by Josh Hayes
John pulled his gloves off and ran a hand over his stubbly beard. Up until arriving in Neverland, he'd shaved every day of his adult life, and not feeling a smooth jawline was…different. It wasn't bad, it was just different. That, and he kept waiting for his old flight school instructor to jump out of the bushes somewhere and chew his ass for failing to maintain proper military bearing and discipline.
Tim finished counting and stood, pressing his hands into the small of his back. "We're going to need to find some more patches."
"You know," Michael said, "now that he's started working again, he isn't going to stop."
John tossed his gloves into the skiff's rear cabin and said, "I'm kind of getting that feeling."
"No," Tim said, "I'm done for the night. I'm spent."
"Good, cause I'm done smelling my own hair burning off. What's for dinner tonight?"
Michael grimaced. "Nickels is cooking fish again."
John and Tim shared a groan. The kid truly did try, but he wasn't anywhere near the same league as Tubbs, who'd been the Lost Boys' cook since the group's inception.
Tim pulled off his blackout goggles, tossing them into the skiff's passenger cabin. "I'm not sure you can classify what he does as cooking, exactly."
"Damn, man, easy. He might hear you," Michael said, holding a finger to his lips and checking behind him.
John leaned closer to Michael and said, "He's right, you know."
"I know he's right, but it's better than eating the survival packets we brought. Those are like eating flavored powder."
Dinner hadn't been terrible that night. At least the fish hadn't been charred to the bone. It was still a little too salty for John's taste, but he ate it knowing he probably couldn't have done much better. His specialty in the kitchen was macaroni and cheese, the box kind.
With the rain finally taking a break, several campfires had sprung up around their little getaway, surrounded by the survivors sharing stories and trying to keep the others' spirits alive. Wendy's daily meetings helped a lot, but John knew the longer they stayed dormant here, the less likely any of them would want to get back into the fight, especially after the losses they'd suffered during Hook's surprise attack.
Marb had spent most of his time questioning the survivors, looking for any clue to how the Regency had tracked them down, but so far he'd come up empty. The most likely culprit was a traitor, but none of them wanted to believe that one of their own would betray them. They'd all sacrificed so much for their cause, the thought of someone turning their backs on all of that just didn't seem possible.
Most of what remained of the core leadership all ate around a fire near the lagoon, except for Wendy, who'd excused herself without touching her food and gone off by herself. Seems to be somewhat of a trend lately, John had thought. The doctor had skipped the meal altogether, for the third night in a row, in fact. Michael only took sporadic bites in between cleaning the collection of weapons assembled beside him. John questioned the cleanliness of such a mealtime activity, but kept those thoughts to himself. Everyone was dealing with the isolation in their own way; who was he to tell them any different?
A slight breeze blew in from the sea, rustling the underbrush and trees around them. Water lapped at the rocked behind John, and the crackling fire put him into a daze. He stared up into the night sky, at constellations that he didn't recognize, and started trying to put some of his own together. After ten minutes, all the stars began to blend together, however, and he gave up.
Tim finished his meal, then stepped around the fire and dropped his dish into a small crate Nickels had brought for them.
"Where are you off to in such a rush?" Michael asked him as Tim turned away.
"Oh, just going to check over the patchwork on One. I want to make sure all the welds are holding."
John hurriedly swallowed a piece of wheat bread. "Thought you said you were done for the night?"
"Eh, it's okay. Won't take me long. Besides, it's not like I have anything better to do."
He's just trying to keep his mind off Bella and Tom, John thought. Which, of course, was more productive than the alternative. "All right, man, shout if you need something."
Tim waved and disappeared into the night.
After he moved out of earshot, John looked across the fire at Michael and asked, "You think he's going to be okay?"
Michael took a sip of his drink and nodded. "Yeah, I think so. I don't think they've ever been apart for this long before."
"I can't imagine," John said.
"I can."
John arched an eyebrow, waiting for Michael to elaborate. When he didn't, John said, "You think they're still alive?"
"It's hard to say. If the Regency really do have them…" He trailed off with a shrug.
"I suppose if they had been caught, we'd be neck-deep in Regency troops by now."
"Very likely."
John took the last swig from his water bottle, spun the cap back on, and tossed it into Nickels' bin. "Hard to believe that they don't know about this place anyway. No offense, but it isn't really that remote. You don't think with Pan's resources, they'd have this world mapped out by now?"
"Mapped out, maybe," Michael said, "but knowing places exist and knowing which of those places to search are two completely different things. Barreen is surrounded by lagoons and covers and atolls, it will take him months to search them all."
"And if he pries the information from Tom or Bella?"
Michael inclined his head, silently conceding John's point. "Like you said, they'd be here by now."
"Well, could be worse, I guess," John said, leaning back against the tall tree trunk he'd pushed his crate against.
"Ha," a new, familiar voice said, "not very likely."
