And so it goes, a choking rose back to be reborn; I want to hold you like you're mine.

MADNESS.
CHAPTER 19.

Gerard Colson.
Springfield, Massachusetts.

The day dawns pale and quiet.

I grunt and extend my legs, body trembling with the stretch. My limbs are still and sore, chilled from the damp sweatshirt sticking to my skin with dew. I ease myself upright and rub the sleep from my eyes. My head's still foggy with fatigue—sleeping for less than two hours at a time will do that to you.

Gabrielle's shape, silhouetted in the dampened sunrise, turns to face me. She nods but doesn't say anything. Not that I'd expect a "good morning" from her, but it wouldn't kill her to be a bit friendlier.

"Anything happen while I was out?"

She shakes her head. "Pretty sure everyone just slept. Blake was moving, but he's going the other way. Looks like he's heading for Griffin."

I can't stop the sigh that slips between my lips. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that we're all turning on each other, but it's still hard to reconcile the people I knew back at school and the names being announced by my watch. And it's disappointing, too, to see people killing each other in cold blood now. Not that we've got a choice. I resent how we're all so powerless, governed now by our collars and the promise of execution in seven days—well, four days, now—if we don't abide by their wishes. There's no way to fight back except to refuse to play, roll over and let myself die. But I don't intend to do that, either.

As cruel as it is, I'll fight for my life like anyone else.

"What's our next move?" I ask, reaching into my pack for a sip of water. I don't like how dry my throat feels—I've always thought so little of it, knowing I can fill a glass from the sink in the next room and not have to worry about how clean it is. The fact that every sip I take from here on will need to be replenished makes my stomach tighten with anxiety.

"Find something to eat, obviously."

"No need to snap."

She scoffs. "Like I'm wrong. Tell me your stomach isn't trying to eat itself right now."

"That's not the point," I say, eyes narrowing. "And yes, I'm famished. But I don't know where to even start."

"Well, you've got a knife," Gabrielle points out. "And I've got a gun. And there's these animals around that have this thing called meat on them. And after we kill them, we can eat them."

"And how are we supposed to cook?" I say, head prickling with annoyance. "You have a Bic lighter in your bag in between your pencil pouch and your murder weapon?"

"I was hoping you'd actually paid attention when they taught us how to do all this shit. You're the smart one, aren't you?"

"Forgive me for not realizing my life and death depended on an outdoor survival station," I say, peeling my sweatshirt off to give my hands something to do besides shake in frustration. For the record, I did pay attention, and helped quite a few people out at the fire-building station. Not that she knows or particularly cares. "At least I took notes. Meanwhile, you were too busy picking useless fights to pay any mind to anything they were saying."

"Back off," she says, almost snarling. I don't wither.

"No, you back off. All of this aggression? Rudeness? I don't need it. Remember, I allowed you to join me, no questions asked. We're a team. And unless you want a knife in your back, I'd suggest you stop trying to turn me against you."

There's a second's pause where I wonder if I went too far, if that threat might actually be taken as—well—a threat. Gabrielle's gaze is stony, unshakeable. Then she shrugs. "Fine. I guess. But we're going hunting. I don't care if we even know how to cook it, but we're getting something before I actually drop dead from starvation."

"Let's do it then," I say. She is right. But she has no right to try to walk all over me for no reason. Or anyone else, for that matter, like she's been known to do all the time. All I can do is stand up for myself—this isn't the realm for a holier-than-thou lecture on how to treat other people.

Packing up our meager belongings takes only a minute, and then we're leaving behind our latest campground. We've moved around so much, I don't even get that weird sense of nostalgia I started getting the first few times we resettled, as if this whole mountain weren't just the same grove of trees punctuated by the occasional stream or clearing. Like every time I leave, it could be the last time I ever see it. Which is dumb. That's dumb, right? There's no real way to tell where we have and haven't been besides the map on our watches. And it's not like I've got any real fond memories of what's only somewhere we stopped to rest. It's like becoming emotionally attached to a gas station you pulled into five hours into a thirteen-hour road trip—you're in and out, gone in minutes. It should mean nothing to me.

