Disclaimer: I think it's quite firmly established that I do not own the rights to Lost. If so I would've already paid Dominic Monaghan to be my boyfriend, and my writing time would've been devoted to making out with him, thus, this wouldn't exist.
Thanks for the reviews: I love all of my reviewers! You are all beautiful people for whom the world envies! Shadow of Dusk, you's a-crazy! In the best way, though. Thanks guys!
A/N: Sheesh, it took me a while to finish this one, didn't it? Well, dangit, if I didn't get a brief onset of the worst writer's block known to man. That usually happens when I say it won't, like I did in my last chapter. I have bad luck. But anyway, I got over it a couple days ago, and hopefully you'll like this new chap-a-lap. So, here's the newest installment of "The Pilgrimage"!
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Zeke regarded Charlie's crumpled form the way a judge might regard someone on death row. Sure, they might've landed themselves into whatever crappy situation they were in, but you couldn't help finding your whole conscious getting sucked up into the onslaught of hot, burning pity that occurred every time you gazed down upon the accursed man, destined for nothing more than a sad, painful, and lonely death. And even as he tried so desperately to ward it off, it came to him in thick, hard-to-swallow doses; like huge pills; and every time he could feel it burning away at him, the same words flew in and out of his dazed mind, gnawing at him persistently...almost screaming at him.
Pity can be deadly! And he had to remember that, no matter how naive or misled Charlie was. How doomed from the bloody start...
The heroine had kept him up all night and Zeke could tell. He looked like a madman, deprived of both sleep and sanity. And sadly, the bit of sleep that the poor man was getting now was hardly awarding of the title. Zeke could faintly hear the far away mutterings escaping Charlie's lips, the majority of which was complete and utter nonsense. In fact, the boy had given Zeke quite a scare earlier that same morning, when he had just plain out of the blue shouted, "Mother, they stole the bananas!" In the middle of the cold black of the jungle. True, the words themselves were not too frightening, but the way he had said it...he had screamed those words into the dark haze like a maniac, his voice twitching up and down in sheer insanity. And Zeke had been frightened.
But now Charlie was silent for the most part, and Zeke much more preferred it that way. The small bag of heroine was itching uncomfortably in his hand, and he knew that it was his duty to once again pull Charlie out of whatever crazy, banana-filled Dream World that he was consumed in, but he could not bring himself to do it. And least not yet. Clinching the sweaty bag, Zeke sauntered away from the sleeping man feeling like a fool for letting his sympathy get the best of him. But as his footfalls sunk lightly into the morning dew, his conscious spoke softly to him, reassuring him that things would still go as planned.
Just let him get his sleep, that's all. Just a little longer. Than it's Go Time, Banana Boy.
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Conscious is a terrible thing, Claire thought as she started to cram her backpack full to the top with plastic water bottles. Did they really call it the Voice of Reason? The lone voice of truth in the disaster which was the modern world? To her, it was like a sickness slowly driving her insane.
It should've been exactly the opposite. The untamable Voice of Reason in her brain should've told her that a thing like this was nonsense. Stupid. But, for some ridiculous reason, things in her brain had gone loopy, and now the Voice of Truth was screaming at her to go and save Charlie. But what about the baby, she had asked. What about Aaron? The voice of truth responded in an overwhelmingly powerful voice: He will be fine. Now go and save Charlie!
And now she found it hard to believe that that was what she sincerely was planning to do. It was nonsense, yes. It was stupid, yes. I was downright unethical. But deep down, she knew that if she didn't want his death on her heart for the rest of her life-his blood smeared on her forehead- she would have to do this.
She would have to rescue him.
As he rescued me, she thought absentmindedly, snapping her backpack shut. As she threw it over her shoulder, she could feel the mass of water bottles juggling and gurgling behind her back; the noise of plastic running over more plastic. It was to this noise that she addressed the islanders, all sitting outside of their tent staring out into the majestic blue ocean looking oddly content.
"Everyone, listen!"
