They moved through the Weald in a grim silence, the canopy above them pressing down like a physical weight. The earlier levity of breakfast and the "dildo" conversation had evaporated, replaced by the cold, heavy dread of what Nix had witnessed in the sanitarium.
"They aren't just scavenging anymore," Nix said quietly, his voice barely audible over the squelch of their boots in the peat. "That facility... it wasn't chaotic. It was organized. The Doctor—this Pale Man—he is bringing order to the monsters. That is infinitely worse than chaos."
Raina gripped the hilt of her knife, her knuckles white. "We focus on the mission," she said, though her voice lacked its usual steel. "We get to the Glade. We signal Marcus. We warn them."
Korg led the way, a massive, silent wall of fur and iron. He seemed to sense the shift in the air, his head swiveling constantly, checking for the new threat—the hybrid soldiers that might already be hunting them.
They walked for hours, avoiding the main game trails, sticking to the rougher terrain where the shadows were deepest.
As the bioluminescent fungi began to dim, signaling the approach of the Weald's deeper night cycle, Korg stopped. He sniffed the air, then pointed a massive claw toward a limestone outcropping covered in vines.
"Shelter," Korg rumbled. "Old bear den. Two levels. Good for defense."
They pushed through the curtain of moss and found themselves in a natural tiered cavern system. It was perfect. The lower level was a wide, sandy recess, large enough for Korg to stretch out comfortably. Above it, accessible by a natural rock ramp, was a smaller, more secluded shelf that offered a vantage point of the entrance.
"I will take the ground," Korg stated, unhooking his battle axe and leaning it against the stone wall. "I sleep with one eye. You two take the loft. Heat rises."
They built a small, smokeless fire in the rear of the cave. They ate the last of the dried Boar-Kin meat and shared a few more Cerulean Drupes in silence. The food settled heavily in Raina's stomach. Her mind wouldn't stop racing, replaying the image of the hospital Nix had described—the clinical horror of it.
Korg settled down quickly, his breathing slowing into a rhythmic, rumbling snore that vibrated through the rock floor.
Raina climbed the ramp to the upper tier. Nix followed. The shelf was cozy, dry, and lined with old, soft moss. Raina sat down, pulling her knees to her chest, staring blankly at the dancing shadows on the cave ceiling. Her shoulders were knotted tight, her neck stiff with tension.
Nix sat beside her. He didn't say anything for a long time. He just watched her, his large eyes reflecting the dying embers of the fire below.
"You are vibrating," Nix whispered. "Your cortisol levels are critical. You cannot sleep like this."
"I can't turn it off, Nix," Raina murmured, rubbing her neck. "Every time I close my eyes, I see that Doctor. I see what they're doing."
Nix moved behind her. "Physiology dictates that physical release triggers parasympathetic recovery," he said softly.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. His hands were small, but his grip was incredibly strong. Glimmuck density. He dug his thumbs into the trapezius muscles, finding the knots of tension that had been building for two days.
Raina gasped, her head dropping forward. "Oh... god. That hurts. Don't stop."
Nix worked the muscles with methodical precision, his thumbs grinding away the stress. He moved up her neck, his fingers strong and sure. Raina let out a low, involuntary moan. The pain was sharp, but it was a good pain .. a grounding pain.
"Better?" Nix asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing its clinical edge.
"getting there," Raina breathed. She leaned back against him, letting him take her weight. The heat radiating off his small, dense body was intoxicating in the damp cool of the cave.
The massage shifted. Nix's hands slid down from her shoulders, moving over her collarbone, his fingers tracing the line of her tank top. The touch wasn't medicinal anymore. It was possessive.
Raina turned her head, looking back at him. Nix wasn't looking at her muscles. He was looking at her mouth. The "Movie Star" features were sharp in the dim light, his expression intense.
Raina shifted, turning her body so she was straddling his lap, facing him. The sudden intimacy of the movement made the air in the cave feel thin.
"I don't want to think about the monsters right now," Raina whispered. She reached for the buttons of her flannel shirt. Her fingers trembled slightly, but not from fear.
"Then don't think," Nix murmured.
