O'Neill Interrupted – an interlude. Part 2
Trek - Day One.
Decided I'd give this journal thing another go. That way I can read it to Harry when I get back and he won't have missed out on anything. Don't know about the title though. Sounds a bit science fictiony. I'm not exactly trekking here. My leg isn't up to much and I doubt it ever will be again. The infection almost killed me. I told Harry I'd go over the mountains, but I changed my mind. There's a nice level walk along the valley, with lots of grass and pretty yellow flowers. I don't even mind the trees as long as they aren't growing on slopes. I'll see how far I can get today. It won't be far, but hopefully the exercise will get a bit of movement back into my leg and I'll do better tomorrow.
Trek - Day Two.
So far all I've succeeded in doing is boring myself stupid. Maybe the mountains would have been better, seeing as I stopped appreciating meadows after the third one. There's plenty of water and the food I packed is lasting well. I should have enough for about fifteen days then I'll head home unless I find something else to eat. Home! Now that is sad. Only been on this piece of rock for a few months and already I'm calling it home.
Trek - Day Five.
Nothing but grass, flowers and trees. Trees unfortunately have roots for me to fall over. I can't seem to lift my foot high enough to avoid the smallest of obstacles. This trip wasn't the best idea I've ever had. Should have stayed with Maybourne.
Slow Trek - Day Ten.
I really don't know why I'm bothering writing anything – there's nothing to say and it's just a waste of paper.
Trek - Day Thirteen.
I've given myself another day or so. The weather is holding and I managed to trap some rabbit thingies so I have a fresh supply of meat. The valley is slopping upwards now and although I'm finding it harder to walk, it means I may get to higher ground without needing to climb. My leg is feeling a little better, but it still can't really hold my weight and the crutch is getting a bit worn. I should keep an eye out for a suitable branch.
Trek - Day Seventeen.
Finally something worth writing and to think I have my bum leg to blame for it. I was going up this hill and saw a clump of bushes with some branches that looked to be perfect for a new crutch. I pulled at a particularly good one and it suddenly came loose. Fell forward and almost broke my nose on this nifty little space ship hidden under the foliage. I'm grinning like a fool here. It will be dark soon and I've decided to wait until morning to check it out, no point in breaking my good leg falling over myself in the dark. Maybe it's my ticket out of here. Roll on daylight.
Why the Hell Did I Bother Trek - Day Eighteen.
Can't get the fucking door open.
Day Nineteen
Kicking it doesn't help. Wish I had one of Maybourne's grenades. Running out of food.
Day Twenty
If I can't get into it today I'll have to head back. Not feeling good. Leg hurts like hell. Hot water and dried pork for breakfast.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
Jack stared down at the words he had written and sighed. It all seemed so pointless. Three days of prodding, poking, pushing and ultimately, kicking, had failed to make a dent in the ship's hatch, let alone open it.
He never had been the type to write a journal – he knew that. Report writing was something he only did because he had to, and a diary was just a glorified report. The most boring book on Earth, or any other planet, would have been better suited for toilet paper rather than his inane scribbling. Looking at them now, he could hardly read what he'd written anyway.
He rubbed his hand across his eyes. He very much doubted that he had more than a few days left before the renewed infection in his wound would stop him from going anywhere. He couldn't count the number of times he had fallen over on his travels and kicking the door like that hadn't helped either. The barely healed wound had reopened when he fell over a rock just before he found the spaceship. He had been monumentally stupid not to delay his explorations until his leg had properly healed. He admitted to himself that he had been so sick of sitting around doing nothing that he had pushed himself before he was ready. Well, the consequences of that action were now obvious. He sighed again, deeply. He wouldn't get back to the ruined settlement even if he set out immediately. Probably should have stayed there. At least he'd had Maybourne for company.
The question was – what to do now? Should he try and go on, in the hope of finding something else, or should he turn around and at least try to make it back? As he saw it, there were two other options – sit here and give up, or keep trying to open the hatch.
He took another sip of hot water, wishing for anything to flavour it. Maybe he should stick some dried pork in it – might give it some taste.
There really wasn't an option. The only scenario with any possibility of a positive outcome was to get into this damn ship.
No way would he give up.
