Hour 6

44 Contestants Remaining

There were over eight thousand cameras of all shapes and sizes around the island, set to follow the every movement of every contestant in day and night. In times of inclement weather and poor lighting, the camera's could easily switch to night vision or a thermal view that could track based on body heat. These were all for the purposes of the gamblers and viewing public in general. Millions would be made worldwide from the pay-per-view coverage of the event, while even more would be made by the merchandising rights that followed. Already t-shirts, trading cards and bios on certain contestants were on sale and flying off the shelves.

Alongside the cameras were a centrally located system of loudspeakers. They didn't have any practical purpose for the game itself (particularly without the need to announce new danger zones), but being as how they were a tradition in the Japanese and French editions of the game it seemed just that they be used in the American version as well.

Already at the six hour point, the speakers cracked to life, the voice of popular DJ in the Braiwood area J.J. Squalls. Much like he did in his introduction at the bunker, he had an odd sort of cheer that seemed obscene given the circumstances.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING BATTLE ROYALE! Rise and shine kiddies it's six in the morning, time for killin and blood spillin. You're doing a fabulous job so far, all your parents have called in and they're cheering you on, even the dead ones! Anyhow, here's a list of your friends and the order in which they died. We all know Boy # 25 Nick Savini and Girl # 13 Tamyra Carpenter, but they don't count so let's get to the REAL killing now shall we?"

It was possible to hear him laugh before taking a swig off one of his many beers, "Boy # 4, Homer Brannick, first to die by being flung into a Danger Zone. Congratulations Carter on drawing first blood. Boy # 14, Peter Larkin, beaten, impaled and had his neck broken, nicely done Miss Vasquez. Girl # 18, Sky Hawk, nearly shot to death by one of today's MVP's, Brian Pavell, but actually killed by none other than her own sister! I tell you guys, I love this game more and more with each passing hours. I'd like to congratulate Brian personally, but he's the last name on the list for these six hours, Brian Pavell, Boy # 9, cut apart by our friend Paul Holt with a chainsaw. Well done Holt."

The sound of typing on a keyboard could be heard over the loudspeakers, at which point J.J. spoke again.

"Now, the fans have spoken and the results are in, and the greatest kill of the first six hours goes to... Boy # 12, Paul Holt! Head on over to the radio tower Holt, it is temporarily not a danger zone so pick up your prize and get the hell out. That is all everyone, keep the blood running! We're all rooting for you out here! And now for some music to kill by, PEACE!"

As he shut up the sound of an old record player scratching and spinning could be heard, with pops and hissing soon replaced by a heavy and thudding Queen bass line.

"Steve walks warily down the street,

With the brim pulled way down low,

Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet,

Machine guns ready to go,

Are you ready, are you ready for this,

Are you hanging on the edge of your seat,

Out of the doorway the bullets rip,

To the sound of the beat!

Another one bites the dust,

Another one bites the dust,

And another one gone, and another one gone,

Another one bites the dust!

Hey, I'm gonna get you too,

Another one bites the dust..."

Boy # 22, Francisco "Frank the Tank" Marquez was tired. Being a very big guy made it pretty easy to tire down, though looking at his watch helped explain it even more. He hadn't had any real sleep (not counting the knockout gas they'd had on the bus) in maybe 24 hours, waking up to graduate the day before and going now to the Battle Royale. He didn't dare sleep. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but he couldn't. There was just no way to be safe.

Out here, at least the way he figured, there was safety in numbers. He had spent hours trying to find someone, anyone that he could work with to try and figure things out. As of yet, the options were rather poor. Walking by the airfield earlier, he heard a shot whiz by his ear and lodge in a tree near his face and throwing splinters all around.

Stay away from the airfield, that one was settled.

He tried checking around more of the other buildings with little luck, they were all for the most part deserted. Running from one to the next in the small town setting, he approached a building with a red cross on it and boards nailed up over its windows. An infirmary, at the very least it looked solid enough to rest in.

Getting closer, he jumped as a shot was fired from the window. This one he could not only hear and feel, but he could see, a bright flash emanating from the roof and a hiss as the bullet flew by and slammed into the dirt.

"Get out if you know what's good for you!" a female voice yelled. It had a slight Asian accent to it, and from everyone on the list, it was quite probably Ayane.

