Put Your Head On Straight and (Get Up, Get On, Get Out, Get Up) Fly Away, Little Birdie

[Cactus]

He inhaled dust, and it was disgusting.

A coughing spasm jolted consciousness into his body as the dust reacted with his sinuses. Eyes flickering open, they watered from the combination of a cough and the sudden exposure to light. Rolling to his side, he coughed spasmodically to rid himself of the infernal dust. After a few moments, breathing became easier once more. Allowing an exhale, the teenager shut his eyes to expunge the wayward tears as consciousness began to properly filter back into his head. Instinctively, his hand went to his throat to rub the soreness away.

His hand touched metal, and immediately his eyes flew open.

Everything came rushing back to Morgan Dragosavich's mind, and his body overrode his good sense, doing the first thing - the only thing - that instinct would allow.

He screamed.

((MORGAN DRAGOSAVICH V7 START))

It was shrill, it was long, and it was loud. Anyone remotely close to him would have heard, yet he wasn't able to stop himself. The only thing that permeated his mind was pure terror. All of the images flooded back through his mind, like a bad dream that was being played on repeat with no hope of stopping. Over and over again, he saw the video. He saw the man standing up on stage, remembered the pit of despair that washed over him as he brought a name to the face. Recognition to his own situation.

He watched Ms. Garcia die.

Morgan screamed again.

They thought that they had been safe. Everyone expected that they would be fine. They had their trip; everything had gone off without a hitch. None of them had ever thought this could happen to them.

They had been so wrong.

His breath was ragged, shallow, wait, was it? No, he was hyperventilating. He honestly didn't know. All that he could make his body do was scream. Where was he? Morgan was outside. Sitting in the middle of a path, trees around him. Could he see anyone, was anyone here to listen to his pitiful shrieks of terror?

There was no answer to that question. His hands were shaking, he couldn't make his mind form a coherent thought. There was no rhyme nor reason to the images that continued to play in his mind. No chronological order, no focus at all. Simply a slate of visuals that he'd never, ever be able to forget.

That man, standing in front of the room.

The red blood from the teachers.

Waking up to find himself bound in a chair.

Screaming.

More screaming.

Him? His screaming? No, other screams. Screaming from other people.

There were other people here too. All of his classmates, all of his friends. Everyone he knew. All of them were here, all of them were doomed. Everybody was doomed to die, they were all supposed to die here why would they need to die here it wasn't time for them to die yet I don't want to die this isn't supposed to happen why do they want us to die it's not fair I'm not supposed to die now oh God why is this happening-

Morgan screamed again.

His hands flailed about, caught on to something bulky. A bag - a pack filled with supplies. He barely noticed it, but grabbed onto it as though it were a life preserver. Something to cling to, something to keep him safe. It was a tangible item, and feeling it within his hands helped Morgan's mind creep slowly back from the precipice of panic.

The fear did not subside but his mind finally had a hook, an anchor. For the first time, he looked down at the bag, saw it. There was a number stencilled on the side of it in white spray paint: B027.

Boy twenty-seven? was what Morgan opened his mouth to say, but instead, only screaming came out.

Finally, he was conscious of the fact that just maybe, it wasn't all that smart to be making so much noise. Mercifully, his throat gave out on him, and as he swallowed what felt like razor blades, he was finally silent. This was very, very bad. Focusing on trying to slow his breath down to a more normal cadence, Morgan took a shaky breath in through his nose and exhaled out through his mouth.

He repeated like this for five minutes, until his heart rate had settled to something a bit more normal.

Still clutching the bag close to his chest, Morgan tried to rifle through his mind for all of the information that he knew about Survival of the Fittest. Any wayward news article, any news anchor comment, any history class lesson that he could think of, he tried to summon. Unfortunately, nothing was clear in his mind. Every single example that he could think of, it just repeated one phrase over and over: everyone dies except one.

Everyone.

Dies.

All of his classmates.

All of his friends.

At that, his mind conjured up the faces of all of his friends. Everyone, damned to perish in this awful place. There was Henry and his curly hair, his idle curiousity; his hilarious yet earnest desire to explore space. A pair of glasses reminded him of Michael, sardonic and constantly tired of being dragged along for another silly errand or scheme, yet always allowing himself to come along and almost having a good time. Jonah and his calm serenity, never to be found without his car and always the one to offer a ride. He'd been invaluable that day on the cave trip. Ross and his sarcastic one-liners that always-

Morgan blinked. Another step back to the real world. Ross wasn't here. Ross wouldn't die. His friend's misfortune had been his ultimate salvation.

So there'd be one person that he cared about still left alive.

One.

That he cared about.

Lizzie.

He would have screamed again, had he been able. Instead, the terror shifted. He was still scared for himself, barely able to form a thought, unable to move. But the fear was now for Lizzie. The poor girl who'd worked herself back from the brink, who'd tried so hard to move past the mistakes she'd made. The girl whom he'd found himself slowly falling for. That he'd taken to prom. The girl that he'd reconnected with, only to find that maybe there was a spark there, after all.

Morgan thought of Lizzie's face after he'd kissed her for the first time - surprised yet happy, and then wet as they'd tumbled into the fountain. It was days ago, and yet it felt like another lifetime.

It was.

Something seemed to drag Morgan's mind away from true despair. That force dragged him, enough to the point where he felt his legs slowly start to regain their strength. He felt the dirt underneath his knees, a small pebble digging in to remind him that he was still human. That for now, he was still alive. His hands reached over, leaving the bag that dubbed him B027. They reached into the dirt, grasping and spreading out.

Get up.

Morgan pushed himself up, and dragged himself to his feet.

As if opening his eyes for the very first time, Morgan cautiously peered around the area. It was nondescript. He was outside, in the woods. He had layered for the trip home - his undershirt was already too hot - and the weather felt humid. There were no distinguishing characteristics to be seen, anywhere. All he could hear was the sound of trees slowly swaying. Of nature.

His hands still shook as he reached down to collect his bag. His knapsack was there too, for some reason, so he slid it onto his back.

Swinging the new pack around on his shoulder, Morgan felt his feet lurching one foot in front of the other. The forest slowly started to change positions as he staggered his way along this path. Where did it go? He had absolutely no idea. Walking was a concept that he was barely able to comprehend; a destination after all that seemed a million miles away. Yet, he walked. He had to get up; he had to get going. Staying still was probably tantamount to suicide, especially after all of the screaming.

So along he lurched, his legs slowly remembering how to maneuver, his brain picking up the shattered pieces that had scattered themselves all over the forest.

It was the first day of the end of his life.

((Morgan Dragosavich continued in Time to Play the Game))