Hey, everyone, it's me Stegz. Just wanna say thank you all for all of your kind reviews of Jurassic Kratts. It's been a lot of fun writing that story. So now I've decided to write a story from my favorite childhood movie The Jungle Book. It'll also include several elements from the original stories written by Rudyard Kipling, one of my favorite works of fiction. (Lost count of how many times I've read them.) if any of you readers have any ideas or suggestions, please don't hesitate to tell me. I'm open.

DISCLAIMER: I DONOT own the Jungle Book.

For several days the wolf pack had been on the hunt, traveling south through a hidden game trail which cut through the jungle as though it were cast in iron. It was the end of the rainy season but the herds were far fewer in number than usual. Something had been raiding their hunting grounds and food has become scarce. Driven by desperate hunger, they trekked through the forest, moving as silently as the shadows on padded feet, scarcely bending the blades of grass nor rustling in the undergrowth, moving in the direction their prey had taken. After many miles of pursuit, the pack stopped in an unfamiliar part of the jungle, cautiously sniffing the air which suddenly gave off a foreign, musky odor. They were now outside their southern borders. The leader of the pack of twenty plus wolves slowly advances toward a massive forest giant, looking neither to the right nor the left. The trunk was deliberately scarred and marked with a series of claw marks. Sniffing at its base, the alpha concluded that the marks were fresh, no more than a few hours old.

Sensing that they have entered another's domain, the alpha paused momentary before giving the Stranger's Hunting Call, saying: "We mean you no trouble, Brother. Give us leave to hunt here because we are hungry." By the Law of the Jungle, when a predator ventures outside his usual hunting grounds, he must repeat the Call aloud until it is answered.

From the dense undergrowth not far away came the gruff voice of a drowsy leopard who answered,"Hunt then for food, but not for pleasure." The head wolf silently thanked the big cat before leading his pack forward, resuming their hunt, hot on the trail of their quarry.

The sun was sinking lower in the horizon, and after several more hours of tracking, they finally had their target in sight: a wounded Sambar on his last legs in the center of a glade. Sporting an impressive set of antlers, the tall stag made a fine physical specimen, save for the injury on his right flank from a previous encounter with the wolves. Raising his shaggy neck, he scans the edge of the clearing, all the while rotating his ears to detect the slightest sound that would betray a stalking predator. Assuming the coast was clear, the Sambar then continued grazing peacefully on the glade's fresh pastures, oblivious to approaching danger lurking among the trees.

The wolves slowly approach the stag from downwind to avoid the deer picking up their scent, thus giving them away. On their padded feet, several hunters approach their unsuspecting quarry from behind while the rest split off to the other end of the glade, intending to cut off their prey's escape. They hadn't eaten for days, and they weren't about to blow it now. Before long the wolf pack had the Sambar completely surrounded. The trap was set– until a yearling wolf unwittingly stepped on a dry twig that resounded with a SNAP!

The Sambar's ears pricked at the threatening sound from behind, and without so much as a backwards glance, took off like a frightened rabbit, racing full speed out of the glade, but not before being greeted by the open jaws and deep growls of the wolves trying to cut off his retreat. Blinded by fear, it was only instinct that told the deer to leap over the blockade. One wolf attempted to take a crushing bite on the flying stag, but instead of the Sambar's flanks, his jaws were met by hard hooves.

Once again on the run, the Sambar continued to gallop for dear life, with the hunting wolf pack baying on his trail. Urged on by the stag's retreat and the gnawing hunger in their stomachs, the wolves relentlessly gave chase, several members snapping at the deer's heels until he disappeared among the yellow grasses tall enough to hide an elephant. The pack paused briefly at the edge of the elephant grass, sniffing cautiously, but caution was soon cast into the wind as the leader bayed: "Fan out! Find him!" Without another moment to waste, the pack split up, each wolf darting in a different direction, melting among the grasses in hopes of overtaking their quarry.

With limited visibility, the wolves rely on their keen noses to sniff out the fleeing Sambar.