Claire had never been a public speaker. With a shudder she remembered her first speech in eighth grade. It had been about the woman's suffrage movement, and she had prepared beforehand for weeks- endless studying, hours of rehearsing in front of the mirror. And the morning of the speech she had actually been confident- ready to deliver. But when she had stood in front of the classroom, notes shaking in her hands, she hadn't been able to do it. She had tried to speak, but her throat felt like gritty sandpaper. And so she stood, frozen to the ground, completely and utterly vulnerable. Her teacher had threatened her with a zero, and she had accepted it gladly. But this...this was different. Her measly speech about Susan B. Anthony did not determine the outcome of another man's life. This did.
"Hey!" Claire had shouted gruffly at them, and with annoyance they all turned to look at the small, blonde woman. "Listen to me! I have something to say!"
She found herself surprised at their lack of interjection or harsh words. Brightened by this, she continued. "I'm sure that all of you know of Charlie. Thing is, he's been missing for six days now." Heart beating passionately in her chest, she crossed her arms. "That's six days out...there. Six days away from camp. For all we know he could be dead."
She was struck with the vision of a jungle covered in blood, her lover dead on the ground. She shuddered.
"Or...he could be alive. We can't be sure right now. But one thing we can all be sure of is that we'll never know unless we go out and look for him, and this is exactly what I plan on doing."
It was then that the mad blitz of interjection occurred. "Wait a minute." Claire looked up at the woman whom she had only seen around once or twice, but had heard quite a deal about her nonetheless. Black hair, tan skin, beautiful...this must be Ana Lucia. "Answer me this. What makes Druggy Boy so special? Dozens of innocent people have gotten lost out there, too."
Claire was hit with a bolt of anger as she heard them all sniggering at Ana Lucia's new nickname for Charlie. She could feel her temples throbbing, her hands forming into unknowing fist. Yet, she ignored it, for if she lashed out in anger at whoever brought up a valid question, surely no one would want to accompany her in her pilgrimage into the jungle. And the last thing she wanted was to be alone. "But all of those people were stolen. Charlie went out there on his own free will-"
"Exactly! Leave his ass out there to rot, that's what I say."
Her throat welled up with fury. Yes, Ana Lucia did hold quite a rivaled beauty, but it seemed like all that came out of her mouth was pure filth. "Let me finish! So did Michael, and we sent a search team out for him. True, we didn't find him, but we at least looked! I say Charlie deserves the same."
"Yeah, because walking out into the jungle for no damned reason is a helluva lot more honorable than looking for your lost son," Ana grunted, nastiness practically dripping from every word. Claire felt like crying, and she doubted she would've had the strength to continue had it not been for the person who spoke next.
"Hey now," John Locke's voice was thick with wisdom and honorability. It was almost like magic, the way everyone's head snapped upwards in attention when he spoke. "Claire isn't asking for any arguments. All she is asking for is help from anyone who's willing to offer it." He paused as a ray of sun glinted off of his round, bald head. "I, for one, am willing to offer mine."
Needless to say, the majority of the people listening were shocked. Didn't Locke, no more than a week prior, punch Charlie in the face? Give him one in the old kisser? A hard one, at that? If so, then why the hell did he want to help? And apparently, he wasn't the only one willing to reach out a hand to lost little Druggy Boy. They were all shocked once more as they witnessed Jack approaching Claire, looking quite heroic with a knife clipped to his belt loop, shining in the sunlight. "Count me in."
As the entire camp stared at the three of them- the Search Team- with a look of dumb shock, Claire felt some foreign yet wonderful lifting sensation in her stomach that brought a smile to her face. Was it hope?
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Charlie came out of the frantic, drug-induced nightmare with the unshakable feeling of desolation and dread all over him...drowning him. An insurmountable crescendo of chilling horror swelled over his heart like torrents of cold water, and he let the onslaught of scalding tears overcome him - weeping like a child into the faint and dim sunrise. He tried his very hardest to shake away the images, but the moment his frenzied mess of a brain could finally set itself straight, he realized it immediately...and nothing could make him more petrified.
