Hour 4
49 Contestants Remaining
"So you're dying?" Danny Arkham asked with a puff of steam. It was too fucking cold in the back yard to be outside, but as he and his compatriot had an unfortunate addiction to the substance known as nicotine that had a hard time being quenched, they remained there all the same.
"Yeah, but we're all dying," the boy with the buzz cut replied.
"I know, but you're like, really dying?" Danny asked again, flexing his fingers in the leather gloves he wore to keep the blood flowing.
"Yes, and?" the other boy responded.
"I'm sorry, it's just not everyday you hear a good friend of yours is going to die, it's a little fucked up if you know what I mean," Danny responded.
"True enough, I guess it would be weird, wouldn't it?" the boy with the buzz cut replied rather calmly.
"So what are you going to do about it? They got chemo or something? Surgery?"
"I'm supposed to have a year plus or minus, assuming it doesn't metastasize into other systems sooner rather than later," the other boy said as he took a puff from his cigarette, "I could go the route of chemo and surgery and probably get a few more months, but I'm not gonna fight it. Fuck, in this time I got left I thoroughly intend to be about as self-destructive a human being as I can be."
"You're not going to try and fight it?" Danny asked with confusion.
"Why should I just add one more virus cell to this wonderfully overcrowded being we call a world?" the boy with the buzz cut said as he crushed his cigarette out in an ash tray.
"I'm not following," Danny responded.
"I wouldn't expect you to. We," the boy said as he pointed to them both, then sweeping his arms around to encompass the grand scheme of things, "we as human beings are for lack of a better word a virus, a strain on the organism that is the world. As a species we are fundamentally destructive, fighting with one another and the planet at the same time in an effort to see who can be the most destructive. We created war, environmental destruction and religion, trust me, we are a virus. The world would do good to get rid of us, wouldn't you think?"
Much as Danny didn't want to admit it, his friend did have a point. The world... it had become a pretty bad place of late. The Greater Republic of East Asia had maintained its stranglehold on the Eastern Hemisphere, subjugating and wiping out any and all who opposed their regime within the border. The Great European Empire situated out of France, Spain, Germany and Italy had begun to conquer lands in North Africa. Hell, the United States had been committing atrocities across the board ever since 9/11. With people so terrified of terror, they had been given carte blanche when it came to their systematic nuking of the Middle East, while the rest of the world more or less turned a blind eye. Now they were waging a war on domestic terror, fighting the forces that had allegedly retreated to somewhere in Scandinavia.
Three world Empires, all of which had one concept in common: Battle Royale. If there was ever a destructive, viral program out there, it had to be the Battle Royale. Though he had not been one of the most idealistic students at Amberlaine High School, Danny was more than one to admit that he loathed the program and all it did to the youths of America (well, America, the GREA and GEE countries, Argentina, South Africa and India at last count). It was shit to say the very least, and he wanted to do something about it. Not having been the smartest in the world and more than willing to admit it, he had never known what to do. But Isaac had a plan, and that was why he was sitting in this shitty backyard in near-freezing temperatures discussing death.
"Something like that sometimes, yeah," Danny replied, "but life's got its points you know. You planning on ending yours?"
"Fuck no," the boy with the buzz cut responded with a smile, "I just intend to keep as self-destructive as is humanly possible before then while having what fun I can, unless you got a better idea of course."
"Well, there is always the plan I told you about," Danny added.
"Ah, are you thinking me welcoming death will make me more amenable to joining this whole suicide squad plan of yours?" the boy responded with a laugh.
"No, I want to ask you to do this because I know you know that I'm right on this one," Danny said, "we as young people have been fucked over, used and abused for so long, and it's about time that we did some of the abusing ourselves. We got an opportunity to deal out some major league punishment, get some attention, make some waves, and don't tell me you don't want to have a part in this."
The boy with the buzz cut went quiet for the moment. That was what always made him a conundrum to Danny; he liked to be a badass and hurt people, yet at the same time he was likely one of the smarter kids in school. Ultimately, he let out with a wide smile and tapped his fingers together methodically.
"If you can wrangle together maybe a thousand bucks, I think I can wrangle together a dozen guns, maybe more," the boy responded, "but if I do this you have to be serious that this is going to go through. I will get some heavy duty firepower, but I have to know that this is going to be big, that this is going to be bloody, and that this is going to be serious. I will only do this if we are going to get the chance to kill some cops."
"That is one of the few things I can guarantee my friend, and we can get the money no sweat," Danny replied.
"You get me the money, I get you the guns," the boy with the buzz cut shot back.
"And I will bring you the blood," Danny said with a wide smile.
