"Forget it, man," one of the boys said, "There's no way he's got the balls to go talk to her."
"Shut up," Phil (Boy #23) said in reply, "I can do it. It would just be easier if I had a wingman, you know, to chat with one of her friends."
"No way," another replied, "Open your eyes! Even in the dark, you can tell they're all dog ugly, like they got some kind of disease."
The music was loud, but not deafening. It pulsated, creating a rhythm that nearly everyone was swaying to. The only disruption to the music was the occasional explosion of noise from further down one of the alleys, followed by a whoop of excitement. Phil was no good at bowling – he still wasn't sure why he continued to let his friends talk him into showing up at the alley. None of them bowled either. But one of his friends had an older brother who would sell them beer at the concession stand without any questions, so Phil and his comrades would show up most weekends, just for a little buzz.
The lights were dimmed in the whole bowling alley, and disco balls vomited colors in every direction, making Phil's face appear red, then green, then blue. The lighting made it very difficult to perceive people's features, mostly because part of the face was always hidden in shadow, and the other half was tinted in a random color from the rainbow.
But Phil could tell she was pretty. Really pretty. She looked delicate, fragile even, but the way she easily handled the heavy bowling balls, practically shot-putting them down the greased alley, it was obvious that she had some spunk. It was true, however, what Phil's friend said about her companions. They paled in comparison to her – dark circles under their eyes, limp hair, extremely petite. Phil wondered why so many girls would choose to hang out with someone who was so far prettier than they were.
He guessed that he would just never understand females.
"Quit talking like you got a pair," one of his friends said, "You won't go talk to her, so that's that. Let's talk about something else. Anyone see the game last night?"
Phil grabbed his beer and began to chug it, tipping the glass back and then placing it on their table. He burped once, quietly, and it was drowned out by the pulsing music. He stood, swayed for a moment, but righted himself, taking a deep breath.
"Fuck you," Phil said and began to strut towards the girl.
"It's all about confidence!" a friend called after him, and he could hear them chuckling before the sounds enveloped them. He could see her more clearly as he approached, and he was relieved that the lights hadn't been playing tricks – she was just as beautiful up close. She was cheering on a friend, who walked up to the foul line, swung the ball between her legs with both hands and then released it forward. Phil watched the green bowling ball roll, spin, gain momentum. He felt like he should use that time to think of something to say, but his head spun slightly, as if it was the bowling ball, rolling towards the pins. The ball struck, and six pins fell, and they all cheered, except for Phil, who was still awkwardly standing a few away. He wanted to glance back at his friends, but he knew they were all watching, grinning, waiting for him to return to the table.
It's all about confidence.
"Hi," Phil said, but none of the girls seemed to hear him. His face flushed (or maybe it was just a red light shining on him), but he cleared his throat, watching as the girl stood to take her turn. She bent over to grab her bowling ball, and Phil stepped in closer.
"HI," he said louder, but it must have been too loud, because she jumped, suddenly turning to face him, her eyes wide.
"Sorry," he said quickly before clearing his throat again. "Hi, I'm Phil."
The girl stared at him for a second before glancing back at her friends. Phil could hear some giggles off to the side, and he balled his hands into fists and buried them into his pockets. She returned her stare to him, some expectation in her face. Phil was waiting for her to say something, to introduce herself, but she continued to stand there, the bowling ball hanging from her arm. He supposed that she was expecting him to say something else, but the boy had no idea how to proceed. The girls continued to giggle, and Phil could hear his friends cracking up above the noisy music (which only appeared to be getting louder) and she carried on watching him, waiting.
"I could buy you a beer, if you like," Phil said, and watched as she rolled her eyes, turning away from him and towards the alley.
"Or a soda," Phil said, realizing it wasn't smart to assume that she would want some alcohol.
"You're not very good at this," she said, facing him once again. Phil let his eyes wander to the ground, looking at the ugly bowling shoes she was forced to wear. One was untied, and he wondered if he should mention it to her. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something clever or suave or simply something that wasn't totally idiotic.
"Want a tip?" she said, and Phil raised his head, looking at her in the face. He wasn't sure if she was mocking him or if she was legitimately offering to help. But he was already utterly embarrassed, so he decided to play along. It couldn't make him feel any worse.
"You should start with a compliment," she said, "Girls like compliments, right ladies?"
Her friends chimed in with high voices that they agreed, followed by more giggling. Phil still refused to look at them, hoping that everything would disappear, the sounds, the lights, the people, so that he could just talk to her. To help her see that he wasn't a complete loser.
"Like, you could compliment me on my hair," she said. Phil nodded, and he stood there, as she tapped her foot and nodded her head slightly to the beat of the music. It took a few moments before he realized that she was telling him what to do.
"You have pretty hair," he said, after stumbling over his words. There was the sound of pins crashing nearby, followed by a cheer.
"Are you just saying that because I told you to?"
"No, I mean it," Phil said
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Really sure?"
"Yes! You have pretty hair!"
"Thanks," she said, reaching up to the top of her scalp. She lifted up, and her hair came off, revealing a bald head underneath. Phil's eyes widened in shock as she offered the wig to him. "You can have it, since you like it so much."
The girls erupted in laughter, and she joined them, cackling and almost dropping her bowling ball to the floor. Phil stood there for a moment, watching her laugh, listening to the sounds of her chuckles, the way she breathed in between guffaws, and Phil felt himself smile.
It's all about confidence.
He reached out and grabbed hold of the wig, lifting it up and letting the long curls drape down to his shoulders. The laughter had ceased almost instantly, and she stared at him, her mouth hanging open. The bangs hung low, so he brushed them to the side.
