WEREWOLF ISLAND
by Toby Wolfham
© 2023 by Toby Wolfham All rights reserved.
Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com
(For comments, inquiries, and communication)
Chapter 10 THE GHOSTS
Alarm was almost raised just after dawn.
Gorr had held him off as long as he could, but as soon as Vestra arose on the grounds of the camp and demanded his raging hard-on get the attention it deserved, only to find the slave pen empty of its denizens, he raced to wake the others.
"Hey, where do you think you're going?"
"Gorr... out of my way," he proclaimed.
"Not so fast," Gorr insisted, holding him in his vice-grip. "You look pretty drunk, still, to me. Busy night, eh?"
"I'm... not," he slurred, unconvincingly. "They're gone. All gone."
"Are you sure?"
He nodded, then snarled as the ache in his frontal temples burned. Ordinary pain often did not affect werewolves, such as the thrust of a spear or pierce of an arrow, but poisons like alcohol, and related side-effects could become problematic for those less experienced. Gorr knew how to handle hangovers; he did not drink. His body was a temple that he rarely desecrated. An alpha had to know how to respect himself and what he was capable of in order to reach his full potential, and he had done just that by abstinence of the usual perverse desires and bodily-destructive toxins and consecrating his flesh with physical labour. Gorr was the hardy one, the one no-one ever bothered; even Womack disliked to acknowledge his existence within the pack.
He placed himself within and without.
"I think you're stinkin' drunk, my friend."
"`m not..." he was and they both knew it.
"Why don't you sit down and think about that later? You can barely stand, you sop. Now. Sit."
Vestra wouldn't sit, his head swirled and his brain bulged but he did not sit. He raised his voice, he tore away from Gorr in uncoordinated flails and made for the newly-appointed chief's longhouse, where surely Womack slumbered non-the-wiser. However, not four feet away and he ate dirt, body slammed to the ground, teeth smashed and dust-blind, he never knew what hit him.
"I said sit."
When Vestra struggled and fought to stand again, Gorr took away the option and crushed his face down hard with his foot to the back of his head. He stayed dow. that time.
No time to waste, Gorr heard shouts from across the camp, over the buildings. Early-risers. They had not yet discovered that the humans had fled through the unguarded back door. With no guards posted in the night, he had been able to close and bar the gate behind them, further covering their tracks, however, it was only a matter of time. He needed to get rid of Vestra before he became even more belligerent.
Gathering vine and rope that scattered around, he quickly lowered to hogtie the unconscious werewolf.
Someone interrupted him.
A face, right in front of him.
"Hey there, Gorr-buddy... what've you been up to?"
Gorr froze and looked up. "Tserra."
He was caught. On his knees, he had been stopped in the process of tying Vestra's hands and feet behind his back. He didn't dare deny it, or move. And when Tserra clicked his tongue and tutted, he was rigid in his inability to act.
Tserra squat down and prodded Vestra. "Oh, dear... someone been naughty? Needed tying down? Woof, didn't think you were the type, big guy. Sort of the soft and gentle type... that's what I pictured anyhow."
Was he trying to prolong this to annoy him?
"What do you want Tserra?"
"I wanna lend a hand, what did you think?"
At that, Tserra shifted Gorr's stilled hand out of the way and started to work at the ropes and made knots the likes which were designed to be as painful as possible if someone tried to break loose by brute force.
"Hey. Are you gonna tie this prick up, or am I doing this myself? We don't have much time."
Gorr couldn't believe that Tserra was, for once, making a lot of sense. His head back in the game, he helped finish off the knots just as Vestra came back around--too late--Tserra heaved him up over his shoulders and carried him off with Gorr holding fixed his jaw. No screams meant they could buy more time.
"Where we taking him?"
"There. Weapons shed."
Both rushed for the shed in the corner, wary that the sounds of their werewolf brothers rising from sleep meant that they could not afford mistakes. Their captive writhed and snapped at them, but Gorr was too coordinated; kicking open the door and letting them in. What happened next was a blur of motion. Tserra darted to the corner where a caged-in section had been built by Gorr to protect weapon theft and tossed the body in amongst the bed of hay there where he sank like a stone in the ocean. He kicked up a fuss, however, straw flying, and then Tserra was at him again. Gorr couldn't see it all as he closed and locked the door behind them, but he turned in time to see the blond werewolf grab a recovered steel blade that had been pilfered from the body of an unknown soldier who never made it far passed the beaches and thrust it into the cloud of hay. It was a chilling manoeuvre that might've made Gorr's blood run cold if once again, the supposed dumb, sex-hungry Lycan hadn't surprised him by not using the weapon to inflict pain. Instead, he used his brain, he used threat of pain, which was arguably better.
"Now, you listen to me, Vestra," he nearly purred, lowered his body on top of his, suggestively, covering his mouth with his hand. "I want you to shut your fucking mouth. You're strong, I'll give you that... but are you strong enough to fight to alpha dogs when you're all tied up like this?"
Taking his cue, Gorr appeared within sight of Vestra, arms crossed, muscles expanded intimidatingly. But he was cautious. Tserra might cut his throat but could he finish it before Vestra called out for help? It would be pointless. Surely he knew that. The vacant slave lot would be found very soon, and killing him would ensure--two minutes?--less? No. Keeping him quiet for now was all they could do.
"I think you saw something, Vestra-boy, didn't you?"
The werewolf flinched. The knife was dragged across his upper chest.