"Amen to that my friend," the boy with the buzz cut said as he reached beneath his chair. Deftly pulling two beers from their six pack holders, he handed one to Danny and kept one for himself. The two boys opened them simultaneously with twin blasts of foam and alcohol, bringing them into the air in a casual toast.
"Viva la revolución," the boy replied.
"Back at you my friend," Danny responded as he let the conversation dwindle down into silence. Like that, the two boys drank their beers and smoked their smokes, never once dreaming how far their revolution would take them...
Iago Cilek, a.k.a. Boy # 21, could only marvel at how long ago that day felt. It had been maybe, what, a week, ten days (depends on how long you were knocked out), and already it felt nearly a year ago. The revolution had taken them far all right, but not in the direction that they had wanted. It should have killed them then and there, but instead it put them in a position where they would be forced to kill each other. Iago could only chuckle softly at the irony of it all. If the universe had a sense of humor, it was most certainly in play in this game. Then again, you were cursed to die young anyway, the universe is now forcing you to do something with that, isn't it?
Yes, that part had been on his mind rather intensely since the game began. Iago was many things, but spiritual had never been one of them. Pragmatic, philosophical and cynical yes, but never spiritual. Never until the Battle Royale.
Tall, pale and bony with the persistent ill-maintained shave and buzz cut, he would have normally looked painfully normal, albeit with a pair of hands and a head that looked slightly too large for their frame. He hung out mostly with the schools criminal element because they were more interesting than most of the other people he knew, and prided himself as the guy who knew how to get things. With a fascination for blades of all sorts, he always carried with him two butterfly knives dubbed Marcy and Darcy, the only things with a female name that he had had anything resembling a lasting relationship with. He had known full well that he would amount to very little from a very early age, and as such had never aspired to anything.
Which was why in its own way the brain tumor didn't really seem to be all that big a blow. It should have been the worst thing ever to happen in his life, a guaranteed death sentence that would ruin a human being of great intelligence and potential, but as he viewed it, it was part of how things just happened to go. It sucked, yeah, but it kept him from being a drain on the world, it took one unnecessary mouth away and gave room with any luck for someone who would ultimately be of some use. Sure, in his last few months and days he would be able to sow a little chaos out and about, but it would just be to make things fun while they lasted.
But the revolution and the Battle Royale really seemed to change things. Things seemed less like random "that's just how they go" and oddly enough more like fate. The revolution could be seen coming, being in a school with a guy like Isaac it would be hard not to, but their entry into the Battle Royale, that had been an interesting wrinkle into things that Iago could not have foreseen. You should have, but you didn't, that means something, doesn't it? He was thrust into a game where people would be forced into mortal combat with one another, people forced to kill people, people forced to commit atrocity and anarchy to survive. But the thing was they would be people running scared, people who didn't know how to deal with death, people who weren't ready to part with their bodies.
But Iago was ready, and that part puzzled him. While all of these people were treating death as if it were the scariest thing in the world, Iago had made his peace with the concept for nearly a month. There was a tumor, a growth of irregular cells that acted as basically a living bomb, growing in his brain, feasting upon the very fabric of existence that made Iago who he was. He knew he was going to die, and it didn't scare him in the slightest. But you're here now, you're here in a situation where you could either end things quickly, make sure you die, or you could fight. You could fight, and you could kill, but wouldn't that only encourage a system that is already flawed and horrible? What a curious situation, isn't it?
And he was chosen. That part he could not ignore. Of all the students, of all the rabble-rousers and plants that the school had, he was one of the ones they chose as one of their best. They had to have his psych files, they had to have his medical files, so they clearly knew what kind of a person they were getting, and all the same he found himself intrigued. Who knows why you're here, but there's no denying that you are something special in a game like this. They chose someone who knew they were going to die, someone who doesn't fear dying and doesn't fear killing. But do they want you to be a killing machine, or a martyr for some greater purpose? They left you your knives, but gave you a sword, the sword of a samurai, they know what they want you to do, but will you do it?
"Now that's the big question, isn't it?" Iago muttered aloud with a chuckle.
Fate. Fate was the key. He was fated for something, but what he did not know. He would be on the lookout for any sign, any semblance of purpose, anything that would rationalize the game.
But until then, he wandered. Choosing to get his bearings early on, Iago had hidden out in one of the more suburban looking houses that Grover's Mill had to offer. Seeing that staying put was a stupid idea, the boy got mobile. He would dodge from street to street, looking around to make sure the coast was clear before moving on. But after four hours this strategy got tiring, and a respite was beginning to sound like a good idea.
And that was when he saw The Canterbury Theatre.
