WEREWOLF ISLAND
by
Toby Wolfham
© 2023 by Toby Wolfham
All rights reserved.
Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com
(For comments, inquiries, and communication)
Chapter 11
THE CHASE
Of all the promises made in the heat of the moment, Tserra had but one he truly did not regret making, and as he was called to action to join the search for the missing slaves, he had that promise in mind: he wasn't going to let his brothers kill the slaves, as much as he was sure they wanted to. Hell, he might have wanted to with the last batch--useless--but this group were different. Striker was a good fuck, for sure, but he was someone he had unfortunately allowed too close. He was fond of him, and through him fond of the others. That said, he was no soft touch. It was better they end up dead should the ghosts get their hands on them, so onwards he trailed at the head of a small group with his true agenda known only to himself and one other.
Gorr led a second group with the same agenda.
With Womack in charge of the whole operation, they would have to compete with his group if they wanted to save their boys before he got his vile hands on them.
It was a race. Though the jungles, over the mountains, to the subterranean passages, and to the beaches if the choice had been taken away. This race would determine who lived and who died.
Tserra was not nervous. He knew they would get to them before Womack, because as determined as he was, their new leader was driven by a need to own and posses, and when he couldn't, he was prone to extreme anger. Even as leader, the big brute was unsatisfied. He wanted more. He wanted it all--the island--and everyone. It was never an option to allow someone like that, with those kind of selfish ambitions to prosper. Tserra couldn't displace him alone, and neither could Gorr, but together they had a good chance of subverting him here and delivering a blow that would cripple his confidence; if he failed in this first hurdle, then it would undermine him right from he start, and that was something that would put a big smile on Tserra's face.
As a select individuals remained posted at camp to defend it while it was unoccupied, Tserra and his band of five had taken the route through the jungle eastward. Gorr had gone north and Womack had taken the west and the mountains.
"Hey, Tserra! I thought we were heading east?"
"We are, grain-brain," he lied with a confidence like no other.
"We aren't!" Said another wolf behind him.
"Just shut up and follow my lead."
That seemed to work as they sniffed the trail ahead.
Not in an exact line formation, the wolves strayed from each other in order to seek out leads one way, and then another. No-one was exactly always in sight, and that helped Tserra break away from the group he was supposedly leading. They were not smart, but one male was eager to keep on his trail. He cornered him just when he thought he had lost them and found a hint of human-smell.
"Where're ya going, T?"
"Janko," Tserra sighed in dismay.
Janko was a dark-skinned wolf who was this close to becoming an alpha, but he lacked the forward-thinking survivalism. He was slim and fiercely athletic, one of the best hunters in the pack. Leaping from trees was as easy for him as sneaking up on competition. "This isn't east."
"No," admitted Tserra with a cocky smirk. "It isn't."
He turned around and made to lean on a tree, directly facing the male.
Janko sauntered up to him, his damn suspicious eyes were looking around for something, and his damn nose was sniffing around for the same reason. He suspected Tserra, and that was an obstacle that had to be dealt with as quickly as possible. He stopped a foot away and sniffed the air, and then peered at Tserra with an arrogance that made him sneer.
"What are you doing all the way out here?"
"Taking a piss. What's it look like?" Without fail, Tserra pushed his loincloth aside to free his cock and started pissing with absolute disregard for Janko, or his feet.
Janko snarled and stepped aside.
"Yeah, that's what you fuckin' get for following me. What else do you think I'm over here for?"
The piss would mask the faint smell of the humans. It was deliberate, and emergency contingency. Only he would be able to smell through it to pick up the trail again. And Janko knew that.
"I think..." he went on, stepping close to Tserra. "That you know where those humans went. We've all seen how much you have been hanging around that one called Striker. I think that you know and don't want anyone else to find them, because you want him all to yourself."
"You think too much," scoffed Tserra, shaking off his cock of the last few dribbles. "Now back up and head south, maybe you can get back on the trail and not look like an idiot."
