Aimless

[Grand Moff Hissa]

((Isaiah Garvey continued from Late Dawns and Early Sunsets))

Time passed. It was all that could really be said. Isaiah wandered the island, seeking some sort of purpose. He was feeing lost. Scared. He'd been fine in the heat of the moment, perfectly content to stand by as Alex and Jimmy had their encounter. It hadn't meant anything. They'd gotten hurt, but that was all. They'd heal.

Only, it was like the cell tower. Almost everyone Isaiah had met there was dead, now. And what of Alex and Jimmy? What if Alex had decided to turn around and cave his opponent's skull in? Isaiah simply had to trust that this hadn't happened. He had to trust many things, lately. He found himself increasingly unable to, though, found it becoming ever harder to stay optimistic. His goals were vague. He had not found the boy from the beach. Hadn't seen anyone familiar. He had just been walking. Now, in the dark, he was standing on a golf course, watching the rolling greens all around him. Trying to avoid the smell of death. There were a lot of corpses around here. He'd seen at least three, though only from a distance. He'd muttered a prayer for each, but not tried to bury them. Here, the ground would be far too hard for the process to be at all practical.

And then, there had been that announcement. Some girl had caused serious trouble for Danya and his men. Thing was, they'd handled it, quickly and efficiently. Ruthlessly, too. It was worse than there never being anything. It was a glorious glimmer of hope, instantly taken away, replaced with a crushing show of force. If anything had tested Isaiah's faith so far, it had been that announcement.

He sighed. Scuffed his shoe into the grass. Inhaled the cool night air. Stared skyward. Out here, you could see all the stars. You could look all the way into space, see the night with a clarity foreign to Saint Paul, to New Orleans. Even here, in the midst of this insanity, there was beauty. It was all the affirmation of God's presence Isaiah needed.

He smiled, and sat down on a slope. Maybe later he could find a sand trap to shelter in and get a little sleep. For now, though, he was going to enjoy this moment. It was as noble a purpose as any.

[Hallucinojelly*]

((Leila Langford continued from From White To Grey))

The night rolled on in, without ceremony or a show, trickling into the sky and leaving starlight in its wake. It happened so slowly, with such silence, that it honestly surprised the girl when she stopped for a second and looked above at the vast expanse which flooded out into the darkness. If she was philosophical, she would've used it as a symbol or a metaphor for how she felt, or lamented over how alone she was now that her best friend was gone. And yeah, the wind did feel nice on her skin, cooling as it was to her ever-boiling blood, but really, who gave a flying fuck.

Rubbing her shoulders - she was freezing her ass off out here - she carried on like before, trekking across the island all on her own. Her bags still rubbed her skin raw, and her feet were practically falling off with the amount of walking she'd been doing, but she had to keep going. She didn't know where she was headed, and it wasn't like she even had a map to refer to anyway, but it didn't matter; she kept on walking through the battlefields and the dead, which were beginning to litter the island, and she didn't stop. How could she? She had nowhere to go, nowhere to rest, no-one to show her the right way to shelter - she didn't have anything left. Just a piece of shit gun and a weight on her mind that managed to be heavier than the bags she was dragging around like a fucking camel.

Really, what was her plan now? Go toe-to-toe with terrorists with a peashooter? Fuck no, of course not. So she had a motive for revenge; so she had the will to go on and take down every fucker out there; what did that matter? She was just one person - just one tired, worn-out body amongst 200 others. What could she do except keep on going?

It depressed her. She'd never felt this hopeless before, or this weak; it made her sick. Somewhere out there everyone else was taking part in the fight of their lives, and here she was wandering across a deserted golf course like a brainless fucker. The need to step cautiously or take cover had long since died, after making it all the way out here from what had seemed like the very edge of the world itself. That beach... Hilary...

Fuck, don't cry now. Not here. Come on, you've got a job to do. You're gonna burn this island down, and you know why you're gonna do it, right? So you can't get starry-eyed every time you think about her, otherwise you won't get anywhere and then they'll win, Leila. You hear me? They'll win.

