Survival Of The Fittest

Rhory's eyes were suddenly unreadable. Almost blank, but with just the hint of something familiar, at the edge of Kimberly's mind. There was no defeat. There was none of the fear Kimberly had hoped for. None of the pain she had anticipated. There was no struggle. No desperate attempt to throw her off. There was just Rhory, pinned under her, breathing and staring. She could feel the girl, could feel the life in her, the rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her body. She realized that it would take a flick of the wrist to end all of that. One little movement of her hand, and it was game over for this girl, this tormentor. Kimberly now held all the power once again.

And then Rhory took it all away.

Two words: Do it.

Kimberly knew why Rhory's eyes had looked familiar.

"Come on. If you're going to shoot, shoot. Otherwise, let's fucking calm down and talk, but we're classmates, so I'm not having any of this POW bullshit Bridget's taking."

"Well come on, serial killer. Time to get a mark by your name, ward off some of the people who mean business."

Do it.

Do it.

Do it.

"Fuck you."

A smile. She let off with the knife, just the tiniest of bits.

"Why do you want to do this? What the fuck's not worth living for?"

Still the feeling of Rhory, the feeling of the sun beating on her back.

Is that your angle, Best Kill? Assisted suicide? Are you a coward?

But I'm not making the same mistake again.

Never again.

Rhory was still tracing out the mark she'd leave in the girl's eyes when the mouth started moving. A fuck you chased by some sentimental bullshit. The words didn't matter. What mattered was that the sharp line of pressure over the collar had lessened and Kimberly was giving her that ugly little pity-smile. She thought of spitting at her. Instead, she started moving her arms.

She was so sure she'd seen her way out. She gave Kimberly her power. She gave her the warrant to act on it. Kimberly had chosen pity instead. No. She'd chosen weakness. Maybe there would have been some time and place where Rhory could have been helped. Maybe charitable little Kimmy could have called her up a suicide hotline and Rhory could get someone to dissect her poor broken brain and she could get little brown bottles of Zoloft to match her sister's old ones. She remembered the hushed talk of "depression" and "medication" and "therapy" that had surrounded Erika's high school years. She'd resented it all so much. Poor perfect little Erika. She's not happy with her perfect life and her perfect grades and her perfect body and clothes and boyfriends. Poor little Erika's sad. Poor little Erika wants to kill herself over nothing. Rhory understood now. She looked into Kimberly's marked-up eyes and she knew what it was like to look at something and only see a noose.

Her hands closed around Kimberly's.

"You spineless cunt."

She'd make her own noose.

She stretched her neck. She felt the blade shave against the skin. She pushed Kimberly's hands down hard. The knife slipped easily into the surface.

Time stretched. Rhory moved. Kimberly wasn't quite sure what was going to happen. Maybe Rhory was going for another weapon, planning to force a decision. Kimberly wasn't killing her, though. That was absolutely certain.

If Rhory decided to play rough, well, Kimberly would absolutely cut all the fucking tendons in her hands to neutralize her threat potential. That seemed an acceptable compromise. She had pretty much no patience for pep talks. She'd given her little half-assed effort to make Rhory reconsider. As far as she was concerned, her role was now done.

Rhory disagreed.

She called Kimberly a name, then grabbed the knife, and Kimberly's hand with it, and brought it down to her own throat. Once more, Kimberly's reflexes served her well. She only had her good hand on the knife, but Rhory was weakened. Aside from the initial cut, the slight amount of blood once more on the knife, she wasn't making much progress towards making Kimberly kill her.

Kimberly wasn't having much luck getting the knife away from Rhory's neck, though. She let out a growl of frustration, then, in a quick movement, wrenched her hand away, opening it, leaving Rhory the choice of keeping hold of her hand or the knife.

Rhory was left with the knife, as Kimberly rolled off of her, rising and taking a couple steps back.

"You call me spineless? That's pretty funny. You wanna kill yourself, be my guest, use my knife, whatever. I don't see any fucking reason I need to be involved, though."

And with that, Kimberly turned back to her belongings, returning the grappling hook to her belt and beginning to tidy up, leaving Rhory to her own devices.

