Werewolf Island

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham

© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.

Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(For comments, inquiries, and communication)

Chapter 12

THE UNDERWORLD

Shuddering in the dampened undergrowth, Red awoke once more in the darkened depths of the ghost's lair--the network of caves--that ran like veins under the island. Werewolves rules above ground, but underneath, human refuse, like insects, thrived.

The last thing Red remembered, being overrun by hundreds of painted people wielding weapons, was vanquished as quick as the light had, now to be replaced by the present. No longer was he tied up, but no longer was he with his companion, either. He could not see Striker anywhere in the pitch black where only a few flaming torches on stands existed to illuminate.

Where was he?

There was something in front of him, it looked like a door. But how could that be? He was in a darkened chamber, that much was certain if it be the only thing he was certain of, that was lit by two standing sconces that cast light and shadows both on the ceilings and walls. He was naked, he found, completely. Stripped of his weapons and possessions, and he found that when he pressed his palms to the dirt and rose up to his knees, he hurt, far more than he thought he had before. Perhaps his mind had been dulled to such feeling but now he was in pain, variously, on his neck where a dart had hit him, the cuts and bruises that painted his body. They hurt. Throbbed. After his little introduction to the whole pack that night, and the next day where he felt much stronger by comparison to the previous, he had not expected to feel this way again. It was concerning. The so-called door, as he rose, appeared to be more of a free-standing plinth, and by some stroke of fortune, made of gold. It was flat and rectangular in shape and depicted in its embossed engravings, an image of a well, being presented with a baby in the arms of a humanoid figure. There were people surrounding this scene, all faceless.

A sacrifice?

Whatever it meant, Red didn't like it.

When he rose to his feet, he discovered, much to his shock, that he was fully erect. Not half or slightly, but he was standing proud to attention, harder than ever. Not only inappropriate given the circumstances but emotionally confusing as well; was he somehow turned on by all of this shit? Or was it something else, was the blood after all winning out in his feverish body? The simpler answer was the one he wanted to lean towards, but in his heart and mind he knew from experience that the easy way was never the right way.

Was he alone?

He tried calling out but using better judgement he relented.

There was something about this place that seemed otherworldly, like he had woken up in a crypt as a spirit without even realising his death. It wasn't the case, and Red found himself wishing it had been after he set eyes on something else regarding the plinth.

Above it was a hole in the ceiling.

Red had been thrown down into a deep dark put with no way of escape except the way he came.

Panic didn't set in just yet. But he did miss the sky immensely.

It didn't take him long to confirm that he was trapped in a single chamber but he did check the rest of the room, to be sure of that fact, feeling along the rocky walls before resigning himself to a singular defeat. He would try to escape another way soon enough, he was sure, but first, he needed to sit and rest and evaluate the situation.

Promises, gone to shit. Where were his friends? How could he let them down and sit here in the sand waiting for release that might never come? He pictured Striker, his warmth and his levelheadedness and closed his eyes. With him, he could see Katana, smiling on that hot summer day they had dragged him out to the centre of New York with him. How he hated that city. He was a country boy! What did they think they'd get him to do out there? Join the stock market? Still, he had fun in spite of his venomous words in recollection. Friends. He remembered he and Dusk were drinking heavy one night--a rare occasion, as they rarely socialised--and they talked about marriage and family and girls and boys and all of those wonderful things buddies often did when they let their guard down. Both of these times came to his head and in it, he felt let letting loose his frustration somehow.

"Fuck," was the one syllable he uttered.

That word echoed around in the circle and out the tunnel above. He looked up. Surely if he came down, there was a way up?

By the time he had given up standing atop the plinth and stretching to reach the hole, activity was heard overhead.

A voice.

And footsteps.

"Hey! HEY!" He screamed up to the hole through clasped hands.

They must have heard him--must have--there was no way they didn't!

And then, all sound stopped.

A body fell through the hole.

Dmitri was heavier than he looked but Red had managed to take his weight to some extent as the naked Russian's body fell atop his own and they both tumbled across the black sand in separate heaps.

