Portland 1965 Ch 11

The dark black sky condensed down on that small, insignificant island, like the enclosing walls of an invisible room. The wind was cool, and white stars splayed above like that on the canvas, twinkling almost obsessively. Before tonight, only the sound of the lapping waves, and the rustling leaves palms could be heard around them, but now the faint deep rumble of the glowing fire and its sudden, cracking bursts had added itself to the air.

And just in front of that rumbling deep fire, sitting down on the sandy shore, and facing towards that darned ocean, were two seemingly insignificant souls; two members of what would be the greatest band in the history of music – two legends, two Beatles.
At least a quarter of an hour had gone by since that first cry for help, followed by a whole fifteen minutes of sheer pain and emotion bawling out of the heart of a beautiful but confused John Lennon.

And who was still rocking with him? Who was still hugging him, holding him and telling him everything was going to be okay? George Harrison; and no scene could ever be clearer.
His tears had now dried to the skin of his cheeks, the exhaustion of his body seeping into mind; his hands were now numb, his neck cramped, and his back seemed to scream for some relief. But still the emotions would come, and still John Lennon was weeping – still John Lennon clutched onto his soul.
And George couldn't find the heart to leave him.

Yet his thirst began to wonder: would this ever end?

Suddenly, as if sensing George's discomfort, John drew in a breath, trying to suck his sombre emotions back into his lungs; his small breathes the only entity allowed to escape. He pulled his shoulders back as if to gently nudge his friend away and looked off further down the shore, keeping his head low. He didn't say anything.

George understood the hint and lifted himself with the air of a stooping veil. He hesitated at speaking, then dismissed the idea altogether. If John wanted to talk, he was the one who would start the conversation.  And John always wanted to talk.

It was John's silence that tuned the world into solemnity.

George took one last look at his friend curled up on the sand, then sighed remorsefully. Their civilised boundaries were becoming nothing in the face of this utter desperation, and insanity's claws now had a grip around their necks.
How long would it be before they totally succumbed? How longer still could they resist?

John's eyelids fell as soon as he sensed George's parting. He should have said something, he normally did, but he was so crippled and so broken - it was better to say nothing at all. Or was it?
His eyes shot open and his chin lifted towards the horizon. He glared at the waves burying the rest of his civilised world until his eyelids strained to blink. The dark night around him filled the atmosphere with a deep gravity.
Then the horizon in front of him conformed into a shadow of death – they were on the brink of meeting it. And its shadows would soon soar over them, smothering them, veil them inside, and that's when it would happen. That's when he would meet his mother again.
It was happening now. The shadow was on the move. And all he could do was watch it – this poor insignificant soul with rips through his hands and a rapidly corroding sanity. There was nowhere to run, to hide. It was possible for their bodies to survive, maybe for a few more weeks, but what of them?

George will come back, John supposed with himself, 'George'll come back, sit right next to me. A day will pass, maybe two, we'll do the same things as we've always done, and then he might go again, just for a bit. But then, he may never come back, or I may never come back. I could never leave at all, I could die right here, tonight, completely on my own…
He weighed up the odds, but soon reckoned that whatever conclusion there was, it would be irrelevant. It didn't matter what they did, or what was going to happen.

We're both just going to fookin' die…

He drew his finger in the sand slowly, his mind woozy, the cool wind impelling his senses into confusion. He began to draw strange lines down his leg line, back and forth, in a deliberate fashion, the soft brush of each grain wiling him away.
He was drifting.
He was drifting…away…

Soon his wings would begin to grow and he would fly swiftly away from this island, away from Liverpool, away from the world, like he'd always dreamed.

Except this time his dreams would come true.

This time he was going to fly.

And he would fly away forever…

Then there was a fierce large crack.

"SHIT!" John jumped in fright, turning to see the length of a palm tree falling towards the sand, scorching in the consuming blaze. What was left of their small humble orange glow had now doubled its size, its now brutal flames rapidly eating away at the remainder of the forest.

John shook under the sudden adrenalin and jumped up immediately, his eyes instinctively searching for the whereabouts of his friend.
His eyes widened and he clenched the sand spread between his fingers.

George wasn't there.

