A/N: Ah, escape and recapture… what fun. A revised version? Even more fun. But what is changed? I suppose you will have to read it to find out. ;-)
I can tell you this, it's 2500+ words longer... And in case you haven't figured it out yet, I still don't own this.
A Passage 5:
Dancing on the line…
Ali's voice cut through the gloom, "Jack? Jack are you in there?"
The girl who would be a boy made her way through the dusty dark of the crashed ship clutching the straps of her leather backpack. Ali clapped his hand on Jack's shoulder as they met on the edge of dark and light. The heat was just as relentless as it had ever been but the robed boy seemed cheerful and quite at home in it. Beyond them, Zeke's voice called, "Did ya find 'em? Ai, going back for your luggage, see? Shazza my squeeze, what did I tell ya?" he called over his shoulder as he gathered up the two young boys.
Drawn outside into the sunlight and busied with helping out the other survivors took much of Jack's attention for the better part of the long twin-sun day. Between Shazza needing smaller fingers to thread tubing into whatever part she was working on and Zeke's watchful eye both Ali and Jack were kept out of trouble and away from Johns. The two bushwhackers might not have known, per say, exactly why they wanted to herd the two children, only that it was important that they do so.
Meanwhile, Imam, Fry, Paris, and Johns were over at the cargo bay debating the finer points of drink. The bad thing was although they had something that a few of the adults could use; Paris' stash didn't help either those on Hajj or the child. Carolyn wondered if any of the recycling units for the cryosleep system survived, and if any of the hoses still retained any moisture with the main cistern leaked dry. Paris moved around her, loading up beaded bags with what he decided he could spare. They could cook the alcohol out of the booze, if they could figure out a way to force the resulting water vapor to re-condense. With the persistent heat only nightfall would provide that. Could they survive that long?
Johns ignored the crewie's brooding and took a handful of the loaded bags, leaving Paris to pack up an extra one for himself. At least they had something to drink that would provide some calories. Empty calories, but they could survive on that for a while if it turned out that they needed to. "Come on, let's lock this up and get back." His senses spiked with alarm. The cold sweat returned to soak his undershirt.
"Whatever you have, I hope it's not catching," Paris sneered from off to his left.
Johns fixed the man with an icy stare; "It's just a touch of Swamp Flu from the Conga System. Doc said it was past the contagious stage when he cleared me to leave. I just haven't shaken it with all this cryosleep."
"Mr. Olgivie," Carolyn started, "Let's not get on each others throats."
"Well, I'll need receipts for all of this. It's my personal stuff."
The docking pilot narrowed her eyes, "Sure. Top of my list, that." She fixed the paste complexioned man with a contemptuous expression, "I need a receipt for saving your crappy ass, too. It wasn't in my job description." She brushed past Johns and Imam and back out into the scorched scar with its smoldering ruins. Behind her Johns just shrugged and turned to follow her. He figured she'd just lost a long-term co-worker and was likely under a great deal of stress. It was surprising that she was holding up as well as she was, in his opinion.
Paris huffed in irritation and pulled himself up out of the cargo container behind the marshal. He was surprised to find the Imam's hands reaching toward him to help him up. "Thank you-"
"It is no bother, Mr. Olgivie." The Imam rested a hand on his shoulder. "God will provide." Together they walked back to the crash ship.
Those returning from the near cargo hold did so in a straggling line. The blonde 'captain' arrived first in a huff. She nodded to Zeke and Shazza before marching inside the crash ship back to Owens' body. The Marshal followed behind her with his hands filled with glittery, clanking bags. He stopped and opened one to lift a bottle out, "Booze?" Shazza asked. He shrugged and moved past her to the shadows formed at the edge of the crash. Settling down the bags, he followed Fry inside the ship. Imam and Paris arrived next, "All you got to drink is booze?" She leveled at Paris.
"You know, the captain said the same thing. What do you have to drink? Huh?" he challenged.
It was quiet for a moment.
"There might be a few packets of water left," Zeke stated. "And a filter, if we have power for it. But seeing as there's far more for the adults then the children, the water packs are for Jack and Ali here." He dared Paris to challenge him on it.
The Imam smiled, "Thank you," He placed a hand on Ali's head and the boy echoed the gratitude in Arabic.
Zeke managed a half smile; "It's nothing. Just water. Life is worth more."
Johns burst back out of the crumpled ship like it was on fire. All eyes followed him as he stormed around the ship finally coming to a halt around the backside of it. Jack looked up at Shazza and Zeke, both of which were watching the blue garbed man with an intensity that was frightening. Johns set off a fast jog suddenly, moving out of their collective line of sight. "Fuck!" he screamed. "God-damned Mother Fucker!" Something hit the ground as if it had been thrown. That something was Riddick's bit. "Like we fucking need another way to die!" He stomped back to the others. "Sir Shiv-a-lot slipped his cuffs. We'll need weapons to defend ourselves."