Tserra had had enough; he strode off, in the deliberate opposite direction, wanting nothing more than to shake off this bloodhound.
Janko, however, decided not to follow, and pick up on the trail that Tserra would have been going if he hadn't been interrupted. His feeble excuse for coming so far out was not bought by him a bit.
Shit--no--Tserra growled, marched off towards Janko before he got too far through the trees to lose the piss-cloak smell.
"Hey, asshole--!"
That got his attention.
Janko turned with a fire about him that was very telling of how much he disliked the other wolf and snarled, accusatory: "You! Are up to something. And I'm not letting you out of my sight!"
"Let's see what we can do to fix that problem, yeah?"
"Don't try me, Tserra," he pointed in his face.
Tserra did not like that. He grabbed Janko's hand and threw it aside.
Janko held on to him and reversed the grip.
The two males tussled for a moment and twisted around each other's bodies with a barely-concealed aggression.
"We have our orders!"
"Fuck orders! And fuck you!"
At that moment the competition swelled and billowed, finally popped; Tserra threw himself at the other male in a flurry of motion, no direct hits, just savagery. Janko fought back the best he could, on the defensive, with both his fists raised to shield his vulnerable, already too battle scarred face. Each fist pummelled his guard and threw the black wolf back, feet shuffled away from the melee to achieve a distance but all the same gained was lost by the furious Tserra. It was a fight that Janko had to either throw himself into or surrender and accept defeat, but he was not the type to surrender, especially not now, with pride and rage at their highs. He grabbed at the blond wolf's wrists and made thrusting rampant kicks to his shins before he followed through with the inevitable leg-sweep. Tserra was not down, he was regaining the advantage; swinging his muscular legs aside in a heavy thud that brought down the other before he asserted his dominance again and slammed his weight down on top of him. Janko was quicker, however, and rolled aside, well-clear of the elbow point which came down in a crushing thunder on the ground. A fist came at Tserra's face and threw him over on to his back where he, too, twisted away from an untamed stomp that would have planted down and split his head in two if he had not had the quick-thinking to evade. When the lack of an advantage made itself distinctly clear, the hurried alpha made his assertions to bend that impasse and grabbed the nearest heavy object he could, nestled in the brush, the heavy shell of a native breed of coconut. It was slung with brute force and not even Janko's outstretched hands could stop it. Heavily to smashed into his chin--both cracked--with an exerted pressure that caught him dramatically off-guard.
"Bastard!" Hissed the surprised, bleeding werewolf, coconut juices frothing over his jaw and chest.
"That hurt?" Laughed Tserra.
"Not even, you--!"
The older wolf gave him no opportunity; launched himself at him again and this time they both his the ground. Seizing the remnants of cracked shell, Tserra began to thrash him in the skull repeatedly. Blood trickles into Janko's eyes but he did not relent in forgetting his chances. Every time Tserra raised the weapon, he left open his entire torso, on to which the dark male rained a bustle of rib-splintering punches, and when he refused to see passed his rage, Janko stabbed his elongated wolf-claws into the soft flesh of his stomach.
Tserra ground out a growl of unrelenting rage mixed with hesitant crawling pain. Little real pain was felt as the fist entered his stomach, but he saw enough blood to understand what he had done. And from then on, each skull-cracking blow had slammed down as hard as a comet hitting the earth at light-speed. Like a recoiling snake, Janko yanked free his gore-coated fist and used it to push vainly at his attacker.
"Had enough yet?" Tserra rattled.
His face had changed.
Janko's, too, had lengthened and cracked into something else. The human side was rapidly flailing for control. Janko slithered out from under him and struck him in the chest with his claws. He was knocked back several feet away but was only damaged to the skin. Time to face-off.
The fight between the two males had been close to becoming something of a titanic tussle until it ended with the sudden thunk of a huge log to the back of Janko's head. For several seconds he remained conscious, swaggering back and forth as the images in front of his eyes shifted like fish beneath the murky depths. Finally, he spun around to face his attacker, only to be dropped by another mighty full-frontal strike. He fell back to the ground with spine-snapping force.
