Mike didn't even notice the guy coming towards him until he was right there. He was too busy worrying. Maxwell had to be up the mountain still. That was sure. That, or he had lost the trail somewhere. The people in the distance, though, were a bigger worry. He'd finally been able to identify one of them, the guy who was leaving. It was that guy who had killed Max Neill. Luckily, he was gone in a second. Mike stood very still, though, keeping quiet, waiting until he was sure, positively sure, the guy was out of sight and not coming back or looping around for an ambush.
But now, there was this other guy right here, asking Mike to kill him. He blinked. Looked the guy over. He didn't really have a clue who he was dealing with. He was out of breath and in a fairly foul mood and did not need to be dealing with more crazy people right now. He panted for a second, then said, "Why would I kill you? And who are you, anyways?"
The last thing he needed right now was some crazy suicidal person trying to get his help offing themselves.
Endings & Beginnings
[Taking over for Peter until T-Fox returns from his brief hiatus.]
Little Peter McCue. Never had a girlfriend. And yet here he was in front of millions, his first kiss and his first real romantic moment out there for all to witness. He had yet to get over that fact when Kaitlin leaned forward and put her arms around him. It wasn't the first time she'd done that, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last. But it certainly seemed to be the most important, hands down. The world had long since stopped and all eyes were on them. They were the center of everything and nothing else mattered. Just him, her, and their embrace. Locked together with their arms around each other.
Nothing could have ruined that moment. He felt as if they were ten miles up and would never come down.
That is, until Kaitlin mentioned company.
Peter held a tiny bit of hope that it would be someone he knew, someone they could trust. Someone like Ridley. But when Kaitlin pulled back and pointed, he turned to find his meager hopes dashed. It wasn't Ridley, and it certainly wasn't someone they could trust. There was something glinting on his back... A weapon. Something massive. The bright, silver blade was catching the light and shining right into Peter's eye.
No... Not now... Why did it have to be now?
He squinted and covered his eyes, but turned his attention on finding a way out of there without drawing much if any attention. They came close, too close, with Quincy and the rifle. Peter wouldn't hesitate to protect Kaitlin if it came down to it, but he wasn't about to put her in any more danger by staying there. They had to get going and they had to do it quickly, before they were spotted or worse, before whoever it was over there decided that they would be the perfect targets to test how sharp that blade was, like some terrible incarnation of Death come for their souls.
Great, now that's all he could imagine. Death coming to lop off their heads. So much for having his head in the clouds.
"Come on, let's go." Peter took Kaitlin's hand, and squeezed tight. It had been a sign of affection just a moment ago, but now he used it to reassure her. He was going to keep her safe and the look in her eyes told him that she knew that, and so much more. The flushed color of his skin had disappeared somewhere along the line and the fluttering of his heart had been replaced by an adrenaline fueled pounding. Where a poor little boy had once stood was now a man, determined to protect what was important to him.
"Don't worry, Kaitlin. We'll be home soon. I promise. It'll just be a little longer."
He wasn't quite sure where this bit of courage kept coming from, but he was going to use it for as long as it lasted. He made sure he still had everything and with one more reassuring squeeze of her hand, set off with Kaitlin. Away from the potential dangers and out into the unknown. Toward the logging road and the Sawmill.
Dirty deeds needed doing.
With only the best intentions...
[Boy #8 - Peter McCue. Continued in So Far Away From Home.]
Little Peter McCue. Never had a girlfriend. And yet here he was in front of millions, his first kiss and his first real romantic moment out there for all to witness. He had yet to get over that fact when Kaitlin leaned forward and put her arms around him. It wasn't the first time she'd done that, and he hoped it wouldn't be the last. But it certainly seemed to be the most important, hands down. The world had long since stopped and all eyes were on them. They were the center of everything and nothing else mattered. Just him, her, and their embrace. Locked together with their arms around each other.
Nothing could have ruined that moment. He felt as if they were ten miles up and would never come down.
That is, until Kaitlin mentioned company.
Peter held a tiny bit of hope that it would be someone he knew, someone they could trust. Someone like Ridley. But when Kaitlin pulled back and pointed, he turned to find his meager hopes dashed. It wasn't Ridley, and it certainly wasn't someone they could trust. There was something glinting on his back... A weapon. Something massive. The bright, silver blade was catching the light and shining right into Peter's eye.
No... Not now... Why did it have to be now?
