WEREWOLF ISLAND
by
Toby Wolfham
© 2023 by Toby Wolfham
All rights reserved.
Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com
(For comments, inquiries, and communication)
Chapter 9
THE ESCAPE
Red was bleeding. From where, he did not like to think, but when he came to, he was still naked, still bruised, and still the height of their attentions. Laid on his stomach, he slowly pushed himself up from the ground and got to his knees to better examine his dark surroundings.
With every movement, his altered blood pulsed with a dangerous new life-form that threatened to overcome him. He was infected, he knew. Things seemed clearer in the dark to him now, as if inside his skull, his eyes had been replaced from within with the eyes of some night-seeing animal that lived for the nocturne. It was frightening, but he could not be afraid. New sensations were slowly blossoming; new sights, new smells; and his cock was hard, harder that it had ever been.
Once on his feet he realised that he had been put back in the slave cages, only this time it was dark, and with his new vision, he hardly recognised it.
"They've done it to you," came a voice in the shadows.
Red turned to face the speaker, his body glistening from the ongoing battle within. "What are you talking about?"
Dmitri sneered.
When the Russian stepped out of the shadows, he looked different.
"They've put their seed inside you. Now, there is no way back. Either it will kill you, or you will master it."
He looked stronger, the muscle definition more visible in the reddened moonlight overhead. There was something in his gait, and his confidence. No longer did he appear sickly or disheveled. His hair, while dirty and straggled, had a different lustre to it, and Red could smell something different on his skin. Intoxicating, alluring. He had to get closer.
Dmitri felt the same.
The two met at the centre of the slave pens but stopped just short of contact as their eyes refocused their efforts. Red saw him in a new, dark light and Dmitri saw him much the same, yet bore the unchanged disdain for the stupid American and his zealous ways. They sniffed each other; long, exploratory greetings. Red's nose came to the crook in his neck, and Dmitri's to the top of his red head, he smelled of dirt and sweat and it was a lot less unbearable than one would have thought. Either one thought they other smelled interesting, and their new scents and feelings rushed through into their overactive brains and down to their overeager cocks. Red's pupils were dilated, as were Dmitri's as they gave into their basest needs, no longer caring for humanity's moralistic servitude.
Red enjoyed the smell of him, this new Dmitri. Soon his hands found Dmitri's body, his arms, rough fingers gliding over tender muscle. The once-sick-smelling and emaciated shirker had evolved in a matter of hours. The how's and why's were lost on the redhead, but they were understood on a level that required no questions to be answered. No longer enemies but brothers in blood, Red yearned to be close to him, if just for a moment, when finally the human side of him began to flicker back into existence. By then, their touches had evolved, too, hands into mouths, fingers into tongues. He broke away, still burdened with the taste of the other man's salt-sweat.
"What the hell?" He exclaimed.
"You mean you are surprised?" Dmitri was hard and stroking his erect cock, crooked grin on his face.
"The fuck just happened?"
Dmitri shrugged, stopped stroking with an idleness that said he would be back to it any time. He turned his back and walked into the darkness of the cages to look through the wooden bars.
Curious, Red followed and stopped a foot away from his back.
"When my crew and myself washed ashore here, we had a feeling something was wrong. We were right.
"A day before you boys got here, they dragged me out of here. I had not eaten and refused any that they gave for fear of the poison. But they decided to poison me anyway. They all laughed."
"Poison?"
"Yes. The same poison they put in you. It is changing us, making us better, faster, stronger... more."
"I don't want to be more," said Red.
"Then you are foolish. This is a gift."
"Then I'd rather keep the receipt, thanks, because I'm getting out of here."
"You're still... with this escape?" Dmitri shook his head.
"That's right. And you said you wanted out, too."
"I do," he replied. "But does it not concern you that now you may never be allowed to leave? With their poison--their gift--working in you, you will be treated like a monster. We all will. Even your friends, not infected. They too will be examined and experimented on. I do not intend to escape one prison for another. I will still help, but once we escape, we will separate from the others and start again. A new life, elsewhere."