Somehow Riddick had gotten free. 'He was free,' the thought thrilled the crouching darkness inside Jack even as it terrified the persona. Somehow Riddick had reached the cutting torch. The one Shazza had left carelessly on the floor. 'The one I moved,' Jack thought. Johns was rather pissed off. And that was putting it mildly. After ranting up a second vulgar storm Johns stormed off to get his guns. Zeke looked at Paris, "Better head back to the cargo hold, Mate." He sighed and set off toward it leaving Shazza to watch the 'boys'. The Imam and Paris turned and followed him.
What William couldn't get through to everyone was how dangerous Riddick was. Every damn time the man escaped him people died. Not that it was exclusively the con's fault, mind, but all the same… With the killer on the loose the bushwhackers and company employees were at the top of the list to die. And the holy man wasn't too far behind. Only the youngest children were safe from the manic, as long as they didn't show signs of growing up. He yanked his guncase out of the expensive overhead storage first followed by his Guild link tucked into its padded case and extra shells, one blue box and two red. He stuffed the red boxes into the pouch that rested against the small of his back with haste. No need to even let the others suspect anything. Then he reached deeper for the large bluish black ammo bag that was sealed so only he could open it.
How had the man escaped this time? There must have been some little thing he and Zeke overlooked when they chained the convict up. Some tiny flaw Riddick had taken advantage of. But what? His mind worried over the entire situation as he hauled his gear out to the open area where the survivors were all gathering inside the ship. Only the 'captain' was missing and he knew she was sitting by a body in a compartment just below his feet. "Well?" He barked at Zeke as he entered.
"Most of us have blades, you have the gauge. Shazza and I don't have transport papers for firearms," he answered, showing his nice, sturdy, no-nonsense hunting blade. Then he put down the box of survival gear he had brought, including picks, axes, hunting boomerangs, and water packs he'd earmarked for the children. Imam and the boys had ceremonial daggers. Shazza flashed her knife at the marshal as he passed her. "There was a hunter, games-man onboard. If his cargo survived then there might be more guns. But I don't think taking a hike half across the planet to get them is a good idea."
"No. That would be stupid," Johns claimed a flat surface and lowered his gear to the floor before opening his guncase to assemble his weapons.
Jack was actually more cowed by Johns than Riddick. It seemed that most everyone was taking Riddick's escape in stride. But not Johns. 'Like a trained fighting hound,' Jack knew to stay out of his way, 'like the ones my father bred.' Jack watched Johns load his weapons with a furious intensity.
Paris entered with a crate of odd – things. They were bright and flashy. Highly decorated and likely not actually made for use. The noise of the crate settling on the floor made Johns turn around and look at Paris. His disdain was loud and clear. "What the hell are these?" he asked as he looked at one of the gaudy items. Out of the selected treasures contained in Paris' cargo hold were war picks, shields, and blowguns.
"Maratha crow-bill war-picks from Northern India, Old Earth. Very rare." Olgivie supplied with pride.
That got Zeke to turn around, "An' this?" he queried as he picked up a hollow carved stick.
"Blow-dart hunting stick from Papua New Guinea, also from Old Earth. Very, very rare, since the tribe's extinct." The portly man provided in a lecturing fashion.
The bushwhacker rolled his eyes, " 'Cuz they couldn't hunt shit with these things, be my guess."
Zeke and Paris talked, but the youth ignored their exchange. Jack looked the war picks over and took a boomerang as Paris posed questions to the air, "Well, what's the need, anyway? If he's gone, then he's gone. Why bother us?" Wrong question.
Tension filled the air until Johns spoke. His voice was low, dangerous, and nearly a growl, "Maybe to take what we got." He slammed the ammo clip home on his handgun and slid it into his holster under his back bag. "Maybe to work our nerves." Johns then focused on Paris, drilling his eyes into the man's head, "Or, maybe he'll come back just to skull-fuck us our sleep." Johns made an angered motion with his shotgun. Something in Johns' voice rang true in part, at least. Johns moved off, his pistol in his belt and his shotgun over his shoulder. Paris looked ashen.
Imam herded his boys back outside after Johns outburst, glad for once that they understood limited English. Explaining a 'skull-fuck' really was beyond his ability.
"Sounds like a charmer," Shazza said dryly. Zeke looked over at her and gave her a worried but warm smile. She smiled back and turned to Jack; "Come help us assemble the breathers. We can use all the hands we can get." Jack nodded. There was something nice about being treated like an adult with respect, the way Shazza and Zeke treated 'him'. The three moved outside to the shady area where the parts were laid out, leaving Paris alone with his drink.
