CHAPTER 27
Meanwhile as the small party of searchers began to weave their way through the dense overgrowth of the jungle Locke struggled, without result, to convince his captor of the urgency of his situation. Burning pain wracked his chest and abdomen, forcing him to concentrate less on talking and more on the act of breathing as he fought for every breath.
"Please… what do you want from me?" He begged as he looked up at the motionless form of the woman standing before him.
"Your sickness, the air all around here has been contaminated." She spoke, her heavy French accent rolling fluently off her tongue. "I cannot allow the contagion to continue."
"Doctor." Locke said as he attempted to make his need clearer, knowing little of how much English the French woman really understood. "Jack… please… I need the doctor."
He had to stop when once again is abdomen was gripped by searing pain.
He looked up definitely at the woman now standing over him as she raised the gun parallel to his chest, continuing upwards towards his head.
The tears in her eyes deflected the diminishing light of the evening and opened up a gateway to her soul – revealing that she was no cold blooded murderer, but a woman tormented by fear and grief.
"Where have you come from?" She asked him. Her voice broke dangerously as she struggled to hold the gun steady. "Who are you?"
"My name is John Locke." Locke told her, with as much calm as his throbbing body would permit. "There are a group of us… we are… we are survivors of Oceanic Flight 815, which crashed here thirty-two days ago." He explained, taking deep breaths between gaps in his speech as he battled with the increasing pain – the light of the afternoon gradually surrendering itself to the dull mask of early evening. The air became icy to his hot body, making Locke shiver. He didn't once take his eyes off the gun – still pointing in his direction as she kept her finger fixed firmly on the trigger.
"Who are you?" Locke asked at last, turning the question around to her.
The woman eyed him suspiciously, and didn't respond for a long time. She appeared to be debating whether to answer him or not – but Locke didn't like the silence which had elapsed between them. It unnerved him.
Finally, she sighed.
"My name is Rousseau." She hesitated. "Danielle Rousseau… and believe me when I tell you there's nowhere on this island for you to run."
Locke could sense that she had more to say, and waited, quiet and subdued, for her to continue.
"It's been nearly seventeen years since we first came here… my group of scientific researchers and I." She explained. "Seventeen lonely years since they came, and took everything I loved away from me. Now I see their pain in your eyes to… how can I possibly allow you to return to your camp with the knowledge of what awaits the rest of your people if this were to spread?" She asked him.
"I don't understand." Locke winced.
"I watched my group fall victim to the island's mysterious contagion one by one." Rousseau told him sadly. "Each day there was another body for me to burn as sickness and fever ravaged those I loved, people I had known my whole working life. They were like a family to me… but like any good mother the life I feared for most of all was that of my child… my daughter Alex."
"Wait, you had a child?" Locke exclaimed.
Rousseau nodded.
"Her farther was a scientist also…" She said. "He was part of my team. I loved him. But I could see only one chance to save myself and the life of my daughter after he became sick. So I shot him, sparing him the fate of the rest, and stopped the virus in its tracks. Now do you see why I cannot allow their loss to be in vein by allowing you to live?"
"You don't even know me." Locke cried, anger masking his fear now as he felt his body begin to weaken. "You know nothing about me… you know nothing of my condition." He exclaimed.
Rousseau didn't respond – and she still had her gun trained on him.
"I can't take much more of this." He growled despairingly. "Please… I need Jack… Just give me a bloody chance!" He begged.
A sickening pain shot through his lower abdomen as he forced himself to his feet. He stumbled backwards, a primitive cry irrupting from the deeper recesses of his throat – and shock turned his body cold.
It was then that a loud crack abruptly echoed through the jungle canopy as the gun Rousseau still had trained upon Locke suddenly went off.
