Date: Sun, 16 Jul 2023 11:49:38 +0100
From: Toby Wolfham <tobywolfham@gmail.com>
Subject: Werewolf Island / Chapter 3

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by

Toby Wolfham


© 2023 by Toby Wolfham

All rights reserved.


Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com

(All comments, inquiries, and communication welcome, just drop an
e-mail!)




Chapter 3

THE PACK





Open the cage," said one, condescending voice.


"Bring them out," jeered another.


There was something covering his eyes--a cloth--and something was stuffed
in his mouth. It smelled like piss and dirt. Humiliated, but alive, his
shoulder jarred painfully as someone whipped him up from unconsciousness
in an effortless flurry and tossed him elsewhere, a rag doll for their
amusement, no doubt. Afterward, a familiar grunt emerged next to him, and
then, a soundless thump of a third body being thrown at the other side.


Muffled protests.


Red's bleary eyes could make out many legs and feet at the moment his
blindfold had been ripped away and almost saw the face of the one who had
de-masked him before that very man delivered a swift and teeth-rattling
backhand.


"Don't look at me, dog," he snarled with vicious assertion.


For a second, he saw a black oblivion of stars and the intricate infinity
of the cosmos flash before his eyes, and then all spiralled back again in
time for him to catch a flicker of yellow hair beside him.


"Red? Good god..."


"Striker? Is that you?"


"They have names?" Came a voice from behind them.


"Does it matter? So do dogs." This voice came with a delivery: a
crushing blow to Red's ribs from a knee.


Winded, Red could not so much as yell his pain as he doubled-over.
Someone grabbed his short hair from behind and yanked his head all the
way back. He heard his spine ache in complaint. Then, a face came to his,
directly, nose almost touching nose. A man grinned there at the end of
his nose, eyes clear and sharp, there was a golden tone to his irises,
with a slight hint of violet. With a scruff of dark beard and long black
hair, tied back, he was light of skin and angular of face. Never before
had he seen this man, but he decided there and then that he didn't want
to see him, didn't want to engage those strange eyes with the allowance
of knowing. More importantly, he did not want to enrage him, already it
seemed, he was prone to violence. He tried to look away.


"Don't fight me, little dog," he growled lowly. A finger, he ran
across the red hair, in a parody of tenderness, and along the scalp he
trailed an elongated nail--claw--hard enough to draw a stripe of blood.
"Else you want to be put down before dinnertime."


"I..." Red shuddered; before he could say a damn thing, the bastard
licked him, lapped up the singular streak of crimson from his forehead
with a rough, hot tongue.


He moaned. "You taste good, boy."


"Please, what are--" Striker wheezed.


Hit in the gut by a launched fist of another man; hairless, apart from
his body with deep-set eyes of the same colour as his friend, Striker
fell on his side, groaning, coughing.


"Oh, Jesus," breathed Red.


What the fuck was going on? Who were these men, and where were they? Next
to him, he noticed was the unconscious form of their friend, Katana,
bloodied, beaten. His clothes were torn wide open, as if sliced down the
front all the way to the crotch. The two men they had been captured by,
Red assessed quickly, were physically dominant. They were undraped apart
from their leather loincloths  that barely concealed generous bulges.
Bands of strange feathers  were bound around their wrists and ankles.
They did not look at all like the ghostly tribesmen that came to his
recollection.


"Meat does not speak," said the bald man.


Hands were tied behind his back as he was brought to his knees and
dragged--dragged--across the dirt like a roadkill. Behind him he heard
Striker being dragged, and Katana, presumedly behind him. They had been
captured, detained, and for whatever reason, treated like less than men
while their derogatory captors smirked and sneered and spat on the three.


To paint the scene would be to paint debauchery: a twisted parody of what
should be expected. The whole encampment (as a way to describe it) was
encased tightly inside a huge circular connection of sharp wooden pikes,
roped together and bound unyielding with reinforced ropes or vine, that
stretched as far as the tree-line. As for the jungle setting, the trees
themselves had been displaced, chopped down, essentially, leaving the
area bald of them. The surface was dirt through and through, brown and
dusty, giving up clouds of it with each step or movement. The sun could
directly bear down on the world from here, for once, not a tree to block
it out. There was, however, a large woven net--enormous--acting as a roof
for the entire camp, stretching from posts along the edges of the great
wall to protect from sky attacks, no doubt.