"I don't know, it doesn't seem to work for me," Phil said as the hairpiece rested on top of his scalp, "It looks much better on you."
She started laughing, harder than before. Phil wasn't sure if that was a good sign, and for the first time, he glanced over at her friends. They looked extra pale up close, but he noticed the way they seemed to smile softly at each other, at him. He could hear the raucous laughter and pounding on the table from his buddies, and the way it seemed to rise above all the other sounds attacking his ears, but nothing was able to mute her laughter, and the way it seemed to ring out and vibrate through Phil.
She reached out and took back the wig, resting it once again on her head. She fixed it slightly, and the illusion was complete. It looked natural on her, and even though Phil knew the hair was false, it didn't appear that way to him. She smiled and it lit up her whole face. She reached up and began touching the wooden object hanging around her neck.
"So let's try this again," he said, "Hi, I'm Phil."
The music pulsed and people laughed and pins fell and balls rolled and he could still hear her, clear as a bell.
"It's very nice to meet you, Phil," she said, "My name is Melissa."
-B-A-T-T-L-E-
Phil smiled to himself, recalling what was perhaps one of his most cherished memories. It was the first time he had seen her, the first time that they had spoken. It had all started there, in that bowling alley, their lives intertwining. It was strange, how such a small moment in time could affect everything else in his life, but Phil supposed that was just how things went. He had seen less and less of his friends as he saw more and more of Melissa, and he even befriended some of her friends (the same girls who had joined her for bowling that night). But that was inevitable, since they were all in the same ward at the hospital.
But Phil didn't enjoy thinking of the hospital, even though that was where he and Melissa spent most of their time together. He could still smell the disinfectant that seemed to cover everything – the walls, the floors, the instruments – and he could still feel the pain in his eyes from the blinding white that gave everything a sterile quality.
As much as he hated it there, Phil loved it too. Because Melissa was always there, waiting for him. Most days she would just lie there and they would chat, but sometimes she was already up and dressed and ready to go out with him. And Phil would have walked through hell and back just to see the smile on her face when she caught sight of him walking into her room.
The boy sighed, wishing he could make out her smile one more time. But her face continued to shift before his mind's eye, like he could almost see her, but an opaque screen was shielding his gaze. The more he tried to force it, the more her features eluded him, so Phil sighed again, taking in plenty of air.
It was getting distinctly warmer in the playing field. Not overbearing, but Phil could feel the moisture hanging in the air, and he knew that the day would only get hotter. He wasn't sure if the forest was the correct place to be, because while it offered plenty of shade, it would also allow the heat to linger amongst the branches and leaves. Phil considered making his way into the village and finding a small hut in which to take refuge, but the idea of discovering someone already inside a shack was enough for Phil to steer clear. He didn't want any surprises.
However, Phil was most likely better equipped than most. He had been designated one of the few guns present in the game, and with it, he had stripped a major competitor of his hand scythe. A short range weapon and one for distance – Phil was doing fine for himself. Although, the boy wasn't playing. He had decided, right at the start, to hoard the weapons of people who were openly playing, thereby removing threats without taking any lives. Sure, it was a short-term goal, and it didn't solve any long-term problems, but it was the best Phil had come up with, and that was good enough for him.
Phil had acquired the hand scythe from the College Crowd-er Riley (Boy #6), and even though he had been attacked by the dangerous boy, Phil was still extremely relieved to discover from the announcements that he hadn't killed Riley with his warning shot. It had sounded like the bullet had made contact, but Riley was still alive, and Phil took solace in the fact that there was no blood on his hands.
Phil couldn't fathom the idea of taking another's life. The pure arrogance of it – to assume that one person had the right, the power, to decide when another human should die – was something that Phil couldn't accept on any level. It went against everything the boy had faith in, everything he believed to be true. People died – that was a fact that everyone had to face at one time or another. But no one, NO ONE, had the right to say when another should die. Those matters, in Phil's opinion, should be left entirely in God's hands.
Otherwise, there would be no justification for why people die young, if not for God's will.
He sighed. Thinking about death made the boy depressed, and given the circumstances, such thoughts only made him feel worse. He needed some other distraction in The Program. There weren't too many other students in the playing field that Phil knew on a personal level – and not a one that he could call a true friend. There were a few he knew from his Writer's Group, but he didn't feel any desire to search for them – not just because he considered most to be casual acquaintances, but also because he wasn't sure if some had decided to play.
A cool breeze wafted by the boy, and the boy closed his eyes, relishing in the fleeting, soft caress. With the rising heat, the refreshing gust was exactly what the boy needed. The forest could feel overbearing, mostly because sight was obstructed for a majority of the time. Branches and leaves easily concealed objects until Phil stumbled over them, and he often feared that he would soon trip over a contestant looking to slice him open. And sometimes the boy felt like the plant life was slowly closing in on him, trying to smother him. So when the boy found a small clearing, he decided to stop, and give himself some time to breathe.
The sun was shining down on him, and so the boy made his way into the shade, wanting to avoid direct sunlight, which would only heat up his body more. He leaned up against a tree, feeling the bark dig into his back. He knelt down and then sat on the ground, once again with his back to the bark, although he found a more comfortable location. He took a few quick breaths, trying to let everything flow out of him – the fear, the anxiety, the panic. He closed his eyes, watching the features of Melissa's visage slowly come together. A pit formed in his stomach as her face came into view, but he fought against any sort of reaction, not wanting anything to wreck his chance of seeing her again.
