The man who had once been known as Jack strode towards the heavily guarded shelter in the pale sunrise. The grey sea was calm that morning, crashing against the ageless roots of Castle Rock. Their settlement on the crown of the impressive monolith had evolved since the years they had scrounged a living off its bare surface as children. The man who had once been Roger had surmised that they had called the island home for ten years now.
A collection of youths with impressive spears much more deadly than the simple sharped sticks they had once wielded stood at attention as their chief approached. Their taut bodies were completely covered in a fresh layer of grey clay, streaks of red and black decorating their faces. These were the boys who had survived the years on the island since they had been stranded as children. They wore various animal skins and furs. Some of them had shaved their heads into Mohawk fashion, the sides of their bare skulls covered by paint as well. There was no remnant of their lives before as British school boys to be seen. They had reverted to the look of their Pict, Celt and Viking ancestors with a leader whose hair was of flame.
Their chief wore a skirt of finished animal skin that reached to his knees. A necklace of shark teeth lay on his bare chest. Like his men, his entire body was covered in grey clay. The youths at the entrance to the shelter moved aside as he motioned them away silently. His painted face was clean of hair, shaved by a sharpened shell. Pushing aside the layer of woven reeds serving as a door, he entered the darkened room.
A small opening in the roof allowed enough grey light for him to see the captives. They had long waited for this day as it had been prophesied by the one who was once Roger.
He had forgotten what women looked like.
There were three, two as alike in face and form as the one who was once Sam had been with his brother Eric. The other with the bright hair straightened as he entered, pushing the young boy behind her with her elbow. He could be dealt with later.
The chief knelt down in front of the captive, studying her like a hawk eyes a rodent. He ran a finger down her jawline, her skin burning from the contact. She flinched, her expression frenzied despite how bone weary she felt.
"I've waited for you." He murmured, catching her gaze.
"What do you want with us?" She demanded, her voice rough from thirst and a lack of sleep, "We crash landed. We need help. Where is Dr. Bentley?"
The chief cocked his head to the side, his forehead creasing in thought at the barrage of questions, "There is no help out there."
"There are still pockets of humans in this part of the world," She answered, "We are not totally alone."
"We have been here for over ten years. Civilization has forgotten us."
"What civilization?" She demanded.
The chief's expression became heavy, "What do you mean, woman?"
"You say you've been here ten years." She gasped, her younger brother burying his face in her back, "That means you were alive when the first bomb was dropped. Remember London?"
The chief rose to his feet, disturbed by the name of the city he had once called home. It was now just a distant, fuzzy memory.
"What of it?"
"The war is over now. There were three more bombs dropped."
"And who won your war?" He spit, pacing in front of them.
"No one."
The chief stopped hard in his tracks, "So there it is. The rescue we had once longed for and then feared, it will never come."
He spoke this to the air, his eyes trailing up to the skylight where clouds trailed over the morning sky. He seemed to forget their presence.
"Who are you?" She breathed, looking up at him.
The young man turned towards her, seeming to suddenly remember them, "I am called Aeod by my men. I am their chief."
The way he said this made her skin crawl, "Is that what your mother named you?"
Aeod, once called Jack, gave her a smirk that shook her heart, "No. It is my true name."