A/N- This was actually a school project assignment. I had to re-write the end of the book The Lord of the Flies, and make it so that there was no outside influence on the island. Even more depressing than the book was originally, in my opinion. But then again, I'm unused to writing really depressing stuff, so... I dunno. Feedback would be MUCH appreciated- Hint hint hint
And all you people who have me on Author Alert and saw "Lord of The " and filled in the blank with "Rings," I apologize. I'll update my light- hearted LOTR ficlet stuff as soon as I get the opportunity.
Cry of the Hunters
"He stumbled over a root and the cry that pursued him rose even higher. He saw a shelter burst into flames and the fire flapped over his shoulder and there was the glitter of water. Then he was down, rolling over and over in the warm sand, crouching with arm to ward off, trying to cry for mercy."
Ralph knew as he crawled away towards the water that the boy who had once been Roger was beyond mercy. Roger stood victoriously, realizing that his prey could not escape down the burning beach and was therefore cornered. More painted figures appeared, coughing, out of the smoke behind him, as well as Samneric, bloody in the places they'd been mined for information.
The familiar chant began. "Kill the Beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood. Bash him in."
"No," Ralph whispered. How could they all have changed this way? What had happened to the neat choir boys in their clean cloaks and smart hats? He suspected that it wasn't merely the smoke that made his eyes blurry.
"Kill the Beast! Cut his throat! Spill his Blood! Bash him in!"
Ralph got to his feet. The seawater swished around his ankles while he watched them approach. The chant was louder.
"Kill the Beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! Bash him in!"
"NO!" The scream ripped out Ralph, surprising himself. "Listen to me!"
Even more surprising than his own voice was the fact that they listened. The chant faltered and died, and the boys stopped and waited to hear him speak.
Just like they listened to Piggy before they killed him, Ralph thought sourly. He realized suddenly that for them to listen, he needed to have something to say. He ran a thick tongue over papery lips, knowing the boys' attention spans were limited.
"Look at you," he croaked out, then shouted, "Look at yourselves!" The boys glanced awkwardly at one another.
"Paint! Spears! Hunters and Savages! What happened to the choir boys?"
The boys stared at him as though he were something alien.
"Where are the boys who remembered a life before hunting and blood and pig? What happened to them? Are they dead, like Simon and Piggy?" On the last word, Ralph's voice cracked and broke.
One of the boys, taking advantage of the gap in his stream of thoughts, attempted to start the chant anew. "Kill the Beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood..."
Ralph regained his composure and spoke over the single voice. "How did we get this way? Don't you remember the first day? Or the second or the third? We were all together, planning together, for the good of the entire group! We had food and water! Look around you now!" His voice got louder, and he spoke suddenly with the authority of the old Ralph who had been the chief of the boys. "Look around you! The entire island is burning! The fruit trees are gone and the shelters are burnt to ashes! What will you eat tomorrow?"
The response was automatic. "Pig."
Ralph watched the boys realize that any pigs were in the process of being burnt alive as they spoke. Ralph abruptly laughed. Then he laughed harder. He laughed and laughed, overtaken by hilarity.
"Piggy was right! You're just a bunch of kids!" he gasped. "Didn't you think? Didn't you know?" Ralph knew this was far less funny than he found it, but he couldn't help it. "Didn't you think? Didn't you know?"
Roger snarled angrily and strode forward, his spear eager for the taste of blood. Ralph found he didn't care. It wasn't as good as rescue, but it was certainly better than dying of starvation in bad company. Even the pain of the spear beneath his ribs was barely enough to slow his laughter.
Dimly he saw Sam shout out indignantly and run towards him. Jack jabbed him hard in the side with his spear as he passed; Sam managed to stagger past Roger before he fell to the ground and lay still. Eric, with a pained cry, tore after his brother. Roger whirled and forced his spear into the other twin's chest. Eric shouted before falling prone beside his brother. Both were unmoving.
"Pig... you didn't think... How could you not have known?" Ralph was beyond comprehension of the events that had taken place around him. His laughter was broken only by sporadic fits of coughing. "Pig..." Finally he breathed his last, mocking the boys even in death with the twisted grin on his face
Roger turned his back on his ex-chief and the twins and faced Jack. "It's your fault," he said coldly.
Jack gave him a hard look. "What's my fault?"
"This!" Roger waved his arms at the destruction. The movement caused the ash drifting around him to dance about gaily, contradicting the sour mood in the air. He stepped away from the sticky, red sand and gestured wildly again. "This! All of this!"
"My fault?" Jack repeated in the same tone. He strode towards Roger, until their unrecognizable faces were mere inches apart. The other boys stood staring, some at the tension between the two boys and others at the still bodies, questioning if their decisions had been wise.
The moment stretched taut, and every boy, watching the confrontation or no, found himself holding his breath.
"What are you saying, Roger?" Jack asked him. The words were quiet but dangerous.
