Did we take too many chances? Did we let too many pass us?
Did we throw it all away?

CHAPTER 21.
ASHES.

Monica Celsey.
Weston, New Hampshire.

Just ten feet in front of me, the roof crumbles, groaning as its supports are consumed by flame. I jump back instinctively from the flare as the wood, half-molded and rotted in parts, gives way to nature's wrath, and duck my head away, eyes stinging. Fuck—I gotta get out of here!

A hand clamps on my forearm, pulling me backwards, back towards the bath halls. We stumble back through the smoke, my lungs heaving, until we're pressed together behind the stone wall blocking either door of the building. I blink the unconscious tears from my eyes and double over, coughing, out of most of the heat and the smoke but not in the clear yet. Jeremiah's right with me, calling out, "Freya! Freya!"

We don't hear anything through the crackling of the flames. When I look up, vision bleary, Jeremiah's face is pale and fearful, jaw slack with panic he's trying to keep under wraps. "I have to—" he starts, before coughing. "Mon, I have to go back—"

"I know," I say. In the heat of the fire, my numbness has burned off, allowing me to feel the full heartbreak of what he has to do. "Go."

Jeremiah runs back up as the smoke pours heavy over the campground, blackening the stars, the moon above. It's the fire alone that illuminates the bleakness before me and casts taunting shadows on the pavement. Seconds pass like minutes and I'm choking for a new reason, sobs building in my chest and overcoming me, because they're up there and I'm here, safe but so goddamn useless. I'm tormented by both options: to stay or try to help, even though I'll probably ruin it again like I did with Juliet, probably get us all killed this time. But how can I justify letting him run back into the fire for her, while I stand here like a helpless, useless bitch? When the fuck have I ever been the type to stand by?

But the whole thought of literally running back into the hell up there—it's idiotic at best. I've lasted this long and I can look after myself, so why do I feel this need to do something about them?

Because… because even if I feel worthless, they're depending on me. Jeremiah and Freya need me. And if I don't help them, what does that say about me?

"Fuck!" I hiss, bracing myself and then ducking out from behind the wall.

The heat rebounds instantaneously. I skirt around the edges of the fire line, which crawls steadily away from the cabin bases in every direction, and hold a hand up to shield my eyes. I can't see either Freya or Jeremiah, but from the haze the silhouette of another cabin pierces through as its roof crumbles: the first in the line. That's where all our supplies were, everything we had left, little as it was. We have nothing.

"Freya!" I yell again, voice raspy, and choke out another hacking cough. Even from here, the heat's too much. I stumble past the cabins towards the hill and nearly don't notice the movement in the trees. My heart leaps into my throat, remembering there's more of us out here than just us three. I don't even have time to run. But then she draws out of the trees and I see it's Freya, trembling and beside herself. "What the fuck are you doing?" I yell out, pointing towards the cabins. "He's in there looking for you!"

"I didn't know where he was," she whimpers. "I thought you guys were in the cabins, I saw one go down, I—"

I'm so relieved to see her that it expresses itself as fury and frustration—she's not even in there. "He wasn't!" I snap, not bothering to check my tone. "We were fine. He heard you and went back—" I shake my head, nearly unable to believe this. I am so, so mad at her, even though I shouldn't be, even though it was an honest-to-God mistake that no doubt she's kicking herself over, but she started an entire fucking fire and now Jeremiah's looking for her where he's not going to find her. "Christ alive. Look, we need to get out of here before this whole campsite goes up." The grass around the cabins, already drier and more decayed in the warmth of late spring, is ample fuel for the flames.

Her eyes are wide and reflective with tears. "No, Mon, I can't leave him—"

Jesus fucking Christ! What is with these two and their goddamn hero complexes with each other? "Do you want us all to fucking die?"

She shakes her head, defiant. "I'll get him. You go."

Like she has to tell me to get my ass out of here. I bite my tongue to keep from yelling more obscenities at her and just say, "Hurry." Then I'm turning away and running up the hill, chest burning more than it should. At the top, I sink into the grass, coughing and wheezing.

