WEREWOLF ISLAND
© 2023 by Toby Wolfham
All rights reserved.
Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com
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Chapter 1
THE CRASH
Soaring, flying, raging...
Cruising through the clouds at night was an epic fantasy few men could begin to imagine. The scorching steel, the burning heat; all served to ground into reality the consequence of error: one mistake and all could be lost in a fiery flux of eternal extirpation.
Few knew this fatal certainty more than United States Airforce Captain Rusty "Red" Wood, who, had for the better part of five years been the top of his class in firefighting and tactics. Having lost his father to the force many years prior, Red had been bred for skill and caution, determined not to make the same fatal miscalculations while learning every trick of the trade. He grieved and absorbed, and in the end, he was stronger for it--or so he thought.
Up above, enemy forces converged, ferocious, devious. Twelve of the fifteen allied fighter planes had already been taken down somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, with only three remaining to the six against them; double the odds dividing the defences of the New World from the Old World. Pilot and co-pilot were indiscriminately killed in this brutal sky-bound skirmish, their names already emblazoned in the thoughts and hearts of those still up in the air, serving as immediate enforcement to their actions. With the screech of every passing bullet, every rocket launched, friends and lovers were thought of, as death's decree fell upon them with force the likes of which were never felt before. They knew they would not survive. The only choice was how they went out: as cowards, or how many of the bastards they could eliminate before they accepted themselves as something other than all those who went out before and around them. As dead men--heroes--to be.
Like a comet in control of its own path, Red tore apart two of them--with ease--their jets blazed and spiralled in smoke and flames into the icy depths beneath. He cast a trail as crimson as his namesake (given on account of his distinctive flame-red hair), extinguishing the threat in a flurry of plummeting metal.
"Two down, seven to go," said Red.
Red knew the score. If he perished on this day, there would be no others to take his place, his brother's in arms dead, the front-line resistance would not just crack, they would be shattered. It was not through arrogance that he fought on, despite the fierce odds, it was expertise, honour and pride, all existed in abundance inside his smouldering heart. This ember refused to be doused by their hideous likes, it flickered within him, ever vigilant.
Bombers screamed left; Red banked right, narrowly avoiding wing-loss in a head-on collision, and his jet barrel-rolled into a shapeless wall of mist, so thick that no foglight could penetrate its magnitude. The density of this mystifying veil was so great that it caused Red's plane to lose altitude, and it began to descend. The rattle of his metallic bulk was deafening.
"Shit, Red we've been hit!" Came the panicked voice behind his ear.
Isaac "Dusk" DuPrey had been Red's loyal co-pilot for more than a year. A friend and a confidante not normally prone to anxiety; in the flight game, few could afford the luxury of hysteria, and Dusk was no exception. The sudden impact of unexpected turbulence, however, created an atmosphere that truly tested one's mettle.
"No," corrected Red. "Not hit."
Red pulled off his mask, now overheated, he gasped for breath.
Outside the cockpit window they saw an all-enveloping white. It surrounded them. More than that, it seemed to suck in their aircraft, lulling it into a gentle, persuasive drift, a stark contrast form the formerly violent bombardment.
An uneasy peace clutched Red by the throat, mired in suspicion and fear. Where had the firefight gone? Their compatriots, the enemy; nowhere to be seen. There resided here, little evidence that the melee ever took place at all. Neither did the warring sounds of the battle, muted by the morass which engulfed them. In the same vein as all of this, Red's cobalt eyes wildly careened, searching the fog for something--anything--and finally settled to enrich actuality. Several of the craft's main dashboard lights had petered out, while others scintillated in worrying undulations.
"System's are out," noted Dusk, flicking various switches to no avail.
"...because this is the Bermuda Triangle, Dusk."
"Batshit. I thought all that was a myth."
The seasoned aviator did not reply; his calm reproach was focused entirely on the maintenance of the endangered sky vehicle. Who knew how much airtime they had before the engine died on them completely. Seconds passed felt like minutes; the sands of time were being steadily displaced in the hourglass, as, too, their chances of recovery drained away with them. And then, at the bleakest moment of pure trepidation, the haze cleared. Cloudless blue greeted them on the other side of the divide, now gone, as if the whiteout, like the hitherto ceaseless din of clash and fury, had been a mere figment of overactive minds. Tranquil was the azure ocean under them; blue and more blue were drank in with Red's voracious appetite for comprehension, his own blues were as deep as the sea and as boundless as the sky, and in forging this trifecta of blue, an incandescence hit the silver bird from within, tempestuous instability shook it to its core.
