Werewolf Island

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham

© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.

Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(For comments, inquiries, and communication)

Chapter 13 THE DEEP

Denial and confusion wracked Red's brain.

Just who were those white-coated men and women and why had they stared at him and Dmitri like they were rats in cages?

When he was roused from the bitter bite of unconsciousness brought on by the gas that had been sprayed in his face, he found himself in another white room. A box. Four walls, floor and ceiling, all were solid white but were intersected with minuscule punctures: pipes that could pump poison into the cell at a moments notice. They had been trapped again, though this time Red doubted escape would be as simple an effort as waiting for their captors to fall asleep; a high-tech domed security camera buzzed above his head and the transparent glass walls were as indestructible as they came. He tried to remain calm, which came surprisingly easy despite the circumstances; perhaps none of it had simply sunk in yet.

Red had been once again stripped naked. The evidence of recent injections remained as fresh apertures in his arms and legs.

As he padded around the room, clarity began to slowly seep into his drugged mind. They had been captured again--delivered--right into the hands of some underground group hiding under the island where above, the threat of werewolves and rampant creatures ran loose. But then, where did that leave the ghosts? Had they not been captured by them, too?

What did it all mean?

"Fuck!" He finally shouted out and punched the glass wall in invigorated frustration. The wall shuddered in rippled impact. Then he fell back and sat in the corner, where, opposite sat Dmitri, enclosed separate from him in a cell connected but pathless to him. He shook his head and sighed. "What the hell is going on?"

Dmitri smirked.

He knew.

For the life of him Red could not understand this man, even with his obviousness, there was always something buried just beneath the surface. Outside the cella there were desks, machinery, huge test tubes and what appeared to be testing ranges. There were only a few scientists roaming the halls but wherever they went, the cells were visible from one side or another. At least one pair of eyes were cast their way at any given moment. Sometimes they were the same eyes, other times they were not. Red noted that they no longer wore protective headwear that he guessed were gas masks. They had known what to expect and were prepared as soon as they descended the ladders; waiting with spray guns, taking no chances. This had all been planned: their capture by the island natives, and their descent. Something insidious was going on here.

"Is anyone going to explain anything?"

Dmitri scoffed. "Only if you are prepared to hear it."

"I don't care. I'm sick of cages."

"Life... is a cage, if you are looking hard enough."

Just then, in the corridor ahead, two people, a man and a woman approached. They both wore white lab coats; he wore glasses, she had heels that elevated her stature an inch above his head.

How long had it been since Red had seen a woman?

He had even begun to doubt their existence at all.

The woman was in her early forties and had a streak of grey in her auburn hair, which had been tied back tight in a bun. Her face bore no signs of makeup and her nails were neatly manicured. Not ordinarily the type of woman Red took any interest in but having gone so long, even the plain and stern features of this dragoness had in her way a certain allure. The man next to her was a mite younger, late thirties and walked with a slight hunch. His hair was dark and somewhat greasy enough to shine dully under the heated spotlights. A clipboard was under his arm, while she had a quintet of file folders. Together they approached the glass walls and peered in like they were looking into an aquarium with emotionless faces, the cold hard stare of scientists at work.

"Greeting, gentlemen," said she. "My name is Adrienne Manitou, and I am a professor of anthropology with the university of Maine, and this is my associate, professor Dirk Hauser."

"Hello," said Hauser in an understated German accent.

"This can't be real," said Red in disbelief. There were no bars to hold on to so he pressed his palms to the glass. Sweaty handprints instead offered their scorn on the screen.

"We have been monitoring your progress since you arrived here on this island," Manitou confessed without a shred of mirth. "And we must say: we find you quite promising."

Red didn't want to hear; he pounded his fist against the glass. "I don't give a fuck what you think, or who you are! Let us out of here, now!"

"Easy," Hauser hushed, as if he were trying to calm a rapid dog.

"Please, Mr. Wood, I advise you against a violent course of action. Our purpose here is not to do you harm, but to give you the opportunity you have always wanted."

`Oh, really?"

"Yes. We give you the opportunity," Hauser reassured.

"And what opportunity are you offering?"

"The chance: the chance to better serve your country."

Red sneered. "You can't be serious?"

"We are," she said. "You both have shown to be prime examples of what science and mythology can be capable of when they work together."

Red shook his head. Long passed the sheen of ignorance to what was going on, he fell into acceptance, and then a sickened disbelief. They had been watching him--how?--vicariously throughout his misadventure to capture and escape. It turned him inside out.

