Only three people in 11D did not know anything about the grisly death of Samantha Carter. Her predecessors were all running in their own directions, hoping to get as far away from the base as they could. With every minute that passed, they knew that their classmates were distributing themselves across the breadth of the island, and there was every chance that the first person whom they encountered would be deadly. Tom Billings for one was running, hoping desperately that he could avoid doing what was being asked of him.

James Aldridge was still in denial about the entire situation. He continued moving, but there was absolutely no reason why he should be so scared, in his view. He was still desperately clinging to the idea that at any moment a truck would drive past and collect the scattered students and take them back to somewhere comfortable. He was obliged to stop moving for a moment, and folded in two, wheezing, his breath caught. He was too unfit to move about like this. In addition, his body clock was completely thrown; though it was clearly the middle of the night, he felt alert (or as alert as he could be expected to feel after being sedated for nearly nine hours; how they had managed to do this without getting at least one student to fall into a coma was remarkable, too). His mind was laced with delusions, which criss-crossed and blended into one another, forming a rich array of self-deceptions, a defence mechanism he had created unconsciously to defend himself from the truth. In a word: denial.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of water, and took a deep swig, his breath snorting over the rim. This was all a big trick; it had to be. But what if other people had fallen for it too, like he himself had almost done? What would happen if somebody actually did try to kill another of their fellows? Worse still, what if they succeeded? James tried to get his bearings, as he had been moving aimlessly, and had no idea whatsoever of where he was at that moment in time. His eyes scanned the surroundings, but he could not see anything noteworthy that he could use as a possible landmark. It was stupid of him to have run off aimlessly into the darkness. He fumbled in his bag again and put his hand upon the torch. He clicked the button and started scanning the landscape once more. His heart fell: there were still no clues on his location.
With his other hand he drank a bit more of the water, trying to listen into the silence. This was all a big trick; he was now convinced. But where was everybody? This feeling of isolation combined with his thoughts of vulnerability, and he decided he should look in his bag, to see if it helped solve some of his questions. Yet before he could reach into his bag one more time, he suddenly had the impression that he was not alone after all. He froze, and sure enough, there was the trampling sound of footsteps approaching him. Clutching the bag to his chest, he turned to face the sound, wondering what he should do. It was all a big trick, after all. Yet as his eyes tried to identify the boy approaching him, he was blinded by the intense light that was being shone into his face.

Lena had been running at breakneck speed. From her departure, she had turned left, and ran in a large anti-clockwise spiral, expanding from the centre, the base from which she had just fled. She was currently resting in a cave in the southwest of the island, her body recovered from the fatigue of running so far, so fast.
Although she was not a popular person, Lena always took part in various sports and activities. She was the tallest girl in the class, Standing at over six feet tall, and was always a choice for hockey and netball, her height working to her advantage, and guaranteeing her position on the athletics team each summer as the school's long jump champion. Those legs that sprung her to victory so often were currently throbbing under the strain of the running; she had not felt this pain at the time due to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Lena rubbed her forehead, and dragged her hand down her face. It was a fearsome face; she had a sharp, angular nose that teamed well with her steely brown eyes, sleek, black hair and thin lips. It was a face that commanded power, one that emanated pride, with hints of Eastern European decent in its structure. Lena did have ancestors from east Europe; her grandmother was from Serbia, and her great-grandmother was Turkish. Everyone on Lena's mother's side of the family always remarked on how much the girl looked like her grandmother: beautiful, yet authoritarian. In spite of Lena's Balkan heritage, she actually saw herself as being more Italian, as this was were her father had been born. Rocco Amornie and his parents moved to London when he was nine, and sixteen years later, he was married to a girl called Agniezska, who was pregnant with his daughter. Lena liked to think of herself as having the best mixture of genes from around Europe, and few people would dare to argue anything to the contrary.