"That fucking turbulence again," hissed Red.
"I'll get it," assured Dusk.
Swallowed up by the past, the previous serenity proved only temporary as all-too soon it was snatched away from them.
Dusk's gloved fingers could not locate that perfect combination of buttons and levers and command was thus lost, only Red was capable of pulling the plane up from what could be a lethal nosedive.
And then, a dot in the distance. A beacon of hope?
"Look!" Red jerked sharply upward in his seat, the rough skies giving him one hell of a fight.
Over Red's shoulder, the dark mask-less face of the co-pilot came into view, his eyes were like coals set ablaze in his smooth-shaven head, but there was patchy terror behind those glowing orbs. Like Red, Dusk was looking into the face of the Reaper, and had done so many times before. This was not something new or unusual. It happened. Infrequently, but at times, in rare situations it was an unavoidability. How one dealt with assured death was the mark that separated men from heroes.
What Red was seeing defied likelihood, but it was not outside the realms of possibility: an island, rich with verdant forests and hills, shades of dark green met the golden sands that rimmed it. There had been other islands in the ocean, but most had been too few to note. This, however, was sizeable to the extent of optimism. Red knew that he could land there. It would be no unbroken touchdown but it was clearly and with invariably the only option. The island was also uncharted. Without a map, how could they ever expect rescue?
Unable to prevent his faithful machine's untimely downfall, Red jarred the handle with his unyielding muscle, honed expertly in order to keep such a steel beast leashed, locked it in position and jammed in the Emergency Autopilot button, big and red, protected by a thin sheet of glass, now broken under a bloody palm.
"Shit!" Red cried.
A surprise explosion signalled a hectic return to the destructive here and now that they faced, splintered from the living dreamscape, an ally aircraft came sailing by, its tail eaten away by inferno. With no time to mourn the senseless loss of lives as his comrades plunged to their deaths before his very eyes, heavy-metal like ball of hellfire. He blocked it out, sole controller of his own destiny; he would not follow them down, even as their propellers ceased perpetual motion and the deafening hum of the engine spluttered and died mid-air.
"We're going down! Get your head between your legs and--"
"--kiss my ass goodbye, I got it, Captain."
With no saving the plane, Red and Dusk unbuckled, worked on a daring escape instead. Parachutes were checked recurrently for defects, without any expectation of being used in combat, they nevertheless were more important than any firearm or ammo case; true lifesavers, especially in their line of work. Jumping from a moving plane and opening an expanding sheet of nylon to catch the wind as they fell, a lot of reliance went into them. Blind faith, chance. Smoke filled their eyes as lower and lower the jet decreased in altitude. A crash at this speed and angle would be terminal. Red made sure that they would crash at one side of the island to give them the best opportunity to drop safely. Imperfect as it would prove to be, it was doubtlessly preferable over the killing alternative. Simply, they had no alternative.
Red was freed from his harnesses and belts first and the great blast of wind from the opened hatch almost ripped his helmet from his head. Into view came the tops of trees, he had to leap quickly; they were losing the prospect to gain air enough to open the parachutes. He grabbed the rail and bailed just as the crushing began.
All was a blur.
The noise was immense and with the pulverising thrash of trees breaking his fall, Red saw nothing, not the silver monster as it sank nor the body of his companion Dusk. Black and green sped deliriously before his eyes for a while myriad hideous sensations assaulted him; pain: slashing blows from the sharpened branches, slicing his military fatigues wide open, tearing open his flesh. He could feel the cutting wind like ice on his skin, then the bone-breaking collision of body-on-body; Dusk's body hit him in the air, their `chutes entangled with each other, and with the trees, and then all was lost. In a matter of seconds. That had been all that was needed from the abandonment of the fighter, up to the savage crash-landing. So little time. Another second and things might have ended very disadvantageous.