"Hey," a female voice said, breaking the boy's concentration. Phil's eyes snapped open and he saw her standing in front of him. How she managed to get so close without alerting Phil, the boy had no idea. But he saw the katana she held in one hand, and the other at her hip, as her face revealed an apathetic glare.
"So, do you want to kill me?"
Phil reacted immediately, pulling the gun from his pocket and aiming at her. The girl responded just as fast, racing off into the woods surrounding the clearing. The boy stood, placing himself in the center, the gun aimed at the location from which she had vanished. There was a rustling off to the side, and Phil spun, trying to locate her. His first thought had been that she had run off in fear, but he knew that she was still close by, lurking in the shrubbery.
"I don't want to fight," Phil announced as more rustling caught his attention behind him.
"The gun you pointed at me says otherwise," her voice responded, deadpan. Phil turned, but he still couldn't see her.
"I'm sorry," Phil said, "You startled me."
There was a pause, as silence seemed to settle over the whole area. Nothing moved, and no noises caught the boy's ears. He figured that she had left, when her voice suddenly wafted from his side.
"Put the gun down, and we can talk," she said.
Phil glanced down at his firearm, and he took a long breath. If she had really wanted to kill Phil, she could have done so while his eyes were closed, long before he was even aware of her presence. But the fact that she was still lurking out of view, didn't that make her a threat? Didn't it imply that she was looking for a fight? Either way, he wasn't going to be able to locate her, and all she had to do was wait for him to leave the clearing to start her attack. Phil was trapped. And that meant that he didn't have too many other options.
"Okay," Phil said, gently placing the gun on the ground, and stepping back from it. He held his hands up, waiting for something to happen, trying to determine from where she would emerge. A minute passed, and the boy questioned whether she was still in the area.
She appeared behind him, the katana placed gently at his throat. He tensed up, his body suddenly aware of the danger that he was in. He cursed himself for being such an idiot, for disarming himself, for letting the gun slip through his fingers. He was utterly at her mercy. His legs shook and he tried to see her out of the corner of his eye, but she was just beyond his peripheral vision, and he didn't dare turning his head – not with the blade so close to his neck.
"If you aren't playing," she spoke softly into his ear, "Then why do you have two weapons?"
The sickle was grasped from his back pocket, and Phil shook with fear.
Oh God, I'm going to die.
"I took it from another contestant," Phil said, but he was quick to add, "But I didn't kill him!"
"Why should I believe you?" she said quietly, the curved blade appearing on the opposite shoulder as the katana. He had two razor edges hovering at his throat, cutting off his escape to either side, as well as the front. The boy had nowhere left to run, and he racked his brain to save himself.
"Because I dropped the gun," Phil said.
The girl didn't say anything for a minute, and Phil stood there, too terrified to move, to say anything else. He breathing came in short gasps, trying not to expand his chest too far and accidentally graze one of the sharp blades at his neck. He waited, and prayed softly to himself, until she finally dropped both weapons, and the boy collapsed forward, his hands reaching up to his vulnerable throat. He turned and stared up at her, her face unchanged from that first moment he saw her.
"So you took this?" she said, turning the hand scythe over and over in her palm. She handed it back to him and Phil nodded, thanking her for returning the weapon.
"From Riley," Phil said, "He tried to kill me."
"So you say," she replied.
"If you don't believe me, then why did you let me go?"
"I'm only fighting threats," she said with a shrug, "It's how I've decided to play."
"So you are playing," Phil said walking over to the gun. He picked it up and gazed at her, and she didn't remove her eyes from him for a second. However, she blinked a few times when Phil returned the gun to his pocket.
"I figured it was only worth my time to fight the people trying to kill me," she said, "We'll all play, one way or another."
"I won't," Phil said with conviction, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Then you'll die," she said simply.
Silence settled over them for a minute, both of them breathing quietly as the forest whispered around them. With the gun back in his possession, Phil knew that he could strip her of the sword, but for some reason it didn't feel right. She had admitted it – she was playing – but there was something about her demeanor, about the way she looked at it. She was removing threats from the game, much like Phil was. Granted, she was doing it by murder, but it was arguably a form of self-defense. Did that make her a threat?
"What's your name?" Phil said.
"I'm Tonya (Girl #7)," she said.
"I'm Phil," the boy said, but Tonya didn't seem to visually respond. "How many people have you fought?"
"None," she said, shaking her head, "Although to be fair, you're only the third I've come across."
"Who else?" Phil said, wanting to know who wasn't playing to win.
"One of the FLAs," Tonya said, "The gay one – Noah (Boy #18). And the other was that big Greek kid. Plays football, probably. I think his name is Adonis (Boy #5)."
Phil nodded, although he didn't know much about either boy. Granted, he could identify either on sight, and that would be helpful if Phil's path ended up crossing with theirs.
"What happens when there aren't any other contestants that want to kill you?" Phil said.
"What happens when you have taken everyone else's weapons?" Tonya said in reply. Phil smiled, and nodded his head slightly, noting the clever rebuttal to his question. Although, he didn't see even a hint of a smirk on Tonya's face. He took a long breath, and glanced off to the side, trying to decide what his next move should be. It took a moment to realize that she was already walking off into the forest. He was silent for a minute, the shock of her abrupt departure taking its time to register.
"Good luck!" Phil called after her, although he wasn't sure if she heard it. And he felt a little stupid for wishing her luck in her endeavors to fight until death. He watched the area where she had vanished, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened. He was still in one piece, which was good, and there was still no blood on his hands. Something about Tonya had unsettled him, however – something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It wasn't just that she had disrupted his first attempt at seeing Melissa's face. And it wasn't simply that she had held Phil's life in her hands. Or even that there was almost no emotion in her face whatsoever.
