✧ 51 ✧
ll wobbly on his feet, Ilya felt hungover from the disease Debra had infected him with. The Z virus, as he recalled from the documents he read back at that hospital of horrors, was slowly but surely claiming his organs.
His eyes must have been playing tricks on him because there was a new entity in the living room of this already crowded apartment.
A huge brown figure with broad ears folded in the middle, a large flaring snout, and long tusks protruding from a drooling mouth.
The head was that of a wild mad pig, but the creature walked on two legs, shaking the floor beneath it.
Ripped clothes revealed a muscular structure that served as a shield under those pounds of fat.
A creature so mighty that the werewolf in front of him seemed small in comparison.
The more Ilya stared at the creature, the faster his heart raced.
"What... is... happening?"
The roars and squeals gave him a headache. He covered his ears and hoped the voices would stop. Suddenly, a heavy thud at his feet startled him.
A fully transformed werewolf bled on the floor.
Ilya fell on his back. His legs betrayed him. He couldn't believe his eyes. Clutching at the curtains behind him, Ilya pulled himself away from... Beast.
Even in his deteriorating condition, Ilya never forgot about Beast—the psycho who enjoyed toying with him like a mouse between a cat's paws. The shock of seeing him again drained the color from his face.
The werewolf groaned as he tried to rise.
With a trembling hand, Ilya pulled the curtains to hide and prayed hard, "Please, don't come back. Oh, please. Please. Don't come back."
Heavy footsteps approached, each landing on the floor like an earthquake. A series of hefty breaths followed. Pig was heading toward his target—the boy of Russian descent—with the intent of crushing him into a mushy mess.
The werewolf bounced back up and inhaled, letting out a powerful roar.
"Leave him alone!"
With a monstrous voice, Pig replied, "TRAITOR!"
Pig charged at Beast with a ferocious cry.
His hooves pounded against the floor. The chairs by the window flew as Pig's body slammed into them.
His tusks punctured the window's wooden frame.
He was stuck there for a second until he pulled and ripped a piece of wood with them.
Realizing that he missed hitting both targets, Pig turned around.
He turned and turned, fuming with erratic movements, until his last breaths came out as piercing cries.
Then he heard a startled scream that was cut short. There, behind the couch.
Beast covered the boy's mouth, but it was too late. Pig was already sprinting towards them on all fours.
Beast jumped from behind the couch and tackled the larger beast to the ground. Then he instantly held him in a headlock. Beast's speed was his only advantage in this fight.
"Greg, stop," Beast grunted. "Stop it! This isn't you."
Pig resisted, swinging Beast on his shoulders with sharp-pitched cries. Beast was slipping until he no longer had a grip.
"Oof."
Beast landed on his back. The ground shook from the heavy fall. The chandelier swung violently, threatening to fall on him, but a closer threat was after him that needed his attention—a big black hoof with sharp edges appeared inches away from his face.
Beast's breath was lost in a deep gasp.
Pig had lifted his leg and smashed it down. His eyes were so black like burning coal, fueled with vengeance. His hoof penetrated the stone-hard floors. A cloud of dust blinded him, but he knew, he felt it—He had missed his target once again.
If only Beast weren't so damn fast.
In the dust, a quick shadow loomed around Pig. He found himself in the clutches of Beast again.
Swift claws scratched into Pig's piles of fat, one after the other. Until Pig started swinging his arms. With a single strike of his hardened limbs, Pig punched Beast straight in the jaw.
The dust cleared. Beast was on his knees, spitting blood.
"Greg... stop. I don't want to hurt you."
He wiped his mouth, then braced himself for another blow. This one went deep into his stomach, shuffling his internal organs. Beast bent over with his hand on his bruised ribs, coughing blood.
Then he took another blow, then another.
Blood splattered the room. Beast didn't look like he was doing well.
Pig's enormous size gave him an advantage both in taking hits and delivering them.
