Hour 7: First of the Funerals
"Good morning…children. I hope you are all having fun, but staying strong. If any of you are sleeping, now would be a good time to wake up." Peter Morgan's voice sounded confused and almost monotone. Having been unsure of what he should be saying, he'd made the mistake of going to his government representative, Lieutenant-Colonel Stevenson, for advice.
Stevenson had written a speech for him, but it showed very clearly that the man had had almost no interaction with students since last he was one himself. The impressed grin on his face as Morgan began reading it soon faded, as he tore it up almost immediately. Mouthing and gesturing melodramatically to Stevenson what he was doing likely wasn't going to do their relationship any good, but it seemed appropriate.
"Alright, let's start again. I'm your teacher Mr Morgan and this is the first six-hourly update of whom among your ranks are still alive. I'll also be announcing the first danger zones to exist beyond the classroom, so you're advised to take notes."
Morgan sighed as he looked at the notes provided by one of Stevenson's men. Morgan himself was exempted from constantly watching the screens, though apparently that had more to do with Stevenson's propensity for slave-driving those under his command than the mandate of Morgan's role. At least the list was quite short this time.
He was very tired; he hoped to sleep for a while after the last of the students entered the Program, but having been forced to murder an innocent girl that was impossible. Still, by pretending to do so he was able to avoid Stevenson for a few minutes, his wont to abuse his air horn notwithstanding.
"The first death you all saw; thus you know it was Zoey Volta, whom I killed. Next was Manuel Noles, who was killed by Elyse Backman. He was followed by Jemi Britcher, whose life was ended by Peter Lucianius, and finally Darren Cooper, killed by Jenna Widdowson." The words were almost choked out, but Morgan tried to keep his composure, since he knew the consequences of non-compliance.
"As indicated to you, from hereon in there will be a danger zone activated every two hours. That is to say, if you enter these zones once active, your collar will be detonated. The system is automated, and controlled by satellite-designated demarcations linked to the government's computer systems on the mainland, therefore it is literally impossible to prevent detonation should you enter a zone. Even if anyone in this room were to have either the inclination or the capacity to spare you, which they do not, deactivation from the mainland takes longer than it does for the collar to explode. So consider yourselves forewarned. Anyway, as of 7am, B1 is an active danger zone. As of 9am, G5, and at 11am, J9.
"I've been advised that I should offer you words of encouragement in this difficult time. The truth is I can't bring myself to lie to you any more than you already have been. You're on your own, unless you can find temporary allies. You need to find your own source of strength if you don't want to be the next on my list, and you need to accept that you're all going to die in the next three days. One of you will survive, but it's up to you to demonstrate it if you're determined that it's going to be you. Good hunting, and I'll talk to you again at midday." With that, Morgan switched off the microphone and turned around. Stevenson was livid.
"What are you playing at you idiot teacher? You were briefed on how it was supposed to go."
"I believe you're supposed to refer to me as 'Sir,' Lieutenant-Colonel. And I'm quite sure that to refer to me by my profession, of which I'm very proud, as an insult is a bad idea on your part," This kind of bravado was risky, but Morgan was in no mood to care. With the killers and victims announced, funerals were now being held across Caphraig. They were the first of many.
As the names were read out, one by one, Kevin Hetfield tried to contextualise it. The names had been dryly recited and he needed some way to make sense of it. Keeping calm under pressure wasn't something he'd ever really had a problem with, but this was all very disturbing, and there never having been anything of the sort before made it all the more so.
Okay, that wasn't strictly true; the Americans had tried it. The British government hoped to use it as a threat, so heavily publicised it. But that was different. Across the Atlantic, they wanted to bully the youth into submission. The reports revelled in every drop of blood spilt, and the audience even got to vote on the most exciting kills, extra weapons going to the winners. It was the same basic idea as Kevin's current situation, but the execution was very different.
No, this wasn't just a bloodbath. The British organisers were cold, calculating and precise. They knew what they were doing, and were deliberately not giving any clues to their victims, who were now doomed to contribute to the carnage or fall victim to it.