The regret moved faster than her hands could. It came with the first sparks of pain as they crackled across her throat. She hadn't thought of the pain. She hadn't expected the nerve endings to react so savagely. She hadn't really expected to feel at all. But the pain was there and it was violent, lionishly scratching and barbing where the skin split. The flesh of her face bent against the bone in a vulgar expression. Everything was too slow. It was supposed to be quick, clean. It was supposed to be an out. Not this. It couldn't be this. She tried to push harder. Blood and fever spouted out against the digging edge. She'd push down to he bone if it would make it faster. Just not this, not for a moment longer. She didn't want there to be pain. She couldn't die in pain.

She felt Kimberly's hand begin to slip from under her own and even as the blade cut deeper she knew she'd lost.

She weakened her grip. A blur of motion left Rhory's right hand the only one on the knife's hilt. She tore it away from her throat with a gasp. She held it away. It dangled harmlessly in the air above her chest, bold against the white backdrop of the bandages. She stared at it as the other girl stormed in her peripherals and ranted distant words that would never reach Rhory. The numb ring finger curled pathetically around the rubbery grip. Blood splashed garishly across the rest. She dropped it to her side.

She brought her trembling left arm to her neck. Blood and sweat soaked the sleeve of her henley immediately. A slow trickle had already burrowed under her collar. She brought the sleeve up to her eyes. The stain was unimpressive. The physical evidence was so much less dramatic than her synapses had declared. She brought the arm back down and forced her chin over it, providing pressure to the newest slit. She rocked herself ungracefully onto her left side. The probing stream of blood followed gravity's new pull and began to wrap around her nape. She brought her legs in. She draped her right arm over her chest. She tried to go back to being numb.

Something clawed over her left cheek. She realized she was crying.

She was so empty and so weak and so fucking useless.

It took a little, but Kimberly got her stuff together. She had everything she needed to go on. Rhory hadn't stabbed her in the back while she was packing. She hadn't been expecting the other girl to. The last thing Kimberly had left to grab was her slightly crumpled package of cigarettes. She'd stuffed the few leftovers from her first pack into her second at some point, so it was bulging slightly. She looked at them. Fuck, she really wanted a smoke right now.

She picked up the pack and looked it over.

Fuck cravings.

She was about to haul back and pitch the cigarettes as far away as she could, when she paused for a second and glanced back at Rhory. The girl was on her side. From the way her chest was rising and falling, Kimberly was pretty sure she was crying. She frowned for a second. Apparently, being dead wasn't really Rhory's top priority after all. This was pretty much not a surprise in the slightest. It felt a bit awkward to watch her just lying there and crying, though. It was almost like a new person was there.

Kimberly rubbed her throat, still holding the pack of cigarettes. The place where Rhory had jabbed her still hurt like fuck. She glanced at the gun on the ground, and felt absolutely no inclination to pick it up. She wasn't even sure if she was going to retrieve the knife from Rhory.

She found herself walking over to the girl, though, found herself kneeling, pack in her hand, a single cigarette halfway out of it, between her thumb and index finger, extended towards Rhory.

Memories of the parking lot behind Bayview. Better days.

"You still smoke?"

The trembling was making it difficult to staunch the bleeding. She gripped her left elbow with her right hand and forced it in so that her neck was firm on the nook of her left arm. Blood began to ruin the new stretch of fabric immediately. The tears shook harder from her skull. If she could bleed out, she would. She wanted nothing more than to rot where she lay. But she knew despite the pain and blood that the cut in her throat was pitiful and shallow and that there was no god merciful enough to give her that kind of end. She cried as she thought of other ways. It couldn't be the knife. She'd already proved that she didn't have the strength. It couldn't be the gun. She promised herself she would never be on the wrong side of that gun again. She was never going to break that promise. She wondered if she could just starve. That, at least, she had experience with. She could just stay a pathetic sobbing ball until her body tired of her own bullshit and shut down. It was almost a pleasant though. It felt comfortable. She cried and shook harder. She just wanted rest. She'd die to get it. She'd never move again if it meant that she could stop aching. Then Kimberly's legs filled back in her vision and she moaned in her chest. There would be no rest. She tried to stop her crying and shaking as Kimberly's face lowered to her own. It only worsened. The shame and exhaustion burned in her bleeding throat. Why wasn't she gone? Was she here to finish the job? Had she changed her mind? The thought wasn't so terrifying anymore. Rhory didn't need it to be on her own terms. That pride was gone. She just needed it. She needed to just finally stop.

