WEREWOLF ISLAND
by Toby Wolfham
© 2023 by Toby Wolfham All rights reserved.
Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com (For comments, inquiries, and communication)
Chapter 14 THE WEAPON
With all his might, Red had resisted the ongoing effects of the endless druggings, feigning resignation in favour of not being jabbed or sprayed again with chemicals that warped his consciousness. This last dosage had been thankfully weaker. He allowed the scientists to strap him to a gurney and closed his eyes, every so often peeking in the crack of an open eye the white halls and white coats that passed him by. He heard the sounds of sliding doors--hydraulics--and electronics flickering and humming.
This operation was clearly enormous. Still, it all felt like a bad dream to him. The crash-landing, the abduction and rape, the escape and capture, the testing; none of it seemed really real until this moment, when too many factors bled into one another to be mere figments of the imagination. Red's imagination was never top-notch anyway, who was he to doubt their authenticity? Floors and floors of facts, rooms of faces, it was all very expensive, state-of-the-art equipment and security systems were in place and infallible. All of these things he saw only in glimpses. When he had been wheeled into a less open room--a new cell--he was able to open his eyes without fear of being seen.
Grey replaced white.
Cold solid concrete with a heavy steel door and not even a window to let in light. Far beneath the earth, where the reaches of heaven couldn't even claw at, the man had been imprisoned yet again.
It was a square room with only the bed he was on as any sort of comfort. It was obvious that this was meant to be less about observation and more about holding, so, he laid still for more than an hour until the clunking metallic sounds jarred open the door to his cell.
"What's going on?" Red called out. "Where am I?"
"Nothing to worry about, son." Said a vaguely familiar voice.
Flanked by a man armed with an electric stun rod, Commander Murphy had returned, face aloof, sharp haircut of silver. He wore a uniform but from what country, Red could not say. The medals that hung to him were of prestige, though, without a doubt, and they sone irregardless of light as he approached the bed.
"It's... you," said Red, glint of recognition.
"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Murphy with a humourless chuckle. "It's been a while, hasn't it, Captain?"
Red could not fathom the depths of his brain to reap the remnants from the confusion; this was a man whose face he had only seen once or twice, but he recalled it very definitely, at the same time, very vaguely. His voice, his features, his tone; all registered in recognition but the more he tried to remember the exact circumstances, the further it slid away from him.
"Please. Don't strain yourself, Wood. Believe me, you'll do yourself more harm than good. It's much easier for me to explain."
"Explain?" Red was beyond that.
"I think you're owed that much, no?"
"I..."
"To make things simpler, I'm afraid--" Murphy beckoned the armed guard to Red's bedside. "I'm a busy man."
"Yeah? Busy doing what?"
"Why don't you tell me, Red? Why not jump to conclusions. What do you think were doing here, on this remote island in the sea, with its secrets and its deliberate folk, huh? I'm sure you're already aware, perhaps even more than you thought... if you think about it."
"Think about it," Red repeated the line venomously. "I don't think anymore, isn't that what this is a bout?"
Murphy smirked. "In a way. But again: I already told you what would happen two years ago. Do you remember yet?"
"Some." Though he very much didn't want to; the man with the buzzing electrical device was too close to his face. The redhead sweated, he had no interest in getting another probing. But what was the right answer and what was wrong?
"I thought you might. You were every tenacious before, weren't you?
"When we tried to recruit you, seeing the potential you had, the strength, the skill... you had a lot of eyes on you, I think you knew even then. Maybe you were waiting for a better offer, or perhaps you just preferred the simpleness of flying around like a maniac gunning down enemy planes? Whatever reason you had for refusal, you kept it to yourself."
Red watched as the older man paced the room, seemingly in remembrance of some event involving him that he could only remember the outline of. "You did something to me. To make me forget."
"Every man in the army, the navy and airforce, whatever... every branch of every armed forces in every country in the world willingly--or unwillingly--sign up to various programmes that they feel would better their advantage over others. Call it selfishness or greed, we call it being prepared. There are forces in this world--and beyond it--that you could never conceive of, son. For example, you may think Russia are they enemies, you may think China or Germany. But you'd be wrong."
"Would I? Funny. Because they were killing a hell of a lot of my boys--"
"--face value obviousness.
"Let me tell you: I am neither part of the American government, or a part of any government that you know of. We work in secret, all over the world, in joint association to work together. Sure, we have our problems elsewhere, but in dire times such as these... even mortal enemies must join hands and hold the same guns."
"You turned traitor, you mean?"
"I did no such thing," he spat, seeming to take offence at Red's comment. "Quite the opposite, actually."
Zap. The electric rod made the hairs on Red's skin creep.
"I am part of a universal organisation dedicated to fighting forces unknown--whatever they may be--using whatever utilities we have to in order to come out on top."
"Yeah? And are werewolves part of those utilities?"
"Among other things."
Red blinked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. A secret group of ex-military officials from all over the globe, joining forces to breed werewolves among other things in order to fight an unseen danger? At this stage, he believed it, but didn't want to. What he wanted to do was get his boys to safety. It was driving him mad to lay here, useless, to be forced to enjoy immoral acts against him as part of tests while they may already be dead, or wanting him.
"It might sound like something out of a superhero movie, but we exist."
"I don't care," burst out Red. "I don't fucking care about some fantasy club for fighting monsters-with-monsters, okay? If I told you once, I'll tell you again: I'm not interested." He looked him dead in the eye after a brief struggle.
The man with the rod was about to strike, but Murphy recalled him.
"This is why we do it. Why we organise to have sides of enemies to meet in this airspace; to bring them down here, where the best of the best can fight it out and come out on top. Don't you see? You are the best of the best, or at least, one of them. One worthy." Murphy walked around the cell, coming to the foot of his bed. In his hands was a glass vial containing a strange type of fluid. Half red, half violet. "This is a cure to the blood you're infected with, if you truly desire to have no part of this."
