On July 28th, 2043 at approximately 12:43 am Pacific Daylight Time, the Lycanthrope War was over. So marked the end of a long and brutal conflict that resulted in the deaths of millions of men, women and children on both sides. The end came after an act of desperation. One final hail mary attempt to what was left of the human race. We did what only super villains in comic book and movies had thought to do. Something that broke so many treaties and pacts that, both old and new, that the plans orchestrators were sure to face some prison time, if not death.
We destroyed the Moon.
It was the source of their power and what caused their grotesque transformations. We made several other attempts to hide the Lycanthropes from the Moon. Blocking it with artificial clouds, isolating and quarantining known werewolves. We'd even constructed a massive solar sail to create and artificial eclipse. Nothing worked and the transformations kept occuring.
Our final solution was on everyone's minds. Just, nobody had the guts to say it. Nobody except for Rear Admiral Brian Abrams. A real tough son of a bitch, old school guy who had flown in the Second Korean War and was no stranger to making drastic decisions. After the artificial eclipse failed, he phoned the President's private line and after just a two minute conversation, hung up and told his chief engineer to prepare for a nuclear attack. The engineer asked the question everyone was thinking.
"What are the targets?"
"Target," he corrected before looking up at the partially exposed on the screen. "The Moon."
In minutes, we had nine thousand nukes hurtling towards the Moon and all that was left to do was to wait three days for them to get there.
The explosion was a spectacle. The sky was as bright as day and everyone needed to shield their eyes in order to look at it. We expected the Moon to split into large chunks, at least, that's what the physicists predicted. Instead it essentially vaporized and we watched as glistening chunks flew in every which direction like a firework had exploded. Then, after but a minute, it was gone and the world was as dark as ever.
Reports flooded in of Lycanthropes returning to their human forms. Everywhere there were people stumbling about with their clothing in tatters in need of food, water, and a lengthy, likely horrifying explanation of what's happened. We celebrated. Hugged each other. Sobbed. We'd done it. We won. Only, we didn't.
On July 28th, 2043 at approximately 12:43 am Pacific Daylight Time, the Lycanthrope War was over. On July 20th, 2043 at approximately 1:37 am Pacific Daylight Time, the Vampiric Wars had begun. We would learn later, far too late, that while the Moon had awakened the Lycanthropes, it had also served as a barrier to the previously unknown population of vampires that lived among us. With it gone, so too was their shackles and they were hungry. Not only that, but now the world was overrun by weak and defenseless humans and reports quickly turned for that of rescue and joy to horror and death.
The new war lasted but a week. That marked the end of the human age. The rapture had come and us? It's shepherds.