Red had not seen the sun truly for some time, just glances of it, and
here, it burned his eyes, now sensitised to the intense flare. Then, the
flying clouds stung, brought tears. All he could see were faces.


Faces of men, bodies of men; strong, proud. All similarly clad in
minuscule leathers and feathers of exotic origin.


He tried to focus, to see more than the blur that the torture brought,
but whoever dragged him, they were in no mood to allow such folly into
sightseeing. They purposely, deliberately brought him to a place where
many others congregated.


Small and moderate tents and thatched huts occupied much of the space
inside the camp while a singular dirt path led its way through what might
have been described as a village in primitive and base form. The camp had
been there for some years, with remains of stumps from the former trees
mostly rotted and gutted. Approximately fifty acres, it contained a
considerable number of thatch-works; mostly consisting of hay or straw
rooftops with bare bars and leathered walls of not solid consistency.
Unknown to the eyes were how many individuals--men--resided within.


Thought his journey so far, Red believed he had examined perhaps a
quarter of the island, and much of the preface of the jungle. How many
more camps could they have?


They were dragged through from one end to another, where the walls
circled to an end. At the core of it all: an enormous wooden phallus,
cored from a once-full tree that had stood at that spot, and remained as
high as any seen so far in the jungle. It had been carved well, but
crudely, exhibiting a tapered head at the very top, complete with vein
effects and bass reliefs of other smaller phalluses down the sides. At
its base was a surrounding of smaller logs and sticks, blackened,
resembling the pubic region, they burned with a dying ember. Several men
were attending to the dormant blaze, feeding it with more woods and
foliage.

Red swallowed the heat.


For why there was needed a full bonfire so large and obviously in
reverence was lost on Red, but as he was sat there twenty feet or so away
from it, but facing, on his knees.


This idol existed to be served, it seemed. Its very purpose was to be
seen, fed, and worshipped.


"Bow--down--" said a voice behind.


Red bit the dirt by force as a foot found the back of his neck and forced
him face-first into the choking dry smut. He could feel the flames burn
hotter here, and he had a sudden, dreadful fear of what was going to
happen to them as soon as he saw beside him, his fellow stranded pilot,
Striker, willingly bow to the giant penis, to avoid the same rough
treatment as the redhead.


"Oh, god..." breathed the blond.


"Keep calm," whispered Red.


"Calm?" He was bordering on hysterics. "Calm? Where are we--what's
going on--this can't be happening..."


Before them, another was dragged, the badly beaten and bloody co-pilot,
Katana. There was little fight left on him; his eyes bulged purple and
his lips were swollen to three times their size. Resistance was punished
severely here, as he obviously found out much to his fault. He was
dragged before them. The two loincloth'd men brought him to the base of
the fire and stood there, all three of them facing the flames. The two
men made sounds, like choking, bringing up phlegm, and spat thick wads of
mucus pop from pockets in their throats and into the fire.

For one awful second, Red considered the possibility: ritual sacrifice.

They're going to burn us all alive!


But then, Katana was not thrown into it. He was shaken awake into
consciousness, not once, but twice. They urged him to follow their
example. He glanced questioningly at the man at his side, and not a
second later, he received penance in the form of a solid forehead
smashing into his nose. He cried out, and his neck snapped forcibly back
from the impact alone. Drearily he found consciousness again, blood
streaming down his chin. Seeing stars, he was plainly suffering. Still,
they persisted, the same warrior grabbed him by the chin and angled his
face to the fire and jerked his head back and forth. Katana allowed
pitiful pinkish dribble to ooze from between his broken lips and he spat
into the fire. It fizzled as it hit a burning log, cracked black from the
constant fire. Then, he turned his head and spat with surprising zeal,
right into the eye of his attacker.

Red's breath caught in his throat as he watched this bizarre scene take
place.


