©Michael Robertson, July 7 2014
2015 – Herbertdale, Human World I
The village of Herbertdale by the early morning sunlight was a beautiful sight to behold. Clear blue skies; pure, unsullied rivers and streams; lush green fields and meadows. Quiet houses and small neighbourhoods.
Herbertdale was the largest and most industrialised of the numerous villages that formed a township of the same name.
The further away from this central hub a person got, the smaller and more isolated the villages became. On the outskirts of the region were the fields and farmland.
Naturally, the leaders, the elite, were holed up in the centre of the largest of the small towns, while the most common, the most numerous, the most poor and least privileged found themselves tending the soil, raising crops, and herding docile animals. It was hard work. Honest work. Work that a person could appreciate and relate to, work that a person could be proud of, unlike the soft bodied crust of society that earned their keep toiling away in boardrooms and offices. It was a pattern that repeated itself all over the human populated regions of the world. The domesticated savages were so simple, so predictable. It was no wonder they allowed themselves to be subjugated by the filth and scum that ruled over them like a bovine farmer rules over his herd, not that the common man had any clue as to the identity, or even existence of their sinister, malevolent, shadowy overlords.
Humans were so simple, so pathetic, so weak. They were like stranded doe: Defenceless, vulnerable, and ripe for the picking.
Herbertdale was calm, peaceful, quiet, dull, boring, intolerable.
Of course, not all illusions turned out to be true. Sometimes beauty was only skin deep, even the beauty of a small village. After all, it was surprising how many depraved murderers could inhabit such a small country hamlet. Some appearances were deceiving. Wherever humans resided, their populace would be split between the rich and poor. Whenever people were desperate and willing enough to survive by any available means, the dismantling of their preprogramed moral code wouldn’t be far behind, and if there were anything the outskirts of these farmlands were abundant in, it was poverty and desperation.
But a person wouldn’t need to go that far to find lives of misery and Woe. In a lonely hillside shack just outside the central village, out where no man could hear, came the familiar commotion of yet another family dispute.
The unmistakable sounds of voices yelling and bottles smashing against walls and floors echoed beyond the walls of the small, wooden home. The cacophony merged and entwined to form a horrible, disastrous, bastardisation of a symphony.
This couple were so loud when they argued that it was really a wonder that the noise didn’t travel down to the villages below.
If the casual gossipmonger were passing through, they would surely slow their pace when trekking these woods. The quantity of information that could be gathered about the family inside was absolutely astounding. Apparently, if the screams from inside were to be believed, the man of the house, as he called himself, was a small, tiny, little man who treated those closest to him like shit. He was never home, he was always either working, or wasting time and money on his many mistresses. Evidently, this man had accumulated something of a harem, if a person could believe such a thing.
“Well, if it gets me away from you and this house, then it can’t be too much of a waste, can it? I mean look at this shit! This is a small house. It’s not hard to keep the place tidy.”
“Really? And how would you know? I’ve never seen you pick up a fucking broom!”
The resulting smack that followed was a sound that echoed almost as far as their hoarse, shrieking voices, followed closely by a body hitting the floor. According to the livid ravings of the male, his wife was a worthless, drunk whore who only wrapped her lips around bottles because she was too old, fat, and ugly to get any real men to fuck her, to which she replied by calling his own manhood into question. That was never a particularly good idea in any situation, but especially to a human of this calibre when he was in a rage.
If a person crept quietly enough toward the shack, they could actually peer in through the window for a better look.
Carefully, quietly, being mindful of leaves and twigs that may crunch or snap under foot, keeping low, sneaking stealthily like a silent predator. Slowly, quietly, carefully, as the desired view port crept closer, a lesser hunter might have felt the thrill and rush of adrenaline both counteracting and fuelling the prospect of getting caught and being skinned alive, or perhaps something worse. Humans were after all, a formidable prey, but if a person considered the horrors that lurk in the darkest corners of the wider world, humans were, by comparison, far less intimidating. A person might even go so far as to call them a joke.
But now, the view was clear. The window was open, and the show was just beginning.
