The Very Last of the Werewolves

"Bilal Kwame, you're drunk on power, and you've been disloyal, unreliable and downright treacherous, for this, the Pack sentences you to death," said Alina Jameson, my former lover and the co-leader of my Pack. She stood before me, tall and majestic, her dark brown skin glistening in the firelight, her long dark hair framing her beautiful, stern face. Once upon a time, I would have died for that woman. Now it looks like she's about to be the death of me...

It was one of those dark and stormy nights which literature is so fond of, and it seemed quite appropriate, given the fact that my nearest and dearest now stood in judgement of me. They've got me chained to a wooden cross, with thick silver bindings holding me into place, sapping my superhuman strength. I'm about as weak as a kitten right now, but I absolutely refuse to let them see me sweat. If I die tonight, I'll go out raging against my betrayers and cursing them, not begging for mercy...

"So this is how it ends," I replied, and I looked past Alina, at my brothers and sisters, my fellow Pack members. On either side of Alina stood Mehmet Bolan and Justine Armstrong, the Enforcers of the Pack Leader's Will. The former is a tall, burly, dark-haired and green-eyed henchman whom I first met while visiting Malatya, Turkey. The latter is a tall, slender, blonde-haired and blue-eyed young woman originally from Portland, Oregon, who joined our Pack a decade ago.

"Watch how you address her," Bolan snarled, and the brute struck me with his balled fist. I staggered in my chains, but did not fall because, well, those silver bindings were tougher than they looked. They are to our kind what Kryptonite is to Superman. I licked my lips, tasting blood, and flashed Bolan a smile that a shark would recognize. In battle, I was more than a match for the Turkish Wolf-Man, he must enjoy seeing me like this.

"Bolan, lad, let me out of those chains and I'll address YOU good and proper," I replied, and Bolan started toward me, but Justine laid a restraining hand on his thick arm. I grinned at them, defiant to the end. The other Pack members remained silent. Some of them avoided my gaze, and others looked at me with raw hatred in their eyes. Once upon a time, I was their Alpha and fearless leader, until I was betrayed by the woman I loved. There's something poetic about it...

"Alina, you simpering cunt, I made you what you are, and this is how you repay me?" I hissed, and anger flashed in Alina's eyes, which shifted from dull brown to feral yellow. That's my gal, I thought, both amused and saddened by this turn of events. I guess it's true what they say, betrayal always comes from your friends and loved ones, and never from your enemies...

"Bilal, the whole world has gone to hell since this whole Zombie thing, and we can ill afford you tyranny," Alina replied, and with that, she extended her hand toward my face, and her short, neatly trimmed fingernails morphed into six-inch, wicked claws. Claws that can slice through steel like butter. I winced as Alina sliced away a good chunk of my cheek, and bit down a scream. I wouldn't give the bitch the satisfaction...

"You sadistic bitch, I hope the Zombies eat you and the others," I hissed, biting down the urge to scream in pain. Alina's claws actually got me pretty good. In spite of the silver bindings holding me, I struggled, trying in vain to get at Alina. I'd spit but it's a really disgusting thing to do, something I personally despise, and I know for a fact that Alina would slice off my tongue for it.

"Actually, Bilal, you're the one who will feed the damn Zombies," Alina said, smiling wickedly. She nodded at Bolan and Justine, and they each grabbed a bucket, and began tossing the contents at me. I blinked in surprise as I was splashed with copious amounts of human blood. I sighed as understanding dawned on me. The Zombies are like bloodhounds, they hunt human victims by smell as well as by sight. Led like a sheep to the slaughter, I thought, disgusted.

"See you in hell, bitch," I cried out, and Alina laughed, and then she sped away, moving at superhuman speed. A healthy Werewolf can surpass the speed of an African cheetah, making us virtually unstoppable. Although our kind hides in the shadows, often hiding our predations as the work of wild animals ( when in the wilderness ) or the work of madmen and serial killers ( in urban settings ), we have no true fear of Man. I looked around and saw that all the others were gone.

"Dammit this sucks," I lamented, and I looked at the skies, praying to a deity that I had long stopped believing in to save me from what I knew was coming. Weakened though I was, my superhuman senses worked just fine. I could already smell...them. The Zombies. They are coming for me, drawn by the smell of the human blood which Alina's henchmen splashed me with. I'm not human, but meat is meat, and the Zombies crave flesh...