Down below, the carnage is worse than I thought. There's far too much fire for any of us to put out, and there's nothing we can do besides let it burn and pray—nah, plead, there ain't no way there's a God in this fucking shitshow my life has turned into—that we're quick enough to escape it. All the cabins are in flames, fire spreading hurriedly across the lawn and snaking its way towards the trees, climbing into the branches that dangle tantalizingly against the roofs and walls of the other camp buildings. The whole place is built of faded, deteriorating wood. It doesn't stand a chance.

I'm mentally cursing Freya for really fucking it up this time when there's new movement from down below between the wall of flames. I see them now, two silhouettes shrouded among the glowing fire. One guides the other, her arm on his back, but they're both slow, stumbling among the roaring flames.

And then a flare. There's screaming, agonized cries of "Freya!" before I cut them off, shoving my palms against my ears, squeezing against my skull. But it doesn't block everything out, the way their screams commingle and pierce my chest and lungs like frozen needles, the animalistic roaring that overcomes him before the silence. Tears streak down my face and I curl into the grass, willing it all to stop.

The next minutes come in as blurs and snapshots: fire curling its way up the hill. Vibrations on my right wrist, coming not once but twice. The smoky, darkened windows of the dining hall, then its interior, all stench and rot and smoke. Stumbling among the tables, the chairs, the bruising shapes I can barely make out in the haze.

Then I'm curled on the floor in the kitchen, just one piece of the wreckage that remains there, and my eyelids are drooping even though my mind should be wide awake. The only light drifts in from the far windows, orange and yellow and white, gradually glowing brighter.

It's coming for me, I think lazily, blinking the remnants of ash from my eyes. But I don't move.

I should get out of here. Get up the mountain. Or maybe circle back to the lake… I'll have to be safer there, right? Maybe get out in the woods somewhere again. My body is heavy, hardly twitches on the floor. Or maybe not. Maybe this is all I have the energy for.

The haze builds, or maybe it's my bleary vision, and the sharp edges of the walls and cupboards dissipate from view. My senses are all smoke—it's in my eyes, my throat, the air I inhale, thickening until I'm gasping for breaths that will never satisfy me. It's warmth in the worst sense, the suffocating kind that knows no bounds, that strangles and chokes.

Flames climb the far walls. They're brighter now in the windows, casting flickering, twirling shadows across the linoleum. My chest is splitting with the pressure as the desperate, reflexive need to gasp for air yields only carbon and ash.

The tongues of fire lap at the inner walls, sampling the inside for taste. Spots dance in my vision, building and swelling until blackness is pressing into my eyes.

In a room that is quickly engulfed by fire and light, all I see is darkness.

Blake Chapman.
New York City, New York.

The chopping of helicopter blades above abruptly rouses me, jarring my chest into a drumming overdrive.

Next to me, Brandon jerks upright onto his hands, training his eyes on the sky. But it's too dark to see much, even if the air weren't so thickly clouded with smoke. "What's going on?"

I shake my head, uncertain. "I don't know. Must be a fire somewhere."

"Oh, no way," he says. I glance up and he smirks at my expression. "I totally thought Yuto's ghost was hotboxing this whole fucking mountain."

A chuckle bubbles up in my throat, but I don't indulge him. As dehydration tugs at the inside of my skull as a perpetual headache, I pull up the map on my watch, a mindless habit at this point. It takes only a quick glance for me to recognize something's off. My stomach plummets.

"Brandon."

"Huh?"

I set my jaw, needing to force the words out. "I think—" I double-check, just to be sure, dragging the map to all its edges, but three names that were present just a few hours ago are now gone. "No. Freya and Monica and Jeremiah died."

"All of them?"

I nod, and his face mirrors my shock. "I don't know when. I think I drifted off shortly after you." We've stopped keeping watch since the need for a lookout has been overpowered by the simple need for a few more hours of sleep. It's not like anyone's going to ambush us, anyway. "The only one who's near them is Alex. Unless one of them killed another and they got in a whole fight, I feel like it'd have more to do with the fire. But who even knows?" I guess that's the drawback to sleeping through the night: missing death notifications. At least it wasn't Brandon's.

"Huh," he says simply, after a pause.

"What?"

"I don't know. I guess—" He frowns. "Like, it should bother me."

