The Red Alpha

"Think we should head back," Gerald muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, nearly swallowed by the rustling leaves and groaning trees.

His massive frame shivered, not from the cold but from the fear that slithered down his spine like ice water. His boots crunched on the damp forest floor as he tried to steady his breath. He hated feeling this way—like a coward. His size had always made people think he was fearless. But tonight, under a moonless sky in a cursed forest, all that muscle felt like a burden rather than an asset.

The woods around them loomed like a graveyard, their ancient trees twisted and crooked as if frozen in torment. Every branch seemed to twitch. Every gust of wind whispered secrets. The deeper they went, the more the darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating.

The air was heavy with damp earth, rotting leaves, and something else—something metallic and wild. Gerald didn't want to put a name to it. The others were ahead of him, moving like shadows through the underbrush.

Cyrus led the way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his silhouette a wall of confidence. A sleek black rifle rested against his back, glinting faintly each time the light caught the silver inlay along its barrel. His every step was measured and quiet, even graceful—like a predator.

Abby followed close behind, light on her feet, her long dark braid swaying like a tail behind her. In her hands, she carried a silver-edged blade nearly the length of her forearm. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the surroundings as though she could see in the dark.

And then there was Gerald, trying not to trip over roots or soil himself.

The wind shifted.

Something moved.

Far off, a faint snap—like bone cracking beneath weight.

"The wind," Gerald whispered, "it's... saying something."

"No," Cyrus replied, low and deliberate. "It's not the wind. It's him."

They stopped.

Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.

"We're close," Cyrus said, his voice like gravel dragged across stone. He crouched slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the terrain—boulders blanketed with moss, crooked tree trunks, and a trail of crushed grass that broke toward the east. "He's near. I can smell him."

Abby frowned, sniffed the air. "Blood and burnt iron. That's what it smells like."

Cyrus gave a slow nod. "Means he's been wounded. Or feeding."

Gerald's skin prickled with dread. He gripped the handle of his axe tighter and swallowed hard. "I don't like this. Everything about this place is wrong. I ain't gonna lie, I think I'm gonna piss my pants."

Abby smirked, not unkindly. "It's always scary the first time. You'll get used to it once we kill this rotten bastard. It's like losing your virginity. Terrifying at first, but afterward, you'll want to do it again."

Gerald wrinkled his nose. "What kind of twisted analogy is that?"

Cyrus glanced over his shoulder with a wolfish grin. Even in the suffocating dark, Gerald could see his teeth. "Maybe we should help you lose yours first, Gerald. You'd be less jittery."

"You think that's funny?" Gerald snapped, color rising in his cheeks.

Cyrus smirked wider. "A little. Big guy like you? You've either got a real sad story or some real high standards."

The forest quieted again.

"I might be scared of werewolves," Gerald growled, stepping closer, the tension in his frame shifting from fear to fury, "but I'm not scared of you. Say that shit again and I'll cut you down where you stand."

Cyrus turned slowly, his grin gone. His eyes narrowed. He took a step forward until they were face to face, inches apart.

"You think you scare me, Bigfoot?" he hissed. "Try anything, and I'll slit you open before the werewolf even gets a chance."

"Enough!" Abby barked, stepping between them and shoving them apart with more strength than her size suggested. "For Christ's sake, both of you, enough! Two grown-ass men acting like high schoolers with testosterone poisoning."

Neither of them responded, their chests rising and falling in unison, locked in a silent standoff.

Abby turned on them both, furious now. "We are in the middle of a pitch-black, goddamn forest hunting a werewolf that's probably already heard us arguing. Do either of you want to end up in its stomach? Because keep this up, and that's exactly what'll happen."

Cyrus backed down first, muttering a curse as he turned and resumed walking. Gerald hesitated, then followed, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow despite the chill.

The trio pressed on, deeper into the shadowed wood. Their footsteps softened as the snow thickened. Mist began to gather at their ankles, curling around their legs like ghosts.

"This is it," Cyrus said after a time, stopping near a fallen tree half-buried in moss.