Then she noticed the red box with the white stick. This time, she couldn't keep from laughing.

Each heave stung across her throat. Her tears came down just as strongly. The fucking Marls. This was all their fault. Would she have tried to have her fun with Kimberly if she hadn't seen them? Maybe. Probably. But they were a good enough scapegoat for now. She decided to have her revenge on them.

She wiped a grateful stream of fresh tears with her right hand and shakily extended it towards the girl.

Rhory took the cigarette from Kimberly. Kimberly smiled, just a little, as she set the pack down next to Rhory and dug in her pocket for her matches. She'd found the lighter in the first aid kit by now, of course, but lighters had no fucking class. She still had plenty of matches. Good thing, too. You could never tell when something'd need burning.

She withdrew one of them. Her matches had blue heads. They came from a box advertising some restaurant she'd never get a chance to eat at. Probably overpriced shit anyways, since they gave out real wooden matches. She lit Rhory's cigarette like they were lovers in an old black and white flick, then just sat down, inhaling the secondhand smoke. She let the match burn down until she could feel its heat on her fingertips, then let it fall to the ground. Who gave a fuck if she started a fire in this wasteland? The flame died in the dirt, though.

This sudden camaraderie should have been strange. It should have been awkward or uncomfortable. Minutes ago, Kimberly and Rhory had been locked in a mortal struggle. Now, the other girl felt almost like a friend. It was probably because Kimberly understood her, at least, she could project an understanding onto her actions. She could imagine that she and Rhory weren't so different, could believe, for just a little while, that someone else on this island felt what she did, wanted what she wanted, feared what she feared.

Kimberly had always wanted to be different, but being different wasn't any good if you did it all alone. Hypocritical, but what the fuck? Not like it mattered anymore, right?

Rhory had dropped the knife. Kimberly considered offering it to her, but then decided not to. It had been implicit, and Rhory had dropped the weapon. It wasn't hers to carry, so Kimberly picked it up again, wiped the blade on the bottom of her jeans, and slid it back into her boot. She shifted positions, hugging her knees to her chest with just her good arm for a moment, looking out over the field. She couldn't see any corpses.

Her shoulder was flaring up again. Had it really been a week since Kris put a bullet in her? She'd kept things clean and disinfected, had paid absolute attention to that during the past seven days. She was pretty sure the actual laceration had healed enough not to be in immediate danger of infection or damage from torn stitches. The little chunk of metal in her shoulder just loved raising a fuss every time she had to move quickly or perform strenuous physical activities, though.

She glanced over at Rhory, at the girl's damaged hand. Funny.

Kimberly was smiling again.

Rhory's cigarette was almost gone, so Kimberly lit her another.

---

When Kimberly started walking, the sun was past its zenith and heading west. Any clouds that had been in the sky had burned off in the heat. It was probably a damn fine day in Saint Paul.

She had her things all together again, pack slung across her back, riding on her good shoulder. It was time to get moving.

Funny. Every other time she'd left someone, she'd been happy.

She was already walking, though. No stopping now. No turning back.

Kimberly stopped and turned back.

"Hey," she called. "Hey, Best Kill.

"Good luck."

((Kimberly Nguyen continued in Seeking))

"Back at'cha, Kimmy."

Rhory's voice sounded more familiar to her now. More like it had sounded a week ago. Well-oiled from the talking she'd been doing all morning and afternoon. She gave Kimberly a two-fingered wave with the hand that held the pack of cigarettes. The bandages and cardboard crinkled in unison. She watched the girl shrink and took a swig from the bottle in her left hand. Eventually, an intact cluster of trees obscured her. Rhory imagined she could see her turn back just before she vanished.

It was a gentler kind of hurt. But it still stung.

After several moments, she felt at the rough brown cravat bandage tied around her throat above the collar. This one hadn't soaked through. She was still vaguely worried. She'd lost so much blood over the past days. Her hand still oozed lightly. She felt dizzy and heavy. She wondered how much longer she could go like this. She decided however long she had would be long enough. She might not survive. She might have already failed. But, for the first time in a week, she thought it might really be worth trying.