Once outside, Jack noticed that the captain was hovering near the hull, in the shade. She had forgone selecting a weapon, as such and was staring out at the landscape like nothing else existed. Only when Imam and his boys revealed that they planned to go looking for water did she stir. Jack listened as Fry asked Imam to wait and help her with the bodies of her crewies. Imam agreed and the two moved inside. Jack watched the other three boys mill around not overly sure what to do. Ali finally moved over to where the breathers were being made and offered to help. Zeke set him up placing one part into another. Jack watched Johns. Johns paced around, watching the horizon, as if trying to will Riddick to show himself. Shazza tore Jack away from Johns as the first breather was completed. "For you," she said as she placed it around Jack's head. Shazza had the child test it. Jack nodded with a smile. Shazza then moved on to Ali and the other boys in turn. Finally, Paris emerged from the wreckage, carrying a box of stuff. No one moved to help him as he clambered up on top of the hull and proceeded to set up a folding chair and umbrella up there. Shazza looked up at him, "Want a breather?" Paris' panting form came back down. Sweat beaded and rolled down his sheltered complexion. Jack watched as Shazza fitted Paris with oxygen.
Finally the twin suns slipped toward the edge of the sky. The heat seemed to lessen somewhat. Jack had removed the cap that covered 'his' head, in hopes of catching a breeze through sweaty hair. The rocky soil did not hold footprints. Jack stomped around a bit to test the observation. Nope, no footprints anywhere. Imam emerged from the crumpled ship and accepted the breather Zeke offered him. "How is the Capt'n?" He asked the holy man.
"She needs time," Imam replied softly. He gathered his small flock to pray for the dead.
Fry shortly stepped out of the shadows and assessed the situation, "Imam, if we are going to look for water we should go soon, before nightfall but while the air is cool." Imam glanced at her and agreed. Shazza handed her the last of the breathers as Zeke approached Johns with one.
Then the pilgrim boys began to shout in Arabic for attention and Paris approached. Speaking over the youths' babble he said, "I think there's something you all should see."
Johns trained his spyglass the direction the young pilgrims were pointing. He did not look through it for long though. It was all too clear what was happening. Soon everyone was standing and staring. Something was causing the sky to change directly opposite of the setting suns… something large and blue-white. Imam pulled his boys off to the side after gathering his wits. Johns calculated that there was 140 degrees between the stars that were setting and the new one rising opposite them. He looked at Zeke. The bushwhacker looked rather worried. Not a good sign for survival. Fry seemed to know it was bad too. Now they had to find water.
"Three suns?" Jack gawked at the sight. No wonder this world was baked dry with a dense yet nearly un-breathable atmosphere. There were three suns. Part of 'him' jerked internally. They had so very little water. It was already hotter than anyplace Jack had ever been before. There was no shade, no plant life, no nothing… How would they survive here? Would they have to resort to barbaric means? Was there a way off this god-forsaken broiled rock? Panic rose again, only to be thrust sharply down by the internal foreignness that was rising to meet it. They'd make it. Or they'd die… it was that simple. Having already beaten the odds once, Jack decided that 'he' might as well enjoy life while it lasted.
"Bloody Hell," Shazza was dumbfounded, and more than a little frightened. The only benefit she could see was that the two setting suns would leave the hotter blue one alone in the sky. Her mind raced. Maybe, just maybe, liquid could be distilled from the ship's systems. If not, they were in deep shit trouble.
"So much for your nightfall," Zeke told Fry. He set his jaw. There were graves to be dug and a psycho to watch out for…the continuing daylight might just be a good thing on that front. Riddick would have little cover. He slung his pick over his shoulder and looked at his life-mate. Her features were stressed, her eyes shocked. He tried to reassure her with a slight smile as he caught her hand.
"So much for my cocktail hour," Paris piped up. Jack rolled his eyes. The opinion seemed lost on Paris even though the others shared it.
Then Imam surprised everyone as he walked up with Suleiman under his arm; "We take this as a good sign. A path – a direction from Allah." He smiled at their disbelief, "Blue Sun, Blue Water," he stated it as if it made perfect sense. The youth beamed broadly at the holy man's announcement.
"Ever wonder why I'm an atheist?" Zeke told him. He shook his head at the holy man in exasperation. It was a random direction. There was no proof that water would be found toward sunrise.
Johns, who was still towards the edge of his established invisible parameter, said to Imam, "I take it as a bad sign. That's Riddick's direction."
Jack started at the news, but it was Fry's voice that questioned Johns, "I thought you found his restraints toward sunset." She crossed her arms as she spoke.
"Which means he went toward sunrise." Johns was thinking things over. Of the men who survived, Paris wouldn't know how to shoot, and Imam was leading the water search. It was not a good idea to split up the party. Not with Riddick out there somewhere waiting. Zeke and Shazza could handle themselves. So either he had to go with Imam in case Riddick popped up or Zeke would have to go. And Zeke looked like he was set to stay at the crash site. Johns finally handed Zeke one of his guns, "One shot if you spot him." Shazza and Zeke looked at Johns with disappointment. He was leaving them to take care of the dirty laundry without thinking to negotiate a contract.
