LOST chain story

CHAPTER 11



RITUAL
Sayid understood about ritual. He’d been brought up with it all his life, and although the Westernized part of him understood that such things were only the husk, and not the heart of a religion, this did not keep him from quietly keeping his own customs – the prayers to Mecca; the ritual cleansing; the preparation of food - gestures that comforted him now more than ever in this alien place so far from his home.
Why was it, then, that his instincts rebelled so strongly against what Ben proposed? Of course, anything that Ben proposed was potentially dangerous, if only inasmuch as it gave him his way; allowed him to give orders again.
But in fact, it made sense to burn the bodies. Beach sand is too porous for the odour of decomposition to be entirely contained, and the combined stink of so many corpses would not, he knew, be at all pleasant – although Sayid was still confident that this problem would be short-lived. The helicopters were long overdue. When rescue finally came for them –
He wondered what would be done with their own dead. With Shannon, Boone, Libby and the others. They would have to be disinterred, he thought. Taken home in body bags. The thought of her being disturbed again was suddenly and profoundly distressing to him, and he wondered at the immediacy of his grief. Surely, after all that had happened some of that should have disappeared. And yet it had not. Perhaps it never would.
He shot a suspicious look at Ben, looking down into the mass grave in which the seven corpses had been dumped. It was hard to see in that treacherous light, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile flicker across the man’s damaged mouth. And was that a whisper in the air…? Someone speaking his name?
He took an angry step towards Ben, suppressing the urge to slap that smile right off his face. “What did you say?”
Ben looked up. It had been Sayid’s idea to tie his hands, although it served no practical purpose. Ben was not going to run away.
“You said something.”
Ben shook his head. He was still smiling, Sayid thought. He could tell, though the others might not. He wanted more than ever to hit the man, and the power of that urge frightened him a little. Sayid was not a sadistic man. He had taken no pleasure in making people suffer – except in the case of Benjamin Linus, who, or so it seemed to Sayid, could never be made to suffer enough.
Once more the image of Shannon’s body inside a black ziplock bag crossed his mind. The grief he felt was like a blow. It would have been cleaner to burn her, he thought. Cleaner and more permanent.
“How long has it been? Three weeks?” said Ben. His voice was calm and very quiet. “After three weeks decomposition is well under way. Sand, of course, channels the fluids away from the corpse, but there’s clay under this stretch of sand, and you’d be surprised at how much fluid and gas a single body can generate. In desert, with a constant flow of dry air, total desiccation would occur within weeks, but I’m afraid that with so much moisture around -”
Sayid grabbed Ben’s arms, painfully tight. His eyes were like points of obsidian. “You say another word and I’ll kill you,” he said. “I don’t care who gets in my way.” Then he gave Ben a sudden shove, pushing him backwards into the grave. Robbed of the means to break his fall, Ben fell heavily onto his back, among the broken corpses of his fallen comrades.
Alex gave a cry. “Dad!”
For a moment Ben just lay there, hands bound, looking up. How could he still be smiling? Sayid thought.
The moment lengthened. No-one moved.
Then Locke reached down. “Here. Let me help.”
A long look passed between them that Sayid could not identify. Locke, too, had that smile now – a look almost of serenity. Straining his muscles, he pulled Ben out and untied the ropes from around his wrists.
“No!” said Sayid.
Locke looked at him. “It’s all right, Sayid.”
“All right?” Sayid’s face was distorted with rage. “And on what basis do you say that, John?”
Locke put a hand on Sayid’s arm. “Listen to me, Sayid,” he said. “Remember what I told you about the voting process in the Vatican? How they burn the papers to make black smoke to show that there’s a new Pope?”
Blankly, Sayid shook his head.
“Well, when does black smoke happen here?”
Slowly Sayid looked at Alex, then at Rousseau, standing behind her, her brown face blank and inscrutable. “We saw black smoke when Danielle tried to take Claire’s baby -”
“That was just a diversion,” said Locke. “She lit the fire herself that day. But where did she get the idea, Sayid? When has that black smoke been seen before?”
Now Rousseau spoke in her hoarse voice; the voice of one unused to talking. “I saw it the day they took Alex,” she said, with a sideways glance at her daughter. “Three days before I recorded the message. A little over sixteen years ago. I thought -”
Locke nodded. “And so did I. But what if Alex wasn’t the reason? What if the smoke meant something else? A signal, sixteen years ago – a sign that the Others had chosen their new leader?”
Sayid considered that for a while, controlling the rage that threatened to overcome his self-control. Locke needed careful handling. He was strong, he was smart, and in spite of everything, many people trusted him – more so, at least, than an ex-Iraqi torturer.
“So what if it was, John?” he said at last. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”
“Look behind you,” Locke said simply, gesturing to a point beyond the trees.
Sayid and Danielle turned round at once. Alex just looked at her father, the colour draining from her face, her dark-blue eyes filled with dread.
Ben’s expression did not change.
And, little by little, silence fell over the busy camp as more and more people stopped to look at the tower of black smoke rising into the sky. And in the silence there came a sound that Sayid took a few moments to identify. A low, percussive, repetitive sound; something as familiar to Sayid as his own heartbeat, distant at first, but growing louder and louder until at last it was unmistakable, slicing through the air like a blade.
“Allah Akhbar,” murmured Sayid.
The helicopters had arrived.