He couldn't have gone too far, thought one wolf, the Gray Tracker of the pack, as he ran through the tall grasses, his nose locked on the stag's scent. Before long, his ears picked up a disturbance not far ahead.

Finally, our luck's beginning to turn.

As he was closing in on the Sambar's trail, the Gray Tracker's nose caught whiff of a strong, pungent odor, more foul than the leopard's sign post from hours earlier. Suddenly the jungle's silence was broken by a horrid shriek that brought chills to his spine. The pheeal; that dreadful racket the jackal makes when he is hunting behind the tiger. What is it with jackals and–wait a minute..But there's no tiger within miles of– his thoughts were interrupted as it broke out again, but this time joined by the agonized cries of a frightened Sambar.

Before long, the deer's screams were drowned out by a series of yaps and growls, followed by loud thrashing among the tall grass. A cold wave of fear washed over the Gray Tracker and one single instinct snapped, the same voice which surely goaded the Sambar in here in the first place: Run!

He ran as he had never ran in his life, racing full speed back to the clearing as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Fall back!" He bayed in warning, hoping that the rest of the pack would get the message and retreat. "Fall back! Retreat!" But all around him, he could hear the bays and yelps of his comrades among the tall grass, who were surely now being overtaken by this new, unseen threat.

After racing through the relative darkness of the elephant grasses, the light of the clearing was almost a welcome relief. But relief was short lived as the Gray Tracker's attention fell upon the thrashing and rustling in the undergrowth behind him. The wolf then summoned enough courage as he dropped to a pre attack crouch, ready for friend or foe, though it was more likely the latter.

"Show yourselves!"he growled, baring his teeth. For a moment of eerie silence, nothing moved– before several flashes of red tackled the gray wolf. In a desperate struggle for his life, the Gray Tracker managed to take down three of his assailants before feeling a horrible pain on his right paw.

Looking down, he saw a short head with its jaws clamped on his paw. It was then that the wolf got a good look at his attacker; the creature resembled a fox, clad in a bright crimson coat though it had a more robust skull and powerful jaws. It may not be as big as a wolf, but it was just as strong. Overcome by his wounds, the Gray Tracker found himself lying on his back, pinned by his opponent's weight. With his good paw, the injured wolf struggled to stay the snapping jaws as the red canine attempted to end the wolf's life with a bite to the throat.

But the teeth never came.

Forcing an eye open, the Gray Tracker looked to see the leader of his pack on the attack, grabbing at his attacker's throat in his jaws. Though the marauder struggled, it was all over in a single bite.

As he picked himself on his three feet, the Gray Tracker limped over to his leader. But to his horror, the head wolf slumped to the ground, his strength slowly leaving him. The once proud leader of the pack was mortally wounded.

"White Fang!"cried the lame wolf, hobbling to his fallen leader's side. White Fang slowly opened his green eyes, staring at his second in command.

"Won-tolla,"groaned the head wolf feebly. "The pack–"

"I am afraid they are no more."replied the Gray Tracker sadly, head lowered, ears drooping.

"My time has come. Go. Save yourself,"whispered the dying leader.

"No! I can't leave you here! I won't leave you!"protested Wontolla. "Even if all the dholes of the Dekkan descend, I'll stay here and fight, even to the death!"

"Go.. And warn the others waiting at the den, and keep them safe. They are in your charge now. Go north, towards the Waingunga, and stay there until the dholes have passed."

Won-tolla nodded in understanding.

"Good–good hunting–Brother.."said White Fang quietly as he closed his eyes for one last time. Then stillness claimed him. The leader of the pack was no more.

"Good hunting."mumbled the Gray Tracker solemnly, rubbing his head against White Fang's bloodied body. But this was no time for grief; All around him, he could hear the rustles in the grass and the dreaded pheeal echoing across the jungle as the red dogs finished off every last hunter of his pack. Without a moment to waste, Won-tolla limped away from this place of death as fast as his three legs could carry; but not before taking a backwards glance, just as the carrion birds have begun to fly overhead.