He moved forward cautiously towards the huge roar of the fire, throwing dancing shadows along the sand and up along his face. The intensity of the heat was overwhelming. It set off a trigger inside him, a trigger of utter fear. This fire was shredding the forest to pieces, and there was nothing they could do about it.

They?

"GEORGE?!" John screeched as he sprinted towards the forest. "GEORGE WHERE ARE YOU?!"

There was no reply.

Oh God…no…

John sprinted around the edge of the forest, desperately searching for a safe opening. Before he knew it, he was darting into the cool darkness, the smell of leaves and sap consuming him as he scrambled onward and onward towards his friend that could be, at that very moment, shrivelling away.

John screamed his friend's name again, his expression contorted into a horrible fear, his mutilated hands again battling away at the branches.
He could not afford to lose his friend like this…after all they had done…

John began to panic. He was lost – he couldn't find the stream. What if he was too late? What if he was heading in the direction of the fire?

"GEORGE! GET OUT! THERE'S A FOOKIN' FIRE…Ohh shit…" John's voice cracked and tears streamed down his cheeks again. He was thoroughly exhausted. This seemed like the last straw.

He stumbled over a loose root and caught himself on a tree, swearing.
Then he heard a voice. A tiny voice, drowned out by the vicious roar of the oncoming flames.

"GEORGE?!" John leapt forward, looking around frantically. He heard it again, to his right.

Towards the flames…

"GEORGE CAN YOU HEAR ME?!"

He heard a cough and then the scream of his name. He felt his legs couldn't move fast enough.

Then he saw the stream. He puffed and staggered, his energy running purely on his adrenalin as he followed the stream up towards the clearing. He was coming closer – he could hear George's frightened voice becoming clearer and clearer.

Before he knew it he had staggered into the clearing, his eyes resting on a fairly frightened, half-naked skinny boy, coughing up the choking ghastly smoke. He cried out and they met in a petrified and trembling embrace.

"I was just at the stream and I fookin' turn around to a fookin' fire! THE FUCKIN' FOREST IS ON FIRE!!" George sobbed under his own shaky breath.

"I know," John coughed "Your bloody fire caught the fuckin' tree and I was trying to find you!"

"But why did you fuckin' come back in here!? How are we going to get out now?!"

John's eyes widened and he looked around, his hand still clutching his friend's arm.

"We'll go out the opposite way, then!"

George looked from John, to the smoking side of the forest, then back to John again. His eyes watered from a sudden whiff of smoke and he clasped his hands around his mouth. John mimicked him and winced towards where George had been looking; he could see the fire's orange glow reflecting throughout the trees – the fire was close, and it wouldn't be long before their clearing would be taken over.

John tugged on George's arm to come, but George shook his head and hesitated.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

George shook his head again. "We can't just go through that side! We don't know that bloody side of the forest we could fookin' get lost!"

"Do you want to stay here and burn to death?!"

"NO!"

"Well there's no other option is there?!"

George tugged away from John's grip. "We have to go up the mountain!"

"What?!"

But their quarrel was soon dispelled by another large crack, sending another palm to the ground. Both of them jumped, sending them to an immediate decision. George gripped John's arm and they sprinted up to the top of the forest, towards the dark, treacherous mountain.

…And a completely unknown fate.

***

The helicopter wasn't moving fast enough – were the pilots deliberately slowing them down?

Ringo's mind raced to the beat of his thumping heart, telling himself to stay calm, berating himself for wanting to scream at the pilots; these last few days had boiled up something inside him, a subdued stubborn anger: They weren't being taken seriously! No one ever seemed to trust their opinions!

They must be there. Who else would it be? What else would it be?

Paul was quick to notice this lack of speed – the busy hum of the chopper's motor accompanied his screams and yells of harassment…

"Why is the chopper slowing down?! Stop it! What if it's them?! What if they're still alive and you are postponing their rescue?!"

Ringo sat on his bed in self-control, his eyes solidly fixed on the warm spot of flame. He could hear Mal trying to hold Paul back with soft but stern words. We were not going to disrespect these kind pilots again, Paul.

"But they're slowing it down! Why the hell are we slowing down?!" Ringo admired Paul's tone – he was almost bursting with frustration, but still he managed to keep his manner clipped.

