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Sleep had evaded Johnny, who had spent much of the evening curled up under the trees or half-heartedly listening to the conversations of those around him. He'd parted ways with Evie once night fell, he couldn't blame the girl, he wouldn't want to be around himself right now either. After hours of tireless searching there had been no sign or news of Eliza, and Johnny was slowly starting to realise the very likely possibility that he would never see her again. What little sleep he had managed was consumed by thoughts of his sister, of her easy smile and her bright eyes so similar in colour to his. He sighed, rolling over in the sand and heaving himself into a sitting position. Everything ached. The crash from the day before had has back and shoulders feeling like he'd trekked a marathon with a rucksack on, the muscled burned and the sting of sunburn lingered on the back of his neck. Johnny winced and tentatively peeled his sticky t-shirt off his shoulders, he had no idea what time it was, but already the humidity of the day had seeped into his very bones. Groaning, he stumbled to his feet and pissed up the closest tree.
His eyes were still red from the day before and the blinding sunlight only served to make them water. He sniffed sharply, zipped up his pants and trudged from the small patch of shade he'd slept in out onto the beach. Already there were people roaming about, some back down by the wreckage gathering supplies and others washing up in the surf. There had been talk last night of putting together a search party, but the captain had shot that idea down in favour of keeping everyone safe. Dickhead. What if Eliza was still out there? He hated to think of her, alone and scared in the jungle. And Johnny would have gone off on his own had they not stopped him and refused to hand over one of the two working torches. Johnny swallowed tightly, his throat was painfully dry and if he didn't find water he wouldn't be much use to anyone. Grimacing, he pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead and approached the main camp where a couple of other survivors were gathered. There was no sign of Evie, but he recognised a few of the others from the day before.
The air marshal gave him a pointed look as he approached the group, he simply returned it with a nod. Sam had too many opinions for his liking, and Johnny really didn't like the way she'd been ordering everyone else around last night. She was handing out bottles of water and pieces of fruit that looked like they'd been plucked from the nearby trees. There were a couple of people sat in hollow silence, the family he'd seen the day before, two friends who looked like they were just out of college and a pretty brown haired girl with pale blue eyes. No one seemed to be making any effort to gather a search party together to look for survivors. Johnny pressed his lips together in a tight line and approached Sam.
"Morning," he said gruffly, his voice hoarse. She greeted him with a lame hey and thrust a bottle of water in his direction, drink it slow, that's all you're getting. Johnny nodded, gathering himself before he pressed about the search party again. Sam gave him a sympathetic look. "We'll look, okay? but right now we need to focus on the people that are here. If you can wait till midday I'll come out with you." It took everything Johnny had not to shoot a scathing comment in her direction. "Forget it," he said. "I'll look myself." He turned on his heel and headed down the beach, ignoring her as she called after him.
Johnny finished the water before he reached the sea, and tossed the bottle onto the sand. He kicked it someway along the shore before stopping and slumping down in the sand. Running his hands into his hair he took a deep breath, fighting the tears that were threatening to fall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groaned, rubbing at his eyes and then his jaw. His skin felt awful, dry, cracked and sunburned, but right now all he could think about was his sister, wherever she might be. Johnny loosed a sigh and cast his watery gaze along the short stretch of beach. He could go alone of course, traipse off into the trees, but that came with its own risks, and he wouldn't be any use to Eliza if he was dead. Think, Johnny think.
Nothing came to mind, at least not until he spied the familiar green khaki of military fatigues some way off down the beach. Johnny scrambled to his feet, if anyone had to help him it would be a soldier. He wiped the sand off his pants and broke into a light jog, heading down the shore to where the other guy was washing up in the tide. "Hey," Johnny said as he approached, stopping as the guy turned. The marine gave Johnny a steely look up and down, and then returned to washing off his hands. "Hey, you're military right? Think you can help me, I'm trying to find my sister and-" He stopped, realising he wasn't getting anywhere. The guy wasn't listening, much less even considering helping him out. Johnny blew out a breath, growing steadily more frustrated at the lack of a response. "Hey, I'm taking to-" The guy swivelled and took a step towards Johnny, and uttered, "Fuck off."
