It's on now, the days are long now
The ups and the sundowns, in a twisting mind
Harper Robbins.
London, England.
Jackson's words reverberate in my head. We have to choose.
Amidst the immediate chaos- essentially drowning in the others' shouting- I must seem like the calm one. But the reason I'm so still and quiet is that I'm frozen with terror.
Facing execution is one thing, but it's something else entirely to be causing it.
It takes a good few minutes before the room is forced into silence. I don't understand the cause of Trina's abrupt spasming or her shrieks of pain until a spark from her metal collar, biting into her neck as if it has teeth, snaps my attention away from the television screen.
She's not the only one to be shocked into submission, but being directly in front of me, her thrashing is the most obvious, and irritating. The abrasive clash of metal against her desk only exacerbates my building headache and the scratching sensation behind my eyes. But as much as I want to be far away from her, I can't exactly go anywhere. None of us can.
"I'd advise the rest of you," Anabel addresses us, her voice far more stern than before, "to not try to push your luck with your collars. Electric shocks are the least they're capable of, as you'll soon see. If you'd prefer to remain unharmed, I'd suggest keeping your head down, and focusing on deciding who you're going to vote for."
I look down at my paper. There's a good thirty of us, which should be enough options to find at least someone I don't like. But the more I think about it, the more impossible this seems.
I barely know any of these people well enough to hold a conversation with them. How am I possibly supposed to know who deserves to live or die?
"The good news is, you only have to choose six people. The bad news is, we're on a bit of a time crunch… so I'd like your decisions to be made within the next ten minutes."
Ten minutes… that's hardly any time!
"This may be easier for some of you than others," Anabel continues. "But consider your options. Surely, there are a few people here who've hurt you in the past, or even since coming to camp. A bully. A gossip, maybe. This would be your easiest excuse, and means, to seek revenge, given that your votes are both anonymous… and mandatory. In any case, it's your decision, and I'm not here to tell you how to make it. But you must choose six people. Any fewer, and the difference will count against your own total."
I really have no choice. I'm being forced to pick who I want dead, or else, I'm essentially writing my own death sentence. There's no way around it.
A timer appears in the top corner of the screen, flashing numbers. 10:00. 9:59. 9:58. "Your time begins now," says Anabel, and all around me, the others rush to re-read their papers.
I blink, trying to shake my daze. Everything is happening so quickly.
Focus, I tell myself. You have no choice. You have to do this.
Shivering, I glance away from the rapidly decreasing numbers on-screen— 9:53, 9:52, 9:51— and stare down at my paper. GIRL #4, the header reads. Like I'm just a number. I guess that's all we're all good for in the end. Grades and incomes and body counts. Maybe I can convince myself that these faces are all just numbers in a game in which I have no emotional commitment. That has to be easier than recognizing the truth.
No. Who am I kidding? There's no easy way to kill someone I've seen in the halls for four years. I truly don't think I can vote for anyone.
It's different from killing them outright. Of course, I don't really know. I suspect, if it came to it, I'd be physically better-prepared to withstand a fight than most of the girls here, and a good number of the boys, too. Regardless, that's the sort of thing that would depend on my own skill and choices, and I trust those enough. But I've never been good at making decisions for anyone besides myself.
Mentally, I scroll through the faces, trying to keep my breathing relatively even. I'm not really worried about being a target, nor do I think I should be nervous. Keeping to myself, and never trying to be someone I wasn't, should keep me relatively safe. Nobody will think to choose me. The negative side of this, of course, is that I don't exactly have enemies.
Quincy, Mariana, Blake, Juliet, and Jeremiah are the first five faces on my page. Not one of them deserves to die. But an idea crosses my mind that might make this voting possible for me. If I have to pick six, and I know I won't be able to choose fairly regardless… I have to do this mathematically. All I need to do is break them into groups of five, starting from the top, and pick one from every quintet.
Even then, it takes everything I have to faintly mark the box next to Quincy's portrait. He won't even know I voted for him. He'll just see a check mark. And that seems worse than the alternative, to be backstabbed and to never know who turned on him. But if anything has been established today, it's that nothing is ever going to be fair.
For a few minutes, my system works out. There's someone in every chunk who's either been excessively rude to me, or who I know has bullied someone else. Chanel earns my vote from the second group. Gabrielle is the easy choice out of the third quintet, while Shane takes a few minutes of internal debate for me to eventually check off. But the next group of Dane, Alex, Monica, and Gwen- I would be the fifth- stumps me.
I need to stick to my system. That's the only way I can finish this without being tempted to go back and scratch out all my previous choices. But I've never had any bad encounters with any of those four, and I'm not one to make a choice based on rumors or any sort of outside influence. This is my decision alone to make.