The blunt truth was right there, in her head, reminding her feet to press onwards no matter what. This wasn't something they could give up on now, not after what she'd done; she couldn't take it back. She needed to hold on to that vengeance and let it grow and swell inside her chest, until she was ready to let it burst forth and wash away those fuckers in a tide of fire. Her bangles jangled as a breeze swept past, but she made no effort to quiet them. They clanged together, metal on metal, reminiscent of the one around her neck which, to her disgust, she'd slowly grown accustomed to; it was just another reminder of what she had to do.

Letting them play out their strange sounds in the air, she pressed on with their melody accompanying her steps, with every clang proceeded by a grassy "clomp". A part of her wanted to sleep out here in the open, underneath the glittered canopy, but she knew that was stupid - the worst idea she'd had in a while. She must've been so exhausted, she could've slept about anywhere and let an opportunist strike her off in her sleep. Hell, it would've been painless, she reckoned. A nice way to go after enduring so much shit.

Perhaps the guy on the slope could help her out if she asked nicely? Yeah, "trade you a box of crackers to murder me nicely". She could totally see that happening. Ah well, she guessed she'd have to go down the messier route, which would inevitably lead to getting brutalised live on television because hey, the nation loved a good death scene, right?

Staring right up at the boy - fuck, boy? He was fucking huge - she quickly drew her pistol and aimed it up at him with a grim look on her face. She couldn't afford to take chances and let him think she was gonna pussy about, oh no. This was letting him know exactly where he stood with her, and if he had any kind of sense he'd find a reason to leave before she had to cut his trip short.

"Sorry babe, but I don't have time for fucking about. If you're gonna try and kill me then go ahead - see how far that gets you. But I promise, and I mean it, that if you even take a single step towards me-"

Her finger slid back the trigger; ready.

"I'll show you why everyone stays the fuck away from me."

[D/N]

(Ricky Fortino continued from Cleanliness and Loneliness)

His plan was getting shot to hell. Screw that, this whole fucking situation was getting shot to hell, and to Ricky Fortino, it was getting close to panic time.

He had accepted, in some fashion, that he was on Suvival of the Fittest by now. What the hell, he'd been on this island for FOUR FUCKING DAYS now, he'd better have accepted it by now. But that acceptance had not served to bring Ricky any peace of mind. If anything, it had only served to worsen his emotional state. Because that whole pesky death thing, that sense of finality, that realiziation that this was going to be fucking it for Ricky Fortino and his entire graduation class was now trying to work its way into Ricky's brain, smashing through those barricades and defense mechanisms like they were made of cardboard.

The army wasn't gonna fucking show up any time soon. They hadn't in the past, so why the hell should THIS year be any different?

His whole plan to stick with other people was stupid to begin with. There were, what, fifty kids dead? A hundred? Christ, he didn't even know. Kids were getting fucking killed all over the place, whether they were in bigass groups or off on their lonesome. And who was he? Ricky Fortino? Fuckin' better people than him had died over the past four days, that was goddamn sure. He didn't even have a gun yet, he had NOTHING except that goddamn shovel, so how the FUCK was he supposed to delude himself into thinking that he was gonna stay alive for another week?

And now, AND NOW, Liz fucking Polanski was running around, pulling some stupid stunt, and they were just picking fucking blowing up kids from the HQ or whatever because of it. So it didn't even fucking MATTER what he did, because he could be just minding his own goddamn business and then that jackoff Danya blows his fucking collar to piss off that little bitch.

So what was he supposed to do? Just what was he-

"Supposed to fucking do man, what is this man, law of the jungle now?" Yeah Ricky boy, that's just what it was, it was law of the jungle, law of the jungle.

"Law of the fucking jungle," he said again, and then realized he'd been talking to himself. Oh yeah. When you started talking to yourself it was definitely getting close to panic time. Talking to yourself was what those crazy kids did before they started strippin' off their clothes and eating corpses like some of those fruit loops he'd seen in the other versions.

No. Not that. He just had to hold strong to those defenses, they weren't gone yet, they were still building themselves, rebuilding themselves up in his mind, trying to keep out the facts, telling him that "You're doing just fine Ricky you just gotta keep it together keep to the plan get yourself a gun and get yourself a group of kids that aren't crazy like those other groups and then fuck yeah you'll stay alive you didn't honestly think you were gonna die here or anything did you?"