Raina undid the buttons, shrugging the shirt off her shoulders. She wasn't wearing a bra—she hadn't been wearing one when they fell through the Slipgate. Her breasts were heavy, pale in the firelight, her nipples hardened into dark, sensitive peaks from the cool air and the sudden rush of arousal.
Nix's breath hitched. He reached out, his hands cupping her, his thumbs brushing over the swollen nipples.
Raina hissed, arching her back, pressing herself into his touch. The sensation was electric, a direct line from her chest to the heat pooling between her legs. It was a desperate, primal need to feel something other than fear—to feel alive.
"Nix," she gasped. She reached around him, her hands finding the buckle of his belt. She fumbled with the leather, her urgency making her clumsy.
Nix helped her, his hands leaving her breasts to shove his trousers down. He was hard—swollen and ready, straining against the fabric.
Raina didn't wait. She shoved her own pants down, kicking them off one ankle. She was wet, her body reacting to the danger and the adrenaline with a fierce, biological demand for connection.
She rose up on her knees, positioning herself over him. Nix looked up at her, his hands gripping her hips, anchoring her.
"Rainy..."
She sank down.
Raina let out a long, shuddering breath as she took him in. He was thick, filling her completely, stretching her in a way that felt incredibly, perfectly right. She settled onto him, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine that made her toes curl.
For a moment, they just stayed there, connected, breathing the same air. Raina rested her forehead against his, her hands gripping his biceps.
"Real," she whispered. "This is real."
Then she began to move.
It started slow, a rhythmic grinding of her hips, testing the depth, savoring the fullness. Nix groaned, his head thrown back, his hands tightening on her waist, guiding her rhythm.
The tempo increased. The cave, the Weald, the Pale Man—it all fell away. There was only the heat of their bodies, the sound of their ragged breathing, and the friction of skin on skin.
Raina rode him with a desperate intensity, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. She moved up and down, driving herself onto him, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach. Nix met her thrust for thrust, his hips snapping up to meet her, hitting a spot deep inside that made her cry out.
"Quiet," Nix gasped, a breathless laugh escaping him. "Korg..."
"Let him sleep," Raina panted, biting her lip. She quickened her pace, the pleasure building into a tight, coiling spring in her belly.
She leaned back, bracing her hands on his knees, grinding down hard. The angle hit the nerve, and the world went white.
"Nix... Nix!"
The climax hit her like a physical blow. She clamped down around him, her body shuddering in waves of intense, throbbing pleasure. Nix groaned, arching off the moss, spilling himself inside her with a guttural sound that was lost in the vastness of the cave.
Raina collapsed forward, burying her face in the crook of his neck. They stayed like that for a long time, their hearts hammering against each other's ribs, the sweat cooling on their skin.
Below them, Korg snored on, oblivious to the fact that the two "anomalies" in his loft had just reaffirmed their humanity in the only way that mattered.
"Status?" Nix whispered into her hair, his hand stroking her back.
Raina lifted her head. She looked tired, but the haunted look was gone from her eyes. She kissed him, soft and lingering.
"Systems nominal," she whispered. "Now let's get some sleep."
KORG'S SLEEPLESS NIGHT
The Slipgate
Chapter 63: The Weaver in the Canopy
The fire in the lower cavern had burned down to a bed of sullen, pulsing coals. They cast a deep, red glow against the limestone walls, painting the sleeping giant in shades of rust and shadow.
Korg lay on his side, a mountain of fur and plate armor. To an observer, he appeared to be in a state of hibernation, his breathing slow and tectonic, rising and falling with the rhythm of the earth itself. But Korg was not asleep. His left eye was cracked open, a sliver of yellow bioluminescence watching the entrance ramp.
His ears, round and scarred from a hundred battles, swiveled independently, filtering the acoustic data of the cave.
He heard the drip of condensation from a stalactite. Plink. Plink.
He heard the scuttling of a rock-beetle near the woodpile. Scritch.
And from the loft above, he heard the slow, synchronized breathing of the two anomalies. The female, Raina, and the Glimmuck, Nix.
Korg's nose twitched. The air in the cave had changed in the last hour. Before, it had smelled of fear and wet wool. Now, it smelled of musk. It was a thick, earthy scent ..the smell of biology doing what biology was designed to do.
The bear's massive lips curled slightly in the dark.