"Yeah."

"But it doesn't, really," Brandon says. "Like, of course it's sad, I just…" He trails off, and I'm not sure how to fill in what he's saying. There's a long pause. "Like with Griffin. It had to happen."

I nod, even if my insides coil at his words. Because tracking Griffin down was his idea, and if I didn't like it, I went along with it anyways. Because of loyalty, I guess, a greater connection to Brandon than anyone else, and because I know I can't act perfectly moral out here when my life is on the line.

But how exactly am I supposed to verbalize any of that, my feelings on betraying Griffin or any of what Brandon's just said? Despite being teammates for years, nearly brothers, our friendship has never consisted of much emotional bonding. For the most part, I've been fine with that. I've got other friends for that, my girlfriend too, and if anything, it's awkward now that Brandon's turned somewhat somber. Because with him, I can feel myself reverting back to how I was back at school, more roll-with-the-punches and able to goof around, and even if there's still a bit of guilt that I can't quite shake for the way it's somehow getting easier, not harder, to deal with the amount of death around us, I selfishly prefer it to the alternative.

"So what are we at now?" I ask, rather than continuing down that rabbit hole. "About ten, you think?"

"Nine." A smirk toys at the edge of his lips, not so much cocky as much that typical look of competitiveness he tends to get. "Top nine, baby."

"Top nine," I repeat.

Nine. Damn. To think there were thirty of us who got off that bus… and twenty-one are dead. And yet, it's not like we've been around for most of it. We both were with Alaina, Eimer, and Yuto just a few days ago, but what's happened to two of them since has been far away from us. Griffin's the only one we've… well, seen die, even if it wasn't really seeing if we were killing him. Somehow the knowledge that it was necessary doesn't really make that tension in my chest go away.

At the same time, it doesn't really keep me awake the way it probably should. With the shock of the helicopters since past, my body's heavy again, exhausted from the day we had. My wrist and my nose still throb dully with my heartbeat but the rest of me aches, too, weighing down my limbs. I curl up again against our packs, and trying not to remember how we got ahold of that third bag, I eventually drift off into a morbid sleep.

When I open my eyes again, the sky's all tangerine and dust, sunrise filtering weakly through the haze above. I pull the neck of my shirt to cover my nose and mouth, but it doesn't block all the stench of smoke, which must have worsened in the hours I was asleep. The greenery around us is still alive and intact, not cinders and ash like part of me worried I'd see upon waking.

Brandon's still asleep next to me, peacefully oblivious to the world. I consider rousing him just so I have someone to talk to, but I let him doze a little longer. I'm sure he's in no hurry to come out of dreamland and face reality.

For me… I don't know. At this point, everything I do has to be pragmatic and survival-based. I don't want to be awake any more than he does, but someone has to be. Not only for our protection, but today, to make a plan. There's nine of us left and just under three days left to survive this. But the more I think about that, the more I have to wonder what happens if it comes down to Brandon and me.

Could I kill him? Would I, even if I were capable?

No. I'm not dealing with this right now. Not until I have to. I thump Brandon's sleeping form with the arm of my sweatshirt, and he stirs sheepishly. "What's up?" he mumbles.

"You were snoring," I say. "Had to shut you up somehow."

He rolls over onto his side, groaning. That's when I remember his wounds from yesterday. My stomach clenches, but the bandages at least appear to be doing their job. Still, I don't want to just leave them to soak—I want to do something. "Let's change that gauze real quick," I say, as if that was my sole reason for waking him.

Brandon sits up and lets me undo his bandages, though he winces at the pressure. All things considered, it could be a lot worse. Sure, he got stabbed twice, but Griffin missed his heart. Obviously he's dealing with a lot of pain when he tries to raise that right arm or, honestly, breathe, but the wounds themselves aren't so bloody anymore. At this point, I'd be more worried about infection.

He hisses as I dab at the wounds with rubbing alcohol, then squeeze some antiseptic ointment over the area. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. Far better. As I wrap him up with new bandages, he grins weakly. "Thanks, Doc."

"Don't mention it," I mutter. "There. Now you're all stitched up to go play with your friends on the playground. Run along, now."