Kevin wasn't a particularly strong guy, though at the same time nor was he notably weak, with a pale, skinny, non-muscular frame. He had a fairly ordinary appearance, his standard short, light brown hair and blue eyes being compensated for by typically being close to the cutting edge of fashion trends. There were few areas in his life in which he stood out at all, actually, though that suited him just fine. He was Mr. Reliable, always dependable, always worth talking to when one chanced upon him.
It meant nobody had cause to be his enemy, which never a bad thing. Still, he didn't feel safe out in the open. Despite several hours of wandering, however, he'd yet to find somewhere safe and secluded, so outside he remained. Caphraig wasn't the most interesting of the Western Isles, that was for sure.
He knew he needed safety soon though, since people seemed to be playing this game. He tried to reconcile the thought with the list of names he had just heard. Why had they died?
Manuel must have gotten unlucky, dying where he had. Elyse had always been opportunistic, and Peter and the Trio were psychopaths. So nothing surprising about…he stopped himself. What was the point in it? Kevin could spend any number of hours speculating on the whys and wherefores, and it would all be pointless. He'd never know what happened; even if he found those responsible or the bodies there would be no answers.
No, what was important at the moment was the specific factor that raised a lump in Kevin's throat. He'd known the killers and victims through high school, some since S1. But the only thing that really seemed to matter was that he wasn't on the list – nor were any of his friends. He knew them all, but that didn't mean he was close to them. Shanae Preston, Stefano Valutti and Valerie Wolfe. They were the important ones, and they were still alive.
Kevin tried to shake the thought by imagining the list being of those killed in some accident. That would be a tragedy, and he would grieve and mourn like everyone else. He imagined the report was instead that a crazed lunatic had murdered them all. That thought was even worse, and would have devastated all of Perth.
Then, one final thought – that they had murdered each other. He could barely comprehend how horrific that would be. And yet it was the reality of the situation. And the relief was still there. He was alive, his friends were alive; all else was secondary.
Where are you, Shanae? He didn't know how much later than him she'd left, but that was irrelevant. The point was, she wasn't with him. It was a strange relationship, though the similar ground between they and Olly King and Tash Checketts made it seem less so. But Kevin had a lot of faith in Shanae; she was strong-willed, determined, and never backed down. Her inner strength, when combined with his own likeability and reliability, would certainly make for a powerful team no matter how they decided to face the Program. It was what made them work as a couple. As he continued to walk the uneven paths of Caphraig, the prospect of such a scenario lifted his spirits slightly, distracting him from the horrors of Morgan's report.
"Hey there. How's it going, mate?" Kevin suddenly paused. He wasn't as alone as he thought he was! He clearly hadn't been paying as much attention to his surroundings as he thought.
Minutes after the announcement, students across Caphraig were now mourning their dead friends. People both good and bad had both died and killed. Perhaps those who had caused deaths lamented having done so? It was hard to say. But regardless, chances were good that everyone left alive on Caphraig was either conducting or attending a funeral, save Charlie O'Keefe. Such was his perspective, anyway.
He'd spent the last five hours in one. The events of the classroom had been replayed in his head dozens if not hundreds of times as he strived to rationalise or justify what had happened. Either would do, just as long as some sense could be found in it. But there was none. No, Zoey was murdered by two people, one of whom was insane and the other camped out in a fortress..
The problem was that Charlie was an optimist, who always saw the best in people. That's what didn't make sense in any of this; given they were both good people, how could they act that way? But the words had by now lost all meaning, and he himself the ability to think straight.
Minutes ago, it had all been so simple – they deserved to die, ergo they would die. Fortress or not, he would find a way. The report changed things though, in a way that took the wind out of him as if he'd been assaulted by a kick boxer. The reality of the situation was inescapable, and having spent so harbouring thoughts of glorious vengeance he was in no position or mood to go into denial about what Morgan had just announced.
"It's not so straightforward anymore." Charlie was talking to himself, but felt like he couldn't speak, so needed to know he still could. Nihilistic thoughts didn't become him; if anything, he had too much faith in the world and the people in it. Yet here he was. Sitting in some dilapidated cottage surrounded on all sides by a load of walking corpses.