“What was that?” The man asked, towering over the fallen woman. He was not particularly strong looking. In fact he was quite short and lacked any kind of size or bulk. His hair was blond and cut short to the scalp where it blended with the blandness of his beige skin and white shirt. He turned toward the window, revealing an equally bland, unattractive face, though it was free from the slightest trace of a blemish or scar. This one was a physical paragon of what humanity stood for. He was soft, weak, unimpressive. In fact, the most interesting thing about the man was the thick, square, horn-rimmed spectacles that adorned his face.
He looked down as his attention was returned to the spouse at his feet.
She lay in a great heap on the ground. Her thin black hair was tied back in a ratty bun with messy, frizzy strands falling loose every which way. Her face lacked the makeup that human females were known for and though mostly pale, was patchy and red in areas. Her brown eyes had dark circles and her nose was irregular, crooked, squashed in. The grey tracksuit did little to hide the fact that she was bloated and misshapen. Her physique was what some referred to as overweight, but in all reality, she resembled a beached whale more than anything else.
“Huh, did you say something?” The man asked his wife. “Well, can you hear me? Answer me, or are you already too drunk to speak?”
Suddenly, the man bent down and grabbed his wife by the wrist, pulling her harshly too her feet. “Stand the fuck up and look at me when I’m talking to you!”
“Or what? Will you kick me? Step on me? Is this the only thing that makes you feel big? What a small person you must— “The woman was silenced with the back of the man’s hand across her face. She wasn’t too drunk to talk. Apparently, she was just drunk enough that she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, nor could she think clearly or consider the consequences of her actions. It was the only explanation for why she would continue to egg the man on like this.
“Mouthy little bitch,” the man said, hitting her face once more with a right hook, hitting her with a fist this time, most likely driven at full force. “Got anything more to say now, huh? Do you? Go on, call me small one more time.
“Is that what this is about? You want to feel like a big man? Then go fuck yourself.”
The man glared down at his wife as his boot swung hard into her large, inflatable balloon of an abdomen. “Good for nothing, useless, fat, ugly, worthless, slut!” Another kick had her rolling into a prone position. The next had her crying in pain. So did the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that. “You think you can talk to me like that?” He pulled her up by her frayed and tattered looking hair, now mostly free from its bun, and aimed another fist into her gut.
The woman doubled over from the blow and her husband hit her once more with a punch square in the face, breaking her nose. Blood gushed like a geyser. It ran down from her and onto the floor where it began to form a puddle. “You’d better clean up your mess before I get back. Just because you like living in a shithole, doesn’t mean I have to.”
“Then why do you? Don’t come back if you hate it so much. Nobody here’s going to miss you.”
The man wore a crooked grin on his twisted face. “You know, that’s funny.” The grin faded within an instant and was gone as the man lunged for his woman.
He sent jab after jab as he hit her again and again. She was bleeding from her face and the fresh bruises would be on full display before the week was out. With each hit he sent her stumbling backward. With each hit, he elicited another whimper from her pathetic, bloated form.
A clawed hand grasped at her loose, grey t-shirt, ripping it and freeing the blubbery mammal within.
“Fuckin’ slut!” he voiced, hitting her once more with enough force to send the woman off her feet. She landed on her back on the kitchen table.
The woman continued to unleash squeals of pain as the man kicked her legs, her knees, and between her thighs, where her legs joined with her body.
He kicked her. Again and again, he ploughed his foot right into her whimpering, pathetic form. His boot covered foot hit her so many times they could not be counted.
If he had been striking her head, the woman would be disoriented from the sheer force of the blows, never mind the pain that clearly emanated from them.
The man ceased his assault long enough to take a step back. He seemed to be fiddling with something. He fumbled at his waist… a belt buckle!
Suddenly, his pants fell to the floor.
His wife suddenly went rigid. Eyes widened in fear and her head shook so fast it seemed as though she were convulsing in some kind of fit.
“No,” she whimpered. “No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please… please god no!”
“Not so smart now, are you, you mouthy slut.”
