[Kiowa Warrior]

3

It's the sounds you hate that travel the furthest...

He ran.

Went over it one more time in his head and ran.

The awesome sight of the plane – dying slowly on the beach like some great wounded animal shot down in its prime – halted his progress for only a while, allowing him to use it as an excuse to take a few deep breaths before he gathered himself and sprinted along the sand towards it.

He had known what to expect before he saw it, but up close it still threatened to take his breath away and still his heart...still the heart that was pumping madly inside him and propelling him towards the things that must be done, no matter how much that small part of him argued against doing them.

Sucking in great gasps of smoke tainted air he ran down the incline and along the shore, noting how the broken wing of the plane began to break down into submission, its slow downwards fall like the descent of the guillotine above those too bloody and panic stricken to move from its path.

But he had no time.

No time to yell out a warning to them, for if he didn’t hurry while all was crazy and confused he would never make it so he rushed on, forcing his cramped muscles to carry him step by step through the carpet of sand and metal.

His mouth dry and his eyes watering from the smoke he sees a young man attempting to perform CPR on an unconscious black woman, and his eyes roll briefly upwards in distaste. You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to know that’s not how to save someone’s life, their head not tilted back and their airway not straight and clear but he doesn’t have time to stop and correct him, because what he has to do is for the good of more than one person...it’s for the greater good of them all, and in time they will be thankful for it, so instead he tears his gaze away and grits his teeth and keeps on running towards what might arguably be called his destiny.

The bleeding wreckage of Flight 815 fills his vision and he feels an inexplicable surge of longing and regret, but he ignores such feelings as he’s been trained to do and instead heads towards it, as sharply on target as an arrow loosened from the bow of a world class hunter.

An engine suddenly explodes, sucking in the poor man stumbling in front of it and using him as fuel to roar into life and belch pieces of razor sharp metal along the beach but he doesn’t stop; doesn’t dwell on his failed attempt to shout out and warn him and doesn’t stop running towards one of his primary objectives like the instrument of a fixed purpose he’s realised he’s become.

He runs unhesitatingly along his path and only stops when he comes face to face with the fuselage.

First things first.

The screams and groans of the dying enter his ears and make themselves comfortable but he is a bad host and ignores them, instead concentrating on where it is.

Where it is...

He takes a breath deeper than he would have liked and plunges in, the heat of the abused metal and the already decaying bodies attacking him like the heartless invader he is, as he crawls like a parasite over that which is living and can be saved to the thing that can prolong his survival for one more day.

He finds it and exhales loudly, his fingers trembling as he folds it sharply and pushes it roughly into his pocket, as if the abuse he inflicts on it will be punishment enough for himself.

Stumbling slightly he exits the wreckage and raises a hand to shield his eyes, as he searches for where to go. He doesn’t take long to find it and – ah, there she is! - begins to work his way over, his breathing slowing and steadying while his heart continues to race. He sees a man crouched over an unmoving Asian woman, looking at her head – possibly wondering whether or not it would be wise to touch or move her – before a thunderous looking Asian man comes striding up the beach towards them yelling something in his own language. The Good Samaritan turns sharply at the sound but the large chunk of wood that connects with his forehead prevents any conversation between the two and he falls in a slump as the Asian man bends down to pick the woman up and run with her in the direction of the jungle.

As his eyes follow him running they take another track and spot the woman who was receiving inept CPR still lying on the beach, the same young man still kneeling over her with what looks like a blanket. He feels a twinge of regret, because surely she can't be?-

‘Hey!’

He starts, fearing the voice is intended for him and so moves quicker, the heat from the nearest fire distorting his vision with its shimmering waves as he crouches down close to it.

The voice was meant for him because it repeats itself, with its owner coming towards him.

He curses softly and fumbles in his pocket, pulling it out and scrunching it into a rough ball before throwing it into the burning wreckage.

A man stops behind him and looks down, slightly out of breath. ‘Hey, can you help me move some debris? I think people are trapped in there, this man with a bad leg, and I can’t do it myself...’

‘Sure, no problem.’

Burn...

A pause, as the fire in front of him continues to crackle and spit and radiate heat and hate.

‘Uh, feel like helping now?’

He doesn’t move. ‘You got it.’

Buuuurrrrrrrnnn...

Feet shuffle in irritation behind him, and he hears their owner exhale in bemused impatience.

‘Look, I-'

He stands up suddenly, his grin crooked as he turns to face his visitor. Notes the fresh blood stains splattered everywhere, the already weary eyes and the pale arm in a makeshift sling.

‘Ouch,’ he grimaces in sympathy, and takes a step closer. ‘Want me to have a look at that for you?’

The other man shakes his head. ‘Thanks but no; there’s not much to be done for a broken arm, and...I’m a doctor, I...’ Taking a breath he extends his uninjured hand and attempts a smile.

‘I’m Jack.’

He takes the outstretched hand and squeezes it tight. ‘Hello Jack,’ he replies, a genuine smile now on his face as the last fragments of the plane’s manifest turn to ash and swirling smoke behind him.

‘I’m Ethan.’

*****

The sun has just set, leaving a dark line of dying fire along the horizon as Ethan gives one more brief glance over his shoulder before speaking into the radio again.

‘It’s done. It’s gone and burnt, and I even managed to speak with her.’ An edge of pride threatens to slip into his voice. ‘Started dishing out the plane food and gave her two and Ben she’s looking great, especially given her condition and-'

‘Fascinating,’ Ben’s voice interrupts. ‘Just don’t go falling for her now will you, Ethan, since it would be slightly awkward for the other two to prise you off her when I give the order...’

A few seconds go by before it clicks, and Ethan’s eyes narrow in the ever darkening sky.

‘...two? I thought there were just me and Goodwin here?’

He shuffles on the sand, and can feel Ben’s cold smile all the way from here.

‘There’s a lot of things you think that aren’t right Ethan, just like you think you know who are on the list.’

Ethan stands up straight for that one, and grips the radio tighter.

‘What?’ he breathes, as he pictures his leader standing up slowly and holding out a freshly written list in front of his face.

‘As well as Claire I want the first two brought in but I want the second two taken out, so listen carefully...’

Ethan listens to the names Ben reads out, and a wave of exhaustion hangs over him but he fights away from it, clears his throat, and asks ‘When?’

‘Give them all a few days to establish a routine – their movements will then be easier to predict – and then, one by one, lead them into the jungle and do one of two things to them.’

Ethan swallows and nods silently, as the mixture of still burning wreckage and controlled camp fires glow from behind him.

‘Use one of Locke’s knives,’ Ben chips in almost as an afterthought. ‘It’s not as if he’ll be needing them for much longer anyway...’