He would have to choose again.
This was no dream, of that he was sure. Nothing so clear and precise could merely be the workings of a restless mind in the middle of the night. It was a vision. Of what, he did not know.
But the one thing he did know was that he had to get out, and as fast as possible.
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At first the dreams had been nonsensical...truly ridiculous. He had dreamt that he was back home with his mother when a man in matching pink bra and panties burst through the door and snatched all of the bananas from the kitchen. That dream had been light- enjoyable in fact, for he sometimes found himself forgetting his mother's face. But for some reasons the dreams took a sudden turn for the worst, and thinking back upon the nightmare, he could feel a sickly cold sweat springing up all over him.
The sky had been singularly black, and he had been crawling. Dragging himself miserably, to be more precise. He had felt like an animal, one with the earth. Instinctive, barbaric...filled with a raging desire for blood. Everything had been so real...the wet, sopping mud between his fingers, the underbrush that ripped and tore at his flesh as he progressed into the darkness. But he did not feel the pain, for it seemed that everything was pointless- everything except the hunt. Tonight would be a glorious night. Tonight he would be victorious. Tonight he would bathe in her blood.
Now as he sat staring desperately up at the sky, he felt ill. But, in this dream (which hadn't seemed like a dream whatsoever) he felt no conscious, no battle of virtues in his heart. Just the unforgiving, consuming desire to kill.
On his hands and knees, covered in the mud, he approached her. Between the thickets of leaves, she stood illuminated by a lone sliver of white moonlight. He could feel the satanic grin ripping at the corners of his mouth; the guttural grunt of delight that a predator makes when it's finally spotted it's prey.
The tears rolled endlessly down his cheeks as he tried so hard to forget what happened next. But trying to forget something so...enduring...it was impossible.
A battle cry, shrill and terrible, pealed from his throat, and, brandishing a small and silver dagger, he leapt from the undergrowth and pounced on her, screaming and crying like a maniac. He could remember her face, so innocent and whole beneath the beam of moonlight. God's only child in a miserable and dark hell, infested with evil varmint such as himself. As he drove the dagger into her chest, he had felt no remorse. Just a singular burst of sick joy.
And now, shaking all over, he remembered with such astounding clarity Claire's blood dripping down her blouse. Except her blood...it had been white...and it dripped down thickly and eerily like melting candle waxAnd as the moonlight engulfed him, he looked down at his own tattered arms and legs and saw small streams of the darkest black beading down and trickling onto the jungle floor, spreading among the wet tousle of leaves. With those eyes so blue, those ocean eyes, she looked up at him, smiled, and said oh-so-sweetly:
"You've decided."
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I have to get out, he repeated, time and time again in his dazed mess of a brain. Half driven by horror, as well as the madness of terrible withdrawal, he pushed himself off of the log that had served as his bed and fell in a heap onto the jungle floor. Clutching onto the base of a tree, he had gotten into a standing position and started to stumble towards the distant sounds of the ocean. The sound of the morning tide slapping the rocks fiercely. He followed it blindly, and he had actually done this for about five minutes before he heard the sound of a gun clicking with anticipation at the nape of his neck. His heart thudded as he felt the cool metal against his feverish skin, and with a paralyzed sort of fright, he shut his eyes and waited for the bullet, but was instead met with the soft blow of hot breath in his ear.
"Well hell, baby, why you gotta go and run off like that?"
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Next time: Who the heck said that? Will Claire's Search Team find Charlie before the Others do? And will we finally learn the disturbing details of the plan Zeke has drawn up? Find out in the next installment of "The Pilgrimage"!
A/N: No groveling this week, mostly because I'm too tired. I'll just say I hoped you enjoyed the new chapter, now please review if you don't wish to be swallowed up into the pit of Hades. Just kidding...or am I? Ugh, I'm so tired. Just review, if you want to. Don't forget about that Hades thing, though. (I'm jus' keeding)
-Counter Spark