"Mr. McCartney we cannot speed past 100 miles per hour while flying off our route. Especially since this is an unknown zone. We cannot risk having a crash –"

"Fly lower then! Just do anything that will make us go faster. Please!"

"We are doing all we can, McCartney…"

"But this is too slow! You may be putting someone's life at risk!"

"Do you really expect them to be there?! After all this time?"

Paul didn't hesitate. "YES!"

Tears suddenly welled up in Ringo's eyes and exhaustion overwhelmed him. He clenched his eyes shut and imagined that they were there, right in front of him, on the burning orange glow of an island. The tears found their way down his cheeks and he wiped them away immediately.

They were there. They are there…

Then something emotional within him clicked, and he opened his eyes to stare down at that orange glow, clenching his teeth, squeezing his rings.

"Paul…"

He didn't bother to cover up his distressed state as his friend made his way down the helicopter to meet him. There was no point.

"Yes, Rich? Y'okay?" Paul's tone was suddenly so much softer than before.

Ringo swivelled on the bed and looked up at the other Beatle, his mate, his best friend – there were signs of his distress from head to toe, he had run his hand through his hair multiple times and his eyes were surrounded by dark, heavy shadows. But his friend still managed to look at him with a refreshing comfort, a light, sympathetic kindness, and to Ringo, that made all the difference.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Paul's eyes examined him for a moment in the darkness of the bedroom, the orange glow of the helicopter lights reflecting a yellow radiance onto his fine features. They'd been through so much together since the plane that sucked out their two best friends. And that was nearly five days before.
It was that incident that sent them this hell, compelled them to become self-neglecting, forced them to lie to the world.
As they took off in the chopper in the early hours of that day, they were merely leaving mess for mess as the troubles of the day turned their rescue into complete chaos.

And now this: now this island burning down in the middle of a dark vast ocean. What the hell is going to happen next?

Paul suddenly grabbed Ringo's arm and pulled him up from the bed. "Come on, we'll be there before you know it, Rings'."

Ringo hesitated. "Why?"

"You need a bit of…fresh air."

"There's plenty back here."

"Ringo." Paul's expression suddenly turned sour. "I thought you were 'fine'. We need to be serious about these things y'know…You can't just turn away into yourself... it isn't gonna help."

"I'm not…turning away into meself." Ringo looked at his feet, his eyes flickering down the aisle at the pilots. "I'm just…they just don't believe us, Paul."

Paul turned to look at them and sighed. "Fuck them, then."

Ringo couldn't help but smile. Of all the things to say, expect Paul McCartney to say the best of them. But then his smile faded.

"But we saw an island before…and they weren't there. What if they're not on this one either? What if –?"

"No, 'what ifs', Ringo! We can't have anymore 'what ifs', okay? There is a fuckin' fire in the middle of the fucking ocean! That's Lennon genius. I know it when I see it."

Ringo gave him an incredulous look. It seemed like Paul was getting desperate…

But this was their last chance.

"Right, mate. Whatever, let's just get this thing over with aye?"

Without replying, Paul turned and led the way down the aisle, and before they knew it they were wrapped in their long dark coats and were sitting impatiently opposite the door, their trustees Mal and Neil by their sides.

Paul continued to look back and forth from the cockpit window to the door. The island was coming closer and closer even at such a dawdling speed, and with each step forward came a new step of promise, a new step of hope - of lies...
The chopper lowered, the overwhelming flame suddenly reflecting its bright and orange blaze onto everybody's faces. Everyone edged in their seats to examine the action below. Yes, there was a cliffy mountain, and yes there was a shore big enough for the chopper to land on. But what was the mountain towering over? What did the shore give way to reveal?
A bloomin' forest screaming as it was consumed by flames.

But nobody came running onto the sand below to meet them – surely if people were here they would hear the roar of the chopper, would see the giant machine above?

And then the pilots began to murmur.

Paul looked at Ringo and then back at Neil, whose expression alone communicated what nobody wanted to hear.

There was a problem.

"What?" Ringo perked up, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

They could be here. What if Paul was right…? What if…

No stop it you stupid git.

"If they were here, wouldn't they be running to meet us from the shore?" Neil's eyes remained on the window as he spoke, staring, almost, into a glaze of sheer thought.