Gorr made certain that the werewolf had subsided his attack before tossing the caber aside. It rolled away, one end covered in blood and shards of broken teeth.
"About... about time," panted Tserra.
Quickly his injuries were healing. As he held the gaping hole in his stomach, the blood that gushed out from him in crimson cords thickened and slowed, went in reverse. The fissure was gently sealed and over time it would come to completely close, be unrecognisable in the light of day as a silvery scar that too would fade in the moonlight.
Janko would live, too.
"Tie him," said Gorr, holding the still-twitching werewolf down to the ground while Tserra gathered himself and gathered the materials needed to tie him up with.
"This tying up thing is getting to be habit..." he bent down and tied the man as quickly as he could. "Kinky."
It was a slight Gorr let go; he was in no mood to argue.
"Throw the fucker in that ditch," nodded Tserra, to the slight aperture in the hilly landscape.
The bleeding werewolf struggled and fought more with each second that passed, each bash and bruise quickly stitching themselves, invigorating anew. They rolled him down into a deep gulch that realistically would not be difficult to climb out from, but he landed heavily and if the fates were still in a generous bearing, then it would at least buy them time if nothing more. Leaves and rush had been stuffed in Janko's mouth but even that wasn't muting him for long, further putting the two traitors under pressure. Fury flared in those eyes that blazed up at the two standing at the top of the mound but he could do no more than that, helpless to watch as they turned away and left him there.
"This way," hurried Tserra, back to where he picked up the scent.
And together they fled beyond the trees, hotter on the trail.
When Womack had been told of the absconding slaves, his weariness transcended into undiluted indignation. That idiot, Vestra, had been found bound and gagged in the shack to the edge of the camp. He had pled his ignorance and begged forgiveness for being so ineffective, but Womack would have none of it.
"Do it," growled the king of the werewolves.
The wrist of the male holding the whip snapped forth suddenly and raked Vestra's naked back with sharp bristles which tore open his flesh in thick slabs and broke free to come back down for a second whip.
Womack nodded the command.
And again, Vestra grunted; his torture was just beginning.
"Again, again!"
Reluctantly the torturer did as he was commanded and struck his brother with force enough to slam Vestra to the ground, and, when he managed to climb to his hands and knees, he was whipped again. It was agony for the few remaining spectators, to witness this harrowing desecration of one of their own when it brought no good or redemption to them. The slaves had fled, and the chase was on. This was a savage show of abusive authority; Womack was reminding everyone that he was still in charge and that he would not suffer fools. An act of arrogance, it served to turn heads from his ring, and to roll them from under his thumb. Just before Womack himself strode off in a fury, he commanded one more thing of Vestra's whipper.
"Do not stop. Even if the bastard begs, cries... he will suffer. And when I return, you will still be whipping him."
Womack's thunderous footsteps marched off to the lightning cracks of the whip out of the camp. The gates closed behind him and barred, and the handful that remained to defend the perimeter walls watched on in flaccid silence, defeated by the apocalyptic shift. He was gone, but his presence lingered like an omnipotent tyrant.
"Find them!" He barked at his small army and onwards they rushed, through the trees, along the dirt trails.
Every inch of the island would be searched and scoured, forsaking all else they would retrieve their property at all cost. But of course, that meant that Womack would retrieve his property. It was all his now, not theirs; no more of this communal nonsense that had rendered the pack weak and susceptible any longer, no more of the simple disobediences! If that meant he had to reign in terror, then so be it. His band of followers were loyalists, of that he was sure. They would stick by him and he needn't ask them to. The others, on the other hand; he was unsure of their loyalty. Already he knew that the two alphas could not be trusted, and they would make formidable adversaries. Jealousy was no doubt their motive.