"Bloody – Not you too?" Zeke took the gun, "We deal after, yeah?"
Johns nodded. Now, normally he wouldn't 'deal' at all, but in this case he felt he had to. "They expect him alive, so just shoot to warn, not to kill." The pair gave Johns twin looks that read very much like they would use whatever force was necessary to protect themselves. Johns opened his mouth to push the point home that he needed Riddick alive when he was interrupted.
"And if Mr. Riddick spots us first?" It was Paris' sniveling voice.
It was a good question. Too bad they hadn't asked it before. Johns spared Paris a glance before beginning to move away with Fry following Imam. "There will be no shots." Johns' assurance was cold.
Riddick watched the party separate from the crash site through his goggles. Good, Johns was going with them. He carefully set about shadowing but staying ahead of the six-member group, carefully watching both his path and theirs. When it became clear that the ridge he was on would merge with the rising path the group followed he scooped up a couple of pebbles. He gently tossed one to get the group to stop, then the second to draw Johns' attention the other way. He held his position as Johns said, "Quiet! Quiet!" to the pilgrims motioning for the boys to stop their chanting. He cocked his head like he was listening for something. Riddick's third pitch caused a tiny slide of pebbles on the opposite ridge. Johns moved up the hill to investigate.
As Riddick made his way past the meeting point and down into the bone yard beyond he heard the pilgrims begin their chant again. The Imam's voice carried on the heavy air, "Seven Stones to keep the Devil at bay." Well, that was right, wasn't it? If he wasn't the devil then Johns was. How long would it take for the ex-marine to loose patience with these civilians and start X'ing them out? How long could he draw the blue-eyed devil away from his amber-eyed angel? Time to up the ante. Time to play the dangerous game.
Johns took refuge from the heat in his training. He scoured the area for any signs of Riddick. There were no footprints, no movement of any kind. Then his eyes caught something on the horizon, a dark fuzzy mass that anywhere else he'd take as vegetation. He hunkered down to brace his shivering arms and pulled out his spyglass. It took him a moment to get his hands steady but once he did the adjustment clarified the mass into pale trunks and green tinged branches. His heart soared with hope. He heard a clatter behind him. Instinct brought the shotgun up and aimed before he even realized he was moving it. His eyes recognized Fry before he pulled the trigger. She let out a gasp of surprise. He shrugged and lowered the weapon.
"See anything?"
"No Riddick. Trees. And trees mean water." Johns replied.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Riddick stood in the shadow of a huge rib. His senses buzzed with a connection to something dangerous, deadly, and waiting. The ex-ranger drew up comparisons with Spitfires and other nasty creatures he'd encountered over the years of running. But the bones were old, the death marks, while still sharp, smoothed with untold cycles of natural sandblasting. Another thing that bothered him was the evidence of flooding. Also old, barely visible, but unmistakable signs that this canyon was carved through the soft, rocky landscape by massive flows of water. He had taken the time to study the surroundings as he chipped one of the bones into a makeshift shiv. He curled his fingers around the handle with the blade down and waited.
The sounds of the young pilgrims coming up the hill spurred the muscular man into his pre-chosen hiding spot. The bone fit his form perfectly. Why did he wait here? Did he honestly think that he could off Johns and walk back into the group and tell them the truth and that they would believe it? No one else did. His mind filled with the purple tinted vision of his angel again… He set his jaw and pushed it away. Enough of the shit. His idealistic view of her was going to get him killed, and for all he knew she was a bad as the man who raised her. He had to get a grip.
He heard the survivors reach the top and fall silent as the excitement of finding something gave way to the shock of what it was that had been found. Faint words carried on the whistling wind, "My God – Is this whole planet dead?" It was the woman's voice. Shifts in the wind erased the response if there was one. The faint sounds of the group sliding down the incline and entering into the maze of bones filtered clearly to him. Soon the shock gave way to youthful play. Children always found something that made the situation less dire than adults might view it.
Johns was poking around with his shotgun. The boys were chasing each other in the relative coolness of the shade, until Johns interrupted them with, "Get out, dammit! This ain't no playground." The order sent the boys scrambling back to Imam.
"At ease, Johns! Nobody put you in charge," the crewie's voice carried through the bones.
"Maybe you better come in here…" The merc must have found the bone chips, and that fact made his quarry smile with satisfaction. It was easy to trace the blonde woman's path by sound as she entered into the large skull where the pile of evidence had carefully been left behind. The hunted shifted himself to slip into the darkness… 'It would be so easy, but so pointless… Likely she'd be useful.' Johns had her full attention, both would go down before either knew what had happened, and still he waited. "Look at this. Big Evil is around here somewhere. I can feel it," Johns stood and began searching the skull's shape. Riddick remained exactly where he was, safely wedged and hidden from view.
