A/N: This short story is coming to an end, only one last chapter to go! This chapter contains my one-shot "Lack of Direction" with a few things added.

Enjoy this while it lasts, gents!

Day 29

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At first, he had wanted to ration the last sack of peanuts, illustrating an unwavering effort in physical and mental restraint, yet, the recent demands on his afterlife were a struggle and he knew that those who have had everything given to them become lethargic and selfish to the genuine values of life. He had eaten almost half the sack of nuts within the first two days of its discovery, finally realizing the true meaning of starvation and the bliss in satisfying his physical needs. Rationing had now become imperative.

There was short weight in every ration, causing him to rethink his ration structure on a daily basis. The only point he debated was of how short of a weight. So, every day he would take a quick look within the burlap sack to soothe the hunger pains in his stomach – that day, maybe, he'd pilfer an extra handful, stowing it in his pocket for later consumption.

"One additional handful today, is one less handful tomorrow - could turn out to be a quite problematic in days to come."

"It's already a problem because I have no choice but to ration it," he sighed, knowing that cutting his rations was a last resort, but he really had no alternative

"So it seems."

"As Captain, I have to make sure that me crew receives the same opportunity," he reasoned.

"Never really liked peanuts, but they've certainly grown on me. Let me have my ration now, fleshy."

"I think you've had quite enough," he sneered.

"Now, let's think about this for a moment shall we?"

"Think about what, exactly? If a crew of men is left hungry, then their leader is held accountable, not the likes of you."

"Ponder this, my fleshy host, the more you ration the less there is for you."

"A viable point, wouldn't want to risk our plan of escape over a couple of peanuts here and there."

"Aye, now what say you to that?"

"That would starve us all, or near it," he stated incredulously. "I would not be able to escape without a crew either way."

"Starving yourself throughout your afterlife is no laughing matter, Jackie."

"Aye, you cannot deny your innate instinct toward self preservation!"

"Oh shut it! I wash my hands of the both of you," he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air as he exited his cabin to the main deck.

"I want movement! Remove the gaskets, let go of the clew lines and the bunt lines, Mr. Sparrow!" Jack shouted, walking assertively amongst a brigade of long haired, tattooed rogues.

"Captain, do we finally have our heading?" Mr. Sparrow inquired, walking swiftly to his captain's side.

"Aye, son. West," Jack replied with haste, making his way up to the Pearl's quarterdeck.

"Are you certain, Captain? You didn't even look at your compass."

"If you hadn't noticed, Mr. Sparrow, the compass is no longer of sound mind nor spirit. But, with my innate sense of direction, we'll be able to get ourselves out of this mess," Jack assured, licking his index finger sloppily between his lips, holding it out before him to measure the wind.

'What the hell am I doing? There's no bloody wind,' he thought, placing his hand back on his waist.

"Hoist the yard, you scabrous dogs!" Jack ordered, adjusting his frock coat. Looking on as a group of men began hauling the clew lines to bring the clews up to the ends of the yards. He shifted his attention to another team that was in charge of bringing the bunt line's foot up to the yard.

"Might I inquire as to why we are heading west, sir?"

"Are you questioning my judgment, Mr. Sparrow?" Jack questioned, turning to glare at the deckhand, feeling a spark of anger ignite within him.

"No, not at all, sir," Mr. Sparrow assured, waving his arms out to his captain. "All I meant was, without a working compass and all, how would you know which direction, is indeed, the right one?"

Jack stood for a moment, licking his teeth gingerly. "Do you have any suggestions, lad? If not, then I have a suggestion for you --"

"Aye, sir?"

"Shoo," Jack stated, waving Mr. Sparrow off to the side so he could take his proper place at the helm.

"Well, er … what about north?"

"What about it?" Jack inquired, wrinkling his nose as he placed his hands upon the wheel's smooth pegs, monitoring the vigorous activity on deck while drumming the edges of his fingers lightly.

"Well, why not place it in the hat for consideration?"

"You know my compass never really pointed north … Don't you have something else to do?"

"Well, perhaps, it would have if it still worked, of course, seeing that you're here at the moment. North seems like a viable heading to me, if you were asking me, of course. Don't want to look like we're shooting cardinal directions out of our arse, do we?"

Jack pondered Mr. Sparrow's statement for just a moment, letting his eyes wander beyond the Pearl's grand, black sails, peering out empathically over the white abyss before him, unable to fathom that he no longer felt the creak of the Pearl beneath him, shifting from tide to tide with utter grace and ease.

"Nay, we do not," he replied slowly.

"I suggest that we head north, sir. We might have a better chance of reaching the top of this wasteland and freeing the lot of us along with the Pearl, bringing her back to life, so to speak," Mr. Sparrow suggested.

The saddest part was, she was no longer living and neither was he. He was a man missing his purpose – a man detached by his inability to feel the license to do as he pleased, the freedom of nature and the dancing of wind that traveled elegantly upon the sea, seeping through his tangled locks.

He longed for the sprinkles of sea mist upon his cheeks and for the turbulence of life in a sea of bland disdain.

"The lad makes a good point, mate."

"Aye, but it's really all a matter of perspective, if you ask me."

"Perhaps, a matter of semantics."

"Or, perhaps, it is a matter of not having a bloody compass?" he snapped.

"Now, Jackie, there's no need to blame the compass, you said it yourself."

"I wouldn't rule out the lad as naïve just yet, because honestly, if we don't rescue ourselves, then no one will?"

"Certainly not the whelp and his bonny lass."

"We can only hope not," he sighed.

"They're what got us in this mess in the first place!"

"Don't forget Barbossa, that slimy ol' cur."

"Who'd want to remember him?"

"Gibbs," Jack spoke amidst the heated discussion. "He'd come for me, I know it."

"Even the greatest of companions are not always as loyal as they might appear to be."

"Aye, you have to admit, the man is a superstitious mess. Can't imagine that he'd cross over to the land of the dead for anyone."

"He would, Gibbs is a good man, even with all his faults. He'd come for me, I'd bet me life on it!" he exclaimed.

"Would you now?"

"Don't mean to be cynical, Jackie, but it's the harsh reality of life that we must all come to terms with, at one point or another."

"Not saying that because the truth is too difficult to comprehend. It's just that the easiest and most comfortable course for us at this very moment is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions, especially selfish ones."

"You can only gain from here on out."

"If you're willing to sail those waters, of course."

He paused, licking his teeth as he reached into his pocket, searching for his handful of peanuts, only to find them gone.

"Can't exactly trust anyone, can you, mate?"

"Not even yourself."

"Mr. Sparrow, brace the fore --" he paused, turning full circle, coming to the realization that his once bustling ship was now sparse of any human activity but his own.

"Fine -- I'll do it meself. You're all bloody useless."