"So, all this time--"

"--we have been observing you, yes," she affirmed. "And I must say, you are the most intriguing we've had for some time here. Most of them revert to a more animalistic nature, which, as fascinating as it is to watch, is useless in the long run; if they can't be controlled, then they might as well go about their business unhindered and unaware if it makes them happy."

"Werewolves." Red said, dully.

"We prefer the term mutations."

"Weapons."

"For the most part. You see, when we came across this island years ago, we discovered the unusual plant life, and undocumented wildlife and were stunned. The native peoples, I discovered, I had taken more of an interest in--as an anthropologist--the tribesmen of the island still lived a cannibalistic existence and we feared our presence would provoke some negative reaction..."

Red zoned out. He tried to picture it. The scene: a small party of scientists arriving on an island in the Bermuda Triangle in hopes of studying it, and bringing back something that the military could use; it seemed improbable. "You're lying," he said in a breath. "Those people brought us here. You're working with them. What kind of anthropologist would interfere with local inhabitants? You'd study them from afar."

Manitou smirked. "Well, if you put it that way...

"It's more of a half-truth. You see, much of what we're telling you now, is classified information. I merely tried to paint in the gaps you're not supposed to know."

"Why waste everyone's time? So, you're trying to breed werewolves for use in the military, is that it?"

"Like I said: half-truth."

"Professor," Hauser interjected, Keane in and whispered something in her ear.

"Actually, yes, Project: BloodMoon has been on the military radar for generations--not just ours--the United States, the Chinese... even Nazi Germany successfully generated the first squadron of werewolf super-soldiers. Unfortunately their time passed."

"More time was needed to put in to study," said Hauser.

"Wait," Red rubbed his head. "None of this makes sense. None of it. You can't be our military."

"I'm afraid--" again, she was interrupted by the man. "--never-mind. We shall have to pick this up later, I have other tasks to attend to. You both already underwent preliminary examinations, and I can confirm that your bodies have accepted the implantation without any medical assistance. The process can't be reversed now.

"You will be taken to separate study rooms."

Before Red had a chance to speak, he heard a sound. A hissing. At first, he ignored it, until his feet, normally so coordinated, staggered in their steps. The hissing grew louder and at that moment Red understand why: gas was being pumped into the cube. It filled the airtight space in no time and brought him quickly to his knees. Covering his mouth, he coughed and spluttered. His eyes reddened and stung, vision clouded by the smoke as it not only came to subdue his vision but choke in his lungs. He fell forward against the glass and then collapsed on his side. Behind him in the other room, Dmitri's complete acceptance of the situation had him already spayed out and unconscious.

Red dreamed of war.

Soldiers in camouflage, in the jungles at night. He was the squadron leader. Flashes of lightning transformed the pitch black into realms of unimaginable terror; swatches of blood dashed the earth and the screams of the unwary rang out in place of thunder.

When he awoke, only a few minutes after his drugging, he found himself strapped to a cold steel table. An examination table.

It took him a while for his eyes to adjust to this new light.

"What--"

Where was he now?

Another white room?

This was no less rigid a prison than the glass box but it was larger--much larger--with higher ceilings that he would never be able to reach tied down like this, and two doors on either side. On one side, a reciprocal one-way mirror. He stared into the reflective surface only briefly, aware that there must have been a dozen eyes at least on him from some office while he struggled like a rat in a maze. It sickened him.

Trying to wriggle free of the leather straps around his wrists and ankles, a voice came out from nearby.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, buddy."

A male, about thirty, lab coat like all the rest.

"What is this? Let me out!"

"No can-do," he drawled.

Red growled and thrashed once against the ties, only to find the effort futile: a sudden charge of electricity came jolting through his system at such a shock that it left him shaking for more than a minute as sparks danced across his newly-cleaned skin. The cattle-prod held by the scientist was retracted only when foam began to billow out of his subject's mouth.

"Just be a good boy and I won't have to use this again."

"Go... fuck yourself," he slurred in response.

Another jolt sent him juddering for longer, and he pissed down his legs involuntarily. It was like the camp all over again. The boy and the threats and the subjugation; he was getting really tired of it all, but he got the message, the overall, inescapable truth: do as you're told and you don't get hurt. It was a sick format that had Red bite his tongue to keep himself from screaming his frustration. His whole body arched upwards and bucked in wild bumps until finally the electric weapon was put away.

The man said something.

Red couldn't hear anything but the constant ring.

"This is so fucked up!"

"Easy big guy!" Another male entered the room, through silently sliding doors, in his hand was a syringe the size of his arm.