Red tried to sit up. He wanted it. badly. "It's that easy?"
"Is anything?"
"You bastard," Red growled, fought hard against the cuffs; his werewolf teeth showed just under the gums. "You give me that now.. Your war has nothing to do with me--I'm an American--I'm not some puppet."
Murphy shook his head. "Don't be fooled--I was well aware you might object--that is why you are here, so we can explain things to you. In time, you will come to understand. You have twelve hours according to the tests until the transformation becomes irreversible. Plenty of time to understand and to change your mind."
"No! I don't need time! I don't wanna be like those freaks up there! Give me the cure now!"
Murphy sneered. "Ungrateful. Unstrap him."
Red was surprised when the previously recalled guard returned to untie him, first his hands, and quickly he snapped up with the initial idea to strike until the knowledge that that would be a fruitless endeavour; if he attacked them, in this place filled with an unknown quantity of armed officers, what would become of him? Instead, Red calmed himself, but gave the guard the harsher stare he could afford before he bent forward to unstrap his feet from he bed. No. He wasn't going to attack them--not yet--not when there was an offer of a cure. He didn't know these men, but he knew they had some kind of nobility in their actions, and, despite his disagreement over their treatment of their charges, he decided playing it cool was the smart thing to do. So far, they had been a hell of a lot more accommodating than the werewolves, so he took that as a sign that their intentions were not as purely savage as he presumed. He sat up and rubbed his wrists.
"The door to your cell will be unlocked. Feel free to explore the facility."
Red frowned. This all seemed highly inappropriate.
Murphy smiled and reached over to touch his shoulder.
Red pulled away from his touch.
"Try not to be ungrateful, Captain, otherwise, you'll be strapped down again and violated."
Red took that as fact and bit his tongue.
"Think about it. Consult with the scientists--but do not interrupt this very important work--the men are armed with very specific weaponry designed to hurt those above. Imagine what they could do to you."
He watched bitterly as Murphy as the guard went to the door.
"I advise you to visit the tenth floor," Murphy slung over his shoulder as he absconded into the hallway. "There's someone you might want to speak to there."
And that was that.
Murphy had left.
Big mistake, thought Red, before quickly instructing his bursts of anger back inside. The threat of pain definitely resonated and the fever in his blood demanded something else at this moment, something far less unimaginable. He wanted freedom. The association that freedom came with a measure of compliance was now becoming a common theme.
He swung his legs slowly off the bed and lay his head in his hands, distraught, confused and hurt.
So much to consider.
Gorr had a mind to turn around when he heard his friend howl.
They had got him, he knew. Him and Womack. He knew they had begun fighting somewhere in the caves but his own unhindered progress stopped him from giving it all up now, however much he wanted to. Tserra would have mocked him eternally for his desire to be the white knight. Gorr was not a right fit for that role and he had no wish to besmirch a fellow alpha wolf's honour by rescuing him for a second time. The insult would hurt more than any mortal wound ever could. So, he continued on with a bleak heart but had that heart set on the important task of infiltration. Red had to have been brought here somewhere, but where?
The chamber he found himself in was solid. Unnatural, as if made by hand, not the age-weathered hollow that it should have been. Indeed, evidence of chipping away existed on the dulled edges of what should have been very sharp rocks. In places, it was near smooth. His experience as the pack's expert crafter had out him in contact with not just woods, but stone, and he knew this kind of work was not in the ghost's repertoire.
But he could smell that this was the end of the line.
They had dragged the humans to this spot in this room, and then no more. But they had not vanished, and there was no trace of a corpse, nor the smell of blood. He smelled sex.
So true, Red and the other one had engaged in typical prepubescent behaviour for the lycan breed, in this very chamber. It was only natural. It was something else about that that had Gorr concerned.
"The blood has taken," he said to himself, imagining the dozens of loads of baptismal fluids that they had been forced to ingest as slaves.
It wouldn't be long now.
But what was this place?
Long had the werewolves kept to themselves, lived in a sort of ignorance of the known secrets the island withheld and up until now it had been an arrangement preferable to the truth, because that truth was getting uglier by the minute. He found the strange hole on the ground, where the totem had been--no longer--just a brightly lit shaft going down.
Stronger than ever he could smell humans. And not just the ones he aimed to rescue. He smelled others, too, even a female amongst them. That should have excited him, but more than anything it troubled him. All this time on the island, there had been others.
Had it all been a lie? They kept down low enough so as to avoid detection.
He looked down into the pit where the light spilled up from and heard the sounds of machinery.
Far beyond his capabilities as a constructor of wood, the ominous noises made the usually stoic beast shudder to think of what lay below; dreaded the memories he might dredge of his previous life. Despite his reservations, his desire to go on were just capable of beating any qualms, but he did so with hesitancy. He got down on his hands and knees to snatch a better look. Through the lights he could indeed see a shaft of some kind, and while it didn't go down too deeply, he doubted a drop from this height would be entirely without incident.
Just then, a cylinder of gold began to slide from the confines of the circle, hidden under the sand. It was starting to cover the hole like a manhole cover.
Urgently, Gorr leapt at it, no longer wishing to remain in thought, blatantly regretful of his incompetence to act.
Had he lost his chance?
Should he go back?
With confusion he stepped back. A panel of metal slowly rose from the structure, an artefact that was deceptively ancient in origin. Frustration then mounted, he thrust his fists against the golden shining surface. It clattered, even dented a little, but it effectively refused to open to his acts of violence.
Annoyed, he stepped back and reflected.
Then they refracted their veiled threat: a dozen of them at least stood surrounding him in the very chamber. So silent their entry had been that he noticed not a footfall nor a breath as they slowly came to encircle him.
