Alternate Ending-The Body on The Beach
AN: This is an alternate ending, changing the events at the end of the book. It is best read with a running start, so if you have the book with you, read a page or two before this part starts to remember just what happened. Continued from p. 201, 5 lines from the bottom.
"We saw your smoke, and figured, since we found your mate out at sea… do you know this boy here? We found him a few days ago, and knew you were somewhere 'round here."
Behind the officer lay a small pale boy he had dragged off the boat to the sand. Simon's body was bruised and battered. The ocean's currents had removed his old decaying clothes save his bleached and tattered shorts. A long cut oozed on the left side of his chest which, to the painted boys' horror, inched up and down with the steady determination of life.
"He was pretty well bashed up and mostly dead when we found him and he hasn't woken since," the officer continued. He shot a suspicious glance at the children as the faces behind the paint glanced at one another with nervous tension.
Having singled him self out, Ralph's face bore the brunt of the inquisition "Simon," he breathed. His head was hung in shame, not knowing where to set his gaze. He could not bring himself to look the officer in the eye but neither could he set his sight on the body lying prone on the beach like an abandoned flotsam.
A wave crashed close nearby and the officer, brought back to his mission, exclaimed in surprise. "By golly, it's getting late. You boys must be getting off with us soon or the tide will leave us behind." Darting a quick glance behind him to the ship from which he came, he explained, "I must go tell my crew we have found you. Go gather the rest of the boys and tell them to prepare to go back to England."
Ralph opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. He did not want to be left alone with the others, but neither did he want to tell the man why.
As soon as the uniformed back was turned, a circle formed that Ralph was not a part of. He forced his eyes back to his undead friend. A fly, expelled from the forest by the fire, buzzed by his ear. Ralph slapped at it, but only succeeded in hitting his cheek, which stung from the effort. Cocking his head back and straining his ears, Ralph endeavored to catch the drift of the other's conversation.
"What if he tells…?"
"…If he wakes…"
"…They'll never understand…"
"…What can we do?"
The stressed whispers were washed out of Ralph's ears by the sound of rush of the sea as he dropped to his knees next to Simon. Watching the waves crash on the shore, he felt the tension of the last few month drain from him, leaving him limp as seaweed. He tried to remember his house and his parents though they seemed to be hiding behind a dense fog in his mind. His mind drifted in the mist, lost.
A dark cloud's passage over the sun woke Ralph from his brief sleep. Hot wind gusted from the fire, tossing his unkempt hair full of dust and ash. The sand shifted from under him as he scrambled to his feet, frantically searching the ground for Simon, who was no longer lying beside him. A long drag mark like one of a slain deer led his sight to a dark boy kneeling with his hands plastered over Simon's face. Simon was grasping futilely at sand and his legs were jerking spasmodically. His eyes now wide were rolled far back into his head as he struggled weakly. But the fight was pointless; Simon was weak as a lamb caught in a lion's grasp.
Ralph screamed in fright and rage. He charged at the boy, who's painted face turned towards him in surprise. In his scrambled to detach him, Ralph tripped in the sand, sending them both sprawling. Scrubbing the sand out of his eyes, Ralph blearily saw his opponent backing off before realizing he had woken too late: Simon's face was swollen and from his wide opened mouth sprouted a swollen blue tongue.
"He would have told on us." From nowhere Jack appeared, his cap shadowing his flaming hair. "We never would've gotten home." Ralph dropped to his knees and caressed Simon's face for a sign of life as the two others stood by warily.
The officer returning to the beach where he had left the boys saw the leader with the scraggly blond hair kneeling over the boy he called Simon, his hands on the little boy's face. Presently, unaware that they were watched, the three drew back, and headed towards a group of boys a little ways away. As he grew close to the dark haired boy, he saw that his body was lifeless. A tingling of outrage spread through his body, jerking his fingers toward his rifle.
"How can these boys be Brits?" the officer grunted. With the cold judgment he used often on fields of combat, he made a decision. He was judge jury and executioner. His hands, protruding from uniformed sleeves, shook as they drew the weapon. Checking his aim carefully, he found his targets and pulled the trigger. It was light in his fingers as he pulled it two more times. Three bodies collapsed like puppets with cut strings. Shaking his head, the officer turned on his booted heal and marched back to the ship, his duty done.
As the day wore on, the other boys found the bodies. Nothing was done with the carcasses. They were left untouched. The fire eventually died, leaving the air empty and still. Nothing was done. The boys slowly ceased to exist in the emptiness of their routines. No moon rose that night, and the cold sky was lifeless and unadorned. At sea, the ship sunk drunkenly towards the horizon, becoming a black fly that dropped slowly from sight.