DISCLAIMER: This contains sexually explicit scenes; so if that offends you don't read it. The author and/or Nifty are not responsible for those under eighteen (18) years of age reading this. UNDERWORLD is property of the author and should not be used without the author's permission.
The biggest werewolf nightclub in New York City was the Doghouse in some industrial building in the Meat Packing district. From the outside it looked surprisingly like a regular club. A bit odd, but not too out there for New York. It was some great rundown warehouse-type building covered in the usual posters and graffiti that would other wise look abandoned was it not for the pulsating music and lights emanating form within and all the kids hanging around outside. Sometimes a few humans would get in there and mingle with the crowd. All in all, it was a dark place for dark beings. A soulless pit where the deepest and most basic urges were satisfied to the beat of blaring rock music. There was a general punk-rock vibe to the place. There are more wolf bands than most would think. Even though it was technically on their turf, the territorial borders are only recognized by wolves at times of hunting, when the packs are in wolf form. His pack's territory was vast. In a pack of only about thirty, they controlled most of Manhattan's West Side. This included most of Riverside Park, up until Morningside Heights, all the way east until Central Park, and South encompassing Hell's Kitchen and ending around Chelsea.
It was at this place that Hunter's colleagues were currently entertaining themselves. Their pack was legendary as party animals. As it was the dead of winter, it was probably a good idea to get indoors. Hunter, however, preferred to stay put in Riverside Park. So there he sat, ignoring the cold of being out in the freezing temperatures. The clouds were thick and cast an invisible curtain over the sky, blocking the moon from view. Hunter preferred it that way, he always hated the moon. The brighter and fuller it got, the closer he knew he was to another hunting cycle. For him it was a time that all his inner demons crept back to the surface and overtook him, turning him into that beast. His beast was everything he hated about himself, about his life. Just then it began to snow. The ground was already covered and the smooth white mounds reflected the street lamps and cast a soft glow around Hunter, changing the blackness to an almost purple shadow. Hunter took the opportunity to let the flakes float down and bury his troubles.
Finally Hunter sensed that it was time to go. So, pushing himself up from his spot, he turned and walked away form his sanctuary and into the blizzard. The white curtain was losing its once comforting demeanor and fast becoming downright oppressive. Hunter was never one to give in, he was always a survivor and only pushed forward through the storm in defiance. The wind picked up speed and became like knives. He squinted his eyes against the pelting flakes. He could barely see, but he knew where to go. It was the same path he'd traveled a thousand times. All he had to do was make it to the subway station.
It's no use, Hunter had to use his senses, not his memory. So he stopped and kneeled on the ground. He closed his eyes and just listened. He heard the wind, he heard it blowing against... the trees, the benches, the wall. Now he was able to form a mental picture of his terrain by the wind's varying noises, and the way the flakes moved, but he needed to be more certain, so Hunter cast out a 'curtain' of senses. He enhanced his awareness to encompass a large area. Each individual trash can and bush made an imprint in this curtain. Slowly, as he stretched senses to the limit, he sensed the edge of... a subway entrance, in the sidewalk. That was all he needed. Once he got a hold of it, he narrowed his range to a cone that focused on the station. Without being able to see anything, he effortlessly found his way out of Riverside Park without bumping into anything or missing a step. He kept his eyes closed for the most part, and just let his senses tell him where the rail began, where the benches were, where to turn and stop. Finally, Hunter stood at the entrance and began to descend underground. Once out of the storm, Hunter took the opportunity to orient himself and begin using his eyesight again. All metro transit jobs are held by werewolves, so he was able to effortlessly jump the turnstile and enter the platform. Confidently, he strode down to the end of the platform and, without missing a step, leapt off the platform at the end and continued his pace into the mouth of the tunnel. The darkness swallowed him and he began to rely less on his eyesight. After so many years, dodging the slats and the third rail has become effortless, as it is to most wolves. Deeper and deeper he went, the intermittent columns of light cast by the mounted lamps matched the rhythmic dripping from some nearby pipe. Scenarios like this provided the tangible increments by which Hunter measured time. After 75 years, true time stops fleeting by and finally slips away entirely. After about an hour of woefully making his nightly pilgrimage dow
tricate subway tunnels, occasionally stepping aside for a rushing train or kicking aside another rabid rat, he found the platform called home. It was deep into the system, an abandoned platform that used to be occupied by a tribe of homeless people. They made for about a year's dinner. So now it was home to the Reapers, a pack of about thirty werewolves.
