The Solarii
Jerome fiddled uncomfortably with his rifle; even now, after seven years, it still left unnatural to hold something he'd once so vehemently abhorred. But then, Yamatai had a way of turning people away from the basic tenets of humanity. And so it had been with him: he was no longer the cook for Hapag-Lloyd's lost Hamburg Express but rather one of many desperate souls doing whatever it took to survive. The only people alive on the island now were killers. Death was the only chance at continued existence, however miserable that subsistence might be. The madman Matthias made sure of that.
He made his way down among the dilapidated shacks and corrugated iron walls of the Shantytown, noting the lack of chatter on his walkie-talkie. In fact the entire area was eerily quiet, the usual crude and boisterous jabber of the local inhabitants ominously absent. The only sounds were the wind and the creaking of loosely-fitted iron panels and swaying cables. He fidgeted nervously; he'd heard the others talk of a new group of shipwreck survivors, or more specifically of a particular girl among them. Little more than a child from what he'd heard, and yet the more superstitious among them had taken to calling her the Angel of Death. To hear Matthias rant one would think half the island's population had already fallen to her deadly touch. There had to be more to it, surely!
He continued down the narrow gap between shacks, heading for one of the tiny ground-level plazas that dotted the haphazard collection of filthy sheds. Coming up to the opening, he saw a pair of camo-clad legs, prone and unmoving, extending out from behind the corner. He froze.
He unshouldered his rifle and held it at the ready; moving slowly forward, his breathing quickened as more of the body came into view as he rounded the corner. The man, Sven, he recalled, recognizing his face, had an arrow shaft protruding from his neck. But it was what he saw further ahead that sent his pulse racing.
"Holy shit…" he muttered under his breath.
The plaza was strewn with half a dozen bodies. All had died violently, blood covering the corpses and seeping into the ground, dozens of bullet holes peppering the nearby corrugated iron walls. There had been a brief and panicked battle here, and Matthias' men were the only apparent victims. Jerome felt wave of nausea come over him. He'd seen death countless times on this island but up to now all the deaths he'd witnessed had been orchestrated by Matthias, planned, deliberate events to ensure unquestioning obedience. This was something altogether different. He took a step back and fought to bring his breathing under control.
She'd been here. The Angel of Death…
He had to get out of there. What if –
A muffled huff behind him.
He spun around, rifle levelled.
A large pig stared back at him.
He released his breath. The animal, one of Yamatai's wild boars, slowly ambled off. Jerome lowered his rifle, sweat beading on his brow and heart racing. Getta hold of yourself…
Thunk.
In the middle of the clearing ahead the pig slowly toppled over, an arrow shaft jutting out from its eye.
Shit!
Jerome scrambled backwards. From the direction of the arrow, the shot had come from his left, a corrugated iron wall blocking his view in that direction but conversely had concealed him from the shooter. Had he been standing just a few feet further ahead he might well have been lying there in the clearing with the others.
He silently ambled back behind the corner and listened for any sound. He heard faint footfalls in the distance, somewhere in the upper levels, not the heavy thumps typical of the island's brutish inhabitants but something substantially lighter.
She's here…cripes…
About a minute later the footfalls ceased with a louder impact. She was on the ground.
He swallowed hard and held the rifle before him, finger on the trigger. If he stayed absolutely still and made no sound –
That's when he saw her enter the small plaza, heading for the dead boar. She was no more than twenty feet from him, seemingly oblivious to his presence.
Christ…
The girl was indeed little more than a child, of middling height, athletic build, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and almost heartbreakingly beautiful, this despite being covered in filth, blood-seeped bandages, numerous wounds and half-shredded clothing. Far from the Angel of Death, she looked more like someone who had been dragged from a collapsed building. From the look of her Jerome wondered how she could still be ambulatory.
And yet…
The girl ignored the corpses strewn about the clearing and crouched beside the dead boar, deftly pulling the arrow shaft from its corpse. Jerome fingered his rifle's trigger – from this distance he could hardly miss.
He bit his lip. He couldn't do it.
At that same moment the girl froze. She turned her head and their eyes locked.
"Hold!" Jerome shouted, but the girl had already knocked her bloody arrow, her reflexes almost blindingly quick.
Jerome sprinted forward, sensing the arrow's fletching brush by his scalp, missing his skull by a bare inch. The girl dropped her bow and reached for a holster –
Jerome threw the rifle at her as he flung himself forward, the butt of the weapon striking her arm just as he plowed into her full force, sending her toppling backwards. He came to lie atop her, desperately grasping at her pistol, her eyes blazing with aggression.
"Wait!" he shouted as they both struggled for control of the gun, the girl's teeth gritting in exertion. He had to have a good 60-70 pounds on her, yet she was surprisingly strong. Scarily so in fact, as he realized that the shaking gun barrel was inching slowly inward.
He applied every ounce of pressure he could muster to the girl's wrist and the barrel's trembling increased in intensity but to his horror it still continued its slow inward twist, the girl crying out with the effort.
"Stop!" he practically screamed. "I just – "
A muffled shot rang out, a searing pain piercing his side. His grip on the girl's wrist slackened involuntarily. He cried out in pain as the girl kicked violently and rolled out from under him, scrambling to a crouched position an arm's length away, gun held before her.
Jerome had never experienced such pain. His breathing quickly became laboured – a lung shot. He tried to push himself up, but the intense pain made him collapse back to the ground. He looked up at the girl, who slowly stood and was now gazing down at him with an odd look. She was breathing heavily, the fierceness in her eyes from just moments before gone, though she still levelled her pistol at him.
"I just…" he panted, blood forming on his lips, "…want to get off… this fucking island…"
She stared down at him for several long moments.
"I'm sorry," she finally said softly in an almost soothing voice, an English accent evident. "But some of us will never leave this place…"
"Who…" Jerome gasped, his vision starting to blur. "…are you?"
The girl opened her mouth and seemed to hesitate.
"I don't know anymore…"
Another shot – and all was darkness.