Survival Of The Fittest

((Kevin Warick continued from Milk of Human Kindness))

Kevin had kept a pretty low profile for the past three or four days. He'd slept off his hangover, and then had gone off on his own. At least one of the boys he'd watched dig the grave had since died. Kevin had found his body right here, on the greens. It was actually pretty upsetting. He'd considered burying the guy, a sort of tribute, since he'd buried those other bodies, but it was a lot harder to dig a good hole in the greens than it was in the sand on a beach.

He wasn't quite sure what to do now. He'd left his sax behind somewhere, maybe even back at the mines. He couldn't recall. He'd lost the alcohol somewhere too. Pity. Now would be a really great time to get drunk.

But on the bright side, he'd lived longer than half the others. For dodging any real conflict, he was doing pretty good. He just had to keep it up. Ride that streak until it ran out. Just keep going. Stay alive.

It shouldn't be too hard, right?

Of course, he was hungry, tired, and a bit scared, but he was used to that by now. He was used to all of this.

((Ilario Fiametta III continued from ✝ ))

Ilario didn't know what time it was. He'd had a watch, once upon a time. Expensive. Attractive. A sixteenth birthday present, a white-gold Rolex of the kind that was so hopelessly fashionable it didn't have numbers, it had little wrought-gold lines where the hands would sweep over. He couldn't remember if he'd brought it with him or not. He couldn't remember a lot of things. He didn't know what time it was, or what day.

He knew there had been an announcement. And he knew there had been an announcement because that was the announcement when Rhory's name had been read out as a killer and he'd dropped, right where he was, into the ground because he'd had the shot. He'd had it. The light had shown him, it had been a sign, a sign, a way for him to atone and he hadn't taken it.

He'd watched her instead.

He'd watched her naked, and he'd enjoyed it. He couldn't deny it now. He'd watched her touch herself as she dressed and he'd wished to be the one touching. He'd seen her wash the blood from herself and he had been too fucking interested to take the shot when it had been right there, and now he was being punished. Not only had she killed - and probably killed again, since the announcement - but she'd gotten a weapon. The way he had.

She was being rewarded the way he had and for the first time little ugly thoughts snaked their way through Ilario's muddled brain right to the very front as he stumbled across the greens. Thoughts that whispered in his ear you got the gun for the same reason she did

you're a killer too and they came loud, twisting around him, even though he knew he wasn't a killer he wasn't he knew he wasn't he was atoning he was penitent he had fucking confessed and this, this was his last-ditch Hail Mary attempt at forgiveness...

When he saw a body in front of him, his bloodshot eyes didn't bother focusing. The word Rhory was stamped on his brain in flaming foot-high letters, and he didn't question it.

Just dropped to one knee, raised the AK-47, and, lips pulled back in what could be a smile and could be a sob

pulled the trigger.

Kevin was just sitting and waiting, enjoying the view, when he saw the other guy coming towards him. He squinted, trying to recognize the boy, but it wasn't the easiest thing to do. He was dressed in clothes that had perhaps once been nice. Now, though, he looked disheveled. He had a big gun.

He knelt.

The gun pointed at Kevin.

His brain made connections half a second too slowly.

There was a loud sound. Kevin felt something slam into his shoulder, jerking him backwards. The bullet(s?) hadn't gone through, but that wasn't really a comfort. His shoulder was screaming, and he was screaming too, wailing like his sax used to do, with all that pain and emotion.

Kevin couldn't move his right arm. He thought his shoulder blade was shattered. Here, on SOTF, that was probably a death sentence. He didn't have to die just yet, though. He hadn't been that scared before, but now he was terrified. He pushed himself to his feet, left-handed, and tried to stumble away, lurching along in a slow jog, bent over and howling the whole way.

Birds exploded into the air in a delirious deja vu of how long ago? The screaming startled them from their perches and then went on and on, like Rhory, not like Rhory. Last time he'd wondered what kind of a Sign the screaming was and now he knew, should have known then. The hart hadn't screamed for Eustace but then, he wasn't a saint. Wasn't even trying to be. He just had to get his sisters out of this intact and there was only one way to do that. His breath hitched in his throat as he stumbled back to his feet and moved forwards in pursuit. His ruined loafers made his steps uncertain, but he only needed to be a couple of feet forward. Just enough to get the shot. He needed to get the shot.

