Day 1 4:03 AM
Boys don't cry
Those three words resounded in the ears of Christopher Wendell (Boy #11) as he quietly shed tears onto the sleeve of his shirt. He'd heard the phrase said so many times by his unendingly displeased father; boys don't cry, boys get up and make something of their lives!
His father wasn't a success, throughout his life he'd never been anything more than a nondescript mediocrity and he knew it. He'd gone to a moderately good school, achieved reasonable grades in his exams and graduated to go to a fairly well thought of university. Later in his unexceptional life, he'd started work in a job where the pay was restrained and the working hours long enough to bleed the company's employees white with fatigue. The woman he'd eventually married was similarly unremarkable and he sensed his life and his livelihood were ebbing away, now to be replaced by the drearily monotonous sense of failure.
But then Christopher was born. From a very early age, not only was it clear that he was a bright child, but that he also was set to grow up to become a handsome young man. In Chris, Mr. Wendell saw a pathway to redemption, as though it were a sign from the heavens that through Chris he would be able to rectify the mistakes he made in his life that had resulted in him becoming so disillusioned and unhappy. Chris must never be ensnared in the pitfalls that had caused Mr. Wendell to squander his youth and live out the rest of his days in regret and underachievement; Chris would not take a blasé attitude with his studies, Chris would not become apathetic towards sports and Chris would choose his friends on the basis of their intelligence and level of studiousness.
At first, these rules hadn't troubled Chris; he enjoyed the way his father doted on him and after all, why should he have been annoyed when his father tried to cajole him into working harder and exercising more – he was just catering for his son's wellbeing wasn't he? Initially yes. But soon his desire to see his son make it in life was transposed into an insatiable craving for vicarious self-affirmation through Chris's successes. Whenever Chris scored an A in English or a goal in soccer, Mr. Wendell felt as though the burden of his failure was lessened slightly and so persisted in pushing Chris forward, trying to get him to scale previously unreachable heights of accomplishment. Chris obeyed his father because he was a naïve and insecure pre-teen who truly did love his dad, since his mother usually ignored him, being too wrapped up in her woes of self-induced hypochondria to pay her one child any real attention.
But then Chris reached adolescence. He did not rebel, as such, but he began to progressively question his father's guidance, his frustration rising as he started to doubt his father's intentions; the 'infallible' wisdom he'd had bestowed on him seeming ever more dubious and self-serving. Chris was thought to be something of an oddity at Bray Wood; attractive no doubt, but so cagey and dedicated to his work that he often came across as haughty and obnoxious.
"Why are you always demanding that I work harder?" Chris eventually asked his father.
"Why do you think? This is all for your benefit, I remember how I slacked and wasted my time and how everyday I now wonder how much better my life would be had made a greater effort with my studies. Look at you Chris; you've got so much going for you in life, how could you possibly want to throw it all away? I only am bloody hard on you because I don't want the same misery that I suffer to befall you because you don't have enough motivation in life." His father answered brusquely, barely looking up from his newspaper.
Chris felt a strange cyclone of emotions welling up inside him and burst into tears.
"Don't you dare cry Chris," Shouted his father, slamming his newspaper down on the kitchen table and rising from his seat, "only babies and girls cry - you are neither, so start acting like a man!"
Chris rested his head of blonde hair against one of the church pews and continued to sob. Behind the thick granite walls of the church he felt he could safely revisit the detritus of emotions that for so long had lain hidden in the depths of his cerebrum. His father was seldom aggressive with him; he didn't need to be, he'd already driven into Chris that anything less than full marks on a test or an absolute victory on the playing field was tantamount to besmirching the family's name. His father didn't need to get angry with him, because Chris could generally be relied upon to castigate himself if his performance in academia or on the sports pitch was 'below par'.
