But if there is a God, would we even know his name?
And if there is a God, I think he would shake his head, and turn away.

CHAPTER 22.
VIOLENCE.

Gabrielle Harman.
Stockton, California.

I don't feel my legs under me. There's no attention to spare for anything that isn't a sound or a sight. As I scan the area in front of me, everything is still. But it's all an illusion. There are others out there, we know there are. I'm an idiot if I think it's just me and Gerard.

Gerard. For a second my head whips around, registering he's not behind me. Panic swells quickly into anger. How dare he? We're a team. If anything, he owes me this, because he needs me here more than I need him. I was doing just fine on my own. Sure, I sought him out, but I would have been fine. It's him who needed me.

If I had the time I'd go back and drag him with me, but I can't stop. Because I'm the first to the bags, the first to see what's here. I can't lose that advantage. I'm rooting through the first bag, ripping zippers to the side, and in that first bag are sandwiches, bread and cheese and meat and vegetables and god damn if it isn't the best thing I've ever seen. It takes more effort than it should to not just shove it into my mouth right here and now. But I've zipped the bag back up and tossed it onto my back, just in time to soften the blow that comes hard from my right side.

My first thought is that it's definitely that bitch Chanel, because she's the only person still here who's actually tried to fight me before. But the face above doesn't make sense to me as we tumble into the grass, even as it contorts in pressure and pain, somewhere, and then I see the bandaged wound by his collarbone.

It's Brandon. And that doesn't make sense. Because Brandon died a few days ago, but he's somehow here. And as quickly as the confusion comes, I throw it aside. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except survival. I drive a knee into his groin, quicker than he can anticipate it, and kick away. There's Gerard now- so he isn't a total fucking coward—and he grabs for a bag as I clamor to my feet.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"It's not like you gave me any lead-time," Gerard says. But he doesn't dwell on it. "Got one? Go. Let's go."

We could run. Now. We've got materials, Brandon's down, except now there's more rage swelling in me. Because I'm still swaying from Gerard's hesitation. And because it's Brandon. Because Brandon, of all fucking people, decided to fuck with me today. Brandon, who maybe has been more subtle than people like Quincy or me but is still nothing short of a bully and a dick, and as I look at him I'm suddenly overcome by the frustration and the understanding that this motherfucker has never known hardship like me. Never had to fight for respect the way I have. And I can't let him go.

If he has to die, why shouldn't it be now?

Gerard's back on his feet and looking to me for our next move, but I've only got eyes on Brandon. In an instant I've drawn my weapon, but Brandon's quick too, kicking back at my legs so I stumble.

Gerard's pulling me away from Brandon. "Gabrielle, come on—"

But as I get back to my feet, a second from pulling the trigger, another figure comes flying into the fray. In an instant Blake's on us, throwing himself at Gerard like he's no doubt practiced for years. Gerard has nothing to protect him from the blow. He's off-balance. He's smaller in stature. He's got nothing to pad him but his t-shirt.

At impact, Gerard's head jerks sideways in the air. A sharp crack cries out from the impact.

I see Sebastian in his face as it goes slack—an instant of softness, kindness, frailty in his features. For a second Gerard isn't Gerard. He's the one person who never feared me, the one person who saw me, who cared about me, even though I was me. As his body hits earth, the fight fades, for just a second. My limbs go weak, but not heavy with fatigue, light with… compassion. For just a second, I'm softened.

Then the stillness breathes heavy and all sounds come roaring back. I have no compassion, not for Blake, not for Brandon. I don't even give a fuck about Gerard, really. The anger ignites me, and I howl as I launch myself at Blake, who's compromised on top of Gerard's limp body. He's caught off guard. Before he can yell for Brandon I've thrown an elbow into his throat, keeping him silent.

Up close I can see just how blackened his face is with bruising. His nose bends crooked, eyes red and bleary.

There's no time to hesitate. His knife lies loose on the ground beside him, lost by either blow. I grab hold and jab it down, right where my elbow hit.

The blade cuts in so easily. Too easily.

Brandon Prescott.
San Francisco, California.

I know what's happened before I see it. There's a sharp cry, a gurgling, before Blake's voice goes silent.

My stomach drops as Gabrielle pushes his body aside. My limbs are leaden, frozen. Blake…?

"Blake," I gasp out, air struggling to reach my lungs. "Blake, no—"

There's a swelling rushing in my ears that drowns out all else. Gabrielle's lips are moving, entirely soundless. My gaze latches on to Blake's face, his neck, the crimson coursing from the open gash in his throat.

