Chapter 3: 22nd July 2016 -00:09-
Sprinting around the corner of a junctioning road, Rin Homura (Female Student #13) gritted her teeth, as incredulous tears poured from her eyes. Slamming into her back with every stride she made, the thumping of the duffle bag was all she could concentrate on. Inside, something hard and metallic smacked against her spine.
Finally stopping her blistering pace, Rin fell to her knees. A strangled breath choking in her throat, she fought back a sob.
Thoughts of Charles Freeman calling her name filled her mind. The way his mouth twisted into a grin, as he looked down on her and indicated the door.
Randomly selected my ass! her distraught mind screamed, as tears streamed down her face. They picked me first to get me away from Sho!
Rin very well may have been right. She remembered glancing over at her brother, sat beside her, and seeing his face contort as he realised that he would be the last one to leave.
Her lip quivering, Rin sat back and leaned against the wall of the building behind her. To her right, moonlight licked the waxy surfaces of leaves, decorating a stout shrub. A chilling wind sliced at her skin, and she started to tremble. Whether this was due to the cold, or because of fear, was difficult to determine.
All around her, darkness swallowed the scenery. In spite of the moonlight, shadow lay upon everything, playing havoc with her senses and ruining her already poor night vision. From within the deep absence, Rin was assaulted by sound. The lack of sight dialled her hearing up to eleven, to the point where even the slightest sound drew her attention and roared in her ears. The rustle of leaves may as well have been a crescendo of soldiers marching. Preparing to gun her down. The cry of a bird caused her heart to seize up in her chest.
Rin was petrified.
While definitely the more open and social of the twins, she made a point of not trusting anybody. No one except Sho. And now he was gone. Doomed to leave as far apart from her as possible. When all around her, enemies lurked. Children like her. Innocent, yes. But all just as terrified. All wanting to go home. All wanting to live. And fear is a dangerous thing. Fear can make you do anything.
And that's exactly what Rin was afraid of.
A classmate so addled and possessed by fear that they would kill her on sight.
She was terrified of being attacked. Of being killed. Killed without even seeing Sho; without getting to say goodbye.
Rin knew all about The Program. Before their emigration, her family had lived in the Republic of Greater East Asia. She grew up hearing stories of the battle royale that claimed the lives of two thousand Junior Highschool students every year. She grew up watching the local news reports, ticking off the dead and listing how they had met their end.
Shot, stabbed, strangled, bludgeoned...
Her body continued to shake. Gripping her arms tightly, with her slender fingers, she tried desperately to stop herself. But it was no use. It had already taken her. Fear gripped her like a vice and shook her, like an animal shaking the life out of its prey.
Tears rolled down her face in fat drops, bouncing along the curves of her profile with every shudder of her spasming muscles. Under the moonlight, they shone with an evil light.
Sho had always been there. Ever since they left the womb. He had been her shadow. Her protector. Even when it seemed like she was the one looking after them both, he was there to help her though it.
And now he wasn't. Now her shadow was the looming figure of death, ready to reap her in all its visceral glory.
The thought of Jacob Silver dying in the classroom smacked into her like a truck. The blood dominated her memory, and the way he was left in his seat to rot made her feel wrong and twisted. Rin barely knew him; hardly spoke to him. But that wasn't the point. What struck her was the finality of it; the horribly fragility of life. One second he was there, and the next he was gone. Forever.
It made her think of her own death.
Whether she would meet the same fate: Killed by the collar, without even knowing what was happening. Suddenly feeling all of that pain out of nowhere, and then everything going dark.
Or perhaps it would be something altogether more sinister: Murdered by a classmate, desperate to go home. Desperate to live. Just like her.
Moving automatically, Rin's hands fumbled with the zipper of her duffle bag. The sound of metal teeth, clumsily pulled apart, roared in her ears and eclipsed the sound of her breathing. Fingers, delving through the contents, came to rest on something hard and cold.
Feeling the shape, her mind instinctively settled on one thing: Gun.
And in that moment, the word was all that she needed. It was a means of defence. Something that she could use to fend off her crazed classmates. Something that would help her live.
Fishing it out, Rin examined the weapon under almost complete darkness.
Vaguely resembling a revolver, it was squat and stout, bearing a hammer that seemed far too large for the small gun. She only realised exactly what it was when she felt the wide barrel.
Reaching back into the bag, she fished out a handful of large cylindrical shells.
No, not shells, she thought. Flares.
What Rin Homura held in her hand was the last thing that she wanted. Just firing it would be like lighting a huge beacon ("Here I am, come and kill me!").
The weapon she had been designated was a flare gun.