Something fiery shot through Johnny as he glared at the man in front of him. The marine was a few inches taller than him, leaner but no less threatening. Johnny stood straighter, jutting out his chin. "Fuck off?" he echoed, stepping into the stranger's space. "Oh fuck you man, aren't you meant to help people? You know what, screw it. I'll find someone else, fucking coward." That hit a nerve. Something dark flared on the man's face, a muscle quivered in his jaw and red rose on his cheeks. Johnny stood his ground. He'd been in more fights than he could count. The marine was a bit taller sure, military trained, yeah, so what? It didn't mean he'd be any good in a real bare-knuckled fight. The marine was directly in front of Johnny and he could feel the force of his words as he spoke again. Johnny didn't react, at least not until the man jabbed a finger at the centre of his chest. He wet his lips. "You heard me." There was an arrogant curl to Johnny's lip. "I said you're a coward." Raising an arm, he swatted the man's hand away from his chest.
Miles could be called many things and never flinch an inch. Asshole was a fan favorite, attributed to his usual bastardly behavior and lack of care for anyone else. He never needed approval or pissed himself wondering if people liked him. He could be called names all day long, slandered, hated, and pushed away, and Miles would happily take it for the sake of being left alone. They weren’t entirely wrong, anyway, he knew he didn’t exactly come off as friendly when he swore unsuspecting innocent people off. It was one thing to be threatened with empty names, but as soon as someone questioned his integrity, his loyalty to his duty, Miles became a different kind of monster. To be thought of as weak and spineless, by a civilian no less?
You heard me. I said you’re a coward.
Furious was an understatement. Heat was already rippling through his body when his hand was shoved away from the boy’s chest. A coward was one thing Miles was not; he’d seen battle after battle, gunfight after the next, and had not once hesitated to dive headfirst into the heart of the bloodshed. Free-falling from choppers into rocky waters, running from angry throngs of extremists toting Russian RPG’s, and crawling back into crash-landed planes with questionable structural integrity to look for a distraught girl’s step family to nearly lose his life in the process- Miles was no coward.
His blue eyes flashed white hot, his hands shooting out from his sides and taking fistfuls of the boys torn shirt collar. Roaring, Miles braced his bare feet in the sand and twisted his body, yanking the kid off his feet and throwing him in the sand. Blinded with rage and pent-up frustration, he descended on the boy with his knee landing on his chest. “Say it again!” Miles roared, his elbow winding back far above his head before his tightened fist connected with the kid’s cheek with a deafening crack. Pain shot up his arm, but he was too high on adrenaline to come down.
“You have no idea what I do for this country,” his breath puffed against the boy’s face, shoulders rising and falling between breaths. “The lives I’ve saved, the men I’ve lost!” His mouth was gritty and raw with the sand on his tongue, his left eye still pulsing after he was knocked with an elbow to the face. “I’m not helping you find your dead sister-”
By the way the boy thrashed under his knee and fought back with untethered aggression and a temper just as bad as his own, they weren’t so different. Sand flew on all sides as the struggle continued, a few well landed blows striking Miles off guard. Miles’ delirium and dehydrated state proved his opponent to be nearly an equal match in strength as they wrestled in the white sands, blood spilling from both of their mouths. It felt just like his childhood, only he was usually the one being battered in the face by one brother while the other pinned him into the itchy grass.
(view spoiler)
In hindsight, picking a fight with a marine probably wasn't one of Johnny's brightest ideas. Just seeing the marked change in the guys expression had made him second guess his choices. It was like watching an attack dog, moments before it lunged, that slight flicker in the eyes that told Johnny he was about to get the beating of his life. Well...there's no going back now. Johnny didn't even have a chance to move as the man's hands curled around his collar. He was hauled upwards, dragged off his feet and slammed into the sand with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. Shit, shit, shit.
Winded, Johnny couldn't register the fist that came flying towards his face, at least not until it made contact. He heard the crunch inside his skull before pain flooded across his cheek. The impact snapped his head to the side, and Johnny was fairly certain he felt a tooth crack. Fury surged through him as the taste of copper burned on his tongue and the world rocked back into focus. Whatever the guy was saying was lost to the high pitched ringing in his ears.