And now, ironies of ironies, he found himself in the most hyper-competitive game known to man. He looked around him; the church was damp and squalid, several of the pews were being rotted away by a swarm woodlice and the white marble alter was chipped and scarred from vandalism. The stained glass windows, depicting what appeared to be the apocalypse (clearly the BR admin had a rather obvious style of humour), all had a few panes of glass broken (or missing) and the once bright colours had now been dulled by age. Chris had been looking for sanctuary (both in life and the battle) and the church seemed a good option to be safe from others, but now as he gazed at the rickety arc of the ceiling, he wondered whether the church might be its own potential hazard.
The coldness of his silver Sig Sauer pistol felt ever weightier as he stared at the effigy of the Virgin Mary. He thought of his parents and how they would be watching his every move, his father privately willing him to beat out the competition whilst his mother remained in torpor from her mid-morning alcohol binge. And what if he won? What would they say then? His mother would probably shrug and stare at him with her hollow eyes, trying to scrutinise his emotional sate, whilst his father would begin his tried and tested mantra about how 'only the best man can win' and assure him he did the right thing. Is this what he wanted; is this what he'd spent his life slaving for, after all the sleepless nights spent studying, the hours of pumping iron in the gym until his veins throbbed and his head pulsated with weariness, this was the best life could offer him?
Did he really want to play this game?
Unrequited romantic desire; it has driven poets to wax lyrical, Hollywood to commit the heartache to celluloid and even an unfortunate anguished few to take their own lives.
Right now, romantic desire (though not necessarily unreciprocated) was driving Jun Ishibashi (Girl #12) as she hastened across the island, trying to find her would-be love. She knew he might reject her, with either curt disdain or polite cordiality, but she also was aware that this would almost certainly be the last time she'd have the opportunity to express her feelings.
Her pigtails bounced excitedly as she sprinted along, she had no idea where her source of affection was, but she felt it would be unwise not to keep running. She was the third of the year's trio of individual who were classed as 'the Japs', along with Jewel and Fei (who was actually of Chinese heritage – though to the pupils of Bray Wood since he 'looked oriental', this fact was not regarded to be of much importance). Indeed as the fates would have it, Jun and Jewel had even been on the same flight that carried them away from their home of Japan to the unfamiliar land of Britain (however Jewel had been seated in first class whilst Jun had flown economy – an analogy which pretty much summed up Jun's existence with Jewel at Bray Wood).
Whilst Jun had a certain girlish cuteness (accentuated by her styling her hair in pigtails), it was Jewel that turned heads and made hearts leap. With a single flick of her long, silky, jet-black hair she could melt a heart and send a boy into a tailspin of lust, whilst Jun seemed to sink evermore into the background, resigning herself to henceforth always having to play second fiddle to Jewel.
The one thing that propelled her forward at school (and indeed in this very battle) was love. She was besotted with him, even going so far as to work harder in order to be elevated up to the top science set so she could be with him more often. He sometimes returned her gazes, brief little looks with those entrancing auburn eyes, that didn't reveal anything and only made Jun yearn for him more. Did he reciprocate this affection? Perhaps; whenever she locked eyes with him she sensed a palpable spark of attraction and in this situation she could only follow her heart (however trite that might sound). Time was now running short; could anyone truly blame her for acting out on her impulses?
She halted. There was the faint twitter of birds in the sky, the darkness was receding, daybreak would occur soon. She found herself at a pathway crossroads and paused, trying to calculate what she would say when she saw (if she saw him – though she wasn't willing to contemplate that possibility), varieties of words and syntax cascading through her brain. She looked at the sinister Gothicism of the chapel. She was tired, it might not be the best refuge, but she needed some sleep and it was probably inadvisable to remain out in the open for too long. Besides, she might even find her love there. She smiled at the thought and walked briskly towards the two gigantic wooden front doors.
Little did Jun realise the seriousness of the ramification this decision would cause.