His pig hooves, replacing his thick three fingers on each hand, landed punches like bricks breaking the werewolf's bones, starting with his face and down to his ribs.
Beast realized he didn't stand a chance against Pig in his berserk mode. He also didn't want to hurt his only friend.
Barely able to stand after all the beating, Beast raised a hand.
"Greg, please," out of breath, he pleaded. "You don't wanna do this."
But Pig kept coming.
Suddenly, both monsters stopped and listened. There was a strange noise outside. In the sky, an engine revved.
Beast spat the blood out of his mouth and took this opportunity to persuade Pig.
"Do you hear that?"
Pig's ears twitched, darkness steadily leaving his face, replaced by a look of craving—a new primal instinct kicking in.
Hunger.
"Yes." Beast slowly got up. "That's the helicopter with this month's supplies."
The sound of the aircraft grew louder as it hovered over the apartment building, then, thud! Something fell on the roof, causing the kid to yelp.
Pig's eyes went crazy again, moving around to spot the Russian boy.
"It's here!" Beast shouted to divert Pig's attention. "The shipment just dropped!"
Pig's eyes went wide. He looked at Beast with a drooling mouth.
"Food."
Pig hurried to the back of the living room and pushed a button. An electric beep sounded, revealing a secret door. An elevator, sturdy and large enough to carry his weight, appeared.
He stepped into the elevator. When Pig turned around, remnants of Greg's features were apparent on his face. The three deformed fingers returned to his hands.
He pushed the close button but said one last thing before leaving:
"We'll finish this later."
However, Beast wasn't planning on sticking around for later. Once the doors closed, Beast limped towards the boy seated in a corner, hissing and wincing from his injuries. Once there, he crouched to meet Ilya's eyes.
Ilya turned away, shaking.
Beast turned back into his human form.
"Hey, hey." He stroked the boy's head. "It's ok."
But the boy flinched and tried to crawl further away.
Beast smelled fear in the boy's rapid breaths. He dropped his arm and sighed. He didn't have time for this. Time was their greatest enemy since the infection began rotting the boy's flesh.
"He's gone," Beast tried to comfort him. "But not for long. We need to leave, now."
He reached for Ilya's arm to pull him up but halted when the boy panicked.
"No, please, please, don't hurt me."
Ilya broke down into tears, hugging his knees, and hiding his face behind them.
"What?"
The man was confused. Why would he hurt him?
Then it hit him—the transformation. The boy had never seen Billy's personality turn into a werewolf before. He must be scared to death of Beast taking over.
"Please, just let me die in peace," Ilya cried. "No more games. Please."
Billy's heart fell apart. Just what kind of sick games did Beast play with this poor boy? The thought itself made him sick. If only he could hurt Beast without killing himself.
Billy squeezed his fist tightly and then let loose. His gentle nature turned his attention back to the tortured young soul before him. He would do everything in his power to keep Ilya alive and well.
"It's me, Billy. Remember me?"
He laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.
Ilya slowly showed his face, but he couldn't bear to stare directly at the bleeding man.
"Billy?"
"Yes," Billy said with a smile. "You remembered."
Indeed, he remembered. He also remembered the difference between Beast and Billy—their eyes. But he didn't dare to check until Billy told him.
"Look at my eyes." Billy got closer. "What color are they?"
Hesitantly, Ilya raised his eyes. He was shocked at first when he witnessed the bruises and cuts on that man's face. Then he looked beyond them. The green in his irises amplified as they locked on those eyes before him, radiating warmth and kindness.
"They're brown."
With a smirk across his bleeding mouth, Billy replied, "Damn right, they are."
They both let out a chuckle. Scanning the colors of the eyes became their signature exchange, a secret so comforting to know. And once Ilya felt safe in Billy's embrace, the latter noticed a dreadful shift in his condition.
"Kid." Billy set a palm on the boy's forehead. "You're burning up."
Before Ilya could say anything, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. A seizure violently shook his being.