Liar

[Grand Moff Hissa]

((Jennifer Perez continued from A Slight Change of Plans))

It was dark. A tunnel, perhaps, or a cave. It was quiet and cool and far, far away from the bloodshed. Somebody was lying in the corner, a shape in the shadows, but Jennifer couldn't tell who it was. Maf, Nick, Melissa? It didn't matter. It was a friend, someone hurt, but not dying. Not yet. Nobody was going to die. When this was all over, they, whoever they were, were going to be taken somewhere, some hospital or something. That was what they did with the winners, right? They had to keep them alive, because otherwise nobody would kill next time. There had to be a hope of going home.

The figure groaned.

"Hey," Jennifer said. "Hey, hang on. You're going to be alright."

Whatever was wrong with them, it was pretty fucking bad. She wasn't sure they were going to be alright. She wasn't sure of anything.

"Um," she said, "don't worry. I, um, I think there are only ten people left, maybe."

The icepick was in her hand. Maybe it had always been there. It certainly felt comfortable.

"So," she said, "Just, um, just hold on, okay? I'll, um, I'll be right back."

This all felt like the most natural thing in the world.

British Columbia, Canada

As it turned out, choices had consequences.

Jennifer had chosen to abandon her daypack, leaving behind her food and water and medical supplies, but had kept her own backpack with her. At the time, it had been a comfort thing, a piece of home and herself to cling to before dying. Now, it meant that, unlike so many of her peers, she had fresh clothes that fit her, and things to keep herself somewhat occupied. She hadn't really opened her pack on the island. All that time, and she'd never wanted to see the things inside it, because doing so would mean the end of possibilities.

She wasn't a very careful packer. She'd brought magazines, and clothes, and her sewing kit, and, as it turned out, three bags of fucking gummy bears she could have shared with her friends if she'd had the presence of mind. She'd brought deodorant and two decks of cards, even though she hated playing, because cards were a good way to distract people and make them stop fighting. She'd brought breath mints and she'd brought a little jewelery box to put her earrings in, back when she'd thought she'd take them out for sleeping instead of leaving them in the rubble of an abandoned building. She'd brought a toothbrush and nail clippers and a razor and soap and a big floppy hat in case it was too sunny. She'd brought her ancient portable CD player, loaded with a disc of pop music she was embarrassed to admit she enjoyed. She listened to that, now, in her lucid moments.

Jennifer had chosen to abandon her daypack, leaving behind her food and water and medical supplies, and she'd had to find something to drink somewhere, and that somewhere had been a dirty little river. She'd eaten sporadically at best, only the awful food they had, and the only time she'd enjoyed it had been when she had a few bites of lukewarm bread with a friend. She'd been moving constantly, walking more than she ever had in her life, and even though she was good at walking, even though she liked walking, it had still been grueling and draining.

Jennifer had contracted a severe fever, a head cold, and some sort of stomach bug, and had spent the past two days in bed, on antibiotics, drifting in and out of sleep and the twisted dreams that came with her waking moments.

She was, all things considered, pretty fucking lucky.

And then, of course, there were all the people she had left behind. When she was awake and fairly cogent, she ran over every moment in her mind, at the same time self-diagnosing (Survivor's Guilt, Stockholm Syndrome, PTSD, just as expected) and trying to justify her actions and also to find some way, any way, that she could have done better.

Everyone was dead. That wasn't entirely true, but it might as well have been. She'd asked about Maf, a day and a half into her stay. They'd danced around it, and they'd said that maybe she should be more worried about herself, about getting better, and she'd known then that he hadn't found his way to the boats, and she'd said as much, and then they'd told her that he'd died.

There wasn't really anything more than that. She hadn't asked how, and they'd seemed too uncomfortable to share that detail unprompted. She'd just sat there for a time, not saying a thing, and they'd left her alone again.

Dead. It seemed so unreal, so final. With a day and a half between her and the island, it could already be another world, another lifetime. It could all be a big, sick joke, a prank. The whole class could just go home, laugh it off, graduate.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Denial, that was for traumatic events that were occurring. It wasn't a good match for having your life saved at the last second. She was behind the curve when it came to her coping mechanisms.

