Hour 8

45 Contestants Remaining

By the time the eighth hour of the game rolled around, George Caiger, a.k.a. Boy #10, was getting seriously pissed. He had intended to head towards the hotel, maybe pick up a kill or two along the way. With the police baton he had found in his pack, this would not be much of a problem. It was still early, and there were bound to be girls running around without any conceivable plan. There were bound to be people who still couldn't accept the reality of the Battle Royale. People with loaded pistols and sharpened blades who weren't willing to use them. And that would suit his purpose perfectly, these sweetly dumb people who had never seen an episode of the game and had no idea what to expect.

In a way, he had almost expected it to be easy. Of course, having experience in backyard brawling probably helped, and though he would never admit it aloud, being a devout follower of the Battle Royale series helped as well. And by all rights it would have been easy...

...if not for the fact that he couldn't navigate to save his life. The map he could handle, and by taking the more conspicuous landmarks as signposts, he could even make his way around the island with some precision. But that was where his luck ended; everything else suddenly became hopelessly, well, hopeless. The Asbury Hotel protruded high above the woods and attractions on the island ground, but for some reason heading straight towards it seemed all but impossible. He had intended to reach the hotel within an hour or so. Instead, three hours later, he had gotten no closer. How is this even possible?

In a way, George had exceptional fortune without knowing it. Had he successfully reached the hotel, he would more than likely have been gunned down by Brooke Hilton, a.k.a. Girl #22, and bled out within seconds. What saved him from this untimely death was an abysmal sense of direction; instead of moving directly towards the hotel as he had intended, he had instead been moving in a wide arc around it, coming no closer than he had been even after three hours or trekking.

He did, however, come close to the pair of girls and the boy wandering in the nearby woodland.

Alicia Kerr, a.k.a. Girl #21, was no stranger to high school politics. Having been somewhat of a political enthusiastic throughout middle school, she had nearly single-handedly initiated a series of campaigns that most children at that age would be too young and single-minded to appreciate. Intending to coast through high school and college doing what she did best, her young ambitions were unexpectedly derailed by an all too common circumstance that many a girl would be familiar with – young love.

She had met Elijah Ricks, a.k.a. Boy #21, in their sophomore year, during that pointless United Nations thing they did every year. She had been Belgium, while he had taken on Azerbaijan with the rationale that lesser known countries were free to make up their own cultures and histories and nobody would doubt a thing. She had giggled at that, and swayed by his charm she practically adhered to him the whole night. Topped with a cowboy hat laden with fake fruit, Elijah had spent the night joking around with her, making fun of Mariel Valverde's lousy imitation of Russia and laughing louder than everybody else when Melissa Feltz, representing Mexico, walked into the room in a hastily (and crappily) constructed maid outfit. It was oh so wrong, but to Alicia it felt right.

She was fairly certain that Elijah, at least in part, had similar feelings for her. He seemed to have genuinely enjoyed that night, and even the other times they hung out. Though she was not a member of his clique and probably never would be, she couldn't help but want to spend more time with him.

The opportunity came about two years later, when he announced his desire to run for student council president. Alicia had coveted the title as well, and with Virgil Freeman, a.k.a. Boy #24, being her only outspoken opponent so far, it would have been a breeze. Nobody liked Virgil, at least not enough to vote him president. She would surely have gotten the title if she wanted. But Elijah and his friends were running now, and though she was not unconfident that she couldn't come out on top, she didn't want to. Not if it meant she would have to go against Elijah. That would only worsen the already wobbly to start with relations between them, and if it could develop into something else...

And so she had stepped down as a running candidate. Her friends were shocked, Elijah was surprised but seemingly unmoved, and Virgil... well, who cared what he thought.

In the end she might have regretted that decision the slightest bit, but by then it was too late. Elijah won, he and Jolene and Alyssa and Frank and a bunch of their subordinates formed Malton High's newest student council. Looking on with nothing but delight for Elijah (and maybe a bit envy), Alicia had clapped as loudly as everybody else. She had voted for him, of course, how could she not? He deserved it, after all. He really was a great guy.