His breath came ragged in his throat. His pack bumped against his hip with each step, rattling softly (or maybe he was imagining that part) and reminding him that as soon as he was done here, he could take his pills, calm down. Sleep. He was so tired. He hadn't really slept, back by the river. He just needed to sleep. To calm down. He just needed to find Frankie, to find Rosa, to finally be able to protect them the way he was supposed to the way he had promised and he just needed to stop running.

Stop running.

He stopped. Once again, he knelt, bracing the weight of the gun - was it heavier? It felt heavier - against his shoulder. The limping, screaming figure was still in front of him, blood pumping from their shoulder like a sprinkler, sound unraveling behind him the way life unraveled from the bullet hole. Ilario couldn't bring himself to feel anything as he pulled the trigger for the second, and then third time.

No triumph. No victory. No penitence or sweeping wave of confusion, no am I doing the right thing?. Just the weight of the gun in his hands, and the now familiar sound of the shot echoing, sending birds exploding once more into the sky. Deja vu.

He was getting away. He was getting away slowly, painfully, dripping blood from his shoulder, leaving a trail of himself along the ground, but he was getting away. He was outrunning the boy. No, the boy wasn't even chasing him. The boy had a gun, so of course he wasn't chasing him.

Kevin realized this a second too late. He was about to throw even more of a lurch into his step, bounce side to side, try to make himself a harder target, but then there were two more loud reports, two more bullets whizzing towards him, past him, through him. The first actually missed, due to luck which would have been phenomenal had the second not punched through his back, piercing his left lung and nicking his heart.

He stumbled another two steps before falling face first to the ground. His nose shattered and stars flashed in his vision as his face slammed into the dirt. The grass cushioned him slightly, but a small rock tore a hole in his cheek.

What the hell had even happened? The whole thing was surreal. One moment, he was sitting quietly on the ground, thinking and just being. Forty seconds later, he was dying in a heap. It just wasn't fair.

There wasn't anything he could do, though. He was scared. He was wondering what else could have been, what life could have thrown him had he stayed with the group he'd found, had he not gotten drunk. Maybe he'd still be living. Maybe they'd have survived, too. He was pretty sure every person from the mine was dead now. Maybe not that girl. What had her name been again?

And still, he was trying to escape. he probably had less than a minute left to live, no matter what happened, but still he clawed at the ground, inch by painful inch, trying to just get somewhere else.

The figure fell. Fell hard enough to remind Ilario of Timothy collapsing down into the sand with his head rebounding off a rock, shattering his face. Moving closer, Ilario was surprised to see the figure was still moving. Still trying to claw its way forward. He went to his knee for a third time and lined up the sights to lock in on the figure's head. He squinted. Looked for the messy short locks that he'd become so familiar with as he studied Rhory's face. But something seemed wrong. They weren't there.

It wasn't Rhory.

Of course it wasn't. He wasn't entirely sure how he hadn't seen it before, how he'd missed the differences. It wasn't even like the figure resembled her. It was a boy. Did it matter? The sign had been right there. He was doing this for his sisters. It was okay. It was still okay. There hadn't been any doubt (there hadn't been anything) when he'd first pulled the trigger and he wouldn't let it come now. But he wouldn't shoot. The boy was dying. He wouldn't waste bullets that he might need later.

Instead, he left his gun and pack on the ground. Moving slowly forwards, he inched towards the dying boy, crouching next to where he spasmed on the ground. His features were partially ruined, nose smashed across his face and blood trickling from a hole in his cheek. Still recognizable. Kevin Warick. His mind raced for a moment, searching across his memories. The announcements. Had he ever heard Kevin's name in the announcements? He hadn't. He hadn't. Kevin had never been a killer. Like Timothy. His breath came faster as he stretched out a hand, stopping just short of Kevin's ruined face, eyes wide and pleading as they stared at him.

No. No. It was just like Timothy. Not a killer but, but, the potential to be. That was the important part. Everyone had the potential to hurt him, to hurt his sisters. Men especially. It was okay. It was still the right thing. His breath evened out, relaxed slightly.

Kevin was still staring at him. Ilario reached out, putting a hand on the non-ruined shoulder. The other boy's shirt was tacky with blood. It was pumping out in great gouts onto the torn-up earth. Guilt twisted Ilario's stomach, just for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. His fingers scrambled, slipped in the blood. He wasn't particularly sorry. In fact, he wasn't sorry at all. His father had always said that in business, sacrifices were necessary. One had to make the right decisions in order to benefit one's own cause. He grimaced. His father would be proud.