Cutting a path through the northern rim, Womack and his group headed to the mountains. They were at the heart of the island, with a single range that pierced the clouds high enough to be seen up above. Impassable in every way except by going around, it was out of the question that the humans could have made the journey up, so the base and low grounds were searched with rapidity.
Passing minutes, seconds, Womack became ever-more frustrated, his frustration turned inwards when he couldn't find an outlet for it. One wolf he had already thrashed across the face, loosing several teeth, and that was not even enough to quell his bloodlust. His own teeth began to distend, and his eyes narrowed into something more animal-like.
Amplified senses sought out prey to the far reaches; the running of critters did not satisfy him when there were larger prey out there to chase. And what would he do when he got his claws into those humans? The uncontrollable rage told him what to do, now, and all logic and reason left his concern as he left the party to its own devices to charge through the edges of the jungle alone. They wouldn't find them anyway--much too slow--it was all up to him now, and he would rend them flesh from bone should he catch them, bounding, barreling and snarling all the way.
It did not take him long to find the trail.
Although the island was several miles coast-to-coast, and would take two days on for to travel from one end to the other without rest, Womack did not slow and he needed no pause, fuelled by desire alone, he bolted through the trees becoming steadily more inhuman as he went; bones were rattled in his constantly shifting form.
Overheated.
Out of control.
Gorr was the first to recognise the dreadful howls coming from the heart of the jungle. He pricked up his ears and turned towards the din. Birds had taken to the sky in a frantic desertion of their nests and homes as something big and terrifying alarmed them with his presence. He knew immediately who it was, as twice before he had gotten to this state. Twice before he had been recovered a hulking mass of fur and blood.
"Do you hear him?"
"Womack? Hard not to," said Tserra. "Come on, we'd better go."
He would tear them apart of he got a hold of them now.
Best to let him use up all of his energy--his steam--and collapse somewhere from exhaustion.
His skin stretched out of place.
Womack had entered his blood rage phase, allowing the beast to take over and to swell within him, rip his skin open in slices and sprouted tufts of fur. The hair began to spread over the skin like a disease spreading within the body, like locusts over the fields, it gnawed and eradicated all trace. Millions of strands erected themeless in the ever-changing fields of flesh that bubbled and expanded to accommodate the new bones. Thicker was this new layer, thick enough to withstand the devastating turmoil within, thick enough to withstand bullets and fire and bombs and arrows, and over it all, the hair had grown thicker still.
Not just the eyes, or the skin were to change, however.
Far more drastic changes happened as furthermore his anger went unchecked. Bones snapped and reaped themselves, tendons split and rewired themselves in different directions and glued together sinews of muscle and nerves in bundles that moulded into grievous shapes.
Nothing could stop him now.
Teeth had pushed themselves out from the gums in hideous malformations, serrated canines designed to shred and tear meat from bone protruded with malign intent and interlocked deliberately.
Those same teeth were hungry for human flesh, and the tongue, now long and stretched out beyond normal proportions licked and lubricated the insides of the distended muzzle of something definitely not human.
The creature flitted through the trees on all-fours, powerfully muscular, streamlined but heavy, destroying much of what it trampled under its animal feet. As it passed by at speeds no man could achieve, the beast was just that--a beast--no longer resembling the human host as it rampaged on on expert limbs that accomplished great feats with no difficulty. It powered on, exhibiting great force and uttering guttural, tightened breaths that were tinged with the spirit of unflinching agony.
Womack was a monster on the war path.
They had been running for well over an hour, and even though the smell of the humans was stronger, leading Womack to them was the opposite of what they wanted to do.
"It's no use," deduced Gorr with a pained growl. "I shall stay here and try to hold him off. You go on ahead. If I can't stop him then at least I will buy you some time to get to them before he does."
"I don't think that's a good idea," mocked Tserra, arms crossed.
"Do not argue with me."
"I don't think ropes are gonna work on Womack, Gorr. They barely worked on the others."
"I will fight him."
"The hell you will! He'll rip ya to pieces!"
"But that might be enough. He will tire himself out."