I just feel a bit off. Which is understandable, but hard to name, exactly. Just, the sense of having my whole life more or less together, broadly planned out, and then having it ripped out from under me… it's hard to wrap my head around. Now, instead of having a bit of an idea of what to expect every day, everything changes within a few hours. It's like resetting my life over and over again. Who's dead? Who's killing? What else will shatter the world as I know it today?

My thoughts keep me occupied while we trek through the trees, the only sound our shoes treading against the soft ground. The area is as still as ever but for some small black birds darting between branches overhead, out of reach and out of range. Gabrielle doesn't even try to take them down with her pistol. "Too small," she says. "And I'd prefer not to waste what few shots are actually in this thing." I nod, understanding the implied third reason—she's not confident enough to try. How can she be? For all the fighting she's done, I doubt she's ever had any reason to keep a gun on her, let alone use it. In my case, a knife is more straightforward. But using it to maim or wound wasn't something I ever thought to prepare for.

Time drags on. We train our eyes on the underbrush and up towards the branches as we follow a weaving stream downslope. Nothing. Hardly even a squirrel. Finally, I force Gabrielle to stop so we can rest.

I'm lightheaded, my stomach rocky with hunger. Not eating has always made me nauseous and now is no different. I sit and sip at my water, hoping it will energize me a bit more and calm my queasiness.

"God," I say, watching the stream tumble before me, spitting up against dusted rock and crumbling earth. "This sucks."

"No shit," I hear from behind me. I almost chuckle as Gabrielle drops down next to me. "Finally letting it get to you?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I just wish this never happened to us."

What a disaster we've become unwilling parts of, and what a twisted game we're meant to play. None of it lines up with how I've lived so far; the lessons my mother taught me, the joy and connection I've always felt towards other people, an innate desire to enjoy company and enjoy this life for what it is. Yet I still feel like I'm pushing back. I won't be knocked down.

Even if I lose this game, I can't lose myself. I'm all I have left.

Monica Celsey.
Weston, New Hampshire.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't really feel like I have a choice," Juliet winces.

"You definitely have a choice," I say. "Especially considering this didn't go so well last time. I'm not trying to force you into this, just..."

"I know. And I don't like having a bullet in my leg," she says flatly. "Whether it might or might not get infected. I just… don't like knowing it's there."

What does it matter? I wonder. Freya and Jeremiah look on, all sleepiness in their eyes replaced with stark concern. And why do you look all stressed out? It's fine. It's all going to be just fine.

"Well, I can't promise this will be pretty…"

"I don't care," Juliet maintains. "I'd just rather have it out of me."

I nod, still not really understanding why it matters beyond the infection risk. Obviously I'm no medic, so anything we try with her wound will be risky as well as terribly painful. She knows that, though, and she's willing to let me work on her leg anyways. I want to assume she's just brave instead of idiotic, because there is no way in hell I'd let anyone near my injury if I got shot in the leg.

Jeremiah passes over my first aid kit. The long tweezers rattle against the plastic case from his handoff. It's not much in terms of medical equipment, but it's our best option. Hell, it's our only option. Freya reaches for my sweatshirt again, but Juliet's the one who finishes knotting the sleeve and presses it between her teeth. I flip open the lid, wishing more than anything that we had painkillers for her. No matter how weak they are, anything's better than what I'm about to do to her.

Fuck. There's a reason I legitimately never considered pursuing medicine as a career path. That and the fact that going to school for like ten more years after college had the same appeal as shish kebabbing my eyeballs. Truth is, this shit makes me squeamish. I'm only doing it because someone had to, and it wasn't like Freya was about to step up and start digging through Juliet's leg tissue for bits of bullet.

I asked Jeremiah, too, but he was about as eager as Freya was. Can't say I blame him, even if I expected that killing someone might have hardened him a bit more. I mean, I don't really know what killing someone does to you, but I feel like at that point you've got to just say "fuck it" and deal with it. On the contrary, he's shrunk further into himself since he first arrived. I get the sense that Freya might be the only reason he's holding it together.

"Sorry, this is going to sound so goddamn rude, but Jeremiah, I need you to hold Juliet down this time. Freya, come over here and just…" Fuck, I don't know. "Provide moral support?"

If she's offended, Freya doesn't let it show. She moves over to my side and kneels down next to Juliet, who grips for her hand.