From general calmness (if not impatience), the man turned his savage
head, shaggy black hair shook, and opened his eyes as the gob ran down
his jagged cheek. Then, a smile; teeth as sharp as razors to a point and
yellowed from eating who knew what. It was a smile filled with menace,
and all traces subtlety and reason then melted away.


It was difficult watch, but as much as Red struggled to break free, the
punishment inflicted upon him was far less that what his eyes could see:
the hard Asian man, being bitten in the face just below his eye in rapid
and brutal manner so savage that it turned his stomach to sit idly by. He
cried out in attempt to stop the savagery and was rewarded by a swift
kick to the face for his troubles.


Katana's agony was discerned over the whole village as his screams
echoed even to those not present at the gathering. They all heard and
took deep pleasure in his pain, insides bubbled in hunger. He was thrown
to the ground, writhing in the dirt helpless, too close to the fire to be
safe.


He rubbed the dirt in his empty eye socket haphazardly.


"God, fuck you!" Shouted Red to whoever would hear, no longer able to
bear the horrors in silence. Another kick dislocated his jaw and briefly,
consciousness was lost. "...bastards," he muttered, only when some
return to the waking world was allowed.


They were not playthings, he wanted to tell them; to pour out his anger
against these hotly-tempered men with a seemingly virile taste for flesh,
but the ghoulish sight, combined with the abhorrent sounds of Katana's
eyeball being crunched in someone's mouth, bursting open and dribbling
like an egg. What gave them the right to treat people like this? The fact
that they were obviously not exclusively black men (some were), they were
not island natives as he would have perceived, and many seemed to speak
English fluently, further adding to the extreme mystery surrounding their
origin. They consisted of white men, tanned men, yellow men, red men,
even black men, that spoke multitudes of language yet treated these men
like less than dirt for no other reason than what--for the sadism of
it?--it made no sense, and many questions had Red hammering away inside
his skull, and had he had the peace of mind to do so, he would have
screamed these questions in demand for an answer.


Made to walk, with a man on either arm, around the fire, Katana could
half blind, half dead. Yet, he was forced to go further on, dragged out
of his agonies.


Red could still hear the screams as he disappeared behind the flames.


"This is where your insolence gets you." Came a voice.


Red couldn't move; too shocked, too taken to so much as lift his head.
Taking all of this in was no easy feat with so little explanation. A foot
lay before his open eyes and when they came into focus, the fear of more
torture instilled in the pilot enough energy to raise his head after all.
Blood seeped between his bared teeth. The man was a giant from the
angle--godly, one might say--having an appearance of Tarzan, his first
thought: tall, muscular, with long dark hair, scraggly, and a beard to
match. Suddenly, all the other faces he'd seen in the camp went away to
Red when faced with this dominating character. He knew, instinctively not
to say a damn word, to speak no rebellion; the behemoth gave an aura of
death: one stomp and his head would burst like an overripe watermelon.
Still, he was angry--so fucking angry--and he wanted him to know it,
inside his cobalt eyes burned a rage that the man was soaking up,
enjoying.


"Please," he heard Striker whine. "What have you done? Don't hurt our
friend anymore... We... we will do anything you ask. What do you
want--money?"


There was a pause.


A pause where Red wanted to tell his cohort to shut the fuck up. He
wasn't going to bow to these monsters. He severely doubted they had any
use for money or labour; they lived simply and any work to be done would
be a task near-impossible. In fact, perhaps the only reason they still
had breath to breathe was because they had been captured, with dangers in
the forest so great and many, it was a suicide mission even walking
around.


"...and you?"


Red peered up once more. A new angle. The man above him shifted a leg and
gave him a direct view at the flaccid cock hanging under his loincloth,
just as hairy as the rest of him. This caveman, Red thought, was trying
to intimidate him. But, looking up past the notable member he sneered at
him.


"What about me?" Red could still hear the screams, and briefly
regretted the tone the man might've deemed insolent.


"Are you as agreeable as your friend?" He spoke lowly, then, just as
low, the man squatted. The tight patch of leather covering him rode up
his meaty thighs and from underneath flopped his generous shaft in
full-frontal view. Shameless.


