This is a Lord of the Flies fanfic that is not a school project and has a halfway cliche plot. Something a teensy bit out of norm, I suppose.
Warnings: Crazy descriptive violence! Also, character death.
The ululations, echoed by a thousand savage mouths, rose screaming toward the sun after ringing, maddening, in his ears. He was suddenly consumed by the heat, stumbling across the scorched, jagged sand toward the sea: the crystal blue expanse that shattered the island's ghastly, desperate horror. The wounds on his face and chest throbbed dully, lined with grit and sweat, and his face was swollen. His path was marked by scattered black dots on domes of sand.
Exhales turned into squealing, whining laughter when his toes were greeted by the lapping, foamy waves. Harsh hands met his shoulders, restraining and pulling him backward. He fell, hitting the grimy body behind him, and they both plummeted to meet the ground. He was still laughing, struggling in the white grip that the savage still had on him. An elbow hooked itself around his neck and the point of a spear, shavings still clinging to its malicious carved tip as if magnetized, caused a miniscule crater in the flesh above his heart. The skin gave, swallowing the very peak and releasing another steady line of blood.
Ralph giggled hysterically, and his eyes leaked fresh, cool tears, which cleansed his bothered cheeks and cut grooves in the caked dirt. His eyes traveled down the length of the gnarled branch that only just punctured his skin. It had once held lush bunches of green leaves, perhaps a ripe, pregnant, lustrous fruit that a littlun had plucked in hunger. At the other end, it again spiked into a point.
His eyes continued upward to another savage, decorated in foliage and clay and blood, lips pulled thin over teeth that at once seemed dreadfully sharp, like fierce animal fangs. A curtain of grimy red hair hung in front of his feral, bloodthirsty eyes, but they still bore holes into the filthy skin of his newest catch.
Behind him, Roger tightened his grip around Ralph's throat. The captive wheezed and gurgled, his laughter finally retreating back into the dark, wildly pounding depths of his heart. What saliva remained in his dry mouth sprayed out as he coughed, sprinkling his lips with moisture. Shrieks of glee came unanimously from the savages, who closed in, inching forward, delighted to lock the victim in with their Chief and Roger and the stick sharpened on both ends- with no escape.
"Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Do him in!"
The chant, sung out by only one boy, was met with roaring laughter. Jack, in one swift motion, silenced the mob by thrusting his clenched fist into the hot, oppressive air. Now, only the sound of the crackling fire and Ralph's gasps and choked pleas hung in the air. Upon signal from the chief, Roger pulled away his spear and stood up with the struggling boy still contained in one arm.
Being caught in the wildly engaging success of the Hunt, the brutal display before them, none of the once-boys noticed the dot on the horizon that approached rapidly, slowly taking the shape of a tiny cruiser. Away from the savage eyes, the ship grew larger and larger as it drew closer and closer, alerted by the intense firestorm of the Island.
Jack signaled again, and Ralph's toes left the ground to hover above the cooking sand. Roger's arm was wrapped around his thin, bleeding chest, elbow and hand hooked into his underarms. He was being dragged toward the filthy, grinning animals before him, and his eyes grew wide with terror. His throat burned with strain when it emitted a whispery, feminine shriek.
Ralph was swallowed by their ranks and at once, their hands, eager for sacrifice, assaulted, punched, screaming through the air and breaking him all in a sort of simultaneous, beating chant.
And slowly, the heartbeat inside of the victim's chest, which had beat riotously in his ears in time with the drumbeat, was muffled as if being enveloped in layers of cotton one-by-one…
It faded into nothingness, lying still inside of him, and the savages cheered violently, dancing around the new corpse as if they had killed another succulent pig. Only two boys hung back, wearing identical expressions of horror and clutching sideways at each other for support so desperately that their fingernails turned white. One called Ralph's name above the tumultuous gibbering and screeching, and his brother, heartbroken, let out a tiny sob.
A hush stole over the crowd of boys immediately at a noise behind them, so small and yet so profound, so foreign. Littluns, previously cowering just inside the sanctuary of trees, poked their heads through the thick, tangled trunks and stared at the sight.
Not far off of the pale white shore, a vast ship greeted their masked eyes, and the sand crunched underneath the neatly polished boot of a stark naval officer, epaulettes and revolver gleaming like his astonished, severe eye.
Whoa. Whoa.
Please review. Please. Seriously.
Seven Positions