I find my eyes creeping down the list, to the last five: Seraphina, Giles, Trina, Nico, and Simone.
I know it's wrong to choose anyone based on temporary feelings, but maybe, I can make an exception. Maybe picking someone for being unpleasant is more fair than relying on numbers and the luck of who gets grouped with who. In any case, Simone and Trina have been far more rude and obnoxious than anyone from Dane's list. I would know. I had to room with them.
My check marks are imperfect, scrawled with shuddering fingers that can't be still. If I wanted to take my choices back, it'd be impossible. Crimson ink seeps into my paper, thick as blood.
Done.
I exhale. Tension leaches out of the muscles in my neck and shoulders. I'm not happy, but more so relieved.
There's nothing to do but wait out the last six minutes. Dropping my pen, I lean my chin on my free hand and watch the time fall away. 5:36. 5:35. 5:34.
But the remaining time proves to be anything but peaceful. At 5:21, a panicked voice cries out from two rows over.
"You can't do this to me!"
If I've gotta go first,
I'll do it on my terms.
Shane Curran.
Toledo, Ohio.
"You can't do this to me!" Giles howls.
I'm jerked from my thoughts. Next to me, Dane and Gabrielle swivel their heads in our direction. I turn around. Behind Monica, Giles seems panicked as he faces Doran. "You can't just do this!"
"What's going on?" I say to Monica, my voice low.
"I saw you check my name," Giles says, leaning over towards Doran. The other boy struggles to cover his page with his free hand. "I just want to know why. What did I do?"
"I just had to pick someone," Doran explains shakily. "It's nothing personal-"
"Nothing personal!" Giles scoffs. "This is entirely personal! And I deserve to know what I ever did to you, because I'm fairly sure that I've always been nice to you."
"Leave him alone," I growl. "It doesn't matter. It's one vote."
"As far as I know," he says, turning to me. Doran shrinks away. "But who's to say someone else didn't just give me one vote?"
Giles surveys the room, glaring at anyone who meets his eyes. "The rest of you better not have picked me, 'cause I swear… I swear…" He shakes his head. "Look, I don't deserve this, okay? I can't die right now. I can't."
"Dude, get over yourself," Monica snaps. "No shit, you don't want to die. You think anyone else does?"
"You really want to argue with me right now?" He turns on her. "I've still got spots open. I won't hesitate. I'll check your name."
"You wouldn't," she says, but her eyes widen, registering his threat. "We were in a group together. You wouldn't-"
"Stop it!" I shout. "Stop fighting. Obviously this is impossible. Giles, you're only going to fuck yourself over by pointing fingers everywhere else."
"I'm not doing that. I'm just saying-"
"You are!"
"Shut up!" He groans, frustrated. "No one gets it! You think you do, but you don't. I haven't been home since Christmas. I haven't seen my parents in almost six months. I can't say goodbye to them. There's so much- so much- I'm never going to get to do if I die right here. There's so much that's going to be left unsaid and undone and I swear to God- if you vote for me over one of these fucking nobodies- then there's something seriously fucking wrong with you."
"Nobodies?" Monica repeats.
"Like him!" He gestures to Nico, sitting against the right wall. Nico blinks back. "Does anyone even know this kid? I mean, can anyone look at him and say, Wow, I love this kid. He is just so funny and nice and relevant-"
"Hey, man," Nico tries to argue. "What did I do-"
"That's what we're all wondering. What have you ever done here? What gives you a good reason to say you shouldn't get my vote?"
"Leave him alone," I say.
"But why not pick him?" Giles continues. "Does he even have a last name? Does anyone know? What I'm saying is that I'm friends with some of you. You'd regret killing somebody you knew. But if you just checked off someone you barely even thought about- barely even knew existed- I don't think it would even count."
No one else wants to defend Nico. As cruel as Giles is, they're being smart, protecting themselves by staying quiet and low, mulling over Giles' words. And he's right, in a way; it would make sense to vote for someone I don't care about, but that gives me too many options.
The better choice is to vote for who no one else cares about.
"You're right, Giles," I say. "You should vote for someone you don't care about. But not him." For a second, everything feels perfectly still. "Pick me."
"You?" Gabrielle asks.
Juliet shakes her head "Wait- you aren't actually- saying we should vote for you-"
"Yeah, I am."
"I can't just do that-"
"Yeah, you can. Check my name off-"
"Do you realize what you're saying?"
"I'm not retarded. You think I haven't thought long and hard about this? Giles was right. Pick someone you're not close to. Pick me. You aren't going to care if I'm gone."
I'm not looking for pity. I don't pity myself. If we're all going to be dead by the end of this hell fest anyways, I might as well just get it over with.
