The Lost Boys

[Hallucinojelly*]

((Trent Savage continued from Reduction))

Day 7 - 3:33am.

Only a couple of hours to go 'til the next announcement.



Trent shivered.

The air was cold tonight, as though death had completely enveloped the island. It seemed like everywhere he went was plagued with it; from the bloodstains on the beach, to the many bodies littered through the woods. He'd thrown up a good amount of times too, but still his strength remained, because he had a reason to keep on moving - to keep searching, even when he thought he'd looked in every place he could.

But she was out there.

Her name had escaped the static, which meant she hadn't died just yet. Good. What else did it mean though? If she was alive, then why hadn't they found each other? What was keeping them apart? God? He laughed. Of course not. He didn't believe in that bullshit. His mother might've bought into it, but he didn't. It was just another sore point between him and his stepfather on an endless list of things they disagreed on. In fact, this very trip had been one of those things. Ronald told him that he didn't deserve to go; hadn't picked up the grades he could've gotten had he not frittered the year away playing "psycho" in his weird little friend's monster movies. Well fuck him. What did he know about them? He wasn't at high school anymore - didn't know what it was like to have a real friend in the world.

He paused for a second, flashlight hanging from his hand. A shake of the head to send his thoughts astray. He and Ron were nothing alike, especially now. When did that guy ever have to face something like this? When exactly was it when he had to fight his classmates to the death? 198-never? 198-bullshit and one? Well fuck, the facts escaped him. He spat at the ground. What a douchebag. Always telling Trent to get himself ready for the real world, and now look where he was - stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weapon in his bag. He didn't even know if there was any food left. Last time he checked, he found a moulding piece of bread and enough cracker crumbs to last him, oh, about an afternoon? Give or take?

Stomach rumbling, he pressed on, towards god-knows-where. He hated getting the map out at night, so most of the time he'd just take his chances until he reached somewhere hospitable-looking to camp. Once or twice he chanced upon the borders of a dangerzone, but fortunately his collar's sudden bleeping always frightened him back into safer pastures. Presently, he was situated somewhere near the tunnels, at the mouth of the mine, though he couldn't see for trying. The little white bulb only reached so far, so onwards he went towards it, blindly following the trail of light with a handful of care as to where he ended up tonight. All he really wanted was somewhere warm to sleep, but hey, at least his beam was the only one in sight. Nobody was around to kill him and whatnot. Slight relief.

Breathe out.

A run of his hand through hair.

So greasy. He was never one for obsessive grooming, but even he now felt like a pig. It'd been what, 7 days since they started? A week? Fuck. That long already? All thought of rescue had long since vanished, having wandered around without rest or something substantial to eat, with people dying round every corner. He tried not to think about it though; stayed positive. It wasn't like him really, but what else could he do? If he started reflecting, even for a second, on what a dark turn his life had taken, then he might not have had the hope left to carry on after all. And then... well, who knew. He didn't want to think about it.

His foot hit something weird - like a rock or... wait, what was it? Sharp turn. The light hitting everything around him, making it hard to focus. Steadying himself, he aimed the torch at the ground, specifically at where he thought he'd tripped.

He instantly wished he hadn't.


Another body, just like the others he'd seen, all bloody and starting to decay, but there was something different about it - familiar. It took every ounce of energy he had left to move his hand, and ever so gradually it slid through space; the light cutting through the shade until it ripped a hole in his reality.

The eyes were unmistakable, rolled back into his head as they were, but Trent still recognized them.

Brock Mason, aka. Hilary's boyfriend. Dead.

So dead, so disgusting.

He held back the vomit until he was far away from the body; until he could hold it in no longer. It sprayed his shoes and burnt his throat, and he coughed up what little he had left to give, holding himself up against a tree as his lungs caught up with his stomach.

Thinking back to the announcements, he found himself thinking a bit more clearly.

Finally understanding why Hilary died.

[Brackie]

What was that...

((Erik Laurin continues from Gypsy Rap))

This was a bad idea.