Never before had a task as difficult that arose to Red's recollection than opening his eyes had been the moments following the plane crash. Such destruction had come to the tropical isle, such noise and fire, that it should have been a reasonable impossibility for him to reawaken. But there he was; blinking open bleary cobalt orbs unto the sight which the glare of the sun laid out copiously before him. Beauty indescribable. Lofty palms with their healthy foliage larger than men dominated the skyline as far as he could see above. And below, an intricate thatch-work of vinery and flowers exceeding the very definition of exotic carpeted the fertile earth. More stunned by the glimpse into this paradise than he was his own predicament, the pilot had forged his own priorities: he found himself high above the ground, but for once without the company of his beloved craft, suspended by a thick tree branch he caught in an inadvertent body-hug that doubtlessly halted what would have been an unwavering deathly fall. As consequence, he only lost his helmet, instead of his head. The plane was nowhere in sight, and neither was his partner, Dusk.
"...ahh," he choked.
The vain attempt to cry his name led Rusty to realise his own injuries, a sharp jab in his chest told him that he at at least one fractured rib in amongst his bruised ribcage. A hot running of thick fluid through his crimson hair appeared even redder on the tips of his fingers. A head injury? He was bleeding from nothing more than a fortunate gash--a survivors souvenir--somewhere buried under the mussed thicket above his eye. It bled down his face a steady stream before coming to an abrupt halt, benign.
"Isaac--Dusk--can you hear me?"
Vague flashbacks to the grand fall from what may as well have been the stratosphere, beat at the door of his consciousness with supreme urgency: the two men had dropped together, and their parachutes had become snared.
Red saw his own parachute in the trees above, his alone.
Unsheathing the scarred grey combat knife from his thigh holster with one hand, he clung to the lifesaving tree branch with the other arm wrapped around. No easy task, it pained him in excess to cut himself free from the thick straps that shackled him to the treetops, a slashing and a sawing, and he needed to breathe, to wince. The more conscious the effort became, the more the aches and agonies played upon his form. There were cuts up and down his legs, tears in his combat trousers; a gaping hole in his back had opened up and started to bleed through the shredded layers of protective clothing. Finally, the first black cord snapped away, jolting his beaten form harshly up and down. Eagerly, he reaffirmed his grip and held on for dear life, for he was only three cords away from his potential fate. Whatever that may be.
Just then, halfway through the second, terror came from above; almighty pandemonium broke loose in what had been relative peace for these few minutes as from the sky the whirring, haunting flow of an aircraft in distress--forced decline--sounded like a thousand ghosts in mourning, a dreary, traumatic tone that caused Red's bowels to convulse. There was no seeing above, as the trees obscured every inch of sky from view, even as he craned his neck and peered vertical to a number of zealous angles, he saw nothing save the multitude of diamond-shape leaves and diamond-shape apertures where the scant flecks of blue and smoke taunted him.
Badly he wanted to see what was, whose plane it was going down on the other side of the island. Was it foe, or friend? With Dusk missing, and his own location unknown, it meant the world that he intercept them, because despite his precision-perfect eyesight and peerless physique, not even he had the eyes nor the body enough to escape this island unassisted. He needed help. They all did.
Spurred on by the seismic spasm the jungle wrought upon him as the plane crashed through the arboreal landscape and to the ground somewhere in the undetermined distance, Red slashed apart the last of the two straps; he fell; his body tumbled haphazardly and without warning enough to climb down the mammoth trunk of his own accord, he plummeted. Plummeted like the planes to the island.
Red's body was tossed from tree to tree, twisted through the branches, was ensnarled and untangled just as fast, before he landed, face-down in amongst the dense coppice, thankfully responsive enough to know that he had not died during the second mighty fall.
If his body hurt before, he was in agony now.
Wounds yawned not only on his head and rib, but the bleeding recess in his back had spread, and the split lip was a testament to his recklessness if nothing else. But it was his limbs that bore the brunt of the onslaught; one arm and one leg--both on the right side--refused to be straightened out as he tried to rise, and squeezed out a guttural grimace from his bloodied and broken lips.
"H-holy shit," he panted; heart in palpitations.
Surveying the damage was something he aptly appointed to a later time, for the current: he stared up in awe at the height he had just called from. It must have been at least a mile. The trees not only appeared considerably thicker from this perspective, but their age were indisputably ancient--prehistoric--their girth could not be matched even if twelve men held hands around them. Absolutely colossal.