"Fuck," spat Red. He clambered to his knees.

Dmitri growled under his breath; a pall of soot blew up into his face.

The Russian looked about as well as the last time Red had seen him. Although he was no longer sickly looking, he had been through the wringer during this new captivity. Bruises marked his legs.

"The fuck happened to you?"

"Stupid. They dared..."

Red pulled him to his feet and faced him. "Did you see a way we can get out of this fucking hole?"

He was quite insistent, wasn't he? "Maybe I did."

"Don't fuck with me," growled Red. He was not in the mood to be delayed by this idiot and his arrogance. "If we don't get out of here, we're going to die, and I don't think even you want that, do you? Because I sure as hell don't. And if you're not gonna help, then stay down here and rot. I can find a way out by myself."

"Die?" Dmitri scoffed. "What makes you think we die?"

Red stopped. Truthfully, he didn't know how to answer that. He was certain (or at least he hoped) that the blood that was fighting inside him would not bring about some vicarious form of immortality, because living forever here on this island prison was not something he relished the idea of. Suddenly, he thought of the animals in zoos and the way they seemed infinitely bored by their own existence behind the bars and almost envied them; at least they would die eventually. Could he be sure that these monsters that shared themselves with him against his will didn't carry some sort of mutated gene that encouraged prolonged life? They didn't easily perish but he had seen them die. The old alpha, Gogack had been killed by his own blood, and his body tossed into the fire. But hadn't he seen a flicker of life still behind those eyes as they boiled out of their sockets? Jesus, he hoped that he wouldn't have to live like that. The idea of immortality sounded attractive, sure, but the more he thought of it, the more it oiled the gears of dissent; some things weren't meant to be for a reason and Red was sure that he and living forever would disagree. Even so, it was a possibility that had caused him to falter.

"If we don't die naturally, then I'll be the first to ram a cross through your heart."

"You do not wish to live like them?"

"No. I can't believe anyone would."

"Is it not better than the ordinary way of life?"

"No," Red almost laughed. "It's not better. I don't wanna end up as crazy as they are."

"Perhaps," Dmitri stepped closer. "Perhaps you already are. And this hole is not a hole at all. Did you think about that?"

"Don't play mind games with me." Red turned his head away. This proximity affected him, but the easiest way to avoid that was to avoid him, and

in this single chamber, that was hard to do. Even harder when he felt Dmitri touch his chest and felt his breath prick his lips. "I do not play games."

"Neither do I." Red could not resist. He turned and looked directly into his eyes, never one to back down from a challenge. "No offence, but I think I'll take my advice from someone who knows what they're talking about. You don't know any more than me, even though you pretend you do."

Dmitri sneered as Red moved away. He was losing this game, and he did not like to lose.

Red attempted the golden plinth at the centre of the chamber. Its hieroglyphics appeared almost ancient in origin but the materials gleamed as if recently polished. Down here, it was unlikely that anything could survive for long untouched by dust, but this by some miracle had. Either that, or it didn't belong here. He reached out and pressed bruised knuckles against the surface and knocked. The sound that resonated was hollow, like banging against a brass sheet. This struck Red as odd, and he bent to investigate the outer edges and the base.

Dmitri was not about to let him snub him like this. It was an insult. How dare he rebuff him?

"Look. Theres... discolouration at the bottom..." and then Red found himself thrown on to his back, not by some cosmic will but by hands.

Taking no small pleasure in taking Red by surprise like this, Dmitri belted out his victory in rattling laughter which infuriated the American.

Growling, Red turned himself over and kicked the approaching Dmitri in the stomach.

The attack, deflected, Dmitri made a move to mount Red only to be further admonished. "You are making this too hard," he drawled, lending multiple meaning as he gripped the base of his firm member and aimed it squarely in Red's direction. "Just lie still and we can both enjoy our time here. You want it, don't you..."

"Fuck!" Red grabbed at Dmitri and thrust him away several feet. "You've lost your damn mind!"