The bloated woman tried to push herself from the table, tried to push him away from her, but it was no use. For every attempt to fight back, the man had a countermeasure. For every attempt at defiance, she was punished. She knew, as if from experience: The more she struggled, the worse it would get. The best course of action would be to let the dominant male have his way. All she could do was lie back and wait for it to be over. It seemed as though the woman was realising that.
Her head lay back against the table. Her beige underwear was gone before she could have had time to comprehend it, tossed aside. Eyes darted helplessly about the room… until they came to rest upon…
“Wait,” she cried, the sight giving her a newfound strength to resist. “You can’t, not in front of—“ But she was silenced once more by her husband’s violent fist.
“Stupid bitch, God can’t help you now.”
“No!” the woman tried to protest, but was powerless to do anything as her husband, quick as a flash and rough as he was vile, wrenched open her blubbery thighs, and gripping her tightly behind her kneecaps, entered her with all the force and grace of a sharp blade or the bullet of a gun piercing through tissue. The man was in, he had begun, and by the look of it, he’d be damned if he didn’t finish.
His movements were hard, fast, rough, mechanical. Nothing like the passionate throes within a honeymoon bed, the man’s thrusts were forceful, instinctual, emotionless. It was as though he felt nothing for the woman. His eyes were cold. His face was hard. He fucked the living shit out of his wife as though she were an inanimate object, like the inflatable dolls that are ritualistically given as gag gifts to young male humans as they come of age.
The wolf that peered in through the window turned his attention to the very spot the woman had spied when she miraculously regained her fight. What the wolf saw was surprising, to say the least.
Short, dusty brown hair. Wide eyes, the colour of mud. Pale skin. The absolute, unrelenting horror of the sight before him was etched into every fibre. It was painted onto every inch of unblemished skin. It exuded from every pore. Fear. The witness reeked of it. Such an intoxicating aroma. The wolf could smell it. It excited him, aroused him, tested his patience.
Such a young face. A boy, a juvenile, perhaps the child of the bickering couple?
The wolf wondered: How many of his parents fights had the boy witnessed, and how many of them had ended like this? Was this the first time, or was it a regular occurrence?
Perhaps the boy had learned the facts of life by witnessing first-hand the raping of his mother at the hands of his father.
The wolf stood to his feet. He raised his tail, opened his mouth, and extended his tongue in anticipation. His hunter’s spirit was urging him on. All this waiting and watching… he had stalked his prey long enough. He was dying to strike, to tear, to taste. The wait was killing him.
With a growl of impatience, his eyes settled back to the adult’s horizontal tango.
The man was forcing himself into his wife so hard that the kitchen table below him was rocking with every thrust, legs scraping abominably against the varnished floorboards, adding to the deafening cacophony of his wife’s screams and protests as she continued to struggle against him.
He reacted by pummelling her face with his fist, which only had the adverse effect of making her louder.
The woman’s large, unshapely breasts slapped audibly against her own pasty, veiny, stretchmark covered roadmap of a body. Blood continued to trickle from her broken nose and she began to choke as it ran down her throat.
The man released his grip on the woman’s legs and wrapped his hands around her neck.
The wolf stood up once more as he saw this sight. Even in the most depraved of human slums, never had he witnessed such an aggressive display of sexual dominance. Normally only Therian Clan leaders such as him were so bold with their females. Humans didn’t understand. No species could understand the animalistic nature of a therianthrope. Even if they could, they were all too weak to enact it. The only ones to come close were those filthy, bloodsucking anal cunts.
Letting out a low growl, the wolf pushed the sour thought to the back of his mind, swallowing it like bile before it ruined his enjoyment of the show before him.
As the man increased the pressure on his wife’s neck, his thrusts became harder, deeper, and more forceful. It was quite impressive, for a human. Especially considering the general weakness of a human’s hind muscles.
The woman’s eyes had grown wide as her face reddened. She spasmed and thrashed about on the table, struggling to breathe. The humiliating sight excited the wolf. Perhaps there were more advantages to a human’s bipedal form than he’d imagined. He’d never even thought of dominating anybody this way before. He’d been using the form of a wolf exclusively for practically his entire life. He’d always preferred his quadrupedal form for its greater speed, primal strength, and bestial brutality.