He squinted and covered his eyes, but turned his attention on finding a way out of there without drawing much if any attention. They came close, too close, with Quincy and the rifle. Peter wouldn't hesitate to protect Kaitlin if it came down to it, but he wasn't about to put her in any more danger by staying there. They had to get going and they had to do it quickly, before they were spotted or worse, before whoever it was over there decided that they would be the perfect targets to test how sharp that blade was, like some terrible incarnation of Death come for their souls.
Great, now that's all he could imagine. Death coming to lop off their heads. So much for having his head in the clouds.
"Come on, let's go." Peter took Kaitlin's hand, and squeezed tight. It had been a sign of affection just a moment ago, but now he used it to reassure her. He was going to keep her safe and the look in her eyes told him that she knew that, and so much more. The flushed color of his skin had disappeared somewhere along the line and the fluttering of his heart had been replaced by an adrenaline fueled pounding. Where a poor little boy had once stood was now a man, determined to protect what was important to him.
"Don't worry, Kaitlin. We'll be home soon. I promise. It'll just be a little longer."
He wasn't quite sure where this bit of courage kept coming from, but he was going to use it for as long as it lasted. He made sure he still had everything and with one more reassuring squeeze of her hand, set off with Kaitlin. Away from the potential dangers and out into the unknown. Toward the logging road and the Sawmill.
Dirty deeds needed doing.
With only the best intentions...
[Boy #8 - Peter McCue. Continued in So Far Away From Home.]
"Look." Joe stared at the man. "The only way we can beat this sick fuck's game is if we go willingly to our deaths. Deny him the sadistic pleasure he takes in watching us try to go against it."
Joe paused.
"So just fucking do it already. What the hell are you waiting for?" he said.
Joe paused.
"So just fucking do it already. What the hell are you waiting for?" he said.
Mike blinked at the guy. What the hell was his problem? There were all sorts of things to worry about on the island, and he wanted Mike to kill him? That was insane. Mike didn't want to kill this guy. He hadn't done anything to Mike, well, except put him in this awkward situation in the first place. Moreover, being a killer would probably really mess up his credibility when it came to trying to escape this awful island.
More than that, why was it so important that he do the killing? Why not just mess with the collar and explode or whatever? Mike wasn't even armed. He'd have to beat this guy bloody with his bare hands or choke him or something, and the thought gave him chills.
"No, man," he said. "If you want to die, you can do it or something. I have to go. I have things to work on."
He turned, and started walking away from the crazy guy.
More than that, why was it so important that he do the killing? Why not just mess with the collar and explode or whatever? Mike wasn't even armed. He'd have to beat this guy bloody with his bare hands or choke him or something, and the thought gave him chills.
"No, man," he said. "If you want to die, you can do it or something. I have to go. I have things to work on."
He turned, and started walking away from the crazy guy.
Joe smiled.
"I'm not sure if you understood me." He unsheathed his scythe. "Either I die right now or you do, and it looks like you've made your choice," Joe said.
Batter up.
He swung at the man's lower leg, hoping to shatter his kneecap, or better, sever the man's leg from the knee down.
So this is what it feels like to be a killer. This could get addictive, Joe thought.
"I'm not sure if you understood me." He unsheathed his scythe. "Either I die right now or you do, and it looks like you've made your choice," Joe said.
Batter up.
He swung at the man's lower leg, hoping to shatter his kneecap, or better, sever the man's leg from the knee down.
So this is what it feels like to be a killer. This could get addictive, Joe thought.
And just then, Mike realized his mistake. The crazy guy wasn't just suicidal or stupid. He was totally nuts. He made the even showed the courtesy of fairly well announcing such, giving Mike a second to respond. Mike spun, preparing to defend himself, but the scythe lashed out at his leg.
The angle wasn't the greatest, and the laceration inflicted by the blade wasn't too severe, but the blow had far more dire consequences. The shape of the scythe meant it caught Mike's limb easily, with the result being that he was unable to back away, unable to put more distance between himself and this freak. Instead, as he tried to jerk clear, the scythe pressed harder into his knee, driving the blade in deeper, and Mike tripped, toppling over backwards.
He threw his hand out to catch himself, but landed in a pile of sticks, the splintering wood cutting his palm. He gave out a yell of pain and fear, but didn't slow down, rolling over and throwing his arm up as a futile preemptive defense against the strike he was sure would soon be coming.
The angle wasn't the greatest, and the laceration inflicted by the blade wasn't too severe, but the blow had far more dire consequences. The shape of the scythe meant it caught Mike's limb easily, with the result being that he was unable to back away, unable to put more distance between himself and this freak. Instead, as he tried to jerk clear, the scythe pressed harder into his knee, driving the blade in deeper, and Mike tripped, toppling over backwards.