Not that Alicia was entirely out of the political scene. She joined the student council under Elijah's lead, taking the part of Publishing Officer. It was a relatively junior post compared to what she initially hoped for, but that was okay. Now she'd have a lot more time to spend with Elijah...

...or so she thought. The year passed by quickly, and all the time she had to spend with him alone added up to barely two hours. Adding insult to injury was that a girlfriend had come out of nowhere, that Rhodes girl. A goody-two-shoes, two-faced, lying bitch if she's seen one before. Oh, how she seethed with anger and jealousy! How she simply loathed her guts! Many a night she had made voodoo dolls with her resemblance and idly stabbed pins through her face while leafing through Elijah's online profiles. Each photo of the couple only got her madder. Oh, if only...

But then came the Battle Royale, and it proved to be a blessing in disguise. Sure, they would probably all wind up dead (except that whorish, horse-faced bitch), but Gabby wasn't here to stop things from progressing naturally now. If she could somehow find him, maybe she could right what was wrong...

"Come out of it," Bonnie Nichols, a.k.a. Girl #6 said testily as she snapped her fingers together inaudibly. Normally the most affectionate of people you'd run into around Malton High, even she had to admit the game's environment had turned her into somewhat of an irritable individual. Add to the fact that her travelling partner was an even more pissed off Alicia Kerr, and it wasn't surprising that she was pretty much ready to call it quits.

Except there was no way to prematurely retire from a Battle Royale short of death. That was what scared her most.

"Keep your pre-menstrual panties on, I'm good to go," Alicia shot back, a faint blush forming on her cheeks. On her dark skin it was hard to notice, but all the same she turned away for fear that Bonnie could deduce what she had been thinking. Her crush on Elijah wasn't exactly something she had kept under the covers from her social circle of friends, but given that Alicia had every intention of leaving Bonnie behind (or... you know) once she could find Elijah, it wasn't anything she wanted to put the light on.

Instead, Alicia sped up and hurried down the overgrown trail they had been treading down. If it was a ploy to distract Bonnie from her true intentions, it went off with nary a complication. The blonde girl, noticing her friend's sudden fast movement, jumped and looked frantically around for an approaching intruder. Somebody with a machete or a handful of claws, like the monsters in those horror movies she sometimes watched against her better instincts at sleepovers.

"Is somebody there?" she asked frightfully as she caught sight of movement in the bushes.

There was no reply, not even from Alicia. Suddenly noticing that her friend was farther ahead than she thought, she sprinted down the path, batting branches and twigs out of her way. With a slim build, making her way around wasn't as much a problem as it was for most of the other contestants in the woods. In fact, after several hours of dodging and weaving around trees and grassland, she could almost call it a secondary instinct. She didn't even think to pull out her assigned weapon, a razor sharp machete currently wrapped safely in a sheath hanging from her belt. With her flight in perfect condition, she wouldn't even need to fight.

So fast she was that she overtook Alicia, leaving the girl behind for a change. She heard her friend cry out, and was going to turn around when a police baton slammed into her face. Her nose was mashed into broken bone and cartilage by the force, leaving her stunned and bleeding from the nose as she slid out. With her face caught around the tightly wielded baton, her legs flew forward and momentarily lifted into the air, before Bonnie fell unceremoniously onto her ass.

Alicia shrieked, both of her hands reaching behind for her weapon.

"Hello there, girls," George said with a grin that wouldn't look out of place on a mad hatter or his hare. The police baton that extended from his fist was gleaming with Bonnie's blood at places. Then it was nothing but a black smudge whipping through air as George swung it fiercely at the downed girl.

"Oh god Bon-Bon, run, get out of here!" Alicia shrieked as she took off.

Bonnie was still confused, but she leapt to her feet as a vicious gust missed her head by inches, instead flicking one of her braids around the back of her neck. Like a slap on the ass, it spurred her into action. The girl dashed wildly away, hoping to catch up with her friend before the psychotic man could murder her. She could still see Alicia up ahead, with her headful of dark dreads she was unmistakable. If she was fast enough, she could (outrun?) catch up with her, and then... the old joke about a tiger came to mind. But you can't do something this horrible, can you? You'll be alone...

