Personal Log: Adrian Rodd

Sarah ran through the jungle, breathing fast, her lugs pumping. Her feet pounded against the soft earth, almost catching against thin, stray roots. The sun beat down over the back of her neck and her bare arms. Sweat pearled in the small of her back. There were voices up ahead.

She ran past a tree, expecting to see them, but still the jungle stretched out ahead of her. The voices sounded muffled, but there were many of them, and it sounded as if some were argueing. Not far now… She ran on, breathing as steadily as she could.

“…you saw me put those in my box!”

“No way.”

“Give me my stuff, man!”

“Hold on, take it easy.” That was Sawyer. She went on running. “You guys are like locusts. How about a little order here?”

Your sheriff’s order, Sawyer? Your order with guns? Sawyer the murderer… It had been three days since the man in the Swan had told her about the crimes of some of her campmates, and she had done her best to avoid every one of those he had named. It had not been too difficult. Less easy was going to sleep at night, alone in her tent, knowing the kind of people who were sleeping just a few metres away. And walking among them all in broad daylight, murderers on the loose, beyond the reach of justice here on this speck of an island lost in the immensity of the world’s largest ocean. Their crimes unseen, unknown to all… except me. I alone see them for what they are. See them in an all new light… She arrived at the scene of the conversation, catching her breath, and took in the sight with wide eyes.

“Wow…” she whispered. Tracy had not been lying. This had to be seen to be believed.

Crates, brimming with boxes of food such as they had first found in the hatch, sat in the midst of the jungle, beside crumpled parachutes, and surrounded by castaways grabbing anything they possibly could. She blinked, her mind trying to process and rationalise what she was seeing. Crates… of supplies. Freshly delivered. Here. To this island. To us.

No, of course, not to them. The DHARMA logo was everywhere. These supplies were intended for the original inhabitants of the erstwhile deserted Swan station. She shook her head. The implications were stunning, but after a fast run through the forest, she did not feel up to wrapping her mind round a new mystery. She approached slowly.

“Shouldn't we let someone a little more trustworthy take care of this?” Charlie suggested.

“Like you, babynapper?” Sawyer retorted sarcastically. Sarah winced in sympathy for the young Englishman, but he appeared unfazed. After his public shaming during the ‘incident’ with Claire’s baby, Charlie had withdrawn from his fellow survivors, physically isolating himself by relocating his tent to the edge of the small settlement. He had spoken very little to anyone, and had taken to wearing a hooded jumper at night, as if better to conceal himself from the judgemental eyes of his fellows. He was looking better now, however. Almost back to his usual self. His incomprehensible misdeed forgotten… were it not for Sawyer’s facile taunt reminding them. She glared at the American discreetly. If only they knew what she did… Would it, she wondered, wipe the smug, confident smile off his face?

“No, like Hurley,” Charlie said, without taking the bait. “Why not Hurley? He's done it before, he can do it again.” All eyes turned to the obese and usually cheerful Hispanic man. They all remembered the feast he had organised for them two weeks earlier. To Sarah’s surprise, he withdrew from their gazes with something akin to alarm.

“No. No way! Not me, no. Not again, no.”

Libby came to his rescue. “Okay, hey, hey, how about no one's in charge, okay? I'm sure everyone can manage to just take what they need.”

“Great plan, Moonbeam,” Sawyer shot back with a smirk. “And after that we can sing Kumbaya and do trust falls.”

Sarah sighed. Ignore him, she thought, and pushed her way forward towards the food. “Excuse me… Excuse me, mate… Thanks…” When Tracy had told her about a food drop out in the jungle, she had thought to grab her rucksack before she dashed off. While everyone around her continued to loot the supplies, she began to fill her bag, calmly but quickly, ignoring them all. A tin of peas. A loaf of bread. Tinned peeches… not her favourite fruit, but she could not be too fussy. A packet of rice. Tinned tomatoes. Breakfast cereals – she snatched them up rudely before another woman could. And… She smiled, lifting the precious jar out of the smashed crate carefully. Strawberry jam. And this time she even had bread to go with it. She wedged it into her rucksack. She had shared her first jar with Tom and a few others, but this time she would enjoy it in her own tent. Or maybe take some to Claire, Charlie… Maybe Jane… Not Tom. She could see him standing a mere few metres away, pausing with some box of food in his hand, looking at her. She pretended not to have seen him, diving her arm in for anything else she could grab.

