. I made thirty of ‘em! They’re selling super well!”

Gabriel covered his face.

Mark put both hands on his hips, looked to the ceiling, and muttered, “This is our legacy now.”

Jonah just whispered, “We’re gonna die here.”

The van rolled to a sputtering stop outside Buckhorn Quick Mart & Liquor, the only gas station within twenty miles that didn’t look like it doubled as a meth lab… just a highly suspicious bottle return depot.

Mark killed the engine with a growl. “Five minutes. Fuel, caffeine, and whatever passes for food.”

“Bathroom too,” Jonah said, already bolting for the door like his bladder had filed an HR complaint.

Gabriel stepped out, stretching with a big yawn, his black T-shirt riding up slightly as he did. Two things happened instantly:

1. The automatic doorbell to the Quick Mart let out a bweep like it was dying.
2. A high-pitched gasp came from the snack aisle.

“OH. MY. GOD. It’s HIM.”

Everyone froze.

Out stepped a twenty-something woman with dyed green hair, phone in hand, wide eyes sparkling like she’d just spotted Elvis doing the Macarena. She turned the screen around to show… Gabriel. Shirtless. Flexing. Covered in glitter. With wolf ears on a headband.

Caption: “Rawr Daddy 😈🐾 #LycanLust2023”

The entire band blinked.

Gabriel blinked harder.

“…Oh no,” he said softly. “That was a dare. That was for charity. THAT WAS PRIVATE.”

“IT’S ON REDLUSTFURRIES DOT NET,” she squealed, practically vibrating. “I run a whole fan page! You’re like… a LEGEND!”

Thane choked on his Mountain Dew mid-sip. “RedLust what now?”

Cassie dropped a protein bar. “Oh my god. I knew I recognized that abs pic from somewhere.”

Rico couldn’t stop laughing. “Dude. Dude. That site has rankings.”

Jonah came out of the bathroom, took one look at Gabriel’s face, and immediately went: “Nope. Not getting involved in whatever the hell this is.”

The girl was now circling Gabriel like she was trying to summon him with her camera app. “Can you do the howl? Like the one in the video? Please?! I have merch.” She pulled out a handmade T-shirt that read “Team Pupslut” with paw prints in… questionable placement.

Maya was screaming into a bottle of water, trying not to pass out.

Mark just walked back to the van and mumbled, “This is why I drink soda.”

Gabriel looked like he wanted to ascend to another plane of existence.

“I—I can sign something,” he stammered, “but only if you promise not to tag me on anything ever again.”

She happily handed him a RedLust-branded notepad shaped like a paw print.

He signed it with shaking hands. Thane patted him on the back like a soldier returning from war. “We’ve all done shameful things for gas money, my wolf. You just did it better than most.”

They all scrambled back to the van, half-laughing, half-mortified. As they pulled out, the girl waved both arms and yelled:

“WE LOVE YOU GABRIEL! TEAM PUPSLUT FOREVER!!”

Gabriel curled into a seat and groaned, “I’m never stopping at a gas station again.”

By the time the van creaked its way into the gravel parking lot of The Dusty Hollow Inn, the band was too road-worn to argue. The sign buzzed angrily with flickering neon letters—only D S Y H _ _ L _ W I N still lit—and a hand-painted banner beneath it read “NEW MANAGEMENT (WE THINK)”.

Cassie stepped out of the van, glanced at the building with one eye twitching. “This is where ghosts go to retire.”

“Does it come with free tetanus?” Maya muttered, hauling her guitar out of the back like it might catch something if it touched the ground.

The lobby smelled like burnt coffee, lemon air freshener, and failed dreams. A grizzled man behind the counter barely looked up from a TV playing static and Walker, Texas Ranger reruns.

“You the band?”

Gabriel, still hyped from the gig, beamed. “Sure are! We’re Feral Eclipse!”

The man pointed at a key rack behind him. “Pick one that’s not crooked.”

Thane narrowed his eyes. “That’s your booking system?”

“It’s worked since ‘82.”

Jonah grabbed a key labeled “Room 3 (sorta works)” and immediately sneezed. “This place smells like expired toothpaste.”

Inside the rooms? Even worse.