She almost tripped, but steadied herself. She didn't look back but she knew George must be after her.

It suddenly occurred to her that she had a weapon. Reaching for the sheath at her waist, she made to pull out her machete. The blade slid out in one smooth movement, then it was in her hands, juddering from her constant movement as well as the uncontrollable shaking of her hands. Could she really do any damage with this? In able hands it would be a deadly weapon, but in hers it might as well be a rusted flintlock pistol for all the potential it held.

George was catching up. She could hear him sprinting up from behind her, breathing heavily and with feverish abandon. In nothing but the utmost fright, Bonnie turned around with her machete held high, driven only by the dim hope that she could kill him and get out of this scot-free. The look in her eyes had become focused only on an indistinct spot – with her pupils shrunk as far as they could go, her peripheral vision all but disappeared. The only thing she was focusing on was the blade's handle in her hands, and the trajectory trailing down to slice the boy in halves-

Then the baton slammed down on the back of her machete, jolting it out of her hand. In what felt like slow motion, Bonnie watched the blade carve an invisible arc through air as the baton struck her outstretched arm, snapping the bones between the elbow and wrist. A sensation of fire bolted down her arm, followed by a feeling like the time she had gotten her impacted wisdom teeth pulled and the dentist accidentally gave her too much anaesthesia, and there was still a phantom sensation of pain despite the painkillers.

It was the combination of pain and numbness that got her moving again. Fighting back was useless, that much she had seen. Her only hope now was getting away.

"Alicia? Where are you?" Bonnie cried out confusedly as part of her arm swung awkwardly at the broken junction. It couldn't even move on her own accord. Dimly she registered that even if she got out of this alive, she would never be able to swim as well as she used to. Guess who Coach Barbie won't be sending to the meets. She'll probably let one of the other girls take my deserved place, probably that Melissa bitch, or Nadine... oh wait, she's dead already, isn't she?

"Alicia?" she called as she veered off the path, delving into the heavily overgrown woodland. Vines snagged, branches whipped, leaves scratched as she hurried down a random, winding path.

From faraway, somebody responded. In her pain and confusion, Bonnie didn't even hear.

George picked up the machete from where it had fallen, among the dark soil and twisted roots and wilted vegetation that made up the bottom layer foundation of an unrestrained forest. Already, a handful of crisped leaves had already fallen atop of it, scattered from when the girl had brushed by a mesh of branches. He wielded the machete like its handle was crafted to accommodate his fingers. Flexing the muscles of his arm, he swiped at a protruding branch that quickly detached from where it had been growing, a cluster of leaves blooming at the other end.

Holding it between his fingers, George examined the cut end of the branch. Smooth, like it had been quickly severed. Nicely done.

Looking between the path of broken twigs where the blonde girl had run down and the direction where her black friend had escaped toward, George found himself pressed to make a quick choice. Blondie or the cotton-picker? No contest there.

"Who's there?" Elijah Ricks said cautiously.

Not too long ago he had almost been victim to a mortal chest wound as a series of bullets raked over the bushes he had been hiding near. Fortunately for him all of the shots missed by at least a yard, and he managed to escape before his assailant could gather which direction he headed. But that momentary encounter confirmed what he had been fearing for quite a while, especially after hearing the morning announcement of the four fatalities – people out there were willing to play the game, and at least one of them had a rapid-fire artillery, perhaps even one of those powerful mini-guns.

In his mind, he went over the list of eliminations. Leon was first, Clara after him, then Nadine and Lee. But didn't the report mention something about Marla and how she had shot Lee full of holes? That could mean she was the one who had been firing at him not long ago. Knowing Marla Thompson, it didn't seem possible, but then again Battle Royale had never been an odds-winning possibility in his life either.

Could it really be? The same Marla Thompson who had frequented the halls of Malton High with a proud smile and feigned bravery, despite all that had been said against her? Elijah didn't think so. But what do you know? Or rather, how much do you really know? These people, you don't know anything about what they're capable of.