The only woman in the scout party slipped back out into the sunlight and begin fiddling with something that caught her almost assailant's undivided attention. The breather reminded him of how much punishment his lungs were taking in this hostile environment. He fixed his eyes on it and slipped silently to the ground, shadowing her path until she stopped to switch out the tanks on her belt. But it was not her breather he wanted from her.
The docking pilot waited in mounting irritation as the cop poked about in the bones of the giant creatures that were long dead. She doubted that a killer like Riddick would play cat and mouse games inside a maze when there was survival at stake, but had to admit that she was no expert in that matter. Her life had been a hard one. Her parents had made bad decisions that ended them up in debtor's colony leaving her to live in a group home for a few years before she successfully made the entrance exams for flight school. Her only saving grace was that she'd been born before her parents fell into hard times, at a normal hospital, and was a registered citizen as a result. Some of her younger siblings hadn't been so lucky. Puffing on the breather told her it was time to switch tanks. She hadn't realized she was using so much of the liquid air. Bugger. Fry paused and moved the hose from the spent tank to a fresh one. She did, however, know that they system was as corrupt as they came and just because Riddick had been labeled a killer didn't actually mean he was one. He might have just been very, very unlucky.
Johns finished his search. He'd come up dry. But the feeling that Riddick was near didn't ease up. He pushed it aside. 'Wonder what was up with that Owens fella and his not touchin' the handle thing? Maybe there is something there I can use to keep Fry under my thumb.' He looked around and noticed the woman was leaning up against the ribcage nearby. The ex-marine formulated his battle plans and drifted over to the pilot, a bottle of scotch in his hand, "Care for a taste?"
Carolyn Fry started at the sound of Johns' voice coming back into a standing position so fast she felt dizzy for a second. Something about him was not right. She tried to cover her desire to shrink away from the man in blue by slowly leaning back into the ribcage behind her. He offered the bottle. She stared at it for a moment then took it, "Probably shouldn't do this. Makes it worse. Dehydrates you even more." She took a drink and shook her head as the warm liquor jolted her senses.
"Probably right." Johns had several reasons for his offer, one of which was to loosen the woman's tongue. He drank before pressing the issue. "You know, I woulda played road dog for these guys. You could've stayed behind. Probably should've…because, you know, if we don't find water…."
The bottle passed again. "No. I… wanted to get away." It passed back.
He knew she was no captain, but couldn't, for the life of him, remember what position she actually held in the crew. "I've never seen a captain so eager to leave her ship," Johns was like a hound dog on a blood scent.
Riddick paused, just out of sight, fuming over the interruption. He really didn't want to hear their alcoholic bonding.
Fry stood up, aiming to walk away when the next question caused her to lean back again, "What did Owens mean? 'Bout not touching the handle?" For a moment Johns thought the woman was going to stay tightlipped. He tried to convince her, "Hey, see anyone else around here? Just between you and me. Promise." Still it didn't work. He tossed the bottle aside and leaned in closer "Carolyn, sittin' on our secrets ain't gonna help us now."
'How can you sit for his bullshit, Captain?' Riddick thought sarcastically as he crept ever closer to his prize.
It all came tumbling out almost as if there was just too much guilt built up for her to hold in. "I'm not the captain." Nor did Fry want to be, this situation was far beyond what they paid her for, and quite frankly she possessed zilch in the way of training to deal with this kind of pressure. The cop was hovering just far enough away to be polite but still too close for her to be as ease. She fidgeted and took a breath, "During the landing when things were at their worst -- Owens was at his best. He's the one who wouldn't let the docking pilot dump the main cabin. The passengers."
"And the docking pilot being?" Johns asked. His answer was just a look. Riddick, although behind her, could immediately tell that the question was a dumb one. The Merc took off his baseball cap and put it on her head, and Riddick expertly sliced a lock of hair at the same moment, "Guess I'm more glad to be here than I thought." He started off toward the Imam and his flock. After a second to steady her nerves the docking pilot followed him.
Riddick lightly sniffed the sun-kissed blonde hair. Fry was interesting to say the least. She had the makings of a mass murder in her blood. Instinctively, he liked her. Something about her seemed to call out that they had kindred experiences. The 'like' wasn't sexual so much as it might have been though. He closed his eye behind the goggles and took a deep breath of air through the sweaty golden-yellow strands, 'A memento of you, babe. All I wanted, so I could find out more about who you really are.' There were too many aromas to sort through. In spite of her being the only female crewie on the crashed ship, none of the scents were masculine. Would figure that she batted for the other team. He smirked before blowing the hair away.