Ghosts. Their faces white as chalk, the grim, lipless expressions were ghastly parodies of haunted clowns in action, and he wanted none of it.
A trap, of sorts?
They pounced on him before he could finish that thought.
Ponding war-drums heralded not only his awakening, but so, too, Tserra's.
The werewolf fought more eagerly than Gorr against those that held him. Too many to count, they were surrounded, the captives of a people so secretive that not even they, who had defeated scores of them, knew a thing about their ways. The two of them struggled, not not more than Womack, who had been visibly penalised for his efforts of rebellion. Ironic, that the so-viciously adamant perpetrator of punishment and discipline had been so humiliated by such a faceless and mute peoples. Strapped to a huge wooden structure that had been carried to the centre of an enormous chamber, he hung upside down on a central wheel, which was spun three times, just enough to get his blood flowing, he showed little signs of life until the torture wheel took effect, and then he roared to life.
Gorr and Tserra stared wide-eyed at the spectacle.
Womack was being drained of blood, agonisingly slowly, from a variety of punctures and slashes all over his scarred body. With each drop, his strength waned. They knew just how to weaken him, it seemed.
"Fuckers!" Tserra yelled. "Release him!"
"What are they doing?" Gorr asked, shuddering.
"I... I don't know," Tserra answered, kicking and struggling against the infinite hands that kept him restrained.
A huge man, that towered over them all emerged. Frighteningly, he was painted in not white, like the others, but a luminescent green, disgustingly fat, and not just painted, but pierced. His ears, his nose, lips, even his eyelids were pierced with polished black woods, shaped and pointed. He was so obese that his genitals were completely covered by a thick roll of seemingly impassable fat which acted as a barrier there, not to mention the rolls of back fat that did the same for his rear. In fact, a gender may have even been indeterminate if not for the masculine overdraw of his frame, the width of his hips and side of his features. Coming from the crowd, his head broke above like a whale cresting, and in one hand he wielded a huge curved blade, shaped like a crescent moon, ribbed with waves.
"The leader!" Tserra shouted.
"What the--"
There was nothing they could do against the silent masses.
Acting as one, so many hands restrained them.
The weapon that the leader held was bigger than either Tserra or Gorr, and that was enough to bring them to a momentary still as the bloated phantom oozed his way towards the bound Womack.
As much as Tserra hated Womack, never would he wish the kind of torture on him. He growled, snarled and spat, anything to incite fear into those captors. "Get off--" and then, he felt it, the sharp stab in his neck.
"Tserra, they--" Gorr felt it, too.
Womack tensed up on the wheel, pulled at the superb knots; they truly knew what they were doing and how to restrain their kind. He couldn't see much passed his own rage, but he at least saw that his strong werewolf brothers had not turned their backs on him. They had fought and strained as he had fought and strained, hateful to the ghosts and their strange ways. How he wanted to break free and bring them both to him, hug them lifeless for their loyalty through all the suffrage they had between them, but all he could do was watch as their legs went numb under them and gave way, only to be held upright by the countless arms caressing them. A pang of jealously bit in to him, bit in to him harder than the blades that sliced at the flesh on his well-muscled arms. How dare they take down his brethren? He began to thrash harder, but not because of the pain, because the treatment of Tserra and Gorr reminded him of the injustice that they had all gone through to become what they became. Their kind had fought hard to keep hold of their sanity and even souls, just to have their bodies betray them through an act of intrusion. The venom they injected had grown in potency over the years, well-practiced. He had his taste of it as well, which had prevented him from truly being able to break free. That, combined with the fact that he had recently engaged his true wolf-self left him unable to call upon it again, unable to reach his full potential so soon. He was drained, weakened like a newborn babe.
"You... ghosts... you have always been like us," he babbled. "Though you are our enemy, you are still just victims of your own desires. See how your mouths water over my flesh?"
Tserra's eyes drooped as his legs did. The voice of their former leader, in such a miserable state spurred his own anger to life, a spark. He could smell Womack's blood being shed, it reached his nose like an aroma of life, giving its breath to him. Slowly the energy began to return, but it was not returning soon enough.
"You harm my brothers, and you will know the true terror of being our enemies. But you must know," he broke into a chuckle; an insane rupture of nonsensical spite. "Just because we fight, tear at each other's throats and you do not, does not make us any more savage than you. Because in the end, through it all, blood will always stick together."
"Blood binds," Tserra finished, looking up to meet Womack's eyes.
Gorr was similarly affected by the torture of Womack, his body bulging, veins popped and throbbed as the werewolf blood came to life. He could feel the same anger that they all did, despite his rampant stoicism. "Forever," he said, finding his way through the groping hands and fingers to join his own with Tserra's.
The two werewolves held hands even tighter as the multitude of voiceless masses pulled at them, trying to separate. They looked eyes with Womack, their some-time hated enemy and constant antagonist and felt nothing but sympathy. This was a male who stood above all, despite his brutish hand, he had earned respect and lost it many times alike. They watched as the huge tribe leader sliced open his belly. He was upside-down now, retching in silent agony as the blood came trickling down his chest, between the contours of his pectoral muscles and down his hairy chin, then streamed down his face and between his eyes. It was all smoking his sweat-matted hair, and raining down from his wet scalp, collecting in to a large wooden trough at the base of the wheel-rack. They were draining him of blood--milking him--for some kind of feast, no doubt. Countless times they had done the same themselves with fresh kills, but never had they prolonged a kind of torture to their kills. This was barbaric cruelty. The werewolves killed purely to eat, not for pleasure. It sent chills through both of them as they were forced to watch the life being slowly drained out of Womack, his eyes, finally hazing over in white, lost touch with theirs.
"Womack," said Gorr, in mourning.