Brandon stretches his legs out with a yawn, reaching his good arm up and over his head until his back pops. "There we go. Alright! So what's the plan for today, anyways? More wandering and hoping we stumble upon a buffet?"

"If only," I say, breathing in deeply only to remember the stench of smoke that coats my lungs on inhalation. "I hate this smoke. Maybe we head up again to get out of it?" Truthfully, I have no idea how to get out of the smoke. New York doesn't have many wildfires so I can't say I've had any experience at all getting out of an environment like this. I'd suggest maybe trying to get inside and closing the doors and windows, but at this point I can't be sure that any of the camp buildings are still standing.

Brandon's about to answer, but he's cut off. There's twin buzzing on our wrists, watches signaling another announcement. My eyes flit to his, mirroring my own worry.

In that split second, we wonder, Who's next?

Eimer Otero.
Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia.

I can't distract myself from the stench of smoke in the air. As I inhale, I pull the neck of my sweatshirt up to cover half my face. "This is nice."

"Totally," Chanel grumbles. "Wasn't enough we couldn't eat, drink, or sleep. Why should we be able to breathe, either?"

I just shake my head. Why should anything go right out here? Yawning, I shake the stiffness from my neck and shoulders, about to reach for our shared water bottle when our watches both buzz, shocking me into nearly knocking the bottle over. I stabilize it in my grip as my screen comes alight, not with a death announcement, but with another face I would have been just fine never seeing again.

"Morning, everyone," Anabel says, looking as blonde and prim and proper as ever, even if she's slightly more tolerable without that fake, blinding grin.

"Oh, go choke," Chanel says. Tragically, Anabel can't hear her.

"I'd first like to offer my congratulations to the nine of you for lasting this long. Truly, an impressive feat, especially given your lack of experience in survival, combat, or coping with any sort of difficulty whatsoever."

Backhanded much? Chanel just makes a face.

Anabel tosses her hair over her shoulder, a move that's especially pretentious as it's not like anything has happened to it in the five seconds since she's started talking. "Secondly, a very not-so-gentle reminder that your deadline is fast approaching—only three days left before this mountain explodes, so don't lose momentum." If I weren't so stressed, I might snicker at her words, how they sound so eerily similar to the emails universities sent us all fall as they begged for us to apply—only three days left to join the Pack! "And third, to that effect, this afternoon we will be delivering supplies to the campground at the lawn just north of the dock. Food, water, supplies… it's clear you're all hungry, so don't underestimate just how much you need this."

My stomach grumbles at the sheer mention of food. At this point, I'll take the garbage they made us on the last day or even some of the slop from school just to not feel so hungry all the time. But if there are others, just as desperate as we are, is a bit more comfort even worth the risk?

"Delivery will be at two o'clock sharp. If you want a share of what's available, don't be late. Good luck." And as quickly as she appeared, Anabel is gone.

"I thought there was a fire down there," Chanel says. "Must be out by now, if they say that's where we should go." She reconsiders. "Or maybe not. Imagine just making all of us run into an inferno for like, three protein bars."

"There were helicopters last night putting it out," I remind her. "And they wouldn't… I mean…"

"I was joking," she clarifies bluntly. "Either way, it's at least worth a shot. Or—what are you thinking?"

My first impulse is to defer. My second, to say no way we can't go, it's too risky. My third teeters narrowly on the in-between. "I don't know," I admit. "We need to eat something… I just think it's dangerous. I mean, obviously it's dangerous," I backtrack, feeling foolish for pointing out what's painfully obvious, "but do we even need to go?"

"I'll tell you what I think," she says, folding forward to grab for the water bottle. The little water in the bottom sloshes softly against the inside of the container. "I think it's a no-brainer. We do need to go. Yes, it's dangerous. But so is everything else. So is not having anything to eat, and someone happening upon us with their stomachs fed and weapons all loaded up, and murdering the shit out of us because we're too weak to fight back."

"You think we're weak?"

"I mean, yeah," she says. "You think you could go run two miles right now on an empty stomach?"

"Maybe not," I admit.