Red felt like he had been hit by several vehicles all at once; one vehicle was the new knowledge that if he was indeed infected (he had every reason to think he had been) then he may be a walking biohazard. The second vehicle was the awareness that society would shun them, there would be nowhere they could belong without widespread condemnation.
"I'm going to fix this. What you do with yourself isn't my problem.
After, we go back to being enemies. I don't care."
Dmitri scoffed. "That is something that may be harder to do than you think. Your body won't let you kill me like your brain wants to. Soon enough you won't even remember why you hate me."
"I'll remember," assured Red, thinking again of all the dead that had fallen at the hands of his countrymen.
"I am not the enemy you think I am."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You'll see. One say, you will understand what I mean."
"Don't count on it."
No cage could keep Red far enough away, no walls could block out as much as he wanted to hear; Dmitri was too close to him, now. Too close and getting closer with each beat of his heart, each pulsing, irresistible throb of blood through his veins, to his brain, from his heart, to his cock, all were working in tandem against him. Slow, though, mercifully. He had time to reverse this, though he knew not how. Resist. Resist it somehow. That was all he had to do. His body could fight it off just like any infection, couldn't it? That was his reasoning, his foreboding final hope.
When someone came to bring him back to the square, night had fully descended and the moon's shocking red hue had devolved into a yellowish-cream, slowly returning to a natural tone. The faces of the werewolves became less severe in the light of this, steadily more human features replaced those dubious optical illusions.
Red had heard it said that the moon brought with it madness; he hoped this was true, because if this was reality from now on, a padded cell and straitjacket would have been a warm welcome.
The supposed auction was to take place just after midnight.
What horrified Red as much as any of the aforementioned events, was the throttling truth: what had happened in the short space of time since he had been thrown back into the cages, used and filled up.
The throne was out in the open, and atop it was a morose-looking Womack.
Dark assumptions began to shiver over Red like a bristling cold in the dead-heat of summer. Had the time come? Finally, had the bastard made good on his promises to wear the crown of the wolves? If so, there was little hope for him and his friends. And, as he and Dmitri were led passed it, he caught a glimpse of something different burning in the fire, charred, blackened flesh-smell was certainly much more distinctive than that of burning wood. Impure, easy to distinguish. At first it looked like a terribly shrivelled soft wood of some variety, and then, Red saw the eyes.
"Holy fuck..." all of the blood rushed out of him.
There was a difference between believing and seeing, and Red now both saw and believed one certain fact: they were monsters. As he watched wide-eyed the corpse of the werewolves former leader burn up into a wrinkled unrecognisable heap, Red lost all of those blissful chimera that scuttled about within and steeled in himself instead, a crushing fidelity. Determined then, that he would rather die than become one of their kind, he turned away in disgust from the sight before the water in his mouth threatened to cloud his frayed humanity.
"I see you've noticed my father, new-blood."
There were sniggers of laughter from the assortment of jagged-toothed sadists that were languishing.
"How could you?" Red had trouble suppressing the urge to shiver uncontrollably. "Oh, god..."
"It was his time, boy," said Womack lowly, not without remorse. "It is not the passing he might have liked but it was the one his successor chose for him. He was too old and weak to accept the challenge through combat. Long enough we've waited."
"Successor? You're fucking insane!"
Red could not bear to look any longer, not at the king, nor the body. His own monster wanted to leap at the man and tear him limb from limb but he hadn't the skill nor chance of success to risk such an incursion. But that on his mind was at least a detraction from the growing, gnawing pain in the dark pit of his stomach clawing at him, urging him to eat, to feast. The flesh was crisp and ready.
"Judge me all you like," he laughed. "I think that you, too, are hungry, aren't you? Hungry for flesh, hungry for power."
"I don't fucking think so!"
"No matter, you will, and then you will reach your potential. A killing machine. Better than those planes that brought you here!"
Red felt sick, dizzy. He whirled around to meet his captors with a fist but was swiftly thrown down on to his back. There was mild raucous and then blackness. He had fallen unconscious.