"You're an idiot if you think we don't care," Monica says. "Even if all those group things we did were bullshit, they had to mean something. I mean... I never would have talked to you before. Now I'm trying to defend you because- because I care! And I know the others care, too-"
"Nothing that happened this week mattered," I say, heat rising into my neck and cheeks. "You're trying to make it all mean something, but it was all a lie. All this fake-ass bonding was a ruse. We aren't friends. Stop acting like it."
"Shane!"
"Why are you guys trying to fight me on this?" I shout, done trying to be patient. "You act like talking me out of this is, first of all, possible, and it's not. Secondly, you think you're all some sort of heroes for sticking up for me? You don't really care. Remember how it was all my fault we didn't have water the last few days? Be mad about that. Be mad about the fact that I'm the one who kept losing us our senior privileges back at school. Chances are I stole drugs off half of you. I wish I'd knocked you out, Quincy, when I had the chance, because I know you always hated me. Well, guess what? Here's your chance to get back at me. All of you. Stop trying to act all noble and just vote for me."
Blake tries to argue, but I cut him off, too. "What choice do you have? You can either kill me now, and be done with it, or wait and kill me in cold blood in the next few days. Pick your poison. And for fuck's sake…" I read the clock. 0:33. "Do it fast. You're wasting your time."
Realizing that only half a minute remains, the others have no choice but to get back to their papers. Meanwhile, I lean back against my chair. The only vote I've made is for myself. That's a decision I don't regret for an instant.
This is how it was meant to be, I tell myself, watching the clock tick down the last few seconds. 0:03. 0:02. 0:01.
If I'm going to go, it's on my own terms.
I'm tired of traitors always changing sides.
They were friends of mine.
Simone Collins.
Los Angeles, California.
I've just finished marking my final two choices when the buzzer sounds.
Next to me, Freya shrieks. Shane just rolls his eyes. Personally, I'm over his act. I don't care if he asked for it. I only voted for him because I had no one better to pick.
I scan my choices one more time. Gabrielle. Quincy. Chanel. Shane. Giles. Nico.
The first three were always cruel- either to me, or to my friends. I've never liked Giles- he's always so annoying, and greasy, and gross. And then, there's Nico, who's basically irrelevant. No one ever had any good dirt on him. So why should I even care about him?
A door in the corner opens, and a middle-aged man emerges. Aside from the dark, spotless suit he wears, everything about him is dull, from his plain brown hair to the expression with which he surveys the room. As he passes me, picking up the papers one-by-one, I kick my leg out into his shin. Immediately, he pulls a thin black remote from his pocket, jabbing it towards my neck. I shrink back, clearly outmatched. Whoa.
Luckily, his motion is just a threat. But it serves its purpose by keeping everyone else in check. Aside from Mariana crying out as he pulls the paper from her desk- "I'm not done!"- the others are silent, not wanting to provoke him. Still, we're not useless. When he turns his back, a whole lot of middle fingers go up behind him.
Having finished his circuit, pages in hand, the man returns to the front of the room, and stacks the papers on the podium. He looks out at us. The room is eerily tense.
"Who are you?" Gerard says, before the man can begin.
"It doesn't matter who I am," he replies. "I'm only here to tally the votes, which is what you all should be more worried about."
"It's the least you can tell us," Gerard retorts, unperturbed. "It can't hurt to know. If you're going to kill us, we deserve to know."
There are nods of agreement and some approving mumbles. But not too loud, not enough to draw individual attention like Gerard has.
"Benjamin Caville," the man finally says, to my surprise. "United States Secretary of Education."
"What are you doing at a private school?" Dane asks, before he can think.
A hint of a smile surfaces in the edges of Benjamin's cheeks. "Only looking," he says, and his expression returns to its stoic form. "Technically, there's nothing I can do. But all that is necessary has been already taken care of… I'm here now to make sure this process goes as smoothly as possible. So shall we get down to business?"
It's clear his question isn't really a question. He taps the podium. Instantly, behind him, what I thought was a plain whiteboard lights up in a glaring fluorescent glow. Our faces fill the screen in three rows of ten. He taps the podium again, and Chanel's portrait enlarges.
"First up," Benjamin says, beginning to read from the first page. "Chanel Agresti. Votes for Wesley Byrne, Gabrielle Harman, Shane Curran, Trina Kellington, Giles Herring, and Simone Collins."
Screams erupt from all directions.
"You lied!" Alaina screams.
"You said this was anonymous!" Chanel shrieks.
