Walt's moving the Island doesn't quite go according to plan, and he meets someone unexpected.
Goosebumps covered Walt's body as he reached the donkey wheel. His mission was to turn the device a half-turn counterclockwise as seen from above. There were eight evenly spaced spokes, and Walt took hold of one of them. After a quick glance around to see if there was anything he might use as clothing, he pushed mightily, but the wheel provided stubborn resistance. Driving his shoulder into the effort, the wheel creaked, and yielded, making an eighth of a turn. Walt regrouped, and strained again. The wheel moved once more, but this time Walt lost his balance in the effort and fell to the floor. Walt's teeth were chattering from the cold as he picked himself up. It looked like he had rotated the wheel one more eighth of a turn, but he had actually turned it two eighths, or one quarter the way around on this occasion.
Fearing hypothermia and/or frostbite, Walt drove his shoulder in the wheel to make one more eighth of a turn. A new light revealed another passage leading to an elevator against a wall, but Walt thought he needed to give the wheel one more eighth-turn, which he did. Relieved at having completed this part of his mission before freezing to death, he raced to the elevator, shivering nearly uncontrollably all the way. He managed to get in and push a button for the ground floor as he heard some cranking noise, as if the Island was indeed moving. In a minute the elevator stopped and the doors opened to a most welcome blast of warm air. He took a big breath as the feeling in his body returned to normal. He had moved the island through space and time by turning that donkey wheel – but he had unknowingly rotated it one-eighth of a turn too far.
Charles Widmore's freighter was about a kilometer from the Island when the unbelievable happened. It slowly faded from view.
"Linus! What the #$%! is this?!" bellowed Widmore.
Everyone was staring at the vanishing island, on deck or through portholes. Ben heaved a sigh of relief, and then laughed in Widmore's face.
"It has gone somewhere you can't possibly find it."
"What do you mean by that! Tell me, or you'll suffer a most painful, slow death."
Ben paused, as if for dramatic effect.
"The island has gone into the past. Where it is safe from you."
"The past! I don't believe you. How is that possible?!"
"Since there's nothing you can do about it now, there's no harm in telling you. Besides myself, the recently departed Mr. Locke, and the three-year son of Claire Littleton, who's too young for this sort of thing, the one person who could have moved it just did – Walter Lloyd."
"Who?"
"One of the Oceanic 815 passengers whose death was incorrectly reported. He's thirteen now. Actually is the son of your former employee Kevin Johnson, or should we say, Michael Dawson."
"What?! Widmore was livid. I'd have had the Island years ago if it weren't for that Johnson. Or whoever. He took outs lots of good men, and … no, there was no one from your plane besides the Oceanic six at the crash site in Chad. Only primitive desert villagers in loincloths. You're lying."
"If you had done as thorough research as I, you'd know that those villagers aren't as primitive as you claim, and their garb is a bit more substantial than loincloths. Luckily I had the appropriate attire ready, and Walt walked right under you and your people's noses. A magnificent disguise, if I may say so myself."
Widmore seized Ben by the shirt collar and slammed him against a bulkhead. They got another look out a porthole. A whirlpool had formed around the spot where the Island had been, and the freighter was caught in it. Around and around it went, and then a black cloud arose from the center of the eddy.
"What is this now!?" demanded Widmore.
"I … I'm actually not sure," replied Ben. "This is unexpected. Maybe something is wrong."
The Oceanics had been grouped along a wall, constantly held at gunpoint. Jack and Kate hugged, as did Hurley and Sun. Left alone, Sayid had the composure to ask,
"And just what might be wrong?"
Ben gulped, and answered, "The only thing I can think of is that Walt didn't send the Island back to the right time. We're going to have to wait and see if he can fix this. Otherwise … good-bye to you all. Maybe we'll meet in another life."
The black cloud dissipated around the whirlpool, becoming gray as it spread out. It seeped throughout the freighter, swirling around all those onboard, crew and Oceanics alike. They all became disoriented, with a feeling that they were being sent into limbo.
Up at ground level, Walt listened, but no one else was there.
"Anybody here?"
There was no answer, so Walt looked around. There were plants all over the place, indicating he had definitely reached the Orchid. He then found a small bathroom, turned on the tap, and gratefully scooped handfuls of water from the faucet over the sink into his mouth. He was also pleased to find the toilet working, a big improvement from the few times he had to answer nature's call in the middle of the Sahara. One drawback was there weren't any clothes lying around, but that was minor compared to the bonanza of finding a working bathroom. Walt got a look in a mirror and laughed.
Those guys were right. I don't look bad at all in this.
His skin looked a bit darker, having spent as much time as he did in the equatorial sun. He clowned around a bit, posing and flexing his muscles, that had proved just enough to turn the donkey wheel, and dig himself out of the deep hole in the desert. He realized how silly he was for being concerned about how he looked.
Those guys in Chad wore nothing more than this their whole lives. Probably many of my ancestors as well. What was I thinking?
