Those That Remain - Lost

Green bile trickled from her mouth, pattering in the sand and on her shoes. When will this nightmare end, she thought, wiping the lumpy mess from her lips.

    The tide lapped up Clary’s body, a gathering of foam and bubbles sprawling up her prone waist. Hair clung around her cheek - and salty water on her tongue. Whoosh, went another wave, weighing down her head. How had she ended up here?

    Stumbling and heaving, she rose to her feet. The sun weakly warmed her back, where her shirt had torn against the deep-sea rocks. It flared with pain as she lightly pressed it, leaving a wet scarlet running down her palm. Clary clamped down on her teeth, pressing on with no company but her shadow.

    Rows of erect, slender-stemmed palm trees waved on the horizon. After a lengthy walk, she found herself collapsing under them. The only protection they offered was from the light; the sun was too weak to make her sweat. Not that she’d be able to tell the difference with her soaked clothes sticking to her.

    Her fist wrapped around a tired clump of scarred leaves, and sand near enveloped her head as the branch let go of her. Sitting up, her reddened veins were unavoidably in her sight. Clary brushed the pulsing roads on her forearm softly.

    “Who are you?” a hidden voice hissed. She heard a small click, and jumped to her feet, her heart in her mouth. She swallowed it, feeling it sink like a chunk of fat down her throat.

    With a rolled long sleeve shirt, hair over his eyes, and the beginnings of whiskers to accompany his goatee, was a figure with a raised arm. He was still as a rock, his arm unwavering as he repeated his question.

    “Who am I?” she echoed, her body shaking uncontrollably. Standing still could not be her long-term plan; energy writhed, demanding she flee or fight. 

    He caught sight of her arms, moving the steel weapon to follow his eyes. “You’re one of the sick?” he asked himself. “You’re infected,” he said with more confidence and malice in his final word. Flee or fight?

    Clary leapt towards him, her uncut nails her weapon of choice. He lowered the gun, ducking under her arm and restraining her from behind. Legs kicked dust and her hands scratched the back of his head before a hairy arm tightened around her throat. They struggled for a while before he pulled her to the floor. She fell dormant as cold steel pressed against the back of her head.

    “Hey, hey! Don’t, okay? Just stop,” he said, still steady behind her, while she gasped for breath. “Where did you come from? What’s your name? Why are you here?”

    “I don’t know,” she said, a hot feeling behind her eyes. The truth was she didn’t know the answers to his questions, except her name. But that was her one piece of knowledge, and one she didn’t wish to give away so easily.

    “What do you mean, you don’t fucking know?” he said, his voice rising.

    “I don’t know!” she sobbed, unable to stop herself any longer. She suddenly wished she had run, fast and hard, away from him. Hell, she would’ve swum away if the need arose.

    She closed her eyes, trapping the tears, readying herself for whatever came next. He lifted her on her feet by her hair, placing the gun in his belt. He reached to take her arm but hesitated. “You’ll follow?”

    Follow she did, her torn shoes shifting in the sand, as her eyes glued themselves to the handgun on the back of his waist. Why had he wanted to shoot her? Her attire was hardly threatening. Clary’s my name, she thought, frightened she’d forget it. Clary, clary, clary.

    He produced a silver pocket watch from his jeans, and its chain jingled as it tied itself around his fingers. He swore under his breath, glancing up at the empty sky. The sun was of mid descent.

    “We gotta hurry.”

    “Why?”

    He scowled, continuing onto parched dirt, crushing wilting green blades with his heels. A gentle breeze stroked her back, reminding her it was there with a slight throb. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t fired.

    Two more checks of his watch later, he urged her to hide. Without asking why she hugged the palm with the widest roof. Clary opened her mouth to whisper her question, confused for the reasoning behind him covering himself with a grassy mat from his backpack. He laid silently under his makeshift ghillie suit, fading into the starved earth.

    Sand seemed to shift beneath her as a pulsing spread through her feet. Distant mechanical humming emerged from where they had come until the sound was a beating one in her ears. Leaves sprawled out from above her, and sand flew in her mouth, like salty sugar. Clarissa covered her eyes from the attack, when from above her makeshift shield a glossy white helicopter appeared, reflecting light through the tree gaps.

