I: Splendid Isolation
Everyone comes to the island. Even him.
It's early still, and the sun hangs over the water like a ship's searchlight, beaming dawn on whatever it finds. No, Sawyer thinks. Don't think of searchlights. There's nobody out there. There hasn't been for the last fifty days. Just that damn boat that took the kid, and you don't want that to come looking for you. So then, in his mind, it changes to a harsher glare: The bulb of a lamp in an Australian police station, unwelcome and suddenly, frustratingly dazzling.
He turns away from the glare. It's better not to get a headache again. Having to wear glasses the Arab made is bad enough. Admitting that he would prefer to wear them than suffer through the headaches is even worse.
Closer to the beach, a gull lets out a cry of triumph, swooping into the sea to claim its prize, wresting a flopping fish from the water with a jerk of effort and a twist of the beak. Upon the sand, a crab scuttles out of a moist dent in the hard-packed ground, jittering sideways and away from Sawyer.
They can live here with any help. Why can't he? This should be a survivalist's paradise, and he's always prided himself on his ability to survive anything. He's got enough. Hell, since they've found the supplies that he knew had to be hidden away somewhere, he's had more than he ever expected to have on the island. And it's not like there's a bunch of people fighting him for the ability to strike out on their own.
However, he can't seem to tear himself away from the camp, no matter how hard he tries. He keeps coming back to the people there. It's like home. "Homesickness," he mutters to himself, spitting out sibilants. "Son of a bitch."
The sun's moving higher over the beach. He takes a last, long look at the camp, and turns his attention to the sea. Maybe he can swim across to whatever shore lies beyond. He used to do laps in the runoffs from the Holston as a kid, so why couldn't he do the same now? Even if he wouldn't make it to shore, maybe he'd run into the boat again. Take at least one of them down with him, maybe give that kid Walt a chance to escape. That'd be worth it.
Sawyer ambles forward until his bare feet splash unceremoniously in the water. It doesn't feel like Southern water. As old as the Holston is, it doesn't compare to this. This is simply brilliant and clear, and he can see beneath the surface, all the way to the crawling, living sand underneath and the fish that flit around his legs. He stares, momentarily fascinated, and leans down to get a better look at what's beneath. He can just make out the outline of something that looks like a dog-tag.
Military. He's old enough to remember those sorts of dog-tags hanging around the necks of guys gone nuts from Vietnam, the little bits of metal the last vestiges of pride they have. There's nobody old enough to have served except for maybe the black woman's husband that was with the Tailies, and John Locke, but he can't see either serving. The husband is too soft. Locke would have gotten shipped out on a Section Eight, possibly even faster than Sawyer himself would have been.
He dips his hand into the water, scooping for the tag to try and free it from the rock that it had gotten pinned beneath. 4-8-16, no, 15…
"What are you doing?" He'd expected to hear the convict darling, Kate, but the voice is thinner, reedier. It's tolerable, though, and at least it's not the Hispanic woman come to punch him out. He turns and sees khakis, freshly laundered. Blond hair, a careworn face, a woman a few years older than he, if that. It's one of the Tailies, that psychologist. He's no fan of psychologists. He was sent to one after his parents died, but that didn't do any good. He can't see the Tailie being much help now, either.
"Fishing," he tells her, feeling his voice go thick with sarcasm. "See, I saw Chew – that Korean guy – do it with a net, and I thought, hell, anything those Commies can do with a net, we can do without one, right?" He grabs for a fish halfheartedly, but feels it squirt between his fingers, watches it dart out to the waters beyond. He tries to cover for that failure: "Libby, ain't it?"
"Sure you were." The psychologist's voice suggests that she's not buying his excuse. He can tell. "And yes, it's Libby. You're looking better." The woman studies his shoulder, her eyes critical. The wound hadn't felt that bad today, but now that she's looking at the white wrapping around his arm, he can feel it too, the sudden, sharp pains stabbing at him like he'd stuck his arm in a wasp's nest all the way up.
"I'm feelin' better," he assures her, lying through his teeth, making sure he shows them to her in a broad smile. "You're up early, Libby." He squares his shoulders. "You're a bit too late for a night visit, but there's nothing sayin' you can't make the offer now. Better late than never."
Libby doesn't answer. In fact, he notices, she looks momentarily confused. When she seems to realize what he's talking about, she gives him a tight little smirk – unamused – and then looks up towards his face again. "I've been meaning to talk to you, Sawyer." Her eyes flick to the water near where he'd been reaching for the dog-tag, and he tenses slightly. "It's Ana-Lucia. I don't think she's in control of herself anymore. I've heard people talking."
"Rambina?" Sawyer grins tightly. "A damn walking advertisement for PMS medication." Another unamused smile. Con men are good at telling real grins from fake, and she's giving him a fake one now. All he can do is to say, "Sorry," and turn his attention back to the water, hiding his uneasiness.
The dog-tag floats there. 15… 16, so that is 16… 20-something.
"I'm serious, Sawyer."
"I ain't interested in her, or anyone else on this damn island. Can't help you. Sorry." And he turns his back on her. Time to start swimming. Maybe he can get to the boat by noon, and be dead by twelve-thirty. It sounds like a decent plan, as long as he can be assured that the kid will make it out OK because of him.
The gull that had gotten the fish continues to hover in the distance, and he watches it. He's not going to check out that dog-tag until the woman goes away, and he can tell from her voice that she hasn't moved even a step: "You need to get along with others. It's going to be have to dealt with, or it'll come back around."
20… 20-what? 23. 23, 42. Wait. She just –
Sawyer swallows, doesn't let Libby see it. He turns slowly, pivoting on a heel, careful to hide as much of himself as he can until he's totally facing her.
She's staring, her light eyes wide and her face expressionless. It's a good poker face. She normally looks worn out, but he can't see a single line in the smooth, impassive face now.
The gull dives, hits the water, clutching, grasping, spears another fish and brings it up, heedless of the flipping and tossing, the water droplets flung off the smooth, shiny body, the viscous fluid leaking from the side where the bird has hit. A triumphant cry echoes across the beach, reverberating into the jungle.
In the jungle, a dog picks it up, a golden-retriever ear cocked to hear the sound. It runs through the dog's body and into the ground, carried by earthworms through their nerve-tangle tunnels to the heart of the island.
In the heart of the island, a counter hits a hundred and eight, and a song from the hippie days hits its groove with a needle and a speaker.
In the speaker, a voice rings out, "You've got to…"
"Wake up. You've got to wake up!"
Sawyer's eyelids flutter. He wakes up to stare into milky eyes and a lined face. Libby the psychologist is kneeling over him, her thin voice urging him to awaken. They're in high grass. A handful of people are crowded around him, only two of them very familiar, but he sees concern on many of their faces, and ear. That scares him. He can feel his lips tighten, and his jaw go tense.
"I'm fine," he asserts, although he's not sure if he's telling everyone else this, or just himself. "Get off 'a me. Forty-eight days in the jungle, and you folks are treatin' me like a damn kid. It ain't that bad."
They back off, just as he'd hoped. He glares at them a little bit more, trying to raise himself off the ground. It doesn't work at first, and he can see a canteen being passed down his way. Try as he might, he can't feel anything but relieved, though a spiteful voice in his head says that he's ungrateful for it, that he doesn't deserve it. He takes a deep drink of the water, and he can feel his Adam's apple bob with the sip, timing itself to that damn-fool song that still echoes in his head.
Underneath where he's fallen, he can feel the ground thrumming along to that hippie song.
Everything ends in the island. Even him.