A building that brought a smile to Iago's worn and far too old-looking lips, The Canterbury Theatre was a movie theater that harkened back to the heyday of cinema in the 1930's. It's sign and marquee covered with glitz, glamour and plenty of neon, the clear intent behind the structure was to be a classy movie house of some sorts. The words on the marquee advertised:
THREE DAY GRINDHOUSE MARATHON
SLEAZE, SEX & SLAUGHTER
A GIFT FOR OUR BR COMPETITORS
GROVERS MILL WELCOMES YOU!
Now this I gotta see.
Bounding over to the box office like a kid in a candy store, Iago could only marvel at the aged yet genuine posters that marked the glass display cases before the doors. Some of the sleaziest looking posters that the 1970's had to offer looked down upon the boy, filling him with immense glee. Cheerleaders in Trouble and Fishnet Therapist seemed to offer titillation to the greatest degree (though the fat guy with a chainsaw in the Cheerleaders poster promised a fair amount of trouble indeed). Cong of the Dead and Hoedown in Hillbilly Hell promised a great amount of grue and enough tasteless ethnic stereotyping to offend even the ignorant. The slasher classic Thanksgiving was the only film that he could have boasted as seeing (but was glad to see it here all the same), but these all paled in comparison to the motherload:
Welcome to Die!
The poster was simple red text on a black background, but the film spoke for itself. It was supposed to be one of the most grotesque, offensive and bloody horror movies ever made that had been banned in more countries than almost any other. The poster boasted that it had been called "tasteless" and "puerile" by a panel of hillbilly's.
"Well, there's worse ways one can spend their last few days than partaking in some of this countries cultural delights, right?" Iago said to himself with only the slightest sense of glee.
The boy entertained himself for a few moments more with taking in as many of the details of the posters as he could. During all of this, he was completely unaware that another contestant was preparing to shoot him in the back.
Paxton Algers, a.k.a. Boy # 22, had had a lousy first few hours in the 8th Annual United States Battle Royale. It wasn't just the consideration that he had been forced into a game of death (although that had certainly been a major aspect of it), but rather the fact that he had been cursed with rather poor luck. The firearm he had been assigned was an M1 Garand, about the most idiot-proof of rifles to be found in the Americas, the gun that more or less single-handedly had won WWII, and yet all the same proved to be something of an incompetent with it. It wasn't like the video games where it was all simply a matter of point and shoot. No, here it was point, keep pointing, try to shoot and hope something hits home. He had followed the guide book perfectly, and still had absolutely no luck in shooting a target. Hell, the first time he used it was simply by accident. He had just figured out how to load it by the refreshment area in the Grover's Mill Stop & Bowl when an errant tug at the trigger blew a hole in a Coke machine that had last seen repair sometime in the early 1980s.
And then there was Stacey. Stacey Fucking Golden, a.k.a. Girl # 4. She had been the first person he had seen upon getting off the bus, and she had been the first person he had tried to kill. Fuck, she wasn't even armed, not really at least. She had a curvy looking sword that looked more or less useless in the girls hands. She should have been easy to kill, but he fucked it up. The gun bucked hard and wild in his untrained hands, and he missed her. At close range even he missed her. Then some guy runs up, there's a whole lot more shooting, and all of a sudden his backpack is exploding and his stomach is on fire. Paxton felt lucky to have escaped with his life, though the gaping hole (well, in his mind at least; any doctor would have called it a flesh wound at best) in his side was cause for some concern. The bleeding had stopped, but there was still a fucking hole in his stomach.
That sucked.
Oddly enough he had found all this more frustrating than anything else. Having been used to a life where everything had been easy, the Battle Royale came as something of a shock to the system. Paxton had always considered himself to be a lover, not a fighter. Strikingly handsome, the boy had always sought to keep himself as well groomed as humanly possible, often to the extent that he would wear more makeup than the girls he dated. His shoulder-length blonde hair was always slicked back and healthy through a cabinet full of products. Born to a rich family, he was always used to the best, and though he wasn't the brightest of students his prowess on the soccer field and general reputation always seemed to get him by.
So it seemed natural to him that a feeling of betrayal was what should be felt upon entering the Battle Royale. He like most others had always viewed it as their patriotic duty to support the game and all other government programs, but this... this shouldn't have happened. Paxton was good, he was a supporter of the country. He had money. People with money didn't get fucked over by the government, hell, they were supposed to be the ones raised up by it!
And instead of being raised up by it, Paxton was wandering through the streets of a fucking frozen abandoned town hoping beyond hope that the cold tingling sensation in his side was perfectly normal and that there would be some easy target out there that he could take advantage of. Then again, Stacey looked like an easy target too, didn't she? Fucking hippie chick could have been a bit wider and taken a bullet a bit better, then I wouldn't be in this fucked up situation.