She got to her feet slowly and creakily. Things needed to be done. She reached over Marion's (no, her) daypack to her duffel and unzipped it. She reached for the Big Fuckin' Knife. She hadn't touched it in days. She set it on the log and stripped off her shirt. She carefully looped her bandaged palm through the handle. She let the tip of the Knife dig into a point just above where the dried blood ended. She was so sick of blood. She began to gently saw through the fabric, leaving the sleeve roughly severed halfway through the bicep. She noticed a small crust of dried blood pooled against the lip of the left cup of her bra. She'd missed it while wiping herself down with the water-dampened cuff of her right sleeve earlier. She scratched it off and pulled the henley back on. She admired her work. It looked ridiculous. She noticed the tail of the blue bomb peeking out from under the gray threads handing from the wreckage of the new cuff. She remembered how her mother had reacted to the newest of her inky self-mutilations. She'd warned Rhory that she could never be buried in a Jewish cemetery with all those tattoos. The corner of her mouth twitched. Rhory didn't think that would be much of a problem anymore.

She replaced the Knife in her duffel, dropping it on top of the collection of dead kids' bottles and food and the foolishly kept make-up bag and the mound of soiled rags that had at some time in the distant past been clothes, and moved back to the daypack. She slipped her fingers into the smallest front pocket and scooped the contents into her gauzed palm. The eight shells were surprisingly light. She remembered they'd felt so much heavier when she snatched them from Bill's emptying body. She slipped them into a corduroy pocket and reached sideways for the glossy black form of the gun. She picked it up with both hands and examined it. She turned it over several times, puzzling over each alien appendage. It occurred to her that she'd never held a gun before. She'd hardly even seen one, outside of police belt holsters and television screens. She knew how to make noise with the pump. That was as far as she'd gotten. She prodded the parts with an index finger. Where did the bullets go? No, wait, shells. This was an important distinction, she knew. Bullets couldn't do what had been done or Logan and Marion. These were shells.

Finally, a small silver trapdoor on the gun's underbelly gave way to her probing. She held it open slightly and examined it closely. The size seemed right. She retrieved a shell and slowly slid it through the flap. It made a loud, satisfying click as it entered. She slid in a second. It nested in the gun easily. She repeated the motions with the remaining six red capsules. She looked over the gun again once she'd finished. Was that it? Would it shoot now? Did she have to pump it? What about the safety? She ran her fingers along the varying surface and decided against any further experimentation. She hoped she'd never have to learn the rest.

Still, she needed something. She could only bluff with the gun for so long. Kimberly had proven that handily. Her eyes fell back on the duffel. She may not be able to shoot, but she could stab. That much she knew for certain.

She released the Knife again from her bag and set it down on the log, next to the nearly-empty bottle and the red pack of cigarettes. She picked up the pack. She slid one of the sticks out and hung it from her lips as she placed the rest of the pack snugly next to her own in a pocket of the daypack. She produced the Zippo from the left pocket of her shorts and ignited the tip of the cigarette. She inhaled, held, and blew. The lighter went back in the pocket and the daypack slipped over her shoulders. The duffel strap went over the right shoulder. The gun's strap went over the left. Her eyes went back to the Knife. She thought for a moment as she scanned around the log. Her eyes found the blood-crusted remains of the sleeve. She fastened the filter of the cigarette between her teeth, bent over, and gingerly picked up an end of the abandoned fabric with her right thumb and index finger. She took the other end in her left hand and pulled it taut several times. Satisfied, she propped the Knife up against her leg carefully and looped the fabric through the ornate handle. She tied a large knot and began to feel at her right hip. She carefully selected one of the more frontward belt loops and forced the fabric through it, ending in another knot. The weight of the knife caused it to begin to slip, so she added a second. Once it was solidly in place, she tested it, walking a circuit around the log. The knife swung uncomfortably close to the flesh of her leg, but never came close enough to threaten a wound. She wished it had come with a sheath. This would have to do.

The bandages made their familiar crinkle as Rhory pinched at the cigarette and exhaled again. She picked up the bottle and drained the last of the water before tossing it aside. She stared at the point where Kimberly had vanished for several long seconds. She turn and started off in the opposite direction. She hoped they wouldn't meet again. She knew that there would be no talking and smoking next time. She knew that it wouldn't be very long before she had to learn to use the gun.

((Rhory Anne Broderick continued in Act II: A Mirror Dimly))