Disclaimer: All related characters and plots belong to William Golding and Lord of the Flies
A/N: We send our deepest appreciations for those who reviewed, and those who read but did not. Here is the second chapter of The Forgotten. Please Enjoy.
THE FORGOTTEN
Chapter 2
Jack found himself running through a dark mist. Things were chasing him; things he knew would chew on his body and drink his blood. Fear suffocated his throat. He wanted to scream, but found out he couldn't open his mouth; he wish he could ran faster, but found out his body was tangled in the interlaced fog that stick to his body like spider webs. The wall started to close around him, and he knew the creatures were approaching. They shook the web on him violently, with spears in their hands. Jack whispered and trembled…
"…Sir? Sir? Mr. Merridew?"
Jack shot up from the desk abruptly, nearly knocked Eric over.
"WHO! WHO GOES THERE?"
Eric looked strangely at Jack, noticed the formerly neat and well organized mayor candidate's blood-shot eyes and wrinkled suit. He looked away, a bit embarrassed.
"Sir, it's me, Eric. I think you fell asleep on the desk last night."
"Oh…" Jack answered stupidly.
For the first time, Jack noticed he was still behind his office desk, with a trace of drool on the piece of document he was working on last night. He blushed hotly, and quickly crumpled up the paper.
"I will get ready for breakfast, would you like coffee or tea?"
"Tea would be fine, thank you." Eric smiled gently and exited briefly.
With the soft click of the door, Jack was all by himself in the room again. He closed his tired eyes, trying to clear his mind. Was last night a dream? Or did he really see and hear all that ludicrous?
Jack's hands on the armrest tightened. He stared intensely on the spot where the shadows were swivelling in his dream, but the shadows stood motionlessly, smirking, deriding at Jack's stupidity and insanity.
Jack sneered loudly in a heat of fury, threw the innocent telephone to the wall with so much force, it broke to pieces in a second. He panted loudly, and screamed,
"GET A GRIP, JACK! IT'S ONLY A BLOODY DREAM! A BLOODY FUCKING DREAM!"
With a swift movement, everything on the desk was swept to the floor. Papers were everywhere, creating a tiny pond of frozen ocean.
Downstairs, Eric poured the newly brewed tea into Jack's cup. He looked out the window after and murmured softly to himself.
"It's probably going to rain today."
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The winter had showered The City with frost. It rarely snowed in The City, but the white, shining frost on the roofs of the houses made The City its own winter wonderland. The wind was never too harsh, and the temperature never dropped between -5°C. Jack had lived in this town since he was 14 years old. The City was his paradise.
Jack relaxed in the backseat of his private car. He had cleared his schedule entries for the day. He needed time to think, and get some information. Jack didn't tell Eric where he went, even though his secretary asked so earnestly when he asked him to clear the schedule. There were plenty of reasons for Jack to distrust Eric, his twin's death, for example.
"George, turn the car to Central Library."
"Yes, Sir." George, Jack's private driver, answered mechanically as usual.
Jack sat back comfortably in his leather seat again, and listened to the classical music playing softly on the radio.
The car swung inexpertly, a hand touched Jack's throat.
Jack jerked up.
No one…nothing…
Jack gulped, this was not happening again. His sweaty palm touched the cold glass, which was not freezing like he expected. He slowly turned his head, while shaking violently. Ghostly heads with unclear faces filled every inches of the window. Their mouths were moving, saying things Jack could not hear. Jack jumped to call for George, who turned. That was not George, or at least the face was not. It was that fat boy Piggy again, whose voice seem to come far away, from another world.
"What about the fire, Jack?"
"Jack, Jack…" The face outside of the car started to chant, "Jack, Jack, sir…"
"SIR!"
Jack gaped.
"What?"
"We have arrived to our destination, Central Library."
"All right. No need to yell."
Jack shut the car door on George's apologetic face. Actually, he was thankful for George's call, or he might become crazy right on that spot.
Jack shook his head and straight his suit before stepping into the library.
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Built by the end of Victorian Era, the library was originally a mansion consisted of arches and tower-like wings, which, incidentally by the end of blitz, were all that remained. It was recently restored by the city counsel, although by a struck of extreme misfortune, a modern element was introduced in an effort to create a contemporary façade for The City.
A day in the library was never Jack's idea of fun. As a child, he had evaded visitations to the best of his abilities. Fortunately, his abilities were extremely capable, for they were the sum all the schoolboys he had the power to intimidate. Jack deemed the place hypocritical, yet after the insanity he experienced in the cramped backseat of the car, a change of space was more than welcomed.
Jack approached the young, blond receptionist behind the front desk, and asked, accompanied with his most amiable air.
"Excuse me? Deepest apologize for your trouble, but I am wondering if you could tell me where I might find some information from years back."
The receptionist looked at Jack in astonishment. "Mr. Merridew!"
Jack raised his eyebrows.