She was sitting on a protruding slab of rock, a QSZ-92 handgun between her palms. She gazed at it, marvelling at its shape and presence. She had never seen a gun before, let alone held one. It was mesmerising; she had received a good weapon, one that could make the difference between life and death. She sucked in the frigid air and looked up. The roof of the cave was quite low, perhaps nine feet above the floor; at any rate, she could have stood on the rock she was on at the moment and been incapable of standing upright. It seemed an ideal refuge, somewhere where she could stay for a few hours, perhaps until the sun came up, as it was quite inconspicuous to the casual eye, especially in the dark. Though it overlooked the beach, the cave was elevated above sea level slightly, which meant it was relatively dry inside. Wondering whether the tide was coming in or going out, Lena looked over the beach, and saw a dark line across the length of it. She assumed that this was where the water had reached, and that it was going out once more. The time was half past two, according to the watch on her wrist. Everyone would be out, playing the game. Lena never felt vulnerable. Ever. She instead thought about those few people who mattered to her. Lydia and Sampson were both out now, she presumed, trying to either establish their safety, or to seek shelter alone. It was even conceivable that either of them would be looking for Lena herself.
Figuring that she would be safe until daybreak, Lena moved toward the back of the cave and decided to get some rest. Her mind shifted away from her two closest friends, to somebody else she quite liked: Harry Smith. She respected Harry a lot, partly because she had known him for many years, and appreciated the pressure that he was under with his mother's obligatory vice. She also liked his fairness and the way he would always like to make informed decisions before passing judgement on a person. Yes, she reflected, if the unthinkable were to happen and she was to die, she would like Harry to win. He was a worthy winner in her mind. Lena fidgeted on the dusty floor, contemplating what she would have to do to survive. Kill. That was a given, she realised, but what would be the best strategy? Should she go it alone, or protect herself by commanding a small group of people? The more she dwelled on it, the more she came to accept that there was no simple formula to win; the very nature of success depended entirely upon the actions of every student in the entire class. She closed her eyes, her body curled up, hidden behind the rocks. Lena wanted rest, but she knew that she would probably not sleep right now. The sea was loud, the tide roaring with every cycle. Lena lay with her eyes shut, thinking about her boyfriend.

Harry and Melissa were moving east. They were going to try and find Ben Portwood, their friend, and possibly his friend, James. Melissa was a little reluctant to meet the other two boys; her main excuse was that she was unsure about whether or not she trusted them, but the truth was she just didn't like either of them that much. Harry had stopped listening to these complaints a while ago, knowing that he needed to focus on where he was going. He had met with Ben moments after he had left the building. Ben wanted the two of them to go somewhere well hidden, but Harry had refused to leave Melissa alone. In his mind, he had promised to look after her once Samantha had been killed, and this sentiment was enforced when he left the building, and saw the bodies lying everywhere. He had moved quickly away from the scene, in case their killer was still present, but shortly before reaching Ben, he realised this was improbable; Lucy Shale had left the room immediately before him, and because she was injured, she would have been an easy target. Harry concluded that if she had managed to get away unscathed, the scene must have been clear. He had returned to the scene, and watched Natasha Timbershire and David Vales go their separate ways. It was then that he decided to check his bag and felt his face fall when his hands landed upon the very large frying pan. Assuming the coast was still clear, Harry moved out of his position, and checked the bags of the deceased.