"Tserra."
"I think you saw something that you should have. What do you think?"
A repressed scream as Tserra pierced his skin with the sharp tip.
"Tserra. Stop."
"My buddy, Gorr, here... he wants to play the good-cop. But you have no idea how good my bad-cop impression is. Wanna see it?"
He flicked the knife against the male's open lips.
When he whimpered, Tserra stuck the knife into his mouth.
"Enough, Tserra. He gets it. It's a waste of time anyway."
Tserra wasn't done with him. His fun was not something one interrupted at such short notice. Inserting the blade deeper, poor Vestra had to open his mouth wider so as to not split his mouth open in a new and disturbing grin. Deeper meant wider, and that was becoming an ironic theme as further the alpha probed, threatening to prick the soft flesh of the insides with the point. Back and forth, he started to fuck his throat with the knife.
"Suck it," he sneered. "And try to talk then."
There was a viciousness to his actions that made Gorr call it off. He stepped in and pulled back Tserra's arm with a skill honed so well from years of intricate work that barely a scratch was left as the knife was forcibly ejected. "Knock it off."
"Who are you!?" Tserra nearly roared.
"I'm the wolf who will have you on your ass quicker than you know it if you don't control yourself, Tserra."
Tserra laughed. He spat. "Funny. Because here I was, thinking you wanted this guy out of the way! Stupid me! What better way of creating silence than pulling out his fucking throat?"
Gorr didn't want conflict, least of all with perhaps his only ally. Incidental ally. "Never mind. Just leave him here. I'll gag his mouth."
Before Gorr had a chance to find a rag to stuff in his partly bleeding mouth, Tserra had pushed him back.
"Not that easy."
"Tserra," he said, firmly. "Not now."
"What are you afraid of? Don't think you can take me?"
Gorr stepped forward. He was not one to step down and let anyone talk to him like this. It was an insult. They stood almost chest to chest, with Gorr standing an inch or two taller than Tserra, and bulked even more than that, his dirt-encrusted sweat came pouring down his chest and arms. It was clear: Tserra was outmatched--a fool should he test him--alpha on alpha, always a battle for the ages. This time, it would be a battle not to be.
"Stand down," ordered Gorr.
Tserra did, but humbleness escaped him. The werewolf smirked and tossed the blade aside. He then pulled down his loincloth in a confusing tactic that defied all logic.
Gorr looked down, unperturbed. "What are you doing?"
"Slaves are gone aren't they?"
"What do you know?"
"That they left in the night. I knew they would. Hell, I might even have encouraged it," Tserra stepped closer, toe to toe. "Sometimes you gotta set a little bird free if it's gonna fly, ya know."
"Why did you help me?"
Eyes roved as they always did, cruised all over the impressive physique. Violence always did it for him. After a few day's hunting, there was nothing Tserra loved more than coming back to a respite of hard sex. He was relentless in his hunt of it. And the open association of one with the other never failed to arouse him. Once there was action, he wanted action. Everything else, every factor that may have prevented his needs being met were disposable.
"I helped you," said Tserra, stroking a thumb harshly over the sensitive flesh of the other's nipple. "Because I want them free as much as anyone. It gets very stifling in here. We don't belong in cages, why should they?"
"It's not right."
"No, it isn't. Now that Womack is in charge, who knows how long this place will hold together? Ghosts will overrun it, and we'll all be forced into the jungle again. Why not have some fun before all the boring drama starts? Always thought you and me would make a good team."
"I don't think so," said Gorr, striking Tserra's hand away.
Fingers, however, found even more sensitive flesh down below. He stroked the concealed shaft with ease. And it reacted to his touch, of course. After all, they were all just animals. All just creatures of want. Tserra didn't care who was the master, as long as he had his fun one way or another. Gorr didn't know what he ought to do; jaw tight and rigid, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet as further the confident werewolf stroked his criminally under-touched member. On one hand, more important issues were defiantly deserving of attention. On the other hand, Tserra's overt sexuality awakened his dormant beast.
"No," he said, making the decision and slapping this hand away once more. Shamed, he turned away and moved to attend to the tied up male.
Offended, Tserra growled out loud. "You fucking prude! You'd rather save yourself for someone you'll never find? We're gonna be here forever, you realise that? Take what you can, when you can: that is my motto."
Ignoring him, and suppressing the lewd throb in his loins, Gorr deftly made the decision to mute the furious Vestra.
"Ah, I get it..."
Vestra bit on the cloth with some violence and almost took off his fingers but Gorr made it clear: fight and you die. The press of the palm of his hand against his nasal passage meant he could easily thrust upwards and crush his bones up into his brain. Not even a werewolf could recover from that. His tissue would repair itself but could not rearrange itself that way. He would become a braindead monster, and what good was a monster if he didn't have the thinking power to chase down prey? It seemed enough to relax him. But he knew Tserra was at his back. This was not the first time he had tried to arouse him. At some point or another, most of the werewolves had fucked one another. Gorr was territory he simply couldn't gain, and that was an allure, he knew. The lack of availability had made the loner desirable, not just to the young Trayack or the unpredictable Tserra, but much of the camp eyed him with hunger. When the humans arrived, every few years, he was relieved that they would finally have someone new to pay their attentions to. Unfortunately, this batch of slaves had been a different case.
"What are you talking about?" Gorr knew damn well.
"It's him. The Red."
"What about him?"