He can't be dead. He's not—Blake's my brother, he's always been here, he's not—no—

My legs are rigid, frozen to the floor. If someone to charge at me right now I wouldn't be able to evade them. For minutes, hours I stand there, eyes locked on his body.

His blood continues to flow.

Amidst the darkness at the edges of my vision, there's movement. Gabrielle, now pushed back on her hands, gapes at both of us. Red soaks her chest, her hands, her face.

"What did you do?" I breathe.

"It's what we're supposed to do, isn't it?" she says. But she doesn't believe what she's saying—she can't. There's no malice in her tone. Not like there should be if she meant it. Whatever fury inspired her to lash out, it's long gone now, lost as soon as Blake was.

"Blake Chapman is dead, murdered by Gabrielle Harman."

I hear it from underwater and afar, muffled by distance, by the haze that clouds my thoughts. My jaw opens, my tongue twitches like it's about to say something cold, but there's nothing to be said. I just keep looking at Blake.

He's dead.

How the fuck is he dead?

I've seen him down before, thrown aside like a rag doll as some opposing player bursts through the line of defense and barrels through him. When you're a small school like us, it happens a lot. So it's not him being down, flat on the ground, that's so jarring.

It's how still he is. How small he seems. And that gash in his throat. If I had bile to spit it'd be coming up, but my mind is stony, blocking out any sort of feeling below the neck. My vision blurs, like a head rush. The roaring in my ears dims to a pale ringing.

And then time unfreezes. Because as quickly as Blake goes down, Gabrielle's got her weapon pointed back upwards, and there's no more time to grieve. Not now, anyway. And somehow, I snap back into some sort of survival mode.

Except she's not aiming at me. There's movement behind me, and I whip around to see Chanel and Eimer frozen in place, hands on the last two bags.

The tension hangs between us like the string of a wire pulled taut. A moment of truth: do we hurt each other? There's already been so much pain here. I don't want to kill. Because it's not their fault they're here. And yet, we've passed the point where we question whether we can or should. Blake's body on the scalded ground proves that much.

Chanel's gaze twitches down from mine, taking in the two corpses next to us. "Look, we'll fuck off if you let us have these. No harm done. No questions asked."

It's Gabrielle who responds first, in a voice that wavers only slightly. "Right," she says. "Like it's that easy. Aren't we only delaying what's bound to happen anyway? If it's not today, it's tomorrow. Or the next day. And that's it. Might as well be now."

To her credit, Chanel's got her gun up before I can even tell she's holding it. But she doesn't fire. Not yet. Neither does Gabrielle. The two eye each other, and I suddenly feel uncomfortably like the odd one out. This is not my battle.

Eimer shifts next to me and I look to her briefly. There's a coldness in her eyes I don't recognize. She doesn't duck away from my gaze like she used to. And then I remember—she helped kill Alaina. How much has changed with her? With us? There are words on my lips that I'm trying to flavor, because it's clear there's something left unsaid.

That's when the first gun fires.

But it's not from behind me, where Chanel stands. And it's not Gabrielle, because she reacts to the sound by firing her own weapon.

Both shots find their mark in Eimer.

I duck and stumble away, whipping my head around to see where the other shot came from. Eimer's screams pierce the air, but Chanel doesn't flock to her. Rather, she launches herself at Gabrielle, knocking the girl back to the ground. And then Alex is there, gun in hand, and the scene becomes clearer, as our foursome splits, clearing the path towards the packs.

I've only got a knife. I can't reach Alex from here. And I can't run after him because that would mean leaving behind the supplies I lost Blake over. He scoops up a pack, barely looking at the rest of us, and flees. There's a noticeable limp, but he's quickly disappeared back into the trees.

Heart thumping in my chest, I check the trees one more time. No one else moves. It's just us four now. Gabrielle, Chanel, in a scuffle in the dirt. Eimer, bleeding out. Me.

And the two bodies in the dust and ash.

I stare between the girls, unable to move. Unable to choose. Grieve… or fight?

My decision is murky. My thoughts are clouded with the same gloom that shades their still bodies and in this moment of panic, I freeze.

I don't know. I don't know if I can fully do either.

Chanel Agresti.
Scarsdale, New York.

I can't say why it triggers me. Something in seeing Eimer go down, by Gabrielle's hand, just makes me snap.

The blood on her cheeks is still sticky and liquified. Her eyes are darkened with pure loathing. I'm bigger than her, heavier and stronger, and I've got the upper hand as I straddle her and hold her down, but when has that ever been enough to stop her?