The woman was helpless, asphyxiating. The man was relentless, choking her as he fucked, the violence getting him off as much, if not more than the sensation of his wife’s body around him.
Gradually, she ceased struggling and her motions slowed to a gradual stop.
As the bloated pig passed out, the man’s pace increased twofold. Whether this was due to an attraction to lifeless bodies or simply a sign that he was reaching his climax, the wolf couldn’t tell. Regardless, the man was done within the minute.
With a sharp gasp inward and a few short pelvic jerks, the man’s movements stopped altogether, aside from the heaving chest that signified his heavy breathing. It was at least another minute before the man pulled out. The wolf found this strange behaviour, atypical of any human display he’d ever witnessed before, but he didn’t have time to think about it. The human would surely be coming out soon. Besides, the wolf really didn’t care.
With the pre-dinner show over, the wolf returned to his hidden position in the bushes and waited. The man would be coming out any second now. Any. Second.
1715 – Blackfire Territory, Feral Relm
“Any second now, any second,” the pup whined. He’d been pacing and panicking for almost an hour now. “They’ll get here any second, and when they do, they’ll kill us all!”
What a pathetic display. He may have been descended of the warrior caste, but he carried none of his parent’s traits. After all, he was still a combat virgin. He had never hunted, never slain, never seen battle. Cowards didn’t last long. Theta wolves were warriors, defenders, attack dogs. Their role was to protect the pack. Weak links were not tolerated. Spineless pups such as that one had only three options available to them: They could leave the pack, they could harden the fuck up, or they could die.
“That’s enough!” Wal roared at the pup. “If you want to live long enough to meet the invaders, I suggest you still your wagging tongue before I tear it from your throat.” The pup fell silent, as did the rest of the room. Eyes locked onto the large, bleach blond man glaring at him. “All this time spent complaining would be better used in preparation. They’re coming in force. Yeah, I get it, but you know what else I get? Sitting around bitching about it like some human isn’t going to accomplish shit.”
Wal looked about the room and eyed every junior theta in there. As Epsilon Theta, Wal was responsible for protecting the pack from all external threats by any means necessary. The Theta caste: the meat of any werewolf attack, the warriors, were entirely at his disposal. He was their Epsilon, their leader, their general.
“We are Lycan! We don’t blend in amongst the human trash like the witches. We don’t hide ourselves buried underground like the dwarves and kitsune. These vampires are just parasites. We are lycan, we are wolf, we are pack. We don’t fear the fleas in our pelts like the werecats.
“When we are attacked, we fight back. When other clans step into our territory and threaten our pack, we kill them.”
Wal looked into the eyes of each and every Gamma in the room. He saw fear and apprehension, but he also saw respect and pride.
“We are warriors. We are Theta. When threatened, we grow a pair and fight tooth and claw to the last man. We are the first line of defence, we are the last line of defence. We do not retreat, we do not surrender. If the enemy breaks through our defence, it’s because we are already dead. We do not fear the bloodsuckers that creep behind us in the shadows, we make them fear us. We make them our prey. We fucking eat them! When those anal cunts arrive, we will not show fear. We will not show mercy. We will meet them head on. We will show them our dominance. We will fight to the death, and we will win.
“We will tear out their throats, we will rip off their heads, we will burn their bodies… and we will piss on their ashes!”
The cavernous room erupted in a cacophony of roars and howls. Wal sneered down at the cowards that remained silent. The Upsilon, the youngest within the pack, yet to undertake their rite of passage and be honoured with their chosen caste.
While he and the Theta wolves slaughtered the parasitic scum to their brutal heart’s content, the Upsilon would be inside pissing themselves with the rest of the cowards. The healers, the mentors, the scientists, and the hunters who preferred to sink their claws into prey that couldn’t fight back. They would never understand the surging pleasure of visceral combat, the thrill of fighting creatures as powerful as themselves, the rush of adrenaline at knowing they could themselves die at any moment. The violence was so intense, it was sexual.