"You old fool!" He laughed and slapped him on the back. "The one male you desire and he's so fucking flighty that you'll never have him!"
Gorr said nothing: he knew he had him.
"I don't believe it! Ol' untouchable has feelings after all, does he? And you chose the worst! I mean, he's... attractive, yeah. But I wouldn't wanna mess with Womack's claim. I guess that's what stopped you?"
"No," he said.
"Ah, so you're just shy. That's why you're helping him get away. Better to be away from here than to break your stony heart? Makes sense I guess. But I don't envy you."
"What about him?" Gorr broke, stuffed the cloth in hard and wiped sweat from his brow.
"My boy? Oh, well... he's different sure. But I'm not that much of an asshole. I don't think humans should be slaves forever, either. I talk big. You know that. They're fun for a while. My Strikey, well..." he reminisced, thinking fondly to the moans and cries he could suck from him. "He's nice. He deserved better, though. Better than turning into us. He'd lose all his appeal then. What made him different. You know? I sure hope they make it."
That surprised Gorr. "You do?"
"Yeah. To be free..."
Gorr stood and shut the cage door.
Tserra put both his hands on Gorr's shoulders, firm grips. He leaned in.
"Tserra..." he stopped him an inch from his lips.
"I know," he laughed, and instead of kissing, licked his face in a strip from chin to forehead, a long wet stripe. He moaned. "But you taste good though. Fucking good. Gotta hang out sometime--"
"--not that. Shut up, fool. Listen..."
Pushed back, Tserra scoffed and listened.
Indeed something else had caught Gorr's attention enough to prevent him giving in. What else could it have been?
Gorr went over to the slits in the walls and peered through.
The pack was alert; they had discovered the disappearance of the slaves.
"Shit. They know," said Gorr.
"Seems like it," added Tserra, leaning in to assess the view: panic in the streets, werewolves were padding around in full-force.
Soon, Womack would be made aware of the situation and then all hell would break loose on the island.
It was enough to spur even Tserra into action. He stepped away and found his loincloth, tugged it around his waist and began to equip himself with a variety of weapons from inside the structure. Knives and bows, he collected and started to strap around himself.
"What do you think you're doing?" Gorr asked.
"What does it look like?" Tserra scoffed. "Womack is gonna send the whole pack out after them--dead or alive--I for one, wanna make sure my little blond beauty comes back alive, if he has to come back at all. I'm gonna gear up and get out there with the rest of them. I suggest you do the same. That was we can... uh, persuade the others from finding them. If you know what I mean."
Gorr frowned. "No. I don't."
Rolling his eyes, the blond werewolf came at the brunette and tugged on his cock. It amused him to see him jump, for once, react. "Look alive. They're going to kill our good buddies. Do you wanna just sit here and wait 'til they bring back their corpses? Because I don't. Do let me know how Red tastes after he's been charred a bit."
Shit. That image: the charring, the burning; was more than enough to make him understand. He did not want to see any more death. This wasn't his way. Womack would love to see them all suffer. Alongside Tserra, Gorr began equipping himself.
"We do this my way," he said. "First, we wait for the order. Then, we head out with the others."
"Hey, as long as that asshole doesn't get what he wants, I'm with you."
"They're coming," said Tserra, looking once more at the door.
Two Lycans were rushing to the door.
"Make sure he is quiet," he pointed at Vestra. "We will do as ordered, for now. And then, as soon as we get chance..."
Tserra nodded and bolted for the back where he piled himself on top of the struggling Vestra; no amount of kicked-up hay was going to be seen by the two at the door. But he sure as hell wasn't going to let him get their attention any other way.
Terror swept over them at the sound of the horn.
"We have to move," declared Red. "Now."
The others did not argue.
Leaves and branches were chopped away by Red and his knife, but there was no time to wonder about the trail they made, they simply had to head eastward, towards the beaches. Forgetting the mission now would be disastrous; it meant their lives.
"Can you keep up?" Striker asked Katana.
The man under his arm faltered and slumped, but he said he could.
Dmitri kept close to Red, the leader.
"We should just leave them."
"That's not going to happen."
"They are on to us. Did you hear that? It was the sound of their warning horn. They know we are loose. We can't outrun them."
"Don't need to. As long as we make it."
Striker pulled Katana ever-faster. The pilot found it difficult to keep up; his co-pilot was seeming ever-heavier with each passing step, his energy dwindled. Red seemed merciless in his haste, humanity drifting further away. Then, he looked back, a warm concern, and the alienation was gone. This would happen repeatedly, like the redhead was struggling with his conscience. Leave them behind or help them? Striker wouldn't blame him if he wanted to save his own skin, but something in his eyes said he would never, no matter whose spunk he had been loaded with, be it werewolf or otherwise; he was still his best friend and he was not easily corrupted so ling as the company he kept reminded him of it all.
"Shut the fuck up, Putin. Striker..." Red stopped to turn back to them.
"We're okay. Keep chopping," said Katana.
Red kept chopping, lest the opportunity be lost.
Dmitri grabbed Red by the arm, gripped hard.
"No," said Red, before he could repeat himself. "Stay behind me and if you try anything, you're dead. I won't leave them."
The Russian growled and stepped back, for the first time depleted by Red's sense of loyalty.
"Hey! I don't think I've been this way before," said Trayack from his place behind Dmitri.
"It's okay," said Red. "Untrod territory is good thing. It means nobody had the advantage. Keep up."