Red didn't like the looks of that.

"Just relax and we won't have to escalate matters." This new man was well-tanned and had a shaved head, resembling a prison guard that had a vacation too many.

Trying his best to calm, he remained tense in muscle and eyes, laying there watching, just daring them to try something to incur his anger. "I'm calm," he said. "See? Tame as a lamb."

"We know what you're capable of, Captain. Just lay there and relax while we conduct these examinations, there's nothing to worry about."

"Relax," repeated the first scientist, now without cattle-prod.

Red watched intensely as the second scientist stood by the bedside, gaze frozen, like he had done this a hundred times over to lose emotional connection. The first man had gone over to the front of the room, where a series of consoles lay untouched, but bleeping continuously, and blinking in a rainbow of flashing colours. With a look towards the mirrored observation screen, he gave a nod back to the invisible forced who watched every occurrence as if they were watching a movie in a blackened theatre. No matter how many times he was told to relax, the prospect of doing so was long-lost as the sound of machinery coming to new-life made him jump in fright.

"What's going on?" He tried to sit up, but couldn't.

"Ease up! I've told you!"

Red laid back and experienced momentary flashbacks of being at the dentists; seething pain and torment ceaselessly sadistic in intent, mirrors and a flash of steel, the whir of a drill. Red could have fainted, but prevented himself from doing so just as the sight of something metallic and shiny entered view: a smooth, near-alien-like shaft of silver, reflective and shaped. Its purpose was clear at first view, at least not by the manufacture alone but by the very way it was wielded but the man coming to the lower end of the bench.

"God--don't!" Red yapped.

"Just a temperature test, and an electron regulator, relax."

Again. Relax. Red never hated a word more than relax at that moment, and he knew that it was a twisted joke in the end, regardless, because relaxation was not on his mind as the cock-like device was greased up with cold grey fluid and pressed against his puckered and vulnerable entrance. He winced, gritted his teeth, and tried his best to clench down, prevent entry, but the arm against him was strong, and it insisted that the eight-inches jab his guts to a depth that was unpreventable. It pushed in.

Red jolted on the cold steel table.

"Easy!" The second said.

"Just a little prick!" Said the second.

Red fermented in his own rage as it was inserted. An audible pop and he cringed. By now, this was nothing new. But here, the introduction of supposed medical procedure had left him reeling; an intrusive obstruction that brought tears to his eyes.

"Quit struggling!"

Thoughts of things lighter: friends, family, freedom, sought to clutch his aching heart as further the lubed-up cock broadened its horizons. It didn't hurt as much as the real thing, in fact, it went in rather smoothly. He hadn't even realised that it was fully seated until the doctor was gone and he looked up, legs spread, abdomen writhing to see that both the men had abandoned him. Was this some kind of joke? He closed his eyes again and bit his lip. Something was happening, he felt, deep. A slight juddering that made him twitch.

"Oh, god..."

From somewhere at the front of the lab, he heard a voice telling him to keep still, maintain his composure, but he refused to acknowledge it as the device began to pulsate inside him. It felt good.

A moan.

"Fuck!" He ground out, more in frustration than anything; he couldn't believe that it actually felt good. Not just good, on an instant, but persistently good. The vibrations continued their assault mercilessly, shaking and sending shocks through his most sensitive areas until his cock was fully hard and leaking pre on the smooth solid of his stomach. He hated himself as much as this reaction. They were all watching, no doubt.

"You like this?" He yelled. "Getting you off, huh?"

No answer came and the electric was turned up.

Red was sent screaming.

Pleasure.

That was all.

He didn't like it but his body had reactions against his mind. Jolts of shock raptured his prostate until he was shaking violently on the table, sweat pouring down his naked body, tracing every line of muscle as it went. Shamefully, he loved it. Desperate to touch himself, he relented against his will; the straps were too thick, too demanding.

"Oh, god..." he groaned, threw back his head.

Yes, he thought. Fuck me. I deserve this. Then he shook his head, cleared away those filthy thoughts of reprehensible desire.

"Take it out!" Red moaned. "Please! Oh, fuck!!

It wasn't taken out, but the first scientist, who had introduced it to his body turned down the brutal vibrations and uttered: "responding well."

A fuzzy wave came over Red's mind, a blurring lenience.

"There ya go," said the scientist. "He's responding perfectly now."

Obedient. Was the first word that came to Red's mind: do as they tell you and come like a rocket and they'll think that you're theirs. It was a prospect that belittled his pride but he did it anyway.

The machines began to cool and let off steam.