There was a sudden noise – it sounded like a girl screaming – and then more gunshots, this time from farther away on the island. Elijah had no idea if there was any correlation between the two sounds, but if there was a gunman holding some innocent girl hostage (it could be Jolene or Alyssa) he couldn't just sit on his hands and do nothing, could he?

Wielding his aluminum baseball bat Louisville Slugger in striking position, he approached the direction where the scream came from.

Elijah wasn't curious for long. Barely a minute after he had decided to change paths, there was a second scream. And then moments later, a girl came tearing out of the woods, sprinting so fast that the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes left a horizontal trail. She was making coarse noises with the back of her throat, like the panic would not even allow her to scream like she normally would if she could.

Recognizing her, Elijah quickly called out, "Alicia!"

Against herself, perhaps out of the daily instinct that has honed her into turning whenever somebody calls out her name in the halls, Alicia turns around. And it seems unbelievable, but it really is her. For a girl caught in this deathtrap of a game, Alicia looks reasonably hassled (probably has a gun-toting murderer after her). Dark dreads populated her head like an overgrown house plant, looking even wilder now that she was beginning to shake out of sheer terror.

"Holy crap," Alicia babbled out, stark-eyed, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Debating whether she was somebody he could use (and eventually deciding that anybody could be helpful right now as long as they weren't looking to pop a cap in his ass), Elijah said with his baseball bat raised in batting position, "Who're you running from? Is somebody after you?"

"I don't know," Alicia said tersely, then spat out, "George."

"Come again?"

"George, I don't know, Werner or Peyton, or, or Caiger, or one of those names. He's after me, I think he's got Bon – Bonnie, already, he could be after me." Alicia suddenly seem to look twice as small as she had; a huddled mass of skin over bone with hair and rags layered on top. Tears dripping off at the eyes. Shoulders heaving up and down with sobs.

If anything came charging out of the woodland onto the little beaten trail, Elijah was sure he would have slammed the baseball bat on it with all his strength out of pure reflex anyway. But just to made sure he added that bit of resolve to strike whatever it was down and repeatedly hit them while they thrashed, whether it was Marla or George or Bonnie that came running. But for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds there was nobody. Half a minute, then a full one. Counting up, two, and then three minutes of silence. Him trying to control his breathing, keeping the baseball bat still was an impossible task. Alicia's sobbing had transcended to a weird hiccupping noise now.

Bracing himself for a particularly ironic surprise, Elijah said, "Nobody's there."

Indeed, that was the case. The leaves remained undisturbed from where Alicia's relentless tearing through had left them, dangling dangerously from battered twigs and branches. The air was still with unfulfilled anticipation. Somewhere, out of sight, a squirrel chirped.

All the time keeping the corner of his vision on Alicia, he said, "Maybe he's not after you."

Finally, he said, "Maybe he's gone."

George crashed through bushes, branches, even knocked a particularly thin and rotting tree off to the side, in his hurried attempt to get at the girl. The police baton, now hanging at his waist, was replaced by the machete that the girl had dropped. At the very least, it made clearing the vegetation from his path much less of a hassle. At most, well, he would have to catch up with the girl first...

With renewed vigor, he hacked away at the undergrowth that stood between him and the girl.

Bonnie ran as fast as her legs would take her, hardly with the thought to mind the branches that battered her face. All she could see was a mess of leaves and twigs, like a nature lover's kaleidoscope, rotating and generating green and brown shapes before her eyes. Her pack bouncing at her side, it's the only thing she can rely on now that she's lost her machete. Stupid, stupid move.

It didn't matter now. Maybe later, when she would be in the clutches of false safety, she could afford some time to think about it. Right now, all she could do is run as fast as her legs would take her.

He could hear what sounded like a girl tearing through woods. She was slowing, definitely, maybe tired from delving into the unfamiliar terrain. The adrenaline would be wearing off now, and she would be feeling the ache in her muscles. Tiring all the time, until her sprinting became staggering became a dead stop.

Catching a definite glimpse of blonde hair from up front, George readied to strike.

Hearing the sound of somebody coming up behind her, she stifled a scream. Terror was coursing through her veins, pushing her to go faster than she ever had, but it still wasn't fast enough. The boy, no, the monster, the man who was trying to kill her, he'll catch up.