"No, I see clearly... and you are still too stubborn to admit you want it. We were closer, earlier. You felt it, too. We both did," he both chuckled and moaned at the same time as methodically he primed his cock with a palm-full of spit. "If your stupidness hadn't stopped... we would have done this before now. You know it."

Maybe Red did know it, but he knew something else now, too. "Hey, I didn't lose control, I still have it. You've clearly lost it. I could, if I wanted to, but I fucking don't. What I wanna do is get out of here. And that's it."

"You are a liar."

"Liar?" Red laughed. "You really are pushing for it now."

Then, Dmitri again pushed Red.

Red held his ground, and then he pushed back, surprising even himself with the confidence and ease with which he had launched the other against the cave walls. He had sent him reeling, but still, he refused to merely give in to defeat and rebounded off the chalky walls to come fists flying at Red, who quickly dodged to one side and claimed Dmitri's clenched fist under his arm, twisting it behind his back. He continued to rebel up until Red had him pressed against the walls again, face crushed hard to the jagged rocks that scraped against his cheek and drew blood at his forehead.

"That's it," he was laughing at him.

And that enraged Red. Harder he twisted.

"The angrier you get, the more control you lose against it! You'll be like them quicker than you think! I've already let it take over my body, and if you don't let it in yours soon, then you won't have the strength to fight me anymore..."

"Shut up! I'm sick of hearing your voice!"

"Then shut me up!" Still, he was laughing.

Red was getting tired of this prick; his voice; and the mouth that spoke them. Flaring up in his mind were a dozen ways that he could silence him. By pulling out his tongue, that might work. Or perhaps he could slam his face into the rocks until the crushed pulp could no longer utter words close to coherent. He could still hear him taunting him, urging him to lose control. Like he knew so much about what was going on inside his own mind and body? The hateful piece of shit continued to laugh, and that laughter rang in his ears like fireworks. What was happening to him? One moment he was himself, incapable of such devout graphic fantasies, and then the next? The next he was filled with rage and fury and flinging Dmitri to the floor again, and again that infuriating hysteria came his way.

Only you can make it happen, he heard himself say.

And he did.

Fistfuls of hair were grasped.

Eyes pled up at him, mocking, arrogant.

Red hated those eyes, and that mouth.

"Maybe this will shut you up..."

Blood pumped to one area, and Dmitri didn't fight him as his cock was shoved between his lips. He showed neither resistance nor surprise, and instead seemed to welcome him into his mouth. Would he give him no satisfaction of victory at all? He had him on his knees, and thrust his club to the back of his throat in one fluid angry moment and there still existed a superiority in the Russian's eyes, a gloating. He shoved in deeper, until his nose was buried in the red thicket of his pubes, and further still, until he heard the muffled laughter devolve into a sort of neurotic gurgling: a hint of breaking. For some unknown reason, it aroused him. It turned him on unlike anything ever had before: the knowledge that he could break a man; to make him shudder and quake and surrender at his feet like a dog. For too long had he been in that very position.

Was this about revenge? Or did he just like it?

"You fucking piece of shit..." Red was burning up inside. He wanted to use his mouth until he was too hoarse to speak ever again, but something was holding him back--a tireless self-awareness--Dmitri wanted him to do this. He wanted him to break him, use him and break him. "You want em to lose control, huh? I'll show you..." he jabbed his prick in all the way.

And finally, Dmitri choked; his muscled tensed involuntarily and this smocking eyes came back with a burst of something desperate and pleading. And then it was gone.

Red growled angrily and wrenched Dmitri's mouth open wider, simultaneously prising open his throat with as many inches as he could spare. He wanted him to fucking struggle. He'd seen the cracks, now he wanted him to shatter, to be irreparable. "Open... your fucking mouth."

Dmitri did as he was told for once.

Daringly, he tried to coax his own erection between his legs.

"No," Red growled, kicked his hands away from himself. He'd be damned if he was going to enjoy this. "Suck it. I won't lose control."