The other wolf was silent, watching in a building rage; never quick enough. The anger built up slowly. Usually he regretted becoming the true beast, but here it was a necessity. Body fighting poison.
Womack's jeering faded out, and the man with the blade almost as big as himself stood back. The blood that dripped from it, not a drop was allowed to touch the ground now, it was all collected in the trough.
"You... are dead," Womack managed to growl out.
Before he could finish his weakened aggressions, his cock was taken roughly in the hand of the fat man, squeezed in his fist like he was moulding clay. It elicited a reaction--eyes snapping open--he sought freedom once more, rocking on the fiercely strong wheel.
The blade was raised as his cock was stretched out.
Not a rope was affected.
Gorr looked away as the blade came down in a whooshing arc.
Blood came to sprinkle their faces through cries of sheer agony and anguish as high above his head, the chief executioner wielded Womack's severed manhood, the shivering root of which was bleeding.
Womack's screams echoed with endless torment all through the caves.
Getting weaker.
Tserra and Gorr felt emotions unlike ever before, indescribable, madness flushed their thoughts away, the cause of which was to be the death of Womack at the hands of these creatures. He was bleeding out, face contorting in expressions devoid of peace.
Slowly, Womack's screams subsided, and the bleeding did, too. There was to be no rapid recovery from such mutilation--the blade of his demise had been cast in silver, not steel--organs could not be regenerated from this, and something of such importance in the character of their nature was as vital as a brain, or a heart. Womack's cock was more than just a fleshy tool to piss out of, it was a symbol of vitality and more than that still: it meant life. Without it, he would be without that all-important pulse.
Tserra was half animal now, snarling, spraying spit, they couldn't hold him back for long, his loss pierced a surprising arrow of grief straight through him. His muscular frame shuddered and rippled in rage, gaining where Womack was losing. And, when Womack's head hung limp and could bleed no more, every drop sloshed into the gutter beneath, that was when Tserra absorbed his defeat and transformed it, and himself.
Not far behind, Gorr heard his friend ripping out of his own skin, bones snapping and forming new shapes. It enticed his own beast, his own deeply buried subconscious desire to compete and to stand on the podium above all the others, to join him. One, they might have been able to hold back, but the two of them, breaking loose and unleashing hell, there was little chance that the pale scrawling fingers could prevent their own end. Two werewolves. Both vengeful, both accepting of the gifts given to them. They had been unable to prevent the senseless death of one of their own, his form losing the last of its vitality, and now it was a mere nothing: food for worms. Tserra was the furthest gone; face no longer resembling human, taking on the canine snout of an animal, and the ears like a bats were thickly ridged. The ugly, monstrous face of something supernatural glistened in anger, and immediately lashed out with claws twice the size of what would have previously been called human hands. Strength played its part, throwing off several, and when even more came to the aid of those knocked aback, they were not spared. Blood sprayed from slashed open throats and bones cracked from snapping necks nearly severed from shoulders. In the dark chaos that surrounded, the enveloping shadow was caked in a flurry of sprayed blood and voiceless cries that seemed eerily deafening in their silence. Dart upon dark as flung into the great, hairy bodies of the two beasts, but with lightning speed they pulled apart flesh from bone in instances faster than any poison could afflict.
Destroy them. All of them, came the twin voice inside their heads.
"Come, this way," urged Trayack.
The boy had appeared before Striker out of the light like an angel, his form illuminated exquisitely, face cherubic. Meanwhile the madness that unfolded in the depths at his back was proving enough of a spark to take the angels hand and flee from the caves. Katana, however, lay motionless on the ground, his eyelids half open and his limbs unresponsive.
"He's hurt," Striker observed with a sadness. "I can't leave without him."
"He's already dead," said Trayack sadly, coming to Striker's side. He could, of course, smell the encroaching death breaking from his skin. Greater death existed closer, and it was unfolding quicker than Trayack knew. His brother had perished, that much he knew, and without him to act as a barrier, there would be nothing stopping the tribesmen from coming after them now. He had to relay the importance of this to the blond human quickly.
Striker looked at the hand on his shoulder, and then at the cold dead hand of Katana in his own. Of course he knew he was dead, he was not stupid. But the leaving part was harder than the acceptance. Steadily he shook his head. "I can't just leave him here."
They had to; the rampant footsteps of fleeing bodies behind them were getting louder, drawing nearer a certain death. Carrying Katana's badly bruised and broken from all the way out of the caves and through the jungles would prove too difficult.
"Goodbye, my friend," Striker said, and kissed his cold mouth before parting to join Trayack.
The boy ran ahead. Aware that he was swifter than the human, he slowed to be sure he was following.
Bathed by light once more, Striker headed towards it, only aware of its poeticism in passing before breaking from the dark dampness into the edge of the jungle once more. It was bright. Brighter still, the suns glare in their eyes. It shook Striker from his stupor and he looked to Trayack.
"Thank you," he said, sincerely, and then took him by the arm. "Where do we go--do you know the way to the seafront where the Russian moored his sub?"
"I think so. But I don't know exactly where it is."
"Good enough, let's go."
They ran into the jungle, avoiding the thick vines that twitched with predatory life, and the deadly flowers, and kept to paths that had been worn by travel towards the outer edge of the island.
"Alright. Now which way?"
"That way."
It took a while of traversing but they found themselves at the edge of the green and gold where the jungle became sand, embellished worth tropical palms. The ocean gently lapped at the shore.
"Funny," commented Striker. "From above, it looks no different from any other island. I think the first thing to do is to confirm this so-called submarine even exists... waste of time going out looking for parts when its not even there any more."
Trayack did not follow the man as he made the first few steps.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Striker noticed that his guide had suddenly abandoned him and cautiously approached, keeping just enough distance between them. "Is it the beach? Are you afraid?"
Trayack nodded. "Not been this far before. Can't remember the sea."