Johnny growled, spat a mouthful of blood into the sand and swung his elbow up with as much force as he could manage. The blow hit it's mark and the marine went reeling to one side. It wasn't enough to unseat him though, he was a big bastard and the full weight of his body was currently centred on Johnny's chest. Roaring, the younger man writhed, throwing punches in an attempt to shake the soldier off. He wasn't quite strong enough though, and it wasn't until the marine hit a nerve, did Johnny finally find the strength to knock him off. I’m not helping you find your dead sister-
"SHE'S NOT DEAD!" Johnny yelled, the words ripping out of his throat. The next punch he threw landed on the guy's mouth. Blood sprayed across the white sand, and this time Johnny was able to get the upper hand. He rolled out from under the marine’s knee and tackled him, slamming his fist into the man's cheek. The impact sent a searing jolt from his fingers all the way up to his elbow. "She's not dead! She's not dead!" He managed to get two more hits in before the marine's knuckles crashed into his jaw. Johnny's head snapped back and his vision went black and white. The force of the hit sent him sprawling and then the guy was above him again, pinning him down on the sand. Each blow that followed hit him like a train.
Agony bloomed on his cheek and jaw, but somehow in the midst of it all, Johnny managed to scoot back and slam his boot into the guy's groin. It was a cheap shot, but he was used to playing dirty. He just about managed to get himself onto his knees before the marine went for him again. His body slammed into Johnny and the two of them went rolling down the sandbank, limbs flailing and bloody fists flying. They could only have been fighting for a few short moments, but the pain of it had Johnny feeling like it was hours. Time seemed to stand still as the two men fought, bare-knuckled, desperately trying to knock the other one out. There was part of him that thought perhaps he ought to play possum, the man wasn't going to let up, this wasn't going to be a fight that Johnny could win. And yet he was too riled, too angry to even consider the possibility of faking out of it.
Distantly, he became aware of someone shouting but Johnny was too busy trying not to die to make out the words or ascertain who was speaking. His head was fuzzy now, white fog lined the edges of his vision, but it was only when a pair of boots appeared in his line of sight and rough pair of hands yanked him backwards, did he finally come out of his rage-induced stupor. Johnny couldn't get his feet under him, his vision swam but he was still writhing, attempting to get himself free so he might finish the fight. Any efforts to do so were quickly prevented by an arm going around his neck.
"What the fuck is going on here?" came a stern female voice.
Johnny blinked rapidly, centring his gaze on the woman. It took a moment for her to come into focus, and he was hardly surprised when he again found himself on the receiving end of Sam's furious expression. The air marshal wasn't alone. Someone had him in a headlock and a man he didn't recognise was attempting to wrangle the marine just across the sand. "Well?" Sam's brows lifted. Johnny didn't miss the way her hand lingered near her firearm. Blood spilled from between his lips as he tried to find his voice, but with the arm crushing his windpipe he was too choked to speak.
"Nothing," he grunted, finally. "Nothing is going - get the hell off of me!" His face was throbbing, but it wasn't the pain that had tears burning his eyes. It was Eliza. He wasn't going to believe she was dead, and he wasn't going to be told it by any of the assholes here. The arm around his neck loosened a little, and Johnny slipped free, slumping onto the sand. The sun was blinding, but he could just about recognise the captain as the man who had pulled him off of the marine. Johnny grimaced, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His nose was still bleeding and the action left an ugly red smear across his skin, but he really didn't give a shit. He'd been in worse shape than this, healing was going to be a bitch, but it would heal nonetheless.
An uncomfortable silence had settled on the beach. But then Sam was speaking again, in a voice that sounded exhausted rather than the authoritative. "Look, I can see I'm not going to get an answer, but I’m telling you now, this isn’t how things are going to go here. If I catch you fighting again, either of you," she gave them both a pointed look. "You can spend the remainder of your time here, somewhere else. I don't care where. But you don't get to put other people in danger because you can't keep your tempers in check." She scowled at the two of them, and then jerked her head towards the man keeping the marine in place. "Jackson, let him go." The man stepped back, releasing him, and leaving Johnny and his opponent within lunging distance once again.
"We all need to pull together. So whatever, this-" Sam gestured between the two of them, "-is, you need to get over it." Johnny loosed a breath, the pain of his injuries was becoming more pronounced as the adrenaline wore off. There was a heavy pounding in his head, and the rather obvious swelling in his jaw told him he was going to be in a real state the following day. Wincing, he got shakily to his feet, narrowing his gaze at the captain who looked ready to grab him if he so much as looked in the marine's direction. "Get out of my way," he muttered, barging past them. There was already a group gathered nearby, watching the action from a distance. They gave Johnny a wide berth, avoiding his gaze as he stalked past them and headed in the direction of the trees.