Life, Korg thought. Even in the drain, life pushes back.
He was glad for them. The Weald was a cold place. It stripped the warmth from your bones and the hope from your marrow. If the little ones could find a spark of heat in the dark, he would not begrudge them that. It made them stronger. It made them fight harder tomorrow.
But as the musk settled, a new scent drifted in from the crack beneath the heavy iron door.
Korg stopped breathing for a moment, letting the air wash over his olfactory sensors.
It was faint at first, masked by the sulfur of the swamp outside. But there it was. Sharp. Acrid. Like vinegar and old, dusty velvet. It was the smell of dried blood and digestive fluids.
Spider, Korg identified.
His claws flexed, scraping against the stone floor with a sound like knives on a chalkboard.
This was not one of the small, hand-sized weavers that kept the fly population down. This scent was heavy. It carried volume.
Big Spider, Korg amended. Scout.
He heard it then. A vibration that traveled through the rock of the ceiling, bypassing the air entirely. Something heavy was moving on the mountainside above the cave. It moved with a disjointed, staccato rhythm. Too many legs. Too much weight for the branches to hold silently.
Snap.
A branch the size of a man's arm broke somewhere outside.
Korg sat up. The movement was surprisingly fluid for a creature of his bulk. His armor plates shifted, the leather straps stretching silently. He had oiled them with animal fat specifically for this purpose. A loud bear was a dead bear.
He looked up at the loft. The humans were deep in the sleep of exhaustion and release. They would not hear the intruder until it was wrapping them in silk.
Guard duty, Korg grumbled internally. No nap for Korg.
He reached out a massive paw and grasped the haft of his battle axe. The weapon was a slab of sharpened truck-spring steel bolted to a hickory trunk. It was heavy enough to crush a car engine. In Korg's hand, it felt light as a switch.
He stood, his knees popping with a dull thud. He adjusted his shoulder pauldron, ensuring the metal wouldn't clink against the stone.
He moved to the door. He didn't unbolt it immediately. He pressed his snout to the gap, inhaling deeply.
The scent was stronger now. The creature was directly above the overhang. He could smell the specific chemical signature of the venom—a neurotoxin that smelled like burnt almonds.
Arachnid Gigantus, Korg classified. Web-Spitter. Spider-Kin
He slid the iron bolt back. He did it with agonizing slowness, millimeter by millimeter, ensuring metal did not grind on metal. When the latch was free, he pushed the door open just enough to squeeze his bulk through.
The humid air of the Weald hit him instantly. It was cooler now, the night cycle fully set in. The mist had dropped, clinging to the ground like a shroud.
Korg stepped out onto the ledge. He closed the door behind him, leaving it unlatched but shut to keep the heat inside.
He stood on the limestone shelf, invisible in the gloom. He didn't look up. Bears did not have the best eyesight for distance, but his other senses were radar.
He felt the vibration in his paws. The creature was descending the cliff face above the cave entrance. It was hunting. It had likely smelled the smoke from their fire, or perhaps the scent of the fresh meat inside.
Korg gripped the axe with both hands.
Come down, Korg urged silently. Come down, Eight-Legs. Korg has a surprise.
He stepped away from the door, moving into the center of the clearing. He made himself a target. He let out a low, huffing breath, visible in the cool air.
Above him, the rustling stopped.
Then, a sound like wet silk tearing.
Thwip.
A glob of white, viscous webbing shot out of the darkness. It was aimed at his head.
Korg didn't dodge. He moved his axe.
With a flick of his wrist, he caught the webbing on the flat of the blade. The sticky mass adhered to the steel instead of his fur.
Missed, Korg thought.
He looked up. Two red eyes, glowing like dying embers, materialized in the canopy of a massive fern-tree twenty feet above him. Then two more. Then four more.
The Spider-Kin revealed itself.
It was hideous. A bulbous, pulsating abdomen the size of a Volkswagen Beetle hung suspended by eight legs that were long, spindly, and covered in thick, black bristles. Its body was a mottled grey, perfect camouflage for the limestone cliffs. Its mandibles dripped a clear, sizzling fluid.
It hissed at him. A sound of pure malice.
Korg snorted. He tapped the head of his axe against his chest plate. Clang.