Room 1’s ceiling fan wobbled like it was trying to escape. Room 2 had a bathtub full of tax forms from 2006. Room 3—Jonah’s—had an unplugged mini fridge containing exactly one jar of pickles and a cassette tape labeled “DO NOT LISTEN AFTER MIDNIGHT.”

Gabriel flopped onto a bed and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of dust. “…Soft.”

Mark walked in behind him, took one look around, and said, “I’m sleeping in the van.”

“No, you’re not,” Thane replied, rubbing his temples. “If I hear you dragging an extension cord out there again, I’m sedating you.”

They tried to relax. Jonah swore his room’s toilet flushed upward. Rico claimed the wallpaper moved when he wasn’t looking. Cassie found an ancient Gideon Bible with a love letter to someone named “Cooter” tucked inside.

By 2 a.m., the power blinked out for no reason.

Mark’s voice cut through the pitch-black like a blade. “I didn’t do it this time.”

Then the fire alarm chirped once, just to say hi.

“…Okay,” Thane said, sitting up. “We’re never staying in a place that has quotes around the word ‘clean’ in the welcome packet again.”

Gabriel turned on his phone flashlight, holding it under his face like a horror movie narrator. “You think if I lick the wall I’ll get powers?”

“Do it,” Maya said instantly from across the room.

They survived the night.

Mostly.

By sunrise, they were half-dressed, caffeine-starved, and fleeing the motel like it owed them money. As they piled into the van, Jonah whispered, “I think something watched me sleep.”

Mark took a swig of warm soda and said, “Same. But it tipped its hat, so I let it be.”

The next venue on the Feral Eclipse tour route? A former church converted into a music hall in rural Missouri called The Rafter Room. The GPS nearly gave up halfway there, rerouting them past suspiciously watchful cows and a hand-painted sign that just read: “Y’all better turn back.”

The old chapel loomed like a relic of some long-forgotten saint of chaos. The steeple had a lightning rod bolted on crooked, and someone had spray-painted Rage is Holy on the side of the bell tower. Stained glass windows had been replaced with colored plexiglass. The front marquee read:

“TONIGHT: FERAL ECLIPSE
TOMORROW: BINGO & BRISKET”

Inside, pews had been cleared to make way for folding chairs and a tiny bar in what used to be the confessional booth. The “green room” was the old Sunday school office—still decorated with sun-faded Noah’s Ark posters and an unsettling number of googly eyes stuck to the ceiling.

Cassie walked in, took one look around, and deadpanned, “I feel like we’re gonna summon something just by soundchecking.”

Maya kicked over a plastic duck. “If the power goes out mid-set, I’m blaming Jesus.”

Thane was already pacing near the back wall, eyeing a breaker box that looked like it had been through at least two exorcisms. “This place has three-prong outlets but only two wires.”

Mark, perched high on a truss trying to mount a VariLite with duct tape and hope, muttered, “It’s fine. We’ve lit worse.”

Gabriel was grinning ear to ear. “This is going to be the most metal church revival ever.”

Rico wandered up holding two mic cables in either hand. “These both say ‘Lead Vocals’ in Sharpie… one’s sticky.”

“Great,” Thane groaned. “We’re gonna get electrocuted and sued.”

But when showtime hit? The crowd—mostly locals, a few confused youth group members, and one guy in a Slayer shirt holding a casserole—turned wild. The sound bounced off the vaulted ceiling in ways that made even Jonah say, “Okay, that was kinda beautiful.”

Gabriel shredded his bass so hard a section of the back wall started rattling. Maya lost a pick mid-song and improvised with a communion wafer someone had tossed on stage. Jonah launched into a solo that echoed like thunder through the old rafters.

Cassie, radiant under Mark’s chaotic lighting work, had the entire place clapping and screaming by the third song.

At one point, an elderly lady in the front row stood, held up her walker, and yelled, “THIS SLAPS!”

Backstage after the set, dripping with sweat and pure disbelief, Thane slumped into a folding chair next to the now-empty baptismal font.

“We just headlined a haunted chapel.”

Gabriel, drinking soda from a chalice he found in the back, nodded solemnly. “And brought salvation through distortion.”

Jonah blinked. “Is this sacrilegious?”