After being shot at twice, Francisco had taken off running into the jungle blindly, just looking over his shoulder whenever he needed to. Running and sprinting the best his massive frame could, Francisco was afraid for the first time in a long time that he could remember. Fear was not something that he had had a lot of experience with, he was always the calm type, the nice type, the guy people could go to when they had a lot on their minds. He would never stress before tests, always shrugging and figuring he'd try his best no matter how bad it got.

The worst was just after he had run away from the infirmary. Minutes before exhaustion had finally taken him down, Frank literally plowed down another of his classmates. His first instinct was to run, then to apologize, but looking down he was sick. It was Gervase, or at least at one time it had been. He was pale as a ghost, with bloody lines drawn across his body and a mouth full of blood. His thumbs were missing, and in more ways than one he had the appearance of a monster.

"Heeeeeeelme," he slurred as blood seemed to congeal from his mouth, "Heellmeeeeeee!"

Terrified and revolted, the most humanity that Francisco could pull off caused him to run. He had knocked Gervase down and kept on running. That's the nice guy, that's the humanitarian. Good job Frankie, kept on running.

He cursed himself. Quite the humanitarian, friendly guy Frankie. Gervase was your friend, you sat next to him at graduation, what, twelve hours ago? You sure treated him right. It could be worse though. It could be raining.

Gasping heavily, Francisco corrected himself. No, there is something worse than rain. Humidity. Humidity's a killer, 'specially if you're carrying some extra weight. Francisco wiped sweat from his brow and swatted idly at the mosquitoes that were alighting on his skin. Momma always said cut back on the pizza, but did you listen to her Frankie, no, no, where's the fun in that? Pizza's with an inch thick layer of meats and loaded with cheese, how can they be resi-

A masculine yet still high pitched shriek caught Francisco off-guard. Whirling around, he was quick enough to catch sight of his attacker before they had sprung. Boy # 6, Josh Peters was barely half the size of Frank, but he was running with all his might and screaming like a banshee. The look on his face was wild and almost feral, while in both his hands he held above his head what Francisco could only see as a small piece of wood. As Josh bounded closer, Frank could see the weapon. It had a small, almost invisible blade, like an ice pick or a stiletto. As the little man sprinted closer, Francisco stepped out of the way and tripped Josh.

The smaller boy was sent sprawling, rolling on the ground as the ice pick clattered out of his grasp. As he rolled over onto his back, Josh looked up with fear upon Francisco.

"Please, don't kill me! I'm just trying to live! Really, I didn't mean to, I'm just scared, I'm..." Josh said quickly with wide eyes and a quivering mouth.

"I ain't gonna kill ya," Francisco said with a huff as he let down his guard. He knew Josh and liked the guy, everyone did to an extent. If Joel was the school's king, his slut of the month his queen and the brat packers the princesses, Josh was most definitely the court jester. Sure he was loud and brash sometimes, but his diminutive frame hid a brain that was sharp and rapid-fire. If there was anyone Francisco had not anticipated to take part in the game, it would have been Josh.

And although fear was apparent on his face, what Francisco could not see was the little hamster wheel inside of Josh's tiny skull was running a mile a minute. Fear, paranoia, desperation. Find a way out.

"You're not going to kill me?" Josh asked, feigning puzzlement.

"Don't think I can," Francisco said, "this ain't my game. I can live, but killin… I don't know. It just ain't right, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," Josh continued, working with the limited material and trying to come up with a good response, "sorry about the whole attacking you with an ice pick thing, I didn't know if you were one of the good guys or the bad guys, and I seen plenty of bad guys around here recently."

"Ain't that the truth," Francisco said, pulling the neck of his shirt up so that he could wipe his forehead again.

"So, what now?" Josh asked idly.

"Try and find a way out of here," Francisco said, "try and find anyone who can figure a way out and get the hell out of here. Neither of us is very smart, but I know there's some smart people out here. Ayane, Doug, AJ, Damien, there's all sorts of smart people here. We just find the other people and they can find a way to get us out, I'm sure of it."

"Sounds like a plan," Josh said with a smile. Francisco put his hand out with a warm smile, taking Josh's own and helping him stand. Josh let a wide smile cross his face as the two men, one significantly dwarfing the other, walked along.

Stopping to tie his shoe, Josh let another grin cross his face as he said, "You know Frankie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Francisco looked down and smiled, before starting to walk off once more with Josh in tow. Where they were headed, he wasn't sure. What was going to happen, he didn't know, but he had hopes. Before he didn't have hopes, thinking the game would keep people in fear and on edge. No one no matter how tight the connection would trust anyone and everyone would be out to kill everyone. Josh, he was one of them at first, but looking into his eyes, Francisco knew it was just one of those random moments of fear. If everyone can team up, if we can all work together, then we're all going to get along just fine and we'll be able to work through it. That's how everything works, that's how it always has, and god-willing always will.

