Survivor: South Pacific

Ogle gritted his teeth and growled, bounced to his feet. “Filthy bastards!” He grabbed his club and a shirt full of rocks.

“You can’t go out there,” Meade said. “We must stick together!”

“At night, yes. But in the day by damn I’ll search until I have our revenge!”

Ogle kept his word, leaving every morning to search the island and returning at dusk. He found nothing, yet still he searched, a man fueled by anger and a lust to kill his aggressors. Meade stood in awe of his stamina and strength. Though as starved for food as Meade, the vigorous Ogle never tired, his constitution keeping him somewhat healthy through exertions that would have killed other men. He brought food back to camp on rare occasions, but not often enough to keep Meade from slipping further into the death grip of starvation.

Meade felt his life force fading away as he shriveled into a husk of the man he had been. Flies buzzed around him constantly; he felt them in his ears, digging about in the wax as they laid their eggs. He spent his lonely days staring off at the sea he had once sailed with such confidence, a hunter who had sunk lances into the largest and most dangerous quarry in the ocean. Now he was a captive of the sea, perhaps damned by God to die a horrible death in return for the havoc he’d wreaked upon His mightiest creatures. He laughed as loudly as he could, and wondered if all dying men pondered such ludicrous thoughts during the final moments of their lives. Such cogitations were pointless….

Especially when there were sails on the horizon.

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