When the Wind Comes Up
Jack O'Neill was not normally the sort of man that worried about what was around the next corner. His philosophy of life had changed the moment that his son had died. Now he just went from day to day, doing what he had to do without much concern for his own future.
He worried about other people's future of course - Daniel, Carter, Teal'c and all those other people that were important to him. He even worried about the Big Picture - the future of the human race. But until this day, he hadn't worried about his own future for a very long time.
Now that had all changed.
One thing that he hadn't thought to consider was the method of his death. He had experienced so many variations on that theme that he really didn't care anymore.
Now he did.
Fire had never been something to worry about either. It was a handy tool, a useful way to heat coffee and feel companionship. Sitting around the fire. Enjoying each other's company.
He had never thought of it as the means of his death. Now he realised that fire was the worst possible way that he could think of to die.
His breath was coming in short gasps now as he ran, the crackling of the flames hideously close and coming closer by the minute. He knew that he couldn't outrun this monster. It was charging after him with the speed of an express train. He had to find shelter and fast.
There were the sounds of sharp explosions as the trees behind him burst into flame, the resin from their bark and the oil from their leaves adding fuel to the beast's insatiable appetite. Desperation gave his legs the stamina that they needed and he raced on, his eyes flickering from side to side.
There!
A stream running between two steeply sloping rocky banks. Not much, but it was all that he had.
He wedged himself into the deep, narrow cleft in the rocks and held his breath, every part of his body covered by the tepid water. There was nothing else to do.
The sound was like the thunder of a tornado rolling up and over him. The very air hissed and sizzled.
And then it just vanished.
There was no air. Nothing to breathe but fire. Or water.
He chose the water.
His lungs strained.
He felt the convulsive gulping that was his body's way of telling him that he needed oxygen.
But he held on until he could hold on no more. At last his mouth opened and he took in a mouthful of the stream, before surging to the surface, his eyes shut.
The silence was eerie.
Cautiously opening his eyes, he looked around. There was nothing left. Never would he complain about trees again. The world was a uniform black - billowing smoke swirling around and through the stumps. Thick, arid, choking smoke.
And Jack discovered another way that he didn't want to die.
His already abused lungs fought to filter the ash from the air. He coughed, a deep hacking cough and sank to his knees, his wet uniform soaking up the hot cinders and the grey dirty ash.
It had been for nothing.
And then the wind came up.
The ash ghosts danced around him and moved away. The smoke streamed upwards, over his head and off. The cinders blew their way across the ground.
And he drew a long, cleansing breath.
With his last remaining energy, Jack O'Neill staggered to his feet and began the journey back towards the gate and home.
His list of ways to die expanded.
Jack O'Neill was not normally the sort of man that worried about what was around the next corner. His philosophy of life had changed the moment that his son had died. Now he just went from day to day, doing what he had to do without much concern for his own future.
He worried about other people's future of course - Daniel, Carter, Teal'c and all those other people that were important to him. He even worried about the Big Picture - the future of the human race. But until this day, he hadn't worried about his own future for a very long time.
Now that had all changed.
One thing that he hadn't thought to consider was the method of his death. He had experienced so many variations on that theme that he really didn't care anymore.
Now he did.
Fire had never been something to worry about either. It was a handy tool, a useful way to heat coffee and feel companionship. Sitting around the fire. Enjoying each other's company.
He had never thought of it as the means of his death. Now he realised that fire was the worst possible way that he could think of to die.
His breath was coming in short gasps now as he ran, the crackling of the flames hideously close and coming closer by the minute. He knew that he couldn't outrun this monster. It was charging after him with the speed of an express train. He had to find shelter and fast.
There were the sounds of sharp explosions as the trees behind him burst into flame, the resin from their bark and the oil from their leaves adding fuel to the beast's insatiable appetite. Desperation gave his legs the stamina that they needed and he raced on, his eyes flickering from side to side.
There!
A stream running between two steeply sloping rocky banks. Not much, but it was all that he had.
He wedged himself into the deep, narrow cleft in the rocks and held his breath, every part of his body covered by the tepid water. There was nothing else to do.
The sound was like the thunder of a tornado rolling up and over him. The very air hissed and sizzled.
And then it just vanished.
There was no air. Nothing to breathe but fire. Or water.
He chose the water.
His lungs strained.
He felt the convulsive gulping that was his body's way of telling him that he needed oxygen.
But he held on until he could hold on no more. At last his mouth opened and he took in a mouthful of the stream, before surging to the surface, his eyes shut.
The silence was eerie.
Cautiously opening his eyes, he looked around. There was nothing left. Never would he complain about trees again. The world was a uniform black - billowing smoke swirling around and through the stumps. Thick, arid, choking smoke.
And Jack discovered another way that he didn't want to die.
His already abused lungs fought to filter the ash from the air. He coughed, a deep hacking cough and sank to his knees, his wet uniform soaking up the hot cinders and the grey dirty ash.
It had been for nothing.
And then the wind came up.
The ash ghosts danced around him and moved away. The smoke streamed upwards, over his head and off. The cinders blew their way across the ground.
And he drew a long, cleansing breath.
With his last remaining energy, Jack O'Neill staggered to his feet and began the journey back towards the gate and home.
His list of ways to die expanded.