"Stand him up," commanded Womack, and the twins did as they were told. Disappointing, thought Womack.
Perhaps he wasn't the one after all.
Womack stood from his throne. The darkness had swept over the land so succinctly that not even the torches lit around the camp could be seen. It was much later than he thought, too late for any hunt, and certainly much too late for the acquisition.
"Everyone, dismissed," he said with a wave. "We will continue with this in the morning, when the sun is up. My first act as the alpha of this pack will be to auction these fucking slaves. The red one no longer interests me, I have other matters to attend to, more important causes to win. War is the answer to many of my father's faults, and war will come. Rest now, my brothers, and enjoy the night of change."
Weary from it all, Womack turned to enter the hut where for so many years his father had lain his head. With him, a full cask of wine would accompany him, assuring that his thoughts would be clear on the morrow. They would all come to rest now, and allow the events to settle. The new leadership would not be without challenge, he was sure; Tserra, for one, was a troublesome wolf who had always opposed his strength for the sole reason of proving that he was the stronger. If he tried, he would not be treated with benevolent assurance. He would be destroyed as would anyone else who dared to take this seat of power from him. Hastily the wine was cracked open and Womack drank deeply from it, letting the sweet red flow over his mouth and face.
Everything would be settled in the day time, when light would dispel shadows and cast truth into their hearts. Any stubborn naysayers would either be proven wrong or suffer. For now, he laid upon his fathers bed-stack and drank until it settled in himself.
Striker had seen what had happened. Too late had he come to the cages where Red and the regenerated Dmitri lay. Heaving a sigh, he rested his hands not he bars and shook his head. No longer could he take this place. Barely a day in captivity and they had been driven to the very limits of human endurance. They had been beaten, raped, and tortured. Striker was more than ready to continue with the plan, so as long as he could get away from the werewolf Tserra, whose continuous need for sex was wearing hard at his will.
Before he could return to him as promised, however, a face ran into him.
"Trayack, good god, lad... you scared me. Where have you been?"
"Hiding," he said quietly. "They killed my father."
"They... killed..."
"Yes, but there's no time, please. They're bringing him back now. You and Red and the others need to try and get out tonight and you have to take me with you."
"Of course, we said we--"
"--but now my brother, Womack is crazy. He'll want to kill me, too, in case I want to overthrow him one day. So, you see... I have to leave, too. But there's something else..."
"What is is?" Striker followed, just about.
"Red is seeded, he can't leave without being cleansed. I can't leave either. The other one as well, the scary man with you. He can't leave with you. The three of us will have to go somewhere else, deep in the jungle." There might be a way to get rid of it before it goes too far."
"Deep in the... what are you going on about?"
"No time, no time to explain, I can hear them coming. I'll be back tonight with your things... please, don't talk in front of the other one--he can't be trusted--bye."
"Lad--wait!" Striker called out, but the boy had already fled into the shadows with silken ease. "Shit!"
By the time Red and Dmitri had been returned to the cells, Striker returned to the werewolf's tent.
Tserra was asleep on the floor, his nude body spread out golden flecks of hair glistened invitingly. But Striker had no intention of staying with this beast who had given him what he needed in abundance, he had to get back to the slave quarter and rejoin his own kind while they were still brethren in blood. He worried very much about Red, and what had been done to him, but something about Trayack's words had given him bolster.
Did the youth's conspiring bear truth?
Was there a way to remove the blood from his system? And what if he himself had been inadvertently infected? Tserra had been careful but had he been careful enough during their rampant lovemaking? In the heat of the moment, there had been little care for such a thing, but the werewolf had made it clear that he had no intention to sire a blood-kin. There was a selfless side to him that gave Striker optimism; he was certain that Tserra knew damn well that he wasn't going out just to fetch him more wine, and allowed him the space and freedom to go about his vital business unhindered while he remained in believable ignorance. If so, might he call the beast an ally? It was a situation he had to mull over, but before he left, he made sure to place the cup of wine next to his sleeping form, just within reach.
The three of them sat in the cells for more than an hour.