"This is a joke, right?" I sputter, shocked. "Chanel, you fucking didn't-"
"Shut up!" the whore snaps. "What happened to this being all secret? I didn't even write my name-"
"You had your numbers at the top," Benjamin explains. "Even if you didn't know, we did."
"That's not fair-"
"Wesley Byrne," Benjamin continues, his amplified voice drowning ours out. Unlike Anabel, he seems to want this over with as soon as possible. Good, I think. I can't wait to wring Chanel's neck for voting for me. "Votes for Chanel Agresti, Quincy Stark, Gabrielle Harman, Giles Herring, Simone Collins, and Trina Kellington."
Twice in two people. This is just a coincidence, I assure myself, ignoring my racing heartbeat. Chanel's just a bitch. I never even liked Wes. I don't care what they think.
But as Benjamin goes down the list, the less I can assure myself it's all a mistake. Halfway through the papers, I allow myself to count the votes. Only three people have more votes than me: Quincy. Gabrielle. And Trina.
I have more votes than Giles. Giles. How embarrassing. Technically, he's up there, too, with enough points against him to be executed if we were to end the voting now. That hardly matters. I'm in line to be killed, too.
It's when Mariana fucking Brinley has the audacity to pick my name that I can't stay silent anymore.
"What did I do?" I beg her, everyone. Tears prickle at the edges of my vision. "I just wanted to be nice! You all were so nice… I didn't mean to do whatever it was…"
No one says anything.
"Well?" I snap. "Why do you all suddenly hate me?"
Alaina finally speaks up. "Simone, you have a huge mouth. People tend not to like it when you get into their business and spread it around."
My mouth opens, then closes.
"She's right, dude," says a voice next to me. I look over. Brandon just shrugs. Asshole. Bitch. Fuck both of them.
I turn back to Alaina, a memory resurfacing. Might as well go with it. "Yeah, well people also tend to not like it when you cheat on them by fucking your roommate. But that didn't stop you, did it?
Alaina's jaw drops, her face turning pink. "That's… not true," she says, but the waver in her voice suggests otherwise.
Next to me, Brandon starts to chuckle. I glare at him. "This isn't funny. It's sick. You all voted for me and not this lying, cheating dyke-"
"Shut up!" Alaina shrieks.
"Stop it," Benjamin orders, but it's only through brandishing his remote again that he makes us fall silent. Still, I'm glaring daggers at her back. She deserves to die. Not me.
It's then that the reality of the situation strikes me. Am I actually going to die?
I shake the thought from my head. Impossible. The others, yes. But they don't have connections like I do. Once I'm out there, I'll find my way out. It's not a question of how, but when.
As for the others… I'm sure their funerals will be tragic and lovely. But I really can't afford to think of anyone else.
"Simone Collins," Benjamin reads again. My stomach lurches. I hadn't even been listening to who was voting.
Up on the board, another tally mark appears under my name. I don't let myself look long enough to count them.
Half the room still has to vote. It's not over yet, I tell myself.
But another voice, small and meek, suggests the unthinkable. Yes, it is.
See, now a starburst looks just like a blood orange
Don't it just make you want to cry?
Freya Pritchard.
Fairbanks, Alaska.
"Blake Chapman," Benjamin continues. "Votes for Gabrielle Harman, Giles Herring, Simone Collins, Yuto Ebisu, Nico Marano, and Trina Kellington."
"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice, to nobody in particular.
Benjamin moves down our row, starting with my votes. I only chose Trina, Alaina, and Quincy, and I feel terrible for it. But I couldn't bring myself to vote for anyone else. No one should have to die.
Like me, Shane refuses to vote. Six marks appear next to his name. But he doesn't accumulate any more from our row.
"I told you to vote for me," he says after Juliet's votes are read. "Blake, you too. Giles, I thought for sure-"
"I couldn't," Blake says. "I know you think you deserve this, but you don't. I turned my back on you before. I can't do this again."
Shane shakes his head in disbelief, staring at the whiteboard. He has a fair amount of votes, but he's not the highest earner. Part of that is my fault. I couldn't pick him. We became close this week, and I can't understand how he could possibly want to die. Whenever I think about death… about this entire situation… I have to blink tears away. I want to be strong, but everything is so terrifying.
But not for Shane. "Fine," he spits. "Fine."
I turn around as much as I can. His face reads all resolve, but it's flushed with anger. "If you all aren't going to honor my last fucking wish, I'll just do this myself."
His fingers clench around his collar, knuckles whitening. He starts to pull.
"No!" Monica screams from behind him.
"Shane!" Benjamin bellows.
What? What is he doing?
Shane's collar beeps more and more frantically, flashing red and white until its pitch is nearly a static whine.
"Get down, Freya!" Shane yells. The urgency in his voice tells me I don't have time to try to figure out why. I throw my head down against my desk, covering my head and ears with my arms.