With the preparations made, Wal paced before his men. They stood in irregular ranks as they anxiously waited for him to speak. They were eager to fight. Werewolves were not disciplined by nature, but they knew their place and they knew their duty.
The air was crisp, yet warm. It was early afternoon.
It was strange for vampires to attack during the day. It wasn’t as though they had a definite weakness to sunlight, but it was common knowledge that the vampiric vermin were stronger at night. They were nocturnal, creatures of shadow. It only made sense. Why then, had they chosen to attack now? Why not in a few hours time when the sun had gone down and they would have the advantage?
When one of the younger wolves pressed that very question, Wal sneered, his lips peeling back to reveal a set of gleaming, sharp, white teeth.
“Because they are stupid. They may be stronger than us, they may even be faster, but remember the scout’s report. We outnumber them. They’ve stretched their forces thin, attacking several wolf packs simultaneously. The cowards are too afraid to take us on in a fair fight. They think that because there is no moon in the sky, we will kowtow to them without a fight.
“They wouldn’t stand a chance against us under a full moon, and they won’t beat us today. Vampires may have great strengths, but they have equally great weaknesses, whereas we have none.
“Their greatest weakness though, is not sunlight or garlic. It is not blessed metals or prayer, nor is it holy water. Their greatest weakness is their pride.
“They are arrogant and stupid. They have underestimated us, and that will be the nail that seals their coffin, the stake that impales their heart, the blade that cuts off their head.
“We will win this little battle, and when we do, once every last one of those blood sucking motherfuckers is dead, the hunt will begin. We will find them. We will slaughter them like animals. We will do this world a favour by ridding it of their existence.”
The still silence was interrupted by distant howling, the music of their scouts. More wolves added their voices to the choir, these ones closer, less than a kilometre away. That was the signal of the scouts. As the song grew louder and fuller, their enemies drew closer.
More wolves lent their voice, then more.
“And so the battle begins,” Wal announced. “The enemy is upon our doorstep. Show them our hospitality. Now, go!”
The sweet music of howls was answered by a cacophonous wall of roars as the warriors lunged into battle.
Seven hundred monstrous men and women suddenly leaped forward, lunging headlong into combat.
Rippling muscles bulged beneath tight skin.
Spines shifted as the massive bipeds morphed into something more feral. Canines extended as their jaws reformed and faces took on the narrow, pointed shape of a muzzle.
Hands and feet became paws, bleeding as nails gave way to the claws bursting through skin.
Clothing tore and was shed by the growing muscles and changing forms beneath. Rich pelts of thick fur erupted from beneath tight skin to cover the newly liberated bodies in various colours of shag.
When the lycans had leapt toward the battle, they had appeared human, but when they touched ground once more, they were wolves, completely transformed, charging on all fours toward their waiting, soon to be dead nemeses.
The wolves sped through the tall grass of their home as they raced toward the invaders. The howling was nearly constant now, though deafened by the sounds of paws against the hard ground and the wind and wild grass that whipped past their faces.
It didn’t matter. The wolves didn’t need their scouts to pinpoint the vampire’s precise location. They could smell their pungent stench wafting from the north. Even without their enhanced sense of smell, further improved as one of the many advantages of their wolf forms, all powerful creatures carried with them a unique aura specific to their species. Vampires for example, were one of the most powerful species on earth and therefore carried a massive dark aura that, unless supressed, pointed them out in any crowd, making a surprise attack utterly impossible. Even without the scouts, anyone in the area would be able to feel the vampire’s malicious presence from the dark aura of absolute evil they projected, and considering the numbers of vampires present in the area, the aura was like a blanket, overpowering and suffocating everything in sight. It was a sensation that would invoke despair and terror in most lesser beings.
Of course, the werewolves carried a large feral aura of their own, close to, if not more overpowering than that of the vampires. They were also built tougher, more muscular, and far less frail. They were faster, more durable, and more savage in battle. Vampires were possibly the strongest creatures in existence, but not even they could match a first class lycan warrior under a full moon.