Frankie Almond Smith (Girl #14) stood over the body of Christopher Wendell. The blood slowly flowed away from his skull through the cavernous hole fashioned by the gunshot; he lay face down on the floor, with his legs splayed and mouth gaping in shock. Frankie was rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the mutilated corpse. She'd never seen a dead body and the sombre atmosphere of the church only seemed to emphasize the horror of the situation. The Sig Sauer pistol lay abandoned on the floor; slowly Frankie crouched down and picked it up, wiping some of the fresh gore off it with her sleeve. She stood up again, barely noticing the faint creak of the wooden door opening.
"You monster." The voice was quiet and controlled but unmistakably enraged. Frankie looked down the Church aisle to see Jun Ishibashi approaching, each of her steps taken with slow, methodical precision. There was something almost surreal about her appearance; her pigtails and long fringe, along with the pleated navy blue school skirt and similarly coloured blue blazer she wore, all seemed an incongruous juxtaposition to the large metallic baseball bat she carried in her arms. She moved ever nearer to Frankie.
"You fucking bitch!" She screamed, raising her baseball bat and charging forward.
The Sig Sauer pistol tumbled out of Frankie's hand as she stepped forward, her hands raised in front of her in defensive protest.
"You don't understand! I didn't..." but Frankie was unable to finish, Jun had let out an animalistic roar and powerfully swung the bat at her head. Frankie dived to the floor, narrowly missing the bat's arc of motion; she caught sight of the Sig Sauer resting idly on the cold marble floor. No – she couldn't do that; she had no fondness for Jun, but she wasn't prepared to kill her. Instead she quickly shoved her hand into her blazer pocket and retrieved the little black stun gun. She lunged at Jun's leg, flicking the stun gun's switch on and pressing the two electrodes against the exposed flesh in one smooth manoeuvre. Jun shrieked and fell backwards; though still clutching the steel baseball bat, as Frankie quickly lifted herself from the floor.
"Listen Jun you've got it all wrong, I..." but Jun had gotten to her feet and raised the bat above her head. Frankie ran into the adjacent pew as Jun threw all her weight into whacking the bat against the end of the already rotten pew, smashing a large chunk of it in an eruption of splinters and wood chippings. Frankie stopped halfway down the pew and shouted out yet again,
"For fuck's sake Jun, I didn't kill him!"
"Bullshit!" Jun bluntly responded, rushing towards Frankie, frenziedly swirling her baseball bat from side to side. Frankie reached the end of the decayed pew and again Jun struck the putrid wood with her bat, missing Frankie by a matter of inches and sending another shower of shattered wood hurtling into the air.
Frankie promptly ran into the next pew along; her best bet would be to grab her bags (maybe the Sig too) and make a dash for it, Jun being clearly beyond reason. She sprinted along the pew, her high heels sharply clicking against the floor whilst the swish of Jun's baseball bat continued to resonate around the church as she followed her. Having just reached the end of the pew, there was a subdued 'snap' as Frankie's left heel broke in two and she fell to the floor right next to Christopher's cadaver.
Jun catapulted herself towards the felled Frankie, preparing to strike, wielding the baseball bat in one hand, ready to avenge Christopher, the only person she'd ever loved. Frankie desperately shoved her stun gun against Jun's bat carrying hand. Jun recoiled, the bat flying from her hands and landing with a clunk on the pew behind her. Frankie tried to stand but she'd twisted her ankle and could only wince in pain as she struggled to get to her feet.
"Please Jun, don't..." Frankie pleaded, but the once sweet and genial Jun had long since departed, now replaced by a vengeance fixated aggressor. Jun kicked the stun gun from Frankie's hand, comforted by the way it clattered away from her across the marble. She thrust her foot into Frankie's stomach and got down onto her knees whilst Frankie futilely attempted to crawl away. Jun grabbed Frankie's right arm and roughly pulled her back, ignoring her helpless whimpering. Jun struck Frankie's tear streaked face with the flat of her hand, a loud thwack being produced as her palm collided with the flesh,
"So did you enjoy it Frankie, huh? Was it fun? Did you enjoy seeing the fear in his eyes?"