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When Emmy woke, she was met by a feeling of utter confusion. For a brief second she'd allowed herself to think she was back in the safe confines of her student flat. That was until the pain burning in her shoulder brought her screeching back to reality. The horrors of the day before returned in a rapid blur: the smoking plane, blood coating her hands, the deafening crack of her own bones. She remembered it all. Pushing off the sweater she'd used as a blanket, Emmy gingerly raised herself into a sitting position. Every movement hurt. Her skin was marred by shallow grazes and mottled with ugly, purple bruises, but it was the emotional strain that weighed down on her more than any injury. Last night had brought her horrendously close to breaking point, her father was still missing, Tommy was gravely injured and Alyssa had come swinging for her. Emmy opened and closed her mouth, wincing at the obvious sore spot on her cheek. She certainly hadn't seen the punch coming.
Grimacing, Emmy made herself stand. The pain forced her to take short, shallow breaths and she almost contemplated laying back down on the scraps she'd used for a bed. It would be better for her to start moving though, and better still get out of the way of her family until she felt strong enough to face them again. The events of the night before had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and the prospect of facing any of the Lawson's that morning had her stomach roiling. Emmy stretched, testing the movement in her shoulder and the rest of her aching limbs. The crash and her injuries had left her feeling unbelievably sore, but she couldn't spend a day moping around, not when she was mobile enough to help out the others. She had slept a little further up the beach than the rest of the Lawson's, but she could still make out their improvised tent among the cluster of tarp and plastic that lined the white sand.
Emmy contemplated stopping by to check on Tommy, but figured it would be better to let things cool down between the rest of the family first. Instead, she traipsed down the beach to where Claire had left their salvaged bags, picking the dirt from under her nails as she went. Someone had already helped themselves to some of her clothes, but Emmy was too exhausted to care. She was able to find a clean t-shirt, a pair of shorts and her sneakers, which she changed into in the shade of the trees. Her shoulder was an obvious, annoying throb, but it was no where near as bad as it had been the day before. The tape had done it's job, and was still stuck firmly to her back. Emmy didn't think she'd ever been more grateful for the bare necessities, and she once again found herself thanking Miles as she used the contents of the toiletry bag he'd got her to wipe her face and clean her teeth. She found herself wondering if he was awake already, but quickly dismissed the idea of going to look for him. The marine had been so up and down the day before, and Emmy wasn't sure she could face another day of emotional whiplash. She decided it would be far better to let him come to her, instead of forcing her friendship upon him.
With little else to do, she stuffed her belongings under the tarp she’d found and set off across the sand. Much of the beach had transformed into a make-shift campsite, tents erected from palm fronds and salvaged plastic, embers from last nights fires still smoking at varying intervals. Emmy wasn't the only one awake. There were other survivors picking at grilled fish and sneaking peanuts from the remaining packets, there were parents attempting to wrangle their unruly kids and college age youngsters combing the beach for more supplies. It was a strange and surreal sight, but she was amazed out how everyone had come together in a time when it would be easy to be selfish. She doubted it would continue, once the supplies ran low it would likely be every man for himself. Emmy tried not to dwell on that as she ambled along the shoreline. The sun was already warming against her back and she could anticipate it would be another day of scorching temperatures and sticky humidity. She cringed at the thought, sweeping her gaze across the beach, a little lost for what to do with herself.
Apart from Miles and obviously the Lawson’s she was yet to speak to anyone else. If they were going to be stuck here, it made sense to at least learn the names of the other survivors. Emmy scanner the beach. The college students had found a soccer ball and were passing it between themselves right next to the waves. Emmy stopped for a moment to watch them, and might have gone to join in were it not for the shouts that carried up the beach. Frowning, she cast a glance along the shore to where a small cluster of survivors had gathered. Odd. They weren’t taking to each other, or even interacting. It was as if they were watching something. Emmy was in no state to run, but she picked up her pace a little as she made her way down the sand towards them, curious as to what was going on.
