Wyatt Pruitt couldn't imagine why Sheriff Belote and his
deputy were sloshing around in a Wachapreague marsh and he
hoped they wouldn't notice him. He crouched down low in
his boat but they saw him just the same.
"Wyatt Pruitt!" the sheriff growled. "What are you
doing out here this late of a evening?"
"I'm checking my minnow pots."
"We're hunting a werewolf!" Freddy Potts, the deputy,
said.
"Shut up, Freddy!" Sheriff Belote said. "Don't be
talking stupid."
"But you said-"

"We're not hunting werewolves. We're hunting a serial
killer who thinks he's a werewolf. He's killed eight
people already," Belote barked. "And you, Wyatt Pruitt,
you ain't checking minnow pots. You're hunting illegal
deer."

"Wha-??" Wyatt looked shocked. "I'm sitting in a
Chincoteague scow, minnow pots in hand, what makes you
think I'm hunting deer?"

"Oh, I don't know, the fact that you have to have
tourists going fishing in order to sell the minnows as bait.
And since we've had oil spills washing up the coast, there
ain't been no fish and there ain't been no tourists. You
got a gun in that boat?"

"Why would I have a gun if I'm checking minnow pots?"
"Well, if you really are minnow potting, you need to find another line of work. The water is finished. The fish are gone and they ain't coming back. Go home! It‘s not safe here!"

As they walked away, Wyatt shouted after then, "Ain't no amount of pollution gonna scare me! It's a natural life I'm living! Natural like the sea. And natural always wins out!"

A Great Blue heron flew over his head. Wyatt thought, In a place as beautiful as this, how can pollution ever win?

He had almost forgotten about them when he heard gun shots. Then screams. Then, silence.

Wyatt quickly reached into the secret compartment under his pilot's seat and found his .38. He jumped out of his boat and ran toward the trees.

The full moon bathed the marsh in an eerie light. A dark shape emerged from the treeline. At first Wyatt thought it was a dog. Then he realized it was a wolf. A big wolf. A gentle breeze blew Wyatt's scent to the animal.

Wyatt took aim and fired. He missed. He fired again. Missed again. How did the legend go? Only a silver bullet can kill a werewolf.

The thing walked casually toward him. Walked on two legs. It seemed confident, as if the gun were no threat.

But the wind was with the local boy. Wyatt flicked his
cigarette lighter. Then he lowered the lit lighter toward
the marsh grass. Wyatt had seen marsh grass turn into a wall
of flame if the wind was right.

The wolf stopped. It slowly retreated back into the woods.
"Ha! I thought so!" Wyatt laughed. "Whatever you are, nothing likes to burn!"

Wyatt fashioned a torch from some driftwood and his shirt just in case the wolf should change its mind. He scanned the treeline for any movement but saw none. Even so, it might be prudent to simply go home.

Wyatt turned and saw the wolf. It was standing there
between him and his boat.

If a waterman could list the things he loves most in this world, it would go as follows: 1) his momma, 2) his boat, 3) his wife and kids and 4) anything else on the list. To Wyatt, this was not a thing of indescribable horror blocking his only means of escape, this was someone trying to take his boat. Never mess with a waterman's boat.

Wyatt did not think in words now. He let out a bellowing roar and charged the wolf, hitting it in the stomach with the torch. The wolf made an 'oof' sound and fell backwards. Wyatt clubbed it in the head with the torch that was now splintering into sparks and charred wood. The attack did not stop the werewolf. But it confused the wolf long enough for Wyatt to jump into the boat and take off.

The wolf ran along the marsh easily keeping up with the boat's speed. Wyatt couldn't continue like this. Sooner
or later they would run into Wachapreague harbor. He
didn't want to think about what the wolf would do then.

Watching the wolf and the marsh, Wyatt could see why the fishing had been so bad. But the wolf did not seem to know these things. It didn't appreciate the subtle changes in the marsh smells and sounds. It was not from around here. It was a 'comehere' werewolf.

Wyatt turned his motor off. The boat stopped. The wolf stopped too. It stared at him. Human eyes gazed curiously from the dark wolfish face.

"Hey, stupid wolf! Why am I even running? You can't
cross running water! I can just sit here all night! You
can't get me!" Wyatt laughed. He lit a cigarette.
"Mind if I smoke? Oh, that's right! You can't say
anything about it! Because you're a dumbass werewolf!!"

The wolf actually smiled. It slowly waded into the water, relishing the look on Wyatt's face when he saw the wolf could cross ocean water. The smile faded as the marsh mud sucked hungrily at its huge feet. The more it struggled to get out, the deeper it sank. The deeper it sank, the more
Wyatt laughed. Soon it was waist deep in mud.

"What kind of dumbass comehere werewolf hunts a
waterman in the marsh? That would be like me hunting a
werewolf in, werewolfland. I guess you didn't even
notice the oil slick you're standing in. The marsh don't
smell like this naturally. It usually stinks in an entirely
different way!" Wyatt crowed. "You may be supernatural
but me and the sea is natural. And natural always wins!"

Then he flicked his cigarette into the floating oil. The wolf screamed when the flames hit it, but the ocean didn't care. After all, the wolf wasn't a local boy.