He knew his team and the others back at the SGC wouldn't have forgotten him, even after all this time, and he was damned if they were going to find nothing but his skeleton when they did arrive.
Nope.
He closed the book with a determined snap and stood, reeling a little before he got his balance. The few steps to the craft had him panting, but once there he stood straighter and began a methodical investigation of the hull for any sign of an opening mechanism.
By noon, he had managed to pull the rest of the overgrown vines and bushes from the surface of the somewhat boxy shaped ship and sat back to take a breather. The temperature was the same pleasant one that seemed the norm for the planet and even the breeze wasn't too cold. In fact, so far, this place was the paradise Harry had said he'd discovered – at least if you didn't eat the lettuce. Nice weather, pretty scenery, good water supply, abundant game if you were sound enough in body to catch it. Yep – not a bad choice for retirement.
It was just a pity his permanent retirement seemed to be coming sooner than he thought it would.
He gave himself thirty minutes, struggling to swallow down some food, then started his search again – this time back at the hatch. Even though he'd been over it with a fine-toothed comb, there wasn't anywhere else to look and it was the most logical place for a mechanism.
It was pure luck that he finally found it. He'd felt a little dizzy and put his hand out to steady himself. Next thing he knew he was pitching forward, into the open door, his face kissing the dusty metal floor.
"Oooph!"
He lay there, wondering where he'd get the energy to stand from. It was the excitement of finally having succeeded that got him upright, albeit gingerly. Dust motes filled the air and he was grateful he was so close to the still wide open hatch as the stale air filled his lungs.
He reeled towards the opening. Several deep, chest-aching coughs later he was standing in the doorway breathing in great gulps of fresh air, his leg throbbing where he had hit it against something on his way out. But even though he was barely able to think, he still had the presence of mind to keep half his body in the entrance, using himself as a doorstop. There was no way he was going to let it shut again.
After the coughs subsided he looked around, and seeing no other solution, shrugged the pack from his back and placed it carefully in the doorway. Once that was done, he stepped out of the craft, on to the ramp that now lead down to the ground. A few agonised limps later and he was back with his feet buried in the discarded undergrowth. As quickly as he could, he hurried to grab a few of the larger branches and prop them into the aperture, taking his pack from the floor as he did so.
Then he stepped back and waited, the pack dangling from his right hand.
Ten minutes passed by Jack's watch before he re-entered the craft. The thick dust had settled somewhat – enough to be able to make out the various instrument panels and crew seating and for the stale air to have dissipated. He shuffled forward, careful not to catch his crutch on the edge of anything, not wanting to get up close and personal with the floor again.
He unslung his P-90 and put it and his pack on the floor, kneeling awkwardly to open the pack and rummage through it. Finding what he was looking for, he took out one of Harry's t-shirts, ripped it into several pieces, and dampened one with water from his bottle. It didn't take long to clear a portion of the panel at the front of the craft and soon instruments Jack took to be flight controls were exposed to the fresh air for the first time in heaven knew how long.
Nothing was recognisable.
In his disappointment he forgot where he was and slumped into the left hand seat. The cloud of dust that rose was thick and cloying and it was several minutes before it settled and he stopped coughing again long enough to be able to see anything. The feel of soft cushioning against his backside was heaven after so long sitting on logs, rocks or the hard ground and he shut his eyes, trying to imagine himself back in civilisation – back on Earth with his friends and teammates.
For the first time in weeks he let himself wonder what was happening at the SGC, what they were doing, and why they hadn't found him yet.
A sudden, overwhelming feeling of despair and loneliness rose up from where he had relentlessly kept it prisoner.
He hadn't meant to kill Harry. It wasn't the first time Jack had killed a man, far from it, but Harry was someone he had shared a meal with, discussed things with, joked and argued with. Despite Harry's faults, he had actually liked the bastard.
Shit.
And he'd killed him.
It hadn't been Harry's fault. It was that damned lettuce. If only Harry had listened when Jack tried to explain. There should have been something else Jack could have done – trapped him or something. He hadn't meant to kill him. If only someone had rescued them, with proper treatment Harry would probably have survived.
But they didn't, Harry hadn't, and now Jack was totally, utterly, and completely alone.
He folded his arms onto the console, laid his head on them, and for the first time in over seven years, wept.
xoxoxoxoxoxo