Emmy wouldn’t let herself be hopeful, though she would have been lying if she’d said that her thoughts hadn’t gone immediately to her Dad. Perhaps they’d found more survivors, or some sign that the back of the plane had survived the impact? In spite of the pain in her limbs, Emmy broke into a light jog, reaching the survivors in a few short bounds. There were around a dozen of them, stern faced, staring down the beach. She was about to ask someone what was happening when she caught sight of the two men being restrained on the sand. Horror surged through her as she recognised Miles’ dusty fatigues and close-cropped hair, even at this distance, the sight of him was enough to stop her in her tracks. He was half crouched, with blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and a black eye that was starting to swell. Opposite him was a man of around the same age, though he was in far worse shape. Blood ran from his nose, and he was nursing a split lip, a cut eyebrow and enough bruises to render Emmy's blemished cheek completely insignificant. Her mouth fell open, any respect she had for Miles quickly dissipating as she watched him stare down the air marshall.
She couldn't fathom what had started such a confrontation, but she wasn't about to stick around to find out. Perhaps Claire had been right in everything she'd said about Miles. The injuries the other guy was nursing were brutal, the kind of wounds that left scars. This wasn't the product of a schoolyard fight, this was pain inflicted by someone who had been trained to kill, and would likely be capable of doing it with his bare hands if need be. Emmy was feeling nauseous. All that blood... Her gaze shuttered, and she turned away from the scene, heading back up the beach in the same direction she had come from. She didn't do well with violence. It wasn't the blood that set her on edge, but rather the action of inflicting such damage on another human being. Witnessing such a thing, stirred up memories that she had no intention of dwelling on. What would she even say to Miles now? Any goodwill from the day before was quickly forgotten as she set about putting as much distance between the two of them as she could.
Johnny had gotten the worst of Miles’ temper, battered to a bloody pulp in the sand by his relentless and quick strikes. Had the air marshal and her lackeys not stepped in, Johnny may not have been conscious by the time Miles had finished with him. It wasn’t like he had even registered the pain he was inflicting on the boy, he had been numb with every fist that he drove into the kid’s face. Remorse was the last thing on his mind. Call it a side effect of his PTSD, or call it an act of savagery; Miles was blinded by the red to realize the extent of his damage or the irrationality behind how the hell he had let his ego become so injured that he had found the bestial need to cripple the guy beyond recognition.
Miles had felt the bulk of an unidentified man latch onto his back and around his neck, choking him out in a similar fashion to his opponent while the two still thrashed and kicked to get one last lunge at each other. Gasping for air in his struggle, he abandoned his vengeance in exchange for survival and slapped frantically at the figure behind him. His mediator struggled to strap him down, but at last, Miles was pinned face first into the sand while his assailant secured his flailing arms behind his back.
Breathing heavily with gritty bits of sand ground into his teeth, the sweating Marine, quickly abandoned his fight and slowly crawled to his knees once his captor slighted his hand on Miles’ collar.
The demanding woman he knew now as the air marshal Sam glared down her nose at the two men huffing and puffing, dripping in their own blood and sweat at her feet, but Miles refused to say anything. He had every right mind to take a swing at her, too, but resisted with his sore fingers curling in the hot sand that reflected with the morning’s sun. With the adrenaline fading, Miles crouched on his hands and knees waiting for the swirling effects of dehydration and the throbbing in his eye to dwindle, wincing when sharp pains pinched at his nerves. She scolded them like they were boys, reprimanding the two for their naughty behavior on the beach with threats of exile looming over them. He wouldn’t have minded.
He didn’t feel a single bit guilty for hurting Johnny like he did, the piece of shit needed to have been put in his place. Who else would teach him? Miles was quite used to solving his problems with a good beating, it was how he’d always known it to be. Teaching a lesson, his brothers would put it, it did the job. Sure enough, Johnny didn’t dare look his way the rest of the time, even when Miles sent challenging glints across the sand at his defeated opponent to no avail. Sam suggested that they “get over it,” at which Miles could only scoff. He spit clotted blood to his side, returning Sam’s disproving looks with a menacing one of his own that didn’t waver, even if all he wanted to do was fall back into the sand and shut his eyes for a minute.
Nobody told Miles what to do, he had an issue with authority even ironically with his position in rank as a subordinate member of the Marine Corps. He didn’t give a shit if she was USAM, she was a she and he was disgruntled with the way she painted him the big bad wolf. It wasn’t his fault Johnny was a little shit. She said nothing else, and Johnny staggered to his feet to dismiss himself while an intrigued crowd split in two to veer from his path of rage.