Yeah.

---

It was nighttime again. He'd find somewhere, wait out the night, and get back on track tomorrow. Tomorrow was another day or whatever the fuck. That bigass house was in the distance, but he wasn't gonna try there. Not tonight, not given the day he'd just had. That place was probably crawling who who the hell knew how many kids, there was no way he could get some rest there, and besides, he'd just told himself that he'd get back on track tomorrow. So he turned away, towards the greens, and stopped when he saw the figures in the distance there.

He was considering saying something, figuring out who they were at least, when one of them pulled a gun and spoke. At first he was so torn between feeling surprise, resigned anger (Is EVERYONE just fucking crazy here?), and the desire to somehow get that gun for himself) that he didn't recognize the voice, but by the time the girl'd finished her speech, he'd placed it. Leila Langford.

"I'll show you why everyone stays the fuck away from me."

Oh, scratch that. It was Leila Langford trying to sound like some badass bitch. That struck Ricky as perversely hilarious, and he was a half-second away from breaking into laughter when he realized how bad that might sound and managed to turn it into a cough instead.

[Grand Moff Hissa]

Enjoyment went out the window in a hurry when some girl turned up with a gun and pointed it straight into Isaiah's face. As far as things went, this was a pretty bad surprise. Especially since she seemed really high-strung, twitchy and nervous and, oh, hey, probably racist too. What a surprise. Yeah, black guy out minding his own business until you drop in, clearly he's gonna cut you up and rape your corpse or something. This whole situation was really getting Isaiah pretty steamed, which was probably not the best thing given that he now had to grovel his way out of being shot on really shaky pretenses.

"Woah," he said. "Hang on just a sec there, please. I'm not gonna hurt you. I don't want to kill you or anyone else. I don't have a weapon, and if you don't feel comfortable having me around, say the word and I'm gone. I'd just really appreciate it if you didn't shoot me."

Was that sufficiently conciliatory? He had to hope so. It was fascinating how quickly a situation could go way, way south. Fascinating how quickly the sparks of faith in his classmates' general sanity and good intentions could once more be threatened. And then another sound Isaiah had heard clicked, several seconds belatedly, and he tried to glance around without moving his head, searching for the interloper. Someone over there, some guy. Just great. More people to come mess up his night.

Smile. Try very, very hard to look nonthreatening. Pray for the best.

[Hallucinojelly*]

"Woah," he said. "Hang on just a sec there, please. I'm not gonna hurt you. I don't want to kill you or anyone else. I don't have a weapon, and if you don't feel comfortable having me around, say the word and I'm gone. I'd just really appreciate it if you didn't shoot me."

"What?"

Leila was stunned, genuinely. This guy looked like he could easily take her down, but instead he was actually... nice? Her expression wavered, disarmed by the gentleness he exuded in his speech. It was like he didn't have a clue what was going on out there - like he hadn't even heard the announcements or seen a single dead body yet. She would've resented him for it, but it was too strange to think about. From the very beginning she'd seen what everyone had been capable of, be it stealing shit by gunpoint, killing guys with elaborate traps like in those fucking films, and groups of guys going loco just 'cause some poor guy was looking for someone who wouldn't shoot him at first sight. On top of that, there was all the stuff she'd done herself, but those things didn't bear thinking about. She had to scare Brook, she had to betray the guys that looked after her so willingly, she had to... help... Hilary...

...Of course.

Of course there were still nice people around. This guy wasn't a monster - he hadn't given in just yet. He still had some sort of sanity, and he was as scared and lost as anybody else. What was she doing? Wasn't she supposed to be going after Danya? Avenging her friend? Fuck, and now she was pointing a gun at this guy like he was responsible. Fucking aces.

Her fingers loosened slightly, their grip on the gun becoming less tense as she brought it back down, aiming away from his face. A few seconds later, and it was back by her side, where it belonged. For the first time in a good while she was feeling vulnerable, with another dose of shame piling onto the last, and though she didn't like it, there was something she knew she could trust behind those words of his. There was no deception, no lies, only a sweet guy trying his best not to let some psycho bitch get the best of him. And then a guy coughed, nearby, and she realised...