No more from them.

Red was left gasping and whining. Wanting more.

"You need to stay awake. Katana," whispered Striker.

In the dark Striker could see his friend losing consciousness. He had found him laid on his side on the ground, and his body had suffered yet more grievous injury. Nestled by his side, the blond propped his head in his lap and tried to shake him to life again. Although it seemed pointless to continue the effort, little signs of life still came to him; the twitch of a finger or lip, the grated sound of breath cutting from his lungs. He was alive, but for how much longer?

Striker was determined to break free from the endless confinement. Everywhere they went, it seemed, they were in cages or tied up. And now they were alone. After the ambush, Striker had been brought unharmed through the network of cave systems and tunnels. Red had been taken elsewhere, and his parting troubled him. The Russian had also been separated from them, but his loss was less demanding on his morale. Telling this to Katana when he had managed to open his eyes had relaxed a burden slightly but not enough to cease his worry; they weren't caged this time. Striker presumed this to be because of the vastness of the web of unmapped caves and unlit crevices that offered no respite or hope of escape from. Wherever they would turn, a new matrix awaited them, with no certainty one way or the other which circuit led to the outside, Striker held on to Katana.

Katana tried to speak.

"No, save your energy," said Striker, quietening his lips. "I haven't seen one of them since they left us here, but they must be here watching somewhere..." he was terrified of the prospect; of faces in the dark, invisible, with silent footsteps and unmoving eyes, they watched sure enough and like a viper in the undergrowth, they waited to strike should they move beyond the boundaries. "It's so dark."

Only a single flame affixed to the top of a wooden rod at the centre of the chamber cast any sort of light, and with it, no faces were revealed.

Striker began to wonder: were they being guarded after all?

He had come to accept that the residents of the island, be it werewolves or human, had a natural ability to be unseen, even in obvious placements. They waited like piranha beneath the shadow of a moving boat, hungry for that unwary dipped digit. The lure was tempting, to just get up and run and never stop, but with Katana, he would not get far, fast.

"Go on with out me," Katana managed to choke out.

"Out of the question," rebuffed Striker. "I just wish I knew what happened to Rusty. We can't leave without him, either. Now shut up, I think I hear something..."

And he did.

They both did.

Sounds that not even the most adept in the art of concealment could suppress, the heavy-trodden footsteps of a dozen strong hands carrying something profoundly heavy. And they were slowly marching their way, just out of sight through the wide mouth of the main aperture, coming towards them.

It provided enough of an incentive for Striker to get to his feet and pull Katana up with him. "God, think we'd better get a move on."

Katana nodded but that was all he could do.

Striker pulled Katana's arm around his shoulders and wrapped one of his own around his waist and onwards they trudged, not progressing very far at all. The sounds were getting even closer, louder in their ears. It seemed that no matter which tunnel they chose, the sounds followed them, echoed and clutched at their heels.

The ominous oncoming of the heavy carriers came to an end when Katana fell and could go on no longer, legs having finally given out.

"Shit! Come on, get up," Striker pled, but even he refused to move when he saw them coming into eye-view: a dozen men, painted in a slightly different way than the others they had seen, carrying on their shoulders between them, six on each side, a huge wooden rack.

It resembled a gymnastics climbing rack but the poles were more crudely cut, and splinters jutted as forebodingly as the dark patches of bloodstains between them. Once they had found the appropriate spot not from a new fire, the weight was finally dropped and propped upright. From the ceiling there hung rungs from which they tied the rack in place and standing.

Striker looked on, unable to tear his eyes away from what he knew could only have been a kind of torture rack.

Torture, for what? What information could they possibly ream from them? They needed nothing. No, this rack was used less for torture, and more for the act of execution. A fire was lit in small embers behind it. It became apparent, then, when they watched, that the rack was not fully stationary, but it could rotate and rock to and fro, sometimes coming in contact with what may soon be a cruelly insufficient flame: it was a cooking mechanism, large enough to strap humans to and burn them as they watched them go round, blackened to a crisp on all sides.

Behind them, ghosts had gathered. In front of them. Ghosts blocked them in. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to run. Their numbers were significantly less than before but in their state, Striker and Katana could no more fend them off than a grain of sand could the tide. Stood huddled over in complete shock, Striker could not hide his tears; fears laid bare. They were going to be taken and burned alive on the rack to an audience, for the purpose of, Striker now comprehended, the very definition of human evil: cannibalism.

Just then, when they had closed into a tight circle around them, a sound interrupted them.

But this sound was not generated by the pounding of feet, but the snarling viciousness of an outsider.