"Truth is, we very easily could just stay here and skip it," she says. "Let anyone else who does show up for supplies duke it out for them. But realistically, all that looks like is us sitting here, slowly starving, left at the mercy of whoever lives through that delivery. If we go, we at least give ourselves a fighting chance, maybe some staying power to last the next couple days. And who knows? Maybe we won't even have to fight anyone. I'd just rather go than regret not going and not knowing what we could have done to save ourselves."

"And if it comes to it…" A pit is building in my stomach, nervousness and guilt and who knows what else, deep and unshakeable. "You think we can fight off the others?"

"Totally," she says, without a hint of hesitation. "I mean, I can. And you put a knife in Alaina, of all people, which was pretty fucking iconic."

The guilt drops down into my stomach like a dense stone. "I—yeah."

"Stop feeling bad." She looks like she wants to smack me, which is about the same response I've gotten for it every time I've brought it up. "Seriously. You would be feeling worse if you'd let her kill me, yeah? And kept letting her push you around? Let it go."

She does make a fair point. If only it were so easy to shake. Because Chanel can say all the right things, but it doesn't erase the fact that I literally backstabbed Alaina. No matter who she is, that's messed up, right?

"Anyways," she says, moving on far more quickly than I can. "I really think we need to go, and I think we can both handle it. Although, to be fair, not that I'd pass up a chance to beat Gabrielle's ass, but this really isn't the state I'd hoped to be in."

I smile softly, scratching at the back of my neck, where my collar still pinches slightly. "Right. Yeah. How's the knee?"

"Fine," she says. "Well, not really, but manageable." She gets to her feet, a bit unsteadily, and shakes out her legs, testing the range of motion of each knee. "Yeah, I mean—it's mostly just stiff now. All that time I spent lying on the ground being emo about Seraphina getting nuked was really good for resting it, I guess." She laughs loudly then, shaking her head. "God, that's so not-funny."

Except it is. Suddenly I'm chuckling, too, laughter building up in my throat until it reaches my abdomen, and then neither of us can stop laughing at how absolutely shit this is all going and how much worse it's probably going to get."

"Oh, my God," I say, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. "We're going to hell."

"Eh, we already were," she smirks, although that hint of a smile quickly fades. The subtle misery she's been wearing since Alaina died falls neatly back into its missing place. "Why wait?"

We do wait, though, just a few hours as the sun crosses over us above the swirling smoke. Killing time, sipping water, stretching out just to give our minds and bodies something to do besides anticipate.

I don't know what will happen to us. But like with Alaina, the pit in my stomach doesn't fade with time—rather it swells and deepens, feasting on the fear in my stomach.

And unlike us, it's got ample fuel to feed it.

Gerard Colson.
Springfield, Massachusetts.

If the air weren't faintly bronze, it'd look like just another foggy morning in New Hampshire. Only this haze doesn't burn off when the air starts to heat up, doesn't calm me, cool my bare skin on contact. My chest tightens with the dryness and every breath scratches at the back of my throat like it has fingers, raring to choke.

The bags are packed, not like there's much to take with us, but the task carries with it a sense of finality, unlike each other time we've left our overnight camp. Where we're going, the danger that awaits us, is going to change everything for us. Once we leave, there's no coming back.

Three hours from now, either of us could be dead. Flat-out dead. The thought is acutely terrifying and yet, in a way, almost relieving, because of the imminent necessity to embrace the fact that I'm in danger no matter where I am on this mountain. I say almost because, naturally, my horror outweighs any optimism. But I can't run from it in the end.

And not going simply isn't an option. Not when we're as hungry as we are, as desperate. It was hardly even a debate. When I wondered if we were even ready to fight, Gabrielle's answer was quick and thoughtless: "Of course, I am." I rushed to agree, the same way I did when she first found me in the woods, when that split-second decision ensured I stayed alive another day, suggested I wholly trusted her, even when I still have my lingering worries. This time, it's because I know there's only so much time left for me to avoid the problem: there are fewer than ten of us remaining from the thirty we started with, and Gabrielle and I are two of them.

I know I'll do what I need to do, but I'm not looking forward to it. I see that same sentiment in Gabrielle's face as her expression sets itself, her lifting her pack onto her back: cold determination, flavored with just a hint of displeasure.