He was fucking playing her.

Her walls built themselves back up again, and her gun resumed its position - this time aimed at the direction of the sound.

"Ricky? Ricky Fortino, is that - that's you, isn't it?"

A sharp look at Isaiah.

"And this... I'm guessing this was some kind of trap, like 'Oh hey, I'm just a poor guy all on my lonesome, I'm harmless really~', right?"

Looking back at Ricky now, her defences rebuilt.

"Well fuck this, and fuck you."

Keeping her gun pointed up she took a slow step back, and after a couple more, she took a breath and turned away, running out into the night. If this was the game they were playing now, then she had to make sure she didn't fall for that kind of shit again.



And if she'd paid more attention... she would've seen that Ricky wasn't even armed.

((Leila Langford continued in Bloodgarden))

[D/N]

"Whoa! Leila, I don't have any fucking clue what the hell you're going on about but..."

Too late. She was backing off, still pointing that fucking gun at him, and then she'd turned around and was hightailing it out of there.

"Hey! HEY!"

Ricky took a couple of steps towards Leila's retreating form. Ricky wanted to run after her. He just wasn't sure why. The girl was obviously fucking crazy, game had turned her fucking nuts or whatever. He wasn't a shrink, he didn't know why. But still, he'd fucking KNOWN Leila.

And she'd had a gun, right Ricky?

Right. And she'd had a gun. Course, that was a gun she'd probably try to fuckin' shoot him with if he did run after her. Maybe he should just stay right the hell here, hadn't he just wanted to rest for a bit? But still, what the hell was up with that chick? He turned to the other person.

"Dude, what the fuck was that all about?"

It was Isaiah Garvey. Ah fuck. Who knows, maybe he'd tried to lay some white guilt on her or something.

OK, maybe that wasn't fair. Ricky didn't really know Isaiah. He'd seen the guy at parties, that was about it. But still, he'd heard things. And Isaiah wasn't exactly the kind of guy Ricky was looking to hang out with in this place.

"Actually, you know what, you know what Isaiah? I've decided I really don't care. Chick's probably just crazy."

Ricky contemplated just moving on himself, then decided the hell with it. He was tired, and Isaiah didn't look like he was about to pull out a gun of his own. Just get this goddamn night over with.

"I'm gonna go sit down over there, and no offense or whatever, I'm gonna do that alone right now. Okay?"

When he was sure that Isaiah understood, Ricky walked off to the far side of the putting green, where there were a few hills of grass sloping downward. He sat down, and after a few minutes, when he was sure that Isaiah was going to follow, he decided he'd lie down for just a bit. Be easier to rest that way.

In no time at all he was fast asleep.

[Grand Moff Hissa]

That either went very well, or very poorly. The girl calmed right on down. That was good. Then she glanced around, saw the other guy, identified him as Ricky Fortino, and completely flipped again. Went on and on about a trap. Got very, very indignant. Then she cursed at him and left. That was mostly bad. Isaiah wasn't really too optimistic about the girl's chances if that was the way she reacted to things. Still, she hadn't shot him. That had to count for something. If anything, she'd seemed more worried about Ricky.

Ricky. Where was that name familiar from? Isaiah knew he'd seen the guy around, seen him at parties or something, but somehow the name was just sticking in his head.

And Ricky was cursing up a storm, too. Lovely. Said she was probably crazy. At least they were in agreement on one thing. Ricky then decided to go off and do his own thing for a while, alone, and Isaiah just nodded and said, "Sure."

Nothing else to do, really. Ricky was off sleeping or something. Isaiah was almost tempted to go after the girl, but that probably would end in him getting shot. Besides, as he glanced over at Ricky, he could see the boy off in the distance a little, looking all too comfortable. Had he fallen asleep? If so, then it was Isaiah's job to hang around and make sure nobody murdered him in his sleep. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Maybe Ricky'd even be grateful enough to cover a shift later. It had been some time since Isaiah got any rest.

