If ever it could be say that nature had designed alarm bells, it would be the birds on this island. It was only one of many of the wonders of this island he'd learned to depend on over the time he'd lived here since the crash. When the birds sang merrily, all was well. When they went stone silent, 'well' would likely not be an appropriate description of the situation. If, however, they should suddenly erupt into hysteric screeching in the middle of the night, Jack felt it was appropriate to rouse himself and investigate. He rolled out of bed, a matress of gathered plant matter, cotton, feathers, and other soft material held in shape by canvas and resting on a frame of rope and wood. It was actually a comfortable bed and tough to leave in the middle of the night, but he managed.<br/><br/>He staggered out of the small cave he called home, taking with him an empty jar full of wriggling, glowing worms to serve as a lantern. The cave he left behind was full of odd debris improvised into various uses like this. wreckage he'd carefully gathered, flotsam and jetsam from his and countless other wrecks, combined with natural elements from the island to provide what comforts he could manage. Listening to the sounds of alarm from around him, he could tell that the bird call was louder and more violent toward the north and west, and more reactionary toward the south  and east.  This told him the birds north and west of him were frightened by something, and the rest were simply frightened by the cries of their fellows. He jogged down the path he'd carved that he knew would lead in that direction, cutting through the familiar forest.<br/><br/>He arrived at the tree line on a cliff overlooking the beach with an uninterrupted view of the ocean in time to see a well-lit craft careening toward the island at kamikaze speed. There would be no dodging this bullet. He could sympathize with their pain. At least when his craft had gone haywire and crashed onto the island, he'd been lucky enough to crash on the other side of the island where there was a section of tall cliffs providing a solid wall for him to meet. He'd seen it coming and jumped free to face the chances of survival in the open water. These people never got that chance. He watched the craft shatter on the rocks and become swallowed in the torrent of waves as the turning of the tide created an angry whirlpool.<br/><br/>None of them would survive, he knew. None of the others ever had before. He'd seen two other crashes like this one, unlucky vessels who'd strayed too close and lost control. No one ever survived the crash. He didn't expect these people to, either. But still, he watched, just in case. To his amazement, there were survivors! He watched as a few of them began to make their way to shore. Before their feet hit dry sand, he burst into action.<br/><br/>He didn't know if they were friendly or not, so he needed to prepare himself. There was little time. He sprinted through the forest and began the process or removing signs of occupation on the island, hiding his trails as best he could, concealing the few structures he'd built, burying recent cookfires, and shrouding his cave in vines. Next he retrieved the first aid supplies and weapons he'd fashioned using seashells, rocks, wood, and whatever else he could find. When he returned to the trees at the top of the cliff to watch them, he was ready to either greet new friends, or defend his home against enemies.