Red pulled out, gave him just a moment to breathe before sliding slowly back inside, reluctantly enjoying the warm-wet prison. It felt good, so good, and he shuddered with a moan. To him, it wasn't scary, it was nice for once to be the one in charge, to make someone else splutter and beg with the eyes for mercy. Red wasn't suited to that, and never was. This was where he shone! He was a pilot, he led the way, never followed.

The sooner Dmitri learned that, the better for him.

"Bend over. Now." Red said, looking down at him with a dominance that he wore well. He was deadly serious.

Naturally, Dmitri wasn't going to just bend over and present himself like some whore, wanton, waiting to be filled. Yes, he enjoyed seeing the American come close to losing that skin of his, that stiff, stubborn stupid skin that he was so fond of, but there were lines he drew, and it was pointless if Red was still in full control, subdued even in the act of sex. At the moment he was allowed to break free from his cock, the taste of his thick pre on his tongue needed spitting out immediately--an old urge--and it earned him a mighty backhand which he barely managed to keep all of his teeth from afterward.

"Are you fucking deaf? Bend the fuck over!"

When Dmitri was too slow to respond, Red kicked him over instead. If he wasn't willing, then he would give him no damn choice.

Only the tip probed between Dmitri's cheeks when he fought back with somewhat renewed vigour. A kick struck Red in the jaw and after the initial surprise, he came back again with anger. He was heavier than him by a few pounds and once he laid flat out on top of him, wrists pinned down, ankles restricted, there was little chance he had to escape. Red rocked and humped away at his rear, leaving a sticky trail wherever his cock touched. Again, just as his tip slid into his entrance, Red got the distinct impression that this was what Dmitri wanted, and he hesitated. The suspicion was confirmed when, during his struggle, Dmitri wilfully moved back into him. It had been a sly effort but Red had gotten wise to it.

"What are you doing?" He snarled into his ear.

Desperately, Dmitri thrust back, eager for cock to fill him. "I am doing what I want to do, and you are doing the same. Now, finish it... stick it in me before I decide to bite back."

Red stilled; his cock was in half way, and the skin stretching around him was hypnotic but it could go no further without extreme pain--even damage--he held his position and kept Dmitri from doing anything foolish. "Something about this," he began. "It isn't right. Don't you get it? This isn't us."

"It might not be you," spat Dmitri. "But it is me! Now, do it... do it..."

Red grit his teeth and reluctantly pulled out. "No, no... you weren't always like this, don't you get it?"

The fight had drained out of him as fast as it had filled him and slowly, Red retreated, no longer interested in completing the deed. He still bore a massive erection but he relented to use it. He breathed, and walked away. "Never been that angry before," he sighed and locked his fingers behind his head. It had been scary, definitely not him. The angrier he got, the less he felt like himself. Was this what he had to look forward to?

"You are a fool," said Dmitri, remaining on the floor as he prised two fingers up his hole, nicely lubricated with Red's pre and slid the rest deep inside, crooking his fingers to make sure the fluid stayed. "Humans are weak. We--you and I--are strong, better. Why you refuse to accept their gift is beyond me."

"Because," Red stopped. He couldn't answer that right away, and then found his voice. "It's a disease, that's all. It's no better than HIV or some other sex virus... they infected us with what they have. I don't care what you say, there's no such thing as a good STD.

"Justify that all you want. Because I can't."

"It's mind-rotting," Red went on. "And I don't think its worth it."

Dmitri shook his head; disappointed but not surprised. He was feeling less inclined to goad him, by some invisible hands holding him back from fully committing. "Too bad," he said with a shrug. He could kill him now, if he wanted, and he doubted Red would stop him, and that was something he did find worrying. Maybe he had ben wrong. Maybe this was a sick disease, killing them slowly and replacing them with some sex-crazed monster that lost all awareness. "We could have done it together. And been strong. Gone back to out homelands and spread it, made armies like us. We could have ruled the world."

Red sneered. "Haven't you learned anything from war?