But he had to play the game, that was the only way about it. After all, if you don't fight, you die. If you don't support the program, you don't support the country, and that's just terrible. Even if the country may turn its back on you, you could always win them back by winning it all, and Paxton had every intention of winning. It was just a matter of surviving, and hunting...
Much like his discovery of Stacey, Paxton found the distracted boy in front of The Canterbury Theatre through pure dumb luck. Be careful this time, make sure you're at an impossible to miss range, get him square in the back, then put the gun against his head and make it a bigass red smear all over the box office there, should be easy as that, right? I don't care who it is, I don't care what they've got, I just want them and I want them dead.
With as much stealth as he could muster (which admittedly wasn't much), Paxton Algers snuck up behind Iago Cilek with every intent of murdering him.
In the mere minutes since he had attacked Stacey and Conrad, Paxton's aim improved little. Thoroughly intending to put a bullet in Iago's back, the soccer player instead fired a round into the pictured bosom of a cheerleader who may or may not have been in trouble. Though surprised, Iago quickly responded to the action by dodging to the right. Go to the street? No, he's got a gun, not a good shot but you'll still be in the open; keep this close range, keep it dirty, you might be able to even things out a bit.
As Paxton fired off two more shots (neither hitting anything but wall), Iago stormed into The Canterbury Theatre and was met by an interesting smell: butter. Hot buttered popcorn to be precise. The concession stand apparently had been fully stocked for the game. Bright neon rimmed the candy display case, while a cardboard cutout of Benny the Bunny advertised a deal where you could buy a medium soda and medium popcorn for only 2.49 (quite a steal). With the main lobby lights on, Iago took only the briefest of moments to admire the plush blue and gold striped carpeting and the ornate paintings of medieval horsemen on the wall. Wow, they really don't make places like this anymore, do they?
His moments admiration was destroyed as the theatre's swinging doors were kicked in behind him. Another rifle shot went high, gouging a hole in the wall just next to the Coke machine and causing Iago to dodge to the side. The smaller, wirier boy ducked to the ground in a defensive position, smiling as he held his sword pointed at Paxton. He looked curiously up at the man who was trying to murder him, idly wondering if he would be able to hit him even at this range. Paxton indeed did try to take another shot at the squatting boy, only managing to blast a hole in the carpet.
"You're not a very good shot, are you?" Iago asked calmly.
"Fuck you," Paxton spat back as he rushed the other boy with his rifle held high.
Ideally Iago would have used this chance to cut Paxton's feet off with his sword, but this did not go entirely to plan. Not taking into consideration the fact that Paxton was a talented athlete and member of the school soccer team, Iago swept his sword at the other boys ankles as he ran a second too soon. Paxton saw this attack and moved accordingly, jumping just as the blade would have hacked its way through his feet and effectively drop-kicking Iago.
The smaller boy went sprawling, stunned and disoriented by the attack. Having been no stranger to fights, Iago felt little surprise in the move, yet still a fair amount of alarm as he lay on his back. Well that certainly puts a monkey wrench in things, doesn't it? Angrily, Paxton stood above Iago and placed the barrel of his rifle against the smaller boys head.
"Try dodging this asshat!" Paxton said as he prepared to pull the trigger. Taking full advantage of Paxton's attempt at wit, Iago firmly kicked the him in the balls. Though Paxton moved, he still fired a reflexive shot. The thundering boom of the rifle shook Iago to the bones as what felt to be a jet of fire ran across his left cheek. Instead it was just the bullet lodging itself in the ground near his head, the heat of escaping gunpowder charring his cheek slightly. He forced himself to his feet, dimly aware that he was probably now deaf in his left ear and that if he survived this he would probably be sporting a really cool scar. If.
Though howling and cradling his testicles (and sporting a large amount of blood on him I might add), Paxton still had the motivation about him to aim his rifle. All right, at this range you can't miss, see him dodge now, yeah fucker, just try and dodge this.
To this even Iago seemed to agree, as instead of tempting fate he ran for the nearest door he could find and into the theatre proper.
In contrast to the well-maintained and meticulously maintained theatre lobby, the screening room reminded Iago more of the cinemas that he was used to. The carpet had been worn down a bit, the seats looked too hard, the ground had a slight stickiness to it. A slightly stale odor filled the air. The slightly grimy air almost seemed to fit the content onscreen. He couldn't tell which of the films was currently being showed, but it involved a nun in a pig mask rubbing an octopus on a naked teenaged girl while laughing maniacally while bad 70's funk music played in the background. Yeah, that seems about right for a game like this. Probably not film, but still looks cool.