"Yeah? And do you think I'm gonna come back and scoop up your fucking remains after he's done? Nah.
"We both stay and fight him off here."
"Tserra... there's no time to argue."
"Exactly. He's getting closer. If he comes at you, he'll come at me before too long. At least together we have a good chance of fucking him up. And then he won't have the strength to stay like he is.
"My plan is: we hold our ground here. Most likely the bastard can smell through us and he's gonna try and run right passed. We'll have to ambush him--and fast--and then we can go after our boys."
Gorr, reluctantly, nodded. "Okay."
"Alright, hurry up then! We'll have to make a net and string it up. He'll be too fast to spring it so we'll have to just use it to stop him and make him pay attention to us."
"What makes you think that'll stop him?"
"Probably won't but at least then we can be on his ass."
They could hear Womack in the distance, destructive in his blind rage, he was a long way from the stealthy master he could have been if only he had gained control of himself and not allowed his blood to flow over. But that fell to their advantage now; his every movement was advertised in advance, they knew exactly where he was and more importantly, which direction he was headed. As it happened, he was not following a direct path but strayed occasionally, no doubt to sniff out the scent of one of the pack roaming the jungles. Nothing was getting in his way, whatever it was that had distracted him, but it had been enough. Gorr had crafted the net quickly and with and expert hand. Many times had he formed such devices in order to trap fast-running animals that fled. Tserra brought the materials and roped it to the trees. It was essentially a windbreak that blocked a singular path and with that came a flaw.
"What if he goes around?"
"Then we go after him," replied Tserra. "Done it a thousand times. You wouldn't know, would you? Since you spend all of your time building and making stuff. Do you even know how to throw a fucking spear, big guy?"
"I do," said Gorr with a sigh, tightening up the ropes by wrapped them around the trees and pulling until they were taut. It was not a perfect trap. "It'll do," said Gorr, forever listening out for the wrenching sound of rampaging footsteps pounding in the distance.
Womack was close now.
They could smell him, as he could smell them.
"He's here..."
No reason existed anymore. The human part of his brain had been pushed out and had been replaced by a pure animal and as he came tearing through the trees he saw not friend nor foe; he saw flesh and bones that needed tearing and breaking.
"Get ready, Gorr! This could take a while."
Once the tension had broken and the two werewolves were faced with the lumbering man-monster. Never before had they seen him get into such a state and immediately knew that words would not work. They could no more calm him than they could quell an eruption. It was easy to do, to lose control, and getting it back was even harder. All they had to do was entertain him for as long as his energy lasted, and when that happened, he would revert to his ordinary self. Then perhaps this would be a fair fight. Womack had gained a foot of extra height, even with his back slouched and shoulders pushed forward. Hair coated his limbs to a greater degree than it did his frontal torso, which while covered in an armoured layer nonetheless, was undeniably thinner. On his back the hair was the thickest,(likely to defend against attacks from behind), which spread down to culminate in a long, bushy tail. His hands and feet no longer resembled a human's but something nightmarish, long spindly clawed fingers and hook-like claws on the toes shone in the overbearing sunlight, and in that same light his beastly eyes shifted in violet and crimson hues.
"Fucking ugly today, Womack."
"Don't test him!"
Womack steered his heavy head in their direction. Two fleshy figures. They smelled like wolf but he cared not a bit. Everything with a pulse was to be fed into his huge, gaping maw.
Muscular and gauche, the beast Womack snarled in his advent, a black-haired monster that refused to tire by conventional means. He had achieved true power, tearing out of his weak skin as that infamous something more; a thing that hunted in the shadows and bathed in moonlight, a perfect representation of childhood fears come-to-life. A werewolf. A staple cryptozoological figurehead. With each step he took, he became more of the myth, shedding the last of the flakes of skin that had weighed him down by their petty virtues and trod anew as the killing machine they had always wanted him to be. They had been afraid of him then, of his natural inclination towards psychotic behaviour. Oh, if only they could see him now! They would quake in the wake of their own peril.