In his face the smell of stale sweat and unwashed scrotum hit Red and he
found to his disgust was a mite preferable distraction from the early
scenes which played out. Again, he could not be complacent, he struggled
and wriggled there, desperately trying to untie the knots around his
wrists which began to cut off the circulation to his fingers. His fingers
were turning blue, he could feel it.


Then, "the more you struggle, human..."


His voice was low, provocative in his ear. It stilled him.


"The harder this will be."


At that, Red stopped struggling and let his eyes lock with his as he rose
to his feet again, smirking. He knew than that while he hated this man
deeply, there was a mote of intelligence about him. And the others seemed
to defer to him, holding their tongues in his presence, no longer
reprimanding him for his acts of revolt. If anyone was to reason with, he
realised, then it may have to be him.


"Where are we?" He asked.


He scoffed and turned his back.


"Hey--wait!"


Then came the pain; a jab from a heel stabbing into his spine caused him
to rear back and howl. "God, stop! Okay..."


"Shit..." shuddered Striker.


Red looked over; one of them held a knife in front of his friend's eyes.
The glint of grey steel hit him. Then, he looked at the man who issued
the threat.


"Okay..?" He queried, waited for an answer.


Now was the time to think, and fast: not only was his life under threat,
but also the lives of the only other surviving airmen. He had to hush
himself now, reminded himself of the faces and names that they'd lost
that could have been prevented. Here, he had the power to prevent further
tragedy, and all he had to do, he understood, no matter how strange, was
to comply. The fact that they were not already dead meant that this was
not to be the purpose.


The more Red looked into the eyes of the man standing over him, the more
he saw resemblance between him and the creature he spied in the darkening
jungle. It was daylight now, and clearly this was no night-stalking beast
form hell, but a man, a man who had his back to him. He wanted him to
turn around. He wanted to see his eyes again. As unreal as it sounded, he
was beginning to believe the unbelievable: these men, this village, were
somehow related to the killer in the darkness. And with the returning
flashes memory brought, so came the recollection that he, in fact, still
existed. Blood still flowed through his veins, however much he hurt or
how much they hurt him, they had not issued death to him like the ghostly
tribesmen. They may have, even saved him. Finally, the man turned around
to meet his eyes. He still bore the upper-hand, standing there proud and
tall whilst Red lay on his belly in the dust, grovelling. Now, he said
nothing, and somehow, Red knew what that meant.


"We... I, will do as you say..." he bit his lip. Just saying it made his
throat sting. He averted his gaze.


"Look at me. Say it again."


He smirked. "A little effort, please."


Effort? He wanted effort? Red didn't know exactly what he meant by
effort until he looked up and saw that the man had inclined his head; he
nodded downward, all the way down.


"Kiss me," he almost growled, amused.


Red frowned in confusion. "What?"


He frowned, fiercely. "If you have to ask, then truly you do not
understand what it means to be subservient. Kiss me. And then you may
earn respect enough to barter for your lives."


So that was it. He wanted Red humiliated before his crewmen; to be
abashed, and to willingly submit himself to the equivalent of
emasculation.


Sickness welled within. He cast a sideways glance. Striker was breathing
hard, cheeks flushed, without a doubt terrified. It was for this, and for
him and Katana than Red shuffled forward the moment the weight on his
back lifted, on his shoulders in the dirt, through it. When he reached
the feet of the man, he swallowed the last drops of pride and placed his
cracked lips to the top of his dirty feet and closed his eyes. Something
broke in him.


He was not expecting laughter.


Looking down at him, the beast of a man was rumbling with it; laughing
like he had just bore witness to the joke of the century. Head thrown
back, chest pushed out, he almost doubled over with it. Accompanying him,
the riot continued amongst the throngs of pack members, all laughing at
the incredulous scene that had just played out; they could not believe
what they had just seen! Foolish human! He lifted his head and shook his
head in disbelief.


"Too funny, red boy," said he.


Slowly, Red lifted his lips, open.