Red had been freshly informed of everything his convenient companion had learned during his time and sat with a growing intensity crossing his handsome face.
The werewolves had all retired for the night, their energy spent fighting and fucking amongst themselves, the roars of exertion and ecstasy rattled out into the night sky, plentiful. They ceased altogether and slowly their shattered nerves began to return.
"Do you think they're asleep now?" Striker queried.
"They're asleep," said Dmitri, no longer hugging himself in the corner, but sat cross-legged in the middle of the area.
Striker listened intently at the bars, trying to hear on the wind the nosies of snores or grumbles of the night-beasts. He heard nothing but the distant sounds of some exotic insect chattering in the trees.
"They're asleep," confirmed Red.
"But how do you know?"
"I know," said Red, completely unwavering. He stood up and shrugged his shoulders in attempt to rid himself of the building stress. There was someone coming, though, but the agile feet were of someone more deliberate and intentional.
Trayack arrived at the bars of the cells.
Red and Striker converged to see him carrying the military belts around his slim shoulders that had been deprived of the crew after they crashed. He did not struggle with the weight, and was quick to pass them through. Red quickly slipped his arms and shoulders into them and clipped himself in. This was it: their only chance to escape. No time to lose, or waste.
"Can you lift the cages?" Red asked.
Trayack shook his head. "They'll hear it."
"Lift it part way," he said and got down on his stomach with his knife in hand and started chopping away at the spikes that would slice them wide open like fish should they try to crawl under.
Red was the first to slide himself under.
"Wait," whispered Striker.
But the man had already started using his new-found strength to lift the rest of the cage without using the pulley system so as to avoid letting the rub and twine of rope real the sleeping ears. The other two men followed suit and were on the other side of the bars alongside him. There was an unnatural stillness in the camp, a disquiet, like waiting for the storm. Red crept in the lead, in his hands the blade, felt like a deadweight in his aching arms but it was his only line of defence. Behind him, Striker and Trayack moved with some timidness, keeping low and keeping their eyes open to the sides. Striker was the first to see the sleeping wolves nestled into the barracks as they passed, naked bodies piled amongst each other just visible through the cracks in the wooden walls. Dmitri was at the rear, a defensive position but he had the robust to keep anything from sneaking up behind them. It was a position Red was uncomfortable with; should the man decide he liked this new power too much, he might decide not to leave and throw them all to the literal wolves without a second thought. He was always on his mind, but he did not smell betrayal on him, he smelled want, and he smelled need. Dmitri wanted more than he deserved, and that made him dangerous, but they had to work together, any disagreement would be dealt with once they were all far away from this place.
Striker pointed the way to the infirmary.
For a long time Katana had laid there listening, unable to sleep, hearing footsteps, fucking, and feasting going on for several hours. It was tense, never knowing of they were alive or dead throughout all of this. When the noises that stepped out of the shadows showed their faces, he let out that breath he'd been holding in. "Red... fuck... about time."
"Shh," said Red and he cut off the remaining stubborn ropes.
"We're finally outta here," said Katana, rubbing his sore wrists and hopping silently off the suspended device. He kept hold of one piece of knotted rope, just in case he was in dire need of something to fight with. The man could kill someone with a toothbrush, a thick rope would be better than that he hoped.
"Not yet," said Striker, giving an arm to his friend to hold on to. He was still injured, limping on one foot. "Hang on to me and keep your eye peeled."
"Fucking funny..."
"I said shut up," said Red, in a tone no harsher than intended as he crept towards the entrance to the infirmary tent.
A werewolf was on his feet. He staggered aimlessly, apparently having not seen the five escapees. His drunken bulk was coming closer to the tent, closer to them. Closer for one thing, Katana knew.
"Vestra... that motherfucker," said Katana, sidling up in between Red and Striker.
They held him back. He was still strong, in spite of all the damage.
"Just, lemme..." he snarled, and tried to make a break for it.
"No, calm down," pled Striker. "Wait."
Red wrestled his knife away from the vengeance-hungry Katana and held him back with a greater ease that surprised Katana enough to still.