That didn't matter. He was dead. He was dead and Nick was dead and Melissa was dead. Everyone Jennifer had met on the island was dead, or close to it. They were keeping her in a separate room, because she was probably contagious and other people were in much worse shape and didn't need the added troubles of maybe catching her assorted illnesses, but they'd brought her a list and asked her if she knew anyone on it, if she wanted to see anyone, assuming, of course, that they were well enough. She'd scanned the names, counted those she knew.

Three. Two from that first day, not seen since. Never to be seen again, or so she'd imagined before the boats.

Bounce. The docks. Maniacal laughter, consideration of the merits of drowning.

"Are you well? My landing wasn't the gentlest. I think I have a few bruises."

"I'm, um, not doing too well. I'm scared. I'm scared, and I, um, I don't want to die. And... Uh, how are you?"

Allen Birkman. The pub. Checking, concern, selfishness. An excuse for abandonment.

"I'm going after her. It's dangerous out there."

Liar.

Samantha Ridley. The only one she'd met with Nick. Samantha had left with hardly a word. Jennifer had only realized who she was now, seeing the name written there. It had suddenly clicked perfectly with the face and voice from the swamp. It was funny, how seeing something in writing could make it make more sense.

No, Jennifer had said, there wasn't anyone she wanted to see right now, but thanks for asking.

They hadn't seemed to believe her, but they'd left her alone and she'd gone back to sleep. She'd tried to pretend that things weren't quite so horrible, had tried to pretend that she hadn't made it to the boats, that she was sitting under a ledge somewhere, in a tunnel or maybe a cave, just wishing that she was going home but still stuck, still doomed to die, still capable of doing something to maybe help someone.

And through it all spun five minutes, five fucking minutes. It had all come down to that. Five minutes had cost her everything. She'd had them all together, all in one place, Nick, Maf, and Melissa. She could have done something, could have saved them or changed things, could maybe have gotten at least one or two away somehow.

Nick had held up his strange device, had said he could disable the collars. He'd asked if they were in.

Looking back, Jennifer could never determine which answer she wished she had been about to give.

Part of her wanted to believe she had enough common sense to stop things in their tracks. It'd have been a simple matter to laugh like it was a joke. After all, it had been clear that Nick wasn't sure it was going to work. Had he been, he would have tested it on himself, or maybe on Jennifer. Laughter would have been cruel, hurtful. It would have been another blow against a boy she cared about. It would have been entirely out of character for her, but maybe it would have somehow averted what came next. Maybe it would have brought him to his senses.

Part of her wanted to believe that she'd been about to step forward and volunteer herself. Then, perhaps, fate could have rolled along as it was meant to, and Jennifer could have died instead of Melissa. She could have been spared the pain of watching her—well, no use dancing around the issue, Melissa had fairly well earned her claim to the title, after all they had been through together—best friend die in front of her. Maybe Melissa could have kept going. Could have survived, just for another day. Could have gone home.

The reality, though, the one Jennifer would never quite be able to fully believe, was that she just wasn't quick enough on the uptake to have any action in mind. Everything had been too sudden, too shocking. She hadn't done anything.

Five minutes later, they had been dead, dying, murdering, setting themselves on their final trajectories towards their ends, and Jennifer had been running away and hating them, just a little bit.

And now, now she was in a hospital, and her fever had finally broken, though she was still going to be on the awful medicine for quite some time, and they were telling her that it was time to go home, and this time she wasn't crying. She was just sitting there in bed, looking at the woman, the nurse, who had told her that.

"Oh," Jennifer said. She was wearing the pajamas she had brought for the trip, the ones she had made junior year, out of warm, forest green flannel. "When?"

"Soon. They're going to fly you back to Saint Paul."

There was a pause, and then the nurse said, "Are you excited?"

"Um," Jennifer said. "Um, yeah. Yeah, um, I am. I think I am."

((Jennifer Perez continued in Latin Girls))