Brad is my best friend. Together we're travelling across the country, trying to find out about his lineage so we can find a cure for his affliction. Oh, I forgot to mention, Brad hasn't got cancer or anything like that. No, Brad's got lycanthropy. Brad's a werewolf.
Brad and I have been friends for ages, forever even. We grew up together, were born in the same hospital, lived on the same street. We had each other's backs from day one. Brad and Jake, two peas in a pod, is what my momma used to say. We should have been brothers, but instead we were the next best thing, we were best friends.
Brad and I stuck together like Siamese twins so I was with him when I he got infected. Why it didn't get me too is something I still ask myself sometimes. Frickin' werewolves? Who'd have thought, eh?
Like I said, we had each other's backs. I spent all the time I could trying to find a cure, all the time in the world. Both of us spent more hours at the library after that than we'd ever done. Family and friends must have thought us downright crazy, none of us ain't never shown much interest in reading before. We had a purpose though, we were searching for a cure and eventually, we found one.
Found a crazy black book in an even crazier book store. We got outta there sharpish but not before Brad found what we were looking for, a book on werewolf lore. Not some dumbass teen wolf romance novel but the real deal.
Turns out, the only cure for lycanthropy (that's the name of the werewolf disease, turns out) is to kill the werewolf that made you with silver, cleans you right up, so the book said. So, that's what we knew we had to do.
Both of us packed up our things and kitted ourselves up. We were gonna hunt down the SOB that did this and get Brad his old life back. He'd woken up with a strangers blood in his mouth one time too many. So book in one hand and a shotgun in the other, we headed off to where we last saw the beast.
Nothing. Not a god damn thing. The creature was long gone, in our ignorance we'd left it too long. We had no idea how to find it, then Brad got worried. What if someone had already killed it? What if the man behind the beast had got himself killed, without silver? He'd be screwed! The book said nothin' about staking a dead werewolf with silver. We had to kill him first.
We quit our jobs and rolled out, hunting every damn werewolf we could find, following every crazy-ass story from every buck-toothed nutbar who'd speak to us but nothing. Every full moon Brad would change just the same. It wasn't till we'd nearly given up that we'd finally gotten a break. Heard a rumour about a werewolf running scared, all the other killings must have got to him and he was in a panic. He'd made a mistake and got himself seen changing in a motel. His ass was ours.
We chased him down. He was an old guy, looked like a hairy prune. As the book said, werewolves don't age like humans, he must've been an old one. He got a sniff of us coming though and got himself hit by a truck, killed him straight. Brad was screwed. Our hearts sunk into the pit of our stomachs.
The book gave us one last option though. If we could find who made the old guy and kill him, well, that'd do just dandy. We grabbed as much from the body as we could and hot-tailed it out of there.
It was back to the books again after that, searching long and hard about everything we could about this man. Seemed he'd done some research himself, trying to cure himself too. The trail led us to a small backwater called Brownstone Thicket in the arse-end of nowhere.
We hadn't any better leads and we were desperate. Brad and I set off. We just hoped the old guy's maker was still alive.