Mark walked by and slapped a clawed hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Nah. It’s rock and roll.”

The van bumped across gravel with the grace of a drunk moose. Dust clouded the windows as they pulled up to what the GPS optimistically called “Red Pines Event Pavilion.” It was, in fact, a half-rotted barn with a corrugated tin roof and a faded “Bud Light Presents: Open Mic Friday” banner barely clinging to the eaves. A neon horseshoe sign blinked “ECLIPSE TONIGHT” with a C flickering like it was on life support.

Gabriel leaned forward in his seat and peered out the windshield. “I think I’ve been here in a nightmare once.”

“Is it the smell of cow shit or the tumbleweed stuck in the fence?” Maya muttered, clutching her guitar case like it might leap out and run away.

Mark squinted through the windshield, unimpressed. “This place is haunted.”

“I’d rather hope it’s haunted,” Thane grunted. “Means the last band probably didn’t survive to leave a bad review.”

Rico, sprawled sideways with his guitar case wedged between his knees, pointed toward the double doors that looked like they were once kicked in by an angry goat. “Why is there a stuffed deer head outside the building?”

Jonah, barely awake, pulled his hoodie tighter over his head. “Please let it be taxidermy. Please.”

Inside wasn’t much better.

The “stage” was a wooden platform raised exactly six inches off the ground. It leaned just slightly to the left, as if it had opinions. A single overhead light swung gently above it, flickering like a possessed lightning bug. The only speakers in sight looked older than three of the band members combined. There were two mic stands—both duct-taped—and a jukebox in the corner blasting Toby Keith at skull-rattling volume.

The bar owner, a wiry man in a denim vest with a handlebar mustache that deserved its own zip code, stepped forward and held out a greasy hand.

“You the Eclipse fellers?”

Gabriel—ever the diplomat—grinned and shook the hand. “Yes, sir! We’re Feral Eclipse.”

The man looked around the group, pausing on Gabriel’s clawed hand and then on Mark’s towering gray-furred frame. “Damn. Y’all ain’t just a band. Y’all a damn furry convention.”

Thane inhaled sharply.

Mark put one clawed hand on Thane’s shoulder.

Gabriel held up a hand quickly. “We’re all musicians, sir. We just play a little harder than most.”

The owner snorted. “Harder, huh? We usually do country covers on Fridays, but hell, y’all can play whatever. Long as the beers flow and no one dies.”

“Low bar,” Maya muttered.

Rico wandered off toward the “dressing room,” which was actually a broom closet with a folding chair and a single fly strip swinging from the ceiling.

And yet—somehow—as soundcheck began, something shifted.

Gabriel’s first bass thrum reverberated through the rickety walls like thunder. Jonah’s drums—jammed between hay bales and a broken jukebox—exploded into rhythm. Maya’s guitar screamed defiance into the stale air.

The local crowd started drifting in—cowboys, punks, confused tourists, a dude in a tank top that read “Beers Before Fears.”

And they loved it.

They whooped. They howled. They two-stepped in the mosh pit. One guy cried.

By the time the set hit its peak, the band was on fire. Mark’s lighting rig was working overtime with whatever surviving bulbs he’d found. Thane looked like a war god behind the mixing board, soaked in sweat and growling orders into his headset mic.

And the barn? It didn’t collapse.

They played their hearts out. They screamed. They burned. They converted.

When it was over, the crowd roared for more.

Outside the barn, beneath the red Oklahoma sky, the band leaned against the van. Gabriel passed around cold sodas from a cooler someone left behind. They were sticky and half-warm, but perfect.

Mark smirked. “So. Not haunted.”

Thane took a long drink. “Worse. It was honest.”

Gabriel raised his soda. “To the barn that didn’t fall.”

Maya clinked hers. “And the stage that almost did.”

Everyone laughed.

Jonah looked back at the building with a stunned expression. “…What the hell just happened?”

Thane shrugged. “Magic. Or moonlight. Maybe both.”

The morning after was always rough.

But this morning? This one was biblically cursed.

The tour van—beloved, battered, and one shaky tire away from becoming modern art—was packed with four barely-functioning humans and three sleep-deprived werewolves, all equally grumpy, and at least two of them actively contemplating violence. The sun wasn’t even fully up yet. Everyone looked like they’d fought a tornado and lost.