CHAPTER 13

For such a tall and lanky man, his ability to pass unnoticed was little short of phenomenal. Brown as bark and just as resilient, his ancient boiler-suit faded and stained to the colours of the trees, he moved in stealth towards their camp, leaving no trace of his passing, occasionally checking the bloodstained wad that mittened his wounded right hand.
It had been a calculated risk. Ben had ordered him to kill Charlie, and the grenade had been his best shot. The impact had blown open the Looking Glass – sadly, too late to prevent the sabotage – and at the same time, had blown off his index finger at the second joint and the annular at the first, as well as the tip of his right thumb.
That didn’t matter so much to Mikhail. His left hand was as good as his right, and he had weathered worse in his time. Nor was he overly concerned about the wound from the harpoon gun. If it had been a fatal hit, then he would have been dead by now. Twenty-four hours later, he knew – at least from that point of view – that his chances of survival were good.
The problem of the signal remained. He’d tried to return to the flooded hatch as soon as the Scotsman was out of the way, but the impact of the grenade he’d used, added to the earlier trauma of the sonar fence, meant serious damage to his eardrums, and even with partial knowledge of the numbers - overheard as he’d feigned death - he had not been able to fully work out the Good Vibrations of the system code.
Exhausted, he had collapsed on the shore, allowing his need for rest to take over. Waking, he’d forced himself to eat – dried jerky that he carried with him, salty enough to make him wince, but laden with energy for his task – then set off through the jungle in search of Ben.
Ben owed him an explanation.
Loyalty should cut both ways.
He’d caught up with Ben’s people as they reached the temple, though he had not revealed himself. Instead, he’d watched them from his vantage point behind some rocks. Ben was not with them. That was concerning.
Even more so was the fact that they were preparing for something. One of their rituals, Mikhail thought. He supposed it was a funeral – the white tunics they wore would suggest that. But where were the bodies? And where were the rafts? And why were they building this beacon here, piling wood and leaves into the firepit between the temple’s great stone feet?
Mikhail had never been part of this group. He enjoyed being alone, living apart, performing a vital task in isolation from the rest. He was aware that he did not belong; that he had not endeared himself by refusing to share their priorities. Mikhail answered to Benjamin alone – which was why he’d been shaken by what had occurred.
Ben had lied.
That was nothing new. But Ben had lied to him – which had made him reassess everything. He’d assumed that their long acquaintance had given him certain privileges. Now he doubted even this; and although he still clung to his loyalty – because loyalty defined him now, because without it he would be nothing but a scarred old veteran of a war long since lost – for the first time in years he experienced doubt; doubt in Ben’s ability; doubt in his own; doubt like an itch in a sensitive spot, eating away at everything.
Was Ben dead? Had the Hostiles killed him? Was that the purpose of this ceremony? And if he’d been taken prisoner, then what the hell were they doing here?
As he watched the preparations, however, Mikhail began to understand. Even as an outsider, he was well aware of the present dissention in the camp; of the rumours that Ben was out of control; that he’d sent seven people to their deaths; that he was playing some secret game; that he’d been a fool over Juliet; that he’d been guilty of the sin of pride; that Jacob had punished him by giving him a tumour; that he’d taken Locke to speak to Jacob, then killed him out on the mountainside –
If that were so, then he understood why they might be having serious doubts. He saw how, if Ben had been captured, they might just leave him to his fate. These people needed to be led; they needed to believe that their leader knew best; that he was somehow beyond the weaknesses, the fears and doubts of an ordinary man -
They’d thought him superhuman, had they? Mikhail knew that he was not. Mikhail’s grudging admiration of Ben was based, not on a superstitious belief in his invulnerability, but on quite the opposite. Mikhail, who believed neither in God nor Jacob, believed implicitly in Ben.
Ben, who over sixteen years had kept these people under control through nothing more than intelligence. He’d had his share of obstacles. He’d overcome them, every one. But in his absence, their doubt had grown; and anyone wanting to take control –
I have to find him, Mikhail thought. Warn him – before it’s too late -
He ran all the way to the Black Rock, then approached the castaways’ beach in stealth. Twenty-four hours had passed now, and his injuries were beginning to heal. Mikhail was a fast healer, even by the island’s terms. His eardrums, too, were beginning to recover, and he found he could hear some of what was being said; their discussions on whether to keep Ben alive; their hopeful talk of rescue; their plans.
Mikhail bided his time. He could see that Ben, though badly beaten, was in no immediate danger. The Iraqi wanted to kill him, of course, but Mikhail knew a soldier when he saw one, and knew Sayid would follow orders. The Frenchwoman was dangerous, but seemed to Mikhail docile at present. The doctor might act on impulse, he thought, but would not shoot a man in cold blood. Locke was alive, and keeping guard. And as for Ben –
From afar Mikhail watched with reluctant admiration. He’d always been a man of action; good with explosives; handy with guns. Words had never come easily to him, and he’d always rather mistrusted them. But watching Ben was magical. Over the course of the day he watched as people came and went around the little shelter in which Ben was kept under guard. Some stayed only for seconds; others remained for much longer. Some went away looking sheepish, or scared, or angry, or moved, or confused, but no-one stayed indifferent, and no-one stayed away for long. It was like watching the patterns of iron filings on a sheet of paper when a magnet has been applied.
This is why I still take his orders, thought Mikhail wryly to himself.
Now – what would Ben want me to do?
His first thought was rescue, of course. But Ben had infiltrated their camp once before, allowing himself to be captured and shot, then beaten and interrogated, all for the sake of his strategy. If this were his motivation now, Mikhail thought, then a rescue attempt would accomplish nothing, and would undermine Ben’s further plan.
And so he waited, keeping his one good eye on the small pile of dynamite concealed by his side, as evening fell and their fires were lit and the sounds of the camp dwindled into those of quiet domesticity, as if there were no ship out there, checking its co-ordinates, or helicopters standing by awaiting the order to take to the air -

Chapter 15

Trust is a funny thing


When the shooting started, Sayid did not think. He reacted. Ignoring the pain in his throat, he scrambled in a low crawl toward the treeline. Above the roar of helicopter blades, he could hear terrified screams punctuated by the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. By the time he had covered the ground between the would-be grave site and the jungle foliage, Sayid could see the searchlights moving away down the shore. Among the large signal fires, people were running in incoherent circles as if stirred up by the helicopter blades. Bits of flaming debris were floating back to earth, having been blown into the air by the close pass of the aircraft.

Sayid looked back toward the fading lights in the sky, and his stomach sank. They were turning around. He leapt to his feet and ran toward the camp. In a voice made hoarse by the blow to his throat, he shouted at the others to take cover in the jungle. Waving his arms wildly, he yelled, pointed, and pushed them toward the comparative safety of the thick green canopy. For the moment, it was only his subconscious mind that registered that the other person desperately trying to herd the panicked survivors into the trees was Ben. Fortunately, once the tide had started, the group moved as a wave that dissolved into the trees.

Sayid dove for cover as the noise from engines became deafening and the shooting started anew. Bullets strafed the sand, shredding tents and campsites. Behind him, Sayid could hear voices beginning to scatter into the jungle, calling out to each other as they lost their way in the oppressive darkness of the trees. Sayid kept his eyes on the beach. The helicopters hovered for a moment, then one moved inland over the trees while the other slowly settled onto the beach. Sayid shielded his eyes from the tornado of sand and debris. The blades slowed to a steady whoosh-whoosh as three dark figures poured out of the side of the aircraft and ran toward the treeline. Sayid could see the green glow of night vision glasses on their heads. He flattened himself against the ground as they passed several yards in front of him. When they were out of sight, he rose up, and moved off at an angle into the denser foliage of the jungle.

The first person he ran into, literally, was Hurley.

“Sayid! Thank god!” Hurley said in a loud voice.

“SSHHHHH!!” Sayid shushed him. “Are you alright,” he asked in a whisper.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Hurley replied, lowering his voice. “Dude, I can’t find Claire. She was right behind me a second ago.” Hurley started to turn to retrace his steps, but Sayid put a hand on his arm.