Bonnie was still screaming when the sound of gunshots rattle out, rapid-fire, like a typewriter.

The girl stumbled, then fell over flat in the soil. Somebody with a clearer peripheral vision would have noticed a dark-haired individual several yards to the west, weaving behind trees. He might've noticed that the sprawled girl was flopping around in a whole lot of dark red. That her sneaker-encased foot was kicking in pain, and looked like a part of it was missing. Tiny flesh-colored bumps, two or three in number, littered the soil. On closer examination, one would've seen the severed toes with their white-tipped toenails, torn from the foot by a rogue shot.

All of this was missed by George Caiger. The only thought on his mind was gotcha! as he leapt over a tangle of leafy bush to land before the girl.

"Get away from me, you ballistic brute!" Bonnie shrieked in fright and confusion, pushing at the ground to crawl away from the approaching boy. Her pack had spilled open next to her, and gripped in one hand was her flashlight – the closest thing she could grab.

Come on, you got this. You got this down, don't you?

Wielding the machete that he had taken from the girl, George brought it down forcefully in a stabbing motion. Bonnie's constant movement made it difficult to make a clean kill, but nevertheless the blade impaled her at the thigh. With a wide-eyed squeal, Bonnie instinctively made to pull the blade out. She wrapped her fingers around the machete, trying in desperation to pull it out of herself as George kept her pinned like a dead butterfly behind glass. The cutting edge of the blade sank into her fingers as she tugged with all her might, to no avail.

It was clear to George that the girl's injury would not keep her alive for long. With some other gunslinger around here (he did not see anybody besides Bonnie, but he had heard the surprisingly near shots as well), it was in his best interests to escape before anything else could happen to him. He got the girl, after all, and it wasn't as though she would even have the tiniest chance to recover from the grievous wounds. Really, any moment now she could bleed out. Just grab the machete and go.

With a quick movement, he yanked the machete out of Bonnie's thigh, freeing the dying girl. She yelped, aloud, then quickly went quiet as her body began quivering. Blood gushed down her thigh like a menstrual nightmare out of that old prom movie. Her eyes rolled up into her head to show the whites.

A sudden volley of gunfire sprayed out from behind a tree, getting George to instinctively crouch to the ground. Shredded bark and leaves filled the air like confetti, along with the rich scent of blood and gunpowder. God damn it, better move fast or this guy could gun you down. Think quick, act quick, my friend.

He waited in the bushes with his heart jolting in circles around his esophagus. The gunfire seemed to be ceaseless, lasting for what felt like hours before it finally paused with a barely audible click. There's your chance, go!

Leaping to his feet, George made to sprint away as fast as he could. Engaging the enemy in a fight was a viable option, but he didn't even bother to pretend it had more than an inkling's chance of working. Better to stay on the safe side, just get out of here as fast as he could. He could easily acquire a firearm later on, beating down some other girl like Blondie here. But not right now, because really... taking on a fucking machine gun with a machete, that's not taking risks, that's plain suicide.

Running away, he didn't expect to tread on a solid cylinder on the ground. In normal circumstances he would have caught his balance with little effort, but in his haste George had lost sight of his sense of balance. His feet kicking up, arms flailing wide, he fell backwards onto his behind with the barest of dignity. Caught by surprise, George blinked as the pain beading along the base of his spine intensified.

He didn't hear the black-haired girl approach him from the side, nor did he notice the blast of gunfire tearing into his side. In that instant, with half of his ribcage an exploding mess of bones and organs, George had not enough the awareness to notice what was happening to him. All he could tell was that he had fallen and now an immense pain had consumed him – and then he was gone.

By leftover momentum, what was left of his body rolled over to the side. Its surface dented from being crushed underneath a heel, Bonnie's assigned flashlight rocked slightly.

The girl was dead. The boy was dead. All was taken care of. By the look of things, the girl had bled to death from her leg wound, but the boy was her kill. By all means, it was a good one too, certainly one that would befit the winner of this Battle Royale. But there was still work to be done.

Slamming a fresh clip into her Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, the killer got to work.