XLVIII: Backs Turned, Looking Down the Path

Sayid watches Sawyer starting to slip, thinking, They've done something to him. They've done something to him while we weren't watching. All this way to save him, and he will die on us, and everything will be gone. He shakes his head against that, then, extends a hand, seizes the other fellow's arm, hauls him as best he can. It's not exactly a graceful thing, but he manages to drag him up and – they're not following, he realizes as he looks back at the building. They're just standing there, the snipers and the fellow that Sawyer brought out, standing there watching. He can almost sense their satisfaction from far away. They've done what they want. What was that? He doesn't have time to think it over.

"Ana," he tells the girl, "stand guard. You and Mr. Eko. Don't turn your backs on them." He grabs Sawyer, or tries to: "John, help me with him." He takes a quick glance, sees breathing, sees open eyes, eyelids fluttering. If Sawyer's seeing anything right now, it's questionable. "Kate," he looks up towards her, sees the look of concern on her face, blinks at it, surprised, but moves on: "Scout ahead. Make sure we can get back to that truck."

They move forward, cautiously, and at each turn he expects gunshots. He does not get them, though. Nobody starts shooting. Nothing happens. It's downright bizarre, and he has to fight against the doubts that the strangeness causes, has to do his best to ignore it. He told Ana-Lucia that they would leave no one behind, and they are almost to success on that count. He will not give in to doubt. They must get out of here and back to the camp, and he must get things under control.

"Fuck off, Mohammed."

No question of whom that is. Sawyer has woken up. They're dragging him, and he glances towards the taller man, sees absolute hate in his eyes, is puzzled at that. "Pardon?"

"I said, fuck off. Can't you speak English?" Evidently absence does not make the heart grow fonder. There's something else there, though, and Sayid wonders about this. "You damn well – son of a – Christ, my head aches." Sawyer tries to walk, faltering after a few steps. "Where the hell are we going?"

"Back home," Sayid replies, and he wonders about this. The camps are their home, though, he supposes, as much as he hates to admit it. They have gotten settled there.

"You don't want to blow them the hell up? What kind of a soldier are you anyway?"

"One who believes that the better part of valor is discretion." He read that somewhere, and pauses as he tries to remember where. Shakespeare, perhaps.

The quote is lost on Sawyer, who simply laughs dryly. "Sounds like a goddamn terrible soldier to me."

And that's why you're not one, Sayid thinks. He knows better than to provoke an argument, but it is amazing how things don't change. All the time they have spent going after Sawyer – it wasn't wasted, he figures, but he's amazed at the lack of appreciation. The man has no capacity for thinking past the present, he suspects, but he chooses not to share that as well. "Any sign of the truck, Kate?"

"Yeah, up here. How's he holding up?" Kate still sounds worried.

"Same as ever," Locke calls ahead. "He's been doing his level best to insult Sayid. I think that's automatic."

"Shut the hell up, Mr. Clean. What the hell do you know?"

"Make that both of us," Locke corrects. Sayid hears laughter in his voice, amused, but something is wrong about the situation. Perhaps it's Sawyer. Perhaps it's something beyond Sawyer. Whatever it is, it sets him on edge, and when Locke turns a broad grin towards him, he cannot grin back.

–––

They lounge on the truck, the two tailenders keeping watch even now. Everything is green around them, and he waits for something that is not green to break through, tries to isolate the colors and see the intruders should they come through the brush and get them. He would not put it past them to move silently, so he must pay attention to the colors. Those are what will tell him they're being watched. He keeps a hand on his pistol the entire time. It is prepared, he knows. He is surprised that he has yet to use it, but he is not disappointed. He would have been disappointed if he'd had to use it in haste.

He would have offered to switch off with them, but Ana-Lucia has insisted, and he is not about to gainsay her. She can make herself useful when she wants to be, and he is pleased to see that. Maybe he'll use that later, when they get the chance to go back here again. He has a billion questions, and expects none of them will be answered by Sawyer. He must go back here. But now is not the time. For now, they must rest. They must recoup their strength. They must recuperate, as well. They cannot do that when they're in the sights of the enemy, and he has to get them back to camp.

"You've got a bruise on your head," Kate's voice comes out of the general conversation.

"Ow. Jesus."

"Stay still. That thing's nasty."

Sayid glances up to see her inspecting Sawyer's head. "Did they hit you?"

"I ain't talkin' to you."

Sayid shrugs, shakes his head, lets the matter drop. Where all this animosity stems from, he has no idea, but he suspects continuing to talk to Sawyer will do no good. He can't afford an argument in the position they're in.

"We'll need to get Jack to check it out," Kate tells Sawyer, and Sawyer's mouth curls in disgust. "Stop, Sawyer. Who else would you want checking you out? He's a doctor."

"Those bastards fixed my damn arm. Not Saint Jack."

"He didn't get the chance," Kate insists, and then drops the subject. Apparently there is no point with arguing with a wounded man that just managed to get away from something unknown. Sayid wonders what, precisely, he escaped from, and makes a point to ask later. Kate stops her halfhearted attempts at first aid, but continues to stare at the back of Sawyer's head, distracted. "That thing looks really bad, Sawyer. You sure you're all right?"

"Fine. Why is everyone asking me so many goddamn questions? Can't you tell that I'm all right? What do I need to do, cartwheels or something?"

That comment earns a snort of laughter from Ana-Lucia. However, she says nothing to it. What she says instead is important. "Fifteen minutes are up, Sayid. We moving on now?"

That quickly? Sayid thinks. We have a long ride ahead of us. He jumps out of the truck bed, taking out the keys. He pulls out the tag first – Nadia – and still wonders about it. He will find that out later, though, too. Right now, he has to drive. Whatever happened to Sawyer, the sooner they get him back to base, the better chance he'll have at making it out all right. "We are moving on," he assures Ana-Lucia, and swings open the door to the truck. "Everyone get settled in the back, there. Remember how bad the tracks are – we have worse ahead. I am going to see if we can get the truck all the way to the camp."

Once more, he waits until the truck has settled before turning on the ignition. The engine whirs pleasantly, apparently still having a good amount of gasoline within it. The radio springs to life. It jolts him, but he knows, once more, nobody hears it. It is too quiet for those in the back to hear.

"Bel salaam. I suppose congratulations are in order." The American voice, as familiar as it is by now, chills him. "Halfway, at least. You found what you came for, didn't you?" Not really, Sayid thinks. "That is to say, you managed to grab Mr. Ford. You don't have any answers, though. He has plenty. He doesn't know it, but he does. But I suppose you are no longer the sort to pry answers from people, correct?"

He clutches the steering wheel, his arms growing tight, his jaw clenching. The question that had arisen, Who is Mr. Ford? is lost within a bitter surge of hatred for those words. How dare they imply what they're implying? He swallows, shakes his head, starts to switch the radio off.

"We will not leave this be, ya Sidi. You understand that, I hope. One military man to another – we have not yet begun to fight, as a famous fellow you may have heard of, John Paul Jones, once said. You do not know the extent of this even now, and we will not have things ruined because you folks have decided not to play by the rules. If you do not play by the rules, you will be disposed of. Do I make myself clear?"

He wishes he could curse so easily as Sawyer, for he would surely be telling the radio some harsh words right about now. He simply moves to flick the radio off and puts the truck into gear, even as Ana-Lucia's voice comes to him, "Hey, are we moving or what?" They are indeed, and the truck still runs surprisingly well. He plans to get them as far as he can on it, and he sets off, squinting into the early afternoon sun as he takes them back down the path they came, the truck jolting anew along the same track they've traveled once already.