A shot at my nose, and my eyes water. I blink away the shock and counter it, my fist connecting under her eye. She grunts, jerking her head away, but there's nowhere to go.

This isn't like one of our old fights at camp. That was child's play compared to this, where the ruined landscape says it all: everything has changed. And everything's at stake.

Another downward beating, heavily fueled by gravity and spite. There's nothing I can do to relieve my loathing of her in this moment. Hitting doesn't make me feel better. It never has. If it did, I would have stopped hating her on day fucking one.

"Fucking hit me," she scoffs. "None of this pussy shit. You could at least pretend like you mean it, maybe put some force in it, you weak bitch."

"Fuck you," I spit. If she only knew. But I don't know why she's riling me up. It doesn't do her any good to piss me off, just makes me madder. If she's trying to get her face beaten in, then by all means, keep talking.

She actually laughs. "Yeah, good one. All bark and no bite, that's your brand. Act all tough and mighty but as soon as anyone challenges that—"

I throw a fist into her open mouth before she gets any further with her insult. She cries out at the impact that snaps teeth and makes blood swell from her gums. She spits up at me, red slipping from her lips. "Better," she says weakly, but there's some hesitancy behind it, more fear in her eyes even as they narrow up at me. She has to know she's at my mercy now, that she's not getting out of this unless I let her go. I have complete control.

"Chan," Brandon pleads from somewhere behind me. I can't see him, anyway, which means he's not close enough to even be involved.

"Shut up," I snarl. "No. Don't tell me what to do."

The truth is, I can't have him in my ear, because I'm about to kill Gabrielle. I have no choice. Yet the longer I hesitate, the more I tell myself I can't do it.

But is that my voice telling me that, or hers? And hers might as well be Wes'. Don't they sound the same, when you account for tone, malice, and yes, the words they use to taunt me?

Gabrielle doesn't even care enough to fight from underneath me. "Just do it, you pussy," she mumbles through shattered teeth and soggy lips. "I hope it fucks you up. Hope it makes you sick. It's what you deserve, you arrogant fucking whore."

I see red. I throw my fist down but not into her jaw. Her weapon lies discarded in the dust, knocked from her grip in earlier blows, and my fingers curl around its grip.

Against her skull, the trigger clicks. Empty.

"Fuck! Brandon, give me your gun." Mine's left behind me somewhere, lost in my race to barrel into Gabrielle.

"I don't have a gun—"

"Then whatever you have!" I don't have time to think about this! He presses a blade into my hand and as quickly as it touches my fingers I'm sliding it across her throat.

I'm not prepared for the bloodcurdling scream she releases when my cut's not quick enough. I grit my teeth and try to block out the screaming that, moments later, phases into thick gurgling as she drowns in her own blood.

I push myself backwards on my hands as she dies, my body frantic as my mind to get away, get away—if I move, turn around, can't see it, it won't be real…

I turn, and there's a worse sight behind me. Through my blurring vision, I see them. One wound in her stomach, another in her chest. "Who… how…" I manage to get out.

"Alex," Brandon says grimly.

Eimer gasps for breath, tears sliding down her cheeks. I don't even try for the bandages in my bag. There's no use, not when there's this much blood. But I can't back away, either. Even if her face and Gabrielle's are blurring together in front of me, both so helpless, so bloodied.

Not just because I'm not about to let Brandon, of all people, lay Eimer to rest. But because… well. As soft as it sounds, I wasn't there when Seraphina died. It's the least I can do for Eimer.

"Brandon, cover us," I say, hoping my desperation doesn't sound as evident as it seems. "Protect the—whatever's left. Make sure no one else comes running." Brandon obliges begrudgingly and retreats, keeping his eyes out in the haze. My entire body feels numb—I see, rather than feel, my fingers close around Eimer's red-stained hand.

"Chan," she whimpers. "Chan, I'm so scared." Her eyes crinkle with pain.

I blink the tears from my own eyes. None of this. Not now. No tears. "I know," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I know. I'm so, so sorry."

A sob swells out of her chest, pumping blood further through her shirt. "It hurts…"

Fuck. I don't know how to handle this. I don't know how to help her. How do you console someone who's dying? How do you console someone who's dying after you just killed someone right next to her? "I'm here," I say, cringing at my own words, but what else can I say? "I'm here. I'm with you."