His eyes fixed on the scotch bottle. There was one good swallow left. It was a trap, but not a very good one. Sand would replace the liquid quite nicely. And knowing Johns, he'd be too lazy to circle back and check. Years of survival level living made the convict's mind sharp. It froze a picture of the bottle in easy access. He picked the scotch up, emptied it with a swallow, and filled it with a handful of sand. Then he crouched down, pulling up the image to help him replace the bottle perfectly…
He slipped like a shadow back out of the merc's line of sight and circled back to the crash.
Jack looked up at the blue sun approaching high noon. Shock still registered over the simple fact that this planet had three suns. The youth looked out as the sounds of Zeke's homemade sled scraped by. It held two bodies and a bundle of tarp. "You comfy up there?" Zeke shouted up at Paris as he moved into the antique dealer's line of sight. Perhaps it was the shock that allowed the demoness, the she-monster… the shadow that dwelled inside to take over. Whatever it was, whatever the reasons, Jack didn't fight it. Instead an evil grin spread over that pixie's face. One that would have scared her 'pops' had the wrenched man witnessed it. The huntress emerged, like a cat stalking a mouse, and begun a slow, silent, climb up the back of the hull.
"Amazing how you can do without the necessities of life as long as you have the little luxuries." Paris' voice floated down as the honey brown-haired teen stealthily moved higher. 'Gonna teach you, you snobbish bastard,' Jack thought. Thrill circled through the developing body. Power. Skill that Jack hadn't guessed was there.
"Just keep your bloody eyes open! Don't want that dog sneakin' up my bloody fuckin' ass!" Zeke scolded. Jack could smell the little snob of a man's cigar now, the smoke wafted out into the hot air, moving down in the dense, oxygen-poor atmosphere. The huntress silently purred. So close… The next move was silent, graceful… like a snake ready to strike. And still Paris had no idea she was there. 'Could slit his throat,' the shadow whispered… 'could do it! If I wanted… Yes I could….'
"Don't worry old boy. You dig the graves, and I'll hold down the fort." Nearly in position, the predator waited for Paris to relax back into his canvas chair. Death wasn't her plan though, no. Death would be too easy. 'Got you.' Jack thought with an evil glint in those rare golden eyes.
Lightening fast, she slipped the boomerang under Paris' jaw, pulling it tight, watching the older man react with alarm. His assailant leaned in so youthful lips were nearly brushing Paris' ear. Ignoring the smells of tobacco and alcohol that rolled off the pasty fellow, the huntress said softly, "He could probably get you right -- here," and she pulled up again with the weapon, "right under the jaw, and you'd never even hear him coming." There was a pause for effect; Jack's voice became more intense, " 'Cause that's how good Riddick is."
The art dealer finally recognized who it was, and he relaxed slightly. But the point had been made. Paris decided to stab back as he reached up and pulled the boomerang away, "So, tell me. Did you run away from your parents? Or did they run away from you?" He turned to face what he initially thought was a child playing and found himself facing something altogether different. A killer. An angered killer. His fear surged again, and he froze, paralyzed like a mouse with a hawk zooming in.
Icy anger swelled through the Huntress. Murderous rage. Blood lust. 'It would be so easy to slit this soft, cultured throat,' the darkness whispered, entranced by the intense terror it was detecting in its quarry.
Paris jerked back from the fierce, raw emotion showing in the golden cat-like eyes of the creature in front of him. They were nose to nose. Close enough for the heat from the other body to soak into his and cause him to break out in cold sweat. Close enough to be fully aware of the coiled power inside the guise of a child. His mind supplied that here, in his personal space, was a real, immediate threat. No ordinary boy was this animalistic thing feasting on his soul. Panic and alarm shifted through his slightly drunken haze. What the hell was that—that look…?
Having sated itself on the raw fear of its prey, the darkness retreated. Jack recoiled suddenly all too aware of the pulse of the man staring at her. His tobacco and sherry laced breath puffed against her face. She felt like there was something keeping her from breathing. Pops face floated before her minds' eye and shifted into that of the sweating, soft man. The echoes of her dark thoughts drifted into her mind again before Jack realized how scared she was of them. This wasn't Pops. This man might be a bastard, but he hadn't hurt her. Who was this? 'Paris. Would die easy,' came the answer. 'No. not… I'm not a killer!' The child's face twisted into a scowl.
The internal battle that raged was visible to Paris Olgivie as he didn't dare take his eyes off the child. He watched the catlike animalistic persona flicker in and out before the more human, but just as annoying, personality seemed to take hold. 'What the fuck is this, here?' He wondered. In all his years, nearly three fourths of a century, he'd never seen anything like that before. His heart continued to beat out an elevated tempo and he stared at where Jack had been even after the 'boy' landed gracefully back on the ground.
