James Aldridge went pale on hearing his name being called out, his milky skin contrasting with his red hair. Though he knew he was going to be first out the door, the foreknowledge itself was no comfort, given the circumstances. As he bent down to collect his schoolbag, he caught a powerful smell of blood and vomit suspended in the air. The situation was too unreal, he told himself. There was no way this could really be happening. Even as he felt his collar move slightly as his backpack jostled his shoulders, he clung desperately to the idea that this could all be an elaborate hoax. It wasn't a dream; you never smell things this clearly in dreams.
"Quickly!" barked the soldier named Shepherd. James hesitated, then approached the front of the room. Meyer threw a bag roughly into James' arms; he then took a standard coat and watch from the hooks and stepped into the corridor. The minute he did so, he regretted not looking at his classmates one final time before the group was separated, and instinctively he presumed that he wouldn't be allowed to re-enter the room now. He walked quickly up the corridor, not making eye contact with any of the soldiers that lined his path.

In the room, everyone was silent, waiting for the signal light above the door to go red. Only one person was not looking at it: Lena Amornie. She knew she would be the next person to be called forth. She was presently sat at the back of the room, seeing nothing but the backs of her classmates' heads. She eyed her bag on the ground, it had her mobile phone and her house keys in it. Even if she couldn't contact anyone away from the island, she could probably use the keys to defend herself, should she be assigned a useless weapon. Her mind turned to the route she was going to take. She decided the best thing to do would be to get as far away from her current location as she could, but at the same time, second guess the movements of other people, so she could avoid them until numbers thinned out a little so she could come out and--
"Girls number one," interjected the voice from the screen. "Amornie, Lena."
Her face down, she dodged forward through the crowd, to pick up her bag from the floor. She moved forward swiftly, caught her bag, turned to take her coat from the leftmost hook, put it on with a certain elegance, then grabbed her bags and ran out of the room. Her loud footsteps grew gradually quieter, until they fell totally silent. The light turned red again. Jeyes unfroze the cassette.

"Boys number two: Billings, Thomas."
Tom Billings looked at his friend Sean Sampson, perhaps hoping for inspiration or maybe even a strategy to save them now. Sampson did nothing; though his head turned at the announcement of his friend, his eyes were gazing at the body of Lindsay Vaughan on the floor. He had seen her die. The man at the front of the room had made it look so easy. Like his girlfriend, Lena Amornie, he was analysing thousands of possibilities in his head, like a chess grandmaster. Tom Billings had walked gingerly to the front-left of the room, skirting the pool of blood with care, to pick his personal bag from the remnants of the pile at the front. He, too, took his bag and coat without question, and hurried into the corridor.
Girls number two: Carter, Samantha."
Sam did not respond to her name. She had been gazing at the splatters of blood that lined her skirt. She had been standing directly behind Lindsay when she first received the blow, so the momentum of the impact had stained her clothes. She was now gazing at the body of her classmate, which was positioned in front of her, its tongue bloodied, and at an unnatural length. They had been friends. From the second that Lindsay had moved from America and was a stranger to her surroundings, up to the very Saturday before when the two of them chatted lengthily over the phone, they had become very close.
"SAMANTHA CARTER! MOVE IT!" Jeyes barked at the crowd.
Her eyes looked directly into those of her teacher's. She was filled with a rage she had never felt before in her life. She was beyond argue, reason, politics, all she wanted was revenge. She moved forward and picked her backpack from the ground. She walked past Jeyes and toward Meyer, who threw a secondary bag at her. Whatever was inside it felt heavy, she observed. As it hung loosely from her left hand, her schoolbag in her right, she had an idea. She wanted to hurt Jeyes with every ounce of strength in her body. She walked back over to him, looked up at him, (for she was quite short), yelled and swung both bags at his head. Both impacted either side of his temple and he reeled back against the table. Shepherd sprung forward and pounced on her; she wriggled to break free, but the man was too strong. She could not move her body for the weight of the man on her back. Jeyes was on his knees, taken by surprise at the attacks. Grunting viciously, he opened the drawer in the desk and pulled out what looked like a small remote control. He aimed it from below at Sam's neck and pressed the trigger.