    After what seemed like an eternity, the drumming died, and the gleaming machinery was gone. He whipped his disguise away, rolling it quickly like a bedroll, and tucking it into his backpack. She saw a cartridge tumble to its side before he closed it with a swift zip.

    “Come,” he beckoned, offering no hints for her. “We’re close.”

    And they were; they were quickly on a small path marked by bent blades of grass, followed by a small hut consisting of logs and long twigs. The door was three branches leant against a gap in the logs. Inside were small trinkets: a photograph of a short-haired woman with a crescent beam, a soggy box of matches, two bullets, a mud-caked wallet, and a notably dry, crisp piece of lined paper.

    He turned and fell into a corner of the hut in one fluid movement, yanking two rocks from his backpack. He began sharpening one with the other.

    She sat cross-legged beside the items, taking a look at the photograph. 

    “Hands off!” he barked, a steely look in his eyes. She flinched at his yap, placing it down hastily. 

    Clary cocked her head in an attempt to read the note, unable to read more than a few letters. A hairy hand snatched it from her view, and he rolled it up, stowing it in his bag.

    She let out a prolonged sigh. “Do you know where we are? Why we just hid from the only thing that could rescue us?”

    “Trust me girl, they won’t save us,” he said darkly, a spark flicking from his rock.

    “Why not?”

    “You don’t ask a lot of questions do you?” he said, swapping the rocks for the photograph, stroking the woman’s face with his thumb. “Truth is . . . I don’t remember a whole lot either - some bits and pieces, here and there. I remember my name. I can feel this person.” He tapped the picture. “I don’t know who it is, but I can feel I know them. I . . . I miss them, even.” He set it aside as a crack of faint light trickled through the gaps in the walls, shining on his face. “And just like I know that I know I don’t trust those people. Every day, at three, a white helicopter flies over. Every morning, at three, another one comes, but with a great searchlight.”

    “I remember my name too,” she said quietly. “But we need to leave, and go to our homes, right? Could we swim?”

    She saw a hint of a smile play across his lips. “The horizon is a blue line. The tides are violent. That’s not even an idea.”

    Clary chewed her lip, almost disappointed in herself.

    “There is . . .” He let his voice trail off, knitting his brows together in thought. “There’s a boat where I woke up, not far from here. I’ve thought a thousand times that there must be some kind of dinghy inside.”

    She stood to her feet, new energy inside her. Of all things, a boat! “Let’s then! It’s a boat for goodness sake!”

    Her excitement was not shared, nor her hope. He didn’t so much as blink, though his eyes did shift slightly to her arms. “You remember when I called you sick? Infected? The last I remember was waking up in that boat, slumped over a table with drinks spilt across me. There were two others with me as I left, both with red veins. One refused to come, and the one who followed grew more agitated every passing hour. Eventually, he tore his shirt off, and I saw . . .” His eyes were scrunched up, his breaths slightly shaky. “His heart was beating against his chest, with bright red veins surrounding it. He came at me. I lost three bullets.”

    He took the gun out of his belt, looking at it closely. “Found it in the captain’s cabin.” 

    “You have a gun,” she said, almost reassuring herself rather than him.

    He shook his head. “No, it’s certain death. Besides, I’ve used all my bullets.”

    She tossed her half-dry hair over her shoulder as she strode towards his backpack, retrieving the full ammo case she had seen earlier. “Plus there’s two on your floor.”

    He squeezed his jaw, sighing as he released the ammo case from his gun and swapped it with the one in Clary’s hand. “Nosy,” he muttered under his breath, collecting his trinkets and stowing them in his backpack.

    He led again, letting thick leaves slap her in the face as they walked through them. She saw his hut had been built in the thickest group of palms, like tall soldiers guarding his sleep. It didn’t take long for them to reach the boat; it was a long, almost sharp white thing, with grey railings torn and hanging loosely over the cavity in its side. Inside was a thick and misty black, with water occasionally leaping inside, being swallowed and never returned. But most suspicious of all was the bold red letters painted on the side, clean as if they’d be done that very morning.

    The slumped metal heap rested on a small dune, barely jutting from the sea. They forded the knee-high waters between the two islands, but before she could enter, an arm barricaded her movement.

    “Before we go,” he began, his face tight as if struggling to find the words. “My name is Logan.”

    She offered a small smile. “I’ll do well not to forget it.”