She had been avoiding Tom as well, and she had, perhaps, been rather too obvious about it. That Other’s first comment, followed by Henry’s cryptic warning, had been enough for her to steer clear of the young man she had, until recently, considered her friend. Henry’s words were simply too troubling for her to shake off and ignore. Tom had become suspect in her eyes. There was no doubt he had done something, and surviving for close to two months on this peril-ridden island had finally begun to teach her extreme caution.

She picked up her bag, weighing it, and nodded to herself, then tied it shut and slung it over her shoulders. More people were arriving, pushing in to get at what was left of the airdropped supplies. She wound her way through them, leaving them to it. Their squabbles over food were not her concern. Nor was, she decided, the tantalising mystery of where this food had come from. She had grown weary of pondering mysteries. For the first time, the realisation struck her that it was so much easier simply to accept what was going on, and to make the most of it when some unseen benefactor decided to start literally dropping bread and jam from the sky. After all, nobody else seemed to be troubled by the how and why of it all. Perhaps they had worked out the right attitude to adopt to this island all along.

Adjusting the straps of her bag to ease the weight of the load on her back, she walked through the jungle alone. There was a smile on her face.

To hell with questions she could never hope to answer. To hell with Tom, and Sawyer, and Nikki and Kate and Jack, people she wanted no more to do with. Today, she would enjoy bread and strawberry jam, and pretend, for as long as she could, that everything was exactly as it should be.

* * *

Sarah sat wearing shorts and a light t-shirt in the wheelchair outside her tent, her bare legs stretched out before her, and allowed the warm caress of the sun to slowly dry her recently washed hair. She closed her eyes with a happy smile and popped the last piece of a slice of bread into her mouth. She exhaled a faint sigh of contentment.

“Sarah, right?” For a moment, she did not stir. She kept her eyelids shut, chewing slowly, letting the delicious strawberry spread soak into her tastebuds. There was a shuffling of sand as someone walked up to her. A male voice, a little hesitant. “Uh, Sarah?” Perhaps he thought she was asleep. She was tempted to let him think so. Finally, she opened one eye, lifting her hand to shield it from the sun. She shifted her legs a little.

“Yes, I’m Sarah. And you’re Bernard, if I remember correctly. How’re you doing?”

“Not bad.” Rose’s husband glanced back over the rest of the beach before turning his attention to her. “I’ve come to ask you a favour. Word has it you’ve been saying we should do something to get off this island.”

“I have?” She frowned faintly, trying to remember. “Oh, well… maybe. Who told you that?”

“Manuel. He’s already agreed to help.”

Sarah straightened up part-way in her wheelchair. “Help with what?” she asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“Getting us off this island,” Bernard told her, his expression earnest, his voice perfectly serious. “We know now that there are planes flying overhead, at least from time to time. Remember the supply drop yesterday? Well, of course you remember… Anyway, we have fires burning at night, but if it flies over during the day… I’m building an S.O.S. sign,” he explained. “Literally, a big three letters, on the sand. Big enough to be seen from high above. Only it’s going to take time, and effort, and–”

Sarah listened, frowning slowly. He definitely seemed eager, confident that it could work. But she found herself shaking her head. She stood.

“Sorry.”

Bernard looked at her, puzzled and disappointed.
“You won’t help?”

“If there was a plane, it came last night, yes? If it didn’t see our fire, it’s not going to see your S.O.S. sign. It’s a waste of time.”

