Stargate Atlantis: Emerald Isle

Chapter 3 - Survival

John woke and shifted, stiff with cold and pain.  His ribs protested as he sat up, newly healed cracks still feeling tight and inflexible.  His fingers were the worst though; the rebel Genii had broken some, dislocated others.  It worried John like none of his other injuries had, that his trigger finger might be compromised.

He struggled awkwardly out of the shelter and stood, stretching out the stiffness, massaging the fingers of each hand carefully.

Rodney sat on top of the rocky outcrop, eating a power bar.  He nodded at John's fingers.

"They're hurting you, aren't they?" he commented.

John looked at him, unused to concern.  "Worse when it's cold," he said.  He frowned, recalling the long, cold night; did he remember Rodney's voice in the dark? No, surely a dream.

"So!" Rodney continued, brightly.  "Priorities for the day?"

"Fresh water," said John, shaking his canteen; nearly empty. "Shelter, food."  He took out a power bar and began to unwrap it, clumsily, his fingers still not warmed up.

"Er... where do you think would be the best place for a shelter?" asked Rodney.

John wondered why Rodney was being so persistent, like he was determined to keep John talking.

"We need somewhere out of sight of that," he said, nodding toward a far distant hill.  Thin trails of smoke could be seen rising from the summit and a faint outline of defensive earthworks distorted the smooth slope.

"The hillfort, full of primitive... primitives," said Rodney.  "They must be able to see most of the south of the island."

"Good defensive position," agreed John, finishing the last of his power bar.  "So we need somewhere over to the west, where the smaller hills in the range restrict the view."

He stuffed his wrapper in a pocket.  "Let's go."

They continued down into the valley, the springy heather being replaced by low scrub and stunted trees.  The sun became warmer as it climbed and the two men felt the cold stiffness of the night leave them.  John pulled his aviators out of a pocket and put them on.

Soon grass became interspersed with clumps of reeds and the ground became marshy underfoot.

John studied the ground as he walked.  He had learnt a lot about tracking from Ronon and could tell the difference between signs left by animals and humans.  There were some thin trails, but they all looked like they'd been made by animals; no broad paths, no twigs snapped off higher up. The vegetation was thick and it made for slow progress; in places it was difficult to force a path through the low bushes and John tried not to let branches snap back in Rodney's face.

They were both hot and scratched by the time the marshy dampness turned into a fully-fledged stream.  They continued, following the stream which gradually became broader, the trees surrounding it taller, the walking easier as the canopy shut out light that would allow small plants to grow.  They filled their canteens and, having dropped a water purification tablet in, were able to drink thirstily and then refill them.

John took off his aviators and hooked them down the front of his T-shirt.  He squatted down in a muddy area, low to the water.  Animals had come here to drink; small prints, nothing bigger than a badger.  He wondered if there were wildcats, deer, even this world's equivalent of bears or wolves.  No evidence so far of the higher order predators.  No evidence of humans in this area either.  Which begged the question: why not?  Fresh water, game to hunt, land that could be cleared and planted and yet the people lived high on a hilltop or on an isolated island.