Sickness builds in my stomach, but I swallow it down, determined to feel nothing. In minutes, her whimpers fade out. Her breathing shallows. The tears slow but her bleeding doesn't, soaking thickly through the fabric.

I don't know how long it takes before Brandon makes his way back over, treading cautiously, though his movements are the only sound on the empty field. "No one else is coming," he says finally, his voice flat and grey with defeat.

I get to my feet, legs shaking under me. There's no ignoring them as I stoop for my bag. Gerard, neck snapped, limp in the dirt. Blake and Gabrielle, throats gashed open, blood still oozing. And Eimer, the last to have her life fade from her eyes.

All unnecessary. All wasted deaths.

"You and me, then, huh?"

Brandon stands eying me, one hand on the last pack, expecting my answer but poised to react, in case I turn it down. Because it's too late to let each other go.

There's five left. Either we come together, or we fight this out, too. The choice is simple.

"You and me," I agree. I close my eyes, swallowing my nausea. "…Let's please get out of here."

Audrey Spenser.
Las Vegas, Nevada.

"Eimer Otero is dead, murdered by Gabrielle Harman and Alexander Grim."

Four dead. I wait and listen for another, a fifth, but after a few more minutes of hearing nothing but the birds chirping and diving above, I decide that Eimer must have been the last.

Four dead, Gerard, Blake, Gabrielle, and Eimer, all in the span of maybe fifteen minutes, max. I don't quite know how to wrap my head around that. I'm, somehow, still here, and they're all dead. All because I couldn't be bothered to risk my life for what, knowing the type of people who stuck us here, probably only ended up being two bags of peanuts and a Capri Sun.

But now that I'm here, still without supplies or anything to eat, that same hunger that was only really a nuisance earlier is suddenly begging for my immediate attention. My head pounds and swirls, every limb acutely aware that it's not getting nearly what it's been used to fueling itself on for eighteen years. Sure, there were days I straight-up forgot to eat because I was too busy playing video games in my room, but that was different. I could eat whenever I wanted to. It's the fact I have no choice that makes the gnawing so much worse.

The pain and the sitting and the thinking quickly become unbearable. I'm admittedly pessimistic at my chances, but I rely on memory as best I can and eventually find myself back at the stream I drank from earlier, shaded under heavy greenery that all but masks the still-orange sky above.

At the edge, I peer in, trying to guess at what might be hiding under the blue. The water's quicker-moving here so I head upstream, reasoning that maybe I'll be able to see any aquatic life through calmer waters. Instead, I see myself: a reflection distorted by its own ebbing surface, but also by time and hardship. I'm grimier than I've ever seen. But I'm still recognizable. That much, I can appreciate. Because even after five days in the woods, I feel like I still have a sense of who I am, and I'm holding onto it no matter what happens. I can't say the same for everyone else.

Ten feet from the water, there's a thin branch, narrow and sharp enough for what's probably a stupid idea but at this point, anything's worth a shot. I keep my ears open for anyone around me, because my watch has been dead since just before two o'clock and frankly, I really took for granted the ability to see other people coming, to not have to watch my own back all the time. But it's nearly silent. After a few minutes of dull anticipation, the quiet beginning to play tricks on my ears, I see a flash of movement and drive the stick down.

Too slow. I jab at the water again, but to no avail. A few more tries later, and still nothing. If anything, I feel somehow stupider. What the hell am I doing, camping out in the woods, of all things? Trying to fish with a stick! If everything weren't so goddamn terrible, I'd almost laugh.

But I don't. Because as much as I joke, if I allow myself to consider it, I'm bloody terrified of dying. At this point, I'm a day away from it. Two, max. There does remain a very slim chance that everyone else gets nuked and I'm the sole survivor. Other than that, my odds are pretty shit.

Except—I did prove I could defend myself. Against Alex, no less, who at this point is essentially chaos incarnate. Sure, I was probably a second away from getting my throat completely slit, but I escaped it. I survived. Somewhat encouraged, I'm more patient with the fish as they come, or more often, don't. Twenty minutes, thirty, pass, and I'm quiet. More often than not, I can't quite spear the shimmer of movement I see in the water. But forty minutes come and go, and I've got a few fish skewered, bodies small and still on my makeshift spear.

I've got nothing to build a fire with. Given what happened last night, though, that's probably asking for trouble. So I sit by the water and examine what I've caught. Four slimy bodies, eyes wide and bugging, but as gross as they are it's all I've got. Closing my eyes, I take a hesitant nibble at the edge of one of the fish.

Mmmm… wait, no, eugh. Gross.