Melissa's mind was dull as she attempted to follow her boyfriend. She was carrying her switchknife in her hand, closed, her head moving from side to side as she perused the dark landscape. The couple were travelling because Harry judged Ben to be a trustworthy accomplice. Although Melissa did not believe Ben was any kind of threat of course, she did have reservations about Harry's judgement. One thing she had learned about her boyfriend was that he had a very fatalistic mindset. He often seemed to think that bad things that happened were supposed to happen, and that was just the way life went. Even something as profound as this Battle Royale they were currently in was probably some form of twisted destiny. She wondered what Harry was thinking about the Program, and whether this may persuade him to reconsider his mentality, even at such a late stage. She was also worried that he was not thinking in enough depth about matters, and that his heart was clouding his judgement. Melissa was convinced that Tom Clarke had been the one to kill the other four students outside the building to the west. She had deduced this from simply examining the wounds on their bodies, and that Tom's were different to the other four's. Her belief on the matter was compounded by the map which, when she had looked at it with Harry, showed that the other four victims left the building shortly after Tom himself had. Tom was dead, and Tom was a killer. Melissa knew this, but she still could not bring the matter up with her boyfriend. She wondered whether or not he had deduced this either, but she didn't ask, as she dreaded the answer slightly. As hers was the better weapon, it was up to her to protect them if anybody decided to attack. She was scared of this responsibility, but was prepared to do what she had to do.

"Who's there?"
James was peering from behind his palm, trying to distinguish the identity of the person currently blinding him; after a few moments, the torch was switched off, and the other boy approached him. With the light out of his eyes, James recognised the silhouette with ease. It was Ben.
"Ben, thank God," said James, a little breathless. "Have you come to take me back?"
Ben looked at his red-haired friend with confusion.
"Sorry," Ben said politely, "I don't understand what you mean."
The two boys were standing on the western side of H-6, a couple of silhouettes sketched against the greyish sky. James put his bag on the floor, and persisted with his delusions.
"I mean to say," he said, his voice desperately anticipating an affirmation, "it is all a big joke, right? This is one huge set-up, and we don't have to kill anyone at all? That's right, isn't it? You're here to take me back, so everyone can go home, yeah?"
Ben said absolutely nothing, but stared blankly at his friend's face, completely amazed by the level of denial. James looked at Ben, waiting for a reply, and bounced on his heels nervously when none came. He decided to try a different approach.
"These collars," he began, inspired by Ben's neck. "They don't explode. How can they? It's a fantasy. There's no way in which it could happen, right? I mean, think about it: bread and water? And weapons? It's all a big hoax!"
Ben scowled at the tactlessness of his friend. How could he be so stupid and cruel, forgetting Sam's death like that? Then a thought struck him.
"James, you left the room first didn't you?" The bespectacled redhead nodded whilst fingering his collar. "You didn't see what happened after you left, did you?"
James shook his head, but had begun yanking his collar.
"What are you doing?" Ben yelled, yanking his friend's hand away. "For your information, that will explode if you're not careful."
James wondered why his friend was going along with this sick joke, and asked about the rest of the class. The pair of boys moved along, and Ben filled his friend in on everything he knew.

Stephanie and Jitinder were heading west. Although they had heard a couple of voices along the way, neither of them encountered anybody else for the remainder of their trip.
"How much chain do you have there?"
Jitinder was walking alongside Steph, both of them seeing the horizon get nearer with every step. Both students were filled with despair; they depended on one another.
"About five metres, I think," Steph said tonelessly. She was thinking about Sam. What had happened to Natasha and Sophie? Were they even still alive? She had seen a boy's body outside the building when she left, though she didn't know who it was. To think the unthinkable was unthinkable.
"I keep thinking about what my family would be doing right now," said Jitinder. "I wonder if my dad would be broken by this abduction of mine. He would probably still put on a brave face."
"Just because your dad behaves like that," Steph said, trying to console her new friend, "doesn't mean he doesn't care about you. You are his son, after all."
"Second son," Jitinder said. "I'm the youngest, so supposedly the stupider of the two. I'm a spare."
Steph paused to brush her shoes on the grass; they had trampled through some boggy marshland about twenty minutes beforehand.
"Think about it, though," she said. "Imagine how your family will behave, knowing you're dead. That's love. Though he may not be affectionate, it doesn't mean he doesn't care for you. Quit being so emo."
Jitinder looked at Steph, stunned by what she had just called him, and suddenly burst out laughing. She joined him; laughter seemed to be the most effective way to rebel against this Program.
