AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will.
Martha You Dope, 11
Ringo pulled Paul to his feet. He stood awkwardly with his weight balanced on his good leg. "John, I need another one of those," he said shakily, gesturing at John's cigarette glimmering in the dark.
He sat on the edge of the bed, accepting the smoke from John with a sigh. After a quick inhale, he said, "Sorry. It was just...unbelievable. I mean, it's something out of a horror movie, not real life for Christ's sake." He wiped a hand across his eyes and felt with disgust the beast's drool on his hand. "Shit! Could someone get me a cloth so I can wipe off this stinking slime?"
Although his own ankle ached, George was glad enough to just do something rather than uselessly sit there waiting for something to happen. He was restless. "I'll get it," he said, limping to the bathroom.
"Here, George, you may need this," Ringo tossed him the penlight.
"Careful with that!" John said sharply. "We need it!"
He stood by the window looking out at the blackness, wondering if the thing could scale vertical walls as well as crash through windows. If so, they were really screwed.
George flicked the light on long enough to find a cloth and wet it with water from the tap. As he did so, he happened to glance up at his image in the mirror. He was startled to see the thick shadow of beard on his face. Rubbing his hand over it, he muttered, "Hasn't been that long since my last shave."
Something about the hand covering his face then caught his attention and he shone the light on it to find it covered with a light down of black fuzz. Staring, George shook his head dismissively. "No, that's a load of rubbish!" he said loudly. He turned off the flashlight.
"What, George?" Ringo's voice came from the doorway between the bath and the bedroom.
"Nothing, I'm fine."
He came back out and dropped down on the bed next to Paul. "Here," he said shortly.
"Ta." Paul wiped his face obsessively. "Gaa, I wish I could have a proper wash!"
"Don't you ever stop complaining?" George snapped at him.
Paul was silent for a moment. "Sorry, you're right. I'm not the only one in this mess," he said quietly.
"Well, will wonders never cease-the star apologizes," George muttered.
"Get stuffed, you arsehole!" Paul said angrily.
"All right," John said tiredly, "Yelling at each other isn't going to get us out of here."
George let out a growl. It reminded Paul most uncomfortably of the werewolf thing he had just seen. A terrible thought blossomed in his mind and he edged away from George.
"Who's got the light?" he asked.
"I do," George grunted. His leg itched where the creature had punctured it. Absently he lifted his pants leg and scratched at it, but had a hard time getting through all the thick fur growing over the wound.
"Could I borrow it for a sec?" Paul asked as casually as he could. In reaching out to take it, his hand brushed George's and he tried not to think that it felt unusually hairy. With a pained effort he stood up and hobbled to the window where John stood. Very faint light in the sky outside announced that dawn was on its way. Ringo was at the bedroom door, listening for sounds in the hallway.
Paul leaned close to John and whispered, "John, we've got a problem."
John snorted, "No shit, Sherlock."
"No! George!" Paul whispered urgently.
"What? Is he getting worse?"
Paul's head ached. He put a hand on the windowsill to support some of his weight. Come on, John, get it! he thought desperately. "Look."
He quickly flashed the light on and shone it at George. The light caught him in the eyes, which reflected red. Paul lowered the light before he turned it off and they got a glimpse of the black fur coating his face and hands.
Ringo inhaled sharply. John gasped, "Oh, shit." George let out another grunt, which was answered by the beast outside the room.
"Christ, Paul! He's turning into one!" John said.
"No shit, Sherlock!" Paul replied balefully. "Think you can say it any louder?"
"We've got to do something...now!" John ignored the jibe in his alarm. "Tie him up with something."
Paul groaned, "I can't stay standing. I've got to sit down."
John groped for him the darkness and held him under the elbow. "Here, I'll lead you back to the bed."
"Not the...!" John gave Paul's elbow a meaningful squeeze. "The sheet!" he hissed at him as he led him to sit on the side opposite of the now silent George.
Suddenly the door shook as the creature renewed its assault, battering at the door and growling. Wood splintered and the heavy dresser toppled forward as a huge hairy arm shoved it aside. Ringo jerked back from the door. "It's getting in!" he shouted above the racket.
"No shit, Sherlock," John and Paul said in unison. Paul gathered a bunch of sheet in his fist slowly, so George wouldn't feel the pull.
The werwolf thing let out an unearthly howl and the other three Beatles' blood chilled to hear George's voice rise in an answering yowl.
"Hurry, Paul!" John yelled. Paul could just make out his form by the dim light starting to filter through the window.
George started to stand. Paul lunged up with the sheet in his hands, but got tangled in it and fell to the floor, knocking the breath out of him and sending a tearing pain through his injured leg. As George strode toward Ringo, his posture was stooped and his arms unnaturally long. He reached out and grabbed Ringo before he could move.
Ringo let out a terrible shout.
"Paul!" John rushed to help Ringo but was batted effortlessly aside by the now hulking form of George, or what used to be George. The thing on the other side of the door howled again, a hungry, gleeful sound.
Paul struggled, trapped in the billowing cloud of cloth. He heard Ringo scream.
"NO!"
