Werewolf Breeding Facility

Whenever humans discovered the existence of werewolves, it didn’t take long for them to figure out a way to use us to their advantage.

And by advantage, I mean war. Because of course, with the humans, all they ever thought about was war. And a wolf was a master at war.

But a wolf could also be a master at peace, if given the chance. In the wild, it wasn’t as if wolves sought out violence; in fact, they avoided it, because it could cost them their lives. But when faced with an opponent, wolves were ruthless.

With true wolf ancestors, werewolves were no different.

And so, the humans and their flawed government had caught as many of us as they could. And now, I was here. In a cold, empty cell, locked away behind tall iron bars and beneath constant fluorescent light. The buzz made my head ache, something that humans were keenly unaware of.

I’d heard rumours of a place outside of the Sphere. Where werewolves had escaped the humans and built a settlement. If I could somehow escape this cell, somehow break out of these bars, then I would run to that settlement. They called it Jericho. It was a sanctuary.

And no humans could touch us there. It was a well-known fact that humans couldn’t survive outside of the Sphere; a large dome in which the remnants of human civilisation lived. Don’t be fooled, though; remnants was an empty term. There weren’t billions of them anymore, but still millions. Enough to overpower what little was left of us werewolves, trapped here for as long as we lived.

There were other human cities — that’s where us werewolves came in. Because even after the humans’ sickening greed had rendered the rest of the world a lifeless, nuclear winter a thousand years ago, they still wanted to kill one another.

But the humans had a weakness. They couldn’t survive outside of the Sphere. Out there, they needed specialised equipment to travel; equipment that werewolves did not need. So if a werewolf managed to escape the city, escape the Sphere, then they could run to Jericho without fear of ever being caught again.

But Jericho was likely just a myth. And if it was true, it wasn’t as if those surviving werewolves would ever come to my rescue. They’d be busy surviving in the snow, likely in their true form; a pack of wild wolves, hunting fish and what remained of the elk populations.

Here in this barren jail cell, it was all I could think about. I’d sit there on the cold floor, hands on the bars, resting my forehead against the cool metal. Closing my eyes to picture it: an entire pack of wolves, running through the snow. Completely free.

The lights flickered overhead. There was a clang down the long, empty hallway. I craned my head to look, but the bars prevented me from seeing more than two cells down.

But I knew what the clang meant. A human guard, banging with a crowbar at one of the cage doors, letting it echo down the long hallway.

“Lunch for the wolves!” He announced. Whenever the guard spoke, he spoke almost mockingly. As if we wolves were all just pets to him. Just dogs.

This place was our purpose here. The purpose that humans had bestowed upon us. A purpose that some of the wolves, quite frankly, didn’t fight that hard against. I know the conman in the cell just across the hallway from mine was always eager to help out the humans here.

Because this was a werewolf breeding facility. A sick form of eugenics; as if we were just dogs living in some puppy mill, ripe for the picking.

The strongest fighters were taken off the battlefield and transferred to this breeding facility, all in the hopes that their wickedness and prowess on the battlefield would translate to their children. The humans bred us for war.

Since the humans couldn’t easily travel outside the Sphere, they sent werewolves equipped with tag collars out in the field. We would invade other human cities, and sometimes battle other werewolves. We were their military power.

There was no use in running or fighting back. Those damned tag collars would kill you if you hesitated.

Even now, we all wore one. The tracking device a black collar around my throat, stiff there. A bit uncomfortable, although I’d grown used to it after all these years.

I was only 17 when I was pulled from the field. They’d complimented me, lured me in. Claiming they’d never seen a wolf fight quite like me. I had siblings here somewhere; but I would never know who they were, nor who my parents were. Only the humans knew that.

Now, I was 22. And hanging on only by the hope of the stories my nursemaid had told me growing up. The stories of wolves, the stories of Jericho. She was an altered female; fixed, spayed, however you wanted to put it. Too kind to fight, but too valuable to discard. So she’d become a nursemaid, acting as a mother for the children growing up in the nursery at this facility. Those days were the only memories I had that mattered. I aspired to be like her, but I never was. I was a killer.

And that was a fact I could never change.

The guard had sent out a few lower-ranked humans to pass out rations, same as always. Right at noon.

