XXIV: The Factory
It is the same word, but each time he says it, it sounds different. "Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch." Sawyer says it over and over, enough times that it sounds like an incantation, low enough so that his traveling companion can't hear. What a fantastic time for him to start going loopy again, right as he's about to get answers. He should ask for more medicine. He should swallow his pride and just ask, but that wouldn't be right.
He needs to be in control of the situation. If he focuses long enough and hard enough, he just can do it, too, and he lengthens his stride, deliberately planting each foot down on the hard macadam. It echoes into his brain, jolting him each time, and he wishes there were trees to grab. A handrail. Something.
He can't go much further like this, he knows, but the gray bulk that rises before him reassures him. He can make it. He will make it. He steels his shoulders and presses on, his legs tight and rigid-feeling. They might just snap in two if he steps too hard, but that's the only way that he can tell that his feet are landing anymore. Otherwise, he just might lose his footing, it feels, even without a root or rock lying in his path to trip him. That would look bad. He can't look bad.
Pull yourself together. You've done plenty of things you haven't liked before. One walk with a bullet in your shoulder won't make a damn bit of difference. And he has to come off like something better than a savage or an idiot, so he straightens his shoulders. As he does so, he feels uncomfortably tall, all bony angles and lanky limbs that just won't work right anymore.
He needs a drink of water.
"So who are these guys? And why the hell didn't they rescue us? And why did they damn well shoot me and take the kid? And what connection have they – you – got with Jack? And why are we going to a goddamn power plant to get my shoulder healed? And what the hell did you shoot me up with?" He asks a barrage of questions, hoping at least one will be answered. Any one would be good. Maybe if he asks the right question, he'll forget how thirsty and fuzzy-feeling he is.
He doesn't get answers, though. He gets asked a question right back. "Kid? What kid?" From the suddenness of the inquiry, the surprised sound of it, Sawyer figures Desmond isn't hiding anything there. The Irishman's eyes are wide, in an almost comically exaggerated look of shock. "I was thinkin' there were only adults up there."
"Uh-uh. A kid. He got grabbed by them bastards. I got shot for it. The end." There is no reason to rehash the details of it. He may as well play it close to the vest – if not for the sake of secrecy, then at least for the sake of not hearing the freak compliment him over something he screwed up on, anyway. He can feel himself leaning forward a bit, starting to stagger.
There's nothing to brace himself on even still, but somehow, he keeps walking. Perhaps it's his curiosity about what lies beyond. Perhaps it's the fact that, if they weren't being watched before, they're definitely being watched now, even as they near the cluster of buildings. Christ, what if I can't make it to the buildings? What would they think? What would happen to him? He figures that he can't afford to find out, and tries to make his walk as steady as possible.
"Were there supposed to only be adults on that plane, Desmond? Why?"
"You ask too many questions, man. You'll get more answers if you don't make them want to shoot you, too."
Sawyer smiles thinly, letting out a dry, "Right." He even tries for a smirk, but he's too hazy-feeling to achieve it as successfully as he would have liked, it would seem, for he can feel his mouth make the slightest effort at turning up in a grin before giving up, the upturn subsiding. He squints towards the building, but it's started to swim by now. Maybe that's just the heat. He lifts a hand to his face to wipe his eyes, clear them, and he can feel his fingers trembling.
He needs more medicine.
He can't bring himself to ask, though. If the stuff was given to him to help him, then he doesn't deserve more unless he gets it without asking. Two boxes of stuff from Magnolia Street, Jimmy. That's all you get. He had taken one, and he had done fine after then. Just fine. So he'd do fine with just one dose of medicine. He was lucky to even have that. Besides, the other guy hasn't even noticed. Leave it to the crazy speed freak to be put in charge of ensuring that he makes it to the island's center. If that had been an order given from someone else, clearly they hadn't thought it out. He has to smile at that, and he can feel his chapped lips crack and sting from the expression.
"To answer your question," Desmond cuts in, and Sawyer thinks, Finally, "we're goin' to the goddamn power plant, as you put it, because that's where they've the resources to deal with your shoulder. And I am feelin' generous enough to take you there, though I've been wonderin' why myself for a while."
Even as dazed as he is, Sawyer can tell that last part's not quite the truth. He doesn't care, though. Not at the moment. At the moment, he needs some water, some rest, the bullet wound taken care of, and if that happens here, it happens here. He'll deal with the rest later, when he's competent. Still, something nags at him, and if he's being taken to deal with the bullet, who knows when he'll get the chance to ask again?