“I will look for her,” Sayid said. “Hurley, you must find a place to hide. And be quiet. If you see any of our friends, tell them the same thing. It is best if you stay spread out so that if one person is discovered…” Sayid didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

“That’s good advice, man,” Hurley said.

Sayid moved on, not waiting to see if Hurley followed his instructions. He came to a deep ravine with a rivulet at the bottom. He was about to turn back when a noise on the other bank drew his attention. Sayid crouched into the foliage and looked across. Even in the dim light, he recognized Claire’s golden blond head. She was struggling against the restraining hold of one of the strangers who had come from the helicopter.

“Let me go!!” she screamed. “Let go!!!!” Sayid could not see if she held Aaron. He drew the hunting knife he carried on his belt and looked down into the ravine. It was easily 15 feet down and back up the other side. He looked downstream to see if there was a way to cross without being seen.

“Sayid.”

He was startled by the voice so close to his ear, as he had not heard anyone approach. He quickly turned to find Locke crouched next to him, his hand extended, palm up, toward Sayid. Locke’s eyes were fixed on the pair across the ravine.

The calculation Sayid made in the next moment was a credit to his years of experience in combat. There was never time for deliberation, for weighing of pros and cons, for projections of possible outcomes. Instinct performed those calculations in the blink of an eye. In that blink Sayid considered Locke’s strange behavior in the past few days, his destruction of the Flame and the submarine, his protection of Ben, his seeming obsession with keeping them all on the island. He considered the distance across the ravine, the dim light, and the fact that Claire and her captor were in constant motion. He assessed his own skill with a knife and compared it to Locke’s abilities.

And then, three seconds after Locke had said his name, Sayid slapped the handle of the knife into Locke’s hand, like a nurse attending a surgeon. In one fluid motion, Locke rose to stand, flipped the knife so that the blade was in his hand, and in a long overhand arc, flung the knife across the ravine. Sayid heard the whistle as the knife cut the air, and then Claire stopped screaming. A gagging gasp, and the dark figure behind her crumpled to the ground in a heap.

Locke was already scrambling down the ravine and Sayid followed close behind. Claire ran into Locke’s arms, her nearly incoherent cries conveying the message that Aaron had been taken from her.

Locke held her upper arms to steady her and looked into her face. “Who took him, Claire?” he asked.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” she sobbed.

“What did they look like?” Locke asked, his voice calm. “Were they dressed like this,” he indicated the heap on the ground dressed in black military style garb. “Or something else?”

“I don’t know!!” Claire screamed. “I couldn’t see them! They came from behind me and grabbed him!”

As Claire’s sobs rang out in the night air, Locke turned her around and pulled her to him, one arm around her and the other hand clamped gently but decisively over her mouth.

“Claire,” he said quietly. “You have to calm down.” Her eyes were wide and she grabbed at Locke’s hand. Sayid, who had been crouched over the body of the stranger, stood up and faced them.

“He’s right,” Sayid said firmly. “Panicking will not help your son. You need to be calm. He needs you to be calm.” Tears spilled from her eyes but she took a deep breath and nodded as best she could from under Locke’s grasp. He lowered his hand and released her.

Sayid went back to examining the still form at their feet. He quickly rifled through pockets but found nothing to help identify the man or his purpose. Sayid confiscated a gun, night vision equipment, and a radio. He gave a cursory look through the pack on his back and then took that too. Finally, bracing his foot against the man’s head, he extracted his hunting knife, which was buried five inches into the side of the man’s neck. He glanced across the ravine to the position Locke had thrown the knife from. A voice inside nagged, who is that good? Sayid wiped the blood off on the dead man’s shirt and slid the blade into its sheath. As he stood up, Locke turned to Claire.

“Claire, you need to hide,” he said. “Until we sort out what is happening, you need to find someplace and stay there until you see one of our people, from the crash. Do not come out for anyone else, even if they call you by name.” Claire nodded. “Claire,” Locke said somberly. “Even if they have Aaron.” Tears welled up in Claire’s eyes, but she maintained her composure. “Promise me,” Locke said.

Claire nodded uncertainly. “Do you trust me?” Locke asked, his gaze intense. Again, Claire nodded. “Then promise,” Locke said.

“I promise,” she said quietly.

“Good,” Locke replied. “Now go hide.” Without hesitation, Claire disappeared into the foliage. Locke turned to Sayid, who had been studying him through the whole exchange.

“John,” he said evenly. “I’m going to be very disappointed if you turn out to be insane. You’re rather a handy person to have around sometimes.” He unclipped the sheathed knife from his belt and handed it to Locke.

Locke smiled broadly. “Well, I appreciate your confidence,” he said.

“Oh,” Sayid said, moving into the trees. “Did that sound like confidence?” Locke kept his smile as he fell in behind Sayid.

******************

Sayid was already in the clearing before he realized anyone else was there.

“Jack,” he said, relieved to see the doctor still alive. Then his eyes snapped to the gun pointed at Jack’s head just below his right ear. In the shadows he could just make out the black-clad figure attached to the gun.

“Into the clearing,” a man’s voice snapped. “Your hands where I can see them.” Sayid obeyed slowly. He didn’t hear a sound behind him and hoped Locke had gone unnoticed. Sayid tried to keep the gunman’s attention on him.

“Who are you people?” he asked. “Why are you shooting at us?”

“No questions. Get on your knees. Hands on your head.”

Sayid hesitated and saw Jack wince as the gun was jabbed into his neck.

“Okay! Okay,” Sayid said, holding his hands out and dropping to his knees.

“Now, drop your gun…and the pack…”

Sayid tossed the items in front of him.

“Very good,” the man said. “Now, I don’t want to hurt either of you. Just tell me where I can find…ugh…” A single gasp escaped the man’s mouth as he was jerked backwards into the brush behind him. Jack stumbled forward out of his grasp, and in the dim light Sayid saw a hand go under the man’s chin and jerk it sideways and up, making a sickening crack as the man collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“John,” Sayid said.

“Right here,” Locke said from a position behind Sayid. Sayid and Jack turned to see Locke emerge from the trees and then turned back as Ben stepped into the opposite side of the clearing. Like lightening, Sayid lunged forward, retrieved his gun, and was on his feet with the gun pointed at Ben. Ben gave him only a casual glance before he leaned down to take the gun from the dead man’s hand and held it out to Sayid.

“You’ll want this one, too,” he said. For a moment they all stood like statues, then Locke moved in front of Sayid and took the gun from Ben. He paused there until Sayid lowered his gun, and then went over and stood next to the corpse. He knew that Ben and Sayid were still locked in a stare-down.