But that was when it finally came to him. There had been no smile, no expression, nothing at all. But he saw it, somewhere deep in her eyes. That had been her undoing, apparently – she could control many things about her face, but not what the depths of her eyes revealed.
"Sad," Phil said quietly to himself, "Her eyes looked…sad…"
-R-O-Y-A-L-E-
It wasn't his fault!
Not completely, at least.
After all, the odds of being released just before his girlfriend were not in his favor, especially given the number of students still remaining in the classroom when he departed. If he had checked the contestant list, he would have seen that she was the next name, the girl who would be released after him, but he had been so scared – he simply panicked. And much like checking the list he had been provided, if he had waited for her outside the school, anticipating her emergence, he would have been pleasantly surprised to see her appear in the doorway. But without that knowledge, instead thinking that he would be in close proximity with other students, he was terrified. What if the next person stepped out of the doorway, met his gaze, pointed a gun at his head, and then pulled the trigger?
It was his fear that caused Micah (Boy #7) to sprint away into the forest upon entering The Program. And it was that same horror that caused him, perhaps, to miss the only opportunity to meet up with his girlfriend, Tonya. He could almost see the relief in her face, knowing that she was the next person to enter The Program after Micah. He could visualize the hope that slowly grew in her eyes as she raced for the open door. And he could feel the desperation, the pain, the abandonment, once she realized that Micah hadn't been waiting for her. He could feel it, like a deep stab to his abdomen, the rejection and terror mixing inside her stomach as she was forced to wander off – alone.
He took a painful gasp and squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't intended to leave her behind. Truly, he hadn't! It was just a mistake – an error that had caused him to flee. Would Tonya see it that way? Would she understand that Micah wanted to find her, wanted to be with her, that he had been too stupid to realize the obvious?
The sun shone through the lone window of the hut in which Micah sat. He was hunched beneath the opening, so that anyone passing by and glimpsing into the structure would overlook his presence. The door off to the right was the only way in or out of the shack, and if anyone was going to discover Micah, it would be from there. His hiding spot was sufficient for the moment, although the boy felt that he would have to relocate at some point.
It wasn't just fear that kept Micah hidden in the shadows. His weapon was nunchaku, or nunchucks if identified by the Americanized moniker. But no matter how it was called, Micah could only think of one word when he held his weapon:
Useless.
The boy felt that in capable hands, the nunchucks would most likely be a valuable and powerful weapon, but in the grip of a novice like Micah, it was just two sticks attached by a chain. He was more likely to kill someone by asphyxiation than by blunt force trauma, but choking someone required getting much closer to another contestant than the boy was comfortable with. And that was if he was playing at all.
Which he wasn't.
Back at the very beginning, while sitting in the classroom getting berated by Miss Smith, he had decided there. No one would die by his hand. Not ONE death. The government thought that it could tell him to kill and he'd simply nod and head off to war? Well, fuck the government! Micah had become an anarchist from the moment he discovered the word existed. The government only made things worse – run by corrupt, evil people simply trying to propagate themselves and their careers, filling their pockets with blood money as they stepped over the bodies of the people they were "helping".
The Program was simply more proof that the government was incapable of anything that would help human society progress towards a peaceful future. Violence and war and hate and blood had become part of people's reality – part of their entertainment! As long as The Program existed, Americans would only see war as an extension of the most popular reality television show on the planet! People were losing their minds, their individuality, their humanity – all by watching and endorsing and allowing The Program to continue. The Program was the physical manifestation of everything wrong with American politics and society.
Anarchy all the way, baby!
But that was easier said than done. Micah had refused to play. Sure, it was easy to have convictions, but difficult to stick by them when things got tough. Would Micah have the fortitude to stand firm as a gun was pointed at his face? He hoped so, although his record up to that point was simply to run at the slightest hint of danger. But at the very least, Micah had decided, early on, that he would die in The Program. Refusing to play would result in him getting killed – at one point or another. It was only a matter of time. And while that thought was truly horrifying, it was also a little liberating. Micah didn't have the sense of hope gnawing at his insides, whispering to him that he could still make it out alive, somehow. Instead, his mind was quiet, already subdued by the notion that, in the next two and half days, he would die. He felt like a nonviolent protestor, a passive civil disobedient. And it made him feel good – he was finally taking a stand against the government, just like he had always wanted to.
It was getting warm inside the hut – a little too warm – and Micah wondered if there was a cooler place somewhere else in the playing field. The cliffs to the east were by the ocean, but without a beach, Micah doubted he could appreciate the crisp salty water. There was the lake to the northwest as well, but it was a little too close to the square 20 danger zone for Micah's liking. He also suspected that it was cooler up in the mountains to the west, but climbing up a steep incline was not appealing to the boy in the least. No, it was easier to sit in the hut.
But staying here won't help me find Tonya, either.
That appeared to be the only goal that would motivate Micah to stand and leave what little safety the shack provided. He highly suspected that both he and Tonya would die in The Program, and he flat out refused to allow Tonya to die thinking that Micah didn't care for her, wasn't worried about her, or had purposely abandoned her to fend for herself. If it took every last bit of strength that the boy had, he would make sure Tonya knew the truth. That Micah cared about her very, very much.