Inside the Community Centre, Charles Freeman snapped his lighter shut and dragged down on the most recent of many cigarettes. A veil of smoke swam around his head, partially obscuring his eyes as he watched Jack Kim (Boy #17) grab his assigned bag and leave the room.
Turning his attention back to the students still sat at their desks, he noted a number of hollow expressions. As if they were shell shocked. Yet more were silently weeping.
A tweak of a smile twitched in the corner of his mouth.
He wondered how many of them would end up going crazy. Charles made a mental note to place some bets, after the last had been sent out. Figuring out the odds was always easier when he had a chance to see the contestants up close.
Every so often, he watched as one of the students turned their attention to the mutilated body of Jacob Silver; still sitting up on the far side of the room. The smell of his blood hung in the air, teasing Charles' senses like fresh cut copper. Ribbons of metallic scent wound through his nostrils and shot past the lingering nicotine, sparking something instinctive in his brain.
Checking his watch, he waited for the two minute mark to roll around once again, before calling out the next student's name.
"Girl #17, Sarah Matthews."
Rising to her feet, the girl locked eyes with Charles and didn't break eye contact until she had collected her bag. That was something that he wasn't used to. Defiance came with the territory, however something about the way that the girl held herself pushed the idea of a challenge. Less the air of a petulant child, and more of an equal waiting to front him out and prove him wrong.
Taking off at a sprint, Sarah's pink locks of hair flared behind her and she disappeared out of the heavy doors, into the dark of the hallway beyond.
Watching her go, Charles allowed himself to feel impressed.
He wondered how long she would last.
Definitely longer than some of them, he thought, stealing another glance around the room. A lot of them were crying; not just the girls, but the boys too.
Gavin Watts (Boy #18) was the next to depart. His large and muscular frame moved quickly to the front of the hall, and he grasped the duffle bag without a word. He wore a stern look to his lightly stubbled face, but his eyes betrayed something else. An air of concern that Charles noticed.
He too would be one to take note of. Not for the chance of winning (though Charles didn't sniff at the boy's chances), but for the entertainment he would gain from watching Gavin. This was a young man with a goal.
The Co-Ordinator couldn't wait to see what it was.
Contestants with a mission in mind were always far more entertaining than those that camped down and hid.
Frankie Murrey (Girl #15) sat hugging the weathered fabric of her designated bag tight to her chest. The thick eye makeup that once decorated her lashes and lids had smeared with her tears, running down her face before being swiped aside from her cheeks.
A shiver prickled down her bare thighs, and goosebumps sprang up in nodes across her smooth skin. Despite the sunny July weather of the day, the cloudless night had spurred a sudden chill. The black kneesocks that she wore offered little in terms of warmth, and her pleated skirt was bunched around her waist as she sat.
The only solace that she drew was that she was inside. Away from the wind, and somewhat insulated from the cold.
Not the most popular girl in the St Joseph's student body, Frankie had fled the moment that she left the town hall. Taking roads at random, she paid little heed to her surroundings. It was only after five minutes of running that she finally finally realised her error. She was making far too much noise.
Anyone listening would have been able to pick out the clack of her footfalls, and that was a bad thing. People on the lookout for victims would be drawn to them. They would home in on the sound and come, ready to kill her.
Slowing her pace, Frankie had scoured the area for a good hiding place before eventually settling on a house.
The front door was open, no doubt left that way by the owners that had been evacuated, which meant that she didn't have to break a window to gain entry. That was something she was glad for. Smashing one of the panels in the door would have been akin to screaming her location into the night.
Walking through the porch, Frankie had almost tripped on a discarded cluster of shoes. Seeing the forgotten footwear made her feel like she was invading someone's home.
Strictly speaking, she wasn't exactly wrong. Despite the mass evacuation, to provide the location for their "game", the place had once been somebody's home. Remnants of their lives still remained, that gave Frankie a snapshot of the people that had once lived there. It made her feel like an intruder.
The only thing that would have made it worse was if the plates had been left out in the dining room. Frankie thought briefly of a ghost story she had heard as a little girl, about a ship whose inhabitants had vanished overnight, leaving their belongings and uneaten meals out, as if they were spontaneously spirited away.
Retreating deeper into the depths of the house, Frankie had slipped into the cupboard under the stairs and closed the door behind her.
Now sitting, cowering in the corner of the small space, she continued to silently cry.
Frankie knew that they would come for her eventually. It was inevitable.
The rules were that one person had to die every twenty four hours. If they didn't, then everyone would die. And the only way to make sure of that was to kill your classmates. Frankie was well aware that people would be sacrificed.