Irving Smithe appeared out of the darkness, a pack slung over one shoulder. The orange glow from the fire caused the scars on his face and head to stand out eerily against his pale white skin. The doctor's hair was disheveled, and he bore dark rings under both eyes. The doc had been working almost non-stop since their arrival here, mending wounds and putting people back together. He tossed the pack down next to one of the empty crates surrounding the fire and sat down.
"You look exhausted, Doc," Michael said, pulling the bolt back on one of the rifles, then sending it forward again with a resounding clack.
Irving grunted. "What I wouldn't give for a soft bed. I know the conditions out here aren't ideal for anyone, but couldn't you have at least planned to have some amenities?"
Michael pulled the weapon apart and began setting pieces around him systematically. John watched him work, remembering his small arms classes, and how much he hated the smell of CLP. He could never seem to get the lubricant off his hands, no matter how much he washed them.
John took a drink from his water bottle, chuckling. "You've never had to spend the night on an Army base. Let me tell you, if I'm never subjected to that level of substandard living again, it'll be too soon."
"Hard to believe anything in your world could be more substandard than this." Irving nodded at Michael's extended leg, still bandaged from his injuries several weeks before. "Doing better today, I hope?"
"It flared up a little this afternoon, but other than that it was okay."
Irving grabbed his pack. "I'd better have a look at it."
Michael adjusted himself so the doc could examine the bandages. "What I wouldn't give for a mattress right now—ouch!" He jerked away at Irving's touch.
"Oh, I barely touched you," Irving said, waving a dismissive hand at his patient, then continuing on with his work as if nothing had happened. He pulled a small scanner from his jacket pocket and passed it over the leg. After several passes the device beeped, and Irving studied its readout. "Besides, this is about ready to come off."
John tucked his water bottle back into its place in his own pack next to his seat, and leaned back against the tree behind him. "Took a little longer to heal than you originally thought, eh, Doc?"
"Mmmm," Irving m
urmured without looking up. "That's because my patient doesn't like following doctor's orders."
"I'm pretty sure getting shot at wasn't included in your discharge instructions, Doc. Besides, since then I stayed off it, just like you told me."
"But you didn't dose the way I wanted you to, did you?"
Michael's face hardened. "I told you, I wasn't going to take that shit."
Irving closed the terminal and slid it back down into his pocket. "I know what you said, and, frankly, I'm damn well impressed you stuck by your guns, even with the extended healing time. If it had been any other person, I think they would have folded under the pressure."
The doctor stood and moved back to his seat. "That being said, there isn't a moment that passes that I don't pray you have a change of heart."
"Yeah, well…" Michael trailed off, not finishing the thought.
A brief silence fell around them. The Doc had a point, after all; John had seen several people come into the camp, many of which were wounded in some form or another, and all but a few of his patients had shown drastic improvement in the days following their treatments. It seemed odd to John that a substance that could promote such healing in a human body could be subverted into what caused an addiction like Wendy's mother's. But then again, the same thing had happened on Earth time and time again, so why would it be so different here? Humanity, it seemed, was nothing if not consistent.
"Need another log on there," Irving said, nodding to the dwindling fire.
Glad for the distraction, John said, "I got it." He rose and moved to the small stack of wood a few feet away. He tossed two small logs onto the bright red embers, sending sparks jumping and twirling into the air.
Just as John was about to return to his seat, a loud crack caused all three men to jump in shock. John's stomach turned over. He was almost positive it was going to come all the way up his throat and out his mouth. He caught movement beside Michael and saw Tim looking up, grinning mischievously.
Michael had raised an arm as if to block some unseen attack, eyes wide in panic. He turned to Tim, his face a mask of exasperation. "Tim, what the shit?"
Irving coughed, shaking off his own shock. "Indeed, man, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
John shared their indignation, but kept his opinion to himself. His ears pounded and he wasn't entirely sure if he spoke that it wouldn't come out sounding like a frightened child.
Tim stepped around a small sealed box and took a seat on one of the empty crates around their fire. "What? Sorry, didn't mean to scare you guys."
His chuckle as he sat told a different story, however.
"What is that, anyway?" Michael asked, nodding to the box he'd dropped.
Tim jerked a thumb to the box behind him. "Found another box of hull patches. Can you believe someone had put them in with the food crates by mistake? I mean, seriously, how hard is it to read a label? Hard Alloy Patches aren't anything I'd find appetizing even in the worse of circumstances."
John rubbed his nose absently with his index finger. "Great," he said, deadpan.
Michael lifted a long rifle barrel to eyeball the interior, then gave John a sidelong glance. "Good thing."
"Ol' girl will be good as new in no time," Tim said, seemingly oblivious to the men's sarcasm.
Irving chuckled. "All dressed up and nowhere to go."
They all turned to the doctor, and John thought that was probably the most accurate depiction of their current situation anyone could have made, though it made him more than a little uneasy. The one thing no one had spoken about, not even hinted at, was what they were going to do next, as if just staying hidden here in the lagoon was the answer to all their problems. They were all working daily, preparing for the inevitable, but none of them had actually discussed what it was they were preparing for.