Miles could say he was satisfied, only he had caught a glimpse a certain curly head of hair turning out from the crowd just as her figure caught his eye. Emmy. He couldn’t have seen her face as it had been mere split seconds that he’d spotted her before she vanished from sight, but he could be sure of it. What was she doing here? In the flurry, he hadn’t thought much about what she would think, in fact he had felt rather invincible giving Johnny a piece of his mind and spitting at Sam’s feet as if he were untouchable.
But as the crowd dispersed with slating murmurs and whispers traded between survivors leaving Miles all alone, it was only then that he began to feel the faintest bit sorry. How much had she seen? Why hadn’t she said anything? Whatever was going through Emmy’s mind, he couldn’t imagine that she would be proud of him.
He didn’t listen to a word of Sam’s chiding once Johnny had stalked off to whinge about his sister, unresponsive grunts serving for his only reactions until he was left clear alone on the beach. The offshore breeze kicked up, cooling the swelling in his forehead that didn’t subside. The longer he sat there in the sand, the more shitty he felt; all he could think about was Emmy and wonder just how badly he had fucked up. It probably hadn’t been the soundest idea to pull a power play, to survive he needed to at least let these people not have a reason to drive a shiv made of shrapnel into his chest while he slept.
Somehow, Miles gathered the strength to pull himself together and strip down to his compression shorts, spending some half hour submerging himself in the clear blue tide. He braved the stinging saltwater in his cuts and washed off, scrubbed the blood from is knuckles and let the ebb and flow of the water relax his knotted muscles. He was at a loss; was it right to go back up to camp? Should he have done them all a favor, and moved further down the shoreline, never to speak to any of them again? In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t properly gauged reactions and taken in to account how much less the survivors would trust him, even when it came to expertise in survival. They would have probably rather been dead than listen to anything coming from him, and now the air marshal who seemed to run the camp had a fat target on his back.
By the time Miles had gotten out of the water his fingertips were raisins, his skin clean but puffy in places that they shouldn’t be. His finger was mildly sprained and the area under his eye purpled with the beginnings of a goose egg. Looking nightmarish and bloodshot, Miles crept back up to the campsite in his fatigues, disappearing into the safety of his secluded clearing. On his way in, he’d glimpsed Emmy again, this time she was helping with some sort of food preparation while children looked sleepily at her around the fire pit.
He hadn’t eaten and the sun was well past noon in the sky, and while every bit of him thought it would be best to lie low and chew on his stash for now, Miles somehow wound up roughly tapping on Emmy’s shoulder from behind, looking dead on his feet. “Hey,” he grunted, glancing behind him at the fire pit where the little ones sat up a little straighter recognizing him as the bad man their parents had warned them about. “Can I have one?” Miles gestured to the fish she had gutted, more or less empty words spoken for the sake of opening a conversation. He wasn’t exatly keen on starting with “that sonofabitch had it coming to ‘im.”
(view spoiler)
The island became a lot smaller when you were actively avoiding people, Emmy had realised. It was for that reason that she'd walked a good mile away from the camp in an effort to distance herself from those who dwelled there. She didn't know how long she walked for, but eventually the soft, white sand turned to craggy, grey stone and she realised she could go no further. The camp was a distant speck at the very curve of the beach, and the sound of it's inhabitants had long since vanished on the wind. Finally, Emmy felt like she could breathe. Sitting down on the small outcrop of rocks, she closed her eyes and let the ocean breeze caress her heated skin. Her injuries from the day before felt somewhat more pronounced now that she had the space to think about them. Coupled with the weight of last nights argument and the image of what she had witnessed on the beach that morning, Emmy felt especially weary. She might have cried again, were it not for that fact that she felt to drained to do so. It was still early in the morning, but she was already longing to go back to sleep.
She stayed there, lost in her own thoughts, until the guilt of abandoning the rest of the camp became too much to bear. Tired of her own pity-party, she'd climbed to her feet and taken a slow walk back up the beach. Along the shore she passed several of the college kids she'd seen that morning, larking about in the spray and passing a football between themselves. At first she'd been under the impression they were just messing around, that is until one of the guys came marching out of the waves holding a writhing fish on a length of twine. What she had thought was a fluke, had actually been part of a pretty successful operation in which the group had managed to fill a box up with a worthy catch. When they'd seen her watching, a slim blonde girl had beckoned her over and asked for a hand getting the box back to camp. Naturally, Emmy had agreed, anything to get her mind off the events of the day. Soon she'd found herself gutting fish with two other college students, whilst their friends ferried marlin and tuna up from the shore. It was boring, mind-numbing work but it kept her hands busy and her mind focussed.