"I've seen my friends die up there in the sky, no thanks to your boys. I suppose it's easier if you can detach yourself from reality, but I can't do that. They were all like me, young men, strong, and had hopes and dreams just like me. Seeing them blown to bits... I felt lucky. Lucky that I wasn't one of them. But I also felt alone, like losing family. And they were my family. You might not feel that way about your comrades, Dmitri, but I'm an American, and I have an American heart... we don't like being treated like disposable things. And what you'll be once you're infected... you'll be more disposable than any soldier of gunner, because all that will happen when you go home to Mother Russia, is that they'll stick a bunch of needles in you and try to figure you out. There's no winning in war, no matter who's stronger. You gotta have heart to really win."

"Fucking bleeding hearts..." Dmitri laughed.

"Maybe so." And Red didn't justify that any more.

Instead, he had his focus shift to something else: hope.

The plinth at the centre of the room had begun to shudder.

At first, Red had tried to ignore the feeling that they were being watched but he just couldn't escape it. And now, the metallic sculpture had reacted to something, some outside stimuli, it started to shake, kick up dust, and started to sink into the sand as if it were a lizard burying its head.

Even Dmitri was startled enough to turn his head but not enough to run.

Red didn't turn either.

They were both alike in their fascination, if nothing else as the earth opened up into a bore, a new hole beneath them. The sand poured away into a circle and where there should have been darkness below, there was a light instead.

When Womack awake from the depths of sleep, he had lost a great amount of the anger that had fuelled him. A flash of a memory: crashing waves, the sounds of screams; they haunted the backs of his mind, unreadable. They were there, still, after all these years. Shaking them away had been difficult, as his father's face kept flickering in the foreground, berating him with words of guilt and accusation until finally, even they vanished.

"Father," he panted. "How you must despise what I've become."

But he didn't hate himself.

The knots that held him were tight but not tight enough. He could smell the lingering scent of his young brother. Trayack had been here. Like a faithful boy he had loosened him from the traitors efforts. Remembering segments of the encounter between himself and the two others, he recalled their faces contorted in revulsion, for him and for his deeds. They judged him guilty--guilty--for his greed and his vanity. It sickened him.

Enraged once more, Womack wound his way out of the ropes.

There were no aches in him, or pain, just a numbness that always followed an anger-induced transformation. Rarely were there any long-lasting injuries waiting for him on his body when he awoke and now was no different.

Just how had they taken him down?

That how factor was infuriating; if they knew how to reduce him to nothing enough to tie him down and cast him aside like waste, then they could do it again, and he refused to let himself be treated that way by lesser males. They were undeserving. And, because they somehow had, he made it his mission to destroy them along with the escaped humans. When he came across the werewolf Janko in a similar position, tied up at the bottom of a ditch, he immediately knew who had been responsible. Three others had already untied Janko and he was telling them his story. Womack need not hear, he already knew.

"You three," he called down from the top of the hill. They all turned to face him, on their faces were looks of surprise. "Get back to camp. You're no longer any use in the chase if you can be so easily outdone. I will take over. I have their scent now."

And he did.

"Their stink lingers."

Abundant, it wafted beyond the noses of humans, distinct from all of the other scents in the jungle, all the masks that existed to disguise the smell were not sufficient enough. Womack returned to the last place he had smelled the humans and once again he smelled Trayack.

"I can smell you, little brother."

Trayack was afraid.

The sight of the ghosts through the trees had unnerved him. For as long as he could remember, he had held an unshaken fear of the tribal humans that they were forced to co-exist with--they all had--the way they moved, silent and non-emotive; they suited the name well. Stories had been told, and for a while he thought them to be greatly exaggerated until the last few years when he had been old enough to be allowed to begin hunting. He had seen them for himself, and he knew at first sight, no description could exaggerate enough.

Crawling on his belly, he watched from a steep hillock looking down.

Two of them trudged like zombies, painted head to toe like African tribesmen, sporting various piercings and markings.

The ritualistic mutilation of their own kind seems barbaric, even to the Lycans. Bounteous in debauchery themselves, the idea of gouging out grooves of flesh in order to skewer in bars of wood or stone repulsed. If they would hurt themselves in such a way, what hope did they have to instil fear?