He threw his hand out to catch himself, but landed in a pile of sticks, the splintering wood cutting his palm. He gave out a yell of pain and fear, but didn't slow down, rolling over and throwing his arm up as a futile preemptive defense against the strike he was sure would soon be coming.
[Sorry for the delay. Was going to put this up before but then I got skipped xD Ah well, better late than never.]
When Kaitlin pointed out the other people, Peter had spun around to get a look for himself. He didn't look too pleased, especially when he saw that scythe. They thing put an almost instinctual fear into Kaitlin's heart, and before she even realized she was so scared, her heart was damn near pounding out of her chest and it felt as if everything had forced its way into her throat. She wanted to crawl away, to cry and run and scream and get as far away as she could. It was very much as if Death himself had come down to take them. The rifle hadn't put this much fear of death in her. But this was different. She wanted to get away. She wanted to run.
Peter seemed to know just what to do. He always did.
When he squeezed her hand, Kaitlin couldn't help but think that he knew exactly what to do, where to go, and how to keep them safe. He always knew. He was always prepared. If the sun started to go down, he was right there working on a fire to keep them safe and warm. If they were running out of food, he would be getting to work on a trap or picking out the things they could eat safely. He was always prepared, and she knew that he would always keep her safe. She trusted him with everything. Her life. Her heart. She trusted him and she loved him.
She swallowed the knot in her throat and nodded.
Quick as she could, Kaitlin made sure she had everything she needed. She even picked up a stick for good measure, just in case, and smiled at Peter when he gave her hand another squeeze. He would keep her safe. He would keep her safe, and she would keep him company. Neither of them wanted to be alone. Kaitlin certainly wouldn't survive, and she hoped that her presence made Peter feel just as good as his presence did for her. She held her new stick tight and she held his hand tighter, and soon they were off.
They'd run through here before, but it seemed so different now.
Before they disappeared, Kaitlin looked back at the boys. Back at the boy with blonde hair like Peter's, and the boy with a weapon that brought images of Death and destruction to mind. She witnessed the first strike. The blow that struck the boy down. The blood.
And all she could think about... was how much he looked like Peter then.
...When did she start crying?
[Girl #48 - Kaitlin Anderheim. Continued in So Far Away From Home.]
When Kaitlin pointed out the other people, Peter had spun around to get a look for himself. He didn't look too pleased, especially when he saw that scythe. They thing put an almost instinctual fear into Kaitlin's heart, and before she even realized she was so scared, her heart was damn near pounding out of her chest and it felt as if everything had forced its way into her throat. She wanted to crawl away, to cry and run and scream and get as far away as she could. It was very much as if Death himself had come down to take them. The rifle hadn't put this much fear of death in her. But this was different. She wanted to get away. She wanted to run.
Peter seemed to know just what to do. He always did.
When he squeezed her hand, Kaitlin couldn't help but think that he knew exactly what to do, where to go, and how to keep them safe. He always knew. He was always prepared. If the sun started to go down, he was right there working on a fire to keep them safe and warm. If they were running out of food, he would be getting to work on a trap or picking out the things they could eat safely. He was always prepared, and she knew that he would always keep her safe. She trusted him with everything. Her life. Her heart. She trusted him and she loved him.
She swallowed the knot in her throat and nodded.
Quick as she could, Kaitlin made sure she had everything she needed. She even picked up a stick for good measure, just in case, and smiled at Peter when he gave her hand another squeeze. He would keep her safe. He would keep her safe, and she would keep him company. Neither of them wanted to be alone. Kaitlin certainly wouldn't survive, and she hoped that her presence made Peter feel just as good as his presence did for her. She held her new stick tight and she held his hand tighter, and soon they were off.
They'd run through here before, but it seemed so different now.
Before they disappeared, Kaitlin looked back at the boys. Back at the boy with blonde hair like Peter's, and the boy with a weapon that brought images of Death and destruction to mind. She witnessed the first strike. The blow that struck the boy down. The blood.
And all she could think about... was how much he looked like Peter then.
...When did she start crying?
[Girl #48 - Kaitlin Anderheim. Continued in So Far Away From Home.]
Joe was still smiling. He really shouldn't have been. His innocent victim was bleeding, badly, out of his leg and was now on the ground making a futile attempt at blocking whatever the next attack would be.
His mind was blank. All he could think about was the kill. The thrill of having a man's life in his hands, and crushing it.
It wasn't a bad thing to do if he wanted to die, and Joe certainly did.