On any other day she would have leapt at the chance to make conversation, to get to know the others and learn about what they were studying. But even their gentle attempts at conversation could do little to rouse more than a shrug or a muttered response from Emmy. She was in no mind to make idle chit-cat or friendly small talk, all she wanted was to pass the hours before she could curl up alone in her make-shift tent and sleep off the stress of the day. What she wouldn't have given for a Netflix show to binge her way through or a good book she could simply lose herself in. While she may have had some luck sourcing the second of those two options, heading off down the beach made it all the more likely that she'd run into her family...or Miles, neither of whom she was willing to indulge right now. Uttering a sigh, she leant across the suitcase she was using as a table and pulled another fish from the box. Emmy hated the stickiness of the blood against her skin, but at least it gave her something to focus on other than the mess inside her own head. She found herself grimacing as she sliced through the delicate silver skin and set the carcass aside for to the next person who wanted to try and grill it over an open flame. It was enough to make her lose her appetite.
Trying not to dry heave, she set down the knife, got to her feet and was just about to go and wash up when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She'd spotted the military boots out of the corner of her eye and was quick to arrange her expression into one of disinterest as she faced him. "What do you want, Miles?" Emmy asked flatly. Her eyes flicked over his face, and it took everything she had not to wince. The skin across his cheek was a mottled patchwork of blue and purple, and the white of his left eye had turned a particularly gruesome shade of red. She was quick to remind herself that wherever the other man was now, he was in far worse shape, and that Miles was not deserving of her sympathy. For all she knew he might well have killed the other guy.
At his question she merely shrugged. "Take it." The students had seen to it that the kids were fed, and it wasn't like there was anyone else queuing up to help themselves. While there were still rations available, people hadn't exactly been quick to jump upon the natural resources the island had to offer. That would likely change once the pre-packaged sandwiches, peanuts and pretzel supplies had dwindled to nothing, but until then people were happy to get by without. Emmy didn't blame them, the thought of taking a bite out of that silvery skin had her stomach twisting into knots. "I'm gonna go and clean up," she muttered, side-stepping Miles and heading down the shore. She didn't take a breath until she found herself at the waters edge. Kneeling down, she submerged her hands in the spray, taking far longer than necessary to scrape the red from beneath her nails and wash her skin clean. Part of her didn't want to go back up the beach, didn't want to face him, but at the same time who else would? His little display down on the sand had marked him as dangerous, unapproachable, but he was the closest thing she'd found to an ally here, and if all hell broke loose he could be the one person to actually get them out of this mess.
She blew out a breath and stood, wiping her hands on her shorts. After several moments of second guessing herself, Emmy walked back up the beach and found Miles in much the same position she'd left him. Stopping square in front of him, she folded her arms across her chest and peered into his bloody, swollen face. "You're going to tell me what happened on the beach this morning," she informed him, before he could get a word in. It made sense to her to get this all out in the open, to establish exactly what happened. Then she could decide how she felt about him, about the entire situation. If they were going to be friends then she needed him to be honest with her, and she needed to know that she could trust him not to fly off the handle. They all had to pull together, and maybe if the others saw just how good he was to her, maybe they'd realise that he wasn't the scary brute he appeared to be. "Well?"
(view spoiler)
“Take it.” Conversation wasn’t happening, that much Emmy had made clear. The box of fresh bug-eyed fish balked at him, messy bits of bones and innards smeared across the suitcase she had taken up as her work station. Living in Indonesia, he’d built up a tolerance for seafood, particularly seafood prepared in questionable practices, but the idea of eating now made him nauseated. He still hadn’t recovered from his smackdown with “Johnny”, nursing a puffy black eye that would be swollen completely shut by dinner if he couldn’t lock down an icepack or anti-inflammatory. His eye wasn’t going to look normal for the next two weeks, and by that time he hoped goddamn well that he was back in the states collecting his settlement from Delta far, far away from this shit show.
Miles slowly peeled one of her gutted fish off of the suitcase and held it delicately in his palm, eyeing the smoking fire with intentions to cook the slimy bastard on a pike. What, and just leave her? It went unsaid that Emmy was angry with him, just confirming that she had been down by the sand when he was having his episodic fit of rage. The pride in him didn’t want to admit straight off the bat that he had been wrong to beat the shit out of Johnny, and so in steeled silence, Miles refused to break the tension instead staring down at his fish, wishing he wasn’t such a pussy when it came to admitting his faults.