A couple of years ago, the dead began to rise, craving the flesh of the living. It started in the Middle East, then spread to Africa and later, the Mediterranean world and Europe. Nowadays, every corner of the globe is crawling with those things, and humanity is losing the war against the living dead. Instead of uniting in a global response to the threat, humans allowed their nations to fall into anarchy. As they pointed fingers at each other, assigning blame, the living dead infected them, multiplying at a geometric rate.

I foresaw the fall of human civilization to the living dead, that's why I brought the Pack to this remote location in the Canadian Rockies. Out here in the wilderness, there's lots for us Werewolves to feast on. We're in the Peyto Lake area, in the province of Alberta. We've hunted deer, and elk, and big rabbits. There are no humans around, they've all fled. This place could have been a paradise for our species as we waited out the end of the world. Instead, it's about to become my sepulcher...

I, Bilal Kwame, born in the City of Accra, Ghana, on February 5, 1945, have led a full life. Now that it's about to end, I might as well get my affairs in order. I grew up in colonial Ghana, back when it was under European rule. I remember watching my people feel the oppressive thumb of our foreign rulers for most of my life, and it made me a rebel against any form of authority which I deemed to be abusive.

I've often been told that I carry myself like a prince. I guess that as a six-foot-five, burly and muscular, dark-skinned man of African descent, one blessed with a deep voice and a certain presence, I attract a lot of attention everywhere I go. I refuse to allow myself to be intimidated by anyone. If that means I seem like royalty, so be it. In 1967, I traveled to the United States, to join the African Americans fight for Civil Rights. I was inspired by their courage, and wanted to lend a hand.

While visiting the City of Atlanta, Georgia, the hometown of beloved Civil Rights Icon Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I met a beautiful sister named Yolanda Brown. You should have seen her, folks. Nearly six feet tall, with golden brown skin, a curvy and sexy body, legs that wouldn't quit, a big round bum and a thick Afro that framed a beautiful and intelligent face. I was mesmerized by the lovely Yolanda from the get go. She was destined to change the course of my life.

"Bilal, you're a handsome and strong brother, but you've no taste for real power," Yolanda said to me one night, as we lay in bed together. We were in Saint Louis, Missouri, protesting the shooting of yet another innocent, unarmed brother at the hands of the local police. I lamented the sense of powerlessness I felt in the face of the vastly powerful system which kept our people in the grinder.

In the United States of America, trigger-happy white policemen act like they're gods and treat black men as though we're not even human. If I had the power to slaughter these fools, I'd gladly do it. I might have said something along those lines to Yolanda, and her response both mystified and infuriated me. I refused to believe that there were things I could not change...

"One day I'll have power, and I will make changes," I replied, and Yolanda grinned, then kissed me again. We resumed making love, and the gorgeous sister rolled on top of me. I caressed Yolanda's round, firm breasts, and palmed that thick round ass of hers. The southern belle kissed me voraciously, and her sleek hands roamed all over my body, before finally stopping at my crotch. She grasped my dick and began stroking it, causing me to smile.

"I will show you wonders, if you let me," Yolanda said, looking into my eyes as she stroked my manhood, and I nodded. I thought she was talking about the wonders of sex. What else could I say? Yolanda straddled me, and then impaled herself on my dick. I gripped her wide hips and thrust into her, and just like that, we began fucking with wild abandon. Yolanda's screams of passion were louder than those of any woman I'd ever been with. This southern cutie exuded sexual power and confidence, and I couldn't get enough of her...

"Oh fuck, you're something else," I panted, barely able to keep up with Yolanda as we continued making love. I put her on all fours, face down and ass up, and began fucking her with slow, deep strokes. Yolanda kept grinding her big beautiful ass against my groin, giving me a great visual to work with as I thrust my dick deep into her warm, pulsating pussy. Our screams of passion filled the rented townhouse which we shared with several fellow activists. It was a grand night...

When I woke up the next day, I was...changed. At a cellular and genetic level. I was no longer human, but something else altogether. You see, in the movies, in order to become a Werewolf, you have to be one of those sots who wanders around the woods until something big and hairy bites them, thereby triggering a life-changing transformation. You get bitten by a Werewolf, you will soon become one. Or so the trope goes.