The boy — he couldn’t have been any older than I was — approached my cage. He was dressed head to toe in that navy suit that all of his ranking wore, a few patches on his chest. One was a globe, and it read Sphere. The name of this city, of course, and the entire conglomerate company which controlled it behind the scenes.

I pitied the humans here, somewhat. They’d never know true freedom, either. And unlike for us, they had no sanctuary to cling to for hope. No Jericho.

But that was just it. His name tag, there on his chest next to the globe patch.

His name was Jericho.

He avoided my face as he timidly approached. I could tell he was new here, a face I hadn’t seen before. Short, brown hair that coiled just at the ends. I couldn’t look away from his name tag. Jericho was all that it said.

But he was just a human, and to them, Jericho was just a name. Not a sanctuary.

Still, as he unclasped the barred window’s lock, holding the tray of food in his other hand, I couldn’t help but close in on him. I kept my hands on the bars as I stood, letting the cold from them numb my fingertips. He was a bit shorter than me at my full height. He didn’t look up, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his hair.

My hair was much longer than his. Black in colour, just as my fur was when I was a wolf. It was unruly, in swept, loose curls down my shoulders. Bangs which hung over my eyes.

Jericho — as I suppose I should think of him with his name — slowly opened the barred window to my cell, placing the tray of food on the surface there.

But I was close. And although he was watching me, I was quicker than his eyes were. I quickly reached out a clawed hand and gripped his wrist through the window, pulling so his body became pinned against the bars with a yelp of surprise. The tray of food — nothing but slop to me — clattered to the floor in my cell with a mess.

“Is your name really Jericho?” I asked. I just had to ask.

He scoffed, pushing away from the bars with a hand. I released my grip, and he stepped back a safe distance. This time, I could see his eyes in a deep glare.

“Is your name really 709?” He retorted. “Don’t ask me stupid questions. My name tag says it, so it’s true.”

Some nerve on this kid.

“Just because my cage says it,” I snarled, “Doesn’t mean it’s true.” I could feel the fury begin to bristle then. That fury had become my only friend in my time here, and I let it consume me. Because there was nothing left.

“It is true,” he said, matching my scowling tone. “You’re just a wolf here.”

Just a wolf? As if I wasn’t the most dangerous thing on this planet. I was a killer. I most certainly was, because it was all that I had. It was all that I was.

I never wanted to be one. I wanted to be a wolf, that’s it. I never wanted to become a soldier.

There was nothing I could do here. Not without my collar shocking me. I faltered backwards, back into the depths of my cell, keeping my eyes sharply on him. He lingered for a moment before turning.

“Wasting perfectly good food,” he muttered, scoffing again. Then he disappeared down the hall, past where I could see from my cell.

“You call that good food?” I scoffed, somewhat under my breath. So Jericho being his name was just a fluke; nothing more. Just a name.

But when I closed my eyes that night, lying in that hard rock twin bed, I imagined him. Imagined Jericho being a sign; and this dimwitted human somehow helping me to escape.

But he was just human, and I knew that would never happen.

When morning came, my body was stiff from the cold, and from the hard mattress I’d slept on. There was never any good sleep in this place; the only reason I could even tell morning from night was the white lights overhead flicking on and off. Then again, the humans were conniving; it was all too possible that the schedule in this facility was not adjacent with the outside world. They claimed lunch at 12; but that could easily be 12 at midnight, rather than at noon.

That morning, a heavy-set guard approached my kennel door. And beside him, looking meek, was none other than Jericho himself. He avoided my eyes, although mine bore into his face.

The guard I recognised as Ricky from his moustache and aged expression. As far as guards go, he wasn’t awful; he was strict, but never cruel. I’d grown accustomed to his face, as he’d grown accustomed to mine, no doubt.

In his hand was a remote. That little remote would kill me in the press of a button, thanks to this tag collar around my neck.

He used a hefty hand to bang on the bars, as if I wasn’t already awake. “Breeding day,” he said, voice just as gruff as he looked. “Up and at ’em, Sev.”

“Sev?” Jericho asked. As if the thought that I’d have a real name had never even crossed his mind.

Ricky huffed, “Nothin’ personal. But respect the wolf, they’ll respect you. This one is 709 on his tag, but Sev to the other wolves.”