"As for me," she said a few minutes later, "I'm getting the impression that I've wasted my life. I would sit about in libraries all the time because it was easier than engaging in conversation with people. No wonder everyone thought I was a freak."
"I never thought you were a freak," Jitinder interjected. Steph raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, maybe just a little. But at any rate, you aren't a bad person. I hardly spoke to you, and I regret that now, because... you're okay."
Steph felt warmed, but remained persistent. "No, it was me who should have made more of an effort to socialise with people. I just..."
"Just what?"
"I wouldn't speak to people that much because I always had the feeling that I had nothing worthwhile to say to anyone, and didn't join in with other people's conversations in case I annoyed them."
Jitinder got the impression that she had wanted to say this for a long time. He decided to reciprocate.
"Do you mean you felt awkward in social situations?"
"Yes."
"I used to, too, but now what I generally find is that people don't really mind what you say to them, so long as you say something. Is this place okay, do you think?" The pair of them stopped by a tree, the sea nearby; Steph nodded at Jitinder's query. "Yeah, people just appreciate you talking to them, and things grow in that way."
Steph did see his point, and was grateful for his saying so, but she knew it was too late for her to act upon this advice. Here she was, wrapping her chain around a thick bough of the tree, with her friend looking on. During their walk in the past forty-five minutes, the pair of them had swapped so many details about their lives, it was like they had been friends for years. She wondered what it would have been like had they befriended one another at an earlier stage in their education, rather than making judgements upon one another.
"I'm scared," Jitinder confessed, as he helped fasten the two ends of the chain into slipknots. "I never thought it would come to this."
"How were you supposed to think it would come to this?" Steph said sardonically. "This situation is unthinkable."
The two of them looked down. The tree they were by was positioned perfectly. There was a cliff in the near-distance, but judging by the slight changes in atmospheric pressure, it was not particularly high. This tree seemed to have a sturdy branch that stretched over some earth that fell away from the base of the trunk, its roots sticking out and draping downward.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Steph?"
Stephanie said nothing. She was picturing Samantha's face. She had seen its state when she left the room. The girl was lying on the floor, its eyes half-open, a stunned expression on its face. Steph had noticed that, even though her clothes were stained in blood, the school crest on Sam's jumper was unbloodied. Steph was dimly aware of the fact her classmate had been gripping her school jumper at the point of death, as if to brace herself for the impact. The crest of White Hill School was as clear in her mind as the face of their deceased friend.
"I am sure."
She reached out across the overhang for one of the nooses. She stuck her neck out and slipped it through. Jitinder's dexterity with the chains had been remarkable. He too was putting his neck through the other hole, though his hands were trembling considerably more. In his mind, suicide was a sin. But so was murder. To do anything that supported the nature of the Program was to condone murder, and this seemed to be the lesser of the two evils.
"Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
The two students hugged one another, glad that the last person they would see would be each other. They took one another's wrist, wrung it in fear, and both leaped forward; their bodies kicked in protest, trying to regain their footing on the ground. But as the earth fell away from them, so did the troubles of their lives. There were a couple of faint snaps, and the bodies of the two friends hung still, their bodies rocking gently side by side. It was all over; they were free.
Boys #20 Singh, dead; Girls #10 Green, dead. 40 remaining.

John Trent and Robert Fraser were safe. They had both found an excellent place to hide: a ranger station in the thick woodlands on the south coast. They were in E-7, and felt safe and secure. It was warm here, too, plus they had found a tin of beans, and a few matches. Rob was sitting in a chair, playing with his shovel.
"I should be going to bed right now," he said, his voice low.
"It's three o'clock."
"I know."
"Jesus, man, and you get up at what time for work? Insomniac."
John was cooking the beans over a paraffin stove. He had no idea exactly how long this island had been abandoned, but the essentials all seemed to work.
