Chapter Three

Initially, they made their way by moonlight into the jungle. Once they were obscured by the foliage, Sayid lit a torch, and he urged Charlie on. He followed but three steps behind and noted how every leaf, every branch, every fallen dead thing seemed to crunch beneath Charlie's feet. Finally he asked, "How did you manage to follow Locke and avoid discovery?" Locke was a hunter. Surely he could sense when he was being hunted, especially when his stalker lacked stealth.

Charlie shrugged. "I tried to be quiet."

"I cannot understand how Locke did not perceive you."

"He was preoccupied with the guns," Charlie answered. "He wasn't paying attention."

Sayid appeared doubtful. Charlie shot him an annoyed glance. Then he asked, "Why didn't you notice Ana, and Eko, and Libby, and Bernard before they—"

Sayid had been looking momentarily at the ground below them, and now he jerked his head abruptly upward and caught Charlie's eyes. He saw the sudden fear growing there as Charlie hastened to say, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

Sayid said nothing, but he motioned the musician to resume leading him to the guns. Charlie was right. Four people had been approaching him, and he had not observed any of them until it was too late. He, too, had been preoccupied. This thought made his caution rise. If Locke could be ignorant of Charlie, if he himself could be ignorant of four strangers…Sayid's eyes began to dart mechanically in every direction as he walked, taking in the whole scene. He touched Charlie's shoulder, urging him to stop, and placed a finger to his lips to indicate silence. And for a moment, he listened to the jungle.

Certain no one was following them, he motioned Charlie on, unable to stop thinking about his failure of observance that rainy night in the jungle, followed by his failure of discipline during the interrogation. He had failed Shannon too, but the guilt did not overtake him for that. It was not that that was a lesser failure; it was simply harder to admit, and admitting it even once had already resulted in a lack of control. So he thought of how he had failed himself, of how he had failed to be a fit soldier. And he watched Charlie move reluctantly before him, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his ever-present sweatshirt.

They walked for quite some time before Charlie bent to the ground and began digging through a pile of fallen earthy debris. At first he merely shifted through the leaves and branches, but soon his sorting grew frantic. He bent over and began violently throwing the jungle's refuse from the pile. Sayid moved the crackling torch in one seamless motion across the entire area, enlightening Charlie's handiwork and revealing nothing but the ground.

Charlie looked up at Sayid; in the torchlight, his eyes were pools of fear. "I swear they were here. I swear they were here. I swear--"

Sayid wondered why Charlie was so afraid. The musician had really been willing to believe that Sayid would harm him if he did not reveal the location of the guns, and Charlie seemed terrified of reprisal now that they were not where he had said they would be. The other survivors, too, had glanced at Sayid nervously over the past day. What had the wind of rumor brought to camp? What, exactly, did they all think he had done to Gale?

Sayid held the torch a little closer to Charlie to ensure that he could read the musician's eyes. "Might you be mistaken? Might it have been somewhere else?"

"No," Charlie answered, his voice somewhat tremulous. "I helped bury them myself. They were here."

"Did you speak to Sawyer today?"

"No, Sayid, of course not."

Charlie was more afraid of him than he was of Sawyer. What did that tell the Iraqi? Sayid tried not to consider the implications. He lowered the torch to the ground and examined it for any trace evidence of the guns. "Sawyer has moved them again," he declared. "He did not trust you, as well he should not have. He is no fool. But I have been too optimistic."

He motioned for Charlie to rise and turned back towards camp. Charlie trailed behind him, head bent. Eventually, he drew up beside Sayid and asked, "What are you going to do now then?"

"That is not your concern," he answered, looking blankly ahead and occasionally to the side. When he turned his watchful eyes to the right, he caught Charlie's gaze. "Why do you look at me as though I were a ticking time bomb?" he asked.

Charlie turned away. He thrust his hands again into the pockets. "Aren't you though, Sayid?"

Sayid allowed Charlie to walk on in silence without rebuttal. The Iraqi thought the survivors had once had confidence in him. Had they lost it? How was he going to lead an army if he was feared more than he was respected? But then, who trusted anyone in this place anymore? Who could possibly demand loyalty now?

Weeks ago Sayid had known happiness for the first time in years. The grim mysteries of the island had seemed to fade into the background. Redemption had no longer appeared as a phantasm to be painfully pursued, but as a real possibility to be possessed.

But that was all over now. Charlie had done horrible things; Sayid even suspected he had been somehow responsible for Sun's injury. Sawyer—despite his temporary, affected near pleasantness—had not been moving gradually towards reformation after all; he had only been plotting his revenge. Locke was obsessed with the button, and it had become his god. Jack was always vying for control, seemingly unwilling to lead and yet terrified of sharing leadership. Ana was rash and undisciplined and bent on getting a gun, even while inclined to shoot blindly. And Sayid himself…

He shook his head. There was no trust, no faith, no love, no loyalty, no levity, no peace on this island now. Whatever anchor had kept them temporarily at bay had been wrenched free in the night. Civilization had ruptured and the pieces were floating fast apart, and who would accept the task of patching them together again, if they were ever really together at all?