Putting his hands to his temples, Charlie tried hard to rekindle his emotional response to the situation. They were his friends! They were his friends and they were both dead and dying, killed and killing, and what's more there was nothing he could do about it!
But so were many millions of people throughout the world. Sure, Britain was a pseudo-utopia, but other countries had no such pretensions. If anything, the fact that the Government had been reduced to this "Program" would probably stand to reduce its standing in the international community. The youth rioting already had had some impact, from what he'd heard. Deaths throughout the world…it was impossible to care about them all. So why even care about any, and why were the ones he'd just heard about any different?
Because I know them and knew them. Because everyone else will soon be going the same way, including myself. It didn't seem to make a difference. It still meant nothing. What good would feeling anything do anyway? It would dull his awareness, which he needed for when someone eventually found him. Which they would, in time. Charlie knew he couldn't hide forever.
Anger was useless. Even if he did find a way to kill the people who took away Zoey, what good would it do and where would it end? Should he kill Elyse too because of Manuel? And why should his own social circle be favoured over anyone else's? More killing wouldn't bring people back. It only started a never-ending cycle.
Quickly growing bored of pondering the issue, Charlie wandered into the kitchen. Finding the electricity to still be switched on, he decided to make some toast. It was 6.30am – the perfect time for an early breakfast of a morning. Looking discretely outside the window, he could see the sun rising. It was going to be a nice day.
As Charlie well knew, the first report had particular relevance to the former members of the Drama Club. He wasn't concerning himself with his group had been so quick to kill and die, but others in the group did indeed have that thought at the forefront of their minds. For others such as George Ryan, the announcement was one of those moments that came along every so often in life that really put things into perspective
As he wandered by the eastern edge of the island, George looked out towards the mainland. There lay everything he once knew, everything he needed now, and everything that was denied him. Disorganised and paranoid, yet refreshingly optimistic, he had to wonder with exasperation how he'd ever gotten here.
George was something of a reject by high-societal standards. He was a scruffy boy who came from a close but ill-disciplined family; seemingly this was the exact opposite of many of his peers. He was one of those who by all rights should have abandoned any hope of an academic future long ago. Yet here he was, still in school until he had no choice but to move on. Granted, that had never been the grand plan.
Nah, he was something of a delinquent, skipping school regularly to smoke and drink by the front gate and generally giving a two-fingered salute to authority whenever he got the chance. At least, that was how he used to be. It sounded soppy to him, but meeting a girl changed things.
Anna Charwell was a couple of years older than him, and studying Forensics in nearby Dundee. They'd met by chance about two years ago, and somehow she'd made him realise he could achieve something in life, and more to the point, that he should try and do so. He'd stayed on in school due to that and his birthday falling in November, meaning he wasn't 16 at the start of S5 and thus couldn't leave until Christmas. By the time Christmas came, it was less effort to stay on than to find something else to do, and now he intended joining her in Dundee to study Sport Management.
That was what drove him in life. It was what drove him now. Acting and sport were his two main hobbies, and each was about competing, winning and success. Persistent knee trouble had ended his promising rugby career, but of all things he'd found a talent for pool. Snooker being more popular in the UK, he'd switched quickly to that and was starting to make a name for himself, supported, as always, by Anna.
Anna, who he might never see again. That was what the announcement had caused him to realise. Up until now, he was focused on surviving, on winning. This was a game, after all, and he liked games of all kinds. He was good at them. And some people won games, others lost them.
What George hadn't considered thus far was what exactly he stood to lose if he didn't win – the same person he didn't have at his back, offering advice and encouragement, and generally making sure he got through things. Just as he helped her relax and endure the stress that came with her course, she did the exact opposite for him because it was what he needed.
He really needed it now. He was a charismatic guy, but so was Darren and he was dead. So was Elyse but she'd clearly lost the plot already. His strengths as a person seemed meaningless here and his faults were magnified, in the circumstances. It would almost have been worth the risk to Anna for her to be with George now! They did everything so much better when together. Yet he had never truly realised it until this moment.
Granted, he still found it hard adjusting to a serious relationship when he was known for being one of the more overtly sexual males in the year. But that was no excuse for this, nor for failing to comprehend the realities of his situation. Had he opened his eyes earlier, could he have done anything to help Elyse or Darren, or even Zoey? Morgan had said it, they'd all killed her by saying nothing.
