A/N: The island holds lots of things that stir my imagination, so here is a little one-shot I thought up. If you read this, thank you, and hope you enjoy. Remember that reviews make me happy!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything relating to/concerned with Lost.
The waves crashing onto the shore of the beach were an ever-present sound to the survivors of Oceanic 815. Sunlight cascaded in constant hot rays. But from Sawyer's vantage point in the steamy shade of the jungle, there were only mysterious jungle noises - an array of insect and frog calls, small mammals and reptiles rustling through decaying foliage, and an occasional cry of some type of bird. Sometimes, he swore he heard whispers. 'Too much damn sun,' Sawyer would think to himself when he heard these whispers, trying to make the goosebumps on his already sweaty, tanned skin disappear. The humid air in the jungle seemed alive and pulsating. He wiped sweat from his brow with a swipe of his forearm as he walked. He stopped, examining something, and turned and looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was following him, before he slipped through an overgrown green tangle of vines and tropical shrubbery.
What he had seen through the wall of vines was a small, sandy clearing. He prodded the sand with the toe of his boot, scratching out a small hole. "Well alright, then," he mumbled to himself, sounding pleased. He had found a perfect hiding place.
Sawyer had run out of cigarettes several days before, but he still found himself sometimes absently digging through his pockets for the crushed pack. He had been doing that when his fingers touched the items he had found just yesterday, three diamond engagement rings, and he remembered he needed to take them to his new-found hiding spot. Maybe he would be able to use them to barter with someone for something he wanted, or, if nothing else, he could pawn them when they were rescued.
Before turning to head into the jungle, he paused to watch John Locke as he opened the huge suitcase full of hunting knives. The knives gleamed menacingly in the sun. 'That man's playin' poker with this whole damn bunch and we ain't called his bluff," Sawyer thought, glancing around at the rest of the people scattered up and down the beach. Sawyer didn't even trust Locke as far as he could throw him, as they said back in his home state of Alabama. And usually Sawyer kept an excellent watch of his surroundings - the nature of his con-jobs didn't allow for mistakes - but he had been so intently scrutinizing Locke that he had missed the eyes that followed his path into the jungle.
That day, rains had come and gone on the island, but a haze still clung to the humid air. The sky was cloudy and overcast, and thunder rumbled low in the distance. Sawyer felt that he should go check on his hiding spot to make sure no rainwater had disturbed it. The gray, overcast sky made the shadows in the jungle distinct and nearly palpable. Making his way through the green growth of the jungle, he stopped when he realized he heard something in front of him, just through the wall of vines where he had hidden his stash. The sound was a low, snuffling sound - something he couldn't easily identify - and another, more horrifying sound that he easily recognized. Scratching. Gnawing. Claws dragging against the bent tin box with the broken lock that he had buried in the sand. Teeth gnashing against its metal surface.
'Son of a bitch,' Sawyer thought, his blood feeling as if it had turned to ice. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He meant to reach for the gun he kept in the back waistband of his jeans, but he realized he had left it back at his tarp. He had never before wished so badly for a weapon. A glock. One of Locke's gleaming hunting knives. A heavy, solid rock.
Everyone back at the beach all harbored fears for the thing in the jungle that crashed through the trees, unseen, making garbled mechanical and electrical noises, and would then let out a low and eerie, echoing, haunted howl as it retreated. The mysterious island monster. And now Sawyer, frozen in fear and uncertainty, believed he had walked right on top of it.
His fight-or-flight instincts battled one another for a number of seconds before he decided to turn and run. The split-second decision to run caused all of his muscles to tense - getting ready to carry him crashing through the foliage to get back to the beach - back to safety in numbers. But he didn't have the chance.
The monster burst forth through the tangled wall of vines.
Sawyer let out a yell as the thing leaped onto him, and he fell backward into the damp layer of palm fronds and sand.
"What the - Vincent?"
The yellow Labrador retriever licked Sawyer's face, his tail wagging nonstop.
"Get offa me, you damn dirty mutt!" Sawyer sat up while gently pushing Vincent off him, and the dog obediently sat down beside him, hassling happily.
Indignant, Sawyer looked at Vincent. "You like to have made my ticker bust, boy."
Vincent gave a short bark in reply, and Sawyer reached out to pat his head.
"Yeah, yeah. Come on, we'll get on back to camp," he said, standing up and brushing the sand of the back of his jeans. He whistled for Vincent to come, and the dog went ahead of Sawyer, ambling to and fro, nose to the ground. "And thanks a lot for diggin' up my stash!" He called out to the moving spots of yellow he could see disappearing through the green undergrowth.
Sawyer paused and turned, looking back at the tangled wall of vines once more, remembering the feeling of fright he had before.
"Bet I bring my damn gun next trip."