Gabriel was at the wheel, wide-eyed and buzzed from his second gas station cold brew—he insisted on driving this leg. Thane, in the passenger seat, looked like a man on his sixth war tour, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch at his temple every time the van hit a pothole.

In the back row, Jonah was passed out against the window with drumstick imprints on his forehead. Rico was slumped next to him, earbuds in, mouthing lyrics to a song only he could hear.

Cassie sat with her knees pulled up, hood over her head, holding a half-eaten granola bar like it had personally wronged her. “If this van hits one more bump, I’m gonna puke out my soul.”

Maya was trying to tune a guitar in her lap while simultaneously elbowing Gabriel in the ribs from behind his seat. “I told you we should’ve stopped at the nice coffee shop.”

“There wasn’t time!” Gabriel barked back, slurping his cold brew like it was a life elixir. “We’re twenty minutes behind schedule already because someone left their entire amp rig back at the hotel.”

Rico raised his hand weakly. “That was me. I have no regrets.”

From the back, Jonah moaned, “Tell my mom I died doing what I loved. Except I didn’t. I died in a tin can with no AC and Gabriel playing ska on the Bluetooth.”

Gabriel grinned into the rearview mirror. “It’s called character development, Jonah.”

Maya launched a balled-up sock at his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Mark, seated sideways at the side equipment rack (the only one tall enough to do so without folding like origami), checked the rig straps with an expression of deadpan despair. “If this amp stack slides forward one more inch, it’s going to flatten Jonah like a pancake.”

Thane growled without opening his eyes. “Maybe then we’ll have room for the fanmail crate.”

Gabriel yawned, then jolted suddenly as the van hit a speed bump at mach five.

THUMP—CRASH—SPLASH.

The third coffee of the morning shot skyward like a geyser and splattered across the roof liner, raining back down in glorious brown droplets.

Everyone screamed.

“I just bought that!” Maya wailed.

Cassie covered her head like it was acid. “Coffee rain! COFFEE RAIN!”

Jonah sat bolt upright, blinked at the mess, and murmured, “Is this… my resurrection?”

Gabriel swerved slightly from laughter. “Okay, okay, my bad! But look on the bright side—we’re all awake now!”

Thane stared at the mess, clawed hand slowly rubbing his muzzle.

“I swear,” he muttered darkly, “if the promoter doesn’t have our load-in ready by the time we get there, I will burn their stage to the f***ing ground.*”

Gabriel glanced sideways at him, still grinning. “Love you too, my wolf.”

Thane exhaled sharply and leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. “Only reason you’re still alive.”

Mark, from the back: “This is fine. This is normal. This is the exact energy I signed up for.”

The van creaked, coffee continued to drip from the ceiling like an espresso-based rainstorm, and the open road stretched out before them like a dare.

Feral Eclipse rolled on.

Backstage smelled like ozone, fog fluid, and sweat-soaked denim.

The band stumbled into the green room like survivors of an apocalypse—sweaty, buzzing, wide-eyed, and trying to remember how to human again. Gabriel kicked the door open with his heel and flopped onto the faux-leather couch like it was the throne of Valhalla.

“Holy shit, that crowd,” he breathed, wiping his soaked face with a towel. “Did you see the kid in the front row with the LED werewolf mask?”

Thane followed behind, one clawed hand clutching his pack of coiled cables like a python he hadn’t finished choking yet. “I saw him. I also saw the idiot trying to film on stage right while standing on the damn fog cannon. Nearly launched him into the f***ing truss.”

Mark walked in last, still adjusting sliders on a wireless console in his hands like the show wasn’t over until the lightboard said so. “Three beams overheated. One fogger’s clogged. Two strobe units blew their fuses. Great show.”

Cassie collapsed onto the arm of the couch, makeup smeared, shirt plastered to her back. “I think my spine fused to the mic stand mid-second song. Might need a crowbar.”

Rico wandered in with a bag of gummy worms and just sort of… fell sideways into a beanbag chair. “No thoughts. Only sugar.”

Jonah followed him in, looking half-possessed. “I transcended. I saw sound. It was red.”