Striker had to admit that the sea did indeed, despite its calm tranquility, be a scary place, but the island was as scary as land could be. What was it that was really frightening him? The unknown? "It'll be alright, lad. You're not alone, not anymore. If you want to take your time, then I'll not go on without you." Too many people had already been lost.
Tentatively, Track reached out and touched the man's fingers. They were warm, quite soft, and surprisingly gentle when they clasped him. He found himself willingly setting one foot on the sand for the first time in he couldn't recall. It felt warm under his foot, pleasantly so, and suddenly he wondered where the thoughts of danger had come from, and he planted both his feet in the sand. The warmth wasn't like the hot, sweaty jungle; the burning sands were something of a relief as he could dig in his toes and seek the cool that kept its pleasures hidden. Encouraged by this, he walked, walked on to the beach full, shedding those imbedded fears.
"See? Nothing to worry about."
"There is though," said Trayack, without needing to clarify.
Following the youth's steady gaze, Striker found the sight of a dozen metallic pikes jutting from the ground, rusted and decorated with rotting entrails, utterly disgusting--disconcerting, even--but he did not allow himself to be gripped by the fear; this was obviously a trap designated to lure birds to the beach from the skies. Here, they would peck at the guts and quickly be ensnared by some device. Nevertheless, the setups convinced him of the werewolves' fear. They didn't come to the beach because it was the stomping ground of the ghosts.
"I never thought I'd see a group of people more savage than yours, Tray," humoured Striker, nervously, as he led him onwards closer to the relaxing lapping.
Trayack smirked. He liked Striker and his balanced nature. Red, he was not, but a teenage dick knew little difference between acts of kindness and genuine dalliance. Striker was not attracted to him in that way, he was sure, he was treating him like a child, and that mild insult was the only thing stopping him from dropping to his knees to beg attention like with all the others. Striker's natural patience and gentle hand was, however, not as ridiculing as it might initially seem. He was very much like an older brother, or, rather, how an older brother should have been. It made him pang inside. Womack once filled this role, but no more. A part of him had always hoped that they could remember their previous human lives, and go back in some aspect at least, to how they were. Womack had become an abuser, a vile and vulgar authority figure who seized every opportunity to best all those around him. It left Trayack more alone than ever. No longer did his brother exist ion that hulking and magnificent body. He had long-since passed, in his eyes, and that was why he could not mourn or grieve for his loss. At least his father somehow seemed to retain a level of himself. Womack had given up completely. Striker, unbeknownst, filled that hole.
He should go back. Find Rusty. Even the Russian. They might have survived as they had. He knew that if Red were dead, he would somehow feel it, feel the loss, like he had when he watched his friend, Katana die. That death had been permanent, real. He didn't feel that way for Red. Unless he saw his body, glistening and ripe for the earth, then he was still alive. The Russian, he could give or take, but the logical part of him that preceded all else knew that they would need him alive if they were to pilot the undersea machine that dwell shoreside.
"You should know now, lad. I have no clue how to work a sub."
"I don't, either."
"Say, how long have you been here. You weren't born here, right?"
"No, I wasn't. And... I don't remember."
"I thought not," said Striker. So little of the origin was understood, or even told, but he grasped at obvious straws. "People will be able to help you once we get off of this island. Do you want that?"
Trayack was unsure.
They trod the sand for a further three minutes until they came to the edge of the water, so far, untried by any violent forces. Striker broke hand contact and knelt down to touch the water. It was different than the water in the pool, it was cold yet warm, blue yet green, an infinite prodigy of Poseidon; he was sorely tempted to just swim and swim and never stop, anything to be aware from this hell.
Leaving Trayack behind temporarily, Striker was entranced by the water. As a pilot, the sea was often the enemy, the thing his friends--his family--fell into often by force, but here it was his friend and saviour. He couldn't wait to feel it cover him.
Meanwhile Trayack consciously looked around. Any rustle in the trees could have sealed their fate. He knew every sound and its possible generators, from birds and critters, to living trees. If his own kind attempted to approach, they would not do so silently, he knew their every footstep by heart. The ghosts, however, were more of a mystery. Out here, by the sea, his mind shifted slightly, entering the unknown, his vision conflicted with his thoughts until he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was even real. But he knew it was. Uncomfortably rubbing his arms, Trayack dared to move on from the sand, to the water, and allowed the cool foam to wash over his bare feet. The alien feeling at first scared him and he stepped back. How could Striker just walk in, and so easily let himself be half-drowned? Worried enough to brave it again, he was knee-deep, but no more than that; what lie beneath was an off-putter that resolved contention.
"It's out there," said Striker, suddenly sure of himself.
Should Trayack embrace the water, or tiptoe away like the same coward he had been when he first set eyes on the humans? Always skulking in the shadows, he was. At least the shadows, he knew how to embrace. At least they welcomed him, wanted him. It was true that the males shunned him as a runt, a poor imitation of a man; all limb, quickness but no real muscle. Well, he refused to be that weak little boy he had been all these years, refused the title of coward. After all, it was only water. What had he to be afraid of, getting wet? He stepped into the shallow, and almost found himself enjoying the undulating sensations of the rhythmic waves as they splashed against his bare legs. If not for the uneasy tension he had building in his chest, he very well might have found himself sinking deeper, as he saw his friend Striker doing before his very eyes, a short distance away. The man looked braver than he, and he was certainly stronger in appearance but Trayack wanted to be more than what everyone perceived him as. He wanted to impress, to be wanted. And the first thing he had to do was to not be such a fucking whelp. He breathed deeply in, and let his legs do the work. Before too long, keeping his eyes on the vast expanse of ocean, he was waist deep. Still, Striker was further in than he, even with their height roughly the same, he was not sure that his newfound bravery would reach the levels of a decorated airforce pilot. So, he stayed where he was, for now, using some intelligence (what if they were attacked? What if Striker got caught up in a current and would need his help?) And less blind stupidity, he considered carefully the blond's actions.