Josh looked ahead and was surprised that it worked. False sincerity, the nice guy act, it worked. He couldn't believe that it actually worked. It's not that Josh didn't like Francisco, who couldn't? Francisco was one of the sweetest guys in school who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed something to wipe your nose on. The thing that did get to Josh was the fact that Francisco was huge. And a huge guy, with morals or not, would be dangerous down the line if pushed into a corner. Give Francisco a gun, a knife, or even a large piece of wood and he could easily wind up surviving until the end. Hell, for all Josh knew Frankie's nice guy routine could have also been an act; he could have intended to use the class clown as a human shield. How nice would that be?

Feigning a stumble, he deftly picked up the ice pick he'd dropped only moments before and got up, concealing the weapon perfectly. Following Francisco, Josh rotated the pick downwards to be used at a stabbing angle. He pounced quickly, taking a long slash at Frank's back. The pick went in shallow, creating a long slash that went all the way down his back and lodging itself in Francisco's right thigh. The big man screamed out in pain and whirled around, backhanding Josh in the face. He pulled the pick from his leg and approached Josh.

"No, no, no, ok, I'm sorry!" Josh cried out in fear as he tried to whirl and run away. Francisco's response was simple, grabbing Josh by the wrist and tossing him face first into a nearby tree. Josh slumped down, bleeding from the scalp and very unconscious. He panted, holding the ice pick with his own blood on it as it dripped off and into the bushes. God damn, hurts like a son of a bitch.

Francisco was angry, though he couldn't figure out at who more. He was angry at himself for letting his guard down and actually expecting good in people when he probably shouldn't have. He was angry at Josh for actually attacking him, but perhaps most angry at the program itself. What's wrong with the world when something turns such a nice and funny little guy like Josh into a wannabe murderer? It's messed up man, just all sorts of messed up.

Toying with the weapon in his hand, Francisco recognized that he could kill Josh easily. Push it in one ear; point goes out the other, stop the thoughts from coming nice and fine. Just like dad said. What does dad know? He was in prison, not CIA assassin training. Still, can't argue with results.

He held the ice pick and approached Josh. Placing the tip in Josh's ear, he held a rock in the other hand. One tap to the handle of the pick and it would kill Josh nice and fine. Pulling his arm back far, Francisco imagined hammering the ice pick into Josh's brain with the rock. It would be easy, too easy. End a life, a dangerous life, a potentially evil life, save myself and a lot of other people some good trouble assuming Josh really had turned evil.

No, no, no way in hell. This is Josh! This isn't some nameless, faceless killing machine out for blood, this is Josh! You've known him since the fourth grade, when he had that huge headgear for the braces and could fire rubber bands with his tongue. No, this just ain't fair. It ain't right. But, leave him be and he's still a danger.

Francisco gauged his options, and none were good. Then he looked to his bag, left on the ground from when he decided to rest. An idea sparked in his mind, and it seemed brilliant.

Half an hour later everything seemed set. He had used much of his randomly assigned weapon, a roll of duct tape, and made Josh no longer a danger. He had first hog-tied him, then wrapping pretty much all of Josh with a layer of tape that made him look like some crazy sort of cocoon. Hanging him by his hands and feet from a tree just made the effect work.

As Francisco was finishing his masterpiece, Josh was stirring, or more precisely groaning as his head felt like it was splitting open.

"Wha, what happened?" Josh asked as he realized that the whole world just didn't seem right.

"Can't have you chasing me around," Francisco said, "don't take it personal or nothing, but I'm gonna keep my distance from you Joshie boy. You work at it enough and you can get out of there, but it'll take you a while and give me enough time to put some distance between you and me, aight?"

At that, Francisco gathered up his and Josh's packs. Francisco held the ice pick defensively in one hand, though admittedly in his massive hand it looked like a pencil stuck in a turkey. He looked at Josh pitifully for a second before walking away.

"Hey, wait, you can't leave me like this! Come on, I'm sorry, I was scared, I'm still scared, please, don't leave me like this! Hey, wait, don't leave me like this! DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS, PLEASE, I'M SCARED, CAN'T YOU JUST HELP ME?" Josh yelled as he watched Francisco walk away.