    He nodded, removing his hand to scratch his scraggly chin hairs. Logan reached into his bulging pocket, offering her a jagged rock. “I won’t ask yours.”

    Her hand fell under the weight of it, it was an uncomfortable thing to hold. “I’m Clarrisa,” she said, holding his hard gaze. She saw the lines under his eyes relax ever so slightly. 

    Thick clouds seemed to form in her throat and lungs once stepping into the damp remains of the boat. It instantly soaked her shoes, numbing her feet. They felt like blocks of ice as they clunked against the steel floor. 

    “Should we sep-”

    Clary’s voice was cut off by Logan’s finger on her lips. He pressed his other finger to his own, then indicating she took the stairs up while he took the southern retreat. She didn’t want him to go; a whirring sound that spun paused spun paused was echoing from down them. Despite her thoughts, she took off to the stairs, careful to hold the bent railings to avoid slipping on the dripping stairs.

    The queer whirring faded, as the bliss sound of rocky waves continued. She could almost taste the salt from atop the barren and quite diagonally parked boat. Smashed boxes and rotted apples seemed to be all that was here, except the room towards the bow.

    Shattered glass tumbled from the window of the door as it swung way faster than she had intended it. A thunderous bang rattled her spine, shaking the ship. Though it was not the only horror here.

    A woman with a white cap had a steering handle half into her skull as she laid dormant on her knees, her arms stiff as logs. Clary gagged, not caring about the noise slamming the door shut made, and moved back towards the stairs. 

    Her hand was still covering her mouth by the time she descended, the black fog returning to cloud her vision. Suddenly red beams pierced through it like someone had thrust a dagger of light into the mist. It was coming from downstairs.

    The whirring sounds resumed, making her shiver as she realised it was all she could hear. Scarlett lights flashed on the walls, as she roamed the small maze of pipes and machinery. 

    She flinched at the sound of a gunshot from behind her, freezing before running towards the second. Sounds of a struggle echoed around the halls as she spun frantically to find Logan, his cries seemed to change location with every step. Her heart throbbed, a violent drum in her chest, trying to reach out to find him itself.

    Under a metal box, she saw four feet scrambling. Clary ducked under it and the pipes behind it, emerging with the rock in hand, unsure whether she could use it. Logan was on a table, writhing away from the thing, spilling papers and pliers as it came towards him.

    She hit the thing in its grey head, watching its thin hairs spring up as it turned to her with glowing red eyes. Its jaw was pulled back, its teeth half ground, half serrated. 

    “Clarrissa!” 

    She swung the rock again with her entire body, caving its head inwards as it fell to one knee. Clary screamed at the echoing gunshot as its head splattered across the wet floor. She turned then to Logan, who was shaking slightly as a thin line of smoke rose from his gun barrel.

    Tightly wrapping his fingers around his weapon, he beckoned Clary to come close behind him. “No more separating,” he said, still gasping slightly. Let’s not, she thought as her heart began to slow.

    Eventually, they found the dinghies in a large case on the top deck, with remnants of a wooden box piled atop it. The sun fell fast asleep, as the moon began its night shift. They blew and puffed until the makeshift boat was ready to sail, before she crashed into it, nearly falling asleep there.

    “Come on kiddo, help me move this thing,” Logan said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He offered her a hand out of the boat which she refused, choosing to leap out instead. The dinghy felt like an unfinished cake under her fingers.

    “It won’t tip?” she asked, wondering when exactly she’d ever eaten a cake.

    “Maybe,” he replied nonchalantly. The boat enthusiastically began taking off without them, and Clary held it while Logan hopped over the side, before pulling her in.

    It swayed unsurely in the waves as Logan rowed them with a stranded stick of steel they found drowning in the steel graveyard. Her back flared again as she leaned against the small walls the boat provided, but her eyelids were so heavy she didn’t care enough to move. Her arms were folded, and her legs crossed, yet she was comfy. Perhaps it was that they were leaving the island, and the dastardly monsters it housed. Clarissa was just thankful she’d never have to lay eyes on them again.

    She knew nothing about this man, save his name. Clary knew little of his picture, of his note, perhaps a little about his spirit. Perhaps a little about his heart, she admitted.

    The makeshift oars guided them gently through the waves, the soft rocking lulling her to sleep. The stars seemed to glow, looking so close she could touch them. Burning like frozen fireworks.