Disclaimer: I do not own Sands, Anamaria, or Jack Sparrow

Chapter 20: I have a Boat

The sun beat down like a cat-o-nine tails. The wall behind his back felt as hot as the small fires burning in the streets. The best laid plans of mice and men….

Sands could almost feel the adrenaline leaving his veins. He was slowly sliding down the wall. When he reached the ground the adrenaline was long gone, and next the painkillers would go, he could already tell they were fading. His head felt worse than his blown out legs.

My God, he thought, all this way, and this is it?

Pain cut the thought short. The pain was taking charge, along with the realization of what had happened, and what it meant. It was like quicksand; the more he thought and struggled , the more doomed he felt. And he felt on the verge of madness. In a raspy whisper he began:

"Wrap me in my country's flag

and lay me in the cool blue sea

Let the roaring of the waves

My solemn requiem be…."*

"I have a boat," a voice said. He lifted his head.

"And I will find my…."

"Shh," the voice ordered. "Don't even fucking start singing that, you bastard."

Anamaria. He felt her right beside him. He closed his mouth. If there was one person he would be happy to see.

"You're a mess," she said. "You're lucky I have so much field experience."

Sand's grit his teeth against the pain as she slid an arm around him and urged him to his feet. Hisses of torture issued from him, but to his credit he didn't whimper as they made their way toward Anamaria's awaiting jeep. When she helped him into the passenger seat she pulled a metal med kit from the glove compartment. A moment later she stuck him with a large dose of morphine.

"That should help for now, till we get someplace safer, then I'll do more." She climbed into the driver's seat and Sands waited for the drug to begin working as the car bumped out of the city. Maybe he should have told her he did heroin in the Seventies.

God his eyes hurt. God.

But he couldn't bring himself to touch something that was no longer there.

"Something's gone wrong with you, Jack. I thought…. I told you this before. The survival switch. I need to take you through it, I've escaped it, so can –"

"Where are we going?" Sands asked.

"Somewhere safe, near the sea. You've been land born too long. You told me a year ago you were getting out. Now I'm here to take you myself."

Sands wasn't paying much attention. Even morphine couldn't make up for blood loss and psychological trauma. It had been a long time since he'd faced something so weird. He began to shake.

No eyes? No sight? No horizon?

No death.

Pure fear struck him in the heart like a freezing poison. Could he live like this, forever? He could feel his heart jump up to an unhealthy rate for someone who'd just lost so much blood, as what was left of his adrenaline returned.

Anamaria noticed his rapid breathing and reached over to touch his arm.

He gasped when he felt her hand and flinched away.

"Stay with me, I'll pull over soon and do something about the bullet wounds. Focus. Don't let yourself go into shock. This isn't your first time being shot, Jack. You know the drill." But she sounded worried.

But he could die. He was pretty sure.

Live forever, blind.

He could die.

He focused on every wound, every inch of pain. His limbs were starting to feel cold in the hot Mexican sun.

Yes.

He might be immortal, but he wasn't invincible. The Fountain keeps you young and healthy, but that didn't mean you couldn't die. Then:

What are you doing! An inner voice cried. Who are you?

"Sheldon Jeffery Sands," he mumbled.

NO.

"Central Intelligence Agency"

NO.

Who are you?

"Jack? What're you saying? Are you still with me?"

His face was slack, the blood dried on pale cheeks.

Anamaria felt panic erupt in her chest. "Jack!" She looked frantically from the road to Sands and back again several times. "Damnit Jack, talk to me!" her voice cracked. The road seemed less and less important. They'd just left the city behind.

"Stay with me, damnit! You loco son-of-a-Bitch! I will NOT allow you to LEAVE ME HERE!" Realizing what she was saying, she covered her mouth. Her eyes burned. Tears? She hadn't cried over anything other than physical pain in a century. There was something wrong with that. Her eyes stung as the tears dripped and mingled with the sweat. There was something wrong with both of them, and God strike her dead as well if they weren't going to be fucked-up together.

A harbour: a grove of trees. She pulled the jeep over.

Sands was moved carefully from the front seat onto the ground. The med-kit was open again. Deft, well experienced hands worked diligently. Tears streaked her face, but her mind cleared as she began to work.

Cut. Probe. Pluck. Reset. Clean. Stitch. Bandage. Repeat.

He groaned. Good. That meant he lived.

She felt the perspiration gathering on her forehead, trickle down and re-moisten the tear tracks.

God, the blood.

Reluctantly, she reached for his sunglasses while reciting a prayer in a language only familiar to certain Caribbean language specialist. Her mother had taught it to her.

Slowly, very slowly, she slid the glasses off. As it became more obvious what they hid, her hand began to shake and she had to convince herself to give one quick yank to remove them the rest of the way.

She turned and took several gulps of air, her stomach gurgling at the sight. Then, steeling herself, she took a cloth and began wiping away the blood. Once it was gone things looked marginally better. She'd seen missing eyes before, but that wasn't what made her sick.

They weren't just gone, they'd been removed. Some twisted fuck had done this like ART. He was meant to survive, to survive and to suffer what had been stolen from him.

Anger boiled inside her.

The single good result was she would only have to prevent infection. Taking a length of bandage, she began the painful task of winding it around his head to hide the horrible holes. Then, she took an army blanket and spread it in the back of the jeep and maneuvered him onto it tenderly. She wrapped his now half-naked body in it and took his pulse; slow but steady. Relief poured over her. How he'd avoided shock she didn't know. Climbing into the driver's seat again, she felt a great weariness weighing her down.

If she could just get to the sea. But it would be too far for now. She'd go as far as she could on the energy she had left and set up camp before nightfall. She looked over her shoulder at Sands.

This would be hard. Somehow though, it would be okay. If only they could get to the sea, and her boat. Then she could get Jack back, if she could get Jack back anymore. They would think of something.

"Dire straights," she whispered to herself, and turned the engine over.

.

***

Should this be the end? If anything it's going to be a while before I can update it, and the next part could get rather angsty. What do you guys think?