Chapter 38: THE ASSAULT — PART 1
The warning came at midnight.
Sayid's patrol had spotted movement in the jungle—too organized for wildlife, too deliberate for random survivors. He'd lit the signal fire, the prearranged code we'd established weeks ago during our surveillance planning.
I was running before the flames reached full height.
"Defensive positions!" Sayid's voice carried across the camp, sharp with military authority. "Everyone trained, get to your stations!"
The chaos that followed had structure—weeks of gun training paying off as people remembered what they'd learned. Kate took the northern perimeter, rifle steady despite everything between us. Ana Lucia covered the eastern approach, cop instincts translating smoothly to combat. Boone—still hostile, still avoiding my eyes—took position near the caves' entrance.
I grabbed a rifle from the weapons cache and moved to the western sector, the direction Locke's absorbed knowledge told me offered the best defensive terrain.
"They're coming from the tree line." Sayid appeared beside me, assessment rapid and professional. "At least fifteen, maybe more. Coordinated movement."
"They've been watching us. They know our setup."
"Then we improvise." He gestured toward the secondary positions we'd established. "Fall back to the rocks if the first line breaks. Don't let them flank."
The first shots came before he finished speaking.
---
Combat was nothing like the movies.
The Others emerged from the darkness in waves—black shapes against deeper black, muzzle flashes revealing faces for split seconds before disappearing. I fired at movement, at sound, at the particular way certain shadows didn't match the jungle's natural patterns.
Something burned past my left arm. Close. Too close.
"Contact left!" someone shouted. Kate's voice, professional despite the terror. "Two approaching through the eastern perimeter!"
"Covering fire!" Ana Lucia's response was immediate, a burst of shots that sent the approaching figures diving for cover.
This is working. The training is working.
The gun training from those early days—weeks ago, before Ethan, before Shannon, before everything fell apart—was paying dividends. The survivors I'd taught weren't expert marksmen, but they knew how to hold a weapon, how to aim, how to suppress an enemy advance. That basic competence was the difference between organized defense and panicked massacre.
"Second wave!" Sayid's warning cut through the gunfire. "They're flanking south!"
I swung my rifle toward the new threat, squeezed off three rounds, saw one figure stumble. The meta-knowledge of Others' tactics surfaced unbidden—they preferred feints and psychological warfare over direct assault, but when they committed, they committed fully.
"Fall back to secondary positions!"
The retreat was controlled, disciplined. Survivors moved in pairs, one covering while the other relocated. The weeks of training translated into instinct, bodies remembering what fear-addled minds might forget.
Kate ended up beside me at the rock formation, close enough that I could hear her breathing.
"Don't talk," she said without looking at me. "Just shoot."
I shot.
---
The second wave was worse.
They'd adapted—learned from the first engagement, adjusted their approach. Instead of direct assault, they probed our lines, testing for weak points. When they found gaps, they exploited them ruthlessly.
"Medic!" someone screamed from the eastern sector. "We need a medic!"
Jack was already moving, bag in hand, medical training overriding whatever personal feelings he had about the situation. He disappeared into the darkness near the wounded, and for a moment I lost track of his position.
"They're testing us," Sayid observed, reloading beside me. "Learning our response patterns."
"They're smart."
"They're survivors too. Different circumstances, but the same fundamental drives." He fired twice into the tree line. "How many more waves do you think they have?"
In the show, the Others were never this aggressive this early. The timeline has shifted so far that my knowledge is almost useless. I don't know what's coming.
"I don't know. My information—it's not reliable anymore."
"Then we improvise."
The third wave hit before I could respond.
---
They came from three directions at once.
Not a direct assault—something more surgical. Small groups hitting specific points, drawing defenders away from central positions, creating gaps that larger forces could exploit.
I recognized the tactic from military history, from a documentary I'd watched in my previous life about special operations. But recognizing it and countering it were different things.
"They're trying to split us!" I shouted. "Don't chase! Hold your positions!"
Some listened. Others didn't. The discipline of training fractured under the pressure of real combat, fear overriding instruction.
"Sawyer!" Charlie's voice came from somewhere behind me. "Claire's tent—they're heading for Claire's tent!"
Aaron. They want Aaron.
I abandoned my position without thinking, sprinting toward the section of camp where Claire had taken shelter with her baby. The Others had specific targets, I realized—this wasn't random violence. They wanted something. Someone.
Eko appeared from nowhere, his walking stick already in motion. The man moved like water—fluid, unstoppable, ancient violence contained in a peaceful frame. An Other who'd gotten too close to Claire's tent went down with a sickening crack of wood against skull.
"They will not have the child," Eko said, positioning himself at the tent's entrance. "Go. Fight. I will guard."
I went. I fought.
---
The second wave finally broke as false dawn lightened the eastern sky.
The Others retreated into the jungle, carrying their wounded, leaving their dead. Not defeated—that much was clear from the organized withdrawal. Testing. Learning. Preparing for whatever came next.
I slumped against a piece of wreckage, hands shaking from adrenaline and exertion. The graze on my arm burned, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage someone had applied during a brief lull.
Sayid found me there, face streaked with sweat and someone else's blood.
"Casualties?"
"Three confirmed dead. Eight wounded, two seriously." He sat beside me, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "Better than I expected. Your training—"
"Our training."
"The training we gave them made the difference. Without it, this would have been a slaughter."
Small comfort. Three dead. Eight wounded. And the Others will come again.
Kate walked past without acknowledging me, rifle still in hand, heading toward the medical area where Jack was working on the wounded. She didn't look angry anymore. Just empty.
"They'll come back," I said.
"Yes."
"We don't have enough ammunition for another engagement like this."
"No."
"Then we need a different strategy."
Sayid was quiet for a long moment, staring at the jungle where the Others had disappeared. "What do you suggest?"
I don't know. The meta-knowledge that guided my early decisions is almost gone now, corrupted by butterfly effects and timeline shifts. I'm operating blind, just like everyone else.
"I suggest we survive the next few hours. Then we figure it out."
The button. Someone needed to push the button. I checked my watch—twenty-three minutes until the countdown reached zero.
Another 108 minutes. If we're still alive to see them.
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