Strapped to the table, Red's body could not withstand the onslaught of sexual instrumentation applied for long. There, he writhed, body glistened, as inside vibrations tore away at his resistance. It was clear to him that when he looked up at the scientists that observed him, to them it was not about sex, but about some lurid form of study. One took notes, and they whispered about things Red couldn't possibly understand before the second adjusted his equipment. The electricity suddenly jolted up a notch and the very breath in his lungs was pushed out; extreme rapture erupted from within the likes of which he'd never experienced before. Somehow those sparks had found areas unexplored within him that desperately needed attention. It was intense, and too much for his body to resist; the façade of dignity was dropped and his erection laid firm at a thick arch above his abdomen, casting its lurid shadow on the pool it leaked on the firm expanse of his stomach.

As he was being perpetually tormented this way in varying degrees, he was unaware of everything going on around him, of the way his skin was more willed to shudder and the early onset of a werewolf transformation was being induced, against natural progression, it was being forced out of him, to be made flesh prematurely. But Red felt none of it, his brain clouded over in an exquisite haze of true lust.

"Turn down the pressure," one said. "He's on the right track now."

"Do you really think it'll work? Making the blood go faster like this?"

"We already gave him the preliminary meds, and he so far has responded well to everything. I don't see why he shouldn't be able to reach prime form by the time the moon comes up."

"But, isn't it dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" The first scientist laughed, derisively. "They are dangerous. We're giving him the best chance of pulling through it alive God knows what cockamamy bullshit those animals up there would make him go through. Some kind of ritual, probably."

"Is this any better?"

Red started to calm, his body cooled as the device lodged inside him slowed its efforts to stimulate the beast and his eyes lost their dilation. He heard a little of what they were saying but could hardly comprehend it.

What were they doing to him? Trying to get him worked up in order to make the infected seed take root in his blood? The science of it all confounded him, to the point where if he even tried to understand the inner complexities of purity and blood and diseases, he would have about lost his mind. To him it was much easier to focus on the facts and the reality: he had been abducted, trapped underground in a laboratory where scientists were performing barbaric and humiliating experiments on him for us in military applications. That was all he really needed to know. And he wasn't going to take it lying down. If any of this was for the good of the country, or even the world, he'd yet to see it. Nothing was worth this kind of inhumanity. He started to rouse himself and tug on his leather binds once more, just enough to test out their level of resistance.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," came a new voice, clear as a bell and condescending.

"Commander Murphy," scientist number two greeted.

"We weren't expecting you until lat--"

"--oh, never mind that now. How long has this man been under?"

"About thirty minutes, sir--"

"--good. Let him up and have him sent upstairs. Me and him need to have a little talk, I think..."

Red saw the shape of a man that hovered over him, and heard something familiar in his voice that he couldn't quite explain. Did this man know him? Blurry eyes couldn't make him out completely, but he did catch the typical military buzz line haircut and chiselled jaw of someone in his line of work. The broad-shouldered, scowling faced, gruffness of a commanding officer in the United States Army.

No, Red realised as the two science men began the slow process of removing the equipment from him. He did not recognise this man directly, but he had known many like him. And this one in particular, by the name Murphy, Red knew as a decorated military official, a tried and true hero with a dozen medals pinned to his chest.

What would someone like he want with producing living weapons?

Murphy left before he had a chance to answer his questions. His throat was too dry to ask anyway and the water that had been offered was unpleasantly tickling to his throat and sent him in to a coughing fit.

"Sit still, you'll be out of there in no time."

The quiet sound of the electronic door clicking back in place at the other side of the room was heard, and then, through a strange whirring rush, he heard something else, passed the scientist's voices, to the mirrored observation window and through it. He could hear the feet of the watchers leaving the room in a hurry. That should have scared him, but it only deepened his resentment for what they were doing to him. The thick plug was pulled from him with a pop, and the wires were unhooked from his veins, he was free to be free, to hack and slash at all in sight, but something was stopping him--a needle in the neck--he winced and collapsed into someone's arms and began to lose consciousness as quickly as he'd regained it.

He was starting to grow accustomed to the lack of mental awareness.

As he closed his eyes, he told himself that this time would be the last.

Tserra and his werewolf brother broke through the ranks of the first wave of ghosts with ease; the former cutting through their soft bodies like butter with his bare hands, while the latter turned his skill with silence and deftness with the bow and arrow to good use. Together they reached the mouth of the cave. It yawned at them like a giant beast awaiting its next meal. Gorr threw away the bow here, knowing well that the closeness of quarters would prove to foil his long-range preference. He came to his friend's side.

