Deserted Island

TITLE: Deserted Island

AUTHOR: Elysium

SPOILERS: None

SEQUEL/SEASON INFO: Season 3.

RATING: PG

SUMMARY: Sometimes the evidence of a guardian angel is more apparent than the angel.

CATEGORY: Adventure

AUTHORS NOTES: This was written in response to a challenge to write an 'insertion fic' wherein the author is a character. The challenge was to represent the author as closely as possible to real-life, in the setting of inexplicably arriving on a deserted island on which there is one or more of the SG-1 team.

DISCLAIMER:

All Stargate SG-1 characters are the property of Stargate SG-1 Productions (II) Inc., MGM Worldwide Television Productions Inc., Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp and Showtime Networks Inc. No infringement of those rights is intended. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. This disclaimer was shamelessly copied from the 'Heliopolis' site.

There are few things as disconcerting as awakening in a place different than the one in which you went to sleep.

My life is scattered between more than one residence, so the feeling is not entirely unfamiliar to me. Still, there is a difference between momentarily forgetting in which abode you currently reside, and waking unexpectedly on the cool sand of a tropical beach under a dusky sky.

The obvious question--how did I get here--is made even more cryptic by the fact that, as I sit up on the long-undisturbed sand, there is not one footprint leading to where I am. Not even I have walked on this beach since it was last under the tide. It is as though I was dropped onto this place from a height, or simply materialized in-situ.

I look for clues. Coconut palms--expect warm nights and mosquitoes. I look at the stars, as the horizon glows brighter. I can't find the dipper, or Orion. My heart thuds as I wonder what planet I'm on--and then I feel foolish, remembering that earth has more than one hemisphere. I find what I presume must be the Southern Cross.

Southern Hemisphere--that means stone-fish and possibly sea-snakes in the water. I hear the distant surf impaling itself on a barrier reef, while the shore waves lap gently. The sharks in the deep water beyond the breakers are likely to be fiercer than their northern cousins. Water here, which is usually my friend, must be carefully navigated.

I rise, and hobble toward the water, leaving footprints behind me in the unmarked sand. I see no habitation. The shoreline curves back on itself; I am on a peninsula or an island. As the sun rises I can see the flat contour of the island, spiked with coconut palms, blurred by a fur of low jungle.

Water here, which is usually my friend, must be carefully conserved. I realize there may be no spring.

It takes me only a few moments to stop panicking and realize that coconuts contain a good quantity of fresh drink. I need only recall how we used to husk them as children, on Oahu, and not burn more water than I consume in doing so.

Shoelaces, hard coral, a strong limb, and about an hour of primitive engineering yields me an axe. The coconuts are not as scarce as I might have expected--nothing lives on this island--at least nothing with the resources to open and consume a coconut--I am able to stockpile a small wall of them with minimal effort, and most importantly, minimal walking.

I soak palm fronds in a tide pool to drive away insects; before the sun is high, using coconut bricks for one wall, and palm fronds, I have a primitive lean-to in which to hide from the sun. But it is too late; already I have a burn.

Shaded now, I spend the afternoon hacking coconuts free of their husks. By nightfall I have a two or three day supply of them, ready to be drunk. When my first jug empties, I celebrate my success by cracking open the shell and eating a dinner comprised entirely of coconut meat. It tastes wonderful. I try to remember this, knowing I'll become sick of it before long.

Night-time. I light three fires, using flotsam and coconut husks for fuel. The mosquitoes are so aggressive I finally wind up caking my face with mud and burying my body under an inch of beach sand, to keep them away while I sleep. It helps, but I wake multiple times overnight, uncomfortable, fatigued by breathing with the weight of the sand on my chest. It feels like an asthma attack.

Morning. The fires still smolder--I rebuild them, using damp fuel to make them smoky. Three fires in a row. A distress signal, if someone can see it. Still no footprints on the sand. I wish that I could walk well enough to scout out the shore-line, but I can't. Anyone within walking distance should see the fires though, right? I keep telling myself they will.

Today's project--I gather an assortment of grasses and fibers, and experiment with making string. By mid-afternoon I've made some of sufficient quantity to reclaim my shoelaces from the axe and replace them with my new-made textile. By the light of my rescue fires, I weave fish-traps, and brave smoke to keep the insects at bay, again using sand and dirt to protect myself from their tiny siphonous jaws.

I wake to a warm, light breeze, which I hope will daunt the nights insects. I've overslept the sunrise, and my ankle hurts. I walk on my knees to the water's edge, lay myself on its surface as soon as I have shuffled carefully to a depth where I can. I swim out over the reef.

Like a seal, I do better in water than on land. I swim well, and set my traps, and bait them with fractured shellfish, which I suspect would be toxic to me if I ate them out of these warm seas. In a short time I collect my bounty, releasing all but a few silvery, fish-shaped fish. I do not trust the brightly colored, intricately shaped ones not to be toxic, and I am almost certain that the bright, coral-eating parrot-fish are death on fins.

I roast the fish on a bed of hot rocks; it tastes bland, like halibut. I decide not to try anything else new today, see how I tolerate these, make sure they aren't toxic. Warm water has so many more hazards than cold, when it comes to food.

The air shifts; I smell something putrid.

So far, I have avoided the jungle. My handicap and the uncertain footing make it a rather unnecessary risk, in this survival situation. But my curiosity, and the fear I may have to move camp to avoid the stench, lures me into the brush.

I do not press far into the undergrowth before I hear rustling and the annoyed hissing of what I can guess are monitor lizards fighting over a carcass. I notice a pressed-in place in the jungle ahead, and move carefully forward; scavengers over a carcass are not likely to be friendly, and if I'm anywhere near Komodo, the lizards could even be dangerous.

The carcass is a man. The lizards are small--no more than two feet in length.