He had come close to death on more than one occasion, bringing into perspective how completely unimportant his attire was. In fact, it was kind of neat how his only possessions at the moment were the Toubou skirt and the GPS that he no longer needed. That will change pretty soon.
After Walt washed up and drank all the water he needed, he walked around through a maze of plants until he found a door leading out. Once outside the Orchid, Walt looked for a sign. Soon there was one – a parachute descended from the sky, heading toward a landing eight kilometers to the southwest. There wasn't a person dangling from the parachute, but rather a large crate Walt asked out loud,
"So Jacob, am I supposed to follow that?"
Walt didn't get an answer, but reasoned he could meet someone and find out what he was supposed to do. He noted with great care where the chute went down, and proceeded on an accurate course by lining up landmark after landmark, usually distinctive trees. While the island wasn't as hot as the Sahara, Walt still easily worked up a good sweat with all the going up and down hills, and found being attired in the skirt was as comfortable as he could get.
Going down one steep hill, Walt stepped on a leaf that was covering a rock, and slipped. He hit the ground and immediately began tumbling out of control. He seemed to pick up speed as he managed to avoid the myriad tress and headed for the bottom of a valley. Near the bottom, he bounced off a fallen log, sending him airborne, and he landed on a large pile of dried leaves in a sitting position. Grateful for the soft landing, he sat there for a few minutes to recover his breath, vowing to be more careful.
The pile was large enough so that Walt's lower body was covered, and the leaves on the surface practically tickled his stomach. When he was ready Walt stood up, but instead of rising from the ground, Walt's legs simply went straight down. He couldn't help but laugh like a little kid who had just jumped into a waist-high pile of leaves. He took one step forward, but as he took a second step, his footing gave way, sending him down to his neck. What is this? Just the bottom of the valley where lots of leaves collected, right? Though there could be a bit of a hole.
Standing still with his unsure footing, Walt looked up at the steep sides of the valley. The closest side was no more than four steps away. With no one there to help, and deciding it would be too humiliating to call for help to get out of a bunch of leaves, Walt carefully edged toward that side, making swimming motions with his arms and taking gentle steps. It worked for a step and a half, but halfway into the second step the leaves shifted again, and Walt plummeted to the bottom of the hole, four meters deep. The leaves closed in over him, leaving his head more than two meters below the surface. In near total darkness, Walt flailed with his arms to push leaves away from his face, but more leaves were there to replace them.
Calm down. You're just at the bottom of a valley. You can climb out like the leaves weren't there.
Walt pushed his way forward, groping his way until he found a side. It was steep, but not impossibly so. Doing his best to ignore the leaves, Walt carefully found handholds and footholds, and slowly climbed out. In a couple minutes his head broke through the surface, and after that it was easy, being able to see what he was doing. He made it to a ridge, and got his bearings again. Now that he saw it wasn't dangerous, he was tempted to jump in again, as it would have fun under other circumstances. But he had a mission to perform, and fun would have to wait.
Eventually Walt came within sight of the large crate, where a man in white, light clothing was picking up boxes of food and taking them somewhere. Walt couldn't see where the man went, and he was out of sight when Walt reached the crate. He simply waited there for the man to return, which he did several minutes later.
Desmond had been alone at the Swan station for two and a half years, after the demise of Kelvin. Fortunately, the food drops had continued every six months, and Desmond was used to the routine of manually transporting them back to the hatch. But on this day, he was in for a shock. On one of his trips back to the supplies, he saw a figure standing by the boxes. Desmond approached carefully, unsure if the person was a threat. As Desmond got closer, he was further surprised to discern the person was a child, a black boy, barefoot and bare-chested, in fact wearing only a dull red skirt, perhaps made of some animal skin. At least the boy sure didn't appear to be any kind of threat. Desmond tried to determine the possibilities.
Looks more African, but maybe he's a Polynesian who got marooned here also. But why would he be out here? One of those tests of manhood things, where he has to spend some time alone on an island or something? He can't be Kelvin's replacement, can he? Probably doesn't understand English. But I've got to make sure.
Desmond looked Walt in the eye.
"Are you him?"
Walt didn't know how to answer, and hedged his bets.
"Could be."
So he does understand English. Even sounds American. With the non-committal answer, Desmond tried the secret question.
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman?"
Walt had heard the riddle before, and responded,
"Smells like carrots."
"You are him!" announced Desmond. "Come with me. Then name's Desmond, Desmond Hume."
Desmond offered his hand, and Walt shook it.
"Walt, Walt Lloyd. Great to meet you."
"Well, we've got to get this food to my place. I mean our place, now. Take one of the boxes with you."
Desmond picked up one of the boxes from the food drop and started walking. With nothing better to do, and seeing this as his opportunity to learn something, Walt went along.
Was this the guy I'm supposed to meet? I thought it was Richard. Desmond? Seven letters, two syllables, ends in "d"? I've got to play it cool. Walt took one of the crates and followed Desmond to what would be Walt's new home for some indeterminate length of time.