Still, all of these thoughts were of people who would do their own thing in their own way. Finally realising that, it meant he himself had to do things his own way, for his own reasons. So why was he alive? For two reasons – his fledging but extremely promising snooker career, and for Anna. What did he want most in the world? To play in the special invite tournament in two weeks time for which he'd crushed the odds to qualify, and to be in her arms again.
Was that it, just like that? They were his friends, they were dead! Surely he should be lamenting the loss? Perhaps, but it wasn't a very practical thing to do. He was alone now, fair enough, but probably not for long. All George could really think about was not being like them. He had to try to avoid hurting anyone, but put not letting anyone hurt him first. Anna was waiting for him. It wasn't a matter of choice, it was one of necessity – she would see him again. Then he could hold a memorial, for everyone at once.
When some people died, they were mourned. Statistically, most people in places like Britain, where the taboo of death had somehow withstood even the years in which the gratuitous offence-causing was at its worst. But still, such clichéd reverence affected some more than others. Among the current residents of Caphraig, this meant Zoey Volta and Manuel Noles, known as they were for being saccharine and non-offensive respectively. But not every student got the affection in death that they would be receiving.
No, certain deaths were cause for celebration. Terrorists, paedophiles, those sort of people. Margaret Thatcher, probably, if the 94 year old ever got around to it. On the island, Jemi Britcher fell squarely into that category. Yes, David Remnant – Rem – knew very well that he and only one other person would be expressing sorrow for her.
Rem had known Jemi and Jenna since he was very young, and through growing up with them found himself inextricably linked to them. They were a trio. The Trio. Friends came and went but their bond stayed eternal. He was a likeable, funny guy, easygoing and approachable. But he eschewed potential popularity for the circle he'd grown up with.
He looked like them and dressed like them, possessing as he did blue and purple hair, a lip piercing and distinctive purple and black blazer/jeans combination he wore just now. He did everything with them, whether it was hanging at the school gates during extended two hour lunch breaks with a cigarette and a beer, going round to Jemi's for a film and gaming night, or popping a cheeky pill at Jenna's while listening to industrial music. And now it was all over.
The moments flashed as instants before Rem's eyes as he heard the news. It was said that that happened to everyone right before they died; Jemi meant enough to him that he saw her life right afterwards.
Conscious thought escaped him. He spun around, delirious and nauseated. The only time he'd ever felt like this before was the second time he'd tried speed; he took too much and overdosed slightly. The comedown had faded from that though; this was forever…this was…he didn't even know what it was.
So messed up
I want you here
In my room
I want you here
Now we're gonna be
Face-to-face
And I'll lay right down
In my favourite place
Rem didn't know where the music was coming from and didn't care as he stumbled about. His eyes weren't working right, but he became aware of a living creature nearby him. He grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be a fifteen inch black rubber dildo from his bag, proceeding to batter the creature. Again. Again. The swirling morass of images and sounds in his head was punctuated by what seemed to be yelps from the creature.
He hit it harder. Yes, this was what he needed, what Jemi deserved. A blood sacrifice. How ironic that it should be paid with a giant penis, when the girl so often derided as a slut was actually a virgin. The irony wouldn't have been lost on her. Rem encircled the target, so as to strike from different angles. The crimson regret of the fool in his way bled the ground, followed after ten minutes or so by small white chunks.
The creature stopped resisting, or indeed moving at all, its skull now in pieces and barely an inch of its body devoid of bloodstains. Without a second's hesistation Rem gathered himself and his belongings together. He felt satiated, but knew the feeling would only be brief. It was not done; it was only beginning.
Rem closed in on himself as he stood, trying to hold the memory of Jemi as close to him as he could as he thought on his target. He didn't know which emotion controlled him at that moment – sorrow or anger. "This isn't over, Peter. I will look for you. I will find you. And I will kill you."
As he wandered off, attempting to regain his bearings, he didn't give a second thought to the ruined body of Kevin Hetfield behind him. Someone else could hold his funeral; whoever's problem that was, it certainly wasn't Rem's.