The night was dark, with not even a sliver of moon to light the sky. Shadows flickered across the ground as unseen wraiths moved through the quiet forest, leaves hissing as soft footfalls pushed them into the mud. The trees almost seemed to whisper to each other, leaves quivering. Their soft words drifted through the still air, swirling like an hidden wind.
"4…8…15…16…23…42..."
At the caves, the sleepers moved restlessly, as though the words were wriggling into their ears, drilling into their minds. The bed that had held the wounded Boone was still there, untouched. Boone himself was deep within the cold earth.
"4…8…15…16…23…42…"
The numbers echoed across the beach, to the open shores and across the empty seas. Softly like a gushing wind it passed across the slumbering people, slipping into open mouths like poison. The little child whimpered in his sleep, quieting under the warm touch of his mothers' hand. The hair rose on the back of Claire's neck as she heard the whispered words, but she did not wake the others. Most of them though her crazy as it was.
A small pinprick of red light comforted her as she lay back down on the sands. Strange, that the presence of Sawyer could be comforting….
"4…8…15…16…23…42…"
Locke paced next to the mysterious hatch, weary in body and mind. Something curled in the blackness, like a cat, watching him as he stared around with re-rimmed eyes, white knuckled hands tight around the hilt of his knife. Far away, on a forgotten beach Jack slept fitfully, dreaming of blood, screams and slashing metal.
"4…8…15…16…23…42…"
Beneath the earth, something moved.