Even so, a number of the trees were of a lesser ilk, shorter, skinnier, perhaps even younger saplings. Regardless, they dwarfed many of those Red had seen back home in the urban parks and municipal grasslands. And the opulence of brightly coloured flowers were so abundant and voluminous that when looking out of the corner of his eye, they could be mistaken for elegant ballgowns of many young women from a century ago. Like the trees, the flowers too transcended what should have been natural size; they had been left alone for many eons. Red would not have been surprised at all if he had been the first man to set foot on this undiscovered island since its emancipation from the Pangea, if it ever had been.
The sights were not all that he remarked upon. Smells, too, were a veritable cornucopia of elliptical sensations: the sweets and the sours did not collide, but danced, made love, aroused the senses from within. He could get lost in it, forget the shallow lacerations and purple contusions and let the redolent lust wash over him. Within moments he imagined laying naked in a soothing water, one that healed his aching body, laced with floating flowers and decorated with immodest vines whilst young and nubile maidens, scantily clad, nursed and attended to him.
Red felt something crawl up the inside of his leg.
Then, the aromas dispersed on a strange wind, too exact to be unexceptional. The allure of the smells withered away in every respect when realisation set in, for it was no young and nubile maiden's hand that bristled him, stroked his swelling member from beneath and behind, but a low-hanging tendril from a vulgar flower. Swiftly, he turned to face the monstrosity, and was repelled instantly ate the freely-exhibited weird characteristics, giant petals that trumped even the most known extant species earth had to offer. It's glistening, throbbing pink corolla were suggestive in their innuendo, but too hideous to behold were the carpels, like a slit bearing multiple rows of animate serrated teeth. The flower resembled a hugely overgrown, petalled Venus flytrap, but its teeth resembled something else entirely. A cross-bred freak perhaps, not content with the luring of entomology, it had naturally or unnaturally evolved to trap and feed on larger prey.
It disgusted Red, his face contorted. He smacked away the tendril before it could molest him further, and to his horror, he found it to be sticky; the residue left on his hands was designed like flypaper, he thought, bringing the bile to the back of his throat. If he had been but a second slower, he conceived the thing might have had him in its ambush.
"What the fuck..?" Slowly, he backed away.
The Yonic hissed. A sound that was as inconceivable in origin as the creature itself. From its gaping maw came a spray that struck Red in the chest, the physical strength of which not only knocked the fully-grown six foot man off his feet cleanly, but was succeeded by an even greater torment, a sizzling crackle, then the district smell of burning. It singed not only his nostrils, but as the acid burnt away at the layers of clothing, it started to burn into his flesh, too.
With a shout he scrambled as far away as he could, until his back hit the base of a tree and there he began to strip his already torn flight jacket from around his shoulders. There was a gooey sap glueing between the layers already, sticky, translucent and expanding. Gone were the superficial guiles; the Yonic shed all of those things and revealed itself to be the true predator that it was. Red had worked off the jacket, the breast had burnt away, blackened at the edges as if it had been licked by a spreading flame and hurled it to the ground between him and the monster. His hands, which had been exposed to the impetus of the spittle had suffered the most in his efforts to disrobe, were afflicted with harsh burns to the fingers and knuckles. Hastily he rubbed dirt on them. The pain subsided soon after. Wiser for his encounter, Red got up and fled the scene before the plant could spit again (or before something else could sink its claws into him). As big and deceptively clever as it was, he was safe as long as he kept the jungle between him and it. And, since it was rooted, there was zero risk of it stalking him. Small mercies, he was very grateful for.
Now without his jacket, Red wore a black tank top which had a scorched mark over one side of his chest, revealing a pinkish blotch of bare skin underneath. His unclad arms were veneered in a coat of black-and-blue. The embattled aviator, more vulnerable to the unsung wiles of this hostile terrain, walked warily onwards. He ducked under more vines, stepped over thick, exposed roots, and climbed the more oversized obstacles. So elephantine was everything in this steaming hot jungle, that there was nary a spot that Red set foot on that he didn't have to scale. Almost everything required no minor physical effort to overcome.
When he came across the shards; the first remnants of his downed plane, the sweat and sway reached its zenith. He was gleaming with it.
Unbearable heat, the moisture was quickly sapped from the traveling man as he wandered the jungle and followed the slivers of silver. Along the way, he found opportunity and unclipped the leather wineskin containing water that had miraculously survived the crash. It was a cooling welcome against his parched lips, cracked from the signs of early dehydration. Much of it, he swallowed, throat bobbing with elated appreciation.