It's not like my intent is to be rude. It's to make sure this sucks as little as possible for Juliet. Right?

What does it even matter, though? What's our endgame with this? Juliet gets this thing out of her, and then what, we go on a killing spree? I just don't see that happening. I'm not going to randomly start killing kids I went to school with for four years, as much as I always joked I'd definitely do it if I had the chance. Besides, it's not like Juliet's going to be in any state to be walking regardless of if I can help her now or not. Her injury ain't pretty.

Sure enough, when I peel back the bandage—Juliet wincing as the gauze tugs at her wound—I'm presented with the same grim sight as before. The bleeding isn't too bad actually, the bandages have done their job, and the swelling could be worse. Probably. Again, not a medic. It's just that I know what's going on deeper down. Behind the bruising, the bone's fragmented, bone chips melding with the oozing crimson.

As nauseous as it makes me, I purse my lips and keep my face as neutral as I can. No use throwing up on anyone. Somehow I feel like that'll only make things worse.

"Hold on, Jules," I say.

It's like the most painful, high-stakes game of Operation ever, played with the least legitimate medical tools possible. Except instead of buzzing when you touch her leg, Juliet cries into her gag. It doesn't help that she's trying to kick away from me, and I know it's not her fault but it's just making everything worse so I end up yelling, "Hold still, god damn it!"

She does—until I press into the bullet. I don't know what kind of agony she's in from direct pressure to her shattered leg, but it's enough to actually kick Jeremiah's grip off her until she's curled up around her leg, tears streaming from her eyes.

"I'm sorry," I gasp. "Fuck, I'm so—"

She shakes her head. "No—no, please, you have to do it—"

"You keep tearing away. I know it's so bad but please, just try to hold yourself still." I hate myself for my tone of voice, but I don't know what else to do. Sympathy does nothing to make the situation better. The only way out of this is through it.

Juliet's bleeding again. I grimace, knowing we've got to do this quickly. "We're trying again. Come on, girl. One more time."

Juliet shudders but gives in. I curse at the amount of bleeding. I can't fucking see what's going on! But we have no choice. My hand goes down again, and Juliet whimpers from the pressure.

And then there's blood. So much more blood. I pull back, shocked. What did I do? "Fuck!" I howl. We're done! "Jeremiah, I need bandages, come on..."

He lets go and Juliet kicks out automatically, her knee accidentally connecting with the side of my head. Dazed, I reach for her and my hands come back coated in blood. What…?

Jeremiah presses the med kit into my hands, and then we're wrapping what few bandages we have left around her leg, but they're soaked through in seconds.

Juliet's hyperventilating between soft, terrified sobs.

We're out of bandages and the blood's still coming. I rip the sweatshirt out of Juliet's mouth and her cries become amplified, fear swelling into outright terror. I can practically see her emotions change when she sees her leg—what's left of her façade collapsing, pain springing across her skin.

I look around desperately for something else to use. There's nothing. Just our bags and our bottles and a few shitty supplies that were never meant to keep us alive in the first place. I want to scream in fury, in frustration, but how am I supposed to try to save Juliet when the odds were always stacked against us?

I should be thinking rapidly, trying to figure out how I can still save her, but I can't push past the mental block of knowing that one way or another, whether it's now or in a day, this injury will kill her.

"Mon, what do we do?"

I don't say anything. I don't know. I don't know. What are you supposed to do when you're out in the middle of nowhere, and your friend is bleeding out, and you're supposed to save her, but you've never been taught how? Why couldn't I have learned that this week? Or ever?

But I'm right. It doesn't matter. We're all dying here anyway. A few more bandages won't stop that from coming.

"Monica, move over!"

His voice is sharp but not cruel. I'm knocked onto my back, barely keeping myself upright on my elbows. I watch as Jeremiah pulls his sweatshirt off and ties it around Juliet's leg above the wound, pulling it taut against her muscle. Juliet's quieting, her sobs dying down, her breathing calming.

The blood keeps coming.

"Juliet!" Jeremiah screams, but it sounds like he's a hundred million miles away. "Juliet!"

