Survival Of The Fittest

Shu remained silent as he listened to the red-faced, stubborn little boy. At some point he stood up and vanished behind Amos's view, letting his footsteps speak for him as he stopped somewhere a few feet away.

A bundle of thin climbing rope, still in its packaging, was thrown into Amos's view. It hit the mound of ice and flesh, sending bits of fresh snow everywhere as it settled somewhere both into the ground and propped up against it.

"Then show me."

Everything went quiet.

Amos knelt in place, eyes boring holes through the ground with a fierce stare amidst tears.

The figure went away.

The only way he knew the figure was no longer there was the lack of shadow that loomed. Amos almost did not notice through all these questions that had been asked, the misery that surrounded him, and the dread of what he could do from here on out.

They were all the same: they were all about Aion and what Amos would do from here.

He wished he knew.

A rope, covered in packaging, hit the snow near him.

Amos stared at the rope that had come into view for a long time.

The fingers on his right hand uncurled, letting go of the shirt covering his boyfriend's corpse, and reached out for it.

When it was within his grasp, he stared at it some more.

His right hand gripped it fiercely as he stood up, examining it as he held it across both hands.

"T-t-this?"

"A gift, from Kiera.

"You want to sit around and freeze to death out here, go ahead. Just giving you a quicker out. You're broken and a waste of space without him either way."

A gift, he said.

Amos' breath disappeared.

Go ahead, he said.

Hands shook as they quietly ripped at the packaging.

A quicker out, he said.

The rope was now in his hands.

Broken, he said.

He had always been good at tying knots.

A waste of space, he said.

His heart sank.

His arms dropped to his sides.

He looked over to the figure, who, in turn, moved its head to look at one of the nearby trees.

Amos moved, his feet like granite, struggling through the snow.

Past the mound that used to be his boyfriend, past the figure who had questioned him for minutes that had felt like hours, almost past this shadow on the way that he could not discern what was, but stopping when he recognized who it was.

A few days ago they tried to talk, and there was no answer.

There was a question aimed at him, but this time he was the one not to answer.

After a bit, he resumed his walk, beyond caring what lay past their eyes.

Left hand clasped against the tree, memories of climbing these back home flooded in, didn't matter what tree it was; Amos was confident he could climb it. Amos had spent so much time in nature that it had become second nature for him to be outside, whether it was hiking, camping, or gardening. It had always been a place for him with the sights and the animals; it was a place to relax and get away from the stress: to live, but these memories did not make him smile.

It made him remember a promise that he couldn't keep.

He turned his head back to see, but whatever expression or gesture was made was on the far side for him to see.

He turned back, and so did the last of his hope.

---

Multiple attempts to climb the tree: the third was successful.

A camera caught a figure floating above the ground.

Those close enough could hear a whimper and a snap.

And then a gurgle.

It kept on for a while.

Their feet struggled.

Less and less.

Amos Flannigan: Deceased

The sky continued to darken, punctuated only by the snowfall that fell down.

Shu cupped his hands together and breathed out, stimulating heat as best he could as he watched and waited for the color to drip from Amos's face until he was a blue piñata.

"Coward," he said to himself before approaching the corpse to grab the bag he threw by the tree, giving it a cursory glance inside as Amos's legs dangled behind him. A few feet away, he stepped near a mound in the snow, uncovering his own supplies along with the shotgun.

Then he tapped Przemyslaw on the shoulder. "Done here."

((A voice, somewhat familiar, came to Przemek from the distance, talking with Shu.)) The words were indistinct, but desolate and hollow in how they were spoken.

The conversation stilled, and footsteps neared, finally.

"Hello?" was what he had asked of the newcomer. Amos, he recognized, from days ago.

Przemek had failed to take hold when Amos reached out to help before, and it had caused him days of starvation.

Here Przemek was, on the brink once again, and so he'd decided to be the one to reach out this time. He was so hungry. So cold. Maybe Amos could save him this time.

He reached out, and the answer that came to him, eventually, was as follows.

The whoosh of something falling.

A crack, a snivel.

"Amos?"

A groan, a slight stream of air struggling to break through bubbles of fluid.

"Amos?"

Burbling sounds coming slower and slower.

"...Amos?"

The creaking of the branch he hung from. The waste of space swinging to and fro.

"..."





Przemek had spent hours in the frost, yet he had never felt this numb before.

A lump in his throat, to partially fill the void inside him.

At the tap on his shoulder, Przemek moved somewhat belatedly, draggingly, less of a flinch and more of an acknowledgment. He was too weak to do anything else.

Shu was done with Amos, he said.

"What did you do with him?" Przemek asked, voice hoarse.

Shu set the shotgun down by his feet. He reached out to Przemek, one hand propped up against the other boy's cheek with a thumb gently caressing.

Almost as quick as it started, the petting motion ceased as his thumb caved inward and the fingernail pressed into Przemek's cheek, not enough to puncture but just enough to feel it even as the snow fell down onto his frozen face.

Shu leaned in and whispered into his ear. "Just gave him a parting gift."

He dug the nail deeper into his cheek, his voice equally getting closer and softer. "Or should I not've?"

He released his hand, gliding it down along Przemek's cheek and neck before withdrawing entirely before stooping over for the shotgun, the metal equally as cold as his hands.

"Come."

An icy finger slid down Przemek's face, inches away from his wounds. The nail dug in, it stung, and he froze, he whimpered.

Shu asked him for his opinion, but Przemek knew it didn't matter. He was not being consulted, he was being commanded, and the only question was whether he would comply or not. And that, too, was not a question. There was no other path.

Shu called, and he followed. He shakily stood up on his legs, and followed Shu's voice through the yellow static.

A few seconds later, he spoke in the same hoarse voice.

"Can I- can I have some of his rations?"

He tried to swallow, throat impossibly tight.

"I haven't eaten in days."

If he was to be yanked around on a leash, the least he could hope for was a few scraps.

"If you're a good boy," Shu said, latching onto Przemek's arm like a claw but not stopping in his tracks. He pressed onwards towards the dark horizon, away from the body of what was Amos Flanagan just several minutes ago as the snowfall became heavier and heavier and drowned everything in sight in a veil of white.

((to be continued))

Cold drops of liquid slid down his cheeks, and it was difficult to tell whether it was melted snow, or if his wounded eyes had somehow made teardrops. They stung all the same.

He stumbled forward, limply dragged along into the white dark.

((Przemyslaw Ziemiak continues in Blind Faith))