"I am sorry. I am too forward. It's just, I've been following your campaign. And I've always wanted to tell you how lucky The City is, to have you as the mayor and all."
"Oh, thank you so very much for your good wishes, but I am afraid we will not know who the people want as the mayor until a few months…" Jack put on a flattered expression, though inside he was toppled over with laughter. Not surprisingly, a considerable portion of Jack's supporters consisted of female between the ages of 18 to 30.
"And so modest too! But I think we'll know your retard of an opponent won't stand a chance…"
"Now, Ms, my opponent is a worthy one, but let's not discuss such matter in a place like
this."
Became conscious of her imprudence, the young receptionist blushed.
"Right, Mr. Merridew, all the old records are kept in the basement, but you will have to
ask Ms. Greyson on the third floor for permission. She holds those records very dearly."
"Thank you very much. Ms…?"
"Miss Stella Starkey." Encouraged, Miss Starkey ventured a wink, but Jack tipped his hat,
and was already gone. She called out.
"It's simply inspirational to see a man as busy as you are finding time to continue enriching himself…"
The reception area on the first floor was intended to delight with its grand design and standing windows, but the third floor was not.
Even though the encounter with Miss Starkey improved his mood vastly, the shelves of books, narrowly stationed row after row, isolating aisles and aisles, still made Jack vaguely uneasy. In another time, another place, another life, Jack was looking for (…hunting…) Ms. Greyson (… pigs…) in an interlaced maze of unending foreign objects. (…jungle…)
Jack inhaled the stale air and tried to clear his head. Where did those words come from? He did not know, and nowadays, he did not bother to, nor did he want to, find out.
If the blind admiration of the young bird pleased him immensely, then the old, grouchy librarian annoyed him to no end.
Jack tapped his finger impatiently on the table, waiting for the elder librarian to get the results he was looking for. He stared sideway at the woman, who seemed to have all the time in the world, flipping through the files one at a time. Jack could feel a headache coming up.
Someone tapped on his shoulder
Jack jumped, and then automatically threw his left fist right toward the person or thing that was behind him.
"Wow, Mr. Merridew, no violence in public, please." The new comer said lightly.
"Minister Watson?"
"I see you still remember me, Mr. Merridew. I am much honoured."
Jack grinned. He somehow found that the present of Ralph released the tension in the air.
"Don't be, my Mister, the pleasure is mine."
"Don't mind if I ask, Mr. Merridew, what are you looking for here?"
"Oh no, no. I am just here to search for something about a group of boys lost on an island 20 years ago."
Ralph didn't response for a second. His lip tightened into a thin line and a hand went to the cross on his neck. For a second, Jack thought he saw a dirty 12 years old boy stood alone on an island, with a beautiful white conch shining in his hand.
"God bless you, Mr. Merridew." With that, Ralph walked away quietly.
The elder librarian pulled Jack from his confusion to Ralph's ignorance. She handed the mayor candidate a stack of newspaper.
Jack groaned his thanks, and started to read the articles when he found a quiet corner in the library.
The news was not published on the front page of the paper, which was full with war details. Instead, it took a full fifth page of the newspaper, with big bold letters read: Lost Boys Back Home. There was a 5000 words interview on the boys, which Jack vaguely remembered attending to. In the article, a boy names Ralph was mentioned more than a few times.
"…everything was wonderful in the beginning…the conch…paradise…fun…we built a fire…I was the leader…choirs were hunters…Jack he left us…He became the leader…"
Jack's heart was in his throat.
"…Simon was killed…Roger…the twins…Piggy's head was hit open by a rock…Roger…we saw it…Roger did it…"
Simon…Piggy…
Jack remembered. He remembered the island, the pigs, the dance, and Simon and Piggy. It was not Roger. He did it. He participated in it. He told the boys to do the dance; he ordered his hunters to steal Piggy's glasses. It was his fault…
No, it's not! Another voice argued in his head. They deserved it. Both Simon and Piggy, they deserved what they got! Simon was a snotty brat. If he didn't come down from the mountain during that time of the day, they wouldn't have killed him. If Piggy and Ralph weren't so insistent on their little democracy, Piggy wouldn't have died. If Ralph didn't run away from him, he wouldn't tell his hunters to hunt him down. If Sam didn't listen to his conversation, he wouldn't…
An inner voice, much darker, interrupted. Jack, Jack, Piggy and Simon knew it was your fault. That's why they came to haunt you, because they think you don't deserve what you have now. They are going to torture you slowly, then eat your flesh and bones. They are going to push your soul to the deepest pit of hell where you shall be in excruciating pain for an eternity and beyond.
Stop it! It's not true! It's not…
"Mr. Merridew, are you ok? You don't look so good. Do you want me to get you some tea?" A familiar voice whispered beside Jack's ear.
"Yes, please…" Jack hugged himself in the chair, rocking back and forth.