Joe set his scythe down and walked over to the downed man, who had his arm up. The man didn't seem to be very strong, or at least was lacking in willpower; a gentle brush to the side moved the offending appendage. He ran his hand through the man's hair gently.
He briefly pictured Danya's face on the man's body, and Joe's expression changed to one of pure, unbridled rage as he withdrew his hand, balled a fist, and rammed it down with full strength into the man's groin.
His mind was blank. All he could think about was the kill. The thrill of having a man's life in his hands, and crushing it.
It wasn't a bad thing to do if he wanted to die, and Joe certainly did.
Joe set his scythe down and walked over to the downed man, who had his arm up. The man didn't seem to be very strong, or at least was lacking in willpower; a gentle brush to the side moved the offending appendage. He ran his hand through the man's hair gently.
He briefly pictured Danya's face on the man's body, and Joe's expression changed to one of pure, unbridled rage as he withdrew his hand, balled a fist, and rammed it down with full strength into the man's groin.
Mike's knee was burning. He was shaking. This guy was mad. This was as bad as it got. The worst thing was, Mike didn't even really know who he was dealing with, didn't know what to expect, what he was in for. Not Maxwell, that was for sure. Liam whatever, the recent killer? No, the name didn't match the face.
The guy was getting closer. He brushed Mike's hand aside, rather than hitting him with the scythe. Mike was so confused and tired from his desperate escape earlier that he barely put up a struggle. The guy wasn't moving too quickly, though. What new insanity was this? He leaned down...
And punched Mike right in the groin. Mike let out a cry and curled up instinctively, the pain washing over him and drowning out everything else. He could see spots. For a couple seconds, he couldn't even respond properly, but he managed to force out, "F-fuck you."
The guy was getting closer. He brushed Mike's hand aside, rather than hitting him with the scythe. Mike was so confused and tired from his desperate escape earlier that he barely put up a struggle. The guy wasn't moving too quickly, though. What new insanity was this? He leaned down...
And punched Mike right in the groin. Mike let out a cry and curled up instinctively, the pain washing over him and drowning out everything else. He could see spots. For a couple seconds, he couldn't even respond properly, but he managed to force out, "F-fuck you."
Joe was right back to grinning.
"Fuck you," the poor, innocent man stammered after letting out a howl of anguish from the nutpunch Joe delivered.
"Oh, we can't be having that," Joe muttered. Then, without even stopping to breathe, he grabbed the man by the jaw, hooking his fingers into his lower lip, and lifted him to his feet.
He stumbled forward, dazed by the jarring impact.
Scythe, Joe thought. He'd need to grab his scythe if he wanted to finish this idiot, and grab the scythe he did.
Then, an idea came to him. He flipped the scythe so that he was holding it in a reverse grip, with the blade pointing outwards towards the man, and with all of his weight, drove it up towards the victim's jaw.
"Fuck you," the poor, innocent man stammered after letting out a howl of anguish from the nutpunch Joe delivered.
"Oh, we can't be having that," Joe muttered. Then, without even stopping to breathe, he grabbed the man by the jaw, hooking his fingers into his lower lip, and lifted him to his feet.
He stumbled forward, dazed by the jarring impact.
Scythe, Joe thought. He'd need to grab his scythe if he wanted to finish this idiot, and grab the scythe he did.
Then, an idea came to him. He flipped the scythe so that he was holding it in a reverse grip, with the blade pointing outwards towards the man, and with all of his weight, drove it up towards the victim's jaw.
Mike struggled and gasped as the guy grabbed him by the face and jerked him to his feet. He had no choice but to follow along, though, not if he didn't want his face mangled by the guy's hand. Mike stumbled, paused, righted himself. He was vertical again. It was time to run. Time to get out of here. Right now, he didn't care about the plan. He didn't care about much of anything except getting away as quickly as he could.
The scythe, though, put an end to that.
The swing came from an angle he hadn't expected, and more quickly than he had been prepared to deal with. He actually leaned into it a bit, just from some misguided reflex. He heard the tip ping off of his collar, and was worried for a second that it was going to explode. Then, an instant later, as the scythe slashed into his upper neck and the soft area under his chin, he wished he had been blown up. It would have been so much easier.