The night wore on for a time. Isaiah turned the name "Ricky Fortino" over and over in his head, trying to puzzle out just where he'd heard it. Had it been recent? The more he thought about it, the more sure he became. It was pretty certain that no one had asked him about Ricky. That really left only one option.

As he contemplated, he became increasingly sure that Ricky must have been on the announcements. After all, Isaiah hadn't really been paying attention to them. He'd been trying to pick out the people he knew well and the ones he'd already met on the island. Some of the other names had grabbed his attention, and one of them had come up again and again. Someone whose name started with an R. Killed three people or something, including that Cyrille girl.

Ricky?

The girl had been scared. Really scared. Accused them of laying an ambush. All that panic had started when she saw Ricky. When she mentioned his name. It made sense. Ricky was a murderer.

In a flash, temptation was there, lurking and grinning. A killer, eh? Well, there was always the path of the sword. Time to go back and purge the sinners, right?

Wrong.

If Ricky had killed—and really, he couldn't be certain at all, but it did make sense—then he needed help, not more violence. Help was in pretty short supply right now, but Isaiah would provide what he could. Ricky had asked to be left alone, but that had been a long while ago, maybe an hour or so. Could have been any amount of time, really. Hard to keep track at night. Didn't matter. What mattered was, Ricky was asleep.

Quickly, quietly, Isaiah made his way over to the boy. Stood above him, looking down. He didn't look like a killer. Didn't look like a hardened murderer. Were looks deceiving at times like this?

Didn't matter. What Isaiah had planned, well, it wouldn't hurt. Hopefully, it'd help either way.

Looking down at Ricky, Isaiah quietly mouthed the words.

Father, forgive us for our sins. Please watch over us, the killers and the killed, the violent and the innocent. This all must have a purpose, and though I cannot see it, I place my trust in you that this is all, somehow, for the best. And protect Ricky, whether or not he killed, because he can't be blamed. In this situation, who can?

[D/N]

Ricky Fortino had been dreaming.

What he had been dreaming about, he had no fuckin' clue. Ricky wasn't the type of person who remembered his dreams even when he had the time to, during that period when you're still half-asleep and trying to sort out whatever weirdness your subconscious had come up with during the night.

But whatever Ricky's dream had been, it probably hadn't been a peaceful one. You could tell that by the manner of his waking.

---

When Ricky's eyes opened, blinking to try to re-adjust themselves to the real world, his first thought was that whatever that dream had been, it had been some freaky shit. His second thought, dismissing the dream entirely, was that he had to have slept for longer than he'd meant to, because it was way, way later in the night than he remembered it being. His third thought, overriding all others, came after he stopped blinking and realized that some fucking GUY, some giant shadow or something, was looming right over him, and holy shit he'd fallen asleep on Survival of the Fittest and some fucking huge killer guy was gonna kill him now.

"JESUS FUCKIN'---"

Ricky's foot kicked out, aiming at the giant's leg in a blind panic. He rolled to his side, rolling right over his bag, then scrambled to get up and get the Christ out of here. But it was too late, WAY too fucking late, because that guy was gonna come down on him any second now and--

Ricky's knee came down painfully on something metal as he scrambled to his knees. He looked. It was the metal shaft of a golf club, a rusted , old-fashioned putter that had been long-forgotten and left by the greenside.

Grab it.

Ricky snatched the club up and turned, only too see the giant coming at him again. He swung at the figure's arms and shoulders, trying to drive it away, dimly realizing that the guy wasn't as big as he'd thought but not caring.

"Stay the fuck away from me, man!"

[Grand Moff Hissa]

The first indication Isaiah had that anything was wrong was the abortive profanity screamed out by the boy beneath him. It was at this point that the rashness and presumption of his actions really hit home. What was he doing, praying for this maybe-killer? Wasn't like he held responsibility for this guy's soul. As the kick hit Isaiah's leg, sending him stumbling for a second and causing him to give out a sharp exhalation, he realized that maybe now wasn't the time to second guess himself or get caught up in regrets.

Right now, there was basically only time for one thing: acting on instinct. Ricky was freaking out. If he was a killer, he'd be armed and dangerous. The most important thing was to keep him from getting his hands on a gun of knife. Hold him down or something, then talk this out like civilized individuals, apologize for violating his privacy, then split ways and never speak of this again.