They hadn't noticed him, but he watched them with a wary fascination for their methods. Administering tools and traps they seemed to be more ingenious than the moronic, brainless tropes that had been attached to them. Already, Trayack learned a lot from how they worked, seamlessly wordless and focused, like ants they carted materials around and worked without complaint to placate these devices around the jungle. Mainly, they caught smaller, mammalian creatures and large birds, but on the odd occasion they had managed to capture his own. Kiiron and Caul were skilled hunters but the former had been too young, closer to Trayack's age, and had been foolishly brazen in his attempts to taunt them. Little did he know, they had hollowed out a slab of earth under his feet long before his arrival and he fell without warning into a pit of spikes. The spikes had been dipped in molten silver; the ghosts knew more about the werewolves that they knew about them, for sure, and just like that, they were feared again. Caul died on a simple-minded quest for revenge. Quickly, Gogack had curbed any further retaliation; if one would die so foolishly, so as two, or three or four, they could have their numbers dwindled to nil before too long, and maybe that was the intention. Still, he sensed no malice as he watched them, only a vague, systematic discipline: they weren't doing this because they hated them, they did it because it meant survival.

Just then, a sound, and a distinct drift.

Too late.

Womack had caught him from behind and hauled him by the neck up from the ground and to his feet. He faced him, clutching his jaw in a strong grip that rattled Trayack's teeth.

"Here you are, my dear brother. Hiding? Do not say a word."

Wise to the presence of the ghosts down below, Womack quietly pulled the boy away from the brow and to the trail. The smell of humans had gone cold here but he could still smell them on him, recently. If anyone knew where they had all run off to, it was him.

Trayack dared to bit his palm.

Womack only laughed. "Oh, no, you do not want to do this. Fighting me now would be a big mistake, Trayack. Surely you are not that stupid. Now, hush before I lose my patience."

He did, but only because he couldn't breathe. Eyes held anger but his lips remained sealed once his brother released him. It had been a mistake to loosen his bindings, that much was obvious, but regrets had no time to mature now. Blood quickened in his veins as Womack drew close--close enough to feel the brush of his heat against his skin--and breathed in that hellish menace that he always did. Intimidation was his aim, but the boy would not crack, not now.

"You know," assumed Womack with a purr.

"I don't."

"Oh, but you do," he hushed, taunting further by applying his coarse lips to the ridge of his ear. "You know a lot more than you let on, young one, always have... and this is just one of many occasions where I will not suffer you the privilege of silence. Simply tell me where they went and you will not hurt too much."

"Hurt? Like father hurt?"

Womack sneered. "Father... was weak. You and I both know it."

"Didn't mean you had to kill him."

"No, but I wanted to. Needed a change of scenery around here."

Trayack felt sick.

Womack licked his brother's cheek.

Hot, wet, rough and smelling like death.

"Please..."

"Please? Now you use formalities? If only you had been so vocal before I killed him, I might have reconsidered. To think, you and I are blood relatives. You and me. Us and him. What's stopping me from ending our line at me, Trayack, hm? If I severed your head here, who's to know? Or care? I'm in charge now. And you do as I say."

This was the first time. The first time that Womack had approached him with such wickedness. His ordinary conduct was to ignore him. Trayack was his little pest brother and until now that had not changed. To him and the rest of the pack, he was just in the way, always the annoying stone, getting stuck in the sole. Why now? Womack had driven himself to insanity. It had been happening slowly for years, and a small part of Trayack wanted to ignore it, so he had. Now, he regretted that choice. Perhaps if he had broached the subject sooner, he might have saved more than just his father.

"I wish I had," whimpered Trayack.

"What's that?" Womack stopped and pulled Trayack's head back, to see that face, aged so well since childhood, matured. He was handsome. Breakable.

"I wish I'd have said something..."

"But you still can," taunted Womack. "You can say it, you can say it all--whatever you want--as long as it involves the location of those runaways and those traitors, then let your mouth run. Otherwise..."