“Last I saw, we all had more time than any of us knew what to do with. Listen, wait…” He moved to stand beside her as she walked round to the entrance of her tent. “It’s worth a try, surely? Sarah, I know this can work. I know… I know there’s a way we can get rescued. We just have to work together, and stop waiting and doing nothing and hoping that things will sort themselves out on their own. Nobody’s going to help us if we don’t help ourselves.”

She shook her head again, not even looking at him as she lifted up the flap. Going down to the beach to work with the others… No. Watching, and wondering what secrets lay behind the eyes of the people working beside her. Making small talk, while all their unseen guilt remained buried within. Help these trapped murderers escape back into the wider world. The idea held no appeal at all. Let them help themselves and one another, if they really wanted to. She felt a little sorry for Bernard, but then he did not know what she did. And for all I know he throttled some old woman just before getting on the plane, she thought.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and crawled into her tent, pulling the flap shut firmly behind her. She did not spare Bernard even another glance, and sat waiting until she heard him leave. With a sigh, she sank back onto the sand, her head resting on her pillow from the Swan. Within her tent, at least, no-one would trouble her. The beach outside need not even exist.

* * *

November 25th. 65th day on the island.

Today I’ve heard the most awful news. I’m still in shock as I write this. Libby and Ana-Lucia are dead.

She sat outside her tent once more, this time with her diary propped over her thigh, scribbling with a faintly trembling hand. It seems Henry somehow got out of his cell, found a gun, and because they were there in the Swan, shot them. I don’t know much more than that, but it seems he got away. He also wounded Michael.

She paused, biting the nail on the index of her left hand. I’m having trouble reconciling this with the conversation Henry and I had last week. But then, what do I know? I’m not making sense of anything right now. All I know is, two of us are dead. Just like that.

The funeral’s later today. A pause. Yet another funeral.

She closed her pen slowly, and looked up as Jane approached her. The young black woman gave a weak smile.

“Hi. Mind if I join you? I, uh… I’m not feeling up to being alone.”

“I know how you feel,” Sarah said kindly, and meant it. “Sure. Take the wheelchair; I’ll grab the blanket from my tent.”

“No, it’s ok, I can sit in the sand.” She did so, and looked up at her, her face rather pale. “You’ve heard? You’ve heard… of course. Everyone has.”

“Yeah.” Sarah found she did not know what to say.

“One morning you’re just outside, getting on with your life as best you can here, and… wham. You find out two people you know have been killed.” Her eyes held a flicker of anguish, of deep-set confusion. “Did you know them well?”

“I… I don’t think I ever talked to Ana,” Sarah admitted. She did not mention she had been avoiding the woman because she strongly suspected her of being a cold-blooded murderer. “Libby… Libby, we talked, a few times. She… uh, she helped me, once. When I had a lot of my mind, she…” She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. “She gave me good advice,” she finished, softly. Jane nodded slowly. The ensuing silence was oppressive. Sarah felt herself nodding in turn, very slowly, for no reason at all. It was Jane who eventually spoke.

“You know, there’s something I’ve been thinking, and it’s so absurd that… To think it now, when...” She gazed up into Sarah’s face. “I was thinking that today is Thanksgiving.” Her tone was bitter. “Thanksgiving…” she repeated, in a whisper.

Sarah’s lips twitched into a grim smile, very briefly. “I know what you mean.” It all seemed so far away – another world. So meaningless. “Today’s also November 25th,” she added quietly. “One month until Christmas.” Jane said nothing, and that heavy silence descended upon them once more. From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw something, and turned her gaze to focus on it. Charlie stood some distance away, alone, and, as she watched, he seemed to be tossing something far into the waves. She kept her gaze on him distractedly, and saw him do it again, then again. He was throwing things into the ocean. She was too far to even hasard a guess as to what. Jane got to her feet.

“You’ll be coming to the funeral?”

Sarah nodded. No doubt everybody would. Their little community, coming together for once… for this.

She bit her lip, hard, and tried to ignore the sudden stinging in her eyes.