I would probably have an easier time convincing her, if we didn't have that fight right before…
But that was of no more concern. Their spat, however important it had seemed to Micah when it occurred, paled in comparison to a situation like The Program. Feeling empowered, the boy rose to his feet, ready to once again venture outside and search for his girlfriend. His eyes drifted to the open window. A few feet away, a male stood, his back to Micah. In his right hand, the boy gripped a bloody knife, and Micah felt the subconscious urge to gasp, but he bit his lip so hard he quickly tasted blood inside his mouth. Even with his back turned, Micah knew who he was looking at.
It was Hank (Boy #15).
The same boy who had attacked Miss Smith and survived. Micah felt his legs freeze, and the air remained trapped inside his lungs. It was important, no, absolutely necessary for Micah to slowly drop back to the ground in his hut and resume his hiding beneath the window, but for some reason, his body didn't want to respond.
Get down before he sees you!
By the look of the blood stained weapon, Micah knew that Hank was playing, as if his performance back in the classroom hadn't been enough of an indicator. If Hank saw Micah, that was it – there would be no time to find Tonya, no way to escape. He would die.
And then he saw the slight turn, the ducking of the shoulder, as if it was happening in slow motion. Hank was about to turn around, and there would be no way that he would miss seeing Micah in the open window. But still, the boy couldn't find the right message to tell his body to react. The fear had frozen him in time, but it hadn't affected any of the other contestants. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs, the sensation of them about to give out, and with some anxiety, allowed his legs to give way, collapsing to the dirt floor with a soft thud. His body finally responding to his orders, Micah scurried to his spot beneath the open window, pulling his legs in close.
Did he see me?
Micah figured he would find out soon enough. If Hank had seen Micah, then at any moment, the door would bust open and Micah would either have to scurry out the window, or find some other way to escape. He had no intention of taking a life, but he wouldn't give up without a fight – not until he was sure that Tonya was aware of his feelings for her.
The minutes ticked by slowly. What seemed like thirty minutes was actually closer to three, once Micah checked the pocket watch. He tried to quiet his breathing, but that only seemed to agitate the whole process, and the boy felt like he was loudly gasping for air with each inhalation. His eyes were locked on the door, waiting for it to slowly open, for Hank to stand there with the knife in his hand, for the quick slice that would end Micah's life.
He almost wet his pants when he saw the silhouette of a head appear in the sunlight streaming through the window. Micah tried to pull his legs in closer, to absorb them into his body. The shadow turned to the right, and then the left. Micah squeezed his eyes shut, trying to become invisible, to dissolve into sand and vanish into the floor. But there was a loud creak, and he felt the flimsy wall behind him shift with weight. The boy opened his eyes, and glanced upwards. What stared back was Hank's grinning face, staring down at him through the window.
"Hi," Hank said, the knife ready to strike.
Micah wasn't exactly sure when he had grabbed the nunchucks, but he was suddenly aware of their presence in his hand and he swung upwards, watching one of the ends connect with Hank's nose. The boy recoiled in pain, his head vanishing from the opening.
RUN!
He wasn't sure if he screamed it or if it was his inner voice forcing him to stand, but Micah jumped to his feet and raced for the door. But somewhere between the moment he had risen and the instance that Micah rested a hand on the door, ready to push it open, his brain had time to register everything, and to catch up with the present.
Why did he do that? If he wanted to attack me, why not just enter the shack and cut off my only escape route? Is it because he wanted to make sure I didn't have a gun? No, that's not it. I was able to surprise him with my weapon, so why…
And just before he shoved the door open, there was a split-second moment of hesitation, and Micah found the space to breathe.
He wants me to exit this door.
A trap.
And Micah pushed the door open, his body already responding to the realization he had come to, leaping into the air like an agile gazelle. He looked down as he flew, noticing the object, like a gaping, hungry mouth just outside the door frame. He landed on the soft dirt, and without missing a beat, took off, although he was completely unaware of which way he was heading. His only thought was to escape.
He did.
-B-A-T-T-L-E-
Hank watched the vanishing figure through watery eyes. He wanted to race after Micah, but he knew that it was unlikely that he would catch the boy without sustaining some other form of damage. He had one hand at his nose, plugging up both nostrils in order to stop the blood flow. He sighed with frustration, eyeing the bear trap on the ground just a few feet away. For the life of him, Hank couldn't fathom how the boy had known to jump upon exiting the house. He'd sailed over the trap like he'd had the precognitive powers to know of its location ahead of time. But Hank knew such things didn't exist. His prey had simply gotten lucky.
Very lucky.
But, apparently, so had Hank. He hadn't expected the boy to attack, and Hank could only imagine what would have happened if the boy had been designated a gun instead of nunchaku. Pieces of Hank's brain would have covered the whole area. But Hank had known of the nunchucks beforehand – he'd seen them in Micah's grip before the boy had time to duck back into the shadows. So, he'd been reckless, but not dangerously so. The idea was to scare his target out of the shack and cripple him with the bear trap, without having to worry about facing down another opponent head on. However, things never go exactly as planned, and the boy had escaped.
It violated Hank's Rule Number Two: always eliminate the target. It caused a small knot to form in the middle of his stomach to break one of his rules. They were in place to keep him safe, to maintain his cover. Since Hank was working out in the open, making it very apparent to every contestant that he was playing to win, he didn't have to worry so much about his rules. Most were concerned with keeping his identity as a hitman a secret – but such concerns were irrelevant in The Program, in which everyone was a potential assassin.
He'd been unable to eliminate the prey, and it was his first failure of The Program. The first time that another contestant had escaped. While there was some disappointment churning inside his gut, Hank couldn't help but feel a certain degree of excitement as well. He still hadn't come across a worthy opponent, but some of the other contestants had tricks up their sleeves. It was enough to motivate Hank, to get him excited about his next confrontation.