"J-Jack." Christ, he's stuttering. He shakes his head, annoyed, but can't try the word again. He hasn't got the effort for it. "How d'you know 'im?" He can hear his voice starting to slip further, and it's embarrassing, but it's not embarrassing enough for him to take another stab at the words. He needs to conserve his energy. He needs to keep as much strength as he's got, and not waste it on trying to make his words come out exactly right. He stumbles a bit, but if Desmond slows down his pace, Sawyer doesn't notice.
"We met. A few times."
"Yeah. You said." He pauses, trying to figure out which question to ask. There are so many, and he is so confused as to how words work anymore. And, Lord, if his shoulder isn't starting to kill again. "How?"
"In person." Desmond sounds amused at that, and Sawyer thinks, If I could punch him for that, he'd deserve it. The Irishman pauses a moment, and then adds, "I was sent to find him. And apparently he was sent to find me here."
"Who sent y'all?" Sawyer's not sure if he means Desmond or Jack, but he's not really sure that it matters, either. It's fine, though.
He needs to keep walking.
This conversation is bringing them closer to the entryway of the gray building, big metal factory doors that lie set in the metal building. He can hear more machines now, chugging along like some sort of locomotive collection, and he shakes his head as if to make the sounds of the machinery stop. They keep on, though, drumming incessantly, and he can hear his ears start to ring, too. For a moment, the thought breaks through, crystal clear: First my sight, then my hearing. I can't feel the ground, either, so that's touch gone, too. Three senses down. Two to go. And then I'll be dead. Out here. And nobody will know, and nobody will care, because nobody's come looking for me anyway, because they all think I'm not worth the rescue, and, God, I can't blame them.
And then he's back in the real world, or at least what he can only guess is the real world, all blurry and moving past him as he walks, and he can hear Desmond make another sound of disgust with him, like a student that just can't grasp the answer to a very simple arithmetic problem. For a moment, there's no answer. Then, Desmond is apparently seized by a sudden need to unburden himself on someone:
"You're thinkin' we're on the same team. We aren't. We've met a few times, like I said, but he doesn't know nothin' about any of it. He's as thick as you about all of it. The idea was to suss him out, see if he could be of some help, but he wasn't havin' none of it, so they said that we ought to bring him along anyway. Said he knew too much already for us to just let him drop from the whole yoke. And they said he'd never run into me, anyway. I must've been daft to believe that, aye?" For the first time since they started down the pavement, Desmond turns to look at him, studying him for a moment. "You aren't lookin' too good."
Sawyer laughs aloud. "No shit." His laughter sounds hollow, weak, and he hates the sound of it. He has the feeling Desmond said something important there, but he can't quite clock onto it. Something about Jack again. The hell with Jackass. "How's about another speed hit, huh?" That wasn't asking, was it? That was a demand. It's all right to demand things, as long as he doesn't ask politely.
"Can't," Desmond says, his voice sounding clipped. "Didn't take enough to spare it now, and not for someone else, anyway. You'll be inside and better soon enough. Just a few moments, now."
"What do you need it for? You're not injured or nothin'," Sawyer mumbles, feeling himself keel forward again. He swallows, but now his throat won't work right, and it messes with his voice, too, makes it constricted-sounding. "And what are you gonna say to them? 'Here, I found this guy in the jungle, you know, that plane crash that you guys have been messing with for the last two months?' Yeah, that'll go well for me. I…" He shakes his head and shuts up. He doesn't have the strength to keep chatting anymore, and his voice is giving out anyway.
He'll get the answers later. As it is, he has to struggle to walk, and as he hits the outside wall of the factory, he just sort of sinks against it, his legs and his eyes and his ears and his voice giving way all at once. He sees movement around him, but it's all a big gray blur, just like the building, and he can't process it enough to do anything about it. Even if he wanted to, the reasserted pain in his shoulder is enough to tell him that maybe he should hedge his bets now and wait and see where they're taking him. Sawyer does his best to remain conscious if not alert and, for a while, he succeeds. He lies there while they congregate around him, feeling like the animal downed in the hunt.
And then he feels himself being lifted or dragged – he can't tell which, because he can't feel the ground – and he's conscious of the shift in light when he crosses the threshold of the building, and all he can think is, Stay awake, you dumb bastard. Stay awake, if you do anything. Try to figure out what bits and pieces you can. But hell if that works, because he's hearing that ringing grow louder, and though there are voices around him and they must be speaking English, he can't understand it, and though they don't hit him, his head feels like it's broken into a million pieces, and when the blackness yawns open to swallow him, he free-falls into it, weightless and thoughtless and careless for once.
He needs nothing now.