Maya, who had already found the mini-fridge and was halfway through a bottle of water, raised an eyebrow. “You broke two sticks and your backup pedal, dude.”

“I used the kick drum like a cannon. I regret nothing.”

Gabriel raised a celebratory fist. “That’s the energy I live for!”

He then tried to high-five Jonah, missed, and knocked over a stack of plastic water bottles.

Thane growled and started rewrapping cables with the same energy someone might use to interrogate a spy. “I swear, if I ever meet the promoter who installed those janky power tie-ins—”

“I already put a beer in their office toilet,” Mark muttered.

Cassie snorted. “That’s why you were gone for ten minutes.”

From the hallway, a runner poked her head in timidly. “Uh… just wanted to say, you guys have mail. Someone dropped off a package. It’s, uh… vibrating?”

Everyone stopped.

Gabriel sat up straight. “Is it addressed to me?”

“…It just says ‘To the black-furred one with claws.’”

Gabriel lit up. “That’s me! I’m gonna open it.”

Thane barked, “Do not open anything that vibrates and doesn’t have a return label—”

But Gabriel was already slicing into the package with a claw.

Inside?

A single, blinking LED collar.

And a note that read:

“You looked so dominant tonight. Call me. 🐾”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Jonah muttered, “So hey, do we need to, like, screen our fanbase for collars now?”

Cassie choked on her water. Maya cackled and fell over. Rico was too tired to process and just popped another gummy worm.

Gabriel blinked at the gift, then looked up slowly. “Okay. One: flattered. Two: deeply confused. Three… Thane?”

“Burn it.” Thane grunted, not even looking up from his cables.

Gabriel sighed, tossed it in the trash, and flopped back on the couch.

Mark clicked a button on his tablet. “Cameras off. Lights stable. Fog fans cooling.”

Cassie raised her water bottle like a toast. “To another night of madness.”

They all clinked—plastic bottles, metal cans, and one rogue drumstick from Jonah.

And for a moment… just for a breath… it was quiet.

Then Gabriel, grinning sideways, whispered, “Hey, anyone else wanna prank Maya again tonight?”

“NO!” came five simultaneous voices, and a pillow flew across the room.

The stage lights were dimmed, flickering faint red like an animal’s breath in the dark.

The crowd hadn’t stopped murmuring since the doors opened—part anticipation, part confusion. Nobody had seen a soundcheck, there were no openers, and a few fans were whispering that the band had stormed into the venue like a tornado of gear, fury, and caffeine.

Backstage, Thane clicked the last cable into place and gave Mark a quick nod. “Whatever doesn’t explode, make it flash.”

Mark’s fingers danced over his patch panel. “My specialty.”

Cassie, doing last-second stretches, cracked her neck. “Can we just not break anything vital tonight?”

Jonah slapped his snare like it owed him money. “No promises.”

Rico was behind his kit, head bowed, muttering something to the gods of rhythm and fire.

Maya stood center-left, testing her strings. “Let’s see if the roof holds.”

Then Gabriel stepped forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t even twitch.

He just howled.

Not into the mic—just raw from his chest, filling the backstage hallway, vibrating the metal door hinges.

The crowd outside erupted like gasoline to a match.

Mark hit the lights.

Six VL2Bs exploded into deep red, blasting down through a thick layer of creeping fog. The backdrop shimmered as the Feral Eclipse logo cracked across it like lightning splitting the sky.

And then—BOOM.

Maya’s guitar screamed to life with a war cry of distortion.

Rico slammed into the opening riff like he’d declared war on time itself.

Gabriel leapt onto the stage, claws flashing, bass in hand, carving the first riff into the air like a blade. His icy blue eyes locked with the crowd’s and dared them to blink.

Cassie hit the mic like she’d been born with one in her hand.

“WE—ARE—FERAL ECLIPSE!”

The audience surged forward.

Thane moved through the shadows at stage left like a predator, hands flying over the controls strapped to his rigging vest, eyes flicking between meters and surge levels as if managing a nuclear reactor.

Mark’s lights hit full sync: pulsing, breathing, attacking the fog and giving the stage a heartbeat of its own.

Gabriel dropped into the breakdown—low, growling notes that made ribcages thrum and eyeballs twitch. He threw his head back and roared.