Endeared to him in the moment, he bent down and violently rustled the
man's red hair before he stood back again in that typical form of strong
presence. "But my feet are not what I mean for you to kiss!"


The laughter devolved into scattered chuckles before thinning out into a
few titters here and there until altogether the humour died, and Red came
to understand why as the brute, keeping his posture, stared down at him,
amused but patience worn to a thread. He tugged the threads of his
leather loincloth aside just enough for his pendulous cock to escape its
confines.


"No..." Red gaped.


He blinked in disbelief, and glanced around at the gathering crowd of
men. They were all smiling in their own sordid way, but through their
amusement shone a deadly severity. One, however, younger than those who
outnumbered him, remained grim and stoic in appearance. He was soon
turned away, eyes cast away by an older man.


"Yes," said the man, sharply.


Red shook his head. "What kind of sick--"


That same foot that he had only seconds ago kissed out of desperation,
now broke him down again, in a different way. No more arguments, it said:
no more jokes, as it struck him across the face. "Kiss my cock, or you
all die..."


It sounded like no mere warning: he meant to kill him as he took a
handful of red and yanked the man to his knees.


"I like you, human, and so I will make this easy..."


On his knees by force, the man's thick member was there, staring him in
the face, and stank wore than ever. Its presence made him nauseous as he
tried to turn his head away from it, to look up, plead with that scrap of
intelligence and reason he exhibited before, anything but it. Red knew of
dominance, of humiliation; in the force, similar homoerotic rituals had
been thrust the way of the recruits, but this was of a different variety
entirely. This was not simply awkward fumbling and lashings to the
entertainment of his comrades, this was ritualistic sexualisation: they
intended to reduce him to tears. They wanted him to resist. So they could
hurt him more. It was twisted, fucked up. But what else could he do?


Womack leaned his head forward to observe with great interest the
movements of the redhead. Slowly he lurched forward, wetting his lips
with his tongue as he did so.


Oh, god, what am I doing?


Womack grinned, wolfishly, keeping that one giant paw on the back of his
head; he didn't even have to guide this man, he was moving of his own
accord, mouth open. His eyes were locked on to his. Resentment? Perhaps
want. "Yes," he chided. "Now you re getting the idea."


Fuck. You. He wanted to say, if his mouth soon wouldn't be occupied. He
couldn't bear to look at Striker, he just knew the man's big, innocent
eyes would be out of their sockets now, horrorstruck, aghast at his
peer's willingness to throw aside his decency to pleasure this
neanderthal.


Just behind the bulk that was the man, Red could make out the towering
phallus in the background, and comprehended the significance.

Keeping the giant cock in sight, Red wondered if throwing himself into
the flames it beheld headfirst was not preferable to sucking the man
off.


A bellow, from the fire.


Womack's hand stiffened, stopped Red just as his hot breath ghosted over
the reddish head of his manhood. It had twitched in excitement and
disbelief in that moment, and his eyes had turned jet-black, the beast
had come to settle in.


Suddenly, Red was thrown backwards. His bound hands were crushed under
his own weight.

All were awash with whispers and hushed tones of panic and guilt. Faces
turned towards the fire where the speaker's voice erupted.


"Womack! My son... why have I not been told? New arrivals such as these
are to come to my attention immediately!"


"Father..." hushed Womack.


The oldest man in the village was the chief: Gogack, a fair duplicate of
his son, Womack, silver-haired and weathered, especially around the
shoulders. Despite his age, the man was plainly no feeble old man. His
muscles were still visible under the dark leather that clad his chest and
legs. He walked without need for aids or assistance, from his hut on a
hill behind the fire. The hut was the finest in the camp, bearing a lot
of resemblance to a viking longhouse, built using logs placed together
and tied up. It had no windows, but a chimney on the roof, which itself
was a conglomeration of various types of wood, mismatched and of no
particular unison but very defensible from attack from above, as well as
from outside. He marched his way down a long set of steps, fashioned from
long slabs of stone half buried in the dirt and up to the fire. For a
brief moment he bowed to the giant penis sculpture in reverence before he
walked around it to once more, address the confrontation.