I move forward; they scatter, then glare at me from the brush with blazing orange eyes.

"Forgive the interruption," I say. They blink, unimpressed. "I know. You're hungry. You can have him back in a minute."

The man was not dressed for the weather, but appears to be garbed up for an SCA meeting–he is wearing something that looks much like chain mail. I wonder what kind of weird vacation brought him here, and whether he died of a heart-attack in the heat.

I break off a stick, and use it to turn the man's head. The lizards and insects have somewhat chewed into it; there are maggots in the mouth and the eyes. Even so, I can guess that this man died within the time I've been camped here. He has what looks like a Stargate Jaffa tattoo on his forehead, which makes me shake my head, thinking his relatives would be embarrassed for someone to find him made up this way.

There is nothing that I can do for the corpse; either I can hope for the wind to shift, or I can move camp. I debate whether it is best to stay where I am; someone is sure to come looking for this lost tourist.

I notice a staff weapon a few feet away in the brush; it must have fallen from the man's hand when he fell. It looks pretty cool. I think about taking it, then decide that would be robbing the dead. I pick it up, and jam the butt of it into the ground, so the tip of it is sticking straight up, like a headstone.

'Anyone looking for him should find it,' I think. I stand up and turn.

'And me!' I realize. From this position, the man could not have failed to see my encampment before he died.

I glance back over the body, and notice the faint trace of his path into the brush--with two others beside it.

I fall back on my State Park docent skills; we learned basic tracking so we could help search when a hiker was lost.

This man came here with two others--either they hadn't come back yet with help, or those two didn't care he was dead. Or possibly, the other two killed him.

But, if they killed him, why not kill me? I would be a potential witness to the crime. Could they be certain that I hadn't seen?

I re-examine the body, pressing the stick on its hip to roll the man onto his back. This proves difficult; his rigor-mortis has cleared and the body is floppy. I don't want to touch it because the chance of catching a pathogen from a body is much higher when that body is the same species as your own.

I poke in his 'clothing', looking for an I. D. What I find makes me think this is a practical joke--except that the body is obviously real, and I find it hard to believe in a 'joke' that kills someone.

Despite the ravages of the lizards, it is clear his belly has been cut open in the manner of the Stargate Jaffa.

A scenario comes to my mind--of a couple of very sick people, catching a man, dressing him up, taking him out here, killing him and cutting him up (and I dare not guess in which order), and leaving his body.

I worry where they are now. They must know I'm here.

I remember taking psychiatry. If these folk were truly psychotic, at least I know the framework of their delusions. I should be able to keep myself relatively safe.

But this kind of murder would require a level of planning, and an ability to execute that plan, that eludes most truly psychotic individuals.

I try not to speculate too extensively, try not to scare myself. Obviously whoever did this is long gone, and didn't kill me, and the danger from them is probably over.

I try not to hurry my way back to the beach; the last thing I need at this point is a fall.

'It is definitely time to move camp,' I think. Then I look at my fires, and realize I'm trying to be found. I can't do both things at once.

I weigh the options--not being found, versus running into a couple of killers who in all probability already know I am here. Still, there are no prints on the beach but my own.

'If I move, they'll know that I found it,' I think. 'If they're not watching me already.'

I scan the jungle carefully, but see only bushes.

The afternoon I spend sharpening a stick. I find myself wishing the staff weapon was real.

I go to bed early, while the sun is still up, realizing that I won't sleep once it is dark. I lay on my back, buried in sand, mud on my face like a beauty pack, with the sharpened stick in my hands laying hidden on my chest. Anyone who comes close enough to wake me will get a stick in their gut.

Sometime during the night I see something dark in the sky overhead, silent, like a balloon, but angular, unlighted, blocking the stars. It moves slowly off to the horizon. I begin to wonder if it is I who is psychotic, or if the sun has given me some kind of delirium.

The happy sound of a helicopter wakes me for my rescue. It lands on the beach, just beyond my fires. On the side is a big friendly star with USAF printed under it. I get up to greet it and am embarrassed to be flaking dried mud off my face.

"Hello," I shout lamely, to a very good looking officer who approaches. "Do you folk take hitchhikers?"

"I dunno," he replies, "Which way you headed?"

"California?"

"Sounds good to me. Lemmie give you a ride."

He waves me over, I come at what for me is a run.

"What happened to your foot?"

"Ankle injury. Permanent disability."

"Oh."

I can see he doesn't know what to say to that.

"Uh, there's a dead guy in the bushes." I point.

"Yeah, we know. Don't worry, we'll take care of it."

He scoops his arm around me, we duck a little and scuttle up to the helicopter. A stunning blonde woman helps me climb inside. In comparison I feel like a mud-caked wart.

"How is she?" the man asks. He is still on the sand outside the door.

"She's fine," says the woman. The way she says it makes me think there's some subtext that I'm missing.

"I gotta go find…" he begins, but the woman points with her chin.

"There he is."

A big dark guy, who I figure must be a marine, emerges from the jungle. He is carrying the staff-weapon from the dead body. I have to look away to control my smile; he really does give the impression of Teal'c. I realize he either has to have been on this island the whole time, or the helicopter dropped him off at the far end as part of a sweep.

"You get her back to the boat," says the officer. "We'll tidy up around here."

"Okay, sir," says the woman, "we'll stay in radio contact."

The door is closed, the woman orders our departure. When we reach the aircraft carrier they tell me a story about what happened, which I don't really believe--terrorists, an amnestic drug, wargames, and me being a defective target, not challenging enough to pursue. The terrorist thought it would be amusing to watch me die, but were disappointed when I survived. The bad guys were taken out by commandos.

Or so they say. Like early episodes of the X-Files, there's a logical explanation for everything. Right?

<fin>