ADJUSTING
CHAPTER THREE
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the boys, or William Golding's novel.
After Ralph's outburst, the boys quickly settled down to sleep. One by one, they slowly drifted off. All except Roger. Roger lay awake in his bunk, hands folded on his stomach, staring straight up at the ceiling. He could hear the rhythmic patter of the rain outside, and he focused his thoughts on it.
Drip…drip.
Roger remembered the last time he had listened to the rain. It had been the night they killed the beast. Intellectually, Roger knew that it was the night they had murdered Simon. But he always thought of it as the night they killed the beast.
Drip…Drip
The night they proved themselves better than anything else on the island. The night they stopped being afraid. Roger grinned a little, remembering the aftermath of that night. He had been Jack's second in command. That was fine with him. He didn't want to be a leader, anyways. Roger was perfectly content to work behind the scenes. He had no delusions of grandeur, nor thirst for power. Roger did what he did for himself, to satisfy himself, to abate his hunger. Roger's grin stretched a little wider, so wide that it was unclear whether it was a smile or a grimace. He turned over on his side, facing away from the wall.
He dropped down over the side of his bunk, and looked down at the sleeping face below him. Percival. The grin slipped off his face, and was replaced by a look of fervid determination. He hesitated, looked around to make sure no one was watching, then grabbed little Percival. He jerked him upwards, so he was holding him in the air, over the edge of his bed. Percival opened his mouth to scream. But quickly shut it at Roger's deep scowl. He bean shivering compulsively, and tears leaked out of his eyes. Roger held him there for ten minutes, watching him, savoring his fear. Then, abruptly, he dropped him. He had felt the thrill of the hunt; he had seen his prey cower before him. He had satisfied his primal impulse to generate fear, to hurt, to frighten. Percival whimpered softly, and crawled back into bed, curling himself up into the fetal position, and cried himself back to sleep.
Roger felt eyes on his back. He rolled over, slowly, to see Jack Merridew, staring intensely at him. Roger held his gaze for a moment, and Jack grinned predatorily. Roger felt a really smile grace his lips. He had found a companion, a fellow hunter, someone to enjoy the chase with. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jack put a finger to his lips, motioning to the hallway, where the prefects patrolled late at night. Roger understood, and held his tongue. With one last feral grin at Jack, Roger turned over and closed his eyes, too excited to sleep.
Jack watched him for a while longer, staring unfocused at his back. Roger, he reflected, was his sort of people. He didn't need a goody-two-shoes nancy-boy like Ralph. Ralph was never strong enough to be a hunter. Ralph could never understand the thrill of dominating someone so completely that they lost their minds with fright. Roger, he continued to think, might just be his best ally here. They understood each other, they understood what the hunt meant, what the hunt was about. It had never been just about getting meat, like naïve Ralph had assumed. It had been about proving yourself, conquering the island, showing everyone that you were a force to be reckoned with. He yawned sleepily, and before he fell asleep, he has one last thought.
Roger, he mused, could help him hunt again. With that, he closed his eyes, and drifted off, falling in and out of a restless sleep, plagued with not bad, but very intense dreams. He smiled unconsciously. He was back on the island.
A/N: Review, please! Anonymous reviews are enabled, all suggestions welcome.