Disclaimer: I do not own LOST. Why can't I own LOST???
Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter is a little shorter than my previous ones, as will be the next chapter. But there is information in here that will become pivotal to a future story-arc, so this chapter isn't a total waste. Enjoy!!
I wake up a few hours later as the sky is just beginning to change to a lighter shade of blue. I crawl out of my tent to see that a few other people are also awake and moving through the camp. Yawning, I spot Ethan and jog to catch up.
"Hey, what's going on?" I ask.
"Everyone is gathering wood so we can burn the fuselage tonight," he says, looking at the plane. "Jack thinks the boars will return if we don't."
"Right," I say, recalling our conversation from the pervious night. "Want some help?"
"Sure. The more the merrier, right?" he says, smiling.
We head into the shaded jungle together, keeping close to the treeline. With the boar-scare so fresh in our minds, neither one of us wants to lose sight of the beach. Getting lost out here would definitely not be the best thing in the world, especially with polar bears and giant monsters lurking around as well. I am slightly uneasy.
We spread out, gathering as much dried brush and sticks as we can find, all the while keeping within earshot of one another. Every few minutes Ethan will call out for me through the trees and bamboo to check that I am okay and haven't absentmindedly wandered off deeper into the jungle. I reply that "I'm over here!" and continue collecting sticks and branches. We work like this for the better part of an hour, the beating sun now climbing over the trees.
I am starting to exhaust, and a thin layer of sweat is soaking through my clothes, making me uncomfortable. I make a mental note to change into something much cooler when we get back to the beach. My face grows hot, and I feel blood pounding in my cheeks, so I throw my bundle of kindling into a large pile on the ground and stop to cool off.
That's when they start.
Whispers. I do a 360 and scan my surroundings - high and low - but see no one, yet it sounds like the voices are coming from behind every tree, every leaf, every rock. Above me, below me, encircling me. Disoriented, I close my eyes and wait for His voice.
"Drugs."
And with that one word, I am thrown back into a world of silence, the only sound being the wind in the trees. I open my eyes and look around me but see no one. I take a deep breath to calm myself and steady my pounding heart. What was that? Drugs. What did He mean by that? It doesn't mean anything to me; I don't do drugs, never have! And we're on an island for Pete's sake! It doesn't even make sense. I'm too tired - too exhausted - to think about it right now.
I wipe sweat from my forehead and am about to continue working, but my ears catch a sound on the wind. I hear hurried footsteps running through the jungle, straight for me! I snap my head up in alarm only to see Ethan emerge through a wall of foliage. He stops suddenly when he sees me.
"There you are! I was calling for you." He pauses for a moment to read over my labored face. "Are you okay?"
"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't hear you. And I'm just a little tired, that's all." Of course I omit the part about the whispers and voice.
"Here," he says, handing me a bottle of Oceanic water. "Are you sure? How much sleep did you get last night?"
"Not much," I admit, slightly abashed, taking a sip of the water. It's the best water I've ever tasted in my life. I drink a few more mouthfuls, savoring the taste as it slides down my throat, then hand the bottle back to him.
"You look exhausted," he states, scrutinizing my red face. "You should go back to camp and rest."
"I'm fine, really. I want to help."
"You've done enough already," he says, eyeing my small mountain of wood. He smiles. "At the rate you're going, no one else will need to gather wood. You can burn the fuselage by yourself." Although he smiles, I can still see concern in his eyes, and I hold back from arguing with him any further.
I half smile. "Okay. I'll go back." I like Ethan, and I know he's only doing this out of care and concern for me. I'll be a kid just this once and go back to camp.
He tells me he'll bring my pile to the fuselage for me. I thank him and trek back to the beach. Everyone is awake now, and I see a large pile of wood beginning to form at the mouth of Oceanic 815. It looks like Jack was able to convince a lot of people that burning the dead is a good idea.
I make my way back to my tent to change my clothes and find a tank top and a pair of comfortable jeans at the bottom of my bag. Perfect, I think, as I put them on. My dirty clothes are thrown back into the suitcase. I'll wash them later.
I sit in my tent for a few minutes, enjoying the relaxing feeling of the cool sand beneath my feet. It's like when you get sick in the bathroom, and the cool porcelain from the toilet somehow quells the nausea you feeling raging through your stomach. I close my eyes and feel serenity wash over me as I plow my feet through the sand.
Unfortunately, it doesn't last long. From outside my tent I can hear two people arguing in raised voices, and I am unwillingly forced out of my reverie. Slightly agitated, I pause to listen to the argument, and my stomach jolts as I realize that one of the voices belongs to Sawyer. Here we go, what now?
I scramble out of my tent to see Hurley and Sawyer physically fighting over a backpack. Seriously, a backpack? What the heck? At the moment, Sawyer is winning, but Hurley is being persistent. I join the crowd of people watching.