Francisco himself tried not to listen, but the voice already started to haunt him. He started running, trying to get away from the sound at all costs. The wails of Josh Peters would haunt Francisco for the rest of his life.

Boy # 17, a.k.a. Damien Myers was a big fan of repressed memories. During consciousness the dangers of these so-called traumatic memories would never change his course, never distract him or let him second-guess himself, as frankly, he had no control over them. The piece of metal in his skull offered him protection like no other in terms of repressed memory, severing the conscious side of most everything that happened before the accident. Two years back. It was bad. It took his arm, it scarred his body and destroyed his mind. All memories he had stemmed from the past two years, pulling together the tatters of what life he had and what the doctors had told him. For Damien Myers, the only true feeling he had towards the car accident was pure and unadulterated hatred, much like his feelings towards The Brat Pack and other students who weren't quite tolerant of those who were different.

The unconscious told a completely different story. His dreams brought back the memories of the past sixteen years, memories with startling clarity that went up until a few days after he was born. Then again, the life as he knew it wasn't his life, something just didn't seem right about it. Whatever existed in his head, Damien wasn't able to really determine what was real and what was not. There were times when he really wanted to decipher the thoughts, and there were times he'd have rather forgotten that the whole other side of him existed. And then of course... there was The Demon. It was a side that he'd always had, yet never vocalized. It was given a name by those whores, and in time they even gave birth to the creature he would become. It would be getting retribution soon enough, yes, soon. He smiled.

The memories in the dreams were pleasant. He had a mother, a sister, friends who he'd play Nintendo with. Watching The Smurfs and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, dad teaching him to shave, to drive. Good memories of happy times. School, school was always fun, great friends, good teachers, even in high school. Mrs. Nicholson. Field trips to museums. Watching sex-ed videos and listening to the two or three really strange guys in the back pleasing themselves. Everyone spoke with an east coast accent? One bus ride to go and the train of thoughts disappears...

"WE HAVE OURSELVES A WINNER!"

Hearing those fateful game show words shoot through his mind shot Damien back into consciousness. It was light out. Sun shining, morning time, people would be easier to see, easy targets, easy to find. He smiled his crooked and broken smile. The rays of sun caught him like trails of blood. Crazy times.

Crazy, there is no crazy. There's unwell, disabled, unbalanced, insane, and maybe a little nutso. No, no, no, no, NO! Fallback, the fallback, the good fallback the happy fallback. Mad. Mad Magazine doesn't stand a chance against the real mad, good old Normy Bates sort of mad. We all go a little mad sometimes, haven't you? Just stop it, stop it, STOP IT!

Sliding down from the tree, Damien stretched. Everyone was running around by now, they must all be running around crazy and shooting and stabbing each other. And they're all tired. None of them have slept in more than 24 hours, give or take. Thank you graduation!

As he wobbled about, getting his bearings, Damien searched for a weapon. The one from his pack was completely useless. A CD case? Seriously, these guys got some sort of delightfully fucked up sense of humor. Bending over, he rifled around a bit in the underbrush before finding a suitable weapon.

The rock was nice. It was the size of a softball and had all sorts of random sharp corners on it. Swinging it in one good arc, he slammed it against the tree that he had slept in. It dented the trunk, taking good chunks of bark off in sheets.

"Excellent," he said to himself as he licked his broken teeth.

Two goals of the day, though there's three days to do them. First, kill the Brat Pack, though that was a given and can be lingered out as long as possible. He had plans, good plans, good ideas. Killing them would be fun, but watching them squirm would be even more fun. Like putting a few cats in a dryer and turning it on. They think they are great friends, but give them reason to do otherwise and they'll wind up tearing each other apart. That's the fun part.

Second goal, probably should be the first but not as important as brutally murdering those sluts. Find an ally. Find someone whose hatred of the females would rival your own and take them alongside. Find someone who would take particular delight in watching them die. Find someone with the potential to be a brutal sadist, but who hasn't realized it. Find someone who realizes that they'll kill if given the reason. More importantly though, someone with two hands. Damien was good, but even he was man enough to realize some things were best done with two hands.

He didn't even need to think to come up with the name. Someone whom the girls had tormented for years upon years. Someone who was self-conscious about their physical condition. Someone who's smart and could be taken advantage of.

Hunched over, Damien Myers bounded through the forest in search of an ally. It would be a beautiful day and an even more beautiful night if all works well.