Womack grimaced as he approached; refused to look the older man in the
eye.


Some of the other's had slunk away to go about their business in the
village, either standing guard at the great gates at the forefront, or
gathering hay and sticks from large piles scattered around
intermittently. They wanted nothing to do with this confrontation. Of the
few that remained, Womack, and the handful of warriors who were
steadfastly detaining the duo of human prisoners, were amongst the only
ones of significance; the rest were onlookers.


Gogack cast an indifferent acknowledgement to the humans--a mere
glimpse--and then a scornful survey of his son. "These," he pointed to
the humans, like they were inventory for the taking. "Humans. You know
what you are to do, Womack... why are they sat here on the ground--on my
ground--like common rodents? They should be in their cages! You do not
yet respect the dangers these humans can bring when made to feel too
comfortable."


"Too comfortable?" Came a voice.


Eyes of thunder lowered to the human creature, eyes that looked ready to
explode inside the old man's head. "Did... did this human dare speak to
me?"


A delayed hard slap came from Womack, knocking the red-haired human clean
aside akin to a fly. He landed on his side, writing in the dust. "Shut
up! How dare you speak--!?"


"--silence!"


All adhered to the chief's order: even the sounds of chirping birds in
the distance behind the walls seemed to quieten, and the breathing of the
nearby soldiers stilled.


He rubbed at his temples, spoke with a gruff, uneasy tone: "Son. Do not
reprimand for your own downfall: this... human... should have been detained
in the cages. If he had been, then never would he have had the
opportunity to speak back. It is your ignorance at fault. You know the
nature of these beasts... so wilful."


"Please..." a choked sound.


Both father and son turned to look at the men on the floor. Of the two of
them in their current company, the one with the interesting hair was the
most vocal: a wild card. And that was dangerous. Humans may have been
weaker by far, but no one in the village had been left ignorant of what
they were capable of. Gogack had been sure that every man in his charge
knew this. Whether they took him seriously or not was questionable, but
they knew. And to ignore his warnings in front of someone with such free
will; it was a disrespect that would be worthy of punishment, if the
chief did not have larger concerns with showing weakness before them.


"We must appear unified," he whispered, now face-to-face with his son.
"Or else they will take advantage, as they always do."


"Yes," apologised Womack. "I am sorry, father."


"Do not say sorry to me. Not in front of these creatures."


Womack nodded frantically. "Yes."


Gogack was certain the human's ears were open to this exchange, and so
cut the conversation wisely short as he moved to stand in front of the
red one. He frowned, great grey brows furrowed.


The man looked up.


"You, my friend are luckier than you know."


Womack could read the insolence in the human's eyes, staring daggers at
his father and he. If only his father could understand that these humans,
even though they looked strong, were nothing more than animals, no
better. They were pitiable, and no amount of will could change that. It
mattered not what they heard or what they saw, and when he would come to
overthrow the old-fashioned ways in a few days time, all would know that,
too. The old ways would be extinguished as soon the old man was put out
of action.


"Father, you do not need to involve yourself. Let me take them to the
cages..."


"Son," sighed Gogack. "Now that you have involved me, I will do as I
please. Return to the jungle. There must be other humans out there. If we
don't retrieve them, the Ghosts will."


Womack nodded, spite burning in every gesture, and stepped back. He
angrily thrust out his arm to gather his companions, but the old man
stopped him with a gesture of his own.


"No," he said. Gogack turned to his son. "You will go back alone. Call
it punishment for your idiocy."


Womack grit his teeth. "Yes, father."


Fire burned in his brain, he turned to march towards the huge wooden
gates. The chief will fall by his hand in the coming days and nights,
nothing would change that, only now, he had with him a true resentment;
he had been made to look like a fool before not only the entire pack who
hung on his every word and command, but before the pathetic humans. How
dare he scald him like a child? Oh, how he longed to hold his grey head
in his hands and crush the life out of him. Nevertheless, he left without
an utterance of dismay, unaccompanied. No matter, he needed not the
assistance of those weaker than him. What more could they offer when he
was the strongest of all?


