II: My Ride's Here
"A truck? And it runs? It has enough gasoline for that?" Sayid can feel Jack's stare on him, hear the dubiousness in the Bostonian's voice. "And you just drove it all the way back here. Nobody came after you. Nobody was watching you. You're sure of that?"
Sayid shakes his head. "We were being watched. I am quite sure of that. But they want us to have the truck, Jack, and I think we should use it. It is more than we have been given since we opened up the hatch, and that we took; it was not donated. We could use a vehicle, certainly."
"Sure we could," Jack says. "But you can't know for certain that it's safe." He takes a few steps closer to where Sayid has been walking, moving to catch up. Sayid winces at the noise, thinking, Jack will never be an explorer. The taller man has had some difficulty brush-clearing in the past, he's noticed, and even with the morning sun high overhead, he is not the stealthiest in the forest even now. The ax he carries swings from side to side with the intensity of his movements, and Sayid watches it bob as he turns, waiting for Jack to catch up. "And as long as we can't know for certain, then we shouldn't take the truck."
As he turns, Sayid feels the quickness of the movement. Though he wishes many things about his military life would go away, that is one benefit that he likes: The bearing of a soldier never goes away, and he can feel the loose tension in his movement. It energizes him, and he draws himself up a little straighter opposite Jack. He has done his best to agree with the man, to support his decisions, but now, on something that is important, he must disagree. "Nothing here is safe, Jack. We are taking the truck. If we do not, then we will deny ourselves a resource for the sake of pride and nothing else."
Jack stares at him for a moment, and then lets out a weary sigh, shaking his head. Sayid can hear the lacing of disgust in the noise, see from the way the doctor's arms are folded that he is displeased with the choice, but for once, he actually backs down. Sayid has to tighten his lips around the exultant chuckle that threatens to burst forth when Jack responds: "All right. We'll take the truck. But it's your responsibility, Sayid. I want nothing to do with it."
That is, until you need it. Sayid certainly does not say that. He simply smiles and responds as diplomatically as ever, "Very well." He makes sure the other man is looking at him, and makes his words as deliberate as possible. "Thank you, Jack."
"Sure, Sayid. Anytime." Jack's voice is breezy now, clearly quite pleased at the gratitude. He starts tromping through the forest again, with the gait of a fellow on his first time through the path. It is amazing. Despite Jack's relative ease with the path, knowing what to carry and what not, the man simply cannot move quietly. He hasn't an ounce of stealth in his body. His voice continues to carry quite loudly through the forest, as if they were back at the beach or the caves, even as Sayid can see branches and leaves crushed underfoot. "How are we going to get more gasoline for this truck, anyway? I mean, it seems to me like it's got limited use if we can't get anything for it."
"Build a hydrogen reactor out of stainless steel," Sayid replies. "Fit it with a pressure gauge, place it in the back of the truck with a plywood wall for security. Feed it water, and let it run off of hydrogen. Salt water works too, and I believe," he grins at Jack, feeling his tone go dry, "we likely have an unlimited supply of that."
The American's voice is skeptical. "And you know how to do that."
"Provided we have the materials, yes, I do. I'll scavenge around the hatch for steel, but I will bet you whatever you would like that we have some." Sayid pushes the last branch away and comes up on the truck. It has not been touched overnight. It sits there, looking in the exact same condition as it had before. It had not rained overnight; it is not even wet. It looks driveable even now, and he takes the keys out of his pocket, jumping into the truck. "I told you it was here, Jack," he can't resist calling out to the man, hearing his own amusement in his voice. "Do not doubt me."
Jack simply gapes at the truck, as if it's a miraculous occurrence. It might well be, Sayid expects, but he does not expect the island's repeatedly avowed skeptic to place credence in such matters. He can barely believe it himself, so Jack is even less likely to do so. Regardless, he watches as Jack takes a few steps towards the truck, disbelief evident on his face, and sees the other man's arm reach out to knock at the side of it.
"It's old. From the Seventies," is Jack's first comment. "Just like all that music in the hatch, and those books – they're all from the era. Have you looked at the publication dates of any?"
Sayid shakes his head. He'll look at the books later, provided he has the chance. He can scarcely do so sitting in a truck in a clearing of the jungle a good distance away from the camp. "It runs, though." He shoves the key home and guns up the motor, listening to it purr. Despite its age, the engine is good, mechanically trustworthy, from the sounds of it. He can fix it up to work off of hydrogen well enough, as long as he gets the time, opportunity, and solitude to do so. A quick glance at the fuel gauge shows that they have more than enough to get them home, and Sayid sets his gaze ahead, on a particularly offending tree.
It feels wrong, somehow, to cut down trees simply to get the truck through, like they are taking a liberty on the island that they need not take, but he nods Jack that way, soft-pedaling his doubt as best he can. "You are sure that you know how to handle an ax, Jack?" He almost suggests they go get Sawyer to replace Jack if need be, but manages to restrain himself. The question is enough to spur Jack to quick action, and Sayid sees determination in the taller man's chopping, a focus that he does not think is borne solely of his love for the task. Why must he always prove himself the leader? What drives him to do so?
He saves those questions for later, turns off the truck, and does his best to help out by clearing what brush he can. They work that way in silence for much of the day, given a task and doing their best to fulfill it, even if it is self-imposed. He is pleased that Jack does not strike up further conversation except when they take breaks for water and food. He is not sure he would know what to talk about with the doctor.
––
He has not expected to feel strange when he drives the truck down towards the hatch and then sends it towards the beach. Instead, he has expected to feel delighted when he pulls the truck down towards the sand, stops just short of the beach rather than sending the wheels to ground out in the soft surface. It is not an entirely pleasant feeling, though, and that makes him nervous. He cannot share the feeling with Jack, who sits in the passenger seat, because Jack would not stand even the remotest chance of understanding the reason behind it, so instead he focuses his attention on the mid-afternoon sun, staring woodenly at it as he hears the exultant cries and jubilant cheers around him.
Liberator. The word echoes in his head, a hollowness, a stiffness to it. It is a military word, a word that says more by avoiding terms, by glossing over them, than by confronting them. That is what they called the Americans when they were in Kuwait when he was younger. He has heard that is what they were calling them in Iraq, in the past few years, too. Though he has not been back in Iraq recently to know, they probably ride along the streets of Iraqi cities in tanks and sometimes trucks like these, handing out candy bars to the children and leaflets encouraging defection to the Iraqi citizens. If his vision is true, then there is such a miscalculation there that the Americans don't even see, such an assumption of power by being the only real vehicular force in the cities. On the other hand, perhaps it is not a miscalculation at all. Perhaps they know this. Perhaps they trade on it.
He realizes then that Jack and he are trading on the same power. It is his truck, but Jack will want it from him. He does not know when, or why, but he is sure of it. He was able to maintain his hold on the radio, to keep others from hearing what he fears they will hear, and now he must keep hold of this truck, too. He cannot let it be put to bad purposes.
I wish I had something to give them, Sayid thinks as he hears the excited chatter around them. A truck is not enough. I must offer them some sort of hope. Mere driving ability without anywhere to go will do them no good. He rests his hands on the steering wheel, tilts his head back on the headrest, and shuts his eyes. It may just be his nerves playing havoc with him, but he can swear for a moment he feels the desert wind cross his path, brush against his face. For a few moments, the voices around him exclaim their surprise and delight in Arabic.