“What happened, Jack?” Locke asked.

Jack was looking back and forth between Ben and Sayid, but he said, “Uh, I was trying to get people away from the beach, move them toward the caves, and he jumped me.” Sayid finally looked at Jack, who went on speaking. “The odd thing is, a couple of people went past him before me. It’s like he was waiting for me.”

“Have you seen anyone else?” Jack asked. “Was anybody hurt?”

“I saw Hurley near the beach,” Sayid replied. “And Claire is okay. But, Jack,” Sayid hesitated. “They took Aaron.”

Jack grimaced and swore under his breath.

“If only someone had warned you,” Ben said, his tone soaked with sincerity. He met Jack’s hate-laden glare for a moment, and then moved over to where the dead man lay. Crouching, he began to search through pockets until Sayid’s dark fingers clamped around his wrist.

“I’ll do that,” Sayid said.

“As you wish,” Ben replied, straightening up. “But someone should probably try to stop that helicopter from taking off.” Locke cocked his ear in the direction of the beach and heard the chopping of the helicopter start to increase in speed. He crashed back into the foliage and ran for the beach with Jack on his heels.

They arrived at the beach in time to see the helicopter lifting off, again stirring up clouds of sand and sparks. The first glow of morning softened the darkness as the aircraft rose about 50 feet in the air and then hovered. Locke poised to retreat but no shots rang out. The helicopter rocked slightly and then lurched upward as a shape plummeted out of the side and crashed into the wet sand at water’s edge. Then the machine turned and sped off down the shoreline, skimming just above the water.

Locke shot Jack a quick look and they both ran to the object on the sand. When they arrived, water was lapping around the lifeless body of a woman clad in black military gear. Locke looked down the beach to see the helicopter disappear around the bend.

**************

Back in the clearing, Sayid had completed his search of the dead man. He did not notice Ben fading into the trees as he sat back on his heels and unfolded a paper found in the man’s pocket. On one side was a duplicate of the photograph Naomi carried, of Desmond and a blond woman. On the other side of the sheet were several smaller photos of individuals wearing gray Dharma Initiative jumpsuits. Sayid’s eyes grew wide as he recognized a much younger Benjamin Linus. The second he identified as Mikhail, although without the eyepatch. There were three more that Sayid did not recognize, but all of the breath went out of his body when, at the bottom of the page, he found himself staring into the face of Kelvin Inman.

Chapter 17.




Hurley had made a run for the trees even before the firing began. He wasn’t fast as some, but he was careful, and if these guys were on his side, it would be just his luck, Hurley thought, to end up a victim of friendly fire.
Even when the firing stopped, Hurley kept his head down. Things might still go wrong, he thought. Bad things happened when he was around. He’d tried to tell them, but they hadn’t listened. If Desmond had warned them, they might have believed – or Sayid, or Jack, or hell, even Sawyer. But Hurley was somehow different. As if being fat made him less reliable. As if being fat made him a joke. Funny old Hurley, the comic relief. Hurley, the hungry hippo.
Well, Hurley was tired of being a joke. Hadn’t he earned a little respect? The whole camp was still reeling from the knowledge that, without Hurley and his hippie van, Sawyer and Jin and Bernard would be dead – and maybe a lot more people, too.
For a moment, he remembered the van. The van, with its mysterious Dharma logo and the guy, long-dead, in the driver’s seat. The guy had been an ordinary guy. He’d read it on his jumpsuit pocket. A workman, just like me, he’d thought. And the other day it was like the ghost of the forgotten workman had somehow come back - to help him, or to get revenge. Anyway, it was like it was meant – like Hurley was meant to make it happen…
Since then, though, something had changed. For the first time in his life he had taken control instead of letting the numbers paralyse him. No longer the clown who made people smile, who organized table tennis tournaments and figured out where the papayas grew - for the first time since he could remember, Hurley felt like the kind of man who could ask a girl out on a date; or say no thanks to that third slice of pie, or even face up to his mother when she asked him where he’d been all night -
When the first chopper blew, he was lying in the underbrush with his hands over his ears. At the sound of the explosion he opened one eye just in time to see the remains of the heli spiralling down in ringlets of fire towards the water. He could see Ben standing by the shore, flanked by Locke on one side and Sayid on the other. The three of them seemed to be arguing. Sayid pointed at the sky. Ben shook his head. Locke stayed put. Hurley couldn’t figure it out. One minute Ben was a prisoner, beaten and bound and on trial for his life; the next they were looking to him for help. Go figure, Hurley thought. You never can tell with those guys.
He pulled himself heavily to his feet, then watched as the chopper came in to land. From the cockpit a man leapt out – some kind of pirate, Hurley thought - wearing a stained and tattered Dharma jumpsuit, a bloodstained bandage around one hand and a black patch over one eye. Hurley didn’t recognize him, but he guessed from Ben’s response, that the pirate guy was one of the Others.
Hurley ducked back down again behind a nearby clump of ferns. Through the fronds he could see the guy – he was talking to Ben, with lots of hand gestures. Hurley could hear the sound of his voice rising and falling across the beach, but couldn’t make out the actual words.
Locke ran to the water’s edge and motioned Sayid to join him there. Ben and the newcomer followed suit, and Hurley could now make out the shape of a motionless body on the shore. Sayid was talking animatedly, gesturing towards the body, then back to something he held in his hand. At one point Hurley was almost sure he heard Sayid’s voice urgently calling –
A survivor?
Surely not.
Hugo. Hugo.
Hurley turned round. The whispering came from everywhere, a dim and unsettling resonance that might have been static, but somehow was not.
Dude, he thought. The monster.
But that was absurd. There was no monster. The monster was just a part of his fear, a psycho-so-whatsit thingie, like the numbers, infecting his mind.
Hugo. Sssssss –
“Hey. Anyone there?” His voice was shaking audibly. Around him the whispering might have been rain, or leaves in the wind, or ghosts. “Dude. I know you’re there. Stop messin’ with me.”
Once again there came no reply. Nothing but the whispering that might have been his name. He turned again – and there he saw, just behind him among the trees, a grey-haired stranger aged fifty or so, clad in a Dharma jumpsuit and a workman’s cap, a can of beer in one hand and a look of dejection on his face. He was standing so close, and he looked so real that it took Hurley several seconds to realize that this guy couldn’t possibly be there. For a start, he left no footprints – the vegetation was as thick and unbroken around his feet as if the guy had just sprung out from nowhere. And the second thing was the name-tag, stitched above the left pocket of his grey Dharma Initiative overall.
Hurley knew that name-tag well. The last time he’d seen it was on the day he’d discovered the minivan in the jungle, the van that couldn’t possibly run. But it had run. Impossibly. Just as this man stood impossibly now, looking at Hurley with a faint, sad smile, and the tag on his pocket brand new again, stitched against the industrial grey and clearly legible in the helicopter’s searchlight.
Roger, it said.
Workman.