Shazza was waiting down below as Jack lightly settled her feet on the soil. "Come on. He's not worth it. 'Sides I need your help." The pair moved into the ship as the bushwhacker began to tell her charge how she thought they might be able to repair enough of the electronics to make something useful. Like perhaps a water distiller. After all the ship's systems had some liquid in them, perhaps water would be among those liquids. Shazza picked up a cutting torch and motioned for Jack to help her get the panel exposed. One thing Jack could do was follow direction. After a time Shazza shook her head. "No good. Let's move over to the closer storage hold and see if we can find anything useful there." Jack nodded. The pair moved out of the twisted crash and over to where the storage hold lay upside down.
They had just set about opening one of the containers with the torch when Paris appeared in the doorway, "Tell me that was you."
The accused 'boy' looked at him like he was crazy; maybe the heat was getting to the older man. "Okay." Jack shrugged, "It was me. What did I do now?"
"Assailed my fragile sense of security, that's what." Paris had an inkling that perhaps it hadn't been Jack making the noise he'd heard.
Shazza shut off the torch, "What are you going on about? He's been right here with me!"
The light through one of the cracks in the hull blinked. They all looked at one another. Jack sprang over to another gap in the skin of the ship. The youth could see Zeke and could tell that whatever was moving outside he had spotted. The bushwhacker was moving toward the ship. Then a leg came into view, dressed in familiar dark pants and topped with a white shirt that Jack noted but overlooked. The size of the leg, and the style of the pants, matched what Riddick had been wearing. Jack turned to look at Paris and Shazza. "Riddick!" she mouthed without sound. Shazza jumped over to the door, lifting Paris' war pick from him and clutching it tightly in hand.
Then the man's burned face came into view, "No!" Jack screamed. Shazza came up short with her swing. Paris relaxed again. Just another survivor. He was badly burnt and clung to the release handle of his cryo chamber. His white tee was shredded. But Jack could immediately see that his build and haircut was similar to the escaped convict who was somewhere out in the relentless heat.
"I thought…. My God…. I thought I was the only one who survived…"
Copperish crimson sprayed the air as the sound of Johns' gun reached their ears from the two new ragged holes in the man's scalded buzz-cut head. The man looked surprised for a moment, before death took the spark out of his gray-green eyes. Shazza gasped in astonishment as the deep red goo landed on her. Paris made a gagging sound behind Jack as the only one not in shock stared at Zeke. The dusky skinned man was focused on his life-mate. Her expression told him everything. "It was just somebody else! From the crash! Just another survivor – like us!" Jack felt like pounding on something in anger. She'd forgotten about Zeke.
"Cricky! I thought it was him! I thought it was Riddick!"
oOoOoOoOoOo
He'd seen the entire thing. Ah, the drama wrought by fear. He'd watched that one half-burned survivor claw his way up the crash scar, in shock, and wondered why no one had thought to scout for others. The fellow would not make it; the burns were too extensive. Riddick took advantage of the fact that Paris left his shady perch to finish off what liquor remained as he viewed the scene that played out with Zeke mistaking the white-shirted man for a real threat. That told him the rules of the game. Johns hadn't meant for Zeke to kill, greed would keep that eventuality from happening for as long as Johns thought he controlled the situation. So, knowing Johns as well as he did, the hunted decided that Zeke would be the target of his next desire… The goggled gaze fixed onto the glint of metallic tubing held in the dusky man's lips. Time to get a breather.
Zeke had to catch his wits. That had been so stupid. At least the grave would hold another body. Still, he couldn't afford to be making such careless errors… Shazza took the event as well as could be expected. She knew the crash had impacted her life-mate's mental state. That docked the chance of survival down quite a ways she figured. He might have bumped his head. Or the sun was getting to him. She wiped the blood off and attempted to talk him into resting inside for a while. Zeke insisted that he was fine. The body would fit in the grave, and he'd fill it in. The hard part was done already. Shazza watched as he dragged the body off to the gravesite with more than a touch of worry.
But Zeke had another watcher, too. Riddick had posted himself behind a spire, just uphill from the gravesite. He stayed put as the sled scraped it's way to a stop. The ropes dropped with a thud. He heard the rustle of the tarp. His senses began to tingle. Suddenly he was moving toward the grave, toward the bushwhacker, unsure of his motive. Something was wrong. Zeke shouldn't be in there. 'What the fuck am I doing? The bastard just shot someone thinking it was me, yet…. I've got to get him out of there…' The breather forgotten, Riddick reached the tarp edge with a warning on his lips when the gunshots froze him in position. His instincts screamed for him to bolt. Every fiber of his being called this truly bad news. Something had woken up to the smell of blood. Something hungry…
The shots rang off wild. Jack, Shazza, and Paris snapped to attention. "Zeke?!?" Shazza screamed with alarm. Then she began running toward the sound in a blind panic. Jack glanced at Paris who still looked mighty ill. The youth rolled those amber eyes and set off after Shazza at a slower pace. Something held the teen back, a twinge of some new feeling. Jack brushed it off as the sound of the tarp being torn off the sled and flipped into the air drew her attention back to Shazza. Beyond the wild haired woman was a familiar shape, a black clothed muscular figure, with tanned skin. The youth picked up her pace, breaking into a trot, her eyes shifting from the blood-free form above to the blood splattered pit below and the woman opposite it.