It was only a wild chance of being the right guy. Erik knew he was quite possibly risking his life here. The dark held the islands demons, and it could hold anyone. Anything. But that anyone had a better chance of being someone he was on good terms with, a commodity he held at Bayview in no shortage, than it did holding one of the various killers who now inhabited the island, just waiting.

So he risked it.

Ever since leaving Brendan's friends camp, he'd regretted it almost immediately. Erik wasn't any closer to finding Brendan than he was to discovering a way off this island. A day had passed. A day of hiding, not a chance of doing that well. He was reduced to staying under a bridge and listening, half-asleep, to the footsteps that walked upon it. A voice. An accent. Even the hint of a stumble.

But nothing.

He wasn't sure when he drifted asleep for what could have only been the 3rd time over 6 days. 6 days. Almost an entire week. And what had he to show for it? He'd survived, that was one thing. But what consolation was that really? It just extended the grief. Kimmy would be watching. So would his parents. Pierre. Morgan, Charlotte, oh god, they'd only just finished their first year of school...

Erik woke up to darkness. The real pitch black of the night. Moonlight dusted the nearby river, but Erik couldn't sleep any longer. If he was going to make any headway, his best and only chance was here. At night.

He set off. He ran. He kept running, blindly. Running through a forest at night is an unsurpassable sensation. The branches faded into view every few seconds, and Erik had to change course to avoid impaling himself on a rogue. He was getting tired quickly. Running prowess could never replace food, water, carbohydrates...Brendan could be anywhere, and he was only just running blindly into the darkness.

Stop. Slow down, crazy. Just try and figure it out.

The rustling of grass beneath his shoes turned into a crackling of dirt and gravel. He was out of the forest now. The moon was dipping, and the path before him led into black. Pitch black. Erik shivered as the wind started to pick up slightly, and rather than taking his chances out here, he dipped his feet forwards, and let the dark embrace him.

Of course, it wasn't dark for long. A single beam of light shone in the distance. He couldn't see who was holding it, only that it was there.

Erik didn't know it could have been anyone, anything. HIs stride shrunk, but he kept moving forward, trying to force his lanky figure to be silent. Quiet. He was transfixed by how it moved, but didn't want to get closer. Just stay away, all his senses screamed, get away, it's not him.

It stopped. And that was when Erik smelt the stench.

He'd never expected it to be so full-on. The smell of death, decay, a dead body, a mystery dead person lying right near him, somewhere near him, that one thing which he could never prepare himself for. When you fear death, you can never prepare yourself for the reality of it. Erik instinctively grasped his hand to his mouth, nose, and held his breath. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. Six Mississippi.

The beam moved again. Erik's eyes tracked its movement, as it almost seemed to circle him. Now his hand was clasped upon his face for ulterior reasons. Don't spook whoever it is. Whether or not they have ill intentions, they were sure enough going to probably attack someone who came out of nowhere at them. Just...stay there.

The torches owner, whoever it may be, basked in his unknown light far behind him. He stood there, watching. Wraught with conflict. Step forward? Reveal himself? Or just stay hidden? The chances of it being Brendan were remarkably slim.

But no, he had to go forward. Erik had to find out who it was.

He turned around, and started back towards the entrance of the mine, where this new figure was now. He could feel his footsteps loosing their silence, but this wasn't really important now.

Just keep quiet, wait until you can introduce yourself properly. Whoever he is, you'll know him.

The stench of death plunged itself at his senses again, and this time Erik was forced to stop. He couldn't see the multi-colour-haired girl lying dead to his side a few feet away, but the ripeness of her decay sure packed a punch like no other.

He didn't mean to, but Erik started violently coughing. He couldn't hold it in anymore, and the tall boy was forced to his knees, as he both tried to retain his composure and stop himself from becoming violently sick.

[Sean*]

((Sorry it took me so long, guys. :c Joe Rios continued from Anthem for Doomed Youth))

Joe was holding a long branch that he'd picked up on his way away from the tunnels. The incessant walking was starting to make his legs a bit sore, so it helped to have something to lean on; he had also slowed his pace quite a bit.