Directly behind me, something explodes.
There's muffled screaming and an immediate stink of smoke, blood, and something burning. Only when I turn back around- slowly, carefully, my ears ringing as a result of the fracturing sound- do I realize what just happened.
There's a gaping hole in Shane's neck, charred flesh lining the edges of the wound. Blood drenches everything around him- the rest of his body, the desk, and the ground. Crimson is splattered onto Gerard, Simone, and Gabrielle, and flecks stain as far as the walls. Dane has droplets in his hair. Crimson streams from Shane's front and down to the floor.
Nausea wracks my stomach, and I put a hand over my mouth to keep from gagging. I have to look somewhere, anywhere else. But not at him. Not at his… his body.
But he can't be dead. Death isn't real. Death's not supposed to be something you face until you're old and sick. And then, it's inevitable. Here? Now? It's impossible that Shane could just be… dead. Without any warning.
Shane's not the only one injured by the blast. Behind him, Monica lays slumped over her own desk. Blood sticks in her hair, but I can't tell if it's hers or Shane's.
"Monica?" Eimer ventures.
Nothing.
Giles presses a hand to her shoulder, gently shaking her. "Monica. Mon."
"Don't shake her like that!" Juliet says, eyes wide.
"I'm just trying to see if she's breathing!" he shouts.
Silence. Ringing silence. And a pattering tap-tap of blood as it drips from the puddle on Shane's desk onto the floor.
Slowly, Monica stirs. "Fucking… hell," she groans, and grips at her head.
Everyone wants to look at her. Nobody wants to face the real issue, which is Shane's lifeless body.
"Monica, are you alright?" Gerard asks.
"Fine," she grumbles, though she looks anything but. Her skin is clammy and just as grey as the surrounding room. "I'm just fine."
Her gaze lifts to meet the back of Shane's head, which lolls back at an angle too extreme for a neck that's fully intact. She swallows roughly. "But Shane…"
Benjamin clears his throat. He seems to be avoiding looking at our corner of the room, and his lips open as if he wants to say something, but can't. "Well…" he starts, but can't finish his thought.
Something buzzes faintly at the front of the room. Mr. Caville taps his earpiece and listens to a silent speaker on the other end. "Right," he says moments later, his shoulders straightening again. "Mr. Curran's… premature… execution means only the first five vote-earners will be eliminated. The rest of the voting shall continue as planned."
It doesn't seem right that he should be so calm about this. Shane- who I only really knew for a few days, but feel like I could still have become friends with back at school- was just killed. He's gone. And Mr. Caville wants to pretend like it never happened.
"You should wait," I say, tears welling into my eyes. "Shane deserves more respect than that." I can feel twenty-nine pairs of eyes trained on me. "You can't keep going without giving him at least some time."
"We're on a tight schedule, Miss Pritchard-"
"Can't it wait?"
"Frey…" Jeremiah gives me a warning glance. But why? "It's okay. We have to let it go."
"I don't understand."
"I know." He shakes his head softly. "I'm sorry. Just trust me."
Mr. Caville rustles the stack of the remaining pages, slimmer now that two-thirds of the votes have been counted. "Simone Collins," he reads. "Votes for Gabrielle Harman, Quincy Stark, Chanel Agresti, Shane Curran, Giles Herring, and Nico Marano."
I lay my head back down on my desk, sobs rising up in my throat as much as I try to force them down. I don't know why this is happening to us. I don't understand why I can't stand up for Shane. All I can do is cradle my head in my arms, and hope that miraculously, I'll wake up from this nightmare somewhere far away, and all of us will be safe and sound.
Don't hang around once the promise breaks
Or you'll be there when the next one's made
Trina Kellington.
Barnard, Vermont.
Every time I try to steady my breathing, my chest heaves and shudders. Bile stings in the back of my mouth. Shane is dead. Shane is dead. Shane is dead.
And I could be next.
The only hope I have- the only thing that's keeping me from having a full-blown panic attack right now- is the hope that Anabel can keep her promises.
I did tell Trina that... I'd reward her for her loyalty. That's what Anabel said. I replay it again and again, trying to keep my mind off of the dead boy just two desks away. Replaying it, reanalyzing it. Does any of that suggest that she won't save me? Is there any chance I'm getting the wrong message?
I need her support right now. After seeing what was done to Shane… I can't go through that myself. I really can't.
Harper's votes are the last to be read. After her choices appear, the faces on the board vanish. Five reappear, larger and in the middle of the screen- the leading vote-getters. Quincy. Simone. Nico. Giles.
And me.