A crazed yell from behind caught him off guard as Paxton clumsily ran into the theater with his rifle held over his head like a mad bludgeon. Iago raised his sword to meet it, but he could do nothing to stop the heavier weapon's descent. The rifle struck him in the shoulder hard and knocked him back. Achingly, Iago stumbled backward down the aisle as he awaited Paxton's next assault. Paxton swung again, catching Iago in the hand and sending his sword flying. Iago continued down the aisle, both impressed and slightly frightened at Paxton's impromptu fighting style. He may not know how to fight, but he's got the brute strength. What, he's got maybe forty, fifty pounds on you? Two inches? Well, in height at least. He's going to kill you soon I think. Ah well.
As Paxton continued down the aisle, he rotated his rifle so that he could try to shoot Iago again. Instead of firing from the hip, he shouldered the weapon and actually attempted looking through its sight. There would be no missing this time, Iago was fully aware of that. Calm and surprisingly resigned to the situation, the wiry criminal simply put his hands into his pockets. On the movie screen behind him, the nun in the pig mask began to dance with a blood-spattered lumberjack.
Had Paxton been more confident in his shooting, he almost certainly would have killed Iago in front of The Canterbury Theatre's one screen. Instead, following caution and actually wanting to have a shot that counted, he moved in closer to Iago. He completely ignored the foot that had thrust itself out from the theatres seats, tripping over it and falling flat on his face. The M1 Garand in his hand flew from his hands and landed among the seats.
Smiling as if it were Christmas morning, Iago pulled the knives he dubbed Marcy and Darcy from his pants. In a practiced motion, he flipped the folding butterfly knives around until their blades showed themselves, gleaming in the reflective glow of the projector. The trip had only knocked Paxton to the floor momentarily, but it was all that Iago needed.
As Paxton got to his feet he immediately felt a blast of fire erupting from his left thigh. Looking down, the boy could see the handle of a knife sticking from his leg, a steady flow of blood already beginning to seep out of it. He barely had time to howl before Iago quickly cocked his other hand. He could vaguely see what appeared to be a gleaming metal tube flying through the air before fire and the handle of a knife seemingly erupted from his right thigh. He's throwing knives?
Collapsing to his knees, Paxton howled in pain. Desperately he tried to claw at the knives sticking out of his thighs, but the pain was too extreme. He pulled, more fire erupted, and the blood flowed freely. Looking up at his attacker, Paxton only had the briefest glimpse of Iago charging him with his sword held like a baseball bat before all went black and his head went rolling down the aisle.
Drenched in Paxton's still-spurting blood, Iago calmly resheathed his sword and retrieved his two knives. Holding one in each hand, he became vaguely aware of the sound of clapping. Sitting in the aisle seat not but two rows behind Paxton's headless corpse was a figure dressed almost entirely in black. Their cold-weather clothing seemed to be more of a hodgepodge of whatever fit them best and was most comfortable in comparison to the regulation white arctic gear they had all been provided. A dark red scarf was wrapped around their mouth, while the heavy black hood of their parka obscured the rest of the shape of their head. Reflective tinged glacier glasses hid their eyes, but even Iago was fully aware that he was being studied.
"So you saved me?" Iago asked above the movie in the background. The darkened figure in the chair only nodded.
"Why?" he replied.
The figure spoke with a surprisingly feminine voice that had an odd gravel to it, "Because it makes for a better show."
"So would that make you Grendel, Scylla, or something else?" Iago asked curiously as he raised his two knives defensively.
"Mostly the second one, a little bit of the third," the figure responded as she pointed a heavy pistol at Iago. He had no doubt that if the girl in black wanted to, she would kill him where he stood. She would not miss. Could not miss. What was it the video said, they really want to do some killing? No one would hire ineffectual ringers
He stood there for a very long time, listening only to his heart and the sound of maniacal laughter and a chainsaw in the movie behind him. Scylla did not respond, did not move. Iago was being studied, being scanned. Part of him even began to wonder if the monster in the chair was a robot. Certainly under the circumstances it would not have surprised him.
"You'll want to stick around for the next show," Scylla said as she lowered her gun, "this one is pretty lame, but the next one is pretty intense. And it has one hell of a twist ending. If you wanna sit by me, I promise we're going to have one helluva show."
"What's the next feature?" Iago asked. He knew he should have been surprised with how easily the words came from his mouth, but under the circumstances it came out rather naturally. Meh, when in Rome, right?
"Welcome to Die! It's pretty badass," Scylla responded smoothly.
A grin slowly crossed Iago's face. As far as he was concerned, things were definitely beginning to look up.