And the crowd roared back.

Fists in the air. Horns. Claws. Cell phones forgotten. Tears on some faces. One fan threw an entire wolf tail plushie onto the stage and Gabriel kicked it back into the pit with a savage grin.

Maya hit her solo, bending the strings like reality itself had to obey.

Jonah exploded behind the kit, snapping sticks, flipping them mid-beat and catching the replacements with the swagger of a man possessed.

Cassie dove into the final chorus with a scream that cracked like thunder over the fray.

And Thane?

He stood at the monitor rack, drenched in sweat, clawed feet planted wide as he juggled feedback loops, dying power amps, and the wrath of the gods, running the sonic war machine with blood and fire.

By the end of the set, the crowd was rubble.

Literal crowd-surfers lay in sweaty heaps, breathless.

Someone fainted.

Someone else proposed.

A kid near the front had clearly peed himself from excitement.

And in the center of it all, Gabriel stood over the mic, chest heaving, fur soaked, claws out, smiling with the fury of a beast set free.

He leaned in, voice gravel and glory.

“Next time… bring more friends.”

The van screeched into the venue’s back lot with all the subtlety of a garbage truck crashing into a dumpster full of bad decisions. A stack of mismatched road cases toppled sideways in the rear as Thane killed the engine with a growl low enough to match his mood.

“Six hours of driving,” he muttered, stepping out barepaw and already bristling, “and we’re ten minutes late because somebody needed Red Vines and a spirit quest.”

Gabriel, still chomping on said Red Vines, flashed a cheeky grin. “I regret nothing.”

The venue? A concrete shoebox with the acoustic warmth of a metal coffin. There were water stains on the ceiling, two visible rats near the loading door (Mark nodded at them respectfully), and someone had duct-taped a “DO NOT FLUSH ANYTHING EVER” sign on the green room toilet.

Inside, the stage was half-lit and still littered with bits of confetti from whatever ska band had played last night. The sound tech was a kid who looked like he’d dropped out of college to follow jam bands and had the wiring skills to match.

Thane’s icy blue eyes locked on the kid. “Power drop?”

The tech blinked. “Huh?”

“POWER. DROP.” Thane’s claws flexed.

“Oh! Uh… yeah. There’s one. But like, we lost the three-phase a while ago. Got this one quad outlet, but two ports kinda smell like smoke.”

Mark stepped up beside Thane, crossed arms, and loomed. “We’re going to need more than that unless you want your monitors to burst into flames.”

The kid stared. “Cool…”

Maya groaned, throwing her guitar case down and opening it like she was preparing for battle. “If my strap snaps again, I swear to every human god, I will beat someone with the amp head.”

Cassie stepped over a tangle of cables, her mic in one hand, and looked around. “Who the hell books a band like us and gives us one working power strip and a fog machine that smells like burnt soup?”

Rico, always the optimist, chimed in. “Hey, at least there’s a stage this time.”

Jonah looked up from reassembling part of his kit that had exploded during the bumpy ride. “And at least I still have my beer bottle from the last set. You know. In case of emergencies.”

Gabriel slung his bass on, still chewing Red Vines. “We’ve played worse.”

Thane looked at him sideways. “Name one.”

Gabriel grinned. “That wedding gig where we accidentally caused the divorce mid-set.”

Cassie smirked. “Oh yeah. That was beautifully traumatic.”

Thane rubbed his temples and began plugging in the gear himself, grumbling like a thundercloud. “Alright, wolves and humans—let’s see if we can make this sonic trashcan shake.”

Mark, perched in his lighting command zone (which was really just two milk crates and a borrowed laptop), flicked on the VariLites. They blinked once. Then again. Then flickered out entirely.

“Cool,” he said flatly, “they fear commitment.”

Gabriel’s voice rang out from center stage. “Y’all ready to blow the doors off this sad shoebox?!”

The monitors squealed with feedback that could peel paint.

Jonah dropped his beer bottle.

Cassie covered her ears.

Thane looked like he was about to shift, chew through the PA rack, and eat the contract.

And from somewhere near the back, the jam-band tech kid yelled, “Duuuuuude, that’s, like, real primal.”

The band responded in unison:

“SHUT UP, KYLE.”