Theta wolves were the most powerful of all the Therian races. They thrived on battle, trained daily, and lived only for the rush of adrenaline. If there were anything in this world perfectly suited to fighting and killing vampires, it would be them.
The scouts would not fare so well. Scouts were the greatest sprinters and skilled stalkers, second only to hunters, but lacked the raw strength and ruthlessness of the warriors. When the battle started, the scouts would retreat to the safety of the compound with the rest of the pack.
Only the strongest would meet the vampires in open combat in the expansive grounds. Only after slaying every last one of them would the invaders pose a threat to the rest of the pack waiting safely behind the walls of the compound; and even then, that was an impenetrable fortress with stockpiles to withstand any siege. The attackers stood no chance. If need be, scouts would be sent out to bring in reinforcements from the other packs. Though not technically allies, all packs; wolf or no, shared one belief: The south was Therian territory. No pack leader would tolerate the threat of a foreign invasion. Not by anyone, but especially not by the vampire lords who, frankly, had too much already.
They were getting close now. Wal could sense their presence, feel their aura, smell the blood on their hands.
He could see them, toying with the scouts.
They were too slow!
At the sight of their approach, the scouts bolted. The ten or so in the area made for them in a mad dash toward the compound… but they were not fast enough to outrun the vampires.
Outrun was perhaps the wrong term. The demonic beings weren’t exactly running, but gliding across the ground, their feet not once touching, instead hovering over it.
The smooth, gliding humanoid figures were gaining on the fleeing wolves. Wal pushed his quadrupedal body to the limit as he sprinted to intercept the vile creatures.
He was almost there. The scouts were almost safe behind the protective wall of therian bodies, but just before the violent clash of Iota sanctuary, the vampiric aggressors tasted blood.
One wolf was launched into the air by a powerful kick. Following him into the air, the vile vampire was so fast he had beaten the retreating scout to near death before he touched the ground. Another caught up to the second scout, floating above him as he sunk his fangs deep into the wolf’s neck. Once bitten, the wolf sprinted and yelped, desperate to get away, but this instinct to run and survive proved to be his undoing. As the wolf ran, the vampire slowed, raking his fangs across the wolf as he fell behind, creating two deep trenches in the wolf’s back, peeling flesh from the bone.
Slowed by the pain from his wounds, the vile creatures swarmed and he was soon torn apart.
Not all of the vampires resorted to using their teeth. They could be just as deadly with their mouths closed.
One such floating monster easily grasped a scout’s tail with his filthy hand. The scout snarled and roared in outrage, but was ultimately powerless to do anything as he was unceremoniously tossed up into the air as though a mere human child’s plush toy. Then, with an amazing show of strength that any werewolf would be proud of, the vampire thrust his hand upward, piercing skin and fur, penetrating the cavity as he formed it in the upturned, airborne wolf’s back.
The thing’s hand sunk deep into therian flesh, ripping and slicing as well as any claw or blade, moving with shear speed, elbow deep until his hand tore through the wolf’s chest, ripping and bursting out the other side.
In his disgusting, unworthy hand he held the scout’s still beating heart. The organ continued to pump blood throughout the wolf’s dying body, continued to empty the wolf’s crimson life onto the field as it was ripped from the scout’s lifelines and crushed in the vampire’s pale, gnarled, bony palm.
Wal roared as he pushed himself to the limit, sprinting headlong at the vile aggressors as they continued to tear apart the retreating scouts. It was all he could do to focus his rage on pushing his legs to move faster. Anger was a useful tool, and once he unleashed his focused fury upon them, they would know what it meant to fuck with death incarnate. In the meantime, the vampires claimed another life, tearing out a throat with two elongated canines.
Wal’s lips peeled back to reveal gleaming, sharp, white teeth.
The growl began low, deep, guttural. The sound rose up, grew in volume, strength, and ferocity, erupting in a terrifying roar as he bolted, moving at top speed. Wal may have been running in the form of a wolf, but he galloped like a thoroughbred, moving ahead of the pack, taking his rightful place.
The vampire’s visceral display of carnage was over. Wal leapt into the air, launching himself into the heat of battle, and claimed his first kill.