Hunter just mumbled his usual hellos, just to make sure some people knew he was there, then he regressed to his corner where he decided to go to sleep. All he could think was that it was a miracle he'd made it 75 years.
Good, he is strong, the man thought to himself as he waved the storm away. The flakes ceased to fall from the sky as if they had never been there to begin with. A smile crept across his thin face, He will be a fine candidate.
"So...," Damien wasn't sure where to begin, "what, exactly, is the situation with, um, werewolves?"
"well, as opposed to us, they are not nomadic, they remain in their designated hunting grounds, as a regional pest that varies from place to place. Basically savages, living in filthy conditions like the lowest of humans. every full moon they change into their wolf form, in which they are deadly. No vampire can defeat a changed wolf, we can only evade them and stay indoors on the nights of the full moon. They are allergic to silver the way we are to garlic, but can go out in the daylight."
"Why do you hate them so much?"
"Everyone does, Vampires and Werewolves have been at war for centuries. They used to be our slaves, but then there was a revolution. We were winning and had them pushed to the brink of extinction, until when vampires began to cross the Atlantic in 1700s looking for a fresh start. Werewolves did as well, now the war has begun anew as a series of territorial disputes. Here the playing field was even again, we'd been cut off from the Old World and all its resources. Now clans are mostly just looking out for their own personal interests by exterminating werwolves, they're bad for business. Here, for example, they've become more vicious and are beginning to feed on vampires."
"How could we have been at war with them if they are such good predators?"
"A werewolf's abilities never truly leave him. In human form, their senses and strength are still enhanced. But where they exceed physically, we exceed mentally. Our psychic abilities are far superior to a werewolf's. They are almost human in mind, whereas we are almost human in body (relatively, of course, and excluding our healing capabilities). Anyway, we can use our powers to, not necessarily 'control' werewolves, but confuse them, just mess with their heads. It slows down their reaction time, making it easier to get a shot in. We use silver bullets, by the way."
"Do they have weapons, too?"
"Yes, and I hate to give them credit for creativity, the bastards. Making a weapon out of garlic or sunlight is not easy, but they have sun sticks and shoot with hollow bullets filled with essence of garlic."
"What are sun sticks?"
"They look like flashlights with blades around the rim. On the inside is a UV light. If they puncture you with it, you fry from the inside. It's the most effective way to kill, they come as pairs."
"So... will I be fearing for my life much?" Damien's starting to freak out.
"The war has since settled down considerably and reduced them to a nuisance who's population we have been rapidly diminishing for years. We launch strategic attacks and offer rewards to mercenaries who make a living out of hunting werewolves. The only problem is their pack mentality. They have a very strong sense of community, so killing one makes the rest of the pack go after us in revenge. That is why the only way is to exterminate an entire pack simultaneously, or just kill enough to displace the others."
"Will we be doing much of that?"
"Not really. Most of that is handled by the mercenaries, as I said. However, occasionally we'll have to exterminate a pack if they become an issue."
By this point the two stood before an enormous building. From the outside, it resembled any other, nondescript abandoned warehouse, another bush in an urban forest. Kyle just continued through an obscure side door, which opened with surprising ease. The inside matched the exterior, for the most point. It was an outer room full of boxes of files and old desks. Obviously it used to be an administrative office area. Damien followed Kyle down the center of the room to a large door at the end that was boarded up. When they arrived, however, Kyle pushed the button on an antiquated intercom that anyone else would have guessed to be another broken relic. Not the case, as a voice could be heard clearly through the device.
"Password."
"Crescent." Kyle replied casually.
"Come on in, Kyle."
"See ya in a bit, Bryce." The door pushed forward and slid aside, boards and all. It was all clever camouflage. Beyond the door was another hallway, about the same area with high ceilings. Only when Damien entered, he stopped short in shock and stood, frozen in awe at what he saw.