Again, Jack started to see Piggy and Simon crawling over to him, while Piggy's head was open and Simon had scars all over his body. But this time, Roger was standing beside him, his spear in the hand. The dark boy smirked wickedly.
"Do you want me to kill them for you, Jack?"
Hands from nowhere grabbed Jack's mouth, and forced him to say yes.
Roger grinned triumphantly, and raised his spear which was sharpened on both ends.
"Mr. Merridew. Your tea."
"Yes, yes please…"
Jack shakily took a large gulp of the tea, while watched the blood playing in front of him. He couldn't stop watching, the way Roger's spear went into Piggy's head.
"More tea, Jack?"
"More tea, more tea, of course, Ralph…"
My car disappeared. Jack thought with perfect indifference. George was supposed to be waiting, with the car, right here, like I told him to… Wait, never mind, I must have imagined that. Do they really exist? Or did I make up George and the car too?
Do I really exist? How do I know? Maybe I've been dreaming all these times. Maybe I am still on The Island…
With an excellent sense of detachment, Jack observed a string of flat, round-ish shapes rolling leisurely past him, leaving shivering trails of brilliant colours, all of which he failed to identify.
Hey, look, pigs. We need meat. I chase.
Jack took off after the pig. His heart pummelled his rib cage. Respiration streamed down his forehead and blurred his vision. His mouth held so little moisture that a thousand daggers stabbed his tongue every time he breathed.
Yet the pigs vanished. Jack could still hear their plump bodies and taste the colours they mockingly emitted.
We need meat. They want meat. I am chief and I get meat.
Another parade of shapes ran toward Jack, honking triumphantly, and raced past him before Jack could react.
Jack swirls on his heels. The world intermingled into the color of bad coffee. The sky was knitted with ash and fragment of the conch.
The pigs vanished again.
Resolute to capture a pig to attest his spot as the chief, Jack followed the interlacing pig runs through this sadistic jungle of salvation. Sprinting after the pigs and their dazzling droppings when he saw them, and jogging along when they ran out of sight.
The hopeless chase stretched out for a millennium and blood was flushing up to Jack's ears
boom boom boom boom boom boom boom
The rapid drumbeats urged him to go on, but Jack had finally exhausted the last of his strength. He pressed his back against one of the giant square tree of the jungle, and waited for the coolness to calm him down.
The drumbeats became more deliberate.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom
Suddenly Jack was engulfed by a blinding rage. I am the chief. I killed Simon and Piggy and Sam and I will do the same to everyone else. I am the chief. I will give them meat if I want. All of them will shut up and do what I want. I want. I won't allow them…
The drumbeats quickened again.
…Won't allow them to do this to me. I AM CHIEF AND I AM CHIEF AND I AM CHIEF I CHIEF I AM CHIEF I CHIEF CHIEF CHIEF CHIEF….
Heaven was drenched in scarlet. The flames made the ashes then consumed them. Jack struggled violently for air and the object in his chest screamed and kicked and clawed and begged for a place to go. Jack's entire body trembled uncontrollably.
An outlandish form with ragged outline approached. It was muttering a strange incantation, rhythmical and lyrical. Jack watched it curiously, trying to make out each sound, yet never caught more than a couple words at once.
"…even causing fire to come down from heaven to earth in full view of men. Because of the signs he was given power to do on behalf of the first beast, he deceived the inhabitants of the earth. He ordered them to set up an image in honour of the beast who was wounded by the sword and yet lived. He was given power to give breath to the image of the first beast, so that it could speak and cause all who refused to worship the image to be killed…" 1
Jack had heard enough. It was accusing him of failing to protect his subjects from the Beast and of deception. The Form was challenging his leadership, and he quite honestly will not stand for it. So he lunged himself toward the nameless form and kicked and punched and clawed and scratched and gnawed at it. The Form fell down and gave a piercing cry and screamed something about the Beast and the end was nigh and the dead are judged. Jack could sense the eyes of his phantom hunters gazing at him, seeking proof of his proficiency as chief. Jack kicked and punched and clawed and scratched and gnawed harder. Not because he had to prove anything to the fools, but because he wanted to make an example out of the Form.
The Ragged Form shrunk in size and became a ragged sphere. A limb jutted out from the sphere in an attempt to crawl away from the impenetrable net weaved by the storm of an assault. For a moment it almost succeeded, but Jack pursued him and landed a blow of fury. The Form fell silent after that, but Jack continued the attack. Pieces of crimson descend to Jack's face, hands, and coat from the sky, which gradually morphed into velvet shadows that twirled and swirled and confused Jack.
Jack paused and looked up, the twinkling diamonds winked at him knowingly. Jack looked down at his feet and saw a person covered in rag and drenched in blood on the sidewalk. His face paled with horror with the understanding of what he did. Then the curtain in his mind was shut again, and he was back on The Island, with the gaze of his phantom hunters burning on his back.
He proceeded with kicking and punching and clawing and scratching and gnawing.
TBC
1 Revelation 13, The Beast out of the Earth