Paul bit his lip. "Something could've happened…they may've hurt themselves…or…"

Shit. 8000 feet and no casualties? What was he thinking…

Neil shook his head. "Either that, or they're in the forest. Or they aren't there at all. But whoever is here, whoever started that fire, will be in incredible danger if we land."

Ringo's eyes widened. "Wait, why?!"

"If we land," Neil continued remorsefully, "the helicopter is going to pick up the flames and spread them even further into the forest. We can't land without the risk."

Paul looked around frantically. "Well, what're we gonna do? If we can't land can't we just be dropped in or something? I don't care, throw me, but we need to go down now!"

"This isn't a rescue chopper, Paul!" Mal blurted. "We can't go down without risking somebody's life!"

Ringo shook his head. "But we can't just stay here! We have to land on the bloody island!"

"That's not your decision to make!" One of the pilots exclaimed over his shoulder. "We'll call in some other rescue helicopters to check it out for us. They're much smaller and flexible. There's nothing we can really do."

"No!" Paul cried suddenly. He violently ran his hand through his hair. "This is pathetic, there won't be enough time!"

Ringo sat still, his heart beating ferociously in his chest, his eyes wondering towards the door. With his mouth set he was suddenly overwhelmed with his spontaneous decision. In an instant, he'd leapt forwards towards the chopper's door, just as his friend had done in the plane four days before, and clung to the handle.

Paul looked up at him, his mouth dropping. "Ringo, what are you do –?!"

Before he could stop himself Ringo had wrenched the door open, sending a tunnel of spiralling wind into the room. He watched his friends' and pilots' frightened and shaken expressions as they tried to scream at him over the roaring blades that swung overhead.

He could barely hear himself think.

What on earth was he doing?!

But there was no stopping him now. He'd had enough.

"IF YOU DON'T LAND HERE I'M GOING TO JUMP!"

"WHAT?!" one of the pilots screamed. "YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!"

Mal took a step towards him with his arm outstretched, but Ringo leant away, further towards the door. "IF YOU TOUCH ME I'LL LET GO!" Then to the pilots, "LAND HERE RIGHT NOW!"

He watched the pilots' stunned expressions as they frantically worked out their decision. Paul was screaming at him, shaking his head, his hand outstretched desperately for his only friend.

But Ringo shook his head.
You fuckin' did this to me Paul, back on that bloody roof; and at least I'm bloody getting us somewhere!

Ringo's chest heaved as he peered down at the waves below him. It wasn't that far down, but would he be able to swim the length towards the island? And when he made it, what then?
T
he drummer began to strip off his jacket, which sent a flurry of panic into the cockpit.

Paul screamed at the pilots and Ringo almost simultaneously; 'Just land on the fookin' island!' and 'Ringo, don't you dare jump! Don't do this to me, Rich!'

Ringo clung onto his coat, shivering as the freezing air rushed through his thin shirt. He looked down at the ocean again. If he jumped, it could be to his death.

But George….John…

Then the decision was made. Paul leapt at Ringo and violently pulled him away from the door as the pilots finally nodded and accepted their fate.

They were going to land.

***

Tears welled up in John's eyes as the smoke blew into their faces, blurring their view to freedom.

Why did they decide to going this way?! What if this was the wrong decision?! Were they trapped?! Was that their last chance of hope?!

But it was too late now. George tugged at his arm and John suddenly screamed as his hands gave a vicious sting. The smoke did nothing to help his ripped hands, and already the miniscule ash had latched onto his skin, causing it to weep.

"Oh fuckin'-" John forced George to a halt as he began his immediate coughing fit. George tugged again at his arm.

"We can't stop!" he choked, tears rolling over his high cheekbones, "C'mon, John, we have to keep going!"

"I can't…"

"YES YOU FUCKIN' –" but then George's throat crackled, and he was sent down into the same coughing battle. But he forced his legs to push forward and tugged again on Lennon's arm.
The fits never ceased as they ran, and they began to stagger as their breath began to run short, as their energy began to deplete.