My heart lurches as the screen lights up. Anabel is back. Just in time, I think desperately.
Benjamin steps away from the podium. He looks us all up and down, as if he isn't really sure what to do with us. "Be strong," he finally says. "This is going to be the hardest thing you're ever had to go through. There is no way to avoid that. But believe in yourselves, and be brave. It's all going to be okay."
And then he's gone, slipping back through the door he came from.
I feel like I'm going to throw up. I look up at Anabel, praying my expression reads my clear desperation. Help me.
With a click, the shackles slide off my wrist and ankles.
I rub my wrist gratefully. I'm free, I think. That's when I see that only four others have been freed.
"Would the five of you- Miss Kellington, Mr. Stark, Miss Collins, Mr. Herring, and Mr. Marano- please make your way up to the front of the room."
I don't follow them.
"Miss Kellington?"
"You said you'd reward me," I say.
"Reward you?"
"For… for saying what I did about Griffin."
She tilts her head, mockingly entertaining the notion. "I'm afraid I don't remember."
You should have known, I taunt myself. No one would ever have your back. Not when you've backstabbed time and time again.
But I refuse to believe it. "You said it not half an hour ago," I say, aware of a crackling in my throat and fighting deperately to keep it down. "You promised me. You promised me-"
"You were played, Miss Kellington-"
"Call me by my fucking name!" I nearly scream, tears swelling into my vision. "None of this Miss Kellington bullshit. It's Trina. Say my name, you coward!"
"I was never going to save you." She smiles sadly, like she cares. "You did a terrible thing. You've always acted horrible to those around you, and that had to catch up with you."
"No," I beg. "No, no, no…"
Desperately, I make eye contact with Griffin. Unlike before, he matches my gaze, not looking away. "Help me," I beg. "She made me! She made me say it!" Tears are splitting my vision, and I throw up a hand to wipe them away. To keep myself from wailing. "Anabel, she told me... she threatened... please, I never meant to hurt you. Or anyone. Griffin!"
But his face is hardened. He turns away.
"Griffin, please," I sob. "I never meant any of it…"
"Miss Kellington, please come up to the front."
My legs start shaking so badly when I try to stand that I crumble against the side of my desk. But if I refuse to move, my throat will be blasted out right where I am.
I have to move if I want to die with any dignity at all.
I must be dragging myself forwards, but an instant later, my trembling body stands at the front of the room.
"Let these students be the example," Anabel says, her voice sturdier and more intense, booming through the speakers. In a combination of terror, dizziness, and nausea, I sink to my knees. "They stand here before you because they have failed you in some way. They have hurt you, or bullied you. Or they have been irrelevant, contributing nothing to your school or your society. Let these students be the example…" I can almost hear her snaky smile slithering back into her face- "of who you don't want to be."
My collar begins to rattle. My heart pumps so rapidly I can feel it across every inch of my body.
Quincy tries to make a break for it, sprinting first to the door Benjamin came from, then to the far door. Neither of them budge. He pulls against the handles, trying to force them to open. Instead, he slides helplessly to the floor.
The beeping below my ears is deafening. This is what terror is. This is knowing that nobody is going to save you.
You deserve this, a friendly voice reminds me. You're a terrible person, and you always have been. Just accept that you've earned what's about to come to you.
The sad thing is, I know I'm right. I don't even try to fight it anymore.
The end is so, so near. The beeping becomes suffocating. The vibrations cut into my neck. Just get it over with, I beg, but I have too much time. In those last seconds, I see the faces of all those who surely hate me.
But they don't look furious. They just look sick.
Directly in front of me, Dane is pale and shaking. Freya rocks back and forth, her hands over her ears. Grim's expressionless gaze sends chills up my neck. Tears stream down Jeremiah's cheeks.
A small hand presses into mine. Simone stares down at me, her eyes glazed over with tears. "Bye," she whispers.
The beeping reaches a static note.
The second before the pain hits, I squeeze her hand.
We'll welcome the new age, covered in warrior paint
Gabrielle Harman.
Stockton, California.
I should have looked away. I didn't.
Shane's death had little impact on me. Then again, I only saw the aftermath, and I've never been bothered by much gore. To be fair, I'm typically the one causing it.
But to watch five people's throats get ripped out at once… it's far too much to handle.
Their necks burst open like crimson fireworks. Screams and wails fills my ears from all directions.
I don't scream. Bile rises up in my throat, and gagging, I lean over and heave my dinner from last night. It tastes no different coming back up than it did going in.
Quincy lies in a pool of his own blood at the corner of the room. Nico and Giles have sunk to the floor, in messes just as gory.
Simone's hand, limp, slides from Trina's grasp as they tumble face-first to the floor.