He felt bad for the next person he came across.
The boy's eyes drifted over to the bear trap. It would be difficult, not to mention dangerous, to lug the metallic trap around while it was still ready to spring shut. But perhaps that was the only way for it to be of any use. Besides, there was the short chain attached to the side that would make it easier to carry. Hank walked over and picked up the trap, careful to hold it out and away from his body.
The blood had stopped pouring from Hank's nostrils, and he took a moment to inhale deeply through his nose, gathering the blood and mucous at the back of his nasal cavity before clearing his throat and spitting the toxic mixture onto the ground. He grabbed a water bottle and rinsed his mouth, removing any lingering tastes. With the hunting knife in his right hand, the throwing knife hidden away on his person, and the chain clutched in his left – with the bear trap itself being dragged behind him – the boy ventured off once again, the exhilaration of the hunt already settling over him.
-R-O-Y-A-L-E-
Lucy (Girl #?) walked through the forest with a distinct swagger. Sure, her weaponry could have been better, but with two kills to her name, the girl was feeling optimistic. The odds of her survival increased with each passing minute, as more and more students breathed their last. Lucy didn't truly care whether it was she who murdered them or not – all that mattered was the win. Keeping herself and her host alive.
Whatever it took.
Her investigation after finishing Dwayne (Boy #14) had been fruitless. The boy must have run in a serpentine manner because Lucy had not found the slightest indication of any other contestants, and she had searched as hard as she could. Lucy had found nothing, and so she had moved on.
The girl wondered how many more students had died since the morning announcements. Dwayne was Lucy's only kill in that time frame thus far, but the girl figured she could manage at least one more with the time remaining. One with a powerful weapon, if Lucy had her way. But still, she wouldn't be greedy. With the baseball bat in hand, she was more than a match for any that came her way.
Well, except for him…
Lucy knew a major contender when she saw one. And even though she hadn't been in control back in the classroom, she'd gathered enough information to know that Hank was definitely the man to beat. He obviously had some major skills in hand-to-hand combat, and Lucy sensed that his abilities didn't stop there. A part of her hoped that she would hear his name read off in the next set of announcements, but there was also a piece of her that wanted to feel the satisfaction of ending him with her own hands. Did she stand a chance against him? There was only one way for Lucy to find out, and that was to face him in combat.
But the girl was no fool, and didn't have any form of death wish. She would much rather shoot him in the head than try to vanquish him in a fair fight. But even so, the competitive portion of her ached for blood, for the bragging rights that Lucy felt she deserved. But a few quick breaths calmed the bloodlust that was progressively rising – if Hank was as good as she suspected, then the two of them would fight.
Sooner or later.
The soft sound of a footstep reached Lucy's ear, and the girl froze immediately. She couldn't tell exactly where it had come from, but she waited…waited…waited, until finally she heard another. It sounded closer, and Lucy felt her chest tighten – in both anticipation and fear. She needed to hide, in order to get the jump on whoever was wandering through the woods.
However, when she went to move, nothing happened. And then suddenly, the world spun. Lucy reached out and grabbed hold of a nearby tree, its sharp bark digging into her palm. She opened her mouth to take a much needed breath of fresh air, but the world spun again, and nausea rolled over her like a tidal wave.
"No," Lucy whispered quietly to her herself. Another footfall, already drawing closer.
Not now! There's someone nearby! NOT NOW!
The baseball bat tumbled from her hand and struck the ground with a quiet thud. She tried to glance down to pick it back up, but again her vision rotated, and Lucy barely managed to keep herself standing. She could hear the soft rustle of leaves as branches were moved, another person drawing ever closer to her location. She resisted the urge to vomit, as she felt her legs growing weaker.
Not now! Go back to sleep! Don't wake up!
But it was already too late.
-B-A-T-T-L-E-
Kristy (Girl #6) pushed some branches out of her face. The forest bore down on her like a leaden pillow placed over her mouth. Her mind once again drifted to the anxiety medicine, but she pushed those thoughts away. She couldn't keep doing this to herself – thinking about those little blue pills would only enable her to feel anxious, and that wouldn't solve anything. She had always wanted the chance to prove that her medicine was nothing but a placebo – here was her chance.
But Kristy wasn't so sure anymore. The past few hours felt like they had occurred in a daze. Bits and pieces sprang to mind – the waterfall, for example – but there were blank spots too. She could remember hearing Miss Smith's voice for the announcements, but not all the information that was broadcasted. She quickly checked her map and contestant list, relieved to find the crucial facts were written down. And the more she tried to remember every single detail, the larger the knot in her stomach became, until she felt the urge to hyperventilate and the girl forced herself to calm down.
She took a few quick breaths, and everything felt better. She wasn't losing her mind – her pills weren't that important. Memory loss was a side effect of her medication – it was only natural that she exhibit some symptoms, now that she no longer had the pills available to her.
Right?
Before the girl could answer herself, she stumbled forward, nearly collapsing to the ground. She banged her right knee hard, and a dull throb began to work its way into her joint. With a soft curse word, Kristy rose to her feet.
And froze.
Kristy's eyes fell on another female contestant, standing only a few feet away. The girl wobbled back and forth, like she was on the verge of falling down, but the weight was always shifted just in time so that she didn't crumple to the ground. Her eyes stared straight ahead, but they were slits, barely open at all, and they had a glazed appearance, like she was watching a movie screen flicker miles away. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, and it seemed that her mouth was moving, like she was mumbling something to herself.