"Knock it off, K," said Red, holding him at the chest. Do you wanna be auctioned off to be some werewolf's fuck-toy? Then get a hold of yourself, now's not the time to go off on one."
He nodded, reluctantly, and clung again to Striker's arm.
Vestra did not come to the infirmary. Instead, he swayed off-course, immodestly holding his dick in one hand as he came to an abrupt halt and pissed without any indication or direction. A long jet stream came blasting form him with some effort, and so enraptured was he at such relief that he did not notice the five bodies slip away back into the infirmary tent to use the exit at the rear. Steam rose from the puddle pooling at his feet and before too long the male rotated sloppily and moved to support himself on a large wooden strut sticking out from the earth.
Now was their chance, their opportunity. The huge gates were shut and barricaded but Striker had told Red of another escape.
"The rock pool is always unguarded at night," whispered Trayack, creeping a little faster and a little lighter than all of them. It was he who led the way now, just ahead of Red, taking them around the inner perimeter of the camp to avoid the openings of the shelters and tents where the males resided and slumbered.
The tension was thick and hot, jutting rudely at every orifice with a burning insistence that someone snap; someone would trip or break a twig, alert some sleeping beast and they would all be done for, but no-one let the pressure get to them. It was full-pitch dark, with only the campfire glow to light the way, many shadows were grossly stretched and distorted beyond proportion, and had almost brought Red to drive his blade into the wall of a broke shed when he realised that what he had seen had been a mere play of light and dark cast from the fire and to a corruption of shapes. Striker's hand on his shoulder helped him steel his nerve and continue. He could smell them, all sleeping. He could feel them. Inside. Every drop of seed he had been forced to swallow had given him an insight into each and evert one of them, and they would live to regret that depraved ceremony by dawn. The lightly barred gate to the rock trail was clear of guards; the whole camp had been present at the feast and that meant event the mute sentries were not an obstacle to their progress. The gate was unbarred by Red and Dmitri working together, as quietly as they could and the five of them struggled onwards up the long and arduous path towards hopeful freedom in silence until the sounds of circular breathing and animalistic snores were as indistinct to them as the flutter of butterfly wings, and then they breathed. Simply breathed.
"God, I can't believe we're out of there," sighed Striker.
"Yeah, well, we're not out yet are we. You sure this is the way?"
"Yes. Up ahead."
Striker wasn't wrong, and damn if Red didn't find the sight of the clear blue pool, surrounded by flowers and rocks and glistening under a moonlit glow with glowing flies in soft congregation the stuff of dreams, but the time for admiration would haver to settle to his memories. The steep rock face that closed in the area would be a tricky climb for all, Katana especially. There was no time to argue the issue, though.
"Let's get a move on," he said, and started to unclip his belts, searching through pockets and satchels.
Red came out with climbing picks and rope and clips, and hooked himself up to his belt, which was all he had in pack of clothing. Save for the shredded remains of his pants. Trayack, dressed like the typical jungle boy was already beginning to climb until Red stopped him.
"It's alright," said the boy. "I've climbed up here hundreds of times! I know the best rocks to hold on to."
Dubious, Red let go of his doubts and watched as Trayack began to climb. He resembled a hairless monkey as he started up the climb effortlessly. Red kept a careful eye on him, mentally logged every toehold and ridge to grab on to and then he issued a directive. "Katana goes up first, with you Striker. Me and Dmitri will bring ups the rear, that way we can prevent a fall if one of you loses it."
Striker was unsure, but Katana was not.
"What are we waiting for?" He winced as his arm stretched for the first hold but he fought through the pain like he always did and bravely heaved one foot up.
"God, be careful," said Striker, quick to give him a little support from behind as he, too, started the ascent.
They started fairly well, only having trouble locating what to grab next. Trayack had done them a great service in showing the best route, and Red gave him a thumbs-up as the boy made the climb and peered down at them from above. The moon was at his back, granting him an illustrious figure; a shape that loomed and dominated. Red could see the family resemblance, the potential for leadership. He admired him only briefly, however, as he received the nudge from Dmitri.