His claws pierced pale, soft, white skin, spilling the vampire’s coveted blood as he claimed a pathetic fucking life.
The thrill of the fresh kill was invigorating, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more, and more he would have.
Wal leapt from one body to the next as he satiated his lust for flesh and blood.
His claws easily peeled the vampiric skin and meat from the bone. He scratched out the eyes of one and decapitated another. He ripped out one heart with his paw-like hand and tore out a throat with his powerful jaw.
The violence was exquisite and Wal soon felt himself becoming aroused by the bloodbath alone.
The vampires had had their fun. They had delighted in slaughtering those weaker than them, the scouts. Now it was their turn. Now the strongest of the pack would fight to their heart’s content. Now the vampires would feel the tide of battle coming in to wash over them, and Wal would enjoy every blood soaked second as the parasites drowned in the overwhelming river of shit that flowed freely from the crumbling dam of their own atonement.
Wal was almost beginning to feel content in his mindless slaughter. The hellish creatures fell before him with little effort as he slit throats and crushed skulls. He burst eyeballs in their sockets and tore fangs from mouths. Heads and limbs tore free with the slightest effort. If this was the best the vampires had to offer, the war wouldn’t go on much longer. In less than an hour, the battle was beginning to rear its end. The intruders were thinning out and the grounds were littered with corpses, some lycan, but mostly vampire. Wal had given in completely to his therian bloodlust and battle rage. He wanted more, needed more. He unleashed a deep, powerful roar, a challenge to all the invaders, and to all the defenders.
The other warriors heeded his order. They backed off, giving him space and allowing him any kill within his reach. The others concerned themselves only with the stragglers, the far off enemies and those that had managed to slip past the maelstrom of violence and were heading toward the compound.
He stood alone in the blood soaked field surrounded by broken corpses. He’d taken them all down on his own. Who knew where the other warriors had gone? Who cared? They retreated from the battle, it was their loss.
The wolf was exhausted, his coat soaked in scarlet, but he felt content, satisfied. It was a good feeling. He shifted effortlessly back to his bipedal form and was about to take a leisurely stroll to the compound and announce the all clear to the geriatric cowards heading the pack when a second wolf came bounding in, storming like the wind to interrupt the afterglow of slaughter.
The second wolf leapt into the air and shifted to his human form. Out of breath, the man gasped for air as he spoke, his voice carried a certain desperation about it.
“Wal! We have… we have to get back.”
“What’s the rush? The battle’s over.”
“It’s not over.”
Wal’s eyes widened. “Wha-at?”
“You were dominating the battle here, so we backed off and noticed a few intruders enclosing around the compound. It’s the fuckin’ vamps, man. They’ve breached our defences. They lured our warriors out with the battle so they could sneak in and attack the pack.”
“Fuck knows, but they’d done a number on us by the time we even found them. The hunters, the healers, the scientists, the scouts… it’s a fucking bloodbath in there. They even went after the pups.”
“I think they’re still safe.”
“Figures,” Wal snorted in contempt.
“We gotta get in there before everybody’s dead.”
“Right,” Wal agreed. Then, with a mighty roar, he leapt into the air. Feet became paws, face narrowed to a muzzle and silver fur sprouted through his tan skin. He landed once more on the blood stained field as a mighty wolf. He sprinted at full speed toward their vulnerable fortress. How could this have happened? Their defences were supposed to be impossible for outsiders to bypass.
He only knew one thing for certain, as did the wolf running behind him, unable to match his speed, as did every lycan in the vicinity.
He was going to murder every last one of those goddamned fucking vampires.
2015, Herbertdale, Human World I
The wolf crouched low, his prey was coming out. The human moved slowly, with an undeserved sense of grandeur and importance, as though he didn’t quite understand his place. It was a lesson he would have to learn, and a lesson the wolf would be happy to teach.
The man stepped outside, slamming the door behind him. It was a drag, but somebody in that worthless excuse for a family had to go out and earn some goddamn money. God knew that lazy bitch and her useless son wouldn’t do it.
The man stepped out into the chilling morning air and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He found the one he wanted and approached his car, preparing to unlock the door.