"They're in there."

"We'll kill them all if we have to." Tserra was drenched with blood. He had been wounded many times over but was healing as they spoke, every little cut and tear latching itself to other folds of flesh, sewing themselves up by some magnetic force. He looked down to find Gorr had taken him by the wrist, his warm fingers brought pleasant affections for him, just enough to quell his murderous rage.

"Take it easy. How many times have we walked into traps like this today?"

Tserra sighed and shook his mane. He was the first to step into the cave regardless of warning. In their time they had witnessed a variety of substantial traps and plots, and so he knew how to look out for signs; listen for the little twang of a wire or the snap of a twig, he would not be caught out by them. They knew that they had entered the cave by now, without a doubt, their arrival heralded by the echoes that they generated launched from wall to wall within the cave systems themselves. Both parties were ready and waiting.

"Do you think they've been expecting us?"

"Doubt it," said Gorr.

In truth very little was known about the ghosts. They were the elusive tribesmen of the island and kept to themselves, even during the somewhat recent arrival of the werewolves. For a time they shared without even realising it, and then the wars came. But now they knew to stay away from each other, but the ghosts were unpredictable. No agreement or stalemate had ever been made. Like cats and dogs, they tended to avoid confrontation and went about their business.

"Do you know who leads them, Tserra?" He asked, aware that the blond werewolf had had many encounters with them over the years, far more than any other pack member.

He shook his head, crept forth in front. "Don't think they have one."

"How can that be? Someone must be telling them what to do."

"Fuck if I know. They act like zombies. Never talk."

This struck Gorr. "Zombies might be the right word. Have you ever killed one, ever seen one die?"

Tserra didn't need to think about it. The ones he'd taken apart just moments ago, blood drying fast to his skin. Killing them was almost overdoing it, and it was a word that didn't quite fit, especially since they never seemed alive to begin with. Is it possible to extinguish a life that never really existed in the first place? They disappeared at will and the bodies were never recovered. The taste of their flesh was repellent for the most part. Only in cases of desperation and extreme hunger would a werewolf ever really consider feasting on one.

Perhaps that was why.

Not even their night-vision could fully detect the shape as it came towards them, lurching like a dagger thrown to the wind, the void of a human came into view at the same time it laughed a spear directly at them. It struck Tserra in the chest, but he caught the hilt just in time to prevent it doing major damage. The thick rod of wood pierced the initial ribs, dark blood poured down his already soaked body and in the space of two seconds he had pulled it back out from himself with a crack of bone. Gorr had already leapt into a defensive action; throwing himself between the thrower and Tserra, however it seemed there was only one this time. He bounded towards the ghostly white face, but as he approached, clawed bared, the face had evaporated into the blackness that surrounded them like a puff of smoke. He stood there in surprise for a moment.

"Ignore the fucker," groaned Tserra, now armed with a bloody spear. He came at his back, giving uncharacteristically careful measure to their rear and all around them.

"They're just trying to freak us out, make us make a mistake. I've seen it before."

Convinced, Gorr nodded. He didn't need to tend to Tserra's wounds this time; the more he was injured, the more excited he became--a sadist's instinct--the blood pumped faster, beast awakened, he healed at an expedited rate like no other.

"You sure you don't need to stop?"

"I'm fucking fine," said Tserra.

With the same spear pointed forward, Tserra walked backwards, keeping their backs guarded while Gorr now took over the lead. His mistake had cost him that position, and he had no problem with Gorr taking a hit if it meant he didn't have to again.

"I smell them," said Gorr, stopping. "They took them this way."

"Good, good," added Tserra. "Thought your nose would be rusty since you never leave the damn camp. Keep going."

The road opened up into a vacant chamber where recent footprints greeted them.

Gorr squat down to examine.

"Bodies were dragged this way. Let's go."

"Getting better at this already."

Something stopped Gorr from getting too far, however.

"Hear that?"

Tserra listened. Nothing at first, and he was ready to announce that fact until a definite, minuscule clink interrupted him. Before he heard it again, he knew what they had to do. "Down!" He yelled, and jumped on Gorr's back, both went down in a flat pile just as from the high ceiling overhead came swinging a great, heavy beam laden with pointed rocks hammered into the wood, straight at them. Connected with vines it swung in a long and low arc, designed to clear a path of any intruder. Just out of reach of the swinging weapon, Tserra felt only the brush of the sharp stones on his back and nothing more.