Womack thrust the tip of his slimy tongue into the crack in Trayack's lips and he cried out, unable to refrain from his disgust in that moment to keep them sealed. He entered his mouth and his whole body shuddered. Violated. The stink of him was like anything he had experienced before and he knew without doubt, that this monster was no longer his brother, but a conniving, ambitious cretin that only served himself. Himself and no-one else.

Trayack bit down on his tongue. Clamped.

Womack was deep into his brother's young mouth when the blood ran down his throat, and it took many moments for him to realise that it was his own. And then came the screams, and the anger.

"You fucking--"

Then Trayack hit him as he recoiled. A quick fist to the face. He had grown a lot stronger since the years when they were children together. The pre-werewolf strength had started to fluctuate in his body and gift him power doubled enough to take the huge beast by surprise. Womack should have known better than to think him anything other than a man now. That underestimation cost him no more than a bloody nose and tongue, however, as quickly, when Trayack made for a follow-up strike. He had grabbed the youth's fist and yanked him down to the ground. Trayack screamed out, his arm had nearly been torn from its socket, and although imbued with the Lycan resistance to pain, the experience--however minimal--was not meant to be painless. Still, he resisted turning on the waterworks. Never again.

"Let me go," he growled out.

"You've grown bold," he said, and pulled him slowly down to the ground, underneath his bulk. "That will cost you."

He almost sounded proud.

"I'm going to kill you, little brother," he grinned, manic. "Like a pig, butcher you. Then I will eat and swallow every inch of you: your skin, your muscle, your bones I will chew to dust. But before all that..."

"No," Trayack whispered.

"I'm going to give you what you've been begging every male in the camp for since you first grew hair on your fucking pin-cock!"

Trayack wasn't about to let his brother fuck him and kill him; he struggled, hesitation gone. He bit into his face, particularly the bloodied eyeball that had recently seen damage.

"Nice try!" Womack shoved Trayack's head away from his face, slammed his skull so hard to the ground that it cracked on a rock underneath.

Then again.

And again.

Trayack was bleeding, losing consciousness with each blow the back of his head received. His brother was laughing like a lunatic above him, his muscular, brute form flickering black, mercifully out of view once or twice until he ceased his brutality at Trayack's spat words:

"Just do it," he drooled. "Just kill me."

"Kill you? Are you so eager? I'd rather find out what you know.

And Trayack knew it.

If he killed him, then he might never find out. But was withholding a tidbit of information that he might find out by himself anyway worth his life? What would Red say?

"Fine," he bartered. "I'll... I'll tell you. Whatever you want to know."

"Good. Knew you'd see sense."

When Womack got up off of him, he had a hard-on, and it distressed Trayack, but not enough to not prompt an involuntary, primal reaction.

"Please, don't..." Trayack begged. "I don't wanna..."

"Yes you do," said Womack with a confident smirk. He approached Trayack, backed him against a tree. "I can see it. You've gotten bigger."

Yes, he had. And it was time he showed it.

Taken aback by the kiss, Womack's smirk even faltered.

This was the way, using his brains. He kissed him on the cheek, and then on the mouth, and then he took his older brother's hand. "Come on. Let's go. We can find them together, if you promise not to hurt them."

He knew it was a fool's folly but he was out of ideas. So easily could Womack kill him, but for whatever reason, he hadn't yet. He wasn't known for his lack of impulse. That meant that maybe some lingering part of him still existed enough to stop him from going through with it. It bought him time, as now, he was buying time seducing him, even if it disgusted him to his very core. The obscenity of it, he would never recall, and erase from his memory if he could, but for now, to save his own hide, he kissed Womack harder, and allowed himself to melt. To his disappointment, Womack didn't abruptly see through the charade and end it, instead, he gave in to lust (an unfortunate victory) and made his mouth home to that rough tongue. He suckled on it, his inner-strength increasingly withering with each depraved, unspeakable act, but he got through it by telling himself that this was their way: they were beasts. Animals knew not gender, race, and the concept of incest was beyond conception; all they knew was what their bodies told them. And Trayack's body told him: do what you have to do. Save Red if you can, however you can.

"Please," Trayack kissed him again, with greater insistence.