John couldn't handle it anymore, besides the small hand clutching his arm, he was destined to be consumed into the raging heat at the side of his face, the smoke that clasped around his throat and the pain of knowing that there was no way he could ever get home. He cried out and nearly fell to his knees, but George screamed in frustration, turning and catching him by his naked waist, almost dragging him up the mountain side in desperation.

They couldn't speak to each other amidst their coughs, they could barely see each other as the smoke blinded their vision, but they could feel each other's presence. And they never dared to let go.

The roaring flames almost deafened them with fright, and as John collapsed again, George's screams seemed to only echo across his mind.

"No!" George choked. "JOHN GET UP! GET UP, NOW!"

John shook his head and coughed violently at the ground, his right arm hoisted up by his friend, his expression giving out the words: "I can't..."

"JOHN –?!" George's voice cracked and John suddenly pulled at his friend, clasped his arms around him in a sweaty and desperate embrace, tears streaming fast down his neck. George took this opportunity to grab him, to pull him up to his feet and force him to keep moving, but John didn't oblige. Rather, between his coughs and gasps, he wept into George's neck and cried
"I'm…sorry…

"NO!" George burst into more tears, "No, John, we –" he gasped, "have to keep going!" He choked as Lennon pulled his face away to peer up at George's tears running down his high cheekbones. He shook his head, and his body began to shake.

He could say no more. He was dying…

"NO, JOHN!" George screamed and dragged his friend over his shoulder.

Not again. Not fucking this time.

John knew he was dying, he was going to die. He had to die. He couldn't stand this anymore. But what of George? George – he would be left alone, left to mourn, maybe.

John shook his head again, yet more to himself.

Try and move your feet, you git. Try and help him out. Try and get to the top of the mountain. Oh, this fuckin' mountain.

He could hear George's breathing strain incredibly, felt the sweat dripping from his friend's shoulders…

He forced his feet to move on, just a little bit further. And for those next five minutes they kept moving, even though they couldn't see, couldn't breathe and couldn't hope.

Until they saw the entrance – the summit.

George's head drooped as if he were to faint, and John grasped a tree hastily to stop them from falling over. The flames were only feet away, in a few minutes it would consume the entrance – they had to get up there, now.

"JOHN! C'MON, WE'RE ALMOST –" he gasped. "Go, go…" George forced his body to bear the pain as he pushed Lennon up onto the boulder at the cliff's edge. John stumbled and turned around to support his friend's ascend, his heart lashing out in his chest. The summit was just behind him, he could almost taste the fresh air, feel the coolness on his back.

And then there was a loud roar.

Everything froze, both eyes widened; a tunnel of wind and a reverberating blare blew over them and into the pits of their stomachs. John tugged desperately at his friend's arm but the movement came all too late.

In one swift sudden movement the flames were picked up into the atmosphere and thrown over and in front of George Harrison, separating them both and almost scorching the tips of Lennon's fingers.

"GEORGE!?!" John screamed as a wall of bright orange flame lashed out in front of him, forcing him to jump back. "GEORGE?! GEORGE!? CAN YOU HEAR ME!?" He choked again, and breathed incredulously.

No. No, no, no.

He shook his head in disbelief, his body shook and his legs gave way. His eyes remained glued to where he last saw him as he collapsed to the ground, on the summit, where he could breathe, where he was safe.

"GEORGE???!!!" he screamed again, his voice finally cracking, his throat spurting out blood. But it was a waste of breath.

Nothing called back to him. Nothing moved amidst that fierce fiery blaze.

George was… dead.

***

Something dug into his arm – his right arm. Scraping, subtly trembling. Ringo yanked his arm away with a start and turned to see Paul's giant, gleaming eyes widening at the sight in front of them.

Aspinall swore on his left.

With a frown, the little drummer looked up to see the burning island levelling out onto the horizon, the trees bending outwards at the force of the chopper's descent. And then…

Oh shit…

It was like a tunnelling wave – the wind scooped up the flames before them, and blew. Outwards and onwards like a blazing tsunami, the propellers of the chopper thrust the fire rapidly throughout the wood. Hardly any place had been untouched except the immediate front of the forest – even the left side was now fully engulfed under the horrible blaze.

And now they would meet it face to face.

With a small thud the helicopter's feet landed firmly on the sand, leaving the scene before their eyes to unravel into an all-too-real nightmare.