My vision blurs, Juliet's silhouette softening around the edges. And then I'm back at Haversmith, sat at a table with an apple and a slice of toast in hand, and Juliet's at the table next to me, chattering happily as she always did—does. The shadows on the walls are melting as the morning arrives. There's a whole day ahead of us. Our futures, so untouchable.

Then I'm back at camp, only days ago, and we're out on the back patio of the lodge. Evening is falling. She's talking about how much she needed this escape, this disconnect. The real world is on pause. It's just her, and me, and the fading sunset. Neither of us think it'll be one of our last.

I dig my nails into my scalp, almost ripping at my ponytail. And I'm back in hell, and she's bleeding out on the ground.

"Juliet, no, come on!"

"Jules!" It's Freya's cry that's most haunting. The crack in her voice as she screams her name.

"Juliet Maudsley is dead, murdered by Monica Celsey."

The sob when she realizes she's gone.

My tears burn like wildfire, salt in a wound, slipping down my cheeks. Everything aches. My head, my chest, my eyes. Everything I can feel screams and slices against every nerve. And yet, internally… I'm frozen. Hollow. Numb.

I see Juliet's body, and yet it can't be her. She's alive somewhere. She's always been out there.

Jeremiah's sobbing next to me, his entire body shaking even as Freya holds him steady. I look at them, and I feel nothing. They're not here, either. This place has never been real to me. This version of them, of me, it's unrecognizable.

This version of my world, my wonderful world… unbearable.

I don't know what else to do, where else to go, how to escape this. Maybe there's only one way out in the end.

Juliet's already gone there.

And as I thaw, the shock fading, reality once again settling into my bones, I realize there's no way I can stay here.

Alaina Calline.
Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

She doesn't see us coming.

She's vulnerable, her back to us, body relaxed forward. She's in no place to fight back. But we're not here to hurt her.

Good thing, too; Chanel turns as we approach, and I can see the watch cradled in her hands. Maybe she did see us coming. In that case, thank fuck we weren't brazen enough to attack. Her clothes are soiled with dust and sweat and—fuck, blood—and torn around her knees. Her hair's gnarled and matted. Her eyes, sunken and bloodshot when they meet mine.

God, she looks terrible. I have to wonder how rough I look; it's not like I've seen a mirror in days. Just my reflection in the stream we stopped at for a quick drink earlier, and I can blame that on the shape of the current. And maybe the fatigue from being dehydrated out of my mind. Not that I'm bitter about having our bottles stolen.

"Here to put a bullet in my head?" Chanel asks, nodding towards the gun in my waistband. "Cause if you are, just give me a few seconds' notice so I can figure out how to stand up and outrun it."

"We're not here to hurt you," I sigh, taking all of her in: her worn appearance, the exhaustion in her features, her tarnished pack on the ground. "No offense, but how are you still alive?"

"Sheer force of will," she deadpans. "And that river down the way. Haven't had much luck in terms of food, but there's something cleanish to drink, at least."

"What about the other food from your bag?"

"Like that was going to last me. And I lost most of it, anyways." She frowns. "Little good it does me, now."

I can sense her shutting down, bottling up whatever else she might say. Which means, either she doesn't want to talk for personal reasons, or she doesn't want to talk because she's lying. After we came all this way for her help, I can't afford to assume anything.

So I challenge it. "What's in your bag?"

Her eyes narrow. "Some supplies. Except for what I lost. Why do you ask? You think I'm hiding something from you?"

"I think it's suspicious for you to say you lost something when there's nowhere for it to go."

"You'd be surprised," Chanel says, glancing between Eimer and me. "And anyways, what does it matter what I have? It's mine. We've got so little, you'll have to forgive me for keeping something for myself."

"I never said I wanted anything of yours. I just…" I sigh. "We're pretty much alone out here at this point. And so are you. And I think it'd be better for all of us if we worked together."

"Better for you, sure," she says. "But not for me. So, unless you two can give me an actual reason to consider it, then no thanks."

This isn't exactly where I thought this conversation would be going. "Don't you want teammates? I mean, we're friends, Chanel. We've been friends for years."

"And clearly that doesn't mean anything anymore. We're all still killing each other. Think about it." She keeps track on her fingers. "Yuto and Gwen. Monica and Juliet. Blake and Brandon."