Seconds later, for unknown reasons, the tension relaxed and breath came easily to them all.
"I'll show you what I'm saying." Roger turned away from Jack and affixed his gaze on the other boys. Those who had been staring with wavering wills at the three dead bodies found their vision forced onto Roger as he spoke. "Who here would rather have me as chief?"
The nearby fire cast shadows on him so that he was terrible to look at. The other boys shifted back and forth awkwardly, conscious suddenly of the heat, and they longed for a reason to flee. No hands were raised.
Robert raised a hand quickly to quiet Jack's satisfied noise. "Wait."
Robert faced the boys again. "Alright, then; who here votes for Jack?"
Once again, the boys shifted uncomfortably. Jack was no less terrible to see. Both of the aspiring leaders were spotted with blood that did not belong to them. Again, nobody raised their hands to vote.
Roger looked at Jack and grinned sardonically. "You see, Jack, we can't depend on them to pick the leader anymore."
Jack returned Robert's gaze. Suddenly he felt tired. He didn't want to do this any longer. The desire to go home and sleep in a real bed and eat meat he hadn't hunted himself was overpowering.
As if sensing Jack's momentary weakness, Roger lunged at him. Jack lifted up his spear in time to parry the blow, and all thoughts of home were banished from his mind as the thrill of the game was triggered. Another swing was parried, and the sticks slid down to a cross so that their faces were right next to each other, and they spent a moment in deadlock.
"I will be chief!" Roger roared. He pushed away with a sudden strength and they circled each other, searching for an opening.
Jack thought he saw one. He lunged in with his spear, bodyweight coming along to follow through. Roger sidestepped the spear by inches and brought one pointed end in towards Jack's unprotected side, filled with the victory of the kill. Jack, with a muffled cry, turned his charge into a somersault so that the point only grazed his side. There was a long bloody and stinging mark, but it was no more than a flesh wound.
Jack scrambled to his feet, barely in time to stop another attack from his assailant. They started circling again, taking time to breath. Jack felt an annoying trickling sensation on his face; he wiped at it with his arm and noticed a smear of paint on his arm.
Something about the motion seemed to enrage Roger. Taking his spear in both hands, he charged straight at Jack. Such a rash, quick action caught Jack off guard. Instead of spinning away or trying to stab Roger, Jack threw his spear to the ground and caught the shaft of Roger's spear before he sidestepped. He used Roger's momentum; holding the spear, he was able to spin his opponent around and set him off balance. Roger fell on his back, and surprise was still etched on his features as Jack forced the weapon downwards. Roger was defeated by his own spear- pointed at both ends.
Jack stared all around him. Everything was spinning. Dizzily he noticed the blood all over him. Roger's carcass was at his feet; the still forms of Ralph, Sam, and Eric were only a few yards away. Robert, Bill, Maurice, and Wilfred all stared at Jack, as if terrified of what he might do next. The forest burned and crackled, completely indifferent to the blood that stained its beach and uninterested in the violent events that it had just witnessed. The flames flickered impassively, and Jack started to cry.
"Chief?" Maurice asked hesitantly.
"Go!" Jack screamed at them. "Go! Go! Leave! We're all dead!"
The boys continued to stare.
"Why won't you go?" Jack shouted. Tears ran unchecked down his face, cutting through the mask of paint. "Leave! Don't you understand? We're all damned! Go! GO!" He fell to his knees and sobbed. "Go die in whatever way seems best to you."
The four boys paused for a moment, and then they ran. They turned their back on their leader and fled down the burning beach, and none of them ever saw him again.
Jack noticed through his tears half of a coconut shell that had somehow escaped the fire's cold wrath. He picked it up, got to his feet, walked to the ocean's edge and filled it before returning to his original position, between fire and water, between the bodies of the Twins and Ralph and Roger. He looked at the reflection in the shell, and half a boy looked back at him from behind half a mask. He wiped the rest of the mask away so that the face of the boy was revealed.
The boy looked sad and tired and old, even though the youth in his features was apparent. His hair was tied back- like a girl, Jack thought. He pulled it loose; it's long tangled tresses fell into the boy's face. Why does he look so unfamiliar? Jack asked himself. He closed his eyes tight and tried to picture his face in his head. A mocking mask of red, black, and white laughed at him from behind his closed eyes instead of the boy in the water. Jack opened his light blue orbs and looked into the shell again, where the sorrowful face of the boy peered back at him through the untamed hair.
What happened to that boy? Jack wondered. Where did he go?
The mask laughed at him. "He died. A long time ago."
Jack nodded. He dropped the coconut and watched the sad-faced boy sink into the sand with the water. He turned and walked to the sea's edge, listening to the mask's laughter and the fire's hungry, constant roar. Once he reached the end of the beach, he didn't stop but continued walking, until he was knee-deep, waist-deep, chest-deep, neck-deep. Then he dived below the water's surface and did not come up again.