Chapter 19

What so many people misunderstood about leadership, about manipulation, was the absolute essential element of self-knowledge. To accept one’s own weaknesses and turn them to advantage. This is what separated success from greatness. This is what separated greatness from immortality. This is what separated Benjamin Linus from all those who were foolish enough to oppose him.

The Oceanic passengers were beginning to regroup on the beach. Fear finally turned loose of their choked tongues and they began to whisper hurriedly to each other, recounting the events of the previous hour. They had all experienced it alike, but still felt the need to speak it aloud, telling the obvious and unremarkable details of where they were standing when the first heard the helicopters, and at what point they realized they were shooting, and what sort of rock they had found to hide behind.

Ben’s disciplined mind had blocked out the chaos right from the start. There was work to be done. Jacob needed a new army, and this was it. There would be no recruiting, no hand-picking of the best, weeding out the unworthy. Here in front of him, scurrying around like a flock of sheep spooked by thunder, and entirely unaware of what destiny had already decided for them, here were Jacob’s protectors. If he had permitted himself, Ben would have felt sick. They were pathetic. But there was no time for that. Fortunately, he had been evaluating and planning from the moment he had been taken prisoner. He would not have to turn them all, of course. The best way would be to turn a few essential people and let them do the rest. Ben knew all too well that it was not always the obvious ones who could turn the tide of the group. He himself was the most unlikely of leaders. He was small in stature and ordinary in appearance. He did not possess an orator’s voice nor a preacher’s charisma. What he did have was the ability, and the willingness, to be the missing piece of any equation. He was what people needed him to be. Captive or captor. Savior or victim. Prophet or fraud.

He stood apart, looking over the motley group, and considered his options. Jack was the overt and self-proclaimed leader. They would follow him to a degree, but their trust in the doctor had begun to crumble. Jack had aligned himself too closely with Juliet, and had turned in circles on the issue of Ben’s life. Jack could be used, of course, but he would not be the one to lead the rest to Jacob.

John Locke’s standing in the group was uncertain. He garnered an ever-changing mix of respect, fear and mistrust. They recognized that Locke possessed a mystical knowledge about the island, which meant he was either a wise shaman, or he was crazy. Individuals seemed to disagree on this point. There were also other considerations with Locke, things that had nothing to do with the Oceanic survivors. In any case, Ben knew Locke was not immediately useful to him.

Sayid, on the other hand, would be useful. Sayid, whose hatred Ben had carefully cultivated, taking pains to make it personal. Since the situation had turned overtly military, they would look to his experience. Especially with Sawyer backing him, Sayid could sway the general movement of the group. And Ben would see that it was swayed in the right direction.

Ben mentally catalogued the rest. Claire was nearly immobilized by her grief over the loss of Charlie. Only her panic over the loss of her son made her surface from her grief enough to function. Kate was tough and resourceful, but was rendered nearly ineffective by her inability to rule her emotions. She would have to be brought around when the time was right. Rose was a force to be reckoned with. Ben suspected she had been effected by the island, and he had learned that she saw deeper into him that he intended. He would not underestimate her again.

There was Desmond, seen as something of an outsider. Jin and Sun formed an almost separate unit unto themselves. Ben passed over Alex, recognizing his own inability to be objective about her. Then there was Juliet -- beautiful, treacherous Juliet. So easy to read, so hard to control.

Ben forced his thoughts away from her as Mikhail approached him.

“Benjamin, there is something I need to tell you,” he said without preface. Mikhail was the only person who used the formal version of Ben’s name, yet in some ways he was closer to Ben than any of them.

“Yes?” Ben replied.

“When Bea Klugh arrived at the Flame, she told me what the orders were. I understood them. Yet when the time came, I did not follow the order. I argued with her. In the end I was able to comply only partially.” Mikhail's tone was perfectly matter-of-fact.

Ben took a hard look at the man standing before him, confessing an offense that Ben would never have discovered. Ben thought of those he had lost: Ryan and his team of enforcers. Tom, whose easy manner deceived so many into underestimating him. Danny and Colleen, volatile and deadly. Goodwin, the idealist. Ben silently cursed Ana Lucia. Goodwin was exactly who Ben needed in this situation. And Ethan, who should have stayed in the operating theatre and out of the field. They were all gone. And here stood Mikhail, confessing a crime that had let him live. And although Mikhail was certainly capable of duplicity, Ben knew his confession was sincere. He met the other man’s steady one-eyed gaze.

“Understood,” Ben said. Mikhail nodded, evidently considering the matter closed.

Ben spoke again. “Mikhail, I am sorry I didn’t take you into my confidence earlier.”

“So you said,” Mikhail replied, eying Ben suspiciously. “So you said when you had been caught in the lie and were desperate for my cooperation.”

Ben did not reply. He had considered telling Mikhail of his plans and of the mounting danger to the island. But he had begun to suspect disloyalty from those closest to him, and Jacob had been acting so strangely. And then had come the news of his tumor and the arrival of the Oceanic flight. Of John Locke. Ben knew now that his judgment had been clouded. He truly did regret not relying on Mikhail. The weathered old soldier might have been a great help to him.

Mikhail’s serious glare cracked. “But I appreciated the gesture all the same,” he said, smiling. Mikhail turned and looked over the gathering crowd. “I should find Sayid, yes?”

This time Ben could not help smiling. Mikhail had either read Ben’s mind or had reasoned his own way to the same conclusion. Sayid was a valuable tool. He would never talk to Ben, and although he considered Mikhail an enemy, he would at least listen to him, one soldier to another. He turned to leave.

“Mikhail,” Ben said. Mikhail turned his good eye toward Ben. “I’m glad you’re here,” he finished.

“Where else would I be, Benjamin?” Mikhail replied, and then walked away.

Ben watched him for a moment and then set off on his own task. He walked a large circle around the camp. As well as he knew himself, he was still deceived into believing this was to avoid speaking to Jack or Juliet. He was not even conscious of the fact that, although it was parked like a monument in the middle of the survivors’ camp, Ben had not been within fifty feet of the rusted blue Volkswagon bus. Turning his back on the wrecked beach camp, Ben plunged into the jungle where he had seen Hurley disappear several minutes earlier.