The first spring at the two proved fruitless; they parted either side and into the net he flew. It couldn't have been planned better.
The angry werewolf was confused by the strands as the constricted around his arms and chest, coming to wrap around his back by the two he had set his sights on.
Gorr and Tserra held on to the ropes as they snapped free of the trees, just barely standing themselves from the crazed onslaught of frenzy that came from Womack's capture; he swung his arms out, thrashed his body and head, and snapped at the vines that found their way into his mouth. It was like trying to wrestle a live alligator and it was not going well, because hard as they tried to keep on their feet as the wild beast flung and raged, they were no match for his strength. It held him for a time when they were being dragged around and were lifted up and down by the mighty resistance. It was an impressive net, regardless, and even though they began to snap once the animal comprehended, the trap had performed better than expected. Tserra fell from the force of the snap of the ropes he held and Gorr was struck heavily on the back as Womack threw out a hand. The sweet sound of a body opening up around the wolf greatly and his mouth watered in anticipation of the coming feast. Spilled blood drove him deeper into insanity, the way appetisers always made one hungrier for the coming main course. Gorr fell forward on his chest and found himself trusting instinct. He rolled away from a vicious stomp that kicked up dust in the air. Quickly he found his feet and moved to a safer distance.
It had become a brawl.
"Gorr, watch your ass!" Yelled Tserra as he seized a makeshift spear from one of the trees, straight-snapped from a branch.
Of course, the other wolf did his best to avoid the swings of those fatal claws, and ignored the bleeding that flowed down his bare back to leap out of the way just in time with each attempt. Womack was sluggish thanks to his adjusted size, and for that he was at least grateful, but when those long-reaching arms did indeed reach out and grasp him around the middle, there was little that could be done.
Tserra was quick to the mark, jumping into the action feet first, then as he landed he launched the javelin at Womack's back. The spear barely penetrated but it had been enough to make him roar out and fling the other werewolf aside as though he were a doll in his hand. He then turned his attention to him.
Squaring up, one-on-one, Tserra remained calm but kept himself in readiness; ready to fly, should he need to.
Behind them, Gorr staggered away but the slices in his back were already subject to the benefit of an alpha's rapid healing. He watched from where he hunched as Womack charged Tserra and pegged him to the ground under the massive weight; at the speed and the sheer width of him, there was little chance for even a champion runner to avoid the crush. Luckily, he had landed in a pocket of thick fur between the chest and armpit where it was the most cushioned which had saved his body from being completely flattened. There, Tserra lashed out at his face with his free hand, and plunged a thumb deep into Womack's glaring red eye socket. The monster roared in surprise, his bulk was unable to make easy work of attacking from this position and the one delivered to him had been debilitating. Womack lifted his weight and Tserra rolled away with merely moderate damage to his ribs as Womack rose to his knees and erratically windmilled his arms without rhyme or reason.
"Bet the little man would be laughing his ass off right now," snorted Tserra, catching his breath.
Gorr dragged himself to the trees, where there was at least some cover from bearing the brunt of Womack's weight. The trees also in addition to providing defence and protection, provided weapons: branches were snapped from high and low and could be sharpened to a point with ease. It was the hanging vine of yellow-petaled yimbul flowers, however, that wrought the most alert.
"Son of a bitch is mad," taunted Tserra.
"That's it, keep him busy," muttered Gorr, even though the male couldn't have heard him over the swift recovering howls of the beast.
In a flash, Womack's bloodthirsty fixation resumed its grasp and swept away any doubts and confusion that he had suffered. The eye had been restored of its damage within moments and he was pouncing like an oversized tiger at Tserra, unpredictable. In human shape he was big but there were others bigger within the pack. Now, here in final stages, there was no-one bigger. Dominating and impassable, he was an obstacle and a danger; he needed to be be put down before he could hurt anyone else.