Well, Hollywood and the horror writers got it half right. The Werewolf breed reproduces like a virus. Biting is a common way of spreading said virus, but it is by far not the only method. If a Werewolf's blood gets into you, it will turn you into one of them. I had unprotected sex with Yolanda, who happens to be a Werewolf. See where I'm going with this?

"What in hell have you done to me?" I screamed at Yolanda, when I woke up and found myself feeling...strange. The first thing I noticed was the sharpness of my sense of smell. I could smell the egg and cheese sandwiches being prepared by the coffee house staff at that restaurant located on Melvin Road, a full kilometer from our rented spot.

"Relax, Bilal, I gave you a wonderful gift, that's all," Yolanda said nonchalantly, and the lady flashed me that fearless smile of hers. I could feel the blood coursing through her veins. I could hear her heartbeat, even though she was a good three meters from me. I stood, pacing back and forth in the bedroom, and Yolanda sat on the bed, a crimson negligee barely concealing her curvaceous loveliness. I tried to process what she was telling me. I felt hungry, confused, lustful and angry. And I needed to know more about my new condition.

"Yolanda, explain yourself," I demanded, and Yolanda smiled and nodded. She gestured for me to come sit with her, which I reluctantly did. Yolanda sat me down and slowly, patiently explained...everything. I quietly absorbed everything. As angry as I was, something inside told me that I needed to hear these things. How long I'd last as whatever I was in the process of becoming, well, this may very well be a deciding factor...

"Bilal, you have nothing to fear, you're a Werewolf now, like me, you're going to be young, healthy and strong forever, join me on this new path," Yolanda said, and she took my hands in hers, and brought them to her lips. I looked at her, astonished by her words and this intimate gesture. I looked into her eyes, and paused. I saw strength and determination in those lovely brown orbs, and a kind of power. Something inside of me responded to her, and no, it wasn't just lust.

"Lead the way," I replied, and I kissed Yolanda, and thus began my new existence. There's a lot of myths about Werewolves which I had to unlearn. We don't need the full moon to transform. We can assume our inhuman forms any time we wish. We become wolf-like, only bipedal, and much bigger and stronger than ordinary wolves. In our transformed state, we are superhumanly strong and fast, and we also retain our human intelligence, and this makes us the deadliest predators on the planet...

Yolanda and I were together for a long time, from the late 1960s all the way to the year 2008. Inspired by the Obama election and filled with Afrocentric thought, I began creating my own Pack. Yolanda believed that our species functions best when there's very few of us, thereby limiting conflict and competition. I believed otherwise, seeking to create an army of Werewolves that would fight the forces of colonialism and oppression, with me as their glorious leader. I wanted to be like Che Guevara or Malcolm X...with fangs.

"Bilal, I love you but I cannot follow your path, I know for a fact that your arrogance will rob you of life and your plan is doomed to fail," Yolanda said to me, one fine day in December 2008. I'd gone and made several new Werewolves, among them the lovely Alina. Yolanda wished me goodbye, and I cursed what I thought of as her short-sightedness. The way I figured it, we Werewolves are stronger than humanity and ought to run things, not the humans. What a fool I was...

"Yolanda, you lack ambition," those were my last words to my beloved mentor and paramour on that fateful day. Words cannot express how much I regret those words. I spent a decade wandering the world, going from the U.S. to Canada, and Turkey, turning people into Werewolves left and right. I wanted to build an army of loyal followers with super powers who would help me in my campaign to subjugate mankind. In the end, they turned against me, and it was all for naught. An apex predator taken out by his own kind, that's me...

Speaking of predators, I can see the Zombies now. They're about a dozen, shuffling their way toward me. I struggle in my bonds, but to no avail. This is just wrong, an apex predator about to be felled by one of the world's great oddities. The Zombies are slow, stupid, and always announce their presence with their characteristic moaning. words cannot describe the disdain that I have for those things...

In the early days of the Zombie plague, I slaughtered hundreds of Zombies just for fun. I didn't kill them out of love for humanity, but because they got in my way. I cannot believe they actually brought down the techno-savvy human world of the twenty-first century. They're slow, stupid, and clumsy, dangerous only in large numbers or if they catch you by surprise. Or, if you're tied to a frigging wooden cross, left for them like a piece of gristle...