It was only once the chopper's engines had died down, only once the sound around them resulted in the dull burning of the wood outside, that Mal finally yanked open the door.

The two Beatles stumbled out of the chopper uneasily and clutched their long coats around them tight. Ringo shot a quick glance at Paul, whose emotional eyes betrayed his immediate fear of the unknown.

What if…

Before the pilots had had a chance to leave the chopper, the two of them had jogged off towards the right, their heads darting around, searching for signs of survival.

"ANYONE OUT HERE??!! HELLO?!" Paul screamed as their jog ran into a sprint. He took a breath to scream, and then hesitated. Ringo filled in for him.

"JOHN??!! GEORGE??!!"

It felt strange to be calling their names – here, as if they'd actually survived all that had gone before, and all that was happening now. As if they were here. As if they were alive. But it was the only hope they ran on – they barely stopped to think over the consequences of disappointment. Ringo didn't want to face that now.

"GEORGE??!! JOHN??!! ANYBODY?!!"

Their feet strained as they fought their run into the loose sand, along the shore. The cool moonlight shadowed over them from their right, and the burning glaze of the forest lit up their images on their left – the stark contrast set alight the sand before them into a bizarre and surreal scene.

They followed the shore until the reflecting cliff face came into view, the moonlight displaying all its trials with the wind and sea, and then Paul turned to the flame.
It was immediately apparent that the forest's horrible flaming fate had begun at that very spot – wood had been deliberately piled in a heap before them, and its flame had already fulfilled its due course, leaving remains of the eaten wood into shrivelled black ambers.

But it was a sign, a sign of hope. A sign of…

Civilisation…

People had been here. There was no doubt about it.
Ringo's heart thumped within his chest as he searched the area around the wood, scanning the trees for any more signs of inhabitance…

Then every nerve in his body froze.

"PAUL!!"

His friend was by his side immediately. Ringo took a few steps towards the dark shadow of cloth hidden under the tree. He bent down and cautiously picked a strand up, then gave a start and threw the objects to the ground.

"Argh! God, there's blood!"

Paul pushed himself forward, his eyes widening. "What…!?"

"Fookin' hell! The blood's wet!" Ringo hastily wiped his hands along his coat, a look of horror reflecting off his distinctive features.

Paul frowned incredulously, and shook his head. His eyes darted around at the sand, pulled his arm out to push his friend backwards then turned towards the pile of wood, a vicious expression of realisation overcoming his features.

"Ringo… there are footprints!" and with a shaky hand he led Ringo's squinting eyes along where the cloths lay towards the right side of the burnt ambers. It was almost impossible to detect it under the shallow moonlight, but Ringo's searching wide eyes found it – an unmovable piece of evidence to the theory they mused.

From under the dancing blaze, the shadow of a naked footprint played out before their eyes like some strange dream – the full, fresh, implant of a heel and five toes.
Nothing could compare to the immense affect that strange image put before them. It couldn't be called a wave of emotions, nor a shot to the heart. This image proved, in their minds, that the survival of their friends was conceivable – that John Lennon and George Harrison had been here – and if not, who else?
But what could compare with the shock that came after – the fire, and the forest, and their bodies nowhere to be seen.

Paul looked and Ringo, and the drummer looked at his friend. Their mouths dropped open, but only one could utter the words they'd both wanted to express all along.

"God, no."

***

It was a strange mystical aura that covered the island that night – an island that had lived so many years alone, isolated, totally without harm. And now this: occupied by the most famous band on the earth, burning to death under the hands of human nature's pollution – why did it have to be this way?
Paul's eyes followed the smoke that tumbled upwards into the dark, gleaming sky. An odd, purple haze captured the air above them, the result of the conflicting colours of the night. Behind him was the ravenous ocean, in front of him lay the venomous blaze, to the right lay the sea's attack on the sheer, rocky cliffs, and to his left wept his despondent and distressed Ringo. And now the air had lost its peace.

He clutched his friend by his quivering arms and gently turned him so as to see his face. The moonlight shone a stark picture of Ringo's white face, tears trickling down from his ominously clear and precise blue eyes.  Paul shook his head and pushed him back.