I can't avoid staring straight at Shane's body as I unsteadily sit back up, and I nearly retch again. Get yourself together!
But it's not so easy. I realize there's blood all over me. It's splattered on my face, and I blink droplets from my eyes, taste it on my teeth, mixed vilely with the acid in my mouth.
My head throbs and my ears rush from the blast. But a few side effects are far better than the alternative.
To my left, Freya is crying openly. She's not the only one, either, but she's closest to me. I turn, ready to tell her off. Then I realize the significance of what I'm about to do.
Trina just died. Simone is dead. Quincy, and Giles, and Nico are dead on the floor. And Shane essentially took his own life. I have no right to snap at someone for crying about it.
Up on the whiteboard, the votes read in order. I would have been sixth. If it weren't for Shane, I would be dead right now, too.
No wonder. No wonder I was picked. I was just about to snap at a girl for crying after six people died.
What is wrong with me?
I can't focus on a word Anabel's saying. But as soon as I feel the shackles detach from my ankles, instinct takes over, and I'm on my feet.
I don't quite make it to the door. A jolt of pain spasms across my body. I try to fight it, but I can't control my legs. I tumble to the floor, twitching, just feet away from where Quincy lies.
"I will repeat myself," Anabel says, her unforgiving voice sounding distant in my roaring ears. "When you are released, you will move in an orderly fashion to the front of the room-"
"And just step all over their dead bodies, I'm assuming?" I practically spit. My body aches, but it's worth the new shock I receive for my comment, even if it nearly makes me groan out loud.
"Listen to me." Anabel has become far less forgiving. "You and your group will not fight back against your leaders, who will collect you and take you outside for transport. If you do, we will not hesitate to shock you again- or worse."
A few feet in front of me, the door through which Benjamin entered and exited opens again. Pairs of feet stomp into the room. Someone's fingers reach down gently, lifting my arm, but I yank my hand away. Even though my body trembles with the effort, I clamor back to my feet on my own will.
I vaguely recognize several of the people from camp. Two are Milo and Giselle, the latter of whom reached to help me. I don't look at her. I just stagger over to the rest of the kids, seething.
Collecting us turns out to involve a lot less hand-holding and a lot more handcuffing than the name suggests. Before I know it, I'm back to confinement, cold metal digging into the sensitive indentations in my wrists. A rough hand presses into the small of my back, urging me forwards towards the door. I try not to gag as I step over Quincy, his blood slicking the sides of my shoes.
Outside, the cold air bites at my bare arms, but we don't walk through the dark for long. I'm quickly pushed into the back of a van and into a seat on the side.
People fill in around me. My group and Giselle's group. There should be ten of us, but by the time the van doors are closed and I can get a good look at the people around me, I count only eight including myself.
Right, because Shane and Giles are dead.
"Buckle up, kids," our driver, unseen, snarls. "Hate for anything to happen to you on the way in."
"Where are we going?" I ask, knowing full well I'll never get a real answer.
"You'll see soon enough," he says. "For now…. sit back, try to relax, and enjoy the next fifteen minutes." He chuckles, and the van rumbles to a start. "They'll likely be the last peaceful ones you're ever gonna get."
You're not alone in anything
You're not alone in trying to be.
Brandon Prescott.
San Francisco, California.
There's seven of us in the van.
To my right: Griffin, Gerard, and Harper.
Directly across from me: Yuto.
Next to him, and clearly avoiding my stare: Alaina and Eimer.
I sigh, turning to stare out the window, only to find that they're completely blacked out.
No one wants to talk. Even if we did, what would we say? There's nothing that can sufficiently fill the silence that won't just make everything worse.
I think I'm going crazy. Something in seeing the others die must have completely fucked me up, because I actually find myself hoping to hear Simone aggressively whispering something in Alaina's ear. Or Trina saying something bitchy and passive-aggressive. Nico… I don't know. He wouldn't really be saying anything, if he were here. I guess that's why I voted for him, because I can't really tell when he's here and when he's not.
They don't feel dead to me. Not the way they should. We left them so quickly that it feels like they're all still in that room, distant but still alive, just left in the past. I let that thought linger. It's much easier to stomach than the truth.
Minutes drag on in silence. But eventually the van shudders, slowing down. I'm the first on my feet, balancing against the side wall as the vehicle comes to a stop.
The back doors are thrown open. Two adults hop up into the back. I don't catch much of the darkened landscape outside beyond a few shadowed trees because as soon as the man and woman are inside, they slam the doors shut.