"Come on, ugly," Korg rumbled, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the houseguests. "Dance with me."
The spider took the bait. It didn't understand bears. It understood prey. And this prey was just standing there.
The creature dropped.
It rappelled down a silk line with terrifying speed, legs splayed wide to envelop the bear.
Korg waited. He waited until he could smell the rot on the spider's breath. He waited until he could see the individual hairs on its legs.
When the spider was five feet from the ground, Korg exploded.
He didn't swing the axe. He lunged forward, leading with his shoulder. He slammed his armored bulk into the descending arachnid like a linebacker hitting a quarterback.
CRUNCH.
The impact was sickening. The spider's momentum was reversed instantly. It flew backward, crashing into the trunk of a petrified tree.
The creature shrieked, a high-pitched chaotic noise of clicking and whistling. It scrambled to right itself, its long legs flailing in the mud.
Korg didn't give it space. A bear fight was close-quarters. It was intimate violence.
He closed the distance in two strides.
The spider lashed out with a foreleg, the tip sharp as a spear. It struck Korg's chest plate. The steel held, but the force of the blow staggered the giant.
"Tickles," Korg grunted.
He swung the axe.
He didn't aim for the head. The head was small and hard to hit. He aimed for the cluster of legs on the left side.
The heavy blade whistled through the damp air.
SHUNK.
The sound of steel shearing through chitin and meat echoed through the clearing.
Three legs were severed instantly. They fell to the mud, twitching independently, leaking neon-green hemolymph.
The spider screamed again, its balance destroyed. It tried to scramble up the tree, but with half its propulsion gone on one side, it just spun in a circle, hissing in pain and confusion.
Korg stepped on one of the remaining legs, pinning the creature to the ground. He leaned his face close to the spider's cluster of eyes.
"You are loud," Korg whispered. "You are rude. And you smell bad."
The spider snapped its mandibles at him, trying to inject him with the necrosis venom. It grazed his snout, leaving a shallow scratch.
Korg felt the burn. It made him angry.
"Bad manners," Korg said.
He raised the axe high above his head. The muscles in his back bunched like coiled pythons.
He brought it down.
The blade split the creature's cephalothorax with a wet, final crack. The hissing stopped instantly. The legs curled inward in a death spasm.
Korg stood over the corpse, breathing heavily. He wiped the green ichor from his snout with the back of his paw.
He looked at the dead thing. It was a mess. But Korg looked closer.
He used the toe of his boot to flip one of the severed legs over. It was thick, segmented, and filled with white, dense meat.
Korg's stomach gave a hopeful rumble.
He remembered a crate that had fallen from the sky years ago. A crate from a place called "Maine." It had contained pictures of red sea-spiders on plates, served with yellow butter.
Sky-Crab, Korg thought.
He knelt down. He picked up one of the severed legs. It was heavy, like a large tree branch. He sniffed the meat where it had been cut. It smelled sweet. Like lobster, but earthier.
"Breakfast," Korg decided.
He spent the next twenty minutes field-dressing the kill. He was efficient, brutal, and precise. He severed the remaining legs, discarding the toxic body and the venom sacs. He stacked the legs like firewood.
He carried the bundle of giant spider legs back to the cave entrance. He nudged the door open with his shoulder.
The warmth of the cave welcomed him back. The fire was still low. The humans were still asleep.
Korg walked to the fire pit. He set the legs down quietly. He grabbed a handful of the dried herbs he kept in a jar—wild garlic and crushed pepper-root.
He sat down on his furs, his armor creaking softly. He picked up his whetstone and began to clean the green blood from his axe blade.
Shhhk. Shhhk.
He looked at the spider legs. Then he looked at the sleeping loft.
Nix and Raina would need calories. They were heading South tomorrow. The Glade was dangerous. The new Hybrid Pigs were dangerous. They needed strength.
And nothing gave strength like eating the thing that tried to eat you.
Korg smiled, a terrifying display of teeth in the firelight.
"Surf and turf," he mumbled to himself, remembering another phrase from a glossy magazine he had found in the mud.
He lay back down, keeping one hand on the axe, one eye on the door. The forest was quiet now. The predator was dead. The perimeter was secure.
Korg closed his eyes. He dreamed of butter.