"Can you see anything?"
"No, not yet," Striker wound down. "I'm going to have to dive... Trayack..." he turned to him. "I need you to stay here and wait, yes? I doubt I'll be down there long, but in case you don't see me in a few minutes, you must return to the beach, and then the jungle. Do you understand?" He didn't want anything to happen to him.
The teenager nodded.
"Good, now just hang tight."
Before he knew it, he saw Striker push himself forward, and doing what he couldn't--embrace the waves--and after the flash of his buttocks and back, a kick of feet and he was gone. He swallowed.
"Striker!" Trayack panicked.
Quickly, he reprimanded his own stupidity; nothing was going to happen, he was simply swimming, he told himself.
For a time, he scanned the waves, the currents, seeking to find a glimpse of yellow amongst the white and blue, but he didn't. When he didn't immediately return, Trayack had no choice but to remind himself of Striker's issues: stay, wait, and his heart eased to beat. Without realising it, he had waded almost up to his chest. The water fell just short of his ribs and the startling nature of the water caught him.
Don't panic, he told himself. Stay calm. Just wait.
And so it was all he could do to wait, and to watch.
Amazingly, Striker breached the surface after barely a minute (it felt like much longer) had elapsed, and wet all over, he sported a big smile that was as confusing as anything that had happened to him in the last few days.
Striker was beaming. Glowing.
"I found it," he said. "That son of a bitch wasn't lying."
"What?" Trayack asked.
"The sub. It's not far."
No skirmish came to obstruct Red as he left the open door to his cell.
Nor did any white coat come to apprehend him.
As Murphy had said: feel free to explore...
Obviously there was going to be a catch of some kind. No-one just locked someone up and pumped them full of drugs just to say: you're free to go, did they? No. Red was being watched. The camera in the corner of the cell gave way to two more in the outer corridor, and although silence accompanied them, he was positive that there were eyes on him at that very moment, perhaps many. After all, wasn't this place all about the observation of potential weapons of war? Surely he was in fact the culmination to all of their years' research.
Then why didn't he feel important? Why did he feel like a rat in a maze?
Doors either side of him yielded further evidence of his theory: in cell number two there was a man sat rocking in the middle of the room, his hairy body a mess of puncture wounds and self-inflicted scarring. He would never end up like that, he told himself, surely, and went on to observe the inhabitant of the sole remaining cell. Another man, shorter than the first, was masturbating furiously, foaming at the mouth, eyes white as moons. Judging by the raw redness of his cock and the bruises on his palms, he had done little else than fuck his own hands for weeks on-end. It was a pitiable sight that had Red grimacing, more than the act itself. Although he dod not recognise either of these men, the compilation of information that he'd been told were that they had somehow failed what he was about to go through. They had lost themselves and couldn't be saved.
That wouldn't happen to him.
To Red's surprise, a man in a lab coat and holding papers tucked under his arm gave him a pleasant smile and passed him by, not even coming to instruct to to inform, nor take note of his state of complete undress.
"Hello?"
The man gave him another friendly nod and passed him by to observe some scientific adjustment. Red was slightly irritated by that. He continued on, caring nothing for his nearly-naked form nor for the cameras that followed his rear with every step.
All his concerns were on getting out of this place. Compliant only for convenience, he planned to get a good look around and flee as soon as he had chance. Worried about Striker and Katana without knowing he had succumb to the ghost's and their various assaults, he padded about the cold concrete halls with the confidence of a man on a true mission. After all, it was a mission he was on. He swore no loyalty to anything other that his friends: not the army, airforce, navy or even the States. This was all about them and their bond. When a group of people spent a long time together, and in their case, confinement, they formed a sort of familial bond.
Hell, even that asshole Dmitri meant something to him. He had the knowledge, after all.
There was, after the initial hallway, a brief wait in a sterilising chamber, where he was sealed inside and a type of gas was pumped in. He panicked at first, expecting this to be yet another trap. It wasn't, and after much flailing and choking, he realised that the white smoke did no long-term damage. In fact, his pinkish skin gleamed with a renewed health. He touched himself with a growing, inexplicable sense of sexual arousal--frustration--wanting something, someone, to rub against, to fuck until he spilled.
A voice broke him from his moment, and the early sprouting of an erection quickly died down in his hand.
"Suit up," said the voice."
A hidden drawer slid out from a self-contained compartment within the walls, presenting Red with something unexpected.
It was a white suit, he realised, when he took it out cautiously.
Not just a suit, he said to himself. A bio-suit. Observing the gear with curiosity, the voice again crackled out forms he overhead speaker: "Put it on."
Red was wary: this suit, with the half-helmet and window and one-body set complete with gloves and shoes all in one, was a vast departure from what he had experienced the last two days. Clothes. They felt strange in his hands, almost like plastic. No doubt they would feel even weirder on his bare skin. All the same, he climbed into it sluggishly. The zip was at the front and after much fidgeting, he was completely sealed in to the outfit. And it did indeed feel weird.
With a whoosh in front of him, the sliding doors opened, giving way to something that made his eyes bulge.
The laboratory he'd previously seen was nothing by comparison.
The size of a warehouse, the laboratory was full to the brim with equipment, materials and devices. Two tables that stretched the entire length of the lab were manned by many men and women all equipped with the same biohazard protection suits while they handled test tubes, vials, even larger canisters on one side, while on the other they worked on a conveyor belt, observing varying degrees of projects.
