In the jungle you run, in the jungle you die

Part 1

"How dare you insult me like that!" Smith said, visibly hurt. "Shoo, go help your most respectable colleague find their corpses, you are no better than him when you talk like that." Smith shook the spoon back at the younger man who stepped back from the soup. He shook his head then took another sip from the spoon closing his eyes and gently swayed from side to side closing his eyes in a pleased manner. "Hmmm, deee-licious."

"Can I --" Hamall reached his hand out.

"No," Smith smacked the man's hand with the long, steaming spoon. Smith shook the spoon at Hamall. "it's poison," The spoon flung bits of soup each time it was shaken. "you uncivilized paranoid nutcase."

Smith leaned the spoon against the edge then tipped the sliding option up from the crock pot.

"I don't want to eat emergency rations," Hamall said.

"How it must suck for you," Smith said, shaking his left hand up with his index finger up in a good mood.

"And I am not uncivilized," Hamall said. "Perfectly civilized."

Smith shifted away from the bowl of steaming soup with a sharp, exasperated glare with a face that held all the years of what life treated him in the last three decades.

"What kind of gentlemen accuses a old man of poisoning good soup?" Smith asked.

"You made your point," Hamall said. "Goddamn you, Mr Smith."

Smith tilted his head, raising his eyebrows.

"Another condemnation after thirty years?" Smith said, placing his cuffed hands along his ear then waved his right hand in front of his face with a smile. "Music to my ears."

Smith loudly sang to himself as the young man went over to the large backpack set near the olive tent.

Flicks of red landed in the soup occasionally from a unknown source during the stirring. Smith sliced off the skin to the potatoes with ease then carefully cut them into slices. He put them into the pot then resumed stirring stirring the occasional spice and waving the scent up from above the uncovered soup singing quite lively to himself. Smith opened the dishware backpacks set alongside the crock pot then popped them open taking out the sets of plates along with spoons. He set each spot up one by one as Hamall eyed him cautiously setting up the chairs. Smith returned to the crock pot then gazed at both ways to see that Hamall was busy making each seat be neat and orderly. Smith took out several metal cups and disposed the soup into each one of them but sparing a glance over toward where the bubble was inbetween.

He covered the dark gray cups then slid the steaming cups into the backpack. Minutes later the crew returned to the scene. Most of the crewmembers had their path away from Smith and the steaming soup. Smith poured himself a large bowl of soup before the Robinsons's eyes then moved himself over to the square small table away from them. Madalyn slid the chair in to the table then returned back to the officer's table. The convict picked up his spoon then dipped it into the soup that he sipped in. All the officer's eyes were set on watching him take sip after sip in silence. Watson looked at his team in confusion then back toward Smith and turned his attention onto the warm, waiting soup. They had their plates with their emergency rations which struck at him as odd. It was very confusing that his team refused to go near the soup.

"What is wrong with the soup?" Watson asked.

"Mr Smith put something in it and he hasn't died after a taste test," Hamall said.

"He is immune to it," Kenanan said.

"Or maybe it's not poisoned," Madalyn said, watching him take another sip from the spoon. "Perfectly good soup."

Smith leaned back into his chair, pleased, taking another sip from the spoon.

"Course it is," Watson said, narrowing his eyes toward the old man.