Chapter 21

Desmond ran till he reached a small clearing just off the beach. He could still hear the excited voices of the others, but they were muffled enough that he could not make out what was being said. He bent over for a moment trying to catch his breath, and finally sank to his knees on the ground. Sobs racked his breath, but no tears came. It had almost been easier when there was no hope, when sunless days ran together in 108 minute segments, night no different from day, waking nearly indistinguishable from sleep. Hope had slowly faded then, growing imperceptibly dimmer with each entry of the number sequence. 4. 8. 15. 16. 23. 42. Save the world.

But the recent weeks had resharpened his dulled senses. After Kelvin was gone, endless hours of solitude had numbed him. The reintroduction of other human beings into his life had forced him into consciousness, and with consciousness came pain. Then came the disaster with the failsafe key. He had thought turning the key would be the final act of his life. One last heroic gesture to compensate for a lifetime of missing the mark. But the island, in its cruelty, had denied him. There would be no release. He would live on. And as if the previous torments had not been enough, now there were the visions. Incoherent puzzle pieces that were tossed in front of him and then snatched away before he could get a good look. It was like seeing Penny on a crowded street and then having her disappear among the throngs before he could reach her. Over and over and over. The anguish was almost too much. And what made it worse was that Desmond had a nagging feeling that it was not random – that someone was doing this to him on purpose. Thoughts of suicide darted in and out of his conscious mind. Yet somehow he knew that even this would be in vain. He would not be released until whoever or whatever was holding him here had decided he had suffered enough.

Desmond deliberately steadied his breathing. He had learned meditation and centering in the monastery and in the past four years these had become survival tools. He had never really mastered the techniques, but he still reached for them in his worst moments. In a few minutes he had calmed himself, letting the chaotic storm of his emotions pass over him without pulling him under – at least for now.

Rustling leaves and movement in the foliage brought Desmond’s attention back to the present moment. He looked up in time to see a dirty figure emerge from the trees and look down at him with one bloodshot eye. Reflexively, Desmond leaped to his feet and turned to face his new companion.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Desmond asked angrily.

“Looking for you,” Mikhail replied. His voice was calm and matter of fact.

“Why?” Desmond asked.

“Because I need to talk to you,” Mikhail said. “And you need to talk to me.”

Desmond worked to control his anger. “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he spat. “You killed Charlie.”

“You shot me with a harpoon,” Mikhail said, as if the two acts somehow cancelled each other out.”

“You murdered those two women!” Desmond shouted. “Your own people!”

“It was unfortunate, but necessary,” Mikhail replied.

“Necessary?” Desmond said, appalled. Mikhail nodded. “So are you going to kill me now?” Desmond asked, not sure if he should hope the answer was yes or no.

“No,” Mikhail said.

Even after all he had seen this man do, Desmond knew this was the truth. “And what if it becomes ‘necessary’ for me to die? What then?” he asked.

“Then I will kill you,” Mikhail said simply.

“You’re mad,” Desmond said, turning away. “Just stay away from me.”

“Just let me ask you one question,” Mikhail said to Desmond’s retreating back. Desmond waved a hand dismissively over his shoulder and kept moving. He did not think the murderous Russian could say anything to make him turn around. He was wrong.

Mikhail’s voice was quiet but Desmond heard him quite clearly. “What did one snowman say to the other snowman?”


******************

Hurley could not explain why he had followed the spectral figure of Roger Workman. His common sense had told him to walk, no run, the other way. Whether he was a ghost, a hallucination, or somebody’s idea of a joke, odds were he was not leading Hurley any place good. And then he kept burbling on about his son. Hurley thought of Aaron and of Walt and wondered if this was another baby-snatching ploy. But as much as his brain told him this was a bad move, Hurley kept following. He just felt it was the right thing to do.

‘I’m losing it,’ he told himself as he scratched his face on a low branch that back-from-the-dead guy had managed to avoid. ‘Next I’ll start thinking Locke makes sense. Now that’s a scary thought.’

“Hey, uh, Roger,” Hurley called out, trotting to catch up to his guide. Maybe talking to the ghost would help him figure out who he was and what he wanted.

“So, are you like, the ghost of Christmas past or something?” Hurley’s chuckle at his own joke died away when he received only a blank look from Roger.

Hurley tried again. “So do you, I mean did you live here?” To Hurley’s surprise, Roger nodded. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he thought.

“Were you a Dharma guy?”

Roger nodded and pointed at his nametag. “Work Man,” he said with obvious irritation.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being a working stiff,” Hurley said, resisting the urge to give Roger a sympathetic punch in the arm. Never know what might or might not be there. “I worked a lot of crappy jobs in my life,” he said. “Try frying chicken ten hours a day. Even I couldn’t face a drumstick after that.”

As they walked on, Hurley tried to think of what to ask next. Roger was a little quirky about what he wanted to talk about, and besides, he seemed so depressed, Hurley didn’t want to say something that would just upset him more.

“Besides,” Hurley nobly strove on, “driving the beer wagon can’t be all bad. You must have been a pretty popular guy.” He looked at Roger. Nothing.

“So, uh, why do you want to see your son?” Hurley cringed when Roger suddenly stopped in his tracks. He quickly scanned around for a place to dive for cover if fireballs suddenly started shooting from Roger’s eyes. But no fireballs came. Roger only looked more defeated.

“I have a message for him,” he said. Then, unexpectedly, Roger looked Hurley dead in the eyes, seeming to really see him for the first time. “Do you have any kids?” he asked.

Hurley laughed. “Me?” he asked. “No way, dude. I’m a free agent.”

Roger nodded sadly. “That’s good,” he said, and then turned and continued walking.

Hurley followed, mumbling under his breath. “I wouldn’t mind kids someday. Later on. I could be a good dad.” He caught up and fell into step with Roger again. “I’d be a cool dad. I’d be around, that’s for sure. We’d do stuff together. Fix up cars. Unless it was a girl. Although girls can fix up cars too. My daughter could work on cars if she wanted to. I’d teach her.” Hurley didn’t notice whether Roger was listening but it didn’t matter. His mind had drifted a million miles away to a small suburban house with a yard and a swingset and a driveway with a half-built muscle car.

The daydream was so vivid that Hurley was hardly surprised when he stopped and looked around him, and realized he was standing in the backyard of a small ranch-style house with a swingset in the middle of it. It was only the absence of a car that made him realize he was not still daydreaming. He turned around slowly, panning a full 360 degrees, his mouth hanging open with shock. All around him were tidy houses with neatly kept yards joined by a network of cobbled walkways. Just a short distance beyond the idyllic scene, Hurley could see the jungle and rainforested mountains in the distance. When his voice finally came to him, he spoke the only word he could think of. “Dude.”

As the reality of the unlikely village began to sink in, Hurley realized that his traveling companion was nowhere to be seen. “Roger!” he shouted. “Hey! Roger Workman!” He listened for a moment, but no one replied. Taking a deep breath, Hurley began to explore.