Chanel hesitates ever so slightly on Brandon's name, and I latch onto it. "We're not like that. Listen, Blake fucked us all over. He took our waters and our purifying tablets. He killed Brandon. I want to avenge him. You were close with Brandon, I know that. So tell me you don't want to avenge him, too!"

But she only scoffs. "You don't get it, Alaina. You want to avenge Brandon. For what? You kill Blake, and then what? It's not him that's the problem here, it's what these other people have done to us—forcing us to kill each other. Thinking you'll avenge Brandon by killing Blake is pathetic."

"It's just not fair," I maintain. "I want my friend back."

"Yeah? Well, he isn't coming back. So forget about it."

Chanel turns away and repositions herself, curling her legs under her on the rock. Eimer pulls me aside. "You're doing this the wrong way. I told you, we need to help her…"

I watch as Chanel finally makes herself comfortable, wincing as she places and removes pressure from her right leg. "What's wrong, Chanel?"

"Nothing."

"Are you hurt?" She shrugs and says nothing. "We can help you," I say quickly.

"Quit your bullshit, Alaina," she finally snaps. "You're not here to help me. You're here because you think I can help you. Protect you, maybe? Fight all your battles for you?

"Of course, you'd assume that," I scoff. "Really speaks to your arrogance that you think I'm not capable of sticking up for myself, thinking this is all about you." I roll my eyes. "Someone should have knocked you down a peg while they had the chance. Maybe then you wouldn't be such a self-righteous bitch."

"Alaina, stop," Eimer snaps, pulling me backwards. I rip my arm out of her grasp to find that Chanel's staring me down, fire in her gaze. Yikes.

"You're making a real good case for why I should help you guys," she sneers. "Alaina, do yourself a favor and shut your whore mouth before you really do something you regret."

"What crawled up your ass and died there?" I shoot back. "You got any particular reason to be a cold ass bitch to us right now?"

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed," she snarls, "we're in a tad bit of a stressful situation. I've gotten to sit here and hear over and over how more of my friends have died and been able to do fuck all about it. Oh, and that's not even considering the fact that I personally saw Seraphina get blown up right in front of me our very first night out here. But I don't know, Alaina. Are any of those reason enough for you?"

"Don't," Eimer chides as I open my mouth to retort. Since when did she get so rebellious? "Chan… you saw Sera die?"

Pain flickers across Chanel's face, and she looks away again, her anger quickly draining from her expression. "Yeah. I saw it all."

"Christ. I'm so sorry," Eimer says. "I…. I can't imagine."

"Don't, then," Chanel chuckles dryly. "Not worth the energy to replay that shit over and over again. Take it from me." She sighs. "Listen, Alaina. You can sit here and attack me all you want, and you can tell me it isn't about me, but why else would you have come all this way if you weren't just trying to get something from me? If you didn't feel like you needed me?"

I can feel myself flushing with frustration. Pull it together. "Forget it," I say. "If you didn't want to help us, you should have just said so. And, for the record, we don't need you. We just need what you have."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," I say, pulling my gun from my waistband, "that if you can't help us, we can't help you. And if we aren't helping you, then there's we've got no choice but—"

Pain and sound explode in my ears. At the same time, it feels like I've been punched in the back. My stomach—my stomach's bleeding. So much. How—what-? The shock, then the sharp pain—in my back and in my stomach—bring tears to my eyes.

Something's yanked out of my back. Then Eimer comes into view, blood-soaked knife in her hand, looking wholly stunned.

It takes me a minute to put it all together, then for the shock to dissipate into cold anger. "You—how—why?" My breathing comes quick and shallow. "What have you done?"

She's shaking her head. She can't even speak. "Fuck!" I spit. "How… how could you…" But fear's overwhelming fury, drenching my body in ice. "Chanel," I beg between choked sobs, "help, please, Chanel…"

Then I see the gun in her hand. But she's not aiming it, she's putting it behind her. I look down at my stomach, the blood spilling from the bullet wound, and blackness gnaws at the edges of my vision. "Can't help you," she says coldly. "You're not worth saving anyways."

All my resolve to stay upright, to save face, diminishes at her words. I sink to my knees, then to my stomach, as pain and dizziness overtake me. My lungs fill with dust, my sobs dry and torturous.