Uncooked. Unseasoned. I really don't know why I expected some gourmet sushi type shit from myself, but that fantasy's long gone by now. A few more tentative bites, but I can't distract myself from the sheer sliminess of its body. My teeth crack the first fish's skeleton and that's when I've decided I've had enough. I toss that whole fishy mess back into the water and let the stream carry it away. No more. No way.

Apparently, I found one of the only foods that wasn't better than nothing. So it goes.

My stomach coils at the lingering taste and I gulp down some of the stream water, rinsing my mouth and trying to quell the pounding in my head. And then I almost laugh. Because, honestly, it's not even funny, it's just dumb that after all of this, I'm one of the last five still here. Chanel and Brandon, I might have predicted. Madison, maybe, even if I am a little bitter she left me to deal with Alex on my own. Alex could have gone either way, really. But me?

I'm both oddly proud and deeply disgusted. Obviously I despise being associated with this circle of hell, but listen. I'll be the first to say that I'm not exactly survivalist material. I've never spent a day in the woods until this past week. The last time I cooked for myself, I damn near set the kitchen on fire. And best of all, what have I even done to make it this far? Aside from that one time I had to run for my life and ended up stabbing Alex, I haven't done shit but sleep and vibe.

Maybe that's the secret to all this. Just stay out of sight and out of mind, and everyone will leave you the hell alone. Sure worked for me back at school. Well, mostly. Unfortunately, the only person it really didn't work for is one of the few still out here: Alex.

Alexander Grim. Add that name to the long list of things I regret being associated with. It's not that I don't care about him—unfortunately, the opposite is true. Frankly, I'm real worried about him. He's unpredictable now, messy, and we've had our share of rockiness in our relationship but at this point he's fully psychotic. I can only hope he's still hurt enough to not be able to come after me.

Is it wrong that I kept hoping he'd die, back when everyone was at camp earlier? Because even if I was defending myself from him, I injured him; he's not the type to let that go. And if he helped kill Eimer, that means he's not so injured he can't fight back. That's a problem.

The worry holds steady in my gut as the sky darkens, afternoon fading into dusk. The only thing I can come up with to calm myself is that, if my watch is dead, maybe no one can find me. Maybe I can wait this one out. I keep as silent as possible, but there's no way to tell if the evening sounds around me are insects, animals, or one of the others, knives in hand, hunting me down.

As I shiver into my t-shirt, missing the sweatshirt I abandoned as I fled from Alex, my watch comes to life.

In the fading haze, the screen is almost blinding. As I blink to fix my vision, it deafens to a darker tone. Frowning, I watch and wait as the map loads back up.

Empty. The way it was in the very beginning. In the sidebar, I tap the familiar space. Display locations?

Yes.

The screen fades, attempting to load. My breath hitches in my throat and my chest tightens, waiting, anticipating.

Then the map returns. There's my location, a black circle at the edge of the stream. I know where I am, though. But where are the others?

My stomach sinks as I scroll around. Because there's only one other person on this map. And I know who it's going to be, but I indulge myself anyway, on the off-chance that I'm not going to be driven towards the very person I hoped I'd never see again.

I tap the grey, and only one name appears. Alexander Grim.

Infections of a Different Kind by AURORA.

9th: Gerard Colson. Killed by Blake Chapman.
8th: Blake Chapman. Killed by Gabrielle Harman.
7th: Gabrielle Harman. Killed by Chanel Agresti.
6th: Eimer Otero. Killed by Gabrielle Harman and Alexander Grim.

(Yes, this is a repost. Shoutout stinky blue site for finally getting its shit together.)

Yeesh! This chapter moved surprisingly quickly, from a writing standpoint at least. I actually had this (mostly) finished before the last chapter, which I've had happen exactly zero times since I started this fic. Character growth babey!

5 left: Madison, Chanel, Alex, Audrey, and Brandon. It's getting close to the end, y'all, and while I knew I was never going to fully quit this story, part of me still wondered if I'd ever get this far. Congrats to those 5, and yes, that includes a self-congratulations. I really did that.

A bit of a tumultuous few days around here- election stress is real- but shoutout to everyone who voted and who has helped others to do so. Be kind to yourselves this week and keep looking out for those who have the most at stake.

Next chapter should be up in the next week or so- NaNoWriMo is in full swing for me so I've got it drafted, but it really comes down to whether I have the motivation to edit anything. Until then, be safe, continue to socially distance, and give yourself breaks when you need them.

Take care,
-socks