Kristy stared at her fellow FLA, Jillian (Girl #18).
"Jill," Kristy said without thinking, and she watched Jillian's eyes widen instantly and her body tense before bringing both hands up to her head. The girl mumbled something about a headache before glancing to the side, her gaze falling on Kristy for the first time. Kristy stood, unsure of how to feel. It appeared that Jillian was having some kind of trouble, and while her first thought was to reach out and help her friend, the overwhelming reality of the situation would not dissipate.
Can I trust Jillian?
It was a question Kristy felt she should have answered before accidentally announcing her presence. For a few moments the girls simply stared at each other, neither one smiling, Kristy hoping to see the slightest hint of camaraderie in the other FLA's body language. But Jillian remained where she was, her hands gently massaging her forehead, her eyes locked on Kristy's.
Jillian had always been a tough egg to crack, in Kristy's opinion. She was intense, almost unnecessarily so, and she was competitive. But Jillian was also very intelligent, capable, and driven, and she was definitely better to have as an ally than an enemy. Kristy wasn't looking for any adversaries. Even though she was aware that Jillian had her own opinion of Kristy's boyfriend Raymond (Boy #11), the girl decided to leave the past where it belonged. It was better to treat Jillian as a friend than as a suspicious stranger. Kristy put on her most genuine smile – ready to break the ice.
"Jillian," Kristy said, "I'm glad I found you."
Jillian let out a soft sigh and returned a small smile of her own. And in that moment, Kristy knew that everything would be okay. All that worrying she had done – wondering whether the other FLAs would come together or if they would let the game tear them apart, fostering all that anxiety from losing her medication and the subsequent side effects, feeling the fear and paranoia and distrust and all the rest – it all dissolved away. She took a long breath, and it felt like the first time she had inhaled in hours. She would have someone to stand by her side, a friend to help her through the rest of The Program.
And suddenly, everything seemed be looking up. Kristy was positive that she and Jillian could find the remaining four FLAs and Raymond too and they could all figure out some way out of the playing field. They were brightest kids in their entire school – if anyone could discover an escape, they could. Kristy felt the hope welling inside her chest, and even though she knew reality would inevitably come to ground her once again, it was a nice sensation to experience, if only for the moment.
The moment didn't last long.
Kristy's gaze drifted to an object just off to Jillian's side. At first, she wasn't sure what it was, but as she stepped closer, she discovered it to be a metal baseball bat. She was about to ask Jillian if it was her designated weapon, when her voice caught inside her throat. Her eyes flew back to Jillian's face, at the confusion that was plastered there, as Jillian had followed Kristy's stare and had noticed the bat as well.
The dark red stain couldn't possibly be anything else. Blood was smeared all along one side of the surface, and despite the physical reaction it was manifesting inside Kristy, the bat continued to just lay there, nonchalant, unassuming. Kristy took a step back, feeling nauseous. She closed her eyes, and then forced them back open, not wanting to lose sight of Jillian for a second.
"No, no," Kristy said softly, "How could you? How could you play?"
"Kristy," Jillian said. Kristy instantly reached into her duffel, pulling out her designated weapon. The taser zapped to life as she pressed the button on the side, aiming it straight at Jillian.
"Stay back!" Kristy said in a high-pitched scream, her weapon erupting in the silent forest that surrounded them. Jillian backed away, before glancing at the baseball bat once again. In a few quick steps she raced over and lifted the metal object, holding it at the ready. Kristy's eyes widened as her mind screeched in fear.
Jillian was playing.
With that sudden realization, Kristy's dreams of finding her friends, her hopes of discovering an escape, evaporated as panic took over. She was standing in the middle of a forest with someone carrying a bloody baseball bat, someone who was watching her with a predator's eye. But worst of all, that predator was someone Kristy had considered a friend.
Kristy took off, not feeling the ground pound beneath her feet, not hearing the loud zaps from the taser she was still clutching. All she could hear was Jillian saying her name over and over again, like the girl's voice was chasing Kristy. She panted as she sprinted, trying to force oxygen into her lungs. It didn't appear that Jillian was chasing Kristy, but it was some time before the girl ventured a glance back to check. She paused, not hearing a thing, and for a moment, she forgot all about her medicine, her anxiety, how the last couple of hours all seemed to blend together.
Instead, she gasped for air, wondering if the other FLAs had come to the same decision as Jillian. She speculated whether the rest of her friends were playing to win as well. Kristy closed her eyes, trying to picture their smiling faces, but all she could see was Jillian's intense stare with the blood-stained bat in her hands. And then the most horrifying thought of all crossed her mind.
What about Raymond?
It almost felt like a physical blow, how much the idea threw her back. She had been worried that another contestant would attack Raymond, but what would she do if he were playing to win? What if he attacked her? Would she be able to talk him out of it? The thoughts and scenarios spun around inside the girl's head, and mixed with the panic that still clawed at her, Kristy turned to her side and began to dry heave, since there was very little inside her stomach.
Please, she thought, please let him be the same boy I remember.
She could still see his goofy smile, and the light scars on his face. It relaxed her slightly, but it also made her long for the boy even more. She needed to know that Raymond hadn't been twisted by The Program, that he was still the sensitive guy she had come to care for. He was the only one Kristy felt she could trust.
He has to be okay. He has to be. I don't know what I'll do if I lose him.
She shook her head, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. The adrenaline slowly left her veins, allowing for the fatigue of everything to weigh down upon Kristy, forcing her to the ground, almost burying her. The taser suddenly seemed to weigh ten times more, and the girl didn't think she could lift it, even if she tried.