When the swinging had subsided, the two climbed away from it and towards the mouth of the next tunnel.

"What was that about not expecting us?"

The low hanging trap was a quickly forgotten memory as they forged ahead into a forked tunnel.

"Two directions," noted Tserra.

"Smells like they took two of them one way, and the other two that way.

"You go to the left. I think they took your buddy that way."

"I can smell him," said Tserra, inhaling the scent of his property as if it had been a lifetime since the last time. "Yeah, I'll get them back--you go that way--try not to get lost."

Gorr scoffed and went on his own way, following his nose, which was still growing accustomed to the new smells that tried to deceive him. Still with the sounds of Tserra's footsteps in his ear, he walked onwards through his chosen path. There was a good chance a lot of blood would be spilled before they found the humans.

Without knowing how far he had come, Tserra kept his pace quick; the longer he took, the greater the chance that his boy's bones were being used as someone's toothpick or to stir a human stew. It angered him. In the wake of their arrangement--a relationship, of sorts--Tserra had formed a loose bond with the man called Striker, and he endeavoured to snatch him back for one final fuck before he went on his way, no doubt far away from here. On that, he had no intention of stopping them. Himself, he had no care of leaving the island, but he had to admit, he was curious regarding the outside world. Like the others, so little information, memories, had been returned since the great change. He doubted normal society would allow his brand of debauchery and demanding anyway.

"Good riddance," he remarked to himself.

The tail-end of his words echoed around him, stroked his skin, aroused each hair in a shiver.

Then it was met by something else: a toneless whisper, a voice neither here nor there. In fact, not a voice of spiritual affliction at all, but a human voice, the voice of Striker. He was calling out for help.

Tserra broke into a run.

A few strides through the tunnel he followed another interconnected hollow and let his nose and ears lead him, because he was a honed hunter and they never betrayed him.

The pallid-white faces of ghosts appeared before him, bursting out of the darkness like children in halloween masks trying to bring fright to an unsuspecting victim. Tserra was ready for them and their spears, falling back, he caught the tips of both spears, one in each hand and crossed them over each other, swaying the hapless beings into each other. Soundlessly, their cold dead faces never changed, not even as their skulls were crushed together, the sounds of which were akin to two melons smashing open suddenly. Yet they fought on with leaking brains and blood-bulged eyes. Tserra was too fast for them, too experienced. He concentrated on one of them, grabbing him around the waist and using him as a shield from attack by the other, and then he threw him hard into him. They went down together and the werewolf in him awoke, seeing them scramble and flail; he stomped one head into the dust, and then, as the second rose to find his way, he too found his head being finished, dashed against the plentiful rocks that surrounded them.

When he was done, he heard a voice.

Panting, breathing, Striker couldn't hold on to Katana for any longer and he fell to his knees, just barely keeping the other man held against him enough not to let him fall.

"Shit," Tserra hissed, and was there, mercifully just in time.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. How dare they abuse his chosen slave in such a way? The bastards had hurt him, it was clear. But far worse was his friend, who had no quarrels with Tserra, but his preference was to Striker; he still smelled of life, the Asian man, however, had the unfortunate lingering odour of death. It wouldn't be long for him, he'd lost too much blood and if he knew anything, he knew blood. There was no-one chasing them that he could see, only the truly unnerving sound.

"Get up!" He yanked Striker to his feet with practiced ease.

"Not without him!" Striker argued, standing his ground admirably.

"Was afraid you were going to say that," he said and easily heaved the bleeding man over his shoulders like a sack of grain.

Striker was relieved. Finally they had an ally they could fall back on, one who he knew to be very strong. Already, the faces in the dark began to fall back. Tserra's contorting features no longer scared him, but it scared them. He was half-beast now, he could see, face fringed with an unnatural course hair, and all over his body too, normally hairless, there were sprouting of it. It all happened so fast; eyes that glowed in the dark, teeth that shone and gleamed in threat. But again, he wasn't scared. He had to repeat that to himself over and over.

"What's the matter?" Asked Tserra, aware that Striker was staring. Then, he realised, hardly aware of his second nature until someone pointed it out. Was he ugly, hideous? Tserra didn't think so, but who knew what humans thought, how terrifying in appearance he could have been. "Sorry, we haven't had a mirror on this island in as long as I can remember. If you wanna save your own skin, you'd better follow me. I don't think these guys are too keen on letting dinner just walk out of here."

"Dinner?" Striker had to gawk.

"Yes, dinner," Tserra added as they set off down the tunnel again. "In case you haven't realised; these friendly folks love human flesh even more than I do."