* * *

Sunset. The camp settlers had gathered, quietly, atop the low hill which had become by necessity their cemetary. Boone and Shannon’s graves were set side by side, but the grim-faced assembled castaways were standing beside two narrow open pits near the final resting places of their previous dead. Libby and Ana-Lucia had already been lowered into their fresh graves, wrapped and covered in makeshift body bags – the tarpaulin roofs of their tents, a poor substitute for a coffin. Somebody coughed. A cool breeze fluttered in from the sea. Sarah kept her eyes on the ground.

Almost everyone had come. Ana and Libby had been late arrivals to their sometimes precarious community, united only in sorrow, but they had been accepted into this fragile, stranded little settlement. They had been crash survivors like the rest of them, and they had integrated into camp life, contributing as best they could during the tragically brief amount of time they had lived here. They had survived the ordeal of the plane crash, rebuilt lives for themselves, only to die just two months later. And even if Ana had been a murderer, at that moment it barely mattered. She had become a victim, too, and Sarah could not help but experience a sense of grief, of confused and wordless emptiness, while Jack, ever their leader in times of trouble, began to speak.

“Ana-Lucia Cortez was– Before we crashed, she was a police officer. I don't think it was easy for her being here. But I think she did the best she could. She was a woman of few words, and I'm going to follow her example. Rest in peace, Ana.”

There were nods, silent ones. Manuel muttered something inaudible. Paulo looked grim. Michael nursed his arm wrapped in a sling after his gunshot wound. He looked as if he would have prefered to be anywhere but here. Survivor’s guilt, perhaps. He was lucky to be alive.

When Hurley stepped up to the edge of Libby’s grave, his voice was choked with emotion. “Libby was… She was… She… Libby was a psychologist, or psychiatrist… one of those.” Sarah bit her lip, and wiped at the corner of her right eye. This was more difficult even than she had expected. Hurley went on bravely: “Either way, she probably helped a lot of people. She helped me. She was my friend. It's not fair that this happened to her. It's not.” He looked over at Michael. “I'm going with you. Goodbye, Libby.”

Going with you? Yet again something she had not been informed of. No matter. It was of no importance now. Not any more.

She lifted her eyes slowly, just in time to see Claire slip her hand quietly into Charlie’s. Sarah smiled, very weakly. Some good, at least… But then her gaze crossed Tom’s, staring at her fixedly. She lowered her eyes again quickly. He was making her feel distinctly uncomfortable… all the more so as he had once been her one source of support and strength on the island. She had been avoiding him since–

“Boat…”

It had been little more than a whisper, coming from Sun, but she looked up immediately. That one word, so utterly unexpected, sounded out of place, unreal, and her breath caught in her chest as her gaze travelled out over the sea… and came to rest on a sailboat, drifting on the waves, slowly, towards the shore. It was a small distance out yet, and it was not a large one, but it was definitely, unmistakably a– “Boat!” Sun said again, her tone one of mixed astonishment and excitement. A stir swept through the smallish crowd by the graves, and some began to run down the hill, towards the nearby seashore.

“Are we rescued?” Charlie exclaimed, a burst of almost disbelieving joy lighting up his face. “Saved?” someone else put in. Murmurs rose from among them. Sarah moved with the swell, down to the water. She gazed at the sailboat the whole while, transfixed, walking mechanically, her pace quickening with everyone else’s. A boat! It seemed… amazing, miraculous, wonderful, incredible; words failed her! And none of them had seen it coming!

“Don’t let it get away!” Jane called, anxiously. A stab of fear brushed against Sarah’s heart, dampening her elation. It was difficult to tell from this distance, but she could see no-one on the deck. Surely it was not adrift? Still, she told herself, shoring up her sense of hope, even if it is, it’s still a boat! Our way off the island! “Hey!” she yelled out over the water. “Hey! Over here!”

Others joined her. Jack, Sayid and Sawyer had pulled their tops off, kicked off their shoes, and were running into the ocean, swimming out towards it with fast, powerful strokes, as quickly as they possibly could.