Bleep.
"That's so unlike you, Sam," said Jeyes, returning to his feet and looking at her again. "I always thought of you as more sensible than the sort to assault a teacher."
Bleep.
"Remember, class," he then reminded the other forty-four pupils. "I have the power to detonate your collars at any time, should you try and cause trouble or compromise the game's running in any way."
Shepherd let go of Sam at this point, and she stood, grasping her collar self-consciously. She spun round to look at her classmates, all of whom edged back, looking at her throat fearfully.
"What is this?" Sam yelled at her classmates.
"Sam!" shouted several people instinctively. Jitinder Singh moved forward past Hope Castle to try and help her, but when she stared moving towards him, he remembered how the collar worked exactly and dodged her. A wave of understanding passed through the whole of 11D instantaneously: Sam's collar had been activated, and would explode imminently. A boy hollered and everyone tried to get as far away from Sam as they could manage, as if she was carrying some sort of terrible disease.
"Let's not waste any more time, kids," said Jeyes calmly, playing the tape again.
"Boys number three," continued the pre-recorded list of names, oblivious to the situation in the room. "Brooke, Graham."
Bleep.
"Graham," breathed Samantha, trying to plead with him. "Graham, don't go! Please! Help me! Do something, please..."
Graham was startled as she grabbed him on the shoulder. To him, it was as if a corpse was trying to drag him down to Hell with it. He didn't see Samantha Carter, just a corpse-in-waiting. He shoved her to the ground, and ran out of the door with his bags. Samantha wailed, and sat up, her eyes watering.
Bleep bleep bleep.
The collar's beeping had upped in tempo, and Sam's desperation started afresh.
"Somebody help me!"

"Girls number three: Castle, Hope."
Bleep bleep bleep.
"Sean..." Sam breathed, cantering toward the man who could be her saviour. "You'll help me, right? You've always worked with me on these things! You can help me, can't you?"
Sampson shook his head, his eyes wide and afraid. He clutched the girl's hands, not to comfort her, but to make her loosen her painful grip on his jumper and shirt.
Bleep bleep bleep. Hope ran unnoticed from the scene. Sam, realising her efforts with Sampson were futile, she tried each of her classmates in turn, all of whom rejected her with mingled fear and disgust.
"Boys number four: Clarke, Thomas."
Sam heard the video say Tom's name and she fixed her eyes on him like a bull. Tom himself had pressed himself against the back wall when Sam had tried to grab Graham, and now his name had been called, he was reluctant to move away from the relative comfort of the white plaster.
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep...
Sam's collar's beeping had not only increased in speed again, but was now higher in pitch. She grabbed hold of it again, trying in vain to remove it. Her eyes were fixed on the shorter of the two Toms, but she could no longer remember why. He was looking at her forlorn face, with equivalent sadness.
"Thomas Clarke," called a man's voice from the front of the room. "Move it!"
Tom couldn't keep still any longer. He skirted around the sides of the room, trying to keep as many people as he could between himself and the desperate girl in the middle of the room.
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep...

Sam's mind was sharpened. She had to find a way to stop the game, to sabotage it. Perhaps she could cut the losses by convincing everybody to stay in the room! Her eyes linked with Tom's, whom she considered her final chance.
"Tom," she breathed, barely audible. "Don't go. Wait, please-"
Tom didn't stop. He just continued moving, head down, muttering to himself to ignore her. He had reached the body of Lindsay, and he wasn't sure of how to cross it. He felt nauseous. He decided to step over her face, not looking at its disfigurement. As he bent down to pick up his school bag from the pile, Sam saw her chance and pounced on him. Her collar beeping frantically, she beat and pounded Tom on the back as he struggled underneath her weight. He pushed her off him, and dipped sideways, where Meyer threw the bag at him. Sam's collar had now become a continuous tone. She looked at him from the centre of the room.
"Tom," she said her voice filled with false calm. "Think about what you are about to do. You could end this now, and save everyone."
The two students looked at one another. Short of a history project the year before, neither of them had much grounds to talk to the other. But in the short few seconds she had left on this Earth, Sam had said something so profound that Tom would take those words to the grave. As he looked at her, he knew that her collar would detonate at any moment, and his only plan of action would be to get as far away from her as he could manage. He slinked to the door and took a coat.
"Tom!" Sam called at him, side-stepping to keep herself in his line of vision. She was shouting over the sound of the drone of the collar. There was only one thing left for her to do: physically stop him from leaving the room. She cantered sideways to apprehend him at the door, her left hand gripping her school jumper to brace herself for the inevitable.
"Get away from me," Tom muttered under his breath, keeping his head down. "Don't come near me."
"Come on, please! Don't run away from this now! Stand and fight for your-"
Sam's neck was ripped open.

