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."