After the drink, he moaned lowly, licked up the precious droplets before they escaped and were soaked up by the ungrateful soil. Suddenly he understood the importance of things he may have in the past taken for granted; right now, nothing came close to being as vital--as fucking good--as these few gulps. He stopped before he drank every drop and pocketed the rest, despite the itching need he had to pour the remaining fluid over his burning skin to cool it.
Red closed his eyes, tensed, then breathed. Moved on.
It was not much further of weaving and vaulting when the glimmer hit his eyes; a light reflection from the shiny surface of the plane. He didn't let it dazzle him for long.
He festinated towards the shine and didn't let anything stand in his way. He just knew that Dusk was still alive (he had to be), and sure enough: there he was. But it didn't look good.
Laid amongst the strewn wreckage of the aircraft was his partner, ragged up to tatters and bleeding profusely, mainly from his head. So much red was streaming down his black face that Red could hardly make out an eye or his nose. It sent a direct shock through him. He stopped, fearing with his heart that the man was dead.
And then he moved.
They both moved: Dusk's fingers twitched, and Red's feet wrenched forward. He cried out his name as he approached and fell to his knees.
"Jesus, man," shuddered Red.
Dusk coughed, first a little, then a lot.
Red sat him up and he winced, in obvious discomfort. He wouldn't stop coughing. The last of the water was desperately fed to the man, head tipped back and he compelled him to drain it without question. A few spatters came back, laced with blood, but just after the last drop left the skin, the heaving, violent shakes abated.
"Thought I'd lost ya."
"Not a chance, Red," he hacked.
"Not a chance--"
"--Captain. Not a chance, Captain, Red."
"Good man, Dusk. Should've known better than to count you out, huh?"
"Damn right."
Stubbornness brought the man to his feet, with Red lending him his own broad shoulders for support, and, with a hand thrown in to the equation, Dusk was up--not quite well, but up. The classical mythology of until death, amongst soldiers, was no fabrication to this hardened duo. They had worked together on and off for the better part of two years, bonds formed, trusts were established and reinforced from countless brushes with the Dark Angel and his winged legions. Time after time they fought that crusade together and flew away. As long as there was still breath in Red's lungs, he would make sure his old friend would make it out of this alive, if he himself could not. They hobbled unilaterally to the wreckage.
"Old girl is gone, I'm afraid," said Red.
After settling Dusk to sit on the severed fuselage, Red examined the steel husk for salvage. He found little else but the metallic scraps and electronic parts. It was a war-zone. What had come down, formerly their dependable angel in the sky had fell as a fireball, clearing an impact-zone where it hit. Trees were flattened, the leafage scarred by intense heat for the entire area contained within its radius. The smell of burning was rich and sultry, its sluggish aroma, along with the smoke that came with it, dug its way into not only noses, but clothes, sweat and skin. They were both filthy with it. It, however, was not at the forefront of worry. The medical supplies bag was in tattered remains in the debris, as indistinguishable as a speck of dust in a tornado. There was something, however, that stood out from the chaos.
Wedged at the intersection to what appeared to be a naturally worn path, was something more fabricated: a carven totem, engraved from a dark, thick wood of unknown origin, detailed with intricate (but blunt) shapes, atop which sat a skull--a human skull--gawking out with empty, hollow eyes. Red approached this post and immediately saw the coloured feathers, the strips of leather, and understood its meaning. It was a ghastly warning.
"Hey, Captain," called Dusk.
Red turned his head.
Dusk, alike had noticed something through the trees at the other side.
Following his gaze led to another warning post. It was of similar motif with perhaps only a slight variety in the wood's style. Red strode around the burnt-out arena, and found a further totem, which equalled three in total, and each pair of eyes were placated on these two visitors. It made the redhead nervous enough to keep his fingers by his blade handle, just in case something opted to act on the formality of skulls. He could almost imagine the skulls flaring to life, eyes cold and dead, enraged with an unearthly desire to enact vicious soulless vengeance upon these trespassers.
"Looks like someone doesn't like company."
"Thought this island was uninhabited," Dusk said.
"What gave you that impression?" There didn't appear to be anyone watching them. He returned to his partner to begin work on assessing his wounds, before he quickly surmised: "You'll live."