Red could not comprehend the scope of what he was here, witnessing, as he walked between the lines. Many of these people had cast him a knowing glance, but their eyes were unfamiliar. They were strangers. They looked upon him, as a dog greeting another human. He was just a venture to them, a being that was appealing to look at, sure, but even more appealing on a clipboard full of numerical data. These workers, however, were somewhat disinterested in his presence, as though he had wandered into an area where he was not the sole focus. It made him wonder, question. What the hell else were they creating here? Was observing and studying werewolves their only purpose? No, couldn't be. For one, the test tubes and vials and canisters contained fluids, some luminescent, and other seemed to contain types of organisms. Misshapen, tragic; Red could only think of them as test-tube-babies, fabled for their grotesqueness. Forcing himself to look away, Red sped through the ranks almost invisible. When he reached the double doors at the opposite side of the room, he quested: what the fuck am I doing? and the elevator opened to his touch.
The elevator was brightly lit, contained within four illuminated walls.
The panel next to the doors, he observed: thirteen floors.
I advise you to visit the tenth floor...
Without thinking, Red pressed the number ten. The button lit up and the elevator whirred to life. The lights dimmed slightly as it descended even lower. He could only imagined what was on the floors two to four (he had found himself on five) and six to nine, but it had been pressed now and slowly it edged to the floor. His stomach tensed. He felt sick.
Just what was waiting for him on this tenth floor?
A part of him wanted to turn back, accept his wolf gift and rip his way through dozens of bodies, but his brain and conscience and heart were all still his own; only his cock and his body were betraying him.
The audible ding might have been comical if not for the waft of cold smoke that drafted in through the sliding metal doors as they opened, giving a sense of foreboding dread to Red as he set foot in the darkened room laid out before him.
Complete darkness, that was all.
At first, it seemed there was nothing at all, only blackness, and then, the voice came, neither crackled or obscured, but clear: clearly inhuman.
"So. I have a visitor."
Red stilled, tensed, felt a chill not only from the nearly sub-zero temperature of the room, but also from the invisible orator, every muscle in his body tightened. "Who's there?"
A shudder. Nothing more.
Where was this elicit chamber that he found himself. The signs lit in neon red: WEAPON TESTING, and that was more than enough to make Red as tense as could be. None of it was helped by the biting cold, which billowed up from he cold floor in an icy fog that rose up around his hips. He was almost thankful of it for cooling his boiling loins, but almost was a word that never fully reached its potential, and neither could Red's manhood in this frigid hell. In his careful approach, Red suddenly found himself stuck, feet not moving. They did, in fact, break loose from the icy ground with a sickening sound that resembled tearing skin, after he realised his predicament. Blood needed to move faster around his body, otherwise he would lose the soles of his feet to the floor.
Red wanted to hear that voice again; tormented and strained. It was a voice that pled with him, wanted mercy and wanted whatever he had to offer. Red wanted more than just to hear, he wanted to feel that voice enter his body and shake him loose from the nightmare he knew himself to be having.
"Where are you?" He choked out, voice hoarse from the cold particles invading his lungs cell by cell. "Can you answer me, please?"
A heavy breathing.
Red followed it.
"I can smell you," it said.
Red had to stop.
"...smell you, so young, new..."
"Where are you?" He whispered, unable to pinpoint the origin of the ethereal, almost demonic monotone. "I can't see anything in the dark..."
"Oh, but you can," it said. "Use your eyes, use your damn eyes."
And so, Red used his eyes. He used his eyes in ways his human body had never known to be capable of before. The darkness, it slipped away, like a shawl from the shoulders; the veil slowly thinned before his eyes until the immense shape of something filled the entire scope. Night vision, wasn't it? Whatever it was, he wished that he could turn it off at the impeccable beauty and ugliness combined that was all-too real for him to witness, like setting sights on a god. And he was not worthy.
"Oh, my god..." Red dropped to his knees, worthless.
The breast grinned. Great fanged teeth were seen in the dark regardless of night sight.
Red saw him, now, before him, indeed like an article of illusion, coming out from the magicians garb; a hulking male figure--a hybrid of flesh-muscle and wiry-fur--the summation of the facilities attempts. It was a werewolf, twice the size of any other he'd seen so far, arms outstretched like the idol himself. He was locked into an alien-looking pod, a restraining device designed to contain the occupant's power, while also feeding him in portions this same power that they were trying to cultivate. Red noticed that his body was immaculate, perfect, rippling, even in the cold he glistened with a burning heat from within. Nipples hard as rocks and cock even harder, he bore a striking similarity to the sort of deity the ancients might have inscribed on cave walls. Before Red's mind flashed visions of the towering village phallus, the huge wooden cock; it had been modelled after this male's superb organ. Red recognised every pulsing vein, every ruffle and rut, but this time it was in flesh, not wood, and more than ever did he desire to bow to it, to worship it, and to beg to suck it 'til it filled him up with its perfection.
"I see you have recognised," spoke the god.
His cock twitched harder. Red swallowed, tried to look away,
"It's alright, if you look..."
God, Red wanted to, but a part of him (the human side?) still fought on for control of his sanity. Despite what he wanted and how his body reacted, the logical pleading urged him to remember, to not give in and to be an animal: a slave to sin.
A voice in his head told Red to rise, and so he did. The heat radiating form the god was enough to create a warm wet radius around them. He need not fear sticking to the ground here. What Red feared was the contents of the steel and silver iron maiden that concealed forbidden divinity. He was hard as a rock when he stood, but he didn't notice, instead he approached, daringly, hypnotised. And by god! The heat the spilled from he beast-god's body set him alight inside! He moaned. Loudly.
God grinned, a sparkle of lust in his dark eyes.
With ease, Red melted to him, hands first. Fingertips touched the solid chest of the man that was nearly twice his height and width of his own impressive figure, and he was electrified. Closing his eyes, he sighed, opened his mouth and breathed in the salty-sweat stench of an otherworldly force of nature.
