XLIX: Frank and Jesse James
At least they've got a truck. Small miracles. Sawyer spends the rest of the journey drifting in and out of sleep, exhausted as he is, snapping at people that try to ask him questions, feeling more worn out than he's felt in a while. Of course, tired as he feels, that would be when they'd ask him questions, their sense of timing wonderful. That would be when they'd try to pry answers out of him – half that he can't give, half that he doesn't want to give. People always seem to hit him at the worst moments, and he reminds himself that the bad timing isn't his fault. Many things are. But not that. How else do they expect him to react when they shake him from sleep, demanding to know what he saw in there? He doesn't even try to be polite.
And at least it'll be good to get back to their camp, too. The first thing he'll do when he's back is rip out all the damn cameras, smash the computer, force them to live on their own without the bastards watching them. That's the way it should have been at the start. Whatever that place is that they found, it's wrong – all wrong – and he knew there were cameras there. He knew it. He should have trusted his instincts then. If only he hadn't been so out of it, he could have figured things out then, could have avoided all this trouble. Nobody would be on his case like he knows those bastards back at the plant are on his case now.
If these guys don't believe him, oh well. Too bad for them. They have no choice in the matter anymore. He knows more than them for once, and he plans to use that knowledge to his advantage, and maybe even theirs. If they don't think that they're being watched, he'll prove it to them, make them see. They'll have to admit he's right. For once, he'll be in control of the situation. He doesn't want to be boss of the camp – leave that to Jack and his crew – but at least he'll have some leverage. Maybe it'll be enough to get them to treat him like a human being for once, instead of the enemy. He's not the enemy. He's met the enemy. He knows who they are. He knows he's not them. If he's clear on anything, he's clear on that.
They travel for a good few hours on the truck, and he figures they know where they're going. They must have cleared a path, and wherever they found the truck, it must have had a good amount of gasoline. Around what he figures from the sunset is maybe a few hours later, he shakes himself awake, the truck having halted. He's rested his head on someone's backpack, and he shoves the backpack aside, props himself up. The others have made some sort of a campfire and are eating. Bastards, he thinks. They don't even wake me up for dinner. They probably want me to starve. And then he feels guilty for thinking it, the chagrin a new emotion.
"What've you got there?" He drags himself out of the truck bed, limping a little, head aching still – maybe he's overslept – but hey, he's alive, and that's something to be thankful for. "Food. Hell, thanks. I'm starving." He grins broadly at them before dropping next to the campfire, makes his tone as saintly as he can do. "You know, they gave me beer while I was there. Good stuff. I feel sorry for you guys, not havin' had any." His grin widens, encouraging them to grin back.
Nobody does. An uncomfortable wave passes over the group, and he can see a few tight smirks on some of the others' faces, but none are real. He shakes his head, to show the apology without really having to say it, and reaches out for some food. Whatever it is, it's well-cooked, so he doesn't hesitate to eat it, biting in without caution. It could be some sort of slaughtered jungle cat or something, but it's the most delicious thing he's tasted in a while. He chows down, hungry as hell all of a sudden. That underground bomb shelter had better have some food in it somewhere, because if there's nothing beyond island grub to eat when I get back there, Stay-Puft is going to be sorry.
He glances up towards them, sees Sayid start to speak, think better of it, shoot Locke a significant look. He looks Locke's way, and the bald man has set down his food and leans in to Sawyer, meaning business. "Sawyer, we're going to need you to tell us what you know at some point." He holds up a hand to forestall argument. Sawyer hadn't felt like arguing yet, but when that hand goes up, he sure does then. "We're going to need to know what you know about that place, all right?" There's a certain tone in Locke's voice he doesn't like. It's humoring him. Patronizing him. Nothing's changed, really. "When you get the chance, though. Not right now. You need to rest right now."
Sawyer can feel his throat constrict, pressure rising in it. And it takes all, but his head is starting to pound again. "Look, Kojak, I spent the past few days being told when I could rest. I ain't gonna listen to some stupid – "
"Sawyer," Kate interjects, but it's already too late.