"Thanks, Doctor," scoffed Dusk, hissing in pain as his leg was raised up and the bloodied, torn cloth rolled back to reveal the thick slab of metal sticking out. "Shit that looks bad, don't it?"
"Shut up. Keep talking."
"Shut up, keep talking, which is it?"
Red shut him up with a sharp yank of the cause of his suffering. It was in there distressingly deep. It couldn't be moved without proper medical apparatus; they both knew this with a heaviness that hung in the air as thickly as the ash before their eyes but was spoken not. They had long ago been taught through trade and experience not to talk about dire things, and how to look on the bright side. Red had no doubt that they would be extracted from the island by nightfall. Dusk, however, was not so sure their rules applied on the island.
"Where the hell are we anyway?" He wondered, now taking his turn to look around at the destruction. The co-pilot seat in the cockpit where he had sat only minutes before had been decimated. If he hadn't ejected in time, Dusk would have been nought but a smoking pile across the way. He may not have known where they were, but at least he was blood and bone.
"Off-chart. 25.0000° North, 71.0000° West, or thereabouts. Go figure."
"You're shitting me. Still?"
"Why not? It's not like there's such a thing as the Devil's Triangle."
"Hey, man. Don't get me wrong. You and I have flown through so many times, but I never seen any islands like this before."
"You questioning my compass-reading prowess there, Dusk?" Red smirked, realised his compass while as cracked as the rest of his equipment, still read, however, those infamous digits back to him. "And I thought you trusted me, buddy."
"Say what you want; I didn't crash us."
"Yeah, but we weren't the only ones brought down."
"I saw what you saw. You think they survived, too?"
Red finished wrapping his leg in whatever scraps he could find on the ground. His leg was a mess but it would suffice. "I honestly don't know. I don't see any flares... there. Better than nothing. I mean, you're not gonna be able to walk for a while, but..."
"But--what--I sit on my ass here in the open while I wait for you to do all the heavy-lifting? Don't think so."
"Ain't got a choice, I'm afraid. It's an order."
"Aw, shit..." Dusk sulked at the derisive order.
Meanwhile, Red broke from the temporary encampment to glare with worry at the definite warning signs.
"Wait, wait a minute. You're really going out there? You don't know what's out there! You do see all these fucking signs, right? My advice: don't ignore `em. There's bound to be some kind of... I don't know... primitive--I guess--waiting to spring a trap."
Red turned back. "Hell, I know that. But one of us has to get help. I saw the others go down not that far from here. I'll be quick."
"Don't be quick. Be careful. Captain."
The bulwark of sweltering heat hit him at once; no traps, no primitive, as Dusk dubbed them, would be stupid enough to risk to attack something that fell from the sky, and endured! He had conveyed that message to his friend before departing. Leaving Dusk alone and injured stabbed Red deep, but onwards he knew he must go if they were to get anywhere. The redhead aviator had no intention of sitting around waiting to be rescued, it defied his character. Not when he was physically fully able to do something himself. Even so, the diabolical humidity dragged at his heels, dogged him, with the menace of a snarling hungry dog, comparative to the dogs in the sky that had hounded him, he was out of his element here; the malevolence was real.
Most of Red's cuts were healing already, cleaned and wiped with the last remains of his shirt, he was freed from their restrictive qualities but also from their protective ones; his sweat-slicked bare torso glistened in the sunlight that split through the overhead palms. All of his possessions that were of utmost import were close at hand: the watch doubled as a compass on his wrist; the stock-issued combat blade lay alert in its holster at his thigh (with which, he put to use in the obligatory hack and slash his way through the oppressive plant life that insisted on obstructing the path); around his back, shoulders and breast were belted pockets attached to each other containing various survival emergencies, hooks and cord, matches, and ammo for a handgun destroyed in the crash, none of which he required at the time being, but with which he knew of means out of the ordinary for which he might put them into good use.
He had been traveling for what seemed like hours, but in reality may have lain closer to the thirty minute mark. He questioned the size of the island while he chopped away at moist branches that sprayed their juices over him. Alike, he questioned the terrain, where uphills were becoming vastly more common underfoot than downward paths. Was he going up the mountain? Or just the hillsides that littered the land, buried `neath the carpet of greenery?