He unlocked the gate. Everytime he did this, I thought of ways to escape. I thought about running, about taking him down. But even if I did, that remote he held wasn’t the only one. I’d be dead before his body ever hit the ground.

I glanced across the hall as I stepped out of my cell. In the cell adjacent to mine was the conman, affectionately called Gerald.

“Mornin’, Gerald,” Ricky said to him. The wiry, older man hung both slender arms out of the cell bars, barely standing.

“Mornin’ Rick,” he said back, voice loose and casual. “When my breeding day coming up?”

“The fact that they decided to use you will never stop surprising me,” Ricky scoffed, hand on his hip. The two talked like old pals, but I could sense the tension radiating beneath Gerald’s surface. Brimming, itching to escape. He was good for the humans. Obedient. But he wanted his freedom just as much as I wanted mine, no doubt. His eyes were pale, scanning every inch of every body that passed through here. The man wasn’t of much brawn, but his strength wasn’t in muscle; but rather in mind. We didn’t call him the con man for nothing. He’s the closest any wolf had gotten of escaping this place, and the humans thought they could use that mastermind in their future soldiers. So now, here he was. A quick thinker, a problem solver... diluted into a prisoner, when he should have been a lawyer or a scientist.

Or maybe a politician. And the thought grew on me as I continued to watch.

“Ah,” Gerald said, sighing wistfully, “You know fair and well why they chose me. Just as well as any other wolf here.”

“I know,” Ricky almost laughed as he spoke. A real deep, belly laugh. “You don’t ever miss a chance to remind me of the battalion you led at only 17 years old. A tricky situation, one you cleverly got out of without any deaths. A true feat, as always.”

“Flattery don’t work on me, Rick.”

“I’ll keep trying anyways,” Rick chuckled again. “See ya.”

“Bye, bye.”

And then Rick gestured for me to walk ahead. And ahead of me walked the rookie, Jericho. Such a perfect name to be wasted on such a man. It was almost ironic, as if the universe was sending me a big, fat “fuck you”.

Still, I trailed him like a sheep into a corral. Down the hall we walked. It was long, painfully long. Wolves with dreary eyes, amounted to nothing, lingering in the shadows. I hated the way they all looked at me, as if I could somehow save them. I wished so desperately that I could.

“Now, Sev,” Ricky was saying, “Today the Matriarch wanted to try something different.”

“So now the Matriarch is on my case?” I scoffed.

“Don’t play stupid,” Rick said. “I know you’ve had performance issues. You been here 5 years and only ever sired two pups.”

Two. Two children that I would never meet, that I would never know.

It was one of those things I had to force myself not to think about. To these humans, they’d just be numbers on a spreadsheet.

Ricky continued, “You have the lowest successful breeding rate of any wolf here, and it just so happens the Matriarch was specific about wanting some pups from you. Why, I’ll never know.”

Because I clawed my way out of an army, I thought. At 17, and I killed hundreds just so that I could live.

And that was something the humans thought they could use. A killer, an assassin.

“But we redone the sperm count and everything’s normal,” he said. “Exceptional, actually. So the Matriarch requested someone stay with ya for the breeding this time round, to see what the issue is.”

I stopped, and Ricky walked right into my back with an oomf.

“Stay? As in stay in the room?” I asked cautiously. I couldn’t believe it.

“It’s all recorded anyhow,” Ricky shrugged.

“So why can’t you just watch the tapes?”

He shrugged from beside me, “Don’t ask me, Sev. I just work here. I guess the Matriarch thinks a live audience will be better for evaluating.”

“Maybe I’m just not fertile anymore,” I said, quickly. Then kicked myself; I’d said too quickly. I couldn’t give anything away, for fear of losing my life. In fact, I was shocked I had made it this far as is.

“Don’t play stupid,” Ricky had a hand on his hip, his stomach about ready to pop the buttons off of his navy tunic. “We checked fertility levels just last week.”

There was no point in arguing. I was simply stalling, assessing the situation.

“Who will it be?” I asked. Briefly wondering if it would be the Matriarch herself to show up.

“The rookie,” and Ricky pointed ahead at Jericho, who only stood and glared back at me. As if I really was just a misbehaving dog, being pulled along a taut leash, refusing to walk.

You’ve got to be kidding me.