Trayack was keen to impress the redhead, his sole interest amongst the humans. Such a strong individual, the makings of an alpha. Who wouldn't want him? He had been the first werewolf to set eyes upon him. Even so, he had to focus. The boy was as wanted now as any of them, he was sure. A reject. His brother would murder him. Teen lust aside, he did his best to maintain composure, learning as he went the human way all over again.
The jungle was thick before their eyes, a canvas of undiscovered green. The flowers and trees towered above them like giants ruling in their own kingdom over strangers unworthy.
For Red, flashbacks came to him.
"Watch your step," he warned, as he trod barefoot over vines that throbbed and twitched with excitement.
It wasn't just the mad werewolves that they had to keep watch for.
Over one mammoth vine to another, the obstacles they traversed became ever more complex, entering the realms of fantasy. Some trees almost seemed to bear faces of humans in their bark, trapped within like souls in a vessel. It was a ghastly jungle, hotter than hell.
"Red," called Striker.
They all stopped.
"Katana... he isn't too good."
Whether it was the heat or the injuries or the toxic air, Striker was not mistaken when he claimed their friend, Katana, was unwell. The blond laid the Asian to sit on a fallen ancient tree trunk. He was sweating profusely, gasping for breath. His eyes were dilated and sluggish. Red came over to them and kneeled to examine him, pressing his palm to Katana's forehead and prising open his ever-closing eyes. Striker was at his side, still with the man's arm slung over his shoulders.
"You really are in bad shape," addressed Striker.
"...fuck up," he breathed.
"Are you sure?"
Katana nodded, his head resembled the unconvincing assurances of a drunk. He almost collapsed as Striker tried to set him on his feet.
"Fuck. This is no good," observed Red, laying a hand on Katana's knee.
"I'm... I'm okay," he insisted, weak and breathless. "I can keep up."
"The hell you can," said Red, urgently.
"I can!" He said with a harsh voice, leaning forward and spraying Red's pinkish face with spittle.
"Just let me up, and we'll... we'll go. Home."
"Akira..." Striker pled.
"Don't... don't call me... that, Hugh. I can... I can! Keep up."
Hugh let down his guard. Katana was one false move away from death. He was his responsibility. How could he let it get this far.
"We should have just sit tight and set off the flares, like you said."
"No shit," chuffed Katana.
"Can't be helped," suppled Red. He knelt down, put his chin on his knee. "K. If you can't go on... We'll understand. We can sit tight. Defend ourselves. Never know, we might be able to hold out."
Katana shook his head. "No, no... let's... let's keep going."
Dubious, Red helped Striker bring Katana to his feet. "Okay, but sorry... we really meed to hurry. If this Russian prick really does have a sub hanging out in the ocean, we should get there before the cunts do us."
"It's there," assured with contempt, Dmitri. How dare they question him?
"Whatever. Let's go."
It happened no less than ten minutes after the pause that Red and Striker had brought Katana to a stand, that Dmitri again rebelled.
"I say, we drop this fucking Jap before he kills us all."
"What the hell?" Striker exclaimed.
Red was horrified. "You. Shut the fuck up," he got close, face to face with the other man. "If you wanna fight, then fight with me. Because either way this isn't one you're gonna win. Now, even at risk of repeating myself: shut the fuck up. Got it?"
Dmitri lied and said he did.
The deeper the jungle, the stranger the sights seem to become; alien animals pranced and flocked, deeming the surrounding a living fantasy painting with each new brushstroke edging further towards surrealism. Plants swayed even without breeze, leaning to each other as if they were whispering gossip on these strange travellers to one another, and none of it was good.
"They know we're gone now," said Trayack.
"All the more reason to go right on through to the beaches."
"Forgive me for asking," said Striker. "But what exactly is stopping the werewolves from catching us on the beach? Why won't they go there, really? Because they don't really seem to be scared of much."
"They're not scared," confirmed Trayack as he hopped over a thick root to sniff the air. The sea-salt smell was making his mouth water. They were getting closer. "It's just the rules."
Red considered the rules. The werewolves' simple way of living. "Yeah, but now with him in charge, rules are all gone. Welcome to the wild west all over again. At least we have a head start."
In front of him, the density of the trees gave way to something different: bamboo, or at least some island variety of it. Long tubes of hollow wood that grew vertically in small thatches. They were not strong enough to climb but reached as high as many of the palms and tropical trees in the area. Along with the bamboo, the variety of vines also increased, with hanging nooses formed out of the fleshy green stalks sprouting yellow flowers looping dangerously close to their necks.
"Watch out!" Red shouted as off to the side, one of the yellow flowers twitched and opened wide, revealing it pulpy purple interior. A spine was flung out from the flower--a dart--as soon as something came within range. Red had just managed to pull Trayack back. It hit him in the arm instead. Immediately he urged the sharp thorn out from his bicep and discarded it. The spot it hit began to swell and bulge.
"Oh my god," exclaimed Striker, wading over. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," said Red, spitting on his palm and rubbing it into the swollen lump. "No harm done."
"That was a yimbul flower," said Trayack. "It will just make you... kinda dizzy for a while. But it's not strong enough to poison anybody."