"Shit," he sweated from his eyelashes into his eyes.
Red stopped and sat upon a large and long, flat rock, which evidenced the mountain theory. It was smooth and perfectly fashioned, as if by-hand for the exact purpose he used it for now. The water cask was unhooked from his hip, empty.
He sighed, realised that he gave Dusk the last of the water.
Scoping out the area had so far proved fruitless; the sheer volume of jungle was providing an agonising challenge for someone already so exhausted from the trauma of the so-far.
Badly, he wanted to sleep, to rest his aching bones and muscles upon the smooth, flat rock that had been so conveniently fashioned for him in the here-and-now. Deliberately, he laid back, hands behind his red head, the golden patches of hair under his pits speckled ever-so slightly with beads of sweat therein.
"Just a few minutes," he told himself, eyes drifting. "Then I'll be on my way. Gotta save... gotta save Dusk... and the others"
As he rested, his muscular back arched perfectly perpendicular to the rock, now patterned with the wet silhouette of him. He groaned; the gruff drawl of his barely pattered against the closest leaf and he was asleep, meandering in a scape between the real and the fantastic.
Blood.
The odour was fresh.
Wild.
The young hunter used all of his preternatural senses and found the sleeping male laid upon the flat rock, open, waiting. He was bleeding.
Hungrily, he licked his teeth, shreds of meat still remained squirrelled away into little nooks and crannies within the cavities. They tasted days-old but he devoured them with all the insatiable appetite of a man starving, for for too long had he been without a meal worth its weight, and as much as he could take, he would take.
The red male was beautiful, without a doubt: golden all over, like he'd been baked in the sun's heat for too just long enough and now he was prime, lewd in his positioning. Like on display.
Meat on a hook.
For the taking.
This one, was worth the wait, and, worth his weight in flesh and then some.
A fledgling expert in the art of camouflage, the youth had yet to perfect the ability to remain unseen in the open to the extent where he could confidently bear the inclination towards the faultlessness of near-invisibility. He was raised to be hidden to the human naked eye (and other eyes), so long as the inescapable inborn rage remained in-check. Rage was something they all bore. Few could ever truly control it, and in matters of stealth, much was at stake. When it was blood on the air, they thought not of restraint, they thought of thirst.
His mouth watered.
Silently he sneaked through the bustling undergrowth like snake on the prowl, his boldly unclothed, lithe frame moved with near-immaculate deception. The heat oiled his skin, made him glide, slither, and made him lust. With the closeness of prey, so rose his need to use it.
Playing with prey became almost literal, in effect.
And the red one was something rare to him. In all his eighteen years, he had not seen anyone quite like him. He was built like the Chief, his father, but coloured different. His skin was just a shade lighter and his hair was a most fascinating colour; a colour of danger. And how he lusted for that danger.
The hunter's slim cock hardened.
Sex was something his breed constantly craved. From an early age he had been taught how to knead his member and how to treat another man's. He had not witnessed the delicate contours of a female in the flesh; his kind were all male, so, all their sexual propensity was to his own gender. There had been stories, sure, erotic illustrations most vivid but untouchable. This red man was touchable, and he wanted to touch him like nothing before, as, he was sure, every male in his pack would. Others had been brought to their island before, but he had been but a runt then, the best meat was saved for the elders. Now that he had grown muscle, strength, and earned his scars; he believed he had his right to taste this man as much as any of them.
And why shouldn't he?
Greed consumed him. It was forbidden to take a share for oneself--all must be shared out amongst the pack, with agreements made to proportion based on importance--the chief reaped the biggest share, while meagre morsels generously left behind were to feed those such as himself. There was no explanation for his desire to take more than he should have, just a selfish, petty need to have something of his own, something that he didn't have to share. At least, not yet.
The bulging shape in the front of the stranger's pants was the thing--the cherry on top--that drew the attention of his hungry eye. From the pellets of sweat that collected on his chiseled collarbone, to the way his sculpted chest and shoulders jutted, there was something new and thrilling at every angle he gaped as he went circles around the resting, respiring male, not even upsetting a breeze as he moved. His slumber was due, he decided, unconsciousness, rather than natural sleep. It would mean it would be tricky to rouse him, even if he tried. Many times, when his brothers had returned from the hunt wounded or damaged in some way, he saw the way their sleep was contrasting, and how it differed from the normal cycle. Surely this man's systems did not deviate. And how his breath hitched at that acquired knowledge; it meant that he could sate not just his greedy eyes, but his greedy hands, too. Nimble fingers traced the lines, lightly, merely allowing himself the pleasure of the chase. Building up the longing.