" – being told by some weekend warrior and his terrorist friend and the 'before' girl in a Midol advertisement – "
"Sawyer, for God's sake." Kate's voice rises.
" – can and can't do. I don't take orders, and if you folks think otherwise, maybe you weren't payin' a damn bit of attention back there. And I – "
"We are not asking you to follow orders," a bass voice cuts him off. "We are asking you to help us. If you have seen inside that place, then you are the only person who knows what we can do to take it over, if we must." Mr. Eko leans forward, staring at him, his eyes gleaming white against dark skin, darker twilight. "Whether or not we like it, that is the truth," the man proclaims, decisiveness in his voice.
Sawyer can't meet Eko's glance at first, but when he does, he sees an appeal there, something urgent, something desperate. They need him. They aren't just doing this because they couldn't leave him behind, because he was the same as anyone. They need him, specifically. He's not sure at first what he thinks of that. Part of him likes it, but part of him would rather be left alone. He doesn't want to be placed in the middle of things, by any means. Why couldn't they have tried to take someone worth taking? Why him instead? "Yeah, well," he replies to Eko, "I don't like it at all, either. But I ain't promisin' anything."
"You have not been asked to make any promises," Eko replies. "Keep eating. You are hungry."
This time, despite how weird he feels about it, he follows that order. He's hungry, though, and that's all there is to it. He doesn't have to listen to anyone if he doesn't want to, and he won't, he decides. He's still a con man, still an outlaw, and he doesn't have to listen to anyone if he doesn't want to. They can all go to hell, and he'll ride off into the sunset without them, leave them all in the dust. Screw 'em. That's something James Ford and Frank Sawyer had in common, and he's got no compulsion about doing it now. Really, it's for their benefit if he gets lost.
He just needs some time to rest, that's all; some time to get things in order. He'll help them, sure, but only as long as he needs to. He'll fix it so that they're not getting watched by those cameras, so that there's nobody from the center of the island or wherever the hell he was determining their moves. He'll set things straight, and then he'll be off again. They need him, but he doesn't need them. They're only good for a little while, just like everyone else in his life, and this won't change that, will it? No matter how they tear around on this island, playing war, it'll only be a few more weeks until they're rescued, and it's not like he's going to see any of them again. He needs to set things up again so that he's got enough to get lost again.
One thing's for sure, though, and that's that he needs to eat and rest. He'll wait. He'll help them. But when he's better, he's not going to stick around with them. They won't need him for very long. Nobody ever does. He glances up towards the sky, the blackness dotted with pinwheels and waves of stars, and he thinks, I might as well be an astronaut up there, for all the good this world does me. He doesn't share that, though. Some things, you just don't tell people, and that's definitely one of them.
Back in the truck, though, and time to keep driving again, it seems. The truck must've been blessed with a hell of a lot of gasoline; either that or Mohammed's been driving the damn thing without braking or speeding up the entire way, just coasting along.
When he starts to feel the salt air prickling his skin, making him sneeze a bit as it assaults his nose, he feels relieved. Home, he thinks, and then, No way. Not home. You get to thinking like that, and you'll start relying on people that you don't want to rely on. He lies there, still watching the stars. Maybe the others are talking. It doesn't matter, does it? He's got nothing to do with them beyond just what's necessary, and barely that.
As he starts to drift again, floating in the black and empty sea above, he feels the truck jolt to a stop. He curses in displeasure, and turns his head towards the cab. Sayid's stopped for something. He doesn't know what. He doesn't care what. He sees the other folks crane their heads around, though, and at length he sighs and mimics them. It still hurts, and he wishes he knew why.
The Iraqi's voice distracts him, though. It's somewhere between surprise and amusement, although – and Sawyer has to grin at this, because it's a hell of a thing to hear – he thinks he hears an undercurrent of panic in there, too. That pleases him, to hear Sayid afraid of something. It almost makes the entire fiasco worthwhile. But there's that one word, then. That's it. That's all Sayid says, and that's all he needs to say, because Sawyer's moment of delight at his expense vanishes just like that: "Hurley?"