"Move," he said dully. "Are all Americans this slow?"
Dmitri was ahead of him already, his unique skills in the Russian Army giving him more than just nimbleness; notorious for the sadistic trials, if anyone could handle a climb like this, it was someone who lived in such harsh terrain. And he knew it.
Coming up just behind Red checked that they were all connected by the rope and clips and set off, never looking back over the stretch of water that reflected behind them the image of the werewolf.
Gorr watched with some interest but mostly indifference: he had long suspected the youth, Trayack to lead the humans astray. It was his way. Now that he was a man, he would never live under his father or now his brother's thumb. The boy did not see him from up there in his roost as he helped the humans escape, he was sure, but no words of quarrel would be exchanged regardless. He wanted them to be gone. It was for the best. There would be those who disagreed with him, but he would claim ignorance if they questioned him. The weapons shed lay right next to the road to the small lake, and it was possible that he might have seen them flee (he being the only wolf in the pack who did not ingratiate himself into unconsciousness) but then again, he might not have seen a thing.
Just as now, after watching the last of the humans--the handsome redhead--he saw nothing, and turned to walk the lonely trail back towards the camp before dawn.
"Good luck, Tray," he said gruffly. "May I never see your face again if we both be so lucky."
The sun was a harsh herald to greet their eyes, hot and blinding, but it was also wore a sign: time had passed. A new day.
They had just reached the crest of the rocky cliffs looking down to the other side. The verdant jungle was rising to meet them as well, life brimming in every inch; insects rumbled under the earth and birds rattled in the trees, everything was waking, everything.
That thought brought a chill to Red's burning skin.
"We'd better move," he said, nodding to a shear road.
Quickly they started down. It would be no-less difficult than the climb. They had to make ground before the camp rose to find them gone from sight. Dmitri had moved to take up place in front, just behind the boy. Together they kept some distance while Striker and Red both shouldered Katana. The climb had been strenuous, too much. As strong as he was (or as he pretended to be) he could not hide how tired it had made him. Cuts had re-opened and started to bleed down his back. They had to pause to patch him up again using supplies Striker had been reacquainted with.
"The blood," said Red. "They'll smell it before too long. Gotta make ground."
"Don't need to tell me," huffed Katana as he was heaved back to his feet.
"Keep going," he said, urging Katana to fight through the pain.
Dmitri was ahead of the group, pushing boundaries. It raised suspicions in red, who had maintained his in his sights for so long until Katana slipped. In obvious discomfort they had to stop to pick him back up. A rock that he had slipped on had torn into his shin bone, sliced him open like cooked meat. Yet, he didn't scream; he didn't want to slow them down.
"Hands off, I can keep up... just leave me," he shouted.
Speechless the two men watched as Katana battled wills, clashed pain with desperation and bout for victory over the other. In the ring, they were all part of the match and nobody in his corner wanted to simply stand there and watch as he was blackened and blued by his own conscience. They let him walk on his own. He hobbled for the first agonising steps, and then, chest out, head high, he started to walk again.
Red laughed in disbelief. "Son of a bitch."
"I've learned to believe the unbelievable all over again," said Striker, staying behind with Red to make sure Katana wouldn't fall again.
The Russian and Trayack were scouting ahead.
Striker kept looking at Red. He noticed.
"Sorry," Striker said bashfully and looked away, and then back. What was the point in denying it, now? "You just... look different, that's all."
"Yeah?" Red scoffed. "Try being held prisoner for a day with a gang of crazy werewolves--never mind--at least we know they do sleep, sometimes. If we get captured again, there's a good chance they'll kill us. But I'd rather they didn't. You know."
"I mean you look different," said Striker again, stopping briefly to examine the man. His muscles were broader and more pronounced, his hair redder, and his eyes sharper. He breathed. He couldn't resist touching him. Rock hard, his chest and abdomen, like never before. If he didn't know better he swore that the man had worked out all night. The veins at his v-line under his fingers seemed to latch on to him with beats their own. Blood was absolutely raging inside him. A pinkish hue pained his usually pallid flesh, and down below. "God, you're..."
