XXII: Turbulence
It is just like the Guard. The first hour is always the best and the worst at once. Those initial sixty minutes are spent in anticipation, waiting for something – anything – to attack. Guns are at the ready, shoulders are tense, faces are taut. Even Ana-Lucia is quiet. Then, their strength drains after the first hour and they start to go slack, the rattling of various accouterments increasing, the pace slower.
They do not talk. What can be said? Complaining about the heat will not make it stop, and Sayid figures there is nothing else anyone can think about. The heat makes them forget all other topics, after that tense first hour. But at least they move, and he can be pleased at that.
They break out of the clearing that morning and keep moving, but the clearing bothers him. It bothers him more since they've left. There is something there that he did not have the opportunity to find out. It remains there. He only senses he's left something behind now, a few hours after they've left, and he has not picked it up in time.
It's nothing dangerous – not exactly. It's different. It's the way things went. It has been too easy. It is as if their presence last night was expected, the trail that they have been left is deliberate, the tracks have been laid down to lead them in a specific direction. It is hard to pinpoint, but he does not trust it anymore, and as he watches the party move on slowly, marking every third or fourth track with the stick, he begins to wonder if they're not playing directly into someone's hands.
Though he cannot admit it aloud, he has not liked this escapade from the start. It is not what they have done so far. It is what they have not done. They should have found Sawyer by now, with whomever kidnapped him, and they have done nothing of the sort. Allegedly, he was the one who was capable to handle this. He assured Jack of that, and the people whom he's currently marshaling. They are producing no results, though, and he cannot deny that such a lack is disappointing. He is used to being able to find what he needs to find, and he suspects the others are experiencing the same disappointment.
For whatever reason, though, he's spared Ana-Lucia's complaints about the issue. Perhaps it's the heat. Perhaps it's the call to duty he'd given her. Whatever the reason, she is silent and determined, and that relieves him. Eko's lack of words were expected, but Locke and Kate are silent, too. Not a word has been said about the radio. Apparently Locke doesn't feel it needs to be discussed in front of people. Sayid can't fault him for that, but he is not looking forward to the conversation that is sure to come.
Freed from the burden of giving orders to a quartet of people who have no reason whatsoever to listen to him, Sayid concentrates on keeping watch. He spots signs, but he cannot be sure if they are human or animal. Torn branches and trampled plants could be either, and he does not wish to distract the trackers from their current mission just to have them hunt boar or deer. They must stay focused. Much as he despises doing so, he must ignore his own curiosity. He puts it out of his mind as best he can, and keeps walking along at the snail's pace they've necessarily adopted.
–––
Maybe they're all too tired. Maybe the heat's getting to them. Maybe it's the fruitlessness of the travel. In any case, when they break for lunch, he feels anything but stunned at what is brought in.
"He's moving back the way we came," Ana-Lucia announces as she pushes forward something so thin and wasted-looking that Sayid is surprised it's still human. Her technique leaves something to be desired, but Sayid is impressed to see that whatever she's escorting is alive, and he gives her a smile he hopes looks avuncular, pleased with a protégé. He suspects she'll view it as mere patronizing, but is relieved when she offers no reaction. "I caught him poking around in the bushes off that way." She beckons towards a small copse, her free hand slapping against her side with the force of the movement when she drops it. She shoves the thin fellow forward and he stumbles, dropping to the ground.
Whether it's from lack of ability to move or from simple fear, the man stays there on the ground. Sayid notes how ragged he looks, like a street beggar, and he wants to help him up, but he doesn't dare do it. The first words that spring to mind and voice are old words indeed: "Stand up. I am not an imam. This is not prayer." He beckons the man up, his manner sharp.
This only scares the thin man more, who starts mumbling something unintelligible. From nearby, Sayid can see Eko turn away, distracted by something or not wishing to participate. Locke draws closer, interested, and Sayid smiles at him to assure everything is all right, thinking, Why can't you be more like your fellow man of religion?
He extends a hand to the pauper, who takes it, and lifts the man to his feet, repeating, "Stand up. No one will kill you. We're all too tired for that." He can hear the dialogue already beginning, the words familiar from capture of numerous poor resistance fighters. "Where are you from? Where are you going? Who are you? Are there others like you around?"
There is no answer. Sayid sighs, shaking his head. He wants answers. He stares hard at the other man, meeting his eyes. There is no spark there. The man is an idiot. They can get nothing from him. The watery gaze that meets him bears no intelligence, no answers, and he steps away from the Other, thinking bitterly, All this search, and this is what we get, a fellow who can barely understand English and cannot speak it. Perhaps I should try talking to him in Arabic.