He knew right away that he was dead. He couldn't breath, as blood flowed down into his windpipe. The scythe hadn't gone through to his brain, though, stopped by the bone in his head. It wasn't much of a consolation. He gurgled, clawing at the handle of the weapon, trying to wrench himself free. It wasn't doing any good. The world was going black, from pain and oxygen deprivation, the latter greatly exacerbated by the fact that he had been struck mid-exhale and was not panicking and rasping, drawing more and more blood into his lungs. He wanted to ask why this was happening. He wanted to know who was killing him. He wanted to scream at this guy, to tell him he was being stupid, tell him he could have escaped, but now he was doomed. Nothing came out, though, and, after a couple of seconds of rasping, Mike's eyes drooped closed and he slumped forward, no longer able to support himself.
B068, Michał "Mike" Maszer: DECEASED
The scythe, though, put an end to that.
The swing came from an angle he hadn't expected, and more quickly than he had been prepared to deal with. He actually leaned into it a bit, just from some misguided reflex. He heard the tip ping off of his collar, and was worried for a second that it was going to explode. Then, an instant later, as the scythe slashed into his upper neck and the soft area under his chin, he wished he had been blown up. It would have been so much easier.
He knew right away that he was dead. He couldn't breath, as blood flowed down into his windpipe. The scythe hadn't gone through to his brain, though, stopped by the bone in his head. It wasn't much of a consolation. He gurgled, clawing at the handle of the weapon, trying to wrench himself free. It wasn't doing any good. The world was going black, from pain and oxygen deprivation, the latter greatly exacerbated by the fact that he had been struck mid-exhale and was not panicking and rasping, drawing more and more blood into his lungs. He wanted to ask why this was happening. He wanted to know who was killing him. He wanted to scream at this guy, to tell him he was being stupid, tell him he could have escaped, but now he was doomed. Nothing came out, though, and, after a couple of seconds of rasping, Mike's eyes drooped closed and he slumped forward, no longer able to support himself.
B068, Michał "Mike" Maszer: DECEASED
Stillness.
Joe's adrenaline rush from the kill faded as his hands loosened their grip on the scythe, causing the blade and the unfortunate man's corpse to fall. His hands quivered on the shaft of the weapon as he saw the blade, entering the man's upper neck, tearing his throat open, and the last few gouts of blood spurting out.
Realization.
He dropped the blade. The contents of his stomach rose to his mouth, as he fell to his knees and vomited, tears flowing from his eyes. He'd just killed a man. Not only that, but he'd done it cruelly. He'd torn the man's leg open, nearly castrated him with his bare hands, and stabbed him through the neck with such force that he was lifted up a few inches off of the ground. He'd seen his victim gasping for air, blood pooling in his lungs, and taken a sick pleasure in it.
Acceptance.
He was the monster now. The case for killing him was now stronger, and his desire to die increased in turn. There was truly nothing left for him.
Joe bent down next to the cadaver, shut its eyes, and fished through his daypack for his wallet. He then removed a quarter from his wallet and set it on the dead man's mouth.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. It was a futile gesture to someone he had just murdered in cold blood, in his despairing fugue, but there wasn't a whole lot he could have done to atone.
The blade of the scythe, slick with fresh blood, slid easily out of the corpse's soft tissue. He wiped it clean with two fingers, set it in his daypack, hefted the heavy bag up, and walked off.
((Joe Rios continued in To Die Hating Them, That Was Freedom.))
Joe's adrenaline rush from the kill faded as his hands loosened their grip on the scythe, causing the blade and the unfortunate man's corpse to fall. His hands quivered on the shaft of the weapon as he saw the blade, entering the man's upper neck, tearing his throat open, and the last few gouts of blood spurting out.
Realization.
He dropped the blade. The contents of his stomach rose to his mouth, as he fell to his knees and vomited, tears flowing from his eyes. He'd just killed a man. Not only that, but he'd done it cruelly. He'd torn the man's leg open, nearly castrated him with his bare hands, and stabbed him through the neck with such force that he was lifted up a few inches off of the ground. He'd seen his victim gasping for air, blood pooling in his lungs, and taken a sick pleasure in it.
Acceptance.
He was the monster now. The case for killing him was now stronger, and his desire to die increased in turn. There was truly nothing left for him.
Joe bent down next to the cadaver, shut its eyes, and fished through his daypack for his wallet. He then removed a quarter from his wallet and set it on the dead man's mouth.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. It was a futile gesture to someone he had just murdered in cold blood, in his despairing fugue, but there wasn't a whole lot he could have done to atone.
The blade of the scythe, slick with fresh blood, slid easily out of the corpse's soft tissue. He wiped it clean with two fingers, set it in his daypack, hefted the heavy bag up, and walked off.
((Joe Rios continued in To Die Hating Them, That Was Freedom.))