Charlotte Graves had been watching the events from near the window. She knew exactly what was going to happen, but was powerless to wrench her eyes away from her female classmate's neck. It was comparable to watching a house fire spread; the first warning signs are apparent, and although she felt she must do something, she was mesmerised by how events increased in intensity, and anticipated the destructive climax. The only difference was that in the event of a fire, emergency services could be rung to remedy the situation; here, anybody who was in a position to help Sam Carter was condoning the gruesome punishment, or on a broader level, not intervening in its development. When the detonation did occur, the only sounds in the room were the spray of blood and the squeak of Sam's shoes as she fell lifelessly to the floor with a thud. Charlotte was stunned by the pressure of blood that was erupting from her classmate's throat; it sprayed in a terrific arc that reached the crowd of students near the rear of the room, and created a deep scarlet pool around her body and near the wall. Tom Clarke himself had only heard the detonation, but because he was nearest to her at the time, the shower of red soaked his clothes and hair. Samantha Carter tumbled, her bloodied throat discharging in a horrific radius, matting her short hair and staining her skin, her eyes gazing lifelessly at the door.
Girls #2 Carter, dead. 47 remaining.
Too late, a knot of her close friends, three girls who had been standing close to Charlotte Graves, dashed forward to their fallen friend, and frantically started calling her name. Steph Green stood alongside Sophie Easton and Natasha Timbershire; all of whom had tears welling in their eyes. They all felt guilty, as none of them had helped their friend in her hour of need. Considering all she had done for the class, they had abandoned her when she needed their solidarity the most. Steph in particular seemed devastated. It had been just a day and a half since the two of them had entered Jitinder Singh's father's shop and talked enthusiastically about their plans for the upcoming week. They had enjoyed each other's company; the two girls had known one another since the age of four, and now Samantha was dead. Her parents were probably unaware of their daughter's demise, and may not even hear anything until the morning, possibly later.
Jitinder was also watching the scene. He was too shell-shocked by the collar's eruption and Sam's killing that his mind had not connected the two events as being related. His mind was in fragments; he saw a body with blood flowing freely out of it, and he knew that Samantha was dead. He knew that it was the collars that explode, and that Samantha had been wearing a collar that had been triggered by the treacherous teacher at the front. All these events seemed independent of one another, somehow. His mind was working too slowly; it seemed to be regressing, his brain was thinking back to words they had exchanged just the previous day, as he was hurrying out of the shop:
"Will you stay here until I see you again?"
"Of course; I'm not going far, am I, huh?"
He choked back emotion as the room mourned its latest loss.

Jeyes was watching the scene from the front of the room. He was satisfied with the death, and decided to capitalise on it.
"All other resistance will be treated in the same way," he explained calmly to the forty-two members of 11D still in the room. "Make sure the message gets to the guys who aren't here."
Tom was gaping at the scene from the doorway. He had frozen when he felt the blood hit his face, and stood horrified, the eruption echoing in his ears. He suddenly felt he was being stared at; he made eye contact with Jeyes and ran out of the room, in a panic. He did not want to die like that.
"Girls number four," said the video, unaffected by the traumatic death of the girl. "Daniels, Alice."
Alice moved away from the metallic wall, and walked through Lindsay's blood. The room was an obstacle course, avoiding the blood from the corpses and the pool of vomit sitting grossly on the floor was a challenge in itself. Alice's brow was furrowed, as she thought carefully. She had wanted to help Samantha, but chose not to out of self-preservation. She wanted to make amends, but didn't know how to do so. She caught her bag neatly, waved anxiously to her friends, took her standard-issue coat and watch, and walked out of the room.
"Boys number five: Drake, David."
Dave's eyes flitted nervously at the men at the front of the room. As he bent down to take his bag, he suddenly felt anxious. He was agile and sharp-witted, but would that be enough. Alice had just left the room. If he hurried, he would be able to catch up with her. She wouldn't hurt a fly. He took his coat from the hook, and with his issued bag under his arm, dashed down the corridor.
"Girls number five," continued the video's roll call. "Easton, Sophie."
Sophie Easton sobbed when her name was called out. She hugged Steph and Natashe goodbye, and advanced to collect her belongings, skidding clumsily on the fresh blood at her feet. She caught a bag and noticed that it was one of the ones with bin liner protruding from the end, concealing a stick of some form. Whatever was inside did not feel heavy; it seemed like most of the weight was from the bottles of water. Tears flowing freely down her cheeks, she dragged her coat listlessly behind her, and disappeared from sight. Her friends called after her, but there was no reply.