Eimer's standing next to me. I can't crane my neck to look her in the eyes. "You're not even sorry, are you?"

"Why does it matter?" I hear, as everything fades. The sky falls, the pain numbs, and her voice diminishes to silence in my ears. "It's not like you ever were."

Mariana Brinley.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Another fingernail tears off between my teeth.

It's a habit I forced myself to shake back in grade school by wearing gloves, sitting on my hands in class, even buying toxic-tasting polish so I wouldn't be tempted to gnaw at my nails. I just don't know how else to keep my nerves under control. With every new death, my own inevitable murder crawls ever closer. I mean, how do you shake that?

I try to focus on my breathing, counting inhales and exhales, holding it for four seconds. My heart keeps skipping, but my chest loosens ever so slightly. It's okay. It's okay.

No, it's not.

On the other side of the kitchen, Madison and Audrey are working their way through a container of probably several-years-old ice cream, and by the looks of it, they're thoroughly enjoying themselves. To be them, so unconcerned, so wholly unbothered… so lactose tolerant… I suppose the anxiety on my part is a necessary means to survive, but I'm over it!

I've had the same hard roll in my lap for the last hour and I chew at it now, trying to keep my mouth off my fingernails, but even if it weren't so stale, the tumbling in my stomach makes any form of sustenance unappealing. On the ground next to me, my watch shows the same screen it's showed for the past hour. Blake's moving east, while Gabrielle and Gerard are a ways west of Alaina, Chanel, and Eimer. Although he's near the lake, Alex has maintained his distance. It's the other group—Freya, Monica, and now just Jeremiah—that Madison seems most wary of, as they've come steadily down the slope since Juliet died earlier this morning.

Juliet… Tears crawl between my lashes, but I blink them away.

I'm not crying, not again. Not after Madison practically had to console me in the middle of the floor earlier. I'm not embarrassed to have feelings; these are girls and guys I've known for four years! How can I not feel broken to know they're dying? And yet, the other two are managing so much better than me.

I've just felt like I'm wandering aimlessly through a nightmare, unable to shake my daze. The world feels blurry. Colors are muted. It's been like this for three days. Why can't I calm down?

I stand quickly before I can actually start crying in front of them again. Madison and Audrey glance over quizzically, but I hurry out before they can see my face. "Bathroom… I'll just be a minute…"

I practically run through the dining room, past all the empty tables and open windows, and through the open ladies' room door into a free stall. I spend so long trying to jostle with the broken lock that I eventually just give up in frustration, putting my face in my hands and pressing my elbows into my knees. I try to muffle the sobs shuddering through my chest. This is too much. This is all too much!

What's left of my nails scratch into my scalp, grip at my hair. There's an impenetrable sense of dread that sinks deep into my gut and seems to grow, rather than fade, as the minutes pass. The tears dry relatively quickly, but the pit in me swells and rolls, a bubble threatening to burst, tunneling up through my throat. I can't breathe. I can't—

"Mar, you alright?"

I cough, trying to clear my throat. "Fine! Just think some of that spoiled food might have messed with my stomach a bit." My short laugh rings through the restroom, the tile walls amplifying my deceit.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," Madison says. "I can get you some water if you want some? Unfortunately I don't think we have anything better than that…"

It's not even proper water. It's just melted slush from the freezer because of course, there's still no running water at camp! The reminder makes my stomach coil again, as if home to a nest of vipers. Everything is broken. Everything is all wrong. "No, it's fine! Just need a few minutes."

"Okay, well, just call if you need us," she says, and then her footsteps fade back into the main room.

I fold my arms over my knees and rest my head against them, curling up as small as I can. I want to go home. All I ever wanted was to go home. I never asked for this—for me, for my family… for everyone I've left behind at home…

My eyes burn with fresh tears, now for my sister and my father, mourning me back in Philadelphia. They think I'm already dead. How heart-wrenching it is to know the people I love are out there and I'm powerless to console them. I'm still here, I wish I could tell them. I miss you so, so much. I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye.

I cry into my arms, my skin muffling some of my sobbing and choking and the first signs that someone else is in here with us.

Then Audrey screams.