Abby took a cautious step forward. "You sure?"

"Positive. He's close. Real close."

Gerald swallowed, his hands trembling around his axe. "So, what's the plan?"

"Stay quiet," Cyrus said, his voice all business now. "We move slow. The bastard's likely hiding or sleeping. If we catch him before he transforms, we end this fast."

"And if he's already transformed?" Gerald asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Then we fight," Abby said simply, pulling her blade free from its sheath with a soft hiss. "And you keep that axe between you and his teeth."

They moved again.

The trees grew closer here, ancient and twisted, their bark gnarled like clenched fists. The canopy above was so dense it blocked out the stars entirely. They might as well have been underground.

Then they saw it.

A structure loomed ahead—half-hidden among the trees. A small wooden cabin, ancient and rotting, with ivy clinging to its walls and a crooked chimney barely holding upright. The windows were dark, but something flickered inside. Firelight, faint and dancing.

Cyrus raised a hand, signaling them to stop. "There."

The house stood like an island of rot in the sea of trees. Something about it felt... wrong. Not just old or abandoned—but tainted. Like the earth itself wanted to forget it existed.

"You ready?" Abby asked, eyes fixed on the house.

Gerald tried to nod but couldn't. His whole body was shaking now. "Yeah. No. Maybe. Fuck. I dunno."

Abby smirked. "You'll be fine. Just don't die."

"Great advice," he muttered.

"Let's get this fucker," Cyrus growled.

He stepped forward, rifle raised. Abby followed, blade drawn. Gerald brought up the rear, clutching his axe so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

She was the first to summon the courage to move toward the wooden house. Abby's steps were firm, yet cautious. Fog curled around her ankles like something alive.

Cyrus looked back at Gerald and grinned.

"Seems like the girl's got bigger balls than you, big boy," he mocked.

Gerald was too shaken to respond. His massive frame was trembling slightly, the barrel of his shotgun bobbing in his grip. Cyrus turned and caught up to Abby. Gerald hesitated, then reluctantly followed.

Abby glanced at the others and then nodded to Cyrus. He stepped forward and pushed the door. It creaked open slowly, as if protesting. A gust of stale, rotting air rolled out, thick with mildew, blood, and old wood.

They stepped in cautiously, slow and alert, one person at a time. Cyrus went first, followed by Abby, and then Gerald last. The floorboards groaned under their weight, each step sounding like a warning.

"The bastard's here," Cyrus whispered.

"Stay close," Abby signaled to Gerald. He obeyed the command and moved even closer, gripping his shotgun tight.

"Come out, little doggy. Come out—come out wherever you are," Cyrus said in a low voice.

And as if it had been heard, there was noise upstairs. A single loud thump—followed by a scary silence.

Cyrus raised his rifle, resting it easily on his arms while the muscles in his body coiled in preparation. Abby tightened her grip on her silver blade. Gerald shivered, the butt of his shotgun snug against his shoulder.

"Here it comes!" shouted Cyrus, his eyes sweeping through the shadows.

"Don't let the ugly fucker get you!" Abby screamed.

Too late.

The werewolf moved fast. A blur of claws and teeth. Its golden eyes flared like twin fireflies. Gerald fired blindly and missed. Panic surged through him. He cursed and fired again. The blasts echoed, deafening.

The werewolf leaped past Cyrus, a shadow of fury and fur, and smashed him aside with its shoulder. Cyrus hit the wall with a grunt, his rifle knocked from his hands into the dark.

Then it slammed into Gerald's massive body, barreling him to the ground. The shotgun clattered away. Gerald fought back—hands pushing, legs kicking—but the beast was stronger. Faster.

There was a brief struggle. Gerald roared, swinging fists wildly. Then he screamed—loud and raw—as the werewolf's claws sank into his throat.

The scream was cut short as it ripped out his windpipe. Blood sprayed the floorboards in a violent arc.

"Bloody fucker!" Abby cried, surging forward, silver blade flashing as she lunged for the werewolf's back.