His silence cost him, Emmy didn’t seem to want anything to do with him quickly setting down the knife with a clatter and dismissing herself to set off back towards the ocean spray. He could have said something to stop her, but what was there to say? She was angry, but what for? It was none of her business, he could argue, and the asshole had been asking for it anyway.
Miles watched her figure retreat until she disappeared over the sand bank. Presently, a few weary parents had retrieved their children and straggled orphans from the fire side, leaving Miles on his own in the clearing. Pieces of driftwood and suitcases had been arranged around the cackling fire, clothing and peanut wrappers strewn by its base carelessly. Someone was moaning with a fever nearby, and beyond the campfire, survivors were aimlessly poking at the wreckage with helplessness Miles could feel from here. The place really was a mess, wasn’t it? If someone didn’t snap order into the scene, he couldn’t picture the survivors lasting more than a few days before it erupted into free-for-all madness.
In which case, Miles would be long gone, living off of the elements somewhere deep in the mountains. In his time he’d seen war stricken countries, he knew what happened when there was no order, the pain and suffering that plagued the people as they descended into the last days. The question was, could he get Emmy to see sense before then? If it came to it, would she trust him? Before Miles could start thinking of all the creative ways trauma-stricken survivors could resort to cannibalism and anarchy, he snatched up someone’s discarded roasting stick and drove it carefully through his slippery lunch.
His mouth still tasted like sand, his head was filled with cotton, and eating raw fish sounded pretty enticing as he watched his tuna slowly grill over the fire. He had opted to drag a suitcase closer to the flames to roast his meat, the ash stinging his eyes. He almost felt nostalgic, returning to the times he had spent earlier last year on an Indonesian cobbled street waving skewers over a sputtering, faint fire for dinners because someone had stolen their kerosene grill.
Now that Miles was sitting, he was worn slap out. His clothes were heavy, he was dizzy, and the sun was too damn bright. A faint ringing started in his ears when he finished charring one half of the tuna, no doubt the side effect of being clocked repeatedly over the skull. While it wasn’t a new sensation, Miles prayed to the good Lord he didn’t have another concussion. His last visit to MEDEVAC had put him in a critical condition with warnings of memory loss, increased rage, and confusion becoming permanent side effects. It made damned sense when he’d been tossed around since he was a kid.
Just as his tuna started to bubble in the flames, Emmy came back into view, and he pretended to be infatuated with the fish he’d now caught on fire. Blowing on the flames and waving his stick, he managed to put out the flame, but was disappointed to see that half of the damned thing had turned a sorry shade of charred black.
“You’re going to tell me what happened on the beach this morning.” Emmy stepped into frame, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stared down at him. Miles played impatiently with his fish, poking at its tail gingerly trying not to burn himself. If he was going to argue with her, he needed to put something in his stomach. She was fixin’ to set him straight, a stern edge to her tone similar to the effect of his father when he was younger, and he would shit himself because he wouldn’t have an answer for the corporal.
“Well?”
Miles was quiet for some time, peeling scales from his fish and toying with the possibility of snapping its fins, but he knew he couldn’t muddle the one chance he had to not end up completely on his own on the island. While it was a great idea in theory, Miles knew he’d just be pining for Emmy by the time chaos swept over the camp.
“I was mindin’ my own damn business. He told me that I had to help him find his sister, got angry when I wouldn’t. And then… I reckon we both just got bothered and slapped each other a bit, said some things, and then the marshall put an end to it when we got carried away. That’s all.”
Miles wasn’t looking at her, knowing that he was making the situation much lighter than they both knew it had been, judging by the state of his eye alone. He had told her the whole and honest truth, if they didn’t take into account that he hadn’t specified that he’d instigated the fight, that he’d swung first, and that he’d been in a mindset dangerous enough to kill the boy had the marshall hadn’t pinned them down.
“It just happened, alright? Stop your fussin’, we’ll both be fine.” The soft twang of his voice was slightly irritated, as he sunk his teeth into his lunch, but maybe it had something to do with the fact that everyone was always quick to blame him, even Emmy, for whom he’d risked his precious shitty life to look for her family.