Red wasn't embarrassed. He looked at himself without shame and simply accepted his erection at face value. "Yeah... don't know what's happening," he said in a whisper; as unashamed as he was, he didn't wanted his condition to be common knowledge. "I think they... I think they started to change me... you know, into one of them."
"No. They can't. How?"
"You weren't there. They..." Red couldn't conjure the words. Rape was accurate but it didn't fully cover everything. The colours were too blended.
"Bent me over and... well, fucked me. Some kind of ritual to them, I think. They made some mixture of their semen, and fed me that. And I think that's how they do it. Like spreading the disease, if you wanna call it that.
"Sounds... things like that. They're all louder."
Striker watched his friend step away, breathing hard, turning in circles as if he were having a mental breakdown and frowned. Could it be true? He hoped to god it wasn't. There was no way a man like Red would let himself be brought back into civilised society carrying a potential biohazard inside himself. Still, he noticed. Yes, the slight physical alterations in him could have been mere tricks of the light, or brought on due to stress (from which they all suffered), but it could also be what Red had said. It was a reality Red seemed to be facing as they went on their way, and he was indeed different. His cock was jutting out, and Striker couldn't help but notice. It was something that he knew Red would never walk around sporting without reason. It was deeply concerning. Was he changing? Right before his eyes? And what if he did, would he become a danger, a threat? Would Striker have to be the one to put him down like a rabid dog who could no longer control himself.
He was staring at his back again, Red knew. It made him breathe. Not just breathe, but breathe: every course in the wind was new to him, and every scent was as alluring and fascinating as anything. He was learning with each fragrant encounter.
"Hey, are you two gonna keep up?" They heard Katana say from just up ahead.
These smells, they were driving him crazy! Assaulting him from all angles, he couldn't distinguish one plant from one animal, and onwards they kept at it, coming at him and coming. He felt dizzy, and he was sweating more than ever. Yet, only Striker was the problem.
"Red, are you sure you don't need to--"
"--I'm fine," insisted Red, shoving back his hands.
"Okay, alright," said Striker diplomatically; they couldn't afford an argument now, he pushed on and kept up with Katana. "Just keep going, keep him and the lad in sight at all times."
"I got it," said Katana. "Follow the kid. Not so much the other guy, eh?"
"No, not so much."
"Don't trust him, either?"
"I find it hard to believe anyone who says they would trust him."
Katana huffed in agreement and hobbled on.
"Wait," said Striker, moving away from the group briefly.
"What now?"
They had reached the bottom of the hills and had entered the jungle. It was hotter than ever, concealed within the layers of giant greenery. These paths were untrodden for the most part, with no direct trail to walk and the occasionally impassable oversized root and thicket of thorns to block their way. Trayack leapt most obstacles with ease but had to stop to watch and make sure the others were keeping up, especially Red. Now that he was carrying their seed, he was as important to him as kin. To a lesser extent, also Dmitri pioneered this.
"Why have they stopped again?" Said Dmitri.
"They have stopped to help the wounded one."
"Why they just not put him down," sighed Dmitri with an expressive throw of his arms as he watched the disparaging scene of pointless charity behind them. "And the blond, too. They do not have the blood like we do. They will only slow us down."
Trayack said nothing, and sat perched on a thick branch well away from the male in his postulations. He wasn't going to rush them. The route was treacherous and if they needed the rest, they could. The chances of the pack awakening soon were low, but all it took was one early riser to notice and raise the alarm and they would swarm the jungles looking for them. Time was short, yes, but this was the best route to take, the hardest to follow from conventional travel.
Dmitri sneered.
"You fools will be our deaths!" He shouted to them. "Flaming bleeding hearts! These Americans have no sense. No common logic. Soon that will change when he does."
The laugh chilled Trayack. It was cold. Callous.
