Survival Of The Fittest

Spike couldn‘t believe his ears, that was one sentence one wouldn‘t want to hear before bleeding out. It stressed him more, his pulse rose.

He began to shake, his finger tips felt numb and he dropped his rock.

He touched his wound with his own bare fingers, blood flowing into his palms.

The blood felt so comfortably warm.

Spike Havighurst - Deceased

.

"I-I think I got it!"

..

"Spike?"

...

"Co-come on, man, say som-something."

....

"Please..."

And then everything went to hell in a handbasket. In a few moments, the item Jacob had—some weird knife gun—hit Spike, Jacob fled the scene, and Spike bled out on the rocks. Now, it was just Donovan, Bill, and the bloody remains of Spike.

"Holy—" he sputtered, though he'd never been religious.

"—shit, what the fuck?" was left unsaid, only thought and mouthed.

He'd never seen a corpse this close. The teachers, they'd been on the stage, far away. He'd watched them die, sure. But this was different. It happened before his eyes, close and visceral like he had front-row seats at the game.

"I—I didn't," he murmured, "fuck, man."

Donovan tried to breathe, but his lungs were tight like he'd pushed them to the limits. He'd barely lifted his fingers. All he'd done was stand up, point the gun, and shout a bit, but that was enough—enough to kill someone.

"I can't just leave with nothing." the awful, cold part of himself shouted, but the guilty conscious responded, "Fuck, man, what's wrong with me?"

He swallowed again, hard, like he'd eaten an iron ingot. His eyes narrowed and shifted, searching for something: a method to escape without running away—a way to win in a lose-lose situation. It took him a moment, but then he thought he had something.

"You—Bill, right?" he called out, his voice close to breaking, "Hand me his stuff. He doesn't need it."

Spike was dead—what did he care? It was just some food and some water. This whole situation had to be worth something. None of that made it feel any better. It was robbing a fresh grave—eating at a fresh carcass, like a vulture.

"I'll let you go," he said, "I promise."

"Wh-" The words choked out in his throat.

Widened eyes stained with tears stared out in the general direction of the voice of the resident person he hated more than Jacob. Jacob wasn't here anymore to be yelled at or hurt for what's happened. So, whoever this was, would have to make due.

"What?" He repeated with more conviction, slowly getting up from the crouch he had found himself in. Dropping the med kit on the ground with a thump.

"He-he just died, and you- what?"

This- this prick showed up, and Spike died. Asking for his damn things like that was all Spike was to him.

Bill wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

Was this planned or just a circumstance? Did he know Jacob, or did he not? Who the fuck was this guy?

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Donovan knew the answer, even before he'd had the thought. His desire was selfish, and he knew that. It was a zero-sum game. For him to win, somebody else had to lose. He'd thought—and still thought—he could deal with that. It didn't feel good, it wasn't right, but that didn't matter.

Donovan knew that he didn't know everything. But one of the things he thought he knew was how the world worked. Morals weren't worth a dime. They didn't keep you from starving when the pantry was empty. It wasn't fair, but neither was the world. That was life.

It sucked. But it was the truth.

"Come on, man," he pleaded, lip trembling, gun steady, "I don't—I don't want to hurt you."

It was a game of life and death, and the other boy, he'd lost. Did Donovan feel bad? Yeah, he did. Spike didn't deserve that—but neither did any of them. And it wasn't even his fault. He couldn't have predicted any of this. He didn't pull the trigger—all he'd done was point the gun and say something.

"It isn't worth dying over this," he begged, "just hand it over, please."

Bill kept wiping at his eyes, so he could see this fuck where he stood across, and when Bill could see properly, that's when he saw the gun in his hands more than him. Bill stared at him with furrowed eyes, sweat dribbling down his face.

"Just- fucking..." Bill started to fill up his bag with the content he had pulled out earlier. This was too much. There was blood on him that wasn't his; the feeling in his throat had stayed after the fact, which made it a struggle to say anything at first.

Some words made it through. There were many more words that Bill wanted to say, but the situation and his condition? There was no chance.

"Fine."

His friend was dead, and he now had first-hand experience with what his classmates would do in the name of... whatever. One was a killer, and the other was robbing the dead.

He could try and stop him, but with the gun in hand? No way. There would only be more dead in this place.

After sampling all of his things as quickly as he could, Bill got ready to go with some parting words:

"Vulture." he spat the word out as he walked off in a huff. Bill had no idea where he was going, but anywhere was better than here.

Donovan looked out across the barrel at Bill. He wondered, for a moment, what it was like to be in that position. The other side of the gun seemed distant—four inches had never felt so far. What would he have done? He wasn't sure. Maybe he'd have tried to fight, or he'd have given up and run away.

Did it matter?

Suddenly, it felt hard to keep his head up. So he let it drop, his eyes drifting to the little, blood-stained rocks on the ground. His gaze never met the other boy's eyes. There was a tension in his shoulders, too. Though he wouldn't have said it, the guilt weighed as heavy as a millstone.

As soon as Bill had left his sight, he let his arm fall to the side. Then, his fingers flicked the safety on and slid the gun back into his pocket. He took a step, two, three, towards Spike's bag. The label of vulture felt pretty accurate, honestly. It was uncomfortable because of that.

Donovan leaned down and unzipped both bags, his and Spike's, and took everything he could've needed: food, water, the first-aid kit, and batteries. He dumped everything else into the ocean, including Spike's weapon, then watched it all sink to the bottom. Nobody else was allowed to have it.

When he tossed Spike's bag into the blue, it caught on a rock and stuck, wavering in the waves. The designation—S085—stood out and taunted him from over there. As if daring him to forget all of this. It reminded him of the numbers on the jerseys back at school.

He turned his back on the deep blue sea and slung his bag over his shoulder. Shadows pawed at him on the edges. It was hard to focus now. So, he stretched and readied himself to run away again. He wouldn't ever outrun his problems. But maybe, just maybe, he'd keep the reaper a few steps further away.

"Was it worth it?" his conscience asked.

He didn't have an answer.

S043: DONOVAN LAUER — CONTINUED IN "Until Dawn"