Bodies, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. All were in these sort of giant pressurized Zip-lock bags that clung close to their forms. Each bag was hung on a giant rack, each part of a matrix. It was a giant grid of bodies, column after column, row after row of them, each with tubes running through their stiff forms. It was a warehouse, much like the one Damien himself had escaped moments earlier. Had he survived so all these others would suffer the same fate? He could see through the tubes ran blood. It was indescribable, the sight was so shocking to Damien that he was beyond a reaction. he just froze in his spot. Kyle walked for a bit before he realized that Damien was no longer behind him. He doubled back and took Damien arm, pulling him along as the boy remained agog at the matrix of body bags. The racks went up to the top of the ceiling and the very end of the room. They paced down a fairly narrow walkway in the warehouse. As they passed by one of the bags at eye level, Damien noticed on it the same logo as was on his IV. The rest of the room looked the same as an old factory so far. The decrepit walls and floors, slow industrial fans in the top windows. The only signs of modernism were in the technology of the body preservation. The room was freezing cold, and they reached a sharp right turn, down which they continued until they saw at the end of their path a large, thick metal door with two bouncers on either side. They saw the two approach and nodded in acknowledgment as one lugged open the giant door.
As it opened, Damien comprehended just how thick it was because in a sharp transition from the eerie silence, he was suddenly blasted with extremely loud music. It was techno, emanating from behind the heavy door. Kyle continued through, so Damien followed close behind. Inside was the largest room in the warehouse. It looked like any other for the most part. High ceilings, steel beams everywhere, wide, open floor space, and high industrial windows with fans. In addition to that, however, was a huge crowd of people dancing to the loud music. Right now Damien and Kyle stood just outside the door, at the top of a giant staircase that led to the dance floor below. At their level was a balcony that ran around the room, with tables and bars. Directly across the giant space, at their level, was the DJ's booth, where he spun away. Their were flashing red lights and fog everywhere. Kyle led Damien down the staircase into the fray. It was difficult for Damien to keep behind Kyle as he was led through the sea of vampires. On the sides of the dance floor, under the balcony and behind the support beams, long couches ran along the wall with table were people were sitting, making out, talking. It was much like what one would expect of a nightclub its size. There were a pair of spiral stairs leading up to the balcony on either side of the dance floor in the middle of the room. Damien followed Kyle up to the terrace where it was easer to move around. Kyle led him to one of the bars. Where there was a heavily tattooed shirtless guy serving drinks. Damien was a bit stricken by how hot the guy was.
"Hey, Rogan!" Kyle signaled to him over the music, "two, we got a newbie over here!"
"All right!" The guy responded enthusiastically and promptly delivered two cocktail glasses full of, you guessed it, blood. Kyle handed one to Damien.
"Drink up." he raised his glass in a toast and took a sip that left red stains on his lips like a morbid milk mustache. Damien was nervous, but he figured he might as well get used to it. So, he closed his eyes, brought the glass to his mouth, and sampled his new diet.
Truth be told, it wasn't that bad. It was thick, smooth, and a bit metallic in taste, but Damien could get used to it.
"Wow, I'm officially a vampire now," Damien observed while reflecting the drink in his hand.
"That was a 'heartini'. You'll see there are a whole variety of blood cocktails available in these places."
"And this one's ours? This place?"
"Mm-hm, our clan runs the most successful chain of vampire clubs in the country." Kyle patted Damien on the shoulder, "C'mon, let's go meet the rest."
Hunter's home is an abandoned subway platform that was closed down and walled off form the rest of the tunnels. We have a porthole in the concrete, however, which they use to get in and out. The pack's recreational area is the platform itself and the tracks have been covered with piled of sheets and sleeping bags and converted to the sleeping quarters. One track for girls, the other for boys. Hunter's is in the far corner, isolated from the others. While most were on the platform talking around the fire on furniture salvaged from dumpsters. Hunter could hear their laughter and enjoyment at just being around each other. He tried to block them out and just lay on his old mattress, staring at the ceiling high above. With dismay he heard someone jump off the platform onto their bed. It was Luke. Hunter had been infatuated with Luke since he first joined about fifty years ago. He was beautiful, he had short dark hair, long sideburns, broad shoulders, and big arms, which Hunter craved. The pure desire made him weak in the knees. Stifling his desire, Hunter just turned over in his bed and tried to sleep, hoping the dreams wouldn't come back.