She predicted the thought process of her fellows. That nobody would care if Frankie Murrey died.
After all, nobody liked her.
Even though people talked to her, nobody so much as paid her a second glance. She was nothing to them, not even worth acknowledging.
Sure, boys looked at her. Ogling her legs as she walked around the school in her short skirt. She would be lying if she said that she didn't like that. It made her feel wanted. But that was all they did: Looked. None of them talked to her; too intimidated to say more than four words.
The girls hated her. Not that they would say it to her face. They whispered behind her back and muttered as she walked by. She was a slut, out for nothing but attention.
Frankie hated the way that they all looked at her. Like she was worth less than them.
Her acrylic-tipped nails dragged along the fabric of the bag, as her fingers tensed. The small muscles of her arms grew stiff as a wave of tension passed along the limbs.
She knew that if anybody would become a target, then it would be her. The girl that nobody wanted around. Boys and girls both would turn their attention her way, in search of an easy target. Someone that wouldn't be missed. Her, they could justify killing.
Moving from their interlocking position around the bag, Frankie's fingers traced along the curvature of her right wrist. Etched onto her skin in looping italic letters was a single three letter word: "Mum"
Memories of her mother entered her head, playing almost in slow motion. They were fond memories, despite their mundane nature. In one she was ironing, of all things. Frankie remembered the way that her mother looped the shirts over the end of the board, ironing out the creases. Steam hung in the air, and she smiled over at her through the translucent cloud.
It was three years since she had died.
Even until the end, their lives had been nothing but mundane normality. No government protests, no thrilling stories of her parents escapades. Her mother had been average and unassuming. Beautiful in her reservation.
The late stage cancer was a shock, but past that it was all expected. It was discovered that her mother had been living with bowel cancer for years; they only diagnosed her after it had spread to her liver. And by then it was too late.
As crushing as it was, though, Frankie did her best not to let it affect her. She had to be strong, otherwise it would be too much.
It was hard going, though. Acting as if nothing was wrong; barely any support from her Dad. He had it worse than anyone, suddenly having to handle twice as many bills as before, all the while looking after them both. Still, however, she felt resentment.
There was nobody there to help her deal with it.
Well, almost nobody.
Stupidly, she thought of him...
Frankie gritted her teeth and cursed her own stupidity. She couldn't believe that she let herself fall into that kind of trap. He was nice and kind, but that was it. Nothing more and nothing less.
The trouble was that that was exactly what she needed.
Mr Hackenan was a teaching assistant at St Joseph's, fresh out of university and bright-eyed with optimism. Friendly and personable, there wasn't a student at the school that didn't know him.
Not the best looking guy in the world, though not bad looking either, he was relatively unassuming in appearance. Frankie doubted that any of the girls would take a second look at him. Truth told, she wasn't terribly attracted to his appearance either.
What drew her attention was how he treated her. Different to anyone else. He didn't care what other people thought of her, or how she came across. He just treated her like any other student.
Not the best student academically, Frankie struggled a lot with her classes. It didn't help that the teachers barely paid her any attention. She wasn't one of their prized pieces, and if she wasn't offered any help, then what was the point in trying?
Mr Hackenan saw her lack of progress and pulled her aside in one of her English lessons. He told her that he knew she could get higher grades if she put her mind to it, that he had a digital copy of a revision guide, and that he could email it to her.
It seemed insignificant to anyone watching, but it meant the world to her. She loved that he wasn't judging her; treating her like everybody else did. And at the same time, she hated that that was all it took to make her feel that way.
Lifting her head, Frankie let out a single long breath, in an effort to clear the thoughts from her mind. Thinking about him was doing her no good, in fact it was probably amplifying the emotions storming her body.
The thoughts made her realise just how alone she was. Made her realise that everybody else was out to get her. Ready to kill her, just to extend their lives by a few hours.
Sickness churned in her stomach at the horror of it all.
She didn't want to die.
Frankie considered ripping open the bag that she clung to, and picking up her weapon. With it, she could protect herself and kill those who came after her. Stop the horde of murderous classmates out for her blood.
The idea was dismissed just as quickly as it came.
No matter what, Frankie couldn't buy in to the idea of killing. If she did, it meant taking someone away from their family, and she knew how it felt to lose a loved one. She couldn't inflict that on somebody else. It was just so fundamentally wrong. Taking a life was the worst thing in the world.
The very thought of the weapon, hidden from view by a flimsy zipper, repulsed her.
Frankie considered throwing it away.
But that meant going outside. Revealing herself to the horde coming for her.
And she wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.