The attack on the Lost Boys' Hideout had left them demoralized to say the least. John knew they'd lost several people; however, the actual number of causalities remained unspoken. Wendy or Michael would know; hell, everyone but John probably knew how many they'd lost. The camaraderie of their organization was more than a little surprising. He'd been a part of several units during his military career, and while most all shared a certain level of closeness, none compared to this group.
Which made it all the more concerning that someone had potentially turned on them. As unlikely as traitors were in the North American Union, for whom John had, until recently, flown fighter jets, they seemed even less so here.
Michael had managed to save two of the group's six skiffs during Hook's attack at the Compound. Added to the one John, Wendy, and Tim had arrived in, that gave them three. Three small skiffs against the entirety of Hook's forces. They might as well have none for all the difference it would make, that left John wondering…
"So, what now?" John asked.
Tim poked at the fire with a stick. "What do you mean, 'what now'?"
"You mean, are we going to continue our fight against Hook?" Michael asked.
"That's right," John replied. "I mean, isn't that what all of this is for? You've obviously been stockpiling here for a while, I'm sure this can't be the only stash, right? There's more, right?"
Michael opened his mouth to respond, but a terse woman's voice answered John instead. "More what?"
Wendy appeared from the shadows behind Irving. The twin scars that cut down across her face stood out eerily in the flickering orange glow from the fire. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung down just past her shoulders. The butt of a pistol poked out from underneath her leather jacket, which hung open. Dark brown cargo pants were tucked into unlaced combat boots. One hand rested on the pistol holstered on her hip.
John hesitated for a moment at her sudden appearance. Wendy's presence had been scarce during the last few days, keeping to herself. Tim and Michael seemed to agree that the reemergence of Pan was affecting her more than she let on. After operating in the shadows for so many years, the return of the Prince of Neverland was more than a little disconcerting to all of them.
"The gear," John said finally. "The weapons and supplies stored in the caves. You plan on continuing the fight?" Wendy and Michael exchanged a knowing look. She turned back to John, saying nothing.
John glanced between them and said, "That is still the plan, right? Bringing down the Regency? What's the point of all this otherwise?"
Wendy sneered. "You think we can bring a worthwhile fight with two and a half functional skiffs and twenty-three people? If you think that, you're not the educated military officer I thought you were. The Regency has hundreds of soldiers, thousands, already in place in the city, not to mention the ones being held in reserve. Ever if we somehow managed to match the firepower of Hook's men, there isn't any way we could stand up to those numbers. It would be nothing but a slaughter."
"You don't believe anyone else made it out? That we're the only survivors? What about other teams, hell, what about the other clans still in the city?"
"If there were more, they'd be here by now."
"They could still be out there," Michael said, setting the gun barrel aside.
Wendy shook her head. "By now Hook's got the city locked down tight. If they haven't made it here by now, they're either trapped in the city or dead." Her eyes, wide with the realization of what she'd said, darted to Tim. "I'm sorry, Tim, I didn't mean…"
His gaze wasn't shocked as much as it was resigned. "It's…" He trailed off, staring blankly into the fire.
"Tim…" Wendy stepped toward him, but stopped short as Michael raised a silent hand, shaking his head.
Tim didn't seem to notice. He poked the fire twice, the tossed the stick into the flames. "I just remembered, Skiff Two's exhaust vents need to be realigned, better get on that just in case we need her soon."
He stood, snatched up the box of fuselage patches, and moved away from the fire without another word, disappearing into the surrounding darkness.
"I should go after him," Wendy said.
&
nbsp; Michael shook his head. "Let him be."
"I really didn't mean to…"
"He knows," Michael said.
Wendy sat down next to Irving. They sat in silence for a time, the snapping fire seeming to accentuate the awkward silence between them.
Finally, Michael nodded at John and said, "You're right, you know."
John arched an eyebrow at him. "About?"
"Hook finding us out here. It's only a matter of time, especially with his resources."
"You really think they'll track us all the way out here?" Irving asked.
"Yes," Wendy answered.
Irving shifted nervously. "Why not continue on with the original plan, then, and head to the mountains? Wouldn't that be a better option than just staying here? I mean, don't get me wrong, the view is nice here and all, but at least up there we'd have fortified cover and shelter."
"Neither is ideal," Wendy said. "If one location is suspect, the others are as well. The lagoon is remote, and if the Regency does venture out this way, we'll have plenty of advanced notice. The mountains are a little too close to the city for my tastes right now."
"You know," Irving said, "in my experience, Hook's men have always shied away from going beyond the safety of the city. The stories that used to revolve through the ranks could get pretty carried away sometimes."
"Maybe," Wendy said, "but that's not always been the case, and you know it."
Irving gave her a sideways nod. "It's true, not always, but how long has it been? Ten, twenty years?"