Day four:
Faith knotted a length of rope around the pole they had salvaged from the wreckage, nodding at the boy who was helping her build a shelter, who quickly tied his end off as well, suspending the blue tarpaulin above them. More sheets were strung up like washing lines for three of the walls, weighted down with sand and rocks so they didn't flap about.
The other survivors had also begun to build similar shelters, and so Faith and a few other teenagers had built this one, big enough to fit five or six medium sized people in. The others had gone to help their own families or friends build crude shelters of their own, leaving Faith and this boy, who had told her his name was Stefan. He was just seventeen, slightly older than her, with pale skin, curly brown hair, and green eyes that twinkled when he laughed. Faith herself was slightly dark-skinned, with long black hair and dark brown eyes.
Stefan pronounced his name with a foreign tilt; he said he was German, on a trip round the world with his father. He had been sitting nearer the front of the plane, and had been thrown clear when they crashed, landing in the jungle. He had been badly cut and bruised, with a deep gash along one arm and another on his back, but the doctor, Jack, had fixed him up, bandaging his wounds and giving him antibiotics recovered from random bags, and he had insisted he was able to help her.
She had let him, simply because he hadn't been able to find his father among the forty or so stranded on the beach, and she felt sorry for him, in case - like her mother and sister - his father was among those rotting in the fuselage.
'I'm done.' He said, finishing winding the thick rope around a scrap of plane, embedded upright in the sand.
'Great!' Faith said, studying their work, pleased at how much they had accomplished. She wasn't that good at building and construction, but Stefan had a part-time job at a building site in the town where he and his father had lived in Germany. He knew enough about it to balance the shelter, giving them, and a few others who had nowhere else to stay, a place to sleep.
Faith stepped out of the shelter, shading her eyes as the sun rose slowly towards the middle of the sky in front of her. Despite everything, she couldn't deny that it was beautiful on the beach, with the soft sand and blue sea. And she was determined to make the most of their short time here, until they were rescued.
She moved to stand in the sea, fifty yards from the entrance to the shelter. Her trainers had been discarded the day before, and she had cut her jeans below the knee to make them easier to move in. Her suitcase was still missing, but Stefan had found his, and lent her one of his shirts, which was so big she had hacked the sleeves off (with his permission) and cut the bottom off to make it fit. It had quickly become her favourite shirt. She looked altogether at home on the Island, with her bare feet and arms, her black hair unbrushed and curling around her quickly tanning skin.
Stefan looked just as happy, wearing a pair of battered jeans and a scruffy T-shirt with his sandals, his hair tangling into his blue eyes. He joined her in the spray, and she was about to speak before shouts and thumps rang out from further along the beach.
'What's that?' She wondered aloud, and Stefan quickly followed as she hurried up the beach. They came across a group of other survivors, a few of them familiar as the kids that helped build the shelter, but most of them unknown. The two of them quietly slipped through the crowd, everybody else too intent on whatever was going on to notice them.
They shoved through to the front, among cries of 'What? All the food's gone?' Faith felt worry clench her stomach, but Jack waved his arms, trying to settle the panicking crowd, shouting over the yells. A few of the others were also trying to calm the survivors.
'There is plenty we can use on this island for sustenance!' Shouted the Iraqi, who's name, she had learned, was Sayid.
'And how exactly do we find this sustenance?' The Texan hick drawled, lounging in one of the discarded aeroplane seats. He leapt in surprise as something thudded into the headrest, inches away from his dirty blond hair. A hunting knife.
'We hunt.' Said the previously calm, unassuming Locke. From where he was standing, just a few feet away from her, Faith could see the difference from when they had crashed. The calm was still in his face, but now his eyes blazed with a determination and purpose. A metal case by his feet showed a dozen more knives, each more deadly than the last. Faith was stunned.
'How did you get those on the plane?' Someone asked; everyone was staring at him with their jaw on the floor.
'Checked it.' He said calmly, retrieving his knife from the seat, and testing the edge before slipping it into the sheath at his belt. He went on to explain about the boar they had seen on the first night; they would easily feed the survivors until they could find more food.
A couple of people volunteered to go with him, a woman in her twenties with dark hair, and a black man who looked a little older. Before she could think, Faith found herself stepping forwards too.
'I'm coming too.' The words left her lips before she could stop them, and she glared fiercely at the other three volunteers, daring them to argue. Locke nodded, half smiling. He always seemed to look as if he knew something she didn't. The woman cast him an accusing glare, and the man glanced at her worriedly, but nobody seemed to want to question his decision. After all, he was the one with the box full of knives.
Locke picked up his chest of knives, leading them away from the crowd until they were standing a few feet away from the medical tent. Faith remembered the previous night, the screams of the dying man cut short by a single shot. He had been one of the first to die. Faith hoped he would be the last.
The female volunteer followed her gaze, seemingly also troubled by the memory of the shrapnel guy; she chewed nervously on a fingernail until Locke spoke.
'Here, Kate.' He passed her one of the knives. Kate slid the gleaming blade out of the sheaf, carefully testing the edge, before flipping it over in her hand so she could fasten it to her belt. She looked professional, almost comfortable holding the weapon, but when she caught Faith looking at her she shrugged guardedly and averted her gaze.
The black man seemed the opposite of Kate. Locke called him Michael, and handed him the knife as if wondering why he had volunteered. Michael looked like he was wondering that himself as he clumsily fixed the knife to his belt, looking out of place in his suit trousers and blue shirt, whereas Locke was wearing a khaki combat waistcoat and strong walking boots. He glanced down at Faith's bare feet and she squirmed, hurriedly rushing off to retrieve her trainers, meeting Stefan on the way.
'You want me to come too?' He asked jokingly, and she grinned as he waved his bandaged arm uselessly.
'Guard the fort while I'm gone.' She told him, and he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before she ran off after Locke, Michael and Kate.
A few minutes later and the four of them had melted into the jungle.