He thought of all the things he had lost when he was kidnapped.

His family came first to his mind. He missed them; the only thing he could think of was the simple fact that he'd have to do horrible things to have a chance of seeing them again, and even then it was a crapshoot as to whether they'd want to see a murderer again. Perhaps he had already gone beyond the pale in their view by abandoning Cisco, even if, by the looks of things, Cisco was still alive. It was enough to make tears begin to well up in his eyes, but he forced them back. There wasn't any time for crying, he thought to himself.

Then his mind wandered to Rose. His first love, Rose Codreanu. The short, thin blonde that had stolen his heart and run off with it several years ago.

The last time he saw her, they were going to see a movie together. Joe couldn't quite recall what movie, but he thought it might have been Iron Man; he was tired and under too much stress to really care about the minor details of that, and besides, the movie didn't quite have all of his attention.

Joe could, however, vividly remember how beautiful she looked in the dim light of the theater; how the light of the screen had reflected off of her eyes, causing them to almost shine; how soft her touch had been when she'd embraced him on the way out and thanked him for covering the cost of the popcorn. It was a silly thing to reminisce about, except very soon after, they'd wound up on this island of sorrow and death.

And then she died. Before Joe could catch up to her and finally tell her what had been burning in his mind for a while. Before he could protect her from the various sociopaths who roamed the island. And then Danya had mocked her over the next announcement. It had been from afar; Joe pictured Danya as sitting at a control room somewhere off the island, maybe on a nice yacht, watching the action on a bunch of TV screens like it were some B-horror movie playing out right before his eyes. But to Joe Rios, it had felt like he was mocking her right to his face, and it felt like a punch straight to the gut.

The Latino giant had fallen to his knees, sobbing quietly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to live anymore; he wanted to return to his old life, before the events of the past few days, but he knew that whether he liked it or not, if he won this sick game, everything would change. He'd be a different man in the eyes of the people he knew; someone to be feared, but not respected. If he was lucky, he'd be an outcast; perhaps one who a lot of people felt sympathy for, but a pariah nonetheless. If he was unlucky, he'd wind up shot dead by a former friend, like the last winner. In his mind, the only way to escape was to die and see what happened after that; be it Heaven, Hell, or just nothingness, it had to be an improvement over this.

He regained his composure, dropped his daypack, and removed the scythe. He held it so that the blade was at his throat, ready to open it up and finally end this... and dropped it.

Even in spite of the horrors he was experiencing, he couldn't bring himself to end it all. Joe cursed his cowardice, and haphazardly stuffed the blade back into his daypack, his hands quivering.

The broken man continued his wandering, shaken.

((Joe Rios continued in Endings and Beginnings.))

[ifnotwinter*]

In the end, Erik lost the battle for control. The smell was like a living thing inside his nose and mouth, coating every available surface with the bittersweet scent of decay. He could taste it, ripe and rotten on his tongue. Each desperate cough just seemed to bring it further into his lungs, and it was almost a relief when he finally pressed his palms flat to the ground and threw up.

He'd given up trying to be quiet. He choked and gagged on thin, bitter bile like cut glass inside his mouth, stinging a cut on his gumline that he couldn't remember getting. Even after he'd brought up everything he could he continued to dry-heave, frantically trying to purge his body of the stench of a dead body.

When it finally stopped he remained there, his tall frame doubled over in a crouch, bracing himself against the earth below. Each breath of oxygen tore out of him, tears leaking from his eyes. He wasn't sure if he were crying or if it was just a reaction to the smell. The body must be nearby, it was so bad. Or maybe the entire island smelled like this now. Maybe it was so steeped in death and decomposition that even the air was starting to turn poisonous.

No.

Couldn't let himself get lost in shock and confusion. He had things to do, didn't he? Erik stood, riding out the momentary head rush and limping forwards, away from the smell. His feet were killing him. It felt like the beginning of track season that year - so many years ago now - out of practice from his long absence, blisters cracking and bleeding until his feet seemed like nothing more than raw chunks of meat on the ends of his legs. This was the same. Didn't have a choice. Had to keep running. He was going to find Brendan if it fucking killed him.