"Why are you crying Ringo?! What if it's not them?!"

The drummer recoiled away in shock. "THEN WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE?!!" his sudden scream echoed harshly around the atmosphere.

A figure to the far left froze, and they both turned to see Neil's shadow glaring at them from a distance, his face whitening as he looked from Paul, to Ringo, then the bloody cloths piled on the sand. His expression conveyed the exact question they were all dying to solve.

Is it…theirs?!

With another emotional ejaculation, Ringo suddenly escaped Paul's reach and sprinted past Paul, past Neil and around towards the other side of the island – his tiny figure disappearing behind the edge of the trees. Right before they could put a word in to protest.

So, instead, they ran.

The sand was hard on their shoes, and gaining a grip became harder the further they ran. The cool air rushed past Paul's face, and he felt more determined than ever with the eerie moonlight shining on his back. But then, of all things to happen, he stumbled, tripped, and his legs gave way to plant his face to the ground. Neil, of all people, hadn't noticed, and instead kept his pace behind Ringo, leaving Paul sprawled on the shore in the moonlight, alone.

Fuckin' suit shoes…

McCartney sat up and groaned, his leg aching for all kinds of reasons. His handsome features contorted into a scowl as he tore off his square-toed leather shoes, and chucked off his socks. He stretched his legs out and looked around him, the waves quietly lapping at the shore, a cool breeze finding its way beyond the clothing. He should be chasing Ringo, he should be searching for his friends. Yet, something inside him had caused him to halt, forced him to sit down, and look around in retrospection.
RETROSPECTION?!

He cursed as he stood up, his toes digging into the cool sand.
It burned, the freezing grains biting into his skin.

Then his body suddenly jerked as the island echoed yet another scream – a shrill, piercing cry that shot blood through his veins. With a frightened heart, Paul McCartney spun to find that the scream hadn't come from Ringo at all. In fact, it was almost off the island, to the side of the cliffs…

ON the cliffs…

The Beatle's stomach flipped over, his mouth catching the draft, his sigh shaky and frightened.

There had been a scream – a distinctive scream.

No. No. No. No. No…

His hands shook as he leant over to pick up his shoes, his eyes darting around in his head, trying to will the sound away. It was just his imagination. He did not just hear that.
But as he lifted his head, another scream filled the air.
Except there was more.

This time, he wasn't imagining it, and this time, he was absolutely certain it came in the direction of the cliffs. But there was one more thing that closed his heart, just one last catch – besides the all-too distinctive voice, besides the terror in its all-too familiar tone; it had screamed a name:

George.

"Oh, God…no…" he felt his fingers loosen its grip, he felt the thump of the shoes by his feet, and then the cool wind was thrust into his face and his toes aching to hold his grip on the passing shore. He sprinted down the beach, faster than the daylight below him, past the cloths, past the footprints, past the origins of that horrible fire, and all the way down towards the very end: At the bottom of the cliffs.

Paul halted before the lethal shore that lay before him, sucking and bubbling severely over the sudden dip in the sand, ravishing against the horrifying rocks and spraying a mist of salt into the air and onto his dry and startled face. He craned his neck to look up at the towering cliffs, jagged bits and pieces sticking outwards at random edges. The moonlight briefly blinded his vision, and he took a few steps back with his palm over his eyes to gain a new perspective of this surreal scene.

He waited longer, not knowing what for, but in a fearful fit, his eyes darting absolutely everywhere for a sign of absolutely anything to satisfy him.
After a while he shook his head and ran another few steps backwards, his heart giving unbearable jumps in his chest.

No other screams came, except for the distant cries and shouts of Ringo and Neil on the other side. For a moment he hesitated, but then assured himself of his judgement – No, it wasn't them, it was something else….

Someone else…

His body suddenly become rigid as another noise came from above him, it was a softer noise, but it was definitely closer. Adrenalin shot through Paul's veins as his ears pricked up to hear one noise, one tiny, insignificant sound that made all the difference.

And then his eyes widened, his heart jumping into his throat as he gave an impulsive cry. There, on the top of the cliff, his silhouette outlined in the moonlight, weeping, and falling to his knees, was the matchless, talented and singular human being:

John Lennon.

…alive.