Shazza lifted her head; she had to be crushed with grief, just from her body language. Ferocious green eyes met impassive black goggles. Time began to slow… It seemed that all of them were caught in quicksand or something. That new feeling was stronger; a deep set buzz, a warning of some type. 'Have to keep Shazza from going there. Where? I don't know. Just there. Something's very dangerous…' Then Shazza screamed. The sound seemed to jolt all three of them back into time again. Jack began to run toward the gravesite, as the remaining bushwhacker stood frozen watching Riddick's massive form turn with surprising agility and grace, each movement giving him gathering speed for his sprint away.
Riddick's only thought was to find someplace to gather his sagacity back. He dodged through the spire-crusted landscape knowing that there was no way he could fight this enemy alone. He wasn't even sure he could fight it at all. Zeke hadn't even let off a scream… and whatever was in there… was pure predator. He heard the feet pounding after him. Gaining. Fueled by rage. Between the distraction caused from the buzzing and the harsh time his lungs were having he knew he wasn't in top form. He certainly wasn't paying attention to his surroundings as he'd been trained to do.
Pain shot through his legs just below the knee sending him to the ground with a hard thud. Johns had heard the first two shots. Riddick hadn't even thought of him showing up. The lack of water and oxygen dulled his reaction time and his mind. His senses were filled again with that buzzing. What ever this was, it was right below them, moving as they moved. Waiting for something to happen. And then there was Johns. Riddick grappled by instinct, fumbling due to the intense noise vibrating through his head until the blue-eyed devil removed his eye protection. Sharp sudden bright light pierced into his skull. The overwhelming pain blotted out everything, making it almost impossible to do anything but cover his eyes.
As soon as Riddick was out of view, Shazza sprang into action, leaping like a mad hellcat into a chase that she likely could not win. Jack reached the grave breathless, "No, Shazza!" The teen's voice did not carry. Only one thing to do, Jack set out to follow her. Forgotten was the brutal heat, the lack of water, the oxygen poor air…. 'What will I do if Riddick kills Shazza?' It rolled through Jack's skull as she tried to catch up. Up ahead there was a loud thud. The sounds of grappling, and a few hard blows. Jack slowed. It sounded like Johns grunting. Johns hitting. Something inside her did not want to see what was doing the pounding. Then Shazza joined in the bash feast. The youth rounded the corner, blood pumping in her ears, dimming what was being said.
Fry appeared and pulled Shazza off the prone figure now curled into a fetal position attempting to shield his eyes and body at the same time. " -- Just kill him!" was all Jack could hear as her ears cleared. "Kill him before he—" Shazza lashed out with one last kick connecting with Riddick's temple and knocking him unconscious before letting Fry lead her away.
It had taken two grown men to get Riddick into position while awake, but Johns no longer had Zeke to help him. Jack found Johns assessing him. With a somewhat unhappy air Johns said, "Come on, help me out here, kid. Grab his feet."
There was no way that Jack could refuse. What would she say, 'It's too heavy'? No, better to take the direction and help Johns. Jack moved over and picked up Riddick's legs by his ankles. "What did you do to him?" The question came out before Jack thought about it.
"Me?" Johns was fetching Riddick's goggles from the ground. "I didn't do a damn thing to him. He's blind in the light without these," Johns held up the goggles for Jack to see. "But he is sorely testing my righteous nature. Same ol' shit, kid. Just another planet." Johns hefted up Riddick's limp form by the big man's shoulders. Together the two of them could just lift him off the ground.
They slowly covered the distance back to the ship. Jack didn't say anything to Johns, but even close up it was clear that Riddick was clean of blood. He was dry. It was even clearer after he rolled in the dirt. 'I'll have to talk to Fry. I have to let her know what I saw. I don't think Riddick did it. Don't know what he was doing there, but killing Zeke was not his plan. No way could he have done it…'
Johns was in his own state of thought. The kid was strong for a ten-year old. He had a good, steady strength, too. 'Funny, that. I'm usually a good judge of people, but this kid is full of surprises. Not like the dope is helping me any, I'd wager, but the boy's got promise. He could make the guild someday.' Johns' opinion of Jack stayed fairly high until Jack began to help him secure the unconscious convict. Jack pointed out the lack of blood on Riddick's bone shiv, clothing, and hands. "You don't know the son-of-a-bitch like I do kid. Sir-shiv-a-lot has ways of killing clean." He listened to the boy's protest, mentally noting that he'd make a better lawyer than Merc, "Shut up. I'm telling you Riddick killed Zeke. I don't know what makes you think any different, and I don't care. He's a killer, understand? Now go make yourself useful and stay out of the way."