Trayack held Red's arm for a while and looked at the wound. It was indeed only a temporary blemish, and had begun to subside before his very eyes. Of course, he didn't need to tell the group of how dangerous the plant life in the jungle could be. If they got through it once, the chances were high that they would have encountered deadly flora, and the lucky demonstration with the yimbul could have been worse, much worse; now they were aware, on their guard and cautious, huddling together in a more tight-knit arrangement with Trayack up front, and the trio of Red, Katana and Striker, and then Dmitri at the back where he could be better appropriated to defend should it be necessary. The boy's fingers were nimble enough to unfurl those vines and sling them away just as they caught up to him. He made it his job to clear the way of things he knew to be a hindrance. After all, only he was capable of knowing. Red had already incurred the wrath of the jungle; letting him lead now that life was on the alert might mean he activate some other natural trap, besides, Trayack knew better what he was doing. But they had to pace themselves: what could slow them, could also slow their pursuers.
From behind, Dmitri looked on with repressed impatience and rage building. Why should he not lead? The American was big, dumb, and clumsy. He was a special operative who had been trained in stealth and subterfuge. Why must he be relegated to a back door guard? Gritting his teeth, he prowled on, checking over each shoulder as he went. He was sure something was following them, but he would be ready if something decided to spring a surprise on them. And then, he would leave them to handle it, after all, it was what they deserved how he was being treated. Like a lesser man! Like someone who should be behind the Americans.
There was something telling Dmitri to be aware. Small things he might not have noticed had he not become better aware through introduction to the seed. Microscopic changes in the scene: a twitch of a blade of grass in the distance, a flutter of a bird overhead. Something wasn't right.
Red felt it, too.
"Guys... hang on a minute."
He stopped the group, stopped them to a dead still while he listened out beyond the deafening footsteps and breaths to listen beyond what he knew he was previously capable of. All the world around him seemed to stop.
Time, itself, ground to a halt.
Swirling shapes moved on an invisible wind through his hair, fluttered over his skin like a thousand tiny butterfly wings, bringing their course in delicate moans.
They all told him something, something he could only decipher when it came clear.
"We're not far," he said with stark realisation. It took over him without mercy, and carefully he lowered Katana entirely into Striker's arms as his eyes burned with a telling spark of recognition. "It's here. It's here!"
"What's here?" Striker called, struggling to hold the entirety of Katana.
Red couldn't hear him now, he was too busy rushing ahead forsaking all the potential dangers that he had only moments ago been all-too aware of.
"This place... I've been here," he realised, somehow able to pull one leaf from another in his own mind, to recognise the paths he'd taken and the branches that had held him latched with their thorns. "We're nearly there... must be the other side of the crash site where we came down. Shit! Come on, keep up! This way!"
Striker and Katana wanted to save their comrade almost as much as Red, Trayack and Dmitri hung back here; the outsiders in this personal quest for a kind of redemption. They had no emotional attachment, it was understandable. They could even forgive the Russian's arrogant ways as long as they found him well without him getting in their way. They could help the best by staying out of the American's ways.
Frantically Red raced through the thick bushes and over the trees. He could still smell the smoke from the aircraft, and he could see the glint of steel up in the trees where debris had collected. Yes. He truly had found the crash site. Maybe it had been a stroke of luck, maybe something else, but at this point there were no questions raised, all that mattered was him. Too much time had passed to waste another second, to hell with escaping! They weren't leaving without him, and that laced every action with a fresh urgency. Red could divorce things he'd seen from things he hadn't more with each sprinted step; the further he delved, the more he remembered. This was indeed the same area. Not far now, he could make it ahead of them if he ran, that way by the time they caught up, all they had to do was keep going. He would have picked Dusk up and they would all be on there way in no damn time.
"Where is this fool running to?"
"Shut up," said Striker. "Red knows what he's doing."
They lost sight of the redheaded leader for just under half a minute, and when they found him, it was unclear if he had found anything at all.
Facing away from them, Red was frozen to the spot. Sweat glossed his back and soaked his hair; he was breathing; he was alive.
Striker wondered if he had been hit by another flower's barb, the way he just stood there emotionless was distressing. They slowed their approach and Striker off-handed Katana to be carried by Dmitri and Trayack as he carefully paced towards his friend, watching for any sure sign of danger.
And then, peering over his shoulder into the vista that was laid out before Red, Striker understood why.
He was not stabbed, shot, or otherwise; he was shocked.
Red tried not to breathe, deliberately. Better than to pass out from lack of oxygen than of what he was looking it. Striker's presence at his side went unheeded, as did the company of three at his back. None of them made up for this, no amount of comfort could they deliver that was sufficient. The trees, the ground, the patches of sky, all of them blistered and split, fizzled out of his consciousness in the wake of the blood.
"No..."
Yes, the denial existed in an eternal battle before he came to accept it. Then the no's became the why's and finally they were married in a union of cruel reality. He could refuse the efforts of his own eyes no longer.
There, amongst the cluster of debris and broken memories lay Dusk, his white eyes were wide open and facing him, conveying a haunted expression that was mired in death.
Death, expressionless.
Dusk had died in agony.
A starburst of pikes were implied through him, thrown back through chest with pinpoint accuracy, splitting him open in a wide arc. His chest cavity, ribcage, all were destroyed and hollow, organs harvested as the wooden utensils rammed through glistened with the remnant of entrails. They had chased him (the who, was in question; the werewolves didn't use these weapons like this), but he hadn't gotten far in his attempt to flee before one by one, the long-jump pole-like pikes had been flung with purpose to kill. Evenly they pierced him. He had recoiled, turned to face his attackers, only to fall on his back with his arms outstretched atop a bed of thorns, head crowned.