I just don't know…
-R-O-Y-A-L-E-
Jillian was at a loss.
She stood, dumbfounded, the metal bat loosely gripped by one hand. She could almost hear Kristy's scream, telling Jillian to stay back. The leaves whispered secrets around her, and she struggled to hear them, if only to be told some explanation. But the forest wouldn't divulge any information, and the girl was left to her own theories.
The first problem she needed to address was her location. The girl had no idea where she was. Absolutely zero. And that was a problem, because the last thing she wanted to do was wander out of the playing field or into a danger zone. The girl pulled out her map and was surprised to see that certain areas had markings, designating them as current or pending danger zones.
A throb of pain erupted inside her head, and the girl winced in pain, rubbing her forehead with a free hand. She struggled to remember the morning announcements, and finally they came to her. That's right, she had been sleepy, but she vaguely recalled writing down the necessary information. And then it all went blank again. The last real memory that Jillian could visualize was when she stood by the cliffs to the east, her designated weapon, a rose, gripped in her hand.
She rummaged through her duffel bag, but the rose was nowhere in sight. She must have disposed of it, or left it behind somewhere, but Jillian couldn't remember exactly how.
Looks like I'm sleepwalking again.
It wasn't the most unreasonable conclusion to Jillian. She had had the same problem when she was a child, unable to cope with the high expectations of her plan to become Dictator. But as she matured and found ways to cope with the anxiety, the sleepwalking had ceased. However, in a stressful situation like The Program, it wouldn't be unheard of for Jillian's coping mechanism to return. It even explained the headaches that Jillian was getting – a side effect of her movement and activity while in a dreamlike state. It made perfect sense.
The only problem was the bat.
Jillian had absolutely no explanation for the bloody baseball bat. She didn't know if it was hers – theoretically, anyone could have dropped the bat and Jillian had simply stumbled upon it – but who would leave a bloody weapon just lying on the ground?
Another flash of pain erupted inside her cranium, and the girl hissed from the sudden ache.
No, in all likelihood, the bat was hers. But that raised a few problems of its own. First, what in the hell was Jillian doing while unconscious? The response to that was obvious – she was murdering other contestants, but it wasn't an answer that the girl was comfortable with. She didn't like the idea that she wasn't in complete control of herself. She remembered the stories her parents would tell her after a restless night – how she would make ten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or brush her teeth again, or stack her textbooks in a certain order – all while sleepwalking. It seemed comical to them, but to Jillian it was distressing – her body was acting on its own. There was someone else behind the wheel (her inner buccaneer?), and Jillian couldn't find any sort of comfort in that.
The sensation was the same. Even though Jillian had decided to play to win, she was doing it without any willful effort on her part – and Jillian refused to trust anyone else with her life, even her own subconscious. What if her sleeping body wandered into a danger zone? Or came across a threat that could easily dispose of her while in her vulnerable state?
Looking at the bat, Jillian wondered just how vulnerable her subconscious actually was. Apparently it was capable enough to dispose of another contestant. That made Jillian feel even worse, and a sense of revulsion flowed through her as she continued to hold the bat. If she could justify leaving it behind, Jillian would do so. But without any other weapon, the metal baseball bat was a necessity.
She stood in the forest, the bat clutched in one hand, while her other was clenched into a tight fist. The sun shown down from between the spaces of the leaves, but it offered little warmth. Despite the rising temperature, Jillian couldn't help feeling cold. No icy breezes wafted by her, and yet there was something chilling about the whole situation. Perhaps the reason for that had been Kristy's presence – maybe Jillian wouldn't have felt so foreign if Kristy hadn't been there to shove the reality into Jillian's face. The Program was still going on, Jillian had apparently been playing, and she had virtually no recollection of it – not exactly the kind of truth that was easily swallowed upon waking. If she had woken up alone, Jillian could have gotten used to the idea slowly, but Kristy had been there, throwing the girl off-balance.
Maybe I should have killed her.
The idea was valid, but Jillian felt it was more important to get her bearings than to claim a kill. What she should have done was use Kristy as an ally, attacking her once Jillian had been informed of her location inside the playing field. Hindsight was always 20/20, and it was no good wondering what she should have done. Jillian had to move forward. Her first step was to stop sleeping. Without sleep, The Program would become increasingly more difficult, but it would prevent her from sleepwalking, allowing Jillian complete control of herself. The second step was to pick a direction and go with it, hoping to locate a landmark or something of that sort before her collar ended her performance.
She sighed. Things weren't going according to her plan. There was always something to toss a wrench into the works, and this time, the proverbial wrench could very well kill Jillian. But the girl was confident – easy paths were for the lazy, and anything worth having was worth fighting for. If her sleepwalking was going to be an obstacle for her to avoid, then the girl would prepare to soar over it without breaking stride.
Jillian's hand tightened on the handle of the baseball bat. The sight of the blood still caused a knot to form in her stomach, but it also motivated her, causing her to clench her jaw and breath deeply through her nostrils.
West.
She'd head toward the mountains, and gain some idea of her spatial location from the altitude. There was the possibility that she would wander into a danger zone in her trek, but it was a safer bet than heading north or south. With a quick nod to herself, she brought the bat up and rested it on her shoulder, careful to make sure that the bloody side wasn't against her clothes. Jillian quickly checked her compass and then started off. Feeling more like a shortstop than a pirate, the girl was hesitant at first, but the confidence returned, slowly, like a pair of seas legs.
The captain was at the helm once again.
Current Danger Zones: 20, 28
Pending Danger Zones: 21, 33
(41) Contestants Remaining