Isaiah could dimly make out Ricky grabbing for something, and lurched forward, trying to grab him stop him, prevent this awful misunderstanding from escalating any further.

The blow (blows?) came surprisingly. Isaiah wasn't really sure how many times he was hit. Wasn't sure of much of anything, not after whatever-it-was smashed him across the forehead with an awful crack.

A voice, far away. Something wrong. Balance messed up.

He staggered backwards a few steps, unable to even tell if more blows were coming, unable to see if that... person he'd been dealing with was still there. Then the ground wasn't where he was expecting it, and he was falling, flailing, rolling, tumbling, and the world was blackness.

[D/N]

Ricky swung at the approaching figure twice more, the putter bouncing off as the person kept coming. Ricky wasn't entirely sure he wasn't still dreaming, that whatever the hell this thing was wasn't some kind of ridiculous monster from wherever dream monsters come from. But he was sure that either way, he wasn't going to take this shit.

Then he saw the figure up close and it all came together, and he realized that it was Isaiah Garvey, just as the other kid seemed to start feeling the hits and backing up. Of course, that realization didn't stop Ricky. He had no goddamn clue what Isaiah had been up to, only that he'd gone over to Ricky in the middle of the night and who the FUCK knew what that kid had planned?

The next swing landed flush on Isaiah's head, knocking the putter's blade clean off. Ricky saw Isaiah's eyes roll backwards, and then the taller boy himself was falling back as well.

"Jesus!" Ricky said to Isaiah and no one in particular. With Isaiah no longer advancing on him, the adrenaline seemed to run out of Ricky's body, almost like he'd sweated it right out; he dropped the shaft of the putter and bent over forwards, hands on knees, breathing heavily. "Jesus fuckin'..."

There was a groan from the sprawled body at the bottom of the incline, and Ricky looked down.

"Man.. what the HELL? Seriously?"

No answer. Fuck, he hadn't killed the guy or cracked his skull open or anything, had he? Ricky took a couple tentative steps forward. No, nah, fuck that, Isaiah was still breathing. He was still moving.

Ricky sucked more air into his lungs and backed up again, grabbing his bag. His mind was still whirling, but he felt like he had some better control of himself, at least.

"I mean.. sorry dude, but fuck, don't come at me like that! Uh..."

Ah fuck it, Isaiah wasn't gonna hear what he said.

"Sorry," Ricky muttered again, and then he took off.

(Ricky Fortino continued in A Day at the Beach)

[Grand Moff Hissa]

Time passed. It was all that could really be said. Isaiah lay at the bottom of the little hill, fading in and out of consciousness. He hurt. All over, he hurt. Memories and dreams came and went, flickered by, always forgotten when lucidity returned. Throughout, a single burning question: Had he made a mistake?

He had been so sure of himself. So sure he was doing the right thing. After all, what purpose could God have possibly intended him for if not to help those in need? Really, though, had he actually accomplished anything at all? He'd buried some guy. Helped a couple people feel better. Was that really a difference? Did it matter?

He blinked. A voice rang out from on high, and Isaiah strained his ears, trying to hear the Lord's message, momentarily exulting in the rightness of everything, able to forget his pain and situation.

Turned out it was just the morning announcements again. He stopped paying attention. He knew what they were saying.

More killing. More death swirling around them, turning them to sinners one by one, stripping away their humanity. That was... bad, right? Isaiah was pretty sure it was bad. His head hurt. That was what hurt the most. No, wait, that wasn't true. His leg hurt the most. He blinked. Forced his eyes to focus. Something was wrong with his leg. It was bent in a weird way. Hurt a lot, too. He couldn't move it, but that didn't really mean anything because he was finding it awfully hard to move any of his body. Eyelids worked fine, at least.

Lord, what did I do to deserve this?

He snorted. That was self-indulgent. Why would God single him out for punishment? He, who had done his best, tried his hardest? It made no sense. He was no Job. It was simple... what was it again?