But the creature turned with terrifying speed. One massive swipe—unnaturally fast—caught her in the side. She flew through the air like a ragdoll and slammed into the wooden wall. Her body dropped limp to the floor. Out cold.

"Now's my chance," Cyrus muttered, almost loudly.

Through the pain, he dropped to one knee, spotted his rifle, grabbed it, took aim—and squeezed the trigger.

Boom.

The werewolf flinched. Silver tore into its side. It staggered.

But it didn't go down.

He fired again. Point blank. The shot cracked through the house.

The werewolf collapsed with a huge thud.

It gasped, blood pouring from its mouth and chest.

"Gotcha mother fucker," Cyrus cursed.

He approached slowly, rifle still raised. Blood dripped from the barrel. The thing looked human—too human. If not for the claws, fangs, and golden eyes, it could've been mistaken for a man. He kicked its legs.

Nothing.

He kicked it again.

It snarled and lunged, rising up with a vicious growl, knocking him down hard. Cyrus grunted as he hit the floor, the rifle skidding into the darkness again.

Pain tore through his left leg as he landed. He gritted his teeth and started rolling, dodging the next attack.

The werewolf loomed over him, its breath hot and sour, body weakened but still deadly. Blood seeped from its chest wounds, but rage kept it upright. It snarled, its eyes burning.

Cyrus grabbed its arms as it struck, catching the claws inches from his face. They sliced into the sleeves of his jacket, cutting flesh beneath. Warm blood ran down his arms, but he held firm. He didn't bulge.

He screamed back at the beast, adrenaline pumping. He twisted violently, managing to lock the werewolf's right arm between his legs. It growled weakly, in pain.

Then, it happened.

A surge of strength—unnatural, overwhelming—exploded through Cyrus's body.

It wasn't adrenaline.

It was something else.

Alien. Fierce. Fire-like.

His veins burned. His muscles tightened beyond their limit, fed by something not entirely his own.

His left hand found the hilt of his silver blade.

Summoning every ounce of strength in his body, Cyrus tightened his legs, pinning the werewolf even more. In a single, brutal motion, he drove the blade into its stomach.

It let out a dying scream—the last kick of a dying horse. It writhed in agony, struggling for freedom. Blood splattered over them both.

But Cyrus held it.

He twisted the blade deeper.

The werewolf writhed, shrieked—then slowly went limp.

Blood poured onto Cyrus' body in thick, steaming waves. His breath hitched. He shoved the corpse aside and struggled to his feet, limping badly, chest heaving.

The werewolf looked up, growling weakly, eyes glowing with something that looked like death. But it wasn't dead yet.

Then it spoke.

"You... smell like him," the werewolf rasped.

Cyrus froze, staring down at the bloodied thing. "What?"

"The ice... it's inside you. The same ice," the werewolf coughed, blood pouring from his mouth. "You're his vessel. His coldness... it's like death inside you."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Cyrus growled.

"You will. Soon," the werewolf muttered, its voice fading. "He's watching. From the pit. And when the time comes, you'll freeze too."

It chuckled softly, a horrible, wet sound. "You'll kill us all."

Cyrus looked down at it coldly, chest rising and falling hard. "Not if I kill him first."

The werewolf smiled, exposing broken, bloodied fangs.

"You already failed," it whispered.

Cyrus drove the blade into its heart.

Its body jolted once.

Then went still.

Cyrus stood motionless, breathing hard, eyes wide. Slowly, his gaze drifted across the room—searching—and then he saw it.

Gerald's body.

It lay crumpled by the far wall. Lifeless. Blood still dripping from his torn throat. His eyes were open, glassy, staring at nothing.

Cyrus looked away quickly.

He turned toward Abby.

She was still unconscious, slumped on her side near the wall. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, but she was breathing.

He limped to her, collapsed beside her, and lifted her gently into his arms. She was lighter than he expected. Her head lolled against his shoulder, blood matting her hair.

Outside, the night wind howled—a long, low cry from the woods.

Cyrus didn't flinch.

He looked down at her pale face, then cast one final glance at the werewolf's corpse.

With Abby in his arms, he stepped out into the cold night.

And didn't look back.