Lost

Chapter 5

Captain awoke in a startle. He grasped his chest to feel his heart rapidly pounding against it. Wiping his brow of sweat, he sat upright, unable to recall the nightmare he had just experienced.

"Nice sleep?" a voice asked from aside. Nervously, Captain jolted to his senses.

"Are the others up?" he asked, casting his gaze around the circle. There was Red, who was already sitting and sharpening his knife; Jerc, who was still sleeping and muttering; Frivo, who was also asleep on his back with his arms spread wide around him. Captain looked to his left, yet, he didn't find the last member of the crew.

"Where's he?" he asked, mostly toward Red, who he expected to know everything.

When Red didn't respond, Captain looked at the bulky man to receive no eye contact. Though, before he could ask again, Red thrust his sharpened knife over his shoulder.

"He went that way," he reported, then went back to sharpening his knife, which was already sharpened enough; it was just passing time or hiding something else entirely.

Grumbling, Captain stood and followed the suggested direction. He headed through a mess of bushes and roots, some of them stabbing into his coat. He had strayed off the path with barely any space to navigate. There was still no sign of the sailor.

"Maybe he went for a piss break," he muttered, taking a scan around him. "He'll probably be lost, but surely he'll come back. No need to waste precious time searching for nothing." He spun around, just for a new scent to gush into his nostrils--it made him gag. The scent was horrific yet familiar. He knew it plenty when he strolled around the decks of ships he had pillaged; around a graveyard of those he had killed. It belonged to a corpse.

"Probably an animal," Captain assured himself, unable to accept it was the sailor. It would make no sense. They had just gotten on the island. One night; there was no possible way one of his crewmates would die so soon.

He pinched his nose with two fingers as he went to follow the now-faint scent. The trail was straight ahead, though he was sometimes forced to cut through a row of bushes diagonally onto a new path--the layout of the island was very strange. There were always narrow paths leading up and down, left and right, with of course a main path connecting them all. It was too organized to be natural.

Once the scent rose dramatically, he had to bring the collar of his coat up to his face in order to suppress it; however, he soon let go of it. Turning around from the sight before him, he bent over and retched. At the end of it, he gasped for air, a newfound pain pulsing in his head and stomach alike. His mostly-empty belly wasn't helping matters at all.

"Should the crew know?" Captain asked himself, leaning against a tree for support. He kept his forehead planted against it, his eyes directed onto the ground, as far away from the corpse as possible. "Or do they already know?"

Suspicious, he set his eyes back on the corpse of the sailor. It was lying face-first on the dirt ground, its head bashed wide open. There was a hole in its back, too small to belong to any big weapon. It was surely a knife. He knelt beside the corpse, scanning the environment as well. He deduced that the sailor was running from something, but then fell either after or before being bashed in the head. The knife wound seemed to be the finishing blow.

"Okay, what to do, what to do," Captain whispered, and rubbed his temples. He shut his eyes and tried to think, yet, the rotting stench hindered his ability greatly. He decided to start yesterday, when things were beginning to seem strange.

Jerc was speaking with the sailor, surely as means of persuasion. Captain had no clue what it could be about, but what mattered was that it was Jerc, the one he had his eye on this whole time. He could see Jerc chasing the sailor and bash him in the head with a giant rock, then stab him. The only thing that didn't make sense was the knife.

Red was sharpening a knife earlier this morning. There was no blood on it, or at least what the Captain could tell. He couldn't see Red perform the kill because of loyalty. If his loyalty was fake, then he could easily kill everyone in the crew. Captain had no choice but to have Red on his suspicious list.

The only one not on that list was Frivo, who was incapable of killing such a big man as the sailor. He was far too much of a weasel, so fear of consequences would render him unable to do anything close to killing. Jerc had no fear of consequences because he would just persuade everybody; and Red had no fear, either, for he would play it cool and not mention the fact.

Captain was purely alone in this one. He couldn't trust Red any longer, and Frivo was useless. No matter what, Jerc was an enemy. Even if he wasn't responsible for the kill, he would surely start up something and blame Captain for everything. 

He knew order would not last long. Chaos would settle in. Nobody would survive in the end.

Desperate, he returned to the path and sat down by a tree when the rotting scent was out of range. He slid his journal out of his coat and rested it on his lap. Before opening it, he examined the cover lovingly: the brown leather, golden engravings, and red silk band wrapped horizontally around it. A show of extreme wealth and command.

He flipped open the cover to see the first page titled: Captain's Memo. He quickly glanced over all the "I" statements he made. He would protect the crew at all costs was at the very bottom, the key to the title. He had already failed the most important one.

The next pages were day to day recounts, mostly dealing with incidents. Some pages were long, others were a few sentences; but they were all organized. He described the day, who did what, and his opinion on it. His cursive handwriting was somewhat hard for others to read, but he could read it just fine. It was a captain's writing for a captain reader.

Names were barely used. He only referred to the crew as sailors or whatever connotation he had. He tried his best to suppress emotion, yet, he still wrote idiot or fool sometimes. Never a name, however, for they were all one entity: his crew. Their individual worth was for naught. But with so few now, he had to give them some individual value. Names were perfect for that.

As he delved deeper into the journal, the more he saw his writing change. He didn't even remember most of the content he wrote down. Ink began to reach the edge of the paper in a crazy manner. He repeated things. He barely referred to his crew as sailors any longer. They were just men--the distance had grown quite far.

He flipped a page with a shaky hand, only to see spots of water. The ink was completely ruined by the dampness of the page. His writing grew less and less readable, even for him. Each day lost its meaning. It was a descent into madness.

Captain shut the journal, his heart thumping in his ears. He hid it in his coat once more before covering his face with his red hands.

"It's nothing, purely nothing," he muttered, as he calmed himself by staring at the bushes ahead. They swayed back and forth, back and forth, a constant rhythm to be found. Naturally. It was the gentle breeze of wind that put it into motion; that put him in ease. He felt better already, like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

He stood and brushed off his knees, then glanced toward the path on his right. His crew waited for his leadership, his undeniably excellent command to guide them through the darkness. Sheep without a pen seeking a shepherd. He was that shepherd; he had to be there for them.

His gaze fanned to his left, the other side of the path. A crewmate was dead. Chaos, the role of command had failed. It was his fault. Guilt; he wouldn't be able to forget. A new scar appeared across his soul, impossible to be removed. It would stay with him forever.

But it would only hold him back. He had to go forward, no matter the obstacles; no matter the setbacks. He had to lead the crew to survival and success. A sailor dead only meant one less mouth to feed, one less mind to persuade and tame. In some ways, it was good. A benefit for the whole crew in all reality.

Instead of being drowned in guilt, remorse, fear, worry, Captain returned to the path and headed for the crew in relief. He would have to lie about the sailor being dead, which he had barely any clue on how to do it. Yet, it wasn't his ability at stake, it was rather the fact that he knew at least one person in the crew was responsible for this act.

There was a murderer right under his nose.