"Apologies for my son, but he is more headstrong than I."


At his word, the rest of the village, save for the twins: Oak and Elm,
the broadside warriors who were held in esteem as lieutenants amounts the
pack. The pair were never without each other's company and made for the
perfect mute guards to these two humans until they learned their place
without need for them.


"Stand them up."


"Get off," spat the redhead as Oak pulled him to his feet.


Gogack shook his shaggy silver mane in disappointment; this behaviour was
most discouraging, but it was not entirely a surprise.


"Please," came the voice from the other male. "We don't belong here,
this isn't right."


Raising a hand to silence the blond, Gogack started to walk away back to
his hut when he stopped and turned around. Something made him stay; a
semblance of sympathy? He approached the both of them, who had been stood
upright by their guards. They were both bleeding and bruised--the redhead
considerably worse--but it would be a waste of resources to treat the
injuries seriously.


"Your presence here pleases me not a little, but it remains fact that
you are now here, under my charge, so you will do as you are told."


"And if we don't?" Of course, the redhead.


"You will not live to see another sunrise."


He was deadly serious, his gruff voice cracked with age but at the core
it was intact. Red's eyes darted around, for a way to escape, for a
method of reason--anything--but the guard at his back tightened his grip
on his hands. He winced. "Then let us go... then we'll all be out of
each other's hair..."


"This island--" snorted the man "--is too small for that. We are not
the only ones on this island. You will do well to remember you are better
off here than anywhere else. Trust me: you will live longer in cages than
out there in the wilds."


"You call this living?" Red shook, dared the guard to inflict damage,
to instigate.


"Why are we here?" Striker asked, in measured tone.


"Why?" Gogack was incredulous. "You are not here by fact of chance:
you are here for a reason. You are here because they want you here. That
is all. I will not answer... any more questions."


"Who are they?" Red asked, voice firm and strong.


"Pray you never find out."


Red and Striker looked at each other; a passing of concern, worry,
confusion was mutually shared. They were two men trapped on an uncharted
island, at the mercy of a tribe exclusively of men, with seemingly no way
off and no way to communicate with the outside world. It was effectively
a bad dream with no waking in sight.


Just as Gogack waved them off, Red spoke again.


"Wait, please..." he whispered. "I just... we're so confused here."


"You can say that again," said Striker at his side.


"We just want to go home. We have... planes. You know, planes? Sky flying
machines... if only you'd let us go, we could repair them and be out of
here..."


Gogack scoffed, sadly. "Yes. I know what planes are. Many of us you see
here today were brought here by such. Others, boats and sailing vessels.
Some just showed up. There is no rhyme or reason to it. Like you, they
tried to leave here. We have built rafts, even planes before--you may
even be fortunate enough to come across the ruins of such out there--
None of that matters now. You, like us, are here to stay.


"Stay?" Striker blinked, stunned.


"Yes. You see, indeed, we the lycans are the dominant race here on this
island we like to call home, but we were not always such. Nor have we
been here since the beginning--no-one has--humans, like yourselves, have
shown up over the years. Some of them have joined us willingly, others...


"Others have perished in the wilds. Those men were never going to be
enough for us. Survival is all that matters. The tribal men you saw in
the jungle, we call ghosts--but are not truly spirit--are the true
monsters, here, not us. Take that to heart before you make any rash
decisions."


"You... you're what?" Red had his words snatched form him; many
questions spinning around inside his head like a tornado, lost in the
mess.


"God, can you please stop talking in riddles. We just want to go home,
we don't want to join anything. We don't want to provoke any lycans, or
any Ghosts... okay? We crashed here. An accident!"


"No accident. All of you who survived the fall were chosen."


"Chosen? By you?"


He shook his head, bemused.


Red frowned. "Then... who?"


The old man said nothing to this, merely turned his back to head back to
his lodge, away from these humans he tired of covering with. They were,
after all, just humans. What they wanted mattered not a bit, and soon
they would discover the importance of free will. The only thing, however,
before departing for the time being, he turned his head to cast a weary
eye on the bound pair to utter a mellow and understated hail:


"Welcome to the Pack."