Getting stronger by the hour, Dmitri knew that he could take care of the others and he and Red and the boy could leave together, but nothing could fix that damned bleeding heart! It was unfixable. It made him sick. Not even seeded by the wolf could change his stupid spirit. It was why so many of the American planes had been shot down; too much concern for each other. Even so, there was hope that Red could learn in time.
Yes, yes he would learn.
Down on his knees, he imagined. He would learn. Because I would teach him.
"When did they make you?" Trayack asked.
Snapped from his thoughts, Dmitri looked up at the boy. From down below, he was permitted with a diverting view between his legs. He was developing but he was not alpha material. Not like his brother.
"Was it Womack? My brother?"
"What." Dmitri was startled.
Trayack smirked, "I can smell him wherever he goes. Including inside you."
Of course he could. They were true blood relatives, after all, were they not? Their blood bond was stronger than that of his and Red's, or his and anyone else's in the camp. But how could he know that it was he who had implanted him the day he arrived? The weakling boy had been kept hidden away when someone new entered the camp. He was young, impressionable; look how easily he turned on his family for the sake of some attractive redheaded man.
He approached him.
"You can smell him on me, your brother?"
"Yes. Like I can smell it on Red."
"I cannot smell him on you."
"Because you're not fully blooded, yet," he chuckled.
"What does that mean?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"Fool. Of course not. I have been in cages since the day I was taken."
"You might not change. Blood might kill you. Or Red. Seed should be given in small doses. My father... Gogack, told me that once your body has gotten used to it and you want it, then you'll become full-blood. A werewolf. But that's not the end... are they still there?"
Dmitri nodded. "The blond American has given the Japanese one a stick that he found so he can walk with! Can you believe? Idiots."
"I don't think they are," said Trayack.
Trayack hopped down from the branch and walked to Dmitri's side.
"I used to watch you in the cages when they first brought you. I can't remember what happened to the other man you had with you."
"They killed him. You know this."
"No, I..."
Dmitri scoffed and walked away; the kid was really getting on his nerves. Asking questions, too many questions. He hoped to have forgotten Victor by now, but still the memories persist. Haunting. He tore through the trees to appear before the hapless group of three.
They looked laughable: the Jap and his third leg; the overly-attentive faggot with the moustache and finally Red, looking ready to tear apart a tree. What a funny bunch they were. He would not be accepted by them, and soon, neither would Red. They would both be shunned, and they would return to the motherland where it would reign supreme. The United States would try to capture and torture them for information, no doubt, but in Russia--in Russia--they knew not to throw away such gifts. And Dmitri was loyal: he would make sure that they both touched Russian soil, sole survivors, with no-one left to tell.
"You are taking too long--ditch the Jap, already--we do not have all day."
This was no lie: Red was adamant that they continue on quickly but he would never leave an injured teammate for the wolves. Striker was testing his patience, however, and sometimes, he wondered if not would not be simpler to knock one of them out who was holding them back the most and run for the beach.
"The fuck did you just call me, Vodka-Charlie?"
"Stop it," said Red, flipping back to his human-self. He stood between the ongoing conflict, a hand on each man's chest, keeping them firmly apart. "We don't have time. Striker, grab Katana and drag him along if you have to. I'm gonna take the lead, push on in front with Trayack. Dmitri, you stay behind. And don't try anything."
"Red, are you sure?"
"Don't question me," he said, perhaps a little more harshly than he intended, and then smiled apologetically. "I'm stressed, that's all--I'm sure--and we have to find the planes and rescue Dusk before anything happens to him; he's been out here more than a day by himself, bleeding a fucking river. None of us can afford to slack now that we've come this far." Red took up sticks and marched on ahead through the trees, chopping with his blade the overhang that might have made the journey even harder; anything to block out the smells, and even more, block out the incessant voices that threatened to crack open his tender skull.
"Fuck," winced Katana as Striker hastily grabbed Katana's arm and urged him onwards.
"Move your worthless asses," antagonised Dmitri behind them.
"Ignore him," ordered Striker as he heaved the man though the first few layers. "We have to keep moving. Dusk needs us, right? And Red isn't going to hang around."
And Red didn't.