"Can I have a look at your weapon, mate?" Rob asked his friend, who nodded. He got up and rummaged through the taupe bag, and found something that looked like a gun, only it couldn't be. Its barrel was too large, and it seemed to have a needle sticking out of it. He examined the bag further, and saw a number of darts and a few vials of fluid, all in a drawstring bag.
"What is this?"
"I'm not entirely sure," said John, "but I think it's a tranquilliser gun."
"Sweet," he said in awe. "You know, that might be quite a good weapon, depending on how powerful the drug is."
"True, but you have a bigger weapon than me."
The two friends looked at one another and both saw the smut in John's comment at the same time. The pair of them snorted at the comment, and, like boys such as Rob and John do, thought immediately of their penises.
"I want to do it," said John, settling back into his chair, "one more time before I die. The last time I did it wasn't that great, and I want to make up for it."
John nodded in understanding. "Y'have anyone in mind?"
Well, I was thinking about that girl with the dark hair," replied Rob dreamily. "Y'know. What's-her-name. Martina. Nice rack."
"Yeah, yeah," agreed John, stirring the beans. "Or Melissa of course. She's fine."
"Obviously," Rob said, smiling. "Who wouldn't? I'd also go for either Kim Small or Lucy."
"What, God girl?" John laughed, pouring the beans onto a plate. "She's pretty, yeah, but I wouldn't go for Lucy."
"Why not?"
"Erm," John thought about this, but couldn't articulate a quantifiable answer. "I've heard she has this thing for you, y'know."
"What, Lucy?" Rob's ears pricked up at this, and his brow furrowed. He knew he was quite good looking, but partly due to his constant absence, he knew nothing about this girl's crush.
"Oh, yeah," John said, picking up a pair of spoons. "If you asked her, I'm sure she'd go for it."
Rob said nothing. He wondered about what his friend had said. If so, he may very well try asking this girl the question. He was sure she wouldn't want to die a virgin. There was every possibility she would go to him, that away from her family and with no rules, she would readily be seduced by him. John and Rob sat in the cabin in the woods, eating beans and talking about sex for several hours further.

Alice Daniels had met up with Graham Brooke. The pair of them were in E-4, but were moving south once again. There was no real strategy between them other than to keep moving. Both of them were wondering about their futures. Alice, a diminutive girl with dark hair that curled outward in a kink at the end, was leading the way, clutching her bow and arrows. She had no idea how to use a bow, let alone how to use one against a friend. Her companion was humming to himself as a way of pacification. He was keeping his hacksaw in his bag; it wouldn't be of much use in battle. They noticed that the snow was starting to stop falling, and while it hadn't been settling very well on the muddy ground, it was certainly noticeable. Ordinarily, Alice liked the snow, but in this instance it just had face value: frozen rain.
"Would you object to me," Alice said slowly, stopping to look at her companion in profile, "trying to find a couple of other people?"
Graham shrugged. "I don't see why not."
"Good. I think it's important that we try and get a bunch of people together. And no offence," she added, smiling, "but I don't think either of us would last very long by ourselves.
The boy nodded, his eyes glazed over. There was somebody he needed to see as soon as he could. it wasn't that important, but he felt it was necessary for peace of mind.
"I might need to find David later, actually."
"Which one? Vales or Drake?"
"Vales."
"Any particular reason?"
Graham shook his head, deciding that Alice did not need to know his motives. He looked into Alice's green eyes and smiled, comforted. She was such a friendly girl; she loved to take care of people who needed it the most. Right now, that was everybody in 11D. She was the class guardian angel, and it seemed like that she would have her work cut out, should she want to do her job.
"It's astounding," she said. "I don't really imagine anybody killing each other, yet the situation we're in seems totally real."
"Do you honestly think," Graham responded, his voice slightly higher than normal, "that there are some people in our group who are already murdering one another?"
Alice shook her head, believing firmly in people's morality.
"No, they aren't," she replied, her voice firm and confident.
"Yes, they are," replied a faint voice from behind them.