Which it might. The cynical thought twisted his lips and his stomach at the same time, Erik smiling even as he felt vague revulsion at the fact that this was how far he'd sunk. Time was he'd never have thought a joke like that. Or had to run across an island in search of his boyfriend who might or might not be dead for all he knew.

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing in a short, sharp burst. "Fuck..."

And that was when he heard the footsteps.

They were uneven, stumbling. For a moment his heart rose in his throat as he remembered blood coursing down Brendan's leg - he's limping, of course he is, it's him it's gotta be it's him because no one else matters now and it has to be - but it sunk again, just as rapidly, as the more practical part of his mind took over.

Or it was someone else. A killer, someone with a gun or a knife just waiting for some unsuspecting throat or back to present itself. Or just another student, any one of the hundred or so that must be left (don't think about that yet we'll think about that later). If it was a killer, he should run. He should get his own limping footsteps to disappear into the darkness of the mine, or the hidden depths of the forests.

If it was another student, though.

His mind fought with itself, torn between survival and moral compasses. If it was another student they could be hurt, sick, dying. They could be frantic with worry or traumatized with all that they'd seen. They might need him. He didn't have a weapon but there were sticks everywhere and he was a big enough guy, some might leave him alone based purely on size. He could protect them, for at least a short while. Until he found Brendan. And they could group together. He could save them. He could do what he'd always done.

Just like nothing had ever changed.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Are you okay?"

[nope*]

The stench of Brock's rot wouldn't shake free of Trent's nostrils no matter how far from it he dragged himself. Every breath brought a new, vague pang of nausea. He should have been used to it by now, right? He'd been smelling corpses all through the week. He smelled pretty close to one himself at this point. He tried breathing through his dry mouth instead. It helped. A little.

Maybe this just wasn't the sort of thing someone was supposed to get used to.

"Fuck..."

It sounded like someone else agreed.

The figure was mere feet away from Trent. His enormity made him seem closer at first. Trent cursed himself inwardly. How the hell could he not have noticed it? His heart sputtered into a violent pace and a panicky thumb killed the flashlight. He thought briefly of turning and running. His back was to a small hill. If he was quick enough, he could be over it and gone before the figure could even notice him. But then he noticed the gleams. Eyes. They'd been looking at him the whole time.

Well. Fuck.

Trent coiled his muscles, braced himself to run. If the figure had a gun, he'd already be dead. He still had a chance. He had enough in him to run. This was something he could handle, he knew. He though. He hoped.

The figure spoke. Trent jumped back slightly, ready to run for the split second before his brain managed to process that it hadn't been knives or bullets. Just words. Are you okay?

"The fuck does it look like?"

The bitter aftertaste of the vomit seeped into his words. He didn't bother to hide an unreasonable tinge of resentment at the boy's sudden presence. For a moment, he didn't move. Then, he flicked the flashlight back on. He examined the boy. Erik, his name might have been. Tall, blonde and awkward. A bit of a flamer. But that was Erik then. Trent didn't know this boy. He didn't dare make the assumption that he might. Nobody was the same here. Not Erik, not him. Not Craig. Not Leila. Not anybody.

For the flash of a second, he considered that Vi might be different too. He pushed the thought aside.

He made his way slowly around the boy, keeping his chest pointed at him. He wouldn't take any risks. He'd seen where risks got you here. Once he found more even ground, he worked his way backwards, eyes on the boy. He never moved. A small knot of guilt formed in Trent's chest. Maybe this was too wrong. Maybe the boy was more like him than he assumed. Still, there was too much at stake. Trent had fucked up enough already. He wasn't taking chances anymore. He was going to do things right from here.

Trent turned and worked his legs into a slow jog. He left the other boy behind.

((Trent Savage continued elsewhere))

[nope*]

The other boy followed.

((At Rosie's request, Erik Laurin continued elsewhere))