"Fucking... bastards..."
To Red, the scene was a painting that was intended to be a tragedy, but it could have been something else. Now the if's came to plague him with taunting fingers: if only you had been faster. If you hadn't gotten captured. But these if's, he knew, had gone stale in the afterthought. Dusk was dead--killed--in a most brutal, horrid fashion and no blame could make him feel better about that. He didn't want to go any closer but he knew he had to, to see more, to confirm. Of course it was not the first time he had seen a friend die in action, but this--this!--was a cutting example of which the wounds would never heal. Forever they would sting.
Red could not move the body. Although not yet stiff with rigour mortis, the wooden pikes that impaled him were heavy, and they weighed him down as well as making him awkward to handle. His innards had been scooped out by the looks of it, including the tongue that no longer protruded from his horrorstruck open mouth. It sickened Red but he had to affirm, just for his own conscience, the time of death. He was still warm to the touch and no rot had yet set in, which indicated he had been killed recently. Within hours.
"He's not been dead long," said a sullen Red.
Striker turned his head. The smell was making him sick. "We really should get out of here."
In agreement, Striker stood from his kneel to pass one final look at him. "He really ought to be buried... no soldier deserves to die like this, to be pecked at by birds or..."
Striker's hand fell upon his shoulder.
It filled him with no real solace but it helped. "You're right."
What was he seeing? This was the work of the tribe, surely. This was not how a werewolf killed. If they killed, they killed, there was no twisted posing of the corpse nor a scrap left for the worms. Every piece of flesh would be roasted and eaten, but this was not theirs. Trayack was sure of it. Not even Womack could be this heinous.
But could they see that?
The boy was suddenly scared. What if they thought he was responsible?
"We'd better go," said Red, wiping his eyes.
No time to waste.
Better go.
Dmitri laughed. "What did you think? That he would be alive?"
"Ignore him, Red," consoled Striker.
"I plan to do just that, Striker--
Just then, through the trees, a faint of something pale, just over Dmitri's shoulder.
"--get down!" He yelled.
With no small amount of shock or surprise, Red pulled down with him his friends, and they hit the ground in a flurry of flying leaves just as the darts flew.
From all directions the same poisonous barbs--far more significant in stopping power than those of the yimbul--using a potent natural formula that only the other habitants of the island could concoct successfully. The first wave from the blowdart found no flesh, but the second caught Dmitri in the chest.
"Pitiful," he spat and pulled out the manmade thorn.
Then, another his his upper shoulder.
Two more struck him without warning. As he worked to pull them out, the weariness came upon him quickly. The venom they delivered was fast-acting and potent, even for someone whose blood was unsure of itself. Vision blurred and his knees began to slowly seize up first. The faces in the green began to show themselves, one after the other in flickering abandon; one face here, two there, and before they knew it, they were surrounded. Dmitri slurred his idle threats but before he could even raise a fist to shake, the man had collapsed forward, unable to support one foot in front of the other any longer. His eyes drifted closed just as the rustling all around reached its alarming zenith.
"Holy Jesus," Striker said.
Going quietly was the easiest option, so Red was the first to stand, arms raised to show that any weapon he once held was no longer in his possession. He was unarmed, and he instructed the two other men to remain on the ground where they were out of firing range of the blow darts. Of course, it was out of his hands when a dart sought his neck. Just barely did he raise his hand to it when another lodged itself in the back of it. He grunted in a surprised pain. The black spike had almost impaled him through to the palm but not quite, allowing the tip to eject its contents without loss. Just like Dmitri, Red immediately went light-headed.
"Shit. Stay... stay down," he breathed heavy.
Red fell to his knees and put his hands behind his head, chest heaving and skin aglow with sweat. Consciousness was slipping away, but hid body remained rigid in posture, ripe for the taking.
The last thing he heard were the shouts and cries of protests of his friends being taken just like he was; he saw in fading shades, the shapes and faces of the ghastly painted men and they surrounded them like vultures to the dead.
If there were any room left for prayers, Red said his now.
When Red awoke, he was sat up and tied tighter than he had ever been before, but he wasn't alone. There was another's beating--a heart--a warm body next to him, tied back to back. It was Striker; the smell of him he was now familiar with. The stillness of his friend was his prime concern, not even their alien surroundings could deter him from his debilitating fears as the hallucinogenic chemical worked its way out of his system and the shapes and swirls and patterns all disintegrated into a perfect darkness. They were in a cave, he was sure of that. It stank of death and damp, and his stomach turned in response to the mouldy stimuli when one by one his senses roused themselves upon him.
"Striker. You awake?"
The blond didn't respond.
After experiencing so much light, so much brightness, this choking darkness was impossible for his eyes to adjust to, though they tried. No faces were there watching over them, no ghostly white-painted ghouls that haunted the jungle. Had he imagined it? Had they really been stunned and captured by them?
If seeing was believing then Red could do neither with certainty.
"Striker..." he nudged the man behind him, and finally he started to stir. "Thank fuck, you're alive. Talk to me, man."
At first all Striker could do was utter a gravelly gasp. His throat was dry and all moisture had left him. "Thirsty," he said.
"Better than dead. Did you see where they took us?" He felt Striker shake his head behind him, and then a jolt--of awareness--of shock.
"Where's Katana?" He frantically glanced around.