Typical, lazy, predictable humans; they couldn’t go anywhere without their vehicles.
They relied on machines too much. It was their greatest weakness. It made them slow, it made them soft, it made them weak.
The wolf moved closer, moved in for the kill. He moved slowly, silently, keeping low to the ground. This was his chance, and he would take it.
He moved swiftly, but maintained his silence. The human turned around.
The human had seen him!
The man widened his eyes in shock. He opened his mouth to scream, but it did him no good. It never did any good. He tried to run, but the wolf was too fast. He was on him long before the man had even taken a single ghost of a step.
Before he knew what was happening, the wolf was on top of him, and there was nothing he could do to resist the powerful, ferocious monster.
The man struggled under the superior creature’s body. He tried with all the might he possessed, which was arguably not as much as it could be, certainly not as abundant as the miners of a century ago. These days, much of the heavy work was done with the assistance of machines. Not like in the old days when men were sent in to mine the rock with only basic tools and elbow grease. Today’s Miners were soft. The man’s father and grandfather would always jibe him about it. He wasn’t like them when they were young. He was weak.
Were they right? Was he weak? Was he useless? Was he unable to defend himself? Was he seriously about to die at the thumbless paws of this stupid fucking furry animal?
No, hell no. No fucking way!
With rapid, jerking movements, the man kicked at the beast’s underbelly. He hit and kicked, again and again, doing anything and everything to hurt the animal, to escape its merciless grasp. It seemed to be working. The beast elicited a growl, but the man kept going. It seemed like the animal was about to back off. The stupid, cowardly thing. He’d teach it to mess with a human. Worthless animals should know their place.
Suddenly, with a menacing roar, the wolf unleashed a series of bites, lunging and scrapping with his jaw.
Jerking erratically, the man was able to evade the wolf’s attacks. He was okay, he was going to win this skirmish. He’d get away. He’d escape, and the moment he was free, he’d race inside. Once within the safe confines of his house, he’d get his gun. Then he’d show this intrusive wolf who the superior being was. He’d teach it the hard way why humans were the dominant species in the world.
He aimed a kick right into the wolf’s belly and prepared to squirm free, but he would have no such luck. With a vicious snarl, the wolf sunk his teeth into the man’s shoulder, breaking skin, piercing flesh, crushing bone. The mighty jaw jerked, tugged, and pulled.
Powerless, the man screamed until, with a loud pop, his arm came out of its socket and lay limply at his side.
The other arm was next. Sharp canine teeth penetrated flesh, ripping it, ripping him, tearing meat from his arm in a massive chunk, leaving blood to pour from the open wound as if it were a vampire’s wet dream, but the wolf did not care for the thin, profuse, crimson sauce that poured from his meal. He was after the flesh, the meat; not the life, not the blood, and certainly not the soul.
The wolf took several more bites from the man, ripping and mutilating him out of sport and spite more so than hunger, swallowing chunks from the still live, still screaming human’s arm, chest and face.
When he’d finally had enough, he went for the jugular, biting down on the man’s throat and shaking it violently. He tore it out, snarling and growing as though delivering an aggressive song of death and violence.
As blood poured from him, taking with it the life from his body, as the last trickles of light left the human’s eyes, all he could do was stare ahead.
Unable to react.
Unable to explain what was happening, even had he the energy and ability to react.
The last thing his lying eyes saw before lethargy claimed him in the eternal, waiting abyss, was an anomaly, an impossibility, a figment of his insanity.
Even as the man relinquished his tight grip on life and surrendered to death’s cold, foul-breathed embrace, his gaze drifted from the wolf standing triumphantly over him, and to the shadow that the foul creature cast upon the sun kissed field in which he lay.
The shadow, which seemed to change, to morph, to grow. It expanded in length and transformed in shape, as though the quadruped were standing up on its hind legs.
With every passing second, the shadow grew less feral and more man-like, more human. It was impossible, it was madness. The human was dead, he was insane, in the shadow of the wolf.
Before long, the animal stood before him as a person, was a person.
The delirium was complete.