He knocked on the first few doors, calling out a tentative “hello” before going in, but soon he realized that the place was deserted. And not long ago, it appeared. The houses bore signs of being recently inhabited – clothing in closets, dry dishes in sinks, even some unspoiled food in the refrigerator, although Hurley knew that Dharma food had some extraordinarily long spoil dates. He finally had enough confidence that he was alone that in one house he took a cold beer from the refrigerator and went into the living room. He lowered himself slowly onto the overstuffed couch, savoring every sensation. “Ahhhhh,” he sighed as he sank into the soft cushions. He held the cold can to his forehead for a moment before popping the top with a satisfying “psshhhtt.” Hurley took a sip. It was without doubt the best beer he had tasted in his life. He closed his eyes and slouched back on the sofa, propping one leg up on the coffee table.

It occurred to Hurley to wonder why Jack had not told him about this place. Or Juliet. She was supposed to be on their side now. Jack said he had stayed with them for a week, but he was pretty tightlipped about it. Hurley thought he was probably not the only one who would have liked to get in off the beach to where there was real furniture and beds and freaking running water. He might even find some more clothes that would fit him. That Tom guy had been pretty big. Hurley shuddered at the memory of Tom’s death. He suddenly felt creeped out that he might actually be in Tom’s house. He opened his eyes and was only a little surprised to find that Roger had returned. He stood in front of a bookshelf in the corner of the living room with is back to Hurley.

“What are you looking at?” Hurley asked.

Roger only made an incoherent sound, but the jerky motion of his shoulders told Hurley that he was crying. A voice inside told Hurley to leave the ghost his privacy, but his curiosity was too strong. He walked up behind Roger and looked over his shoulder. There on the shelf was a framed photograph of a couple who looked to be in their early 20s, the man dark-haired, the woman blond with a kerchief in her hair. Hurley did not recognize either of them. He was about to ask who they were, but the words froze in his mouth as he heard the sound of the front door opening.

Chapter 23

“But he said his name was Roger,” Hurley said. “It was on his nametag.”

Alex shook her head. “He can look like different people.”

“Who can?” Hurley asked. His head was starting to hurt.

“Jacob,” Alex replied testily, as though a guy named Jacob who appeared as a long-dead guy named Roger was the simplest thing in the world.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Hurley said. “Why would Roger come to me? I mean, why would Jacob appear to me as Roger, when I didn’t even know who Roger was? Other than the skeleton in the beer van.”

Alex didn’t answer. She moved nervously around the house like she was looking for something, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. She reminded Hurley a little of a pinball in a machine. He wished she would just sit down.

“Besides,” Hurley went on, “If he wanted to see Ben, why ask me? Why not you or Juliet or his new best buddy, Locke?”

Alex suddenly quit pacing and stood directly in front of Hurley. “What else did he say to you?” she demanded.

“Not much,” Hurley replied. “He asked if I had any kids.”

Alex shook her head. “Did he say why he wanted Ben?”

“No,” said Hurley. “Just that he had a message for him.” Alex’s brow wrinkled in confusion mixed with a healthy dose of fear. She looked so distressed that, without thinking, Hurley put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry,” he said. “He didn’t seem mad or anything.” He knew his words were meaningless. He had no idea what kind of trouble Ben might be in or what Roger or Jacob or whoever the hell it was might do. Oddly enough, Alex seemed comforted by his words. Or maybe it was simply his presence. Hurley had that effect on women. He was open and friendly and non-threatening and they all wanted to be his buddy.

“Hey, Alex…it’s Alex, right?” Hurley said. Alex nodded. “Maybe we should go back to the beach. We can tell your dad that this Jacob dude is looking for him.” Without understanding why, Hurley had suddenly become very nervous. He felt as if they were being watched, and by someone distinctly unfriendly. Hurley looked around for Roger, but he and Alex were still alone in the living room. Alex had made no move to leave.

“So, you wanna go?” Hurley asked hopefully.

“Yeah, we should leave,” Alex replied. “But not for the beach.”

“Where, then?” Hurley wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Alex went to the refrigerator and retrieved a couple of bottles which she stuffed into her pack. Then she kicked the refrig shut and headed for the front door. “I need to find Richard,” she said.

“Who’s Richard?” asked Hurley, but Alex was already out the door. Hurley’s shoulders slumped and he let out a sigh. “Aw jeez,” he muttered, then set down his beer and followed her.

********************

Juliet made sure she was well out of earshot of the others on the beach before she stopped. She had walked in a serpentine path, alternately retracing her steps and then hunkering down in the brush to make sure she was not followed. The location she chose was secluded, but still at a high enough elevation that she should get a good signal. Finally satisfied that she was alone, she shrugged off her pack, unzipped it, and reached inside with a shaking hand. She darted a quick glance around at the surrounding trees before she knelt on the ground and pulled out the bulky satellite telephone. She still could hardly believe she had it. In the excitement and confusion of the helicopters’ arrival, the radio had been abandoned in the sand. When the shooting started and everyone had run for the trees, Juliet had nearly stepped on it. She had picked it up, intending to return it to Jack. But once it was in her possession, she found that her circle of trust had narrowed to herself. Jack had been here only a few months. Yes, he wanted to get home. But his determination was not one-tenth of hers. She had told him it would be necessary to kill Ben. He had numerous opportunities, but had always weakened when the moment arrived, including just yesterday on the hillside. Juliet, on the other hand, had surprised herself with her lack of remorse over Danny. She had lived and worked with him for three years, but when the time came, she gunned him down without a flicker of emotion. Jack was not there yet. No, if Juliet wanted to escape, she would have to make it happen herself.

Electronics were not her forte, and she had to fiddle with the device for a few moments before the front panel lit up. ‘Searching for signal,’ it said. Juliet’s pulse sped up as the lights changed from blinking red to yellow. “Come on, come on,” she muttered, as if her encouragement would speed the process.

As the radio blinked quietly, Juliet tried to rehearse what she should say. It was risky, she knew. The people on the other end of the line were clearly not the coast guard. But there had to be a way. Maybe they couldn’t all get home, but surely some of them could. She just had to find out who the people were and what they were after. She had information she could trade on. She knew a lot, and she was willing to tell them anything. Anything to get home. To get back to Rachel. To meet her nephew, the one she had helped bring to life. She would go to work in a clinic. They were always looking for doctors willing to work in poor neighborhoods. She didn’t care what it paid. The less prestigious the better. No more research. No more changing the world. She just wanted to go home.

The device in her hand let out a high-pitched beep and Juliet almost dropped it. She stared at the panel trying to decipher how to send an outgoing message. So engrossed was she that she never noticed the figure emerging from the trees until he was standing right in front of her.