"Ready?" she says simply. No bullshit, no emotion. For her, this must seem so easy.

I nod and leave the remainder of my doubts unspoken. "Let's go."

We're largely quiet for the next two hours. The day's cooler than yesterday, but the dryness of the air is almost as dehydrating as the heat, and even less breathable. When we stop to refill our waters, I suggest tying our sweatshirts around our mouths and noses to block out some of the ash that's since come flaking down like snowfall. It's stuffy and awkward, but at this point, who cares?

As we walk, I keep my eyes on the map, scanning for anyone who's potentially on our trail, but everyone else either seems to be minding their own business or taking the straightforward route down towards camp. I do my best to keep Gabrielle filled in with who I can see moving towards the lake, and we try to reason about what shape they might be in. "Blake's heading over," I say at one point. "But he just killed Griffin." What's unsaid is why I feel like he might be injured—because Griffin has allegedly been proven to be a physical threat. Either way, he wouldn't have gone down without a fight. "Chanel and Eimer are heading down, too. They killed Alaina. And Alex is still there."

"Okay, let's talk about this," she says. I have to keep my focus on my footsteps to make sure I can keep up with her pace. "So Alex has killed, let's see… Mariana. Jackson. Just them?"

"I think so."

"And then you said Chanel and Eimer got Alaina, however that went down. Blake killed Brandon and Griffin. And then… who's left?" She pauses. "Audrey, right? And…"

"Madison," I say. "And neither of them has killed."

"Right," she says. "And we obviously haven't killed each other, or anyone else. So I'm pretty sure everyone else who killed someone is already dead."

I consider, trying to think through who I remember. Yuto killed Gwen, and then himself. Juliet killed Wes, then Monica killed her. Monica died last night. Dane and Doran—one of them, I can't remember which, killed the other, then Jeremiah killed them. "Yeah. I think that's it."

"So if we're guessing at who might show up—and we have to assume most, if not everyone, will, if they're as hungry as we are—we can assume at least a few are more distinct threats, right? Blake, for starters, because he's stronger and he's already proven he can kill people like Brandon and Griffin, who are definite threats. And then Alex has killed two people, but they're significantly less strong, I feel like that's fair to say. So I'd say, if we have to fight for anything, it has to be Blake who goes first."

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the turning in my stomach. If I try—really try—I can almost distance the names from the people I spent four years in class with, detach their personalities and personhood from who I might have to fight against. "I get what you're saying. But you're assuming that they're both in equal shape. If Blake fought both of those guys, I feel like he'd have the higher potential to get injured. Depending on weapon, or whatever, but they're bigger, right?"

"We won't know till we get there," she says simply. "I'm just trying to make a plan."

"And it's way better to be prepared, I agree," I concede. "Just offering my two cents." I have to fight my irritation at her, because she's my only ally out here at this point. At the same time, we're not a great team, really; we came together mainly out of necessity and a mutual inclination not to kill each other on sight. Other than that, who's to say she might just ditch me when we get there?

Hell, what's stopping me from doing the same?

"Anyways," she says. "I guess we'll have to plan for anything. But that's where I'm at."

We're silent for the remainder of the trek. On-screen, Chanel and Eimer continue to move towards camp. So does Blake. Somehow, I feel worse knowing who I'm about to see. If I were surprised, I couldn't torture myself trying to prepare for every scenario, or imagine what state everyone's in. In actuality, I'm lightheaded with dread. Sometimes it's better not to know.

And then before we know it, there's a glimmer of blue through the trees. Among the heavy haze, eyes burning, it's hard to see much else beyond the lake. The stench presses through the cloth over my face and I pull it tighter. Gabrielle's up at the tree line, surveying what she can see of camp. "Totally burned," she says as she comes back to me. "Jesus, I wonder what happened here."

My mouth is entirely dry. I check my watch: thirty-three minutes till two o'clock. Thirty-three minutes to go. I keep the map up now, obsessively tracing locations to ensure that we're not ambushed, but the others keep their distance; no one wants to fight unless there's something material to fight for.