The thought had occurred to Striker but it wasn't something he was eager to think about. He shook his head. "Yes. Sorry, let's go."

"Don't be sorry--be quick--"

Just as he said that, he knew his words had come too late; the belligerent roar of a beast came from the tunnels ahead. It stopped them in their tracks. Tserra knew well who it was. He had fought him once today already, and he hoped against hope that they had tied him up well enough to hold him off, but it seemed that that hope had been shattered.

"Fuck, stop," said Tserra, setting down Katana, who went almost without life into Striker's arms.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Womack. Bastard found us."

"Womack?" Striker blinked.

"And he sounds pissed." Tserra had to think fast, not his forté. Licking his lips, he turned to Striker and then grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him aside into another tunnel. "Here, go down here. I'll stay here and lure him deeper, then when it's clear, you make a break for the exit."

Striker was thrown into confusion. A lot was happening all at once.

"Don't argue, Strikey..." he said with a warm murmur, just one flick go his knuckles against his chin and he kissed him with some surprising tenderness. "Just do as you're told... thought you knew that by now. Now, go. Don't make me tell you again."

There was a threat there, but Striker couldn't believe it, even Wirth his monster-face. Briefly he managed to eke one last kiss out of him before nodding. "Right, we'll do that," he said quietly, just as the roaring came louder.

Womack was close now. He could smell their fear.

Tserra pushed Striker to hide and walked into the light.

The two alpha males met face-to-face.

Snarling muscle and breath in close-quarters.

"You," growled Womack. "Out of my way, I will kill you later, traitor."

Tserra sneered. "You will have to deal with me, first, fucker."

"Protecting humans? You have dropped a long way down, Tserra. Maybe it is you I should lock in a cage next?"

"You can try, but I don't suit bars."

"And where is the other one? Gorr went that way. I can smell him."

"Hey, you leave him out of this... this is between you and me," he affirmed, standing bravely close, close enough that the hairs on their chests bristled against each other. He was fearless in his face.

"Are you so eager?"

"Always," smirked Tserra. One way or another, he was going to distract the bull's attention long enough for Striker to make for the light. But it had to be fast and it had to be now; he could already see Womack's eyes drifting to cut through the masking scents of Tserra's false aggression and arousal. "Now, what do you say? We do this right here, have done with it? At least then one of us will be able to go back with a story, as well as blood for the telling."

Womack snarked, turned his head back to him. "That is more like it."

"Yeah," Tserra agreed hastily, and snarled in response.

Womack took the first stance of aggression, launching into attack. He leapt at Tserra in a crushing slam of body against body. His claws sliced open Tserra's back immediately and refused to release the grip. Meanwhile Tserra's legs wrapped around his hips and pulled him down, teeth sank into his neck, he tasted his blood, and it drove him wild.

Seeing this, Striker shuddered. The inhuman sounds from just around the bed echoed and tore away at his confidence. If he was to run, then he had to do it fast, there was no telling how long the fight would go on for, or who the victor would be.

Lost in the thrill of it all, Womack bellowed. Flesh was getting torn left and right, and it felt good. Pain always excited him, and a werewolf could take a lot of it. When his back hit the ground, he flipped them both around so that he was on top and he pulled back his clawed hands to strike him across the face. Blood, spit and teeth went flying.

Striker heard a sharp yelp, and then a thud, and knew that it was his chance. He tightened his hold on Katana and shuffled out of the fork.

Tserra hooked his foot around the back of Womack's neck and then rolled the giant over on to his side. Quickly he acted further, plunging his fist into his back again and again, reminding himself of the near-mortal wound that he had received earlier from this very beast. He unclenched his fist and let the impulse for revenge take over.

Behind them Striker could hear the vicious melee raging on, two animals locked in a heated rivalry that would only end in bloodshed.

Womack screamed.

Tserra had skewered him with his claw; into the soft small of his back, just left of his spine where all the good stuff nestled. And he didn't stop--he knew better--continually paying him back. The older wolf roared and writhed on the ground.

Any ghosts previously unaware of intruders were now on the trail of them, and found the wrestling beasts all over each other, covered in scratches, bathed in blood.

Tserra rolled away just as a spear struck the ground but found himself caught up by three tribals. They jumped on him like flies on shit; he threw them off, one hitting the wall, an other his companion. Bones broke, necks snapped, but still more came to pick up where the failures had begun. Tserra was overwhelmed by the onslaught, unable to combat the weight of their suppression. How many were there? A hundred? Tserra lost count as the dim view before him became completely black.