The roll call continued.
"Boys number six: Dunn, Ian."
Ian Dunn licked his lips anxiously as he walked forward to collect his weapon. His eyes met with Jeyes', who saw with some satisfaction that the argumentativeness of the boy seemed to have disappeared. Though Ian knew there was nothing he could do to prevent the game from proceeding, he still wasn't prepared to give up without a fight. He grabbed a watch between his teeth and hurried away, his feet banging noisily on the floor.
"Girls number six: Edwards, Julia."
Julia's face was set. She walked forward confidently past Charlotte, her dyed blonde hair neatly running down her back, revealing no sign that she had been lying unconscious on a floor for several hours. She left the room without speaking. Charlotte had a certain admiration for Julia, there was a courage present she could only dream of emulating. Charlotte brushed her plaits and realised with a chill that her name would soon be called. She then decided that when it was called, she would just charge away from the building and find somewhere safe to hide.
"Boys number seven: Fraser, Robert."
The seventh boy summoned forth had been rubbing his arms as he perched on the windowsill. He felt very cold, his oiled overalls inappropriate to the January chill. He did not have a school bag, of course, having been abducted from work, so went directly to take his weapon. Like Sophie Easton, his protruded from the bag and was wrapped in a black liner. Robert took a coat and watch, and decided to get away from the building, and seek shelter somewhere else.
"Girls number seven: Fennell, Martina."
Martina had been very quiet throughout the whole procedure. She was partly still recovering from the anaesthesia, but also seemed lost for words. She wanted to go back to school. At least there nobody would be forced to kill anyone else. Why her? She was not disruptive. Sure, she had laughed when David Vales had planted the trap the previous Friday, but this was totally inappropriate. She took her weapon (it seemed to fill the bag in length, like a rifle), and hurried away, trying not to think about the imminent horrors she may face.

The room suddenly seemed emptier. People seemed to be adjusting to the smell of spilled blood, and were getting over the initial shock of the killings of the two girls lying at opposite sides of the room. Many of the thirty-four remaining members of 11D were watching the light on the wall that had turned red once again as Martina reached the far end of the corridor.
"Boys number eight," the list continued. "Garretty, Adam."
Adam looked at Sampson helplessly and charged forward, treading in the pool of vomit. He swore and shook his foot a little. Pushing his spectacles back up his nose, he took his various belongings from the front of the room and vanished. William Hutchinson started squirming on the spot; he was the next boy after Adam alphabetically, which meant his turn would be next. As the tape called forth 'Fletcher, Lydia', he realised he badly needed to urinate, making him fidget even more. Lydia Fletcher left the room, presumably to find Lena Amornie.
"Boys number nine: Hutchinson, William."
Will slid forth and picked up his bag and weapon. He felt the issued bag, but could not distinguish anything in the bag immediately recognisable as a weapon. He looked over his shoulder at the soldier, Shepherd, as he bent down to take his coat from the floor. The soldier remained resolute, apparently unfazed by the atrocity that he had helped commit when he held Sam Carter in place. William walked out of the room and entered the corridor slowly. Like the room he had just left, it was white and had a sterile smell about it. He did not want to walk too quickly; he felt like he wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as he could. Lining the corridor were a smattering of soldiers, none of whom seemed to make any form of acknowledgement of the boy in front of them. The corridor seemed to be stretching on forever, so Will sped up a little. He reached the doors at the end, and felt something underneath his feet. It felt like a panel, possibly the one that activated the light in the other room, he thought. This was realised when he heard the tape call, 'Graves, Charlotte,' into the game.
William stepped outside. It was snowing quite heavily, though there wasn't any wind to speak of. The exterior of the building seemed surrounded by gravel and paving, with few trees or shrubs nearby. He took in his surroundings, and realised how the weather added a touch of added mystery to the situation. He fumbled in his bag, wondering what the weapon was. He was doing so carefully, in case it had a sharp object within. His hand landed on something thin and pointed, which seemed sturdy to the touch. He pulled it out, and realised he was grasping the heel of a red stiletto-heeled shoe.
"What the heck?" The words issued from his mouth a little louder than he would have liked and feeling uneasy, as if people were staring at him, he decided to move away quickly, and was about to do so when something grabbed his attention. There was a soft moaning from somewhere nearby. He looked on the ground and saw a dark mass shuffling across the ground toward him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night, he saw that it was a person. A boy. The scrubby dark hair, plump facial features and glasses indicated it was Ian Dunn.
"Ian," said Will, horrified. "What happened?"
Ian seemed to be having trouble breathing.
"Over... over there..." wheezed Ian, Will tried to help his classmate up, but Ian was rigid and weighty. He put his friend down, and noticed that a bullet hole was in the boy's chest, seemingly puncturing the lung. It seemed Ian's warning had taken a lot of his ailing strength, as when he was put back down, he closed his eyes and stopped feeling the pain.
Will was frantic. He did not know what to do; a classmate had just died on him, which meant that already somebody was killing people. His only clue was where Ian had indicated, which was near some trees. Gazing over, he saw with a pang what looked like another corpse on the ground, that of a girl. His plan of fleeing the building was abandoned; he stared moving over to where the girl lay, her straight blonde hair over her face, when he heard a rustling from beside him. Tom Clarke materialised from behind one of the thicker trees, saw the red shoes in William's hand, apologised, and shot him twice through the heart.