Twenty-five minutes to go. I sip at my water, try to distract myself from the gnawing in my stomach, which could be from hunger but more likely has to do with nervousness.

Sixteen minutes. Gabrielle ties her hair back again. I go from name to name, making sure they're still where they appear to be. Blake. Alex. Chanel. Eimer—

The screen goes black.

I tap the screen. Shake the device. Nothing. "Gabrielle, is your watch dead?"

"Why do you care?" she snaps. "Use your own."

"I can't," I say, "because it just crapped out on me. Let me see yours."

She rolls her eyes but begrudgingly obeys, dropping her bag down in the dust and pulling her watch from the top pocket. Why she doesn't keep it on her wrist is beyond me, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had to do with the fact that mine is always in my hand. Why pay attention to what's around you when your partner will do it for free? She hands the device over, but it's just as unresponsive.

"Nice going, dickwad," she says. "You broke our watches."

"Shut up." There's a cold fear that starts in the center of my torso and spreads in all directions, freezing everything it touches. "They probably turned everyone's off. Right? But what's the point of that?"

"I don't know. To be assholes." But there's a hint of worry in her brow, in the way she hesitates before she speaks. Great. Just one more thing to stress myself out over.

I can only estimate the time left, now. I stretch my calves again, roll my neck and shoulders back, try to loosen the tension in my limbs even as I shiver. I take slow sips of my bottle until it's empty, and then I chew on the plastic lip, trying to give my teeth something to do besides chatter. I go through who I know I saw down here: Alex, Blake, Eimer, Chanel. And us. I don't know about Audrey and Madison. Truthfully, I hope they don't show up. I don't want any of them to die.

But they must, I remind myself. If I'm to win, they have to die. So do Alex, and Blake, and Eimer, and Chanel. So does Gabrielle. How many times have I been through this with myself? There aren't any other options.

"It has to be soon," I say, speaking aloud to distract myself. "We've been here long enough—"

Just then, there's a crumbling in the distance, the crackling of tire on stone. Gabrielle shoots a glance at me and we creep up to the tree line, exposing ourselves a little more to get a view of what's happening.

A single van pulls down the slope, tires scraping over burnt debris and blackened earth. The back doors swing open and bags are tossed from the back, roughly and unceremoniously. For a moment I'm nearly offended by how demeaning the gesture is, that we'll have to fight over what's there like animals for scraps, but it's not like I have a choice.

Or do I? Because as the van peels away, there's a pause. Time freezes. No one moves from the trees. I know I told Gabrielle we could do this, but I'm not ready yet. I'm not ready!

But just as I'm deciding I'm better off holding back, Gabrielle launches herself forwards, without even a moment's notice to me. And just as my body lurches forward to follow, I stop myself, instead watching her back as she goes running.

Am I cut out for this? No. Not even close.

Then what the hell am I doing here?

Walk Through the Fire by Zayde Wølf and Ruelle.

12th: Freya Pritchard. Died from Grievous Wounds.
11th: Jeremiah Whittaker. Died from Grievous Wounds.
10th: Monica Celsey. Died by Suffocation.

Hey friends!

Finally getting a chance to post this because fake ass hoes keep killing me first round in Among Us. Brendan and Opti, you're dead to me.

Had this one mostly done for like three weeks and just did NOT want to edit that Blake/Brandon scene for some reason. Once I got through that/ switched that third POV things finally started moving but… yeesh.

Anywho, things are getting spicy. This scene with Freya/Monica/Jeremiah was always in my drafts, although obviously the way it went down changed over the years. I hope it comes across somewhat cleanly rather than forced lmao. RIP to the most iconic duo in this fic… long live Fremiah xoxo. As for Monica, Ben, I don't think you're caught up quite yet but I know you'll get here at some point—I'm so glad you've enjoyed reading her, as she was a fun one for sure!

Very much looking forward to this upcoming chapter—we'll be whittling down the field quite a bit. Would love to hear y'all's predictions or any other thoughts!

Also, huge shoutout to Em (again) for catching up on reviews and doing like 14 chapters in 2 days- queen shit!

To my Americans, make sure you vote if you haven't already. To my non-Americans… you lucky bastards.

See you soon!

-socks