Didn't matter. This was it. The end. Isaiah was pretty sure of it. With all that pain, he wasn't walking away. He'd just close his eyes and smile as the Lord brought him home. Peaceful. Serene. Easy. Calm. Yes. No better way for it to be.

He closed his eyes, laid back, and waited to die.

---

Time passed. Isaiah didn't die. He was probably still dying, certainly. His head beat out his leg in the pain contest after a while. Yet, for all that his body ached, he still lingered in it. There were spots of blackness from time to time, momentary lapses of consciousness, but they did not bring sweet release. No, they were a source of sheer, unadulterated terror. Isaiah had a very, very specific set of expectations for the afterlife. Sure, a few details could be wiggled around, but it was a light place, a good place, a happy place. God probably wasn't some old fat white guy with a beard. Probably couldn't be described, even imagined by the limited human brain. He would be there, though. He had to be. Wasn't that where that whole tunnel thing came from? You moved down a tunnel, yeah? Towards a glowing light?

There was no tunnel. There was nothing except pain and periods of nothing. The nothing scared Isaiah. It hinted. It nibbled at the back of his mind. Whispered to him. It wormed its way into his brain, telling him that there was no heaven, oh no, it was all a trick, the atheists were right and the joke's on you and you're gonna die. He couldn't think like that, though. Couldn't doubt. Maybe... maybe it was a test. Maybe this was all to make sure he had true faith, strong faith. Yes. A test of faith. It had to be.

The seeds of doubt had been planted, though. Perhaps they had been alive in his mind all along, since long before his injury, since long before his class had been kidnapped. Perhaps they had been sown the first time he refused to go to church. The phase had passed, to his father's delight, but maybe the questioning never had. Was that why this had happened?

But, if that were true, if his doubts held any merit at all, then this was just a mistake. He'd startled Ricky, Ricky the maybe-killer, and he'd been beaten, and now he was going to die.

The end.

That wasn't right. That couldn't be right. He had to stay strong. Keep his faith. It had lasted him this far, right? His whole life, faith had grounded him, kept him strong. But how strong was faith that required constant renewal, that led him to be so overt, quoting the bible all the time? Wasn't true faith the ability to be strong without nudging yourself, without externalizing it?

He didn't even know anymore. Couldn't think straight. Just started crying.

---

Time passed. Isaiah eventually stopped crying. Ran out of tears. He was starting to suspect that maybe he wasn't dying. Maybe he was, though. His leg wasn't just broken; it was also bleeding from several large gashes. Actually, he was bleeding a lot. He'd caught up on something when he rolled down the hill. It was hard to see. The world was blurry. His eyes refused to focus. What a pain.

Couldn't this be a little quicker?

He had dim half memories of seeing Ricky at some point. Had it been when he fell? Somewhere in the past? Minutes ago? Seconds? Time was losing all meaning. All he knew was that Ricky was now gone. Everything was gone. His hat was gone. It had fallen off somewhere in the tumble. He could see it lying on the ground. The sun was up now. The golf course was beautiful. Weird beautiful, but still beautiful. He coughed. Spat. Either there was blood in his spit or there was blood in his eyes.

He coughed a few times. Tried to move. Got his arms working. Hobbled into a squat, and immediately fell over.

Goddammit.

...

That... cursing wasn't good, right? Even when you were dying? There was... wasn't he supposed to ask forgiveness or something? There were... there were words for this situation.

He couldn't remember them.

What were they? There was... surely there was a verse to quote here. Some bit of biblical wisdom to help him through this?

He was lying on his face. How had that happened?

Why was he upset?

Something he had to do.

Something important. Something... what? Things were getting less clear. Less focused.

Forgiveness. Someone would forgive him? He had to forgive someone? God? Something.

His head didn't hurt so much now. Leg didn't hurt much either.

There was a brief flash of clarity, of fear. Still no light. Didn't matter. He could beat this, right? Stand up and go. Power on. Invoke the Lord's might for safety and security. Just do it. Somehow. Any way. Anything it took. Anything.

He couldn't move.

He was scared.

If there was a God worth believing in, though, he was sure he wouldn't care.

Something to do.

Just...

B111 - Isaiah Garvey: DECEASED



Time passed.