Charlotte had been the next person to depart after William Hutchinson. True to herself, she tore up the corridor, a bag in each hand, determined to flee the scene. As she reached the top of the corridor, though, she decided she should find out what her weapon was. She slid round the corner from the door, and put her hands into her bag. She placed her hands on the cold weight of a machine gun of some sort, though she didn't know the make, of course. As she ran her fingers over the body of it, it suddenly dawned on her what she would be forced to do with it. She vowed not to use it unless absolutely necessary. As she thought this, she heard two gunshots from nearby. Her eyes were readjusting to the dark again, but her hearing was clear: the shots were coming from close-by, virtually straight ahead from where she was standing currently. She had to make a quick decision: either run round the corner and flee altogether, or find out who was firing the shots. At any rate, as she pulled out the gun to defend herself, the torch came out as well, and landed on the floor with a clatter. Shit.
She bent down to pick it up, and heard a gunshot narrowly miss her, hitting the wall just to the left of where her head had been. She shoved the torch in her bag and tried to move away from the gunman. The assailant was murderous. His strategy seemed to be to pick people off as they left the building, before they had the chance to defend themselves. Another gunshot zipped to her right, she dipped, trying to see her attacker clearly. As he moved forward, a light source hit the relief of his face. She took aim and mowed the small boy down in a shower of bullets. She walked over to him, seemingly leaving her stomach behind her, and looked down on his face. Tom Clarke did not appear to be moving any more. She had murdered someone; there was no going back now. She took the gun from his hand, found some ammunition dropped from his other hand, and fled the scene, tripping over the body of Sophie Easton, whose braided brown hair was punctured by a bullet hole through her brain. Charlotte screamed, and ran, barely noticing the bodies of Julia Edwards, William Hutchinson and Ian Dunn, the three of which seemed to be forming a line spanning several yards.

The next person to leave the room had been Edward Jones. He held his girlfriend Chrissie Saxon's hand, and took his possessions. As he neared the end of the corridor, he was still hoping it was some form of elaborate stunt, but the sound of machine gun fire just outside the door persuaded him not to take any chances. He slowed down and looked outside. It was do or die. He hurtled out of the room and breathed the cold air. Immediately he was greeted with the sound of a girl screaming in the near-distance. He saw Tom's crumpled body to his left. Somebody was killing people already! He veered to the right and headed in that direction. More bodies! Boys and girls were over the ground, and the killer was probably still out there, picking people off one by one. Eddie decided he wasn't taking any chances. He turned a corner and ran as fast as he could.
Tom was dying. He could feel the weight of the lead inside his body pressing down on his heart, and the faces of his four killings bearing down on his soul. He was done for, he knew it. He knew Charlotte had been the one to shoot him, he recognised her blonde plaits as she took the Beretta 9mm gun from his hand, but at least the burden was off him now. Lying still, he could feel waves of fatigue running over his body, soon to force him into submission and end his life. He had tried his best. He felt cold, as the snow continued to pour over his face, dampening it slowly. He wondered what happened after death. If there were such a thing as life after death, he hoped he might be able to see his victims and apologise to all of them. He had shot Dave Drake first, but the aim was poor, and he managed to escape his attacker with a minor injury. Sophie and Julia were both easy targets. He felt bad, killing the girls, but there again he felt bad about killing altogether. The suffering he must have put Ian through was unthinkable.
He decided not to think about it. What was done was done. He was done, too. He closed his eyes and decided to think about Samantha. She was brave about her impending death. He was another of the boys who secretly admired her inner strength. He reflected on some of her final words to him.
"Tom. Think about what you are about to do. You could end this now, and save everyone."
She had said them so calmly, yet she must have been terrified, knowing she would probably be dead within a minute. As Tom heard another set of feet leave the building nearby, he closed his eyes and was finally relieved of his burdens.
Girls #5 Easton, #6 Edwards; dead.
Boys #4 Clarke, #6 Dunn, #9 Hutchinson; dead. 42 remaining.