Chapter 7

The Skipper trudged through the jungle, following the small sandy path through the dense foliage. Four thick bamboo poles balanced on one shoulder. Gilligan followed with an armful of thinner rods. They walked in silence. The Skipper was still irritated. While they had been harvesting the bamboo Gilligan hadn't closed his mouth once, still yammering on and on about ghosts and spaceships. The boy had refused to see reason. He knew that Gilligan wouldn't make something like that up on purpose but the young man had a vivid imagination that simply took control sometimes. After about fifteen minutes straight of Gilligan's babbling the Skipper had lost his cool and gave his first mate a smart whack over the head with his cap, sometimes the only way to startle him into shutting up. He had ordered him, quite adamantly to keep his trap shut until they got back to camp. It had taken a couple more threats but Gilligan had finally quieted and he hadn't spoke since.

"Skipper?"

The Skipper rolled his eyes and turned around to find that Gilligan had stopped several yards back and was leaning against the a palm tree. "What now?"

"Can we take a break?"

"Gilligan, we haven't even been working for an hour." Gilligan was a good kid but sometimes that's just how he acted, like a kid. Not long after he had met the young man the Skipper had made it his goal to toughen the boy up. But sometimes he didn't feel as if his efforts were working.

"But I feel awful tired all of a sudden and I think this bamboo is made of lead."

"That's because you're not working hard enough. You can take a break when we're finished. Now come on!" The Skipper beckoned with his free hand and started down the trail again, knowing that Gilligan would follow.

He hadn't taken five steps before there was a clatter behind him. Stopping with an annoyed huff he wondered just what Gilligan had tripped over, bumped into or fallen through this time. He turned around again to see Gilligan sprawled on the ground in the midst of a pile of bamboo poles. "Oh, for heaven's sake!"

"I'm sorry, Skipper." Gilligan began to push himself up but before he even got to his knees his arms trembled and gave way beneath him.

The Skipper's irritation quickly turned to concern. He dropped the poles and moved to Gilligan's side. "Little Buddy, are you alright?"

"So tired." Gilligan mumbled. He sounded as exhausted as he looked. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and he looked as if he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Gosh, Gilligan maybe you should take a break." He hadn't realized he had been pushing the boy so hard. He must have lost track of time and they had been working longer than he thought. "Come on, we'll go back to camp and finish this later."

"I'm alright." Gilligan waved him off as his eyes sank closed. "You go on. I'll just take a nap right here."

"Get up. You're not going to sleep right in the middle of the trail." But Gilligan's only response was a loud snore. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder and shook him a bit. It didn't do any good. The boy was out cold. The Skipper didn't bother to try again. When Gilligan was like this a twenty-one gun salute couldn't wake him.

With a deep sigh that was equal parts resignation and annoyance he slipped one arm under Gilligan's shoulders and the other under his knees he lifted the slight young man from the sand. He weighed next to nothing and the Skipper had no difficulty carrying him. "Gilligan, the things I do for you…" He shook his head and headed toward camp.

They had been quite far from the compound and it was a long walk. The Skipper had expected Gilligan to wake up on the way but they had already traveled quite a ways and he was still out cold. The weather was pleasantly warm but the limp form that the burly sailor carried in his arms was beginning to feel unusually cool and sweat still poured down the young man's face as if he were in a sauna. He was beginning to fear there was more wrong with his little buddy than a simple case of overwork. He decided to have the Professor take a look at him when they reached camp.

Strangely the boy was also seemed to be getting heavier. Gilligan weighed scarcely a hundred and twenty five pounds and the Skipper generally had no problem carrying things much heavier for greater distances. He paused a moment to shift Gilligan to his shoulders where his weight was easier to maintain.

Perhaps ten minutes later the Skipper shuffled to a stop and leaned heavily against the nearest palm tree, desperately trying to catch his breath. He couldn't believe he was feeling this way. He couldn't even remember the last time he had been so exhausted. "Little Buddy," He said between gasps as he removed his hat and wiped at the layer of sweat that glazed his forehead. "I think the Skipper is a little out of shape."

With a determined grunt he shifted his, still unconscious, crew again and continued on. You can do this, Jonas. He told himself through the veil of perspiration. Tired is a state of mind. But his mind was clouding. And he was certain that both his body and gravity were ganging up on him. Every part of him felt as if it were made of lead and Gilligan was like a bag of cement lying across his shoulders. A few steps later his knees buckled and he sank to the ground. As he kneeled there panting he had no choice but to admit it now. He wasn't just tired, he was sick. Whatever was wrong with Gilligan had a firm hold on him too.

With one big hand he reached up and pulled his first mate from off his back. Gilligan landed bonelessly at his side. The young man's face was the color of ash and he wasn't sweating anymore. He was also deathly still. Even through the increasingly thick cloud of exhaustion he could see that his Little Buddy needed help. And he needed it now. Even then, looking at his young friend's motionless form, he realized it could already be too late.

He needed to get him back to camp. As much as he hated to admit it carrying him any further was out of the question. Something was sapping his strength, draining him. He could no longer stand under his own weight let alone Gilligan's. There was really only one other option.

"PROFESSOR!" That one desperate shout drained the last bit of power he had left and everything faded to black.

The Skipper's voice echoed through the clearing that held their little island camp scarcely a hundred feet away. But no one answered.