"Dunno. It's just us. The Russian is gone, too." Which he wasn't sorry about. They had been captured, too, he was sure. "They must have separated us for a reason. Think the kid got away, though, so maybe there's hope. I can't see a fucking thing."
"Separated... yes, yes. I think they shot us with something."
"Darts, Striker. They got me before the werewolves decided to take me instead. If I'd have known... God, I don't know which is worse: being prisoner there, or prisoner here. At least there we weren't tied up.
"Shit. Do you think you can wriggle us free? What can you see there?"
"I'm trying." There was no give.
The Ghosts were adept at tying knots very tight. If they could hold werewolves in them, then humans would have little chance of getting free. It was a frightening thought to Striker whose confinement had taken its toll on his mind; freedom always seemed to be a breath away, never quite visible but always lurking. He couldn't answer Red's other question. Without thinking too hard about it, he was scared, and looking was something he didn't want to do, even if he knew he had to at some point. He feared seeing Katana dead at his feet, or more of those hideous people watching them with their eternal grimaces.
"It's okay, Striker," said Red, warmly. "We'll get through this. All of us."
"I know," he said, unconvincingly.
"Just keep calm, you know the motto: you invented it."
Striker weakly chuckled, licked his lips.
"I'm not gonna let us get free from those bastards just to fall into these guys' hands, trust me."
"I do trust you," said Striker.
"We need to get out of here and find the others before anyone comes. Hold still, I'm gonna try and slip these knots. It'll hurt."
Striker did as he was asked and sat still.
"Plan is still on. We've just been side-tracked." He started to twist their wrists together so that he could gain some leeway, a little give and there might be a chance he could break them out. "Once we get out of here... we're gonna find the others and make a run for it, the beach can't be far now. I don't think we're underground. There's a light coming from the corner in front... I think that's the way out. It's gotta be."
Keeping his eyes on that light, he was hungry for it, mouth watering at the very prospect of the open air and sky above them and the taste of the jungle and its flavours no matter how toxic.
Without worrying Striker too much, Red broke his thumb. He had to. Red gave it a brutal twist back and a thump and snapped it back. Biting his lip, the blood streamed down his chin, but it was better than the alternative. At this stage, he would take a few breaks, as long as it gave them a shot. The scream he repressed resounded inside himself, and he was thankful that Striker could not see his face, the unutterable agony, the despair, the dwindling hope. All he had to do was hold it in. But he needed more time until he could get that broke thumb through the noose.
"Hey, Striker," he said, voice strong, defying himself convincingly.
"What is it?"
"What are you gonna do when you get back home?" He had to ask: anything to take his mind off it.
"You're asking me this..." Striker sighed. He supposed it was a way to keep up morale, and he needed something to distract him; the bleak situation was creeping up his spine in fears previously unheard of. "I guess... just get a lifetime subscription to a therapist and never leave the house again. How about you?"
Red scoffed. "Can't argue with that.
"I'm gonna have a shower when I get out of here."
Striker quirked. "A shower?"
"Yeah. First thing I'm gonna do is wash off all of this shit. Not just the physical shit. Mental shit, too. All the crap that I've seen and done... just, down the drain where it belongs. Hot water rinsing it all away, scum coming off. Cant wait. Don't think I've ever wanted anything so bad in my fucking life."
"Yes, I think that sounds good. I could do with one myself. Soap, too."
"Fuck! Soap!" Red exclaimed, in part due to the pain of him shoving his broken thumb through a second loop, and in part the truth of his words. "Lots of soap. And a beer."
"Shouldn't drink beer and shower. Could slip."
"Pfft. I'd rather slip in the shower than slip into a werewolf's jaws. Or onto anything else of theirs."
"Yes, that's very true," agreed Striker. His breathing had calmed somewhat thanks to Red's unexpected conversation but there were still things on his mind. Things that needed addressing.
"And... what, what are you gonna do... about what they did?"
Red couldn't answer that. As much as he tried to deny what had been done to him, he couldn't. It had been done. And that he could live with. But how was he supposed to live with the knowledge that he may be infected with some kind of deadly disease that mutated not just his body but his mind as well? How was he to face himself in a mirror knowing that he did not belong? "I'll get by, Striker. And if I don't, I'll find a cure later. Getting you guys off this fucking island is all I care about right now. I come second."
"Red, please--" Striker sighed.
"--no, I don't wanna hear it. If there is a way to stop it from taking over, then believe me, I'll find it. And don't think I'll be letting that Russian prick off of these sands until we've got it out of him, either, because he's not going anywhere without me."
"But what if you can't stop this... virus, from progressing?"
"I can't afford to think that way, Striker."
Just as Red had managed to free three fingers on one hand, a sound stopped him from finishing the task, a patter of bare feet from somewhere in the surrounding blackness. It had been noticeable by the echo by both men enough to make them turn.
"Hurry, Red..."
"I'm hurrying," said Red, starting again on the most difficult knot.
The feet sounded like they were all around and nowhere at the same time, like the wings of many birds. Frantic, stifling.
"Oh, god, what is it?"
"Someone's there." Impenetrable, the darkness, Red found, he could almost see the more he looked. Yet, his eyes hadn't adjusted, they simply found a different way to see, and that scared him. He could see a shape, an outline of a person, smaller than normal. They looked like a child but something about that rang untrue: this was no child, but one of them. A demon, a boy, it was the same figure whose face had first lured him into the trap when he first step foot in the jungle. The trapper. What kind of trick were they playing now as they watched them from a short distance circling like shark in the water? Whatever it was, Red was not about to fall for it a second time. "Come out."