Tserra was the first in his line of fire, and that meant he had to act fast. Very fast. In his own stages of early transformation, the male could fend off but he could not win out here unless he did exactly as he did, and that would bring more problems than solutions; he needed his mind whole. So, using restraint, he invoked some of his werewolf strength, allowed his eyes to shift and his body to bulk in places, while keeping his focus on his enemy. It was the only way to truly keep focused.
The pair clashed on the battlefield.
Flesh was torn and fur was bitten.
From behind, a spear had been thrown into Womack's back in exact precision. The pike had been coated with the plant's concentrated venom at the tip, and although it did not penetrate his fur, Womack could smell the threat it posed, and turned his head in Gorr's direction.
He was loading up a second spear; the first was just a test.
Tserra bit into Womack's neck.
Womack bit into Tserra's neck.
The latter bitten was ragged left and right without warning. Torrents of blood sprayed the arena, bathing the fur-armoured creature in a rain of red. He tossed the man about as still he struggled clenched between his teeth like a piece of meat, and like a piece of meat that was no longer wanted, he tossed it aside a bleeding writhing hunk of chewed-up matter. Another spear came at him. But he smacked it out of the air, already aware of the devious plan that threatened to undermine him.
Tserra rolled several feet away, clutching his torn-out throat and gasping soundlessly for the air he could not fully suck in through the holes the punctures gave him. Bleary-eyed vision allowed him to see the beast's feet show him mercy and stomp away with a riotous howl like a horn to battle towards the other attacker.
Should he die here? He'd rather be damned!
Hissing though the holes he rolled on to his back and stared up at the sky, determined to let his body heal before it was too late. The clouds were barely visible above the overhead trees but they provided a hint of something unseen, something mysterious, perhaps the face of god there to welcome him into his caring bosom. Tserra slowly saw that face coming in closer, making its features more visible. Long and shining in the sun.
It was a plane, he realised--a dot--soaring overhead.
And sound returned to him, his choking gasps blew out his eardrums and he rolled back on to his front to choke up the globules of destroyed tendons that had been replaced in seconds.
Meanwhile Gorr had slung a third spear that had struck true in Womack's neck just as he caught it. But the tip was all he needed and he hoped that that was enough because he hadn't the time to prepare a forth as the beast came charging at him with the demonic madness of a bull, and he was the loathed red flag.
Charging down trees and stomping bushes into clods, Womack chased down the bastard who had hit him.
The back of his body, his hair, his smell; were returning to him.
No... not now!
Sweeping aside thin bamboos with his arms, he powered on like a battering ram, always hot on Gorr's heels.
Gorr felt the death-breath stroke his neck and the flurry of leaves flying cut his arms with their twigs and fronds but onwards he sailed over the endless waves hoping for anything that might slow the inevitable wreckage.
The energy was draining from Womack fast.
He should have feasted on the body while he had the chance, to have finished at least one of them, but now his bloodlust had been partially sated, he had not the same intense desire for it. He had tasted it, and just that taste should have made him want more but it hadn't. Instead it did the opposite. Werewolf blood, to a werewolf, was an acidic, metallic taste that drained another werewolf if consumed. Faced with the prospect of tasting its bitterness again when he caught the other male, was an off-putting one. His pace slowed. Yet, his need to kill was as deathless as his need to fuck; they were intertwined. Only one at this moment was wired in his brain. If he had to kill without eating, he would suffer, but he would simply move on to find something else to kill. It was endless, unless he ran out of energy. It was dwindling in him; the more he destroyed, the more he moved, the less time he had to fulfil his potential.
Gorr knew it, too.
The poison had reached Womack's blood and was slowing his movements even more. He should have been wiser to such efforts. A plant toxin, when introduced to his body had the capabilities to affect him. And although they would never inflict complete damage, the flower was enough to slow his legs and make it harder to breathe.
Slowly, but surely, Womack was brought to his knees.
A mighty tumble, the beast had taken at a steadily increasing pace behind him and when Gorr turned to look, he breathed a sigh: Womack was down, the king was down.