Frankie's arms flailed as she tried to block the oncoming blows, but still Jun persisted in beating her, walloping Frankie again and sensing a perverse thrill course through her diminutive body as she did so.
"So how did you do it?" Jun screamed, slapping the hapless Frankie once again, "Did you flash him your cunt and say 'I'm ready if you are'? After all it's not like you have any inhibitions about fucking your brains out, is it?"
Apart from the red blotches on her face (from where Jun had hit her), Frankie's features were now a deathly white, the prospect of her impending demise becoming ever more real. She lay on the floor, using her right arm to ineffectually fend off Jun's fists whilst she clawed for her stun gun with her left. She felt her hand close around a solid object; she grasped it and pulled it towards her.
"Don't even think about it!" said Jun, fastening her hands around Frankie's throat and squeezing. Frankie felt the air drain from her lungs as her breathing became constricted, she tried to push Jun off her with her right hand, but she'd been so weakened by the fight that she didn't have enough strength to do so. Her left hand clasped the unidentified item even more tightly.
A booming gunshot echoed around the walls of the ancient church.
Frankie took a deep intake of oxygen as Jun released her grip.
"Murderer," Jun croaked feebly.
Frankie looked up and squealed slightly at the sight she saw. The bullet had entered Jun's abdomen, tearing into her flesh and staining her blouse a deep red; Frankie realised she still held the Sig Sauer pistol in her blood-smeared hands.
"Oh God, Jun...are you Ok?" Frankie stuttered, the impact of her actions catching up to her with the speed of a Bullet Train.
"What do you think? You just shot me in the gut, of course I'm not fucking Ok!" Jun testily answered, leaning forward and savagely coughing; specks of her blood defiling the otherwise spotless marble floor, "Well, I bet your pleased with yourself now – two kills already, must be guaranteed to boost your odds eh?"
"I didn't kill Chris," Frankie said quietly, "he was dead when I arrived here, he shot himself in the head; I suppose he just couldn't bear to play the game – a qualm that I can understand."
Jun looked at Frankie (her rage now having subsided and been replaced by physical agony), seeing the forlorn look in her eyes and realising, with a horrific plummeting sensation in her already torn stomach, that she was telling the truth.
"Talk about a cruel twist in the tale," said Jun, "I never even got to tell him what I felt, now where's the justice in that?"
"Look Jun, I might have something in my bag I could bandage you with, then perhaps...I could take you to the infirmary?" Frankie cautiously suggested, not at all enthusiastic about potentially being lumbered with an ally who was as good as dead.
"What's the point? I'll be riding a one way ticket to the great beyond in a matter of moments – there's nothing you can do for me."
"Jun, I'm so sorry, I never meant..."
"It's Ok Frankie... well it's not Ok but I suppose you didn't mean any harm. They say sorry is the hardest word to utter, something that almost certainly holds true in your case, I was marked for death the moment I got landed in this nightmare so I'm not going to take you on a guilt trip. And hey who knows – maybe I'll even see Chris and tell him how I feel...or should that be 'felt', fuck it's scary to think about how people are now going to always have to refer to me in the past tense."
A thick, suffocating darkness swamped her; only a single beacon of iridescent light in the distance was visible as her sight turned to tunnel vision.
"Take care of yourself Frankie." Jun said distantly, before lifelessly slumping down onto the floor beside Christopher.
For several minutes Frankie sat silently, her once iron-clad game plan now dispelled by the realisation that even if killing was reputed to get easier the more you did it; she had no desire to continue along that path.
She looked at Jun. Sure, she never liked her and it was true she had the mitigating circumstance of self-defence to justify killing her, but that didn't make her feel any better inside. Jun and Chris lay side by side, two star crossed lovers that actually made Romeo and Juliet's predicament seem preferable.
Frankie started to gag, her nausea causing convulsions in her stomach, before the vomit finally spewed out of her mouth.
And she'd thought this game would be easy...
27 Students Remain