The barking order had some effect, he saw, as the shape stopped, stilled in its predatory haloing and hunched over. It could just not believe that he had been able to see them.
Ghosts did not like being seen. They used the jungle as a defence mechanism, employed traps and deployed them effectively. Cowards, and more dangerous for it. With no trees here to hide behind, they weaved the dark like a shroud, masking themselves before the eyes of their enemy.
"I said come out," Red said, a commanding tone. "No more games."
The image shimmied and wavered for several seconds before he's stepped before Red's blue eyes, well in view but nervous, far from the emotionless husk he had seen that first time. He was scarcely a young man, even the white face paint could not hide all of his features.
"It's you," he said with a scowl. No part of him moved since the reveal, he did not wish to alert the youth that he was planning to free himself so as to incur their wrath. Time was not now to start a fight, time was for diplomacy. So little was known about the creatures known as Ghosts, perhaps their intelligence had been understated and he could get through to them. He hoped so. "Where are we?"
Simple questions.
Simple answers?
"Can you speak English?" Red asked.
The childlike spectre stood there with his hands folded in front of him, a tribal native, undiscovered by the outside world, indigenous like a magazine cover back home. If he did speak English, he didn't speak it now to them, his tongue void of verbal expression. Then he took a step back, into the shadows. It enveloped him, accepted as one.
"Wait!" Red begged, stopping the boy from fleeing.
As he stopped, the ink-like shadows that flocked to cover his skin also stopped its crawling over him, frozen in motion. Only parts of him remained visible: his face, eyes, shoulders and arms, and part of his lower stomach that jutted towards the core. Those eyes were human, but at the same time they lacked any humanity, and when two eyes became four and then six and eight, the spark of it was forever doused in a reckoning of lost souls, souls of the cursed, the damned ones.
The eyes were not just there, but everywhere--all around--they sprouted from every angle, stealth-synergetic, reality-bending, their presence altered the perception of those who were not ready to witness it.
A hive mind.
Red could only think of an insect: a thousand eyes and implacable mutterings--whispers--that came from no human mouth, lurking in the reaches of the cave, awakened by the smell of human flesh.
Was this the end?
Would it come scuttling out as an abomination, claws set to slice, teeth set to tear and rend with killing accuracy? Or was he merely mistaken, mind overcome by the final droplets of poison that was still thinning out in his bloodstream?
The answer came when the light readjusted, and revealed faces to match the eyes, all human.
"Good... god," Striker was heard saying under his breath, a hollow sound that should not have made it to anyone's ears but there in the recesses even the quietest succumb to a chorus.
Eerily quiet, not even the two thousand feet made a sound in the dust as they came marching towards them, closer, closing in in a circle of death, of immutable plague. Faces were disfigured. Some had bones pierced through noses, skewered through cheeks; others had their eyelids split apart and pinned to their faces in forever-glistening wide-eyed horror. Nipple, naval, testicles and more were not safe from these shining mutilations of varying extremity, and the more they stepped out from hiding, the more they shone. It was like holding a magnifying glass under one's face, with each pore becoming more and more visible until it was all one could see. The imperfections, they became them, they were proud of and displayed them in full view like medals of honour. On their backs were jagged bows and arrows hooked in slivers, and to their hips were pipes and tubes that were used to eject their poison darts. Not all of them were armed, but many of them were, and those that were, had their weapons aimed on sight. They all moved as one, in ever-decreasing circles.
"They're everywhere..."
"It's alright, stay calm."
Striker could not stay calm in the heat of this maddening torment; what was their intention? If they wanted to kill them, surely they would have done so by now, used their poisons to a greater degree, as opposed to mere unconsciousness. Even so, there was nothing reassuring about any of this. Wicked beings that knew no empathy.
"They're going to kill us, they're going to--"
"--Striker! Just. Stay. Calm."
Asserting his dominance had been the easy part. In calming Striker, Red knew that it was but a temporary fix to a permanent problem. He was scared, too, and if he was scared, then he could no more tame a wild bull with a peashooter than wave that red, hypocritical flag around, even if it was the right thing to do. Because as Red had told Striker to hold his nerve, he was telling himself that also.
Keep calm, Rusty...
Don't react.
They will swarm as soon as you move
Without any certainty, Red slowed his breathing; listened for a breath not his own. He could hear no heartbeats coming from these people, only a strange cluster of vibratory hums. How many were there? They outnumbered the werewolves ten-to-one, without a doubt, and even if the wolves were to thrust themselves into this mass, their sheer numbers would not be scratched. Disposable humans.
I know who they are.
Red assumed one thing or another, but in this din no clear thought had formed but this one: they were castaways.
Just like the werewolves. Behind the makeup, tattoos and war paint, Red saw the eyes, the skin; they were not of one race, they were of many. Black, white, yellow, red, they had come from all corners of the globe, and had somehow all ended up here on this island as voiceless cave-dwelling monsters. Why, then, had they become separated from the other people who landed on the island and chose to fight against them? The war between the werewolves and the ghosts wasn't going away anytime soon, and that was the only thing that remained actionable.
Before Red could utter the accusations, the pity, they swarmed.
Swarmed in stings and buzzes.
And in black.