The hunter's pink tongue peeked out from between his pert lips, bestowing his fingertips the familiar slick of crystalline saliva before his stoked his own slender stiffness, slathering the exposed head with wet. He leered over him.
Should he wake now, what would he see? A man years younger, pale from his kind's proclivity for the shadows, cock in hand. What would he hear? The sounds of the jungle creature's revelry amongst their kin, or the sound of his heavy breathing and slicking of skin? Would he be able to taste his sweat like he could? Would he want to taste it--taste him? Perhaps he would wake up in fury much like the elders, filled with rage, and throw his worthless hide on to his stomach on the rocks and have his wicked way with him. Use him like a vessel, rip him open wide and fill him.
"Yes," the hunter murmured under breath. It was a thought he rather liked the idea of.
But first, before he brought himself too close to go back, he climbed over the man, without contact, just to feel the closeness of the body, the heat of warmth and the hum of electricity from the skin. Those same lips that provided his selfish self with satisfaction now hovered very close above his; his breath was intoxicating as it drifted. Human. He had smelled human before. This one was different from the others, not to mention how different he looked.
It was his duty, however, to report his findings to the pack, as he hadn't the strength to carry him there all alone, not with so many unknowns lurking in the air.
There had been two crashes, of that he was certain, as certain he was that the other hunters would be on their way to investigate the other site at that very minute. They, less inclined to play, less selfish than he, would abide by the capture or kill directive. He disliked having to kill this handsome red man, and a fight may ensue should he fail in his duties.
A taste then, before he returned.
He leaned in, closer, cock released from hand, it sprang upright and slapped against his taut stomach. The kiss was wanted, needed, but more so, as soon as his young mouth dipped lower to invade his, the scent of his dripping blood overpowered. It had always been strong, prevalent, but his sexual desire had so far kept in-check his need to give in to his greater nature. To feed.
He knew that this, the blood, the cuts, he could not taste. His essence would be left upon them, to be later tasted by the others.
And the punishment for that transgression would be incomprehensible.
Sweat. Skin.
Guttural intensity.
He had to get away from this man.
Red woke up. Alert, as if shot through with a bolt of lightning.
"What a crazy fuckin' dream,'" he sighed.
Something was different. He sat up and observed his blatant surroundings. Was it darker, or was he imagining things? Phantoms? The overwhelming paranoia came when he saw the fleeing shape flitting through the trees just ahead of him, seemingly confirming his indirect and unwanted suspicions: there was someone--or something--fast, very fast, and clearly unperturbed by the haughty burdens of the illicit jungle.
He caught a rampant flash of skin and a flutter of leaves, which fluttered like the trail behind.
So it wasn't a nocturnal hallucination after all.
Disturbed, Red clambered urgently from the rock atop which he laid and sought his sheathed weapon, the blade, thankfully it remained in his charge. For why someone might approach him and not seize his weapon was unknown; he considered, briefly, that less time had passed than he felt it had, and the person who stalked him had merely not had the chance to claim it--or him--yet.
Then why were his pants unbuckled? Why was his red prick erect?
Flustered at this, he had to check himself, and found that he remained clad in underwear and he felt no evidence of interference. Never had Red been violated before, and, it seemed, he had escaped it this time. It was a base sort of relief, but confirmed that what he saw: the humanoid shape looming over him, and the taste of his breath on his tongue, was in fact, not just the stickiness of a dry mouth. It was factual. Blind confusion made him unsheathe the blade and spin around to fully face, if not his attacker, then his own creeping distress. Finding only the stillness, he cautiously lowered his guard when nothing came. Exotic birds chirped happily, blissfully ignorant overhead.
Unable to just forget the character he may or may not have seen, regardless, Red reminded himself of those signs: the several scattered warning posts made of wood that he had found near the remains of the crash and he cursed ever ignoring them. However, and however, he accepted that what was done was done, and he was not going to let this event dissuade or distract him any further; he was going to move on with every bit of caution he could muster. The jungle was more dangerous than he ever thought possible.