“Make noise, make noise!” Nikki urged them all on almost frantically. “Hey, come on! We’re over here! Come on!” Somehow, Kate was holding binoculars and scrutinising the sailboat through them.

“You see anything?” Charlie asked her.

“No.”

“Maybe it’s a trap?” the young Englishman suggested worriedly. Sarah looked at him.

“What do you mean, a trap?” asked Hurley.

“Think positive!” Sarah told them, turning her head back towards the seas. You can certainly talk, girl… How long is it since you’ve been thinking positive, anyway? “This is our ticket off this island!” she insisted, with almost fierce determination.

“No, I mean… what if it’s the Others?” Charlie said. Jin glanced at him, frowning in concern.

“Others?” he pronounced in broken English. After all these weeks, this was one English word he had learnt to recognise.

Claire took Charlie’s arm and looked up into his face, gently. “It isn’t a trap,” she soothed, without allowing the faintest trace of doubt into her voice.

“Let’s hope…” Sun whispered.

Sarah’s eyes were on the three men in the water. As she watched they reached the boat, and pulled themselves aboard. They moved onto the deck cautiously. She waited tensely.

She stumbled back, startled, and almost tripped over herself when several gunshots rang out. Her heart leapt in her chest, missing several beats and leaving her gasping for breath. Cries of dismay and fear rose from the gathered survivors.

“Everybody back off the beach!” she heard Paulo say, urgently.

“What about Jack and the others?” Charlie asked, anxiously. Jin took a step towards the water’s edge, but Sun held him back.

“They’re all right!” Sarah told them loudly. “All three of them, they’re still standing!” Peering through her binoculors, Kate nodded, reassuring them.

“No-one’s been hurt.”

“Others!” Jin said tensely, pointing towards the sailboat. There were no further shots to be heard. Jack, Sayid and Sawyer did not appear to be moving, but all three were clearly still on their feet. For a few seconds no-one spoke.

“I’m going in,” a familiar voice said abruptly. Tom was beginning to pull his t-shirt off. Sarah turned to glare at him, her eyes blazing briefly.

“Don’t be stupid!” she snapped. Tom froze, looked at her with a strange expression on his face, then tugged his t-shirt back down and turned away.

“Sayid’s jumping back into the water,” Kate announced. They could all see him, and even hear a faint echo of the splash, as he began to swim back towards them. On the deck, Jack was lowering himself out of sight, presumably into a cabin or compartment. Still no further shots. Sarah chewed at her lip with undiminishing concern.

It seemed like ages before Sayid finally emerged from the water, his hair and bare torso dripping with water. He walked up to them, meeting their tense, worried, expectant faces with a shake of the head.

“It’s not a rescue boat,” he said, simply. Sarah breathed in deeply, and released her breath with a sigh, closing her eyes. Not a rescue.

“Is it the Others, dude?” Hurley asked him.

“The Others?” Sayid sounded surprised at the idea. “No. No, it’s not the Others. The gunshots were… a misunderstanding. Nobody’s hurt. But I don’t think the boat came looking for us.”

“Why?” Sarah pressed him, tensely. Her reluctance to even talk to the Iraqi temporarily forgotten in view of the situation. “Who’s on board? Who are the crew? What are they doing here?”

“There’s only one man on board,” Sayid told them, his voice impassive as ever. He walked up the warm sand to recover his discarded top. “And he’s too drunk to be of any help right now.” He looked at them. “I think he’s lost, like the rest of us.”

“But where did he come from?” Sarah insisted. Sayid’s dark eyes focused on her. She flinched. His steady calm, which she had once found so reassuring, now unsettled her. It struck her as the calm of a man not quite sane… a man without a conscience. No longer the calm of reason, but a calm without a soul. Henry’s words, his warning, whispered in the edges of her mind, never quite leaving her.

“He came from here,” Sayid said, without blinking. “He was already on the island.”

A pause, while that sank in. Then, heading up the hill with barely a backward glance: “Now, if someone would be so kind as to help me, we still have two graves to fill in.”

* * *