“It will be a routine job. Take the helicopter and exterminate the targets. It should not be too hard. There are only two of them.” 
Armin Harbick puts on the final touches of his tactical gear. He pulls his knife out from the thigh sheath and runs his gloved finger along the edge of the blade. “That’s not too bad,” he admits, his voice concealed by the gas mask he wears. “But they’ll be active in a couple hours, you know.”
The man who gave him his orders is a deeply tanned man of Nordic stock, his piercing blue eyes and platinum blond hair a stark contrast to his sun-kissed skin. The people of the Phoenix Cult always spent their time outside. To be in a shaded shack put him on edge. Armin can see it in the way his eye twitches. 
“You know, I have to wonder,” the mercenary continues, pulling out his rifle to inspect it. While he does so, he continues his train of thought. “How come you guys are never too hot. I’m dying here in this combat suit, and you, uh, ‘clergymen’ always seem to be so cool.”
“Our vestments provide us with sufficient ventilation. Do not worry about me or my fellows. I do not advise you to speak of our holy duty in jest, either. For remember, we worship the very incarnation of Solar.”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand, and that’s why you want these moonies to all fry. It’s cool. The more work for me, the better. He reaches into his pack and counts six shining bullets. “Couldn’t afford more, huh?”
“A man of your price point should not be needing more than that,” the priest assures him. “But, we could find more for a lesser pay.”
“Nah, I’m good. When do I start?” 
The trip is silent, save for the whirring blades of the chopper. With the light of the Phoenix burning brightly, Armin checks his watch. Moonrise will be soon. He covers the watch with his sleeve and shakes his head. Of course, they’d have him offing moonies at ‘night’. Can’t risk potentially harming any of the children of the Sun with his sanctified silver. He’s left to sit there and contemplate the mission himself, as his only company is the stern-faced feline piloting this bird, and she’s not talking. 
An hour of psyching himself up ends when a gruff voice interrupts his contemplation. “We’re here,” the pilot growls. “Grab your stuff and drop down. No doubt they’ve heard us.”
“Couldn’t have picked a quieter mode of transport? Eh, oh well. Two pups ain’t gonna be a problem.” He hooks the bungee cord to his belt and hops out of the door. The wind whips at his mask, but he hardly feels any of it in all the armored clothing. The rope catches him and stretches out. Once at its zenith, he hits the latch and tumbles off, leaving himself in the middle of the field. Crops weren’t planted after last month’s harvest, and probably won’t be for a while, he muses, but he steps on through, keeping his eye open to the sky.
The moon shines bright, full, as it always is. Not many people left who remember it otherwise. When the phoenix decided to grace the world with its presence, it didn’t realize the unintended consequences that it had for the world. The rise of the moonies is one of them. 
Up on the hill, the door to the old farm house slams open. A man in overalls looks out to him with a frown on his face. Armin raises his rifle, the cross-hairs right on the man’s forehead, but the man lurches forward, curling as if in a cocoon. Armin swears, because as soon as the man rears back, he is no longer a man. 
His shirt shatters in the sudden transformation, and one of his shoulder straps break free, the button tumbling to the ground. He hunches over, his face now contorted with rage, his mouth replaced with a long snout filled with sharp teeth, and a stick of hay held between a few of them. “Ya’ll done come to the wrong place,” he growled.
“Shit,” Armin lowers his weapon. They’re natural-born.
The werewolf rushes toward the soldier on all fours, his straw hat whipping off of him in the extreme speed. He leaps up at him, his maw slavering with the desire to take a huge chunk out of the merc.
Armin positions his rifle at the hip and fires. The man-thing falls to the ground in a crumpled heap. With an inhuman groan, the farmer curls up, holding his side where the silver bullet pierced his flesh. Armin strides up alongside him,finger on the trigger. The masked man breathes heavily through his respirator as he raises the weapon once more and says to the farmer. “You tell me where the other one is, and I’ll promise to make it quick for the both of you.”
The wolf’s snout contorts in a snarl, and he snaps at Armin’s leg, but the soldier is quick. He dodges and stomps down on his throat.“I’m a man of my word, but I can see you’re not the kind of monster who’d understand that. Suit yourself.” 
The second shot rang out through the countryside, perhaps echoing much louder then the first. He takes his foot off of the limp neck of the beast, watching as fur recedes and bones crack back into place. This is always the worst part of the job. The bodies never look the same as they did in life. He sighs and turns back toward the farm house. 
“If papa wolf was in there,” he thinks out loud to himself. “Then, that’s where I’ll find momma wolf.”
The march up the hill is much longer than the werewolf’s sprint made it seem. Naturals are faster than any human sprinter. As he approaches the porch and looks over to see the rocking chair sitting on its own, a pipe sitting along the windowsill beside it, he sighs and prays that the beast inside has already taken a glance at the moon above, or else this could get real ugly real quick. 
He pushes the door open and swipes from side to side. Seeing no one in, he steps in himself. These farmers are by no means people of means.Time for close quarters combat, then.He puts his rifle away and grabs his knife, keeping an ear out for anything suspicious. The front room is sparse, with only a small table and a couple of chairs laid out there with two plates and a bowl set. The remains of a supper. Small crumbs left means they were some kinds of sandwiches and maybe a salad. Strange meal for moonies, but not unheard of. After all, they are human, at least superficially.
His boots creek along the old wooden floors as he made his way deeper. The windows are boarded up in the next room, leaving little sunlight. Good thing they lived in the middle of nowhere. It’s a sure sign of nocturnal creatures in the age of the Phoenix.
Stepping past a small closet door, he hears something fall over. He spins around, rubbing his thumb on the hilt of his knife. His gloved fingers tremble slightly as he goes for the door... It slams open, knocking him back against the wall with his vision filled with gnashing teeth and frantic barking. 
The momma bitch’s mouth froths with lycanthropic rage. Her claws dig into his kevlar armor as she pushes him down toward the ground. He grits his own teeth, pushing up against her with his unarmed forearm against her neck, her saliva dripping down onto him. She’s feral, not planning. He can use that to his advantage. 
With a heft, he pushes her off to the side and raises his silvered knife, jamming it down to her tanktop-clothed chest! He pierces between her ribs with his expert aim and removes his other arm from her neck to punch at the hilt.
With a whimper, the momma bitch falls limp and he takes a deep breath. He brings himself to his feet and reaches for his shoulder. She had scratched him good, and somehow tore the armor. His heart races as he realizes this, but his finger prods at the damage and finds no sign of a wound. He sighs and slumps back, sliding down, sitting next to the blood-pooling corpse. “Heh... almost got me,” he says, shaking his head. He reaches for his knife and stops, seeing the woman, brunette hair, freckles over her cheeks, and the sun-baked tan everyone who goes outside has. But she’s young... a teenager.