Near-limitless stamina couldn't afford him to outrun him forever, but thankfully he knew how to deal with a fully-grown werewolf. He approached with caution and did not make himself immediately visible as still Womack's heavy gaze was set in stone on that one direction. If Gorr hadn't had the foresight to inject him, then both he and Tserra could be dead now.
"Shit, Tserra," he breathed, suddenly aware that the other had been brought down in a devastating blow. Yet, he had ran miles to outrun the monster; if Tserra was still breathing, then he would just have to go on breathing without him a while longer. He needed to make sure the wolf was unable to go on.
Womack's breathing grated, slower and slower.
Carefully, Gorr approached, keeping an eye on him through the trees.
He wasn't moving. Just sitting back on his haunches.
Was he watching?
Gorr hastened to remain hidden while still moving closer. The light that spilled down seemed to cast a spotlight on him wherever he went, however, making it impossible to be completely out of sight. As unfortunate as this was, Womack didn't seem to notice, and when he bravely took the breach into indirect eye-line, he was relieved to find that he was reverting back to his human-self, in slow patches. With each tree passed that obscured him from view, the next glimpse of him saw a little more skin here, gleaming, a little less hair there, and by the time he approached him, he was nearly fully shifted.
Shining in the sun like a fallen angel, hair hanging down over his shoulders and naked skin aglow as a newborn, Womack had overflown.
Still dangerous beyond words, Gorr did not antagonise him.
Crawling on the jungle floor, Tserra left a trail of blood where he went, and by the time he had lost pints and pints, a river followed. And yet, he was still alive. Rapid regeneration of blood meant that it never ceased to flow, consistent in its spillage. The wounds were difficult to heal on their own and it was taking a considerable amount of time and energy, so he found himself making his way into the deep, where the trail of destruction left by the chase had been cut.
Tserra pulled himself up into a stand by clawing his way up, and from then on, his slow, lumbering steps gradually increased in pace and velocity. Soon, he was walking with ease and the gushes from his throat had become mere drips.
"You look like shit," remarked Gorr.
"You look worse," sneered Tserra as he arrived. Womack seemed to be frozen on his knees, now fully humanised. Tserra paid little attention to the blood which was his own that painted Womack's mouth and had dried to the entire front of his body and simply laughed at his own good fortune.
"At least you're alive," said Gorr, stepping away from his examination of Womack. "And so is he, but he'll have a sore head in the morning. That's all. We'd best leave him--he'll remember soon--get back on route; we might be too late thanks to all this."
Tserra nodded, stepped backward a few times and finally un-clutched his hand from his neck. "All better," he said with feigned surprise and near-smugness that bordered vanity.
Unlike him to care about this man, Gorr nevertheless needed to check his injuries. A hand at his neck, he tilted his head to the side. The bite marks and been terrible, but now they resembled a bad graze, nothing more. "You're fine. Unfortunately."
"What about him?" He nodded to Womack.
Gorr only stared at him. He knew that Tserra knew what the answer would have to be, for both of their sakes.
"Knew you were a kinky fucker.
"I'll get the vines," sighed Gorr.
"Good boy."
When Trayack found his older brother, bound and unconscious on the jungle floor, he had to stop. In spite of his own feelings, he could not leave him there to be the prey of some hungry creature. It simply wasn't their way! Even so, he needed to get back to the cave where he had seen them take the humans eventually. He had time, of that he was sure. The ghosts, although perhaps more monstrous than Womack himself, were not known to be the most efficient killers.
Womack could wait.
Little weighed on his heart or mind as Trayack made passage along again back to where he'd fled capture, not because of cowardice, but because it made all the sense in the world to him that if someone had escaped notice then they might be able to return to take the coveted role of rescuer.
And Red would appreciated that.
Maybe he would be rewarded.
Much jealousy thrived in him for his brother and how he had just taken what he wanted--Red--and then cast him aside as if he were nothing.
A flash of spite: he spat on the unconscious from of Womack who was recovering from his taxing transformation.