"Do not go gently into that goodnight," I said to myself as I struggled in my silver chains. They sapped my strength, but the desperation I felt acted as a kind of catalyst, lending me extra strength. I raked my wrists against the silver, and felt it cut my skin like a knife through paper. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I forced my left wrist against the silver edge, effectively sawing my hand off. Freed, I threw myself forward, and collapsed on the ground.

I struggled to get to my feet, biting my lips against the pain I felt. I'd just lost my damn hand, and that's a big deal. An even bigger deal is the fact that Zombies are coming to eat me, and I've significantly lowered the odds of my survival by sawing my damn hand off. Driven half-mad by the pain, I roared in frustration and rage, thusly I snapped the remaining silver chains off my remaining limbs. I forced myself to my feet, and faced the Zombies...

The first Zombie stood three meters from me, and its appearance gave me pause. I hadn't seen one that was this wrecked-looking before. In mortal life, it had been a tall, blonde Caucasian female. It was still wearing the summer dress it had on when it died and reanimated as one of the flesh-eating wandering dead. Probably the wife of a hunter who came to the Rockies on a hunting trip and never left. At the moment, it was trying to eat me, coming for me with its jaw slack and its arms outstretched...

"Fuck off," I bellowed, and I willed myself to transform, but found that I could not. The presence of silver in my system prevents my transforming from my human form to my Werewolf form. Once I resumed my supernatural form, I'd heal instantly from my injuries and would actually grow a new hand. Instead, I faced the Zombie horde, alone and unarmed, with one frigging hand, and without my powers. I'm up shit's creek without the proverbial paddle, folks.

"Get away from him," a familiar feminine voice screamed, and I smelled a most familiar, welcome scent. A blur of speed, and a lupine shape that was nevertheless humanoid streaked past me, and waded into the Zombie horde. I watched as the magnificent monster made short work of the Zombies, ripping off heads, tearing off limbs, and tearing the whole bunch to pieces in less than two minutes. The monster turned to face me, and I smiled.

"Yolanda," I said, and my heart leapt in my chest. I'd recognize my former lover anywhere, whether in human form or Werewolf form. She stood a couple meters from me, a seven-foot-tall, bipedal, wolfish creature with bright yellow eyes and a muscular body covered in dark gray fur. She was absolutely magnificent, and I went to her with open arms, eager to greet this most welcome and fortuitous arrival.

"Impure," Yolanda snarled, and she bared her fangs and came for me. I howled in pain as she knocked me down, and then those slavering jaws came for me. It had to be a mistake. Yolanda and I once swore we'd always love each other. It had been a while, but I didn't consider her an enemy, and knew she'd never come after me. Her claws dug into my chest, and her jaws closed around my forearm, above where my hand used to be. Yolanda growled, and ripped my forearm off, causing me to howl in pain. I closed my eyes, passing into blissful oblivion.

"Where am I?" I mumbled, and I came to, slowly and painful. Taking a look at my surroundings, I saw that I was in a cave somewhere, in an elevated place. We'd left the plateau and were a good distance from Peyto Lake, deeper into the Albertan wilderness. I sensed a presence, and saw Yolanda approaching me, her image clear to my wolfish gaze even in the darkness of the cavern.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Bilal, you had so much silver in your system that I had to rip it out of you and let you heal," Yolanda said, smiling. I gazed at her, this tall, curvy, gorgeous woman who saved my life twice now. The first time when she turned me into a Werewolf, and the second time when she saved me from the Zombies. I smiled and tried to rise, but found that I was still too weak to do so.

"Thank you for saving me, my love," I replied, and Yolanda grinned, and sat beside me. I saw that I was lying on a blanket, and I saw books, flashlights, medical supplies, and canned goods strewn about the cave, along with piles of clothes and boxes containing other things. Yolanda had clearly been here a while. Last time I saw her, she was in Atlanta, deep within the southern United States. What in hell was she doing in the Canadian Rockies, of all places?

"Thanks for saving me, Yolanda," I said, and I rubbed my hands together, noticing that the sawed-off one had grown back. I guess I must have transformed even while unconscious and then healed. It's the only explanation. Yolanda looked at me, her facial expression unreadable. She hadn't aged a day since we last saw each other, the perks of being a Werewolf. Yolanda once told me that she first saw the light of day in Fayetteville, North Carolina, circa 1897 and became a Werewolf at the age of thirty, in 1927. Black doesn't crack, plus something more. How about that?