But what can he do, really? There is not much to do with fifty kilograms of Other that can't talk back to you. He really should keep the man, by the rules. His crew might not be pleased about getting a different result, but he is tired. He is not up to the rules of war anymore. He cannot take their prisoner and winch a truth from him that the fellow is otherwise incapable of giving.
"Let him go."
He can hear his acquaintances gasp, and it sounds like they all do so in a single voice. Even Eko turns around, startled.
Sayid's voice grows louder. "Get him out of here. Now!"
He glances towards Ana-Lucia, nodding her to do so, signaling her to take the man away. She doesn't move. He should not have expected her to, he realizes a moment later. It probably took a lot out of her to avoid simply killing the man, and he can ask nothing more of her. So he gestures Eko to do so, nodding at him in an expression of thanks.
"You let him go?" Ana stalks over to him, her hands on her hips, defiance writ large in every muscle of her body.
This is a game. You know perfectly well that I let him go. Sayid simply nods.
"Why did you do that? He'll go back to wherever he came from and tell them about us! He'll let them know what we're doing, how many weapons we have! How can you do that!" Her words only make her grow further aghast.
"I don't want to collect people that are of no use to us. He will only slow us down, and I could not kill him. Could you?" Sayid waits to see what her reaction is, and feels at least marginally pleased to note that the young woman shakes her head. "They know where we're going anyway. We're tracking Sawyer. They would have to be quite stupid not to guess where we are at this very moment, and where we're headed." Ana is furious. Her face glistens, and she looks on the verge of screaming at him. He wants to say something to help her, but all that comes out is, "You did well by not killing him."
With that, he leads them into the trap that he now knows awaits them, a decided grimness to the endeavor. There is nowhere else to go, however, and they cannot go back. They can only hope to be prepared when they meet up with whatever awaits them in the jungle, whatever lurks beyond, calculating their moves and responding like a master chess player.
The man was a decoy. Sayid is sure of that. The man was of no use to them, too. Killing him would have made no difference, and they were doomed as soon as the fellow came upon them. In a way, he's glad Ana-Lucia uncovered him. At least they are aware of the threat now. He can only wonder how long they've been watched, and what purpose the Others had in not attacking them overnight, or at some easier time.
He stops to talk with each of his charges, asking them, "Are you armed? Are you sure? Don't test-fire your gun," he adds as smoothly as he can do, hoping the small current of dread he feels for the impending firefight has not worked its way into his voice. "We want to fight on ground which we choose. But are you ready?" He is pleased that, for all of them, the answer is yes. "Be on your guard," he says. "If you see anything, alert us."
–––
The first burst hits behind them and thunks into a banana tree, splinters of wood flying everywhere from the impact of the bullets. Sayid hits the ground, trying to catch his breath and to stay alive. It had come unexpectedly despite his preparedness, and the thought flies through his head, Fifteen years since I was in a combat situation. Apparently it shows. He does not look around him towards his friends. Nobody is calling out, and no blood is on him. They are all right. He hopes they will remain all right in the minutes to come.
There is no one in charge, he realizes. Someone should be. I should be. He need not command a squad of four, all with combat training, though. He leaves them to the shooting, and from what he can hear from the burst of rifle fire from his own side, they are managing all right.
Without a long-range gun, Sayid's job is to mark the enemy's weapons. He squints through the foliage, trying his best to make out the shooter. The main weapon seems to be located off there, in the distance, just to a little left of them, and a stream of bullets issues steadily from somewhere in that area, flying overhead and hitting low branches and tall ferns, not stopping, as if the gunner's finger has gotten caught in the trigger. The gunfire is long and loud, and that is unusual. No soldier would fire in that manner that he knows, be they American or Iraqi. They must have ammunition to spare and no fear of a return hit.
A bullet comes close, but it does not hit him. A second and then a third, but he feels nothing. The sound roars around him, the steady volleys of gunfire nearly deafening, the individual cracks flat and unimpressive but the net effect certainly uncomfortable listening.
One of his gunners – he is not sure who has the guns anymore, and only knows that he does not – fires off a short round from their side, and the answering report from the other side is much longer, much surer. He hunkers down amongst the ferns, knowing they're desperately outmatched, wishing he had some way to communicate with the people back at the hatch. They will run out of ammunition in short order, and they will be dead or worse. He has seen this happen to too many people, and he has been at the end of this journey for too many others. It serves him right that he should experience the same.
Surely God loves those who fight in His way in ranks, as if they were a firm and compact will. The Koran quote, unbidden, unremembered since lessons at the mosque in childhood, comes to him now, and he realizes: They must not back down. They must act in unison, and they must stay strong. They are bidden to do that.
It is then that the gunfire stops. For a few seconds, there is nothing, only a small breeze. And then the rain starts to fall.