My head jerks up, heart exploding in my chest. I peer through the gap between the door and the stall, hands wrapped around my mouth to stifle my whimpering. No… not Audrey…

"Get out!" she's yelling. "Get out! Don't you fucking dare—"

A crash. "Stop!" someone yells. Alex. "No, I'm not—" Another crash. "I'm not here to hurt anyone, I just need food!"

"How are we supposed to trust that?" Madison yells back from the far end of the room. "You killed Jackson!"

"He was trying to kill me!" Alex counters. "See?" There's a pause. I can't see him, but Audrey's close enough for me to see the frown cross her face. Not pity, but disbelief. "I swear. I don't want to hurt you, I'm trying to let you go, so just—"

"Let us go?" Audrey scoffs. "We were here first. You don't get to come in here and decide who's doing what."

"No, I was here before you guys showed up. I just couldn't get in—"

"And you shouldn't have come back!" she yells. She's convincing, but her fear is evident to me.

"Alex, we barely even have anything for us, let alone you," Madison says. "Just, please go. We really don't want to have to do this."

"No," he begs, "no, please, I'm so goddamn hungry, there has to be something…"

"There isn't!" Audrey says sharply. Then she catches herself. "There isn't, Alex. I'm sorry. Please, please go…"

There's a beat. Madison and Audrey have their eyes on him now, unwavering. There's pity in Audrey's face. Then Alex scoffs, and when he speaks again, it's cold with anger. "After all these years you've known me, both of you, and you can't even do one thing to help me."

Audrey practically gapes. "You're really going to make this personal, now, too? We don't have a choice. We all want to live. It's not us you should be mad at!"

Another sob scratches at my throat. I try to swallow it down, but I just sound even more strangled. It catches Audrey's attention.

It catches Alex's too. "What the fuck was that?" I shrink back automatically, but his voice is clear. "Someone's hiding in there. Oh, my god. You were trying to trap me—"

"It's just Mariana!" Audrey's yelling, and Madison's shouting, "No, no, we weren't, how could we have—" and then before I can fully process the sound of his pounding footsteps into the bathroom, the stall door is thrown open.

He stares back at me, wild panic and fury in his eyes, but before he can move, Audrey's thrown herself at him and with a scream, they tumble to the floor.

I'm petrified watching them. I need to move. I need to get out of here! But I'm frozen, helpless, at their mercy. Audrey tries to hold him down but he's bigger, far stronger than her. He shoves her off him and before she can even get to her feet, he's pulled a gun out of his waistband and pointed it at her.

A hole explodes in the tile on the wall behind her. Then he's lunging at me, and I don't even have time to get my hands up before he throws me down against the toilet, my back taking the full blow. I scream, and he pulls me down, slamming my head on the seat.

Dazed and half-blinded, I can just barely make out the pairs of feet fleeing the bathroom, the muffled "we have to go!" in the distance. In between the sheer terror and despair, I register the prickling pain of abandonment.

He slams my head down again, this time hard into the bowl. My face hits water and I choke, unable to breathe and trying to keep from gagging. He grabs my hair and brings my head down again, again, again.

When he pulls me up, the water's thickly red.

Only half-awake, my head about bursting with pain, I collapse against the cold tile. There's a shadow above me, a blurred silhouette. There's something in his hand. A knife, now.

I don't have time to process any more fear. To say my mental goodbyes.

I see his hand move for me, feel a burst of pain in my forehead, and then feel nothing else.

Agnes by Glass Animals.

16th: Juliet Maudsley. Killed by Monica Celsey.
15th: Alaina Calline. Killed by Eimer Otero and Chanel Agresti.
14th: Mariana Brinley. Killed by Alexander Grim.

Hey hi hello howdy this biz took FOREVER this time! A lot of fiddling around with the way people are reacting to things/coping etc. and I think I'm finally satisfied. Thanks for your patience!

I'm branching out a bit from previous placements as well—Juliet was always meant to go around this time, but we've also seen two original top 7s get sniped earlier. Yikes! Stay on your toes because tbh there's still a lot more I'm thinking of messing with… who knows what'll happen!

Not as much to say here this time. Wear your mask, wash your hands, follow your country's COVID guidelines, be antiracist, dismantle the patriarchy, you know the drill. BLM. ACAB. Keep fighting the good fight.