L: Play It All Night Long

"Hurley? What are you doing out here?" Sayid can hear the surprise in his own voice, and he suspects that everyone in the back of the truck can hear it too. At the moment, it doesn't concern him. Let them think what they will – he has a rather scared-looking young man standing before him on the path that they have cleared. This is where it had rained before, he thinks, and looking down in the mud, where prints have formed, he sees no fresh ones from Hurley heading towards the truck, towards the way from which the truck has come. He sees none heading back the other way, either, and this puzzles him.

If Hurley hadn't walked here, how did he get here? Surprise turns to tension, to vague and unfounded suspicion. He cannot question Hurley here, however. It is neither the time nor the place. "It's the middle of the night, Hurley; you cannot – you should not – be this far out in the wilderness. You must come with us." He gestures vaguely towards the passenger seat. "Were you looking for us?"

"Dude, I don't know what I'm doing out here," Hurley admits, swinging onto the truck. Sayid can feel it jolt slightly with Hurley's weight, but has no fear for their safety. If the truck is sturdy enough to hold the rest of them, it will hold Hurley as well. The young man looks towards Sayid, grinning. "I was wondering where you guys had gone, yeah. I guess I got lost."

"Just as you did a few weeks previously. I see. Hurley, we are going to have to have a talk about your running everywhere in search of people." Despite himself, Sayid feels a smile form at that. He'll have to take Hurley along one of these days so the young man is satisfied with adventuring. He shifts the truck into gear and starts to drive again. The mud underneath has hardened with the passing day, and little scads of dust fly onto the windshield. Wet mud would be worse, though, and he's thankful all he has to deal with at night is the occasional spatter of dirt. "I hope you informed someone before you took off to play at being Marco Polo."

"Yeah, I did. I told plenty of people." Sayid knows he is lying. Hurley smiles wanly, looking at the track ahead. "So where had you guys gone? I saw Sawyer in the back of the truck there. Is he all right?"

"That question has a thousand different answers. Which one do you want?" Sayid replies dryly. "To answer the one that I think you want answered: He is alive, though at this point I am unsure if he wants to be. You don't need to worry." He glances towards Hurley's face, sees genuine concern there, is not surprised at that. The young Hispanic is concerned for everyone, he has learned. "What did you think you would accomplish by coming out here alone, Hurley? You were very far behind us. You would only have gotten in trouble. Remember the last time you struck out on your own?"

Hurley stares ahead, not answering for a moment. Perhaps he has no answer. As the silence stretches, Sayid suspects that is the case. He does not press Hurley, however, only guides the truck over the path as well as he can do. They will have the truck on the beach, and that will be useful. If they can use it as a truck, that will be good. If they will let him dismantle it, that would be better. He can already think of a million uses for all of the parts, and the new acquisition will come in handy in either case.

He has drifted off into his thoughts for long enough, it seems, that Hurley is getting bored with the lack of conversation. The large young man starts fidgeting and at length stretches a hand for the radio. Sayid glances that way, sees his hand, does not think anything of it at first, and then can feel himself doubletake as he realizes just what Hurley is about to do. "Don't!" he exclaims sharply, his hands tightening on the wheel.

Hurley turns a blank look towards him. "Um. Why not?"

Sayid shakes his head in vexation, although he's not sure if Hurley's question or his own exclamation annoys him more. "Just do not turn on that radio. I cannot explain it." He presses down on the gas pedal a bit harder than he needs to, the engine rumbling in protest.

"All that worrying about a radio earlier, and now you won't even listen to it? Man, Sayid." Hurley squints at him for a moment before shaking his head and turning to look out the window. "Whatever you say, though. It's your radio."

"Correct," Sayid replies. "It is my radio." He feels badly about warning Hurley off the radio so sharply, almost guilty. He should not have been so sharp to him. Besides, the young man is probably desperate for some chitchat, or at least something to listen to, and Sayid is not in a talking mood at the moment. His mind is on the drive ahead and what they have just come from today, and he does not want to talk about either with Hurley. "Do you still want to listen? All right. But I warned you, if you hear something you don't like."

He turns on the radio, his movements a bit hasty. He expects to hear someone greeting him in Arabic. He hears nothing. He turns the dial. Still nothing. And then, when the dial is almost up at the top, he hears some music being piped in. Seventies ballad, with guitar. Some American or Canadian woman is singing, an ethereal voice. He does not recognize it. From the look on Hurley's face, the young man does not recognize it either. The song is on its final chorus, the woman's voice joined by others', and the words chill him.

"We are stardust. (Billion year old carbon.)
We are golden. (Caught in the devil's bargain.)
And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."

It seems a warning, and as they glide on into the night, drifting through the jungle with the machinery of the truck smooth and silvery, the song fading out with a repeated pattern of utterances, he can envision Sun's garden, its new plots in after the search for the ring. Nothing has grown yet, but it will.

Sayid realizes suddenly, as the radio turns onto another song, and then a third, and as the songs will play through the night: Sun's garden will be built over the graves of the dead, those that end in the island to begin again. They build their lives on sacrifices, both on the island and before the island. They must be prepared to make more. He presses his foot to the gas again and the truck is swallowed by shadows.

They are surrounded. Vines. Stars. Night. Blackness.