"What's your problem?" Hurley shouts. "Hand 'em over!"
"How about no?" Sawyer retorts.
Hurley lunges for the bag, but Sawyer quickly dodges out of the way.
"There's other people here! Or don't you give a crap?" argues Hurley, abandoning his desire of snatching the bag and lunging to grab ahold of Sawyer instead.
"Yeah? Well, if one of us wouldn't eat more than his fair share!" Sawyer remarks, twisting free of Hurley's bulky grasp.
"Oh, that's bull, and you know it!" Hurley shouts.
"Hey, come on, guys," Boone interjects, stepping forward from the cluster of people. "Knock it off."
"You're not happy unless you're screwing someone over," Hurley states, regaining his hold on Sawyer.
"I'm peachy, Porkpie!"
"Guys, knock it off!" Boone yells louder.
"Stay out of this, Metro," Sawyer snaps at Boone.
"Hey!" Out of nowhere Jack and Sayid rush in and push Sawyer and Hurley apart. "What's going on?" Jack demands.
"Jethro here is hoarding the last of the peanuts," Hurley explains, pointing at Sawyer.
"My own stash," Sawyer argues. "I found it in there." He points to the fuselage.
Jack pauses for a moment wanting to say something to Sawyer, then thinks better of it and turns to Hurley. "What about the rest of the food?"
"There is no 'rest of the food', dude," he explains. "We kinda… ate it all."
Panicked murmurs break out through the crowd.
"What?"
"Nothing's left?"
"What are you talking about?"
Jack attempts to quell everyone's fears. "Okay, everybody, just calm down."
"We can find food," Sayid jumps in. "There are plenty of things on this island we can use for sustenance."
"And exactly how are we gonna find this sustenance?" Sawyer interjects, plopping down into a wayward plane seat.
Whoosh!
Without any kind of warning, a hunting knife about the length of my forearm finds its mark in the fibers of the plane seat cushions, mere inches from Sawyer's head. Shaken, we all turn to look and discover the identity of the thrower. John Locke.
He stands there very still, his feet spread apart in an alpha-dog type manner, his plaid button-down shirt billowing in the wind.
"We hunt."
There is a pause as everyone registers what just happened. After a few moments, Kate is the first to pose a question to Locke. "How'd you get that knife on the plane?" As she says this, Jack takes it upon himself to withdraw the knife from within the cushions.
"Checked it," Locke replies simply.
Jack steps toward Locke, holding out the knife for him to reclaim. "You either have very good aim," Jack remarks, glancing back at Sawyer, "or very bad aim, Mr.…"
"Locke." I notice Michael's look of resentment as he introduces the bald-headed man to the doctor. "His name is Locke."
"Okay, Mr. Locke. What is it that we're hunting?" Jack humors him.
Locke, however, is quite serious on the matter as he addresses everyone, "We know there are wild boar on the island. Razorbacks, by the look of them. The ones that came into the camp last night were piglets - a hundred, 150 pounds each. Which means that there's a mothernearby. A 250-pound rat with scimitar-like tusks and a surly disposition who'd love nothing more than to eviscerate anything comes near. A boar's usual mode of attack is to circle around and charge from behind, so I figure it'll take at least three of us to distract her long enough for me to flank one of the piglets, pin it and slit its throat."
We all kind of stand there listening to Locke in mingled shock and horror. Sawyer is the first to speak, addressing Jack. "And you gave him his knife back?"
"Well, if you've got a better idea…"
"Better than three of you wandering into the magic forest to bag a hunk o' ham with nothing but a little bitty hunting knife? Hell no. It's the best idea I ever heard."
Jack just kind of shrugs off Sawyer's remark and turns his attention back to a smiling Locke. In the sand at Locke's feet is a large silver case. Locke casually flips the lid back with his foot to reveal six more large hunting knives of various shapes and sizes, each looking more deadly than the next. Locke looks up at Jack and gives this half-smile as though proud of himself. Jack looks like he's unsure of what to say.
"Anyone who wants to help is welcome to come," Locke announces. "We leave in an hour." And without another word, he closes the case and makes his way through the throng of people, disappearing from sight.
We shift around uncomfortably, looking from one person to another to see just who is crazy enough to volunteer for such a task. After a few moments, Kate exits the crowd and follows Locke, much to the surprise of Jack. We stand around for another minute or so, waiting for someone else to step up; finally, when we are sure no one else will volunteer, people slowly start to trickle away, resuming the tasks that occupied them before Sawyer and Hurley's scuffle broke out.
Author's Note: Please please please give me some feedback. I would love to know what works and what doesn't work. I'm always looking to improve my writing. I would really appreciate any advice you might have. Thanks so much!