Womack growled lowly.

It was the unexpected nature of Trayack's attempts that had made it so unforeseeable, he understood, and as Womack stood there rigid, no longer the forceful alpha he had been moments before, Trayack knew--he knew--he had the upper hand now.

"Come on," Trayack said, flicking that tongue across his brother's bottom lip. "We can do it. Together."

Convinced, Womack nodded.

"Yeah? We can do it, can't we? We'll get them back and punish them--not kill them--because then they'll learn. Won't they?"

Again, a nod.

Thoroughly persuaded of his own power, Trayack took it a step further. Sealed the deal. While kissing him (the taste had become less repulsive), he squeezed Womack's cock, hard. He seemed to like that. Liked being in control (if only he knew). Vibrated at the touch. It was a promise.

"You can take me whenever you want, can't you?"

Nod.

"But we don't have time, now, do we? If we don't get there soon then the ghosts will have them."

"What do you know?"

"Not now--" a sign of rebellion. "I can take you to them but we need to go now before it's too late."

Womack didn't like the idea of being left unattended to. "Fine. Let's go."

Swiftly, Womack left him alone.

It had been easy to trick Womack, surprisingly so. The sweet hint of an easy hole to fuck and he was as playable as putty. But that didn't stop Trayack from worrying as they walked, with him in lead. Did he really have his brother under his thumb, or was it the other way around? Womack was not stupid. There was a chance that he was being played as he was playing, a significant one. Even so, there was something about Womack's impatience and demure stance that said otherwise. Womack would do anything for his brother, even if it was a twisted, warped version of brotherly love, it still existed in some form. Imperfect, but in this situation it was ideal, a way out.

So easily could emotion be reversed when blood was involved.

And they trod together the trail.

Brothers: one with the scent in his nose and the other with blood in his.

The hole that had presented itself to Red and Dmitri had been a pleasant change from the monotony of the prison that encased them. Red had had enough of bars and cages and he assumed the same of his unwilling companion. They were enemies, at heart, but in blood they were something else (he could not uncover what, exactly). Lovers? Allies? Or simply enemies begrudgingly thrust into desperation together. It was hell. Of that Red was more certain than anything. The hole in the ground was a backdoor to a circle of hell, as described by Dante.

Did he want to go into it? Fuck no.

But they had no other choice.

Wordless to each other, but deafening in a flurry of conversation in their own heads, Red led the way.

Dmitri was at his heels, breathing in his scent. The more time spent alone in this prime figurehead of manhood's company, the more he became infatuated with him, unaware all the while that the werewolf semen injected into his body had turned his primal desires against him.

Together they approached the hole and squat down to peer into the depths, heels not touching the ground, genitals bobbing freely. The light that emerged from the entrance was inviting enough for Dmitri to make the first move, and he did so by reaching the outer rim. Under the sand felt more solid than it should have.

"This... what is this?"

"I don't know," Red shook his head.

"The ground is solid here." Dmitri's scarred fingers probed under the sand surrounding the hole and found they stopped at a cold, hard steel secret.

Red's eyes had found another. "A ladder," he said, and pointed to the top rung of some wooden work that was obviously meant for them to climb down.

Dmitri was first (he didn't want to be second to an American) and without caution started to descend into the hole beneath the earth.

The underworld awaited.

"Wait--"

"--no, we go down together."

The insinuation was not lost on Red, but he chose to ignore it and followed Dmitri some moments later, choosing to have another look at the rocky ceiling and the high hole above that near-paralleled the newly-opened one.

Darkness was the first thing Red knew. Not the light that he had seen from above, nor Dmitri below him. Only darkness. And then, he knew the unexpected hum of machinery, its gentle rhythm a heartbreaking illusion of the old world he knew, surely.

"What is this place?" Asked Red, overcome with awe and wonder.

No illusion was presented to him, however, as at the bottom of the ladder there laid out in the midst of the artificial lights was a laboratory of epic proportions. Long white halls and sterile air were a cold welcome, but none were colder that the masked faces that awaited them.

And then from them, came the gas.