"That's it," the god growled, closed his eyes and leaned his head back, body immobilised by the construct. "Feel my body. Do you like it, my... disciple?"
Red nodded, said he "...did."
Crooked grin, again.
Red looked up, the warmth emanating from his form was immaculate. The body, godly. The face, was a different matter. It almost made him recoil.
Generally human in outline, the Goliath's head was mostly wolf, ears, snout and jowls all matched what he knew from textbooks, but the eyes were distinctly human but bore a stark glimmer of something darker. His eyes were the last real vestiges of his humanity. Nearly everything else had converted to leathered hide and impossible attainment. While bits of pink skin existed, the extremities, fingers and toes were no longer human-looking, and clawed beyond proportions by blackened, demonic accentuates. His knees were bent in an obtuse angle not designed for mortal men, and his elbows were fiercely bulky. It seemed the closer to the core of his physical body, the more human, as though the transformation had touched the outer self first and worked its way inward. His chest looked mostly flesh, but developed to the extreme, and his abdomen and downwards--his cock--had not yet succumbed to complete shifting. Though, it was large beyond comparison, swaying mightily between his knees like a berserker club.
Without needing to ask permission, he knew, Red's burning fingertips trailed south, over the gardens of hair and carpets of muscle, and finally found an impossible clutch at the base to the man's mammoth member.
"What are you?" Red bent over, inhaled.
"My name..." his voice came out barely anything anymore, no human, no animal, a grinding of gears and salt.
"Yes..." Red waited, wanted, desperate to hear his name from his own inhuman lips, lips now so dark and receded in to gums that they were no longer capable of kissing, but still he wanted to.
"Is... Silas."
"Yes, Silas," Red hushed, warmly. He stroked the monster cock from base to tip with both hands, never getting enough of the pulsing, thick flesh under his hands. So huge, so fitting. "Who are you, Silas?"
Silas growled. "Can't... remember."
Sadly, Red understood this. From his experience in knowing the wolves, he knew that they could hardly recall anything of their human selves, their former lives. They were far less gone than this exquisite creature, and he guessed, that if all he could recall was a name, then that was better than nothing. He imagined that the doctors, scientists and military men, upon understanding that the human side was lost, they could fill their heads with new, dirtier ideology, they could mould them into whoever they wanted, and what they wanted, was a weapon. And a weapon they had.
"That's okay," whispered Red, wetly, as he had lifted the huge cock to face him and he kissed just below the tip and at the intersection. The smell of it; ripe, rank. He should have retched, disgusted. But he wasn't--he loved it--and the way it made his eyes water. What did histories matter anyhow?
Don't forget, Red, a different voice said.
Silas groaned approvingly as his new charge gorged himself on his monster cock.
He stared up at him with eyes burning blue and red, mouth huge and open, lips sucking over the head, somehow managing to encapsulate the piss slit. His jaw was in agony, and it did not take him long to remove himself to take the preference of licking his way down the massive shaft. Red licked, sucked, and rubbed his face against the flesh, moaning all the way, leaking with every inch.
Red. This isn't you, you fuckup.
When the metallic bands holding Silas in place began to strain and scream in protest, the god was able to move from his prison in crescendos at a time. Sparks flew; bits of wires and steel clinked across the ice.
But Red wasn't at all concerned when the giant hand clasped the back of his head. Despite his enormity, Silas bore him no ill-will. Fingers threaded through red locks of sweat and gold and encouraging, ever onward, for Red to do as he pleased, to take his fill as he wanted it. He could embrace him this way, too, one arm at first, that was large enough to eclipse Red's own entire body, came with surprising gentleness around the muscle of his back and drew him closer to him. Yes, closer. Because Red wanted it closer. Sex was on his mind constantly, crippling everything he knew, fucking it into a bloody pulp.
As his mouth popped off of his cock, a thick wet glob of slobber made his swollen mouth so shiny, so hungry.
Red stood on his toes and craned his neck.
Stop, remember. Song forget, you bloody fool.
Red hadn't forgotten. But as they kissed, it was difficult to remember. For one, this was no kiss that could be defines as such; Silas' long, thick, dog-tongue flapped and lapped for entry before quickly being accented. The obtrusive snout of the beast battled for more while not getting in the way further. It was difficult to enjoy a kiss like this, and it was the thing that had cautiously drive Red out of his lustful stupor.
There you go, Rusty. You're kissing a fucking animal, you goddamn degenerate. Is this was your life has come to?
Red opened his eyes.
Yes, this what you want? To fuck a dog in the body of a man? And what about all those boys--dead--huh? They must be turning in their graves. I hope all of this is gonna be worth it.
"No," said Red.
Silas groaned, still deeply involved in his lover's mouth, almost throat deep when the man broke away.
Now you say no? When you've had his cock in your mouth and made out with him a little? Get your rocks off did you? You're as wet as a virgin, look at you!
Sobering thoughts continued to press his mind. Red wiped the spin and come from his lips with the back of his arm and stared up at the beast with huge, pleading oceans of dwindling passion. "Please," he whispered, chokingly. "I... can't. I remember.
"This isn't who I am."
"What?" Silas blanched.
The monster tightened his grip on the back of his head.
Red flinched and tried to pull away only to be pulled back, face mushed against the head of his cock, almost identical by proportion. "No, please!"
"Please..." Silas suppressed a roar, and then slackened his grip; a brief stint of humanity settled in his eyes. "Please. Yes."
Before you were begging him for cock, what changed?
"Nothing's changed," Red pushed back away from him.
Silas looked at him with quizzical eyes but did not draw him back. Defiantly, Red spat. "I am still human, and always will be. What they've done to you... will never be done to me."
A sadness swept Silas.
And Red stepped back, a full foot clear.
Silas' beastly head snapped up, and a huge clawed hand seized him roughly by the middle, drew him in once more.