"Turn," the woman says to me. Facing the wall of the van, I feel a rattling on my wrists, and the handcuffs release. I rub my wrists, a little peeved despite everything. Kinky…
One by one, she unlocks each of our handcuffs. Once liberated, Gerard seems to be the first to realize the extent of the situation, his features contorted with clear nerves. Alaina, trying to mask her fear, forces her expression to remain neutral. Only Harper looks convincingly unbothered.
When our hands are freed, the man picks up one of the packs from the pile at his end of the van. He heaves it to Griffin, who doubles over from the impact. "These bags," he announces, tossing the next one to Alaina, "contain your basic necessities. Some food. Water. A weapon."
Eimer cringes at that. I almost grin before I remember where we are. Focus.
"You won't know what you'll get until you're out there. Then you'll have a variety of other equipment. Someone might have rope, while someone else has medical supplies. This is the only advice I'll give you: you may be writing off the idea of having allies, but you may want that added protection, and the combination of your supplies may be easier than working alone. At least consider it."
A bag comes sailing my way. Instinctively, I catch it in one hand. Too easy, I muse.
As another pack flies into Harper's arms, I catch Griffin staring. My smirk freezes on my face.
We both need allies, I realize. And, besides me, he's by far the most physically competent person in this van.
Except. Except I don't- can't- trust him. If he's truly capable of turning on someone who trusts him, on threatening their life- God forbid Trina may actually have saved me for this- I can't risk it.
I'd really hate to go down from being stabbed in the back, especially when I'm such a clear favorite to win.
I turn away.
"You'll also find watches in your packs," the man continues, lifting his arm to display the device clamped around his wrist. "They may seem unnecessary, but I'd recommend holding onto yours. They may be more valuable than you think." He looks to his partner, who nods, her face stoic and unreadable. "For safety's sake, however, I wouldn't suggest getting a good look at anything until you've put enough distance between yourself and your competitors."
They push the back doors open again, and cool air rushes into the stuffy van. My stomach drops. This is happening already?
"Wait, that's it?" Alaina says quickly. "I mean, isn't there anything else you should tell us to- to prepare us? Anything?"
"Not much," he says, pulling Gerard's arm. The boy uncertainly jumps down. "Just stay within the boundaries-"
"There are boundaries?" I ask.
"You'll see," is his only clarification, as he shoves Alaina out of the van. "If you try to escape, we'll know. You're being tracked at all times. So stay on the mountain. And at all costs, do not allow more than one person to be alive by next Friday night, exactly one week from now. This is the name of the game. If you want to live, you have to take life. There's no escaping it."
I'm the last one out of the van. Even though his words make my heart drum in my chest, I don't give him time to grab me, coolly stepping down onto the soft pine needles littering the floor.
They slam the doors shut and return to the front of the van.
"Wait!" Alaina shouts again. "I'm not ready for this!"
"Then I'd suggest you get ready," he says, climbing into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life, spitting smelly exhaust and dust in our faces. "You really don't want to seem like the weak link in a place like this."
His door slams shut. Gravel crackles under the tires, and we watch the van curl through the trees, its headlines vanishing in the black night.
They leave us in a dead silence. Our surroundings are bathed in shadow, but judging by the thick tree cover extending as far as I can see, dense forest is all there is for miles. There's truly no way out.
Wide eyes gleam bright in the darkness, shifting from one face to the next. Each glance silently asks the impossible questions: Where do we start? What the hell are we supposed to do?
And who's going to be the first to strike?
Ladder Song by Lorde; This Is Not A Game by The Chemical Brothers.
30th: Shane Curran. Executed.
29th: Quincy Stark. Executed.
28th: Giles Herring. Executed.
27th: Simone Collins. Executed.
26th: Trina Kellington. Executed.
25th: Nico Marano. Executed.
So, I changed the order a bit. Sue me. Back in August of 2016, when Corey gave me some of the notes he had and general plot points, Shane was always going to choose his own death by telling the others to vote for him. Actually, all the deaths this chapter, as well as the general premise of everyone voting and their reasons for it, were decided by him way back when. So gotta shout him out for that.
Obviously this took a while to come up, but hopefully 12,000+ words should tide any of you loyal readers over for a little while. College began the last week of September, and it's kind of been one L after another since then, so that's awesome. Luckily I think I slayed my midterm today, but I got two more next week for two classes I lowkey hate, so send some good vibes my way, yeah?
Benefactors are coming next chapter. It didn't make sense to reveal them now and squeeze one more POV in when I can just add it in at the beginning next time. Oh, and if you haven't been on my profile in a while, there's a new link up. There's now a Spotify playlist for this story (yes, I'm that extra) and I think it fits the vibe pretty well. Go give it a listen when you have the time (and listen in order!).
That's all for now. Hope everyone's looking forward to a good chill November. Oh, and Happy Halloween!