“I’m starting to think you’re serious about wanting to leave here,” Ben said.

Juliet jumped to her feet. “Stay away from me,” she blurted, clutching the radio to her chest.

Ben did not move but fixed her in his unblinking gaze. “Juliet,” he said, his smooth voice almost hypnotic. “Think about what you are doing.”

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Ben,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “I’m going home and you’re not going to stop me. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care who gets hurt. I’m going home.” Tears welled in Juliet’s eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.

“Alright,” Ben said. His entire body was unnaturally still. “You’re going home.” He paused. “With them?” With the slightest nod he indicated the radio. “The people who sent the helicopters? With the guns?” Juliet could not answer, but she clutched the radio tighter. “They tried to kill us, Juliet,” Ben went on. “Do you think they are picking up passengers?”

“No!” Juliet snapped. “They tried to kill you! You are the one they are after. You and your people and whatever you are hiding here.”


****************************

Hurley saw the smoke as soon as he stepped out of the house. “Yo, Alex!” he shouted, realizing that she must be upwind and not smell the smoke. Come to think of it, he couldn’t smell the smoke, which was strange, considering what a large cloud it was. Alex must not have heard him because she didn’t slow down. Hurley started to trot awkwardly to catch up with her, and tried again to get her attention. “Hey, I think there’s a fire,” he called out.

About four steps into his run, Hurley stopped and stood frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent shout. The smoke was moving. And it wasn’t just drifting on the wind like smoke was supposed to. It rose up in a column, like an animal rearing up on hind legs, and then sank back down and slithered after the dark-haired girl crossing the neatly mowed yards toward the trees.

Hurley’s tongue finally loosened. “ALEX!!” he screamed. She turned to answer but her reply froze in her mouth as she saw the darkness pursuing her. She stared only a moment before she turned and started to run. Hurley felt as though he was watching a horror movie on the world’s biggest screen. The mass of smoke grew enormous and Alex looked like a miniature doll racing futilely ahead of a pursuing tidal wave. Once again the blackness flattened against the ground and a thin tendril reached out and wrapped around Alex’s ankle. She flew headfirst into the ground and was instantly jerked backward. Hurley could see her clawing desperately at the ground as she was dragged roughly over the uneven terrain.

He stood paralyzed for a moment as the impulse to run after Alex battled the equally strong urge to run in the other direction. When the girl’s head took a particularly nasty bump on the ground, Hurley pried his fearful feet up and raced after her. Never exactly a sprinter, Hurley lagged further and further behind. He knew he would lose her completely if he didn’t do something. Not knowing what else to do, Hurley started screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Hey!!!!! HEEYYYY!!!! Smoke thing!!!!! Stop!!!! STOP!!!!!” Hurley was so out of breath that his voice barely came out as a croak, but he flailed his arms wildly and kept on yelling. To his complete shock, the beast seemed to let loose of Alex’s foot and she rolled crazily over the ground, carried forward by momentum. Hurley did not see exactly where she came to rest as his attention was entirely captured by the smoke, which was now roiling back toward him.

“Oh shiiii…..” his curse caught in his throat. Realizing it was pointless to try to outrun the thing, Hurley planted his feet and squared off to face it. His chest still heaved from the exertion of running and sweat poured from his face and drained down his neck. Hurley forced himself to keep his eyes open as the smoke moved slowly toward him like the head of a snake. It had no eyes, but Hurley was quite certain it was looking at him. All at once, he saw bright flashes like lightening in the middle of a thunder cloud. He thought he must be dying.

“Wow, your life really does flash before your eyes,” he thought with ridiculous calmness as images of his mother and grandfather kaliedascoped with the Chicken Shack, a rickety dock, and the buffet at Pizza Hut. Suddenly the flashes stopped and the smoke disappeared as though it had been sucked down a drain. Only then did Hurley realize that his breathing had returned to normal and his pulse slowed down. So profound was the peace that enveloped him that he had to force himself into action when he remembered Alex. He shook his head and blinked as if shaking off sleep and then trotted toward where she had been abandoned by the creature.

Hurley’s serenity dissipated as quickly as the smoke when he crested the small hill and saw the sharp drop-off on the other side. His eyes instantly snapped to the dark-haired figure that lay unmoving on a stony crag.

“Alex! Alex!!!” he called out. She did not move. Hurley flattened himself on the ground and reached for her, but she was too far down. Her leg was hooked on a thin sapling, but that appeared to be the only thing keeping her from sliding further down into the deep ravine. Hurley knew he could not scramble down to her without risking sending her into that abyss. When it was clear she was not going to respond to his calls, he searched the ground around him and found a long stick.

Laying back down on the ground he reached the branch out and poked Alex in the side. “Sorry,” he muttered, regretting the indignity of poking the poor injured girl with a stick, but he had to see if she was still alive. To his relief, she winced at the sharp jab, but she did not wake up. Hurley realized he could not rescue her by himself. Talking all the while to her unconscious form, he lowered his canteen with the stick so it lay just beside her hand and tossed down a couple of protein bars he had in his pack. With reassurances that he would be back before she knew it, Hurley set off toward the beach to get help.

*************************

When Hurley crashed out of the trees into the clearing, Juliet seized the distraction as an opportunity to turn and run. Ben immediately moved to follow her but Hurley’s oversized paw on his shoulder halted his progress. He tried to shrug him off, but Hurley’s hand merely slipped down and clamped around Ben’s upper arm. He was heaving with exertion and tried to form coherent words as he leaned heavily on Ben’s arm and gulped for air.

“Wai….” he panted. “Juli…. Doct….” Hurley pointed weakly at the spot where Juliet had disappeared.

“Yes, I’ll get her,” Ben snapped, finally able to slide out of Hurley’s sweat slippery grasp.

“No,” Hurley gasped as Ben started into the jungle in pursuit of Juliet. He leaned his palms on his knees and tried to steady his breath.

“Alex….” he finally managed to croak, just as the foliage swallowed Ben. Ben instantly stopped and snapped back around to Hurley.

“What about Alex?” Ben asked impatiently, looking over his shoulder to try to trace Juliet’s line of retreat.

“She’s….” Hurley waved his hand back in the direction he had come from.

“She’s what?!” Ben demanded. He seemed poised for flight as Juliet’s fading footsteps grew fainter.

“The house…. we were…. smoke…” was all that Hurley was able to spit out.

Ben’s expression immediately changed from impatience to abject fear. “What?!” he nearly shouted, grabbing Hurley’s shirt front and dragging him upright.

“I…” Hurley hesitated. “I think Jacob’s got her.”