"It's for the best," he said softly, and waited for the other boy to die.

He was going. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, Kevin was making his way forwards, no target in mind, just trying to be somewhere else. There was something going on, though. He was no longer alone. There was someone beside him. He couldn't look up, but he knew. He knew who it was.

The boy apologized.

Kevin could have laughed, except that his body couldn't sustain it anymore. Sorry? He was sorry? If he was sorry, he'd have shot once. If he was sorry, he wouldn't have come over. He'd have left Kevin to die in peace. If he was anything, he was looking to still his conscience, looking for last minute forgiveness. That, or he was playing this up for the audience at home.

He said it was all for the best.

Kevin could have snorted. Of course it was. It all was, wasn't it? All of this. Everything was for the best in the end.

Bullshit.

But the pain and the bleeding was so bad now, so strong now, that Kevin couldn't articulate this opinion. Blood was gurgling in his throat. He coughed, hacked, spat blood onto the ground.

And he forced out three final words.

"Bite me, fucker."

And then it was all just too much, and the world was gone.

B034, Kevin Warick: DECEASED

Blood spattered onto Ilario's shoes as Kevin's final words gurgled out his mouth, a sound oddly reminiscent of blocked drains. His shoes had been expensive, real quality in every stitch of the butter-smooth leather. Now they looked like they'd only just been ripped off the cow. Blood and vomit had stained them both, sand and mud working their way into the cracks, every sharp thorn-branch on the island ripping scratches into the once-pristine loafers. It made him feel oddly sad. It was waste. They'd never be usable again, at least not for him.

But then this whole game was waste. His hand, already tacky with Kevin's most precious fluid, absently moved over the dead boy's face. What used to be perfectly manicured nails on clean, soft hands gently shut his staring eyes and wiped the worst of the gore from his face. He had died innocent, without sin tainting him. Ilario had saved him from it. Wasn't that right? Kevin would have killed. He might have tortured and raped, causing untold suffering. Ilario had allowed him to slip easily out of the world without a smear on his soul and without ruining any other lives. He deserved somewhat more respect than Timothy, whose death he barely remembered, or Etain, who'd been taken by the killer Kris and had likely been her accomplice. If he'd managed to shoot Rhory instead of being so distracted, he would have left her for the necrophiliacs or cannibals that likely hid among the students. She had killed. She was no longer a person.

Ilario's fingers paused midway through arranging a strand of hair.

Of course, he'd killed too.

This made four.

Four people. Four lives. Four sets of eyes staring blankly at the sky.

Four last moments of terror.

Bite me, fucker!







But it was different for him.

The realization came as a creeping surprise, filtering through his exhaustion-hazed thoughts and making itself known to him as subtly as the first thought he'd had upon realizing that he was to be granted the gift of a weapon. Of course it was different for him, wasn't it? He had been chosen. This situation, this - this giant fucked-up mother of all nightmares - it was a test. He'd known that one from the beginning, at least. And it was a test that he was currently passing with flying colours.

Ilario glanced back towards where the gun lay several feet away, reassuring himself of its existence. Turning back to Kevin, he busied himself quietly rearranging the boy's limbs - still limp, no sign of rigor yet - into a pose of peaceful sleep, lying on his back with his hands crossed over his chest. It took some time, but he was pleased with his work. Just because he had no choice but to do this didn't mean he had to be crude about it. He wasn't a killer the way the others were. He took no joy in it.

(inside a tiny and savage part of him knew that was a lie loved the tastesmell of blood loved letting go for the first time loved the recoil slamming pain into him loved the soft crunch of bodies falling breaking dying)

Yes. Ilario Fiametta III was acting for the best. He knew what they didn't - what really lay inside of people, the base instincts and animal desires which would begin to come to the forefront now. He was saving them from themselves - and saving his sisters, he added as a guilty afterthought, this was all about them after all, he mustn't forget that - and it was such a pity people couldn't see that.

"I really am sorry," he told Kevin's body, straightening the corpse's shirt delicately. "I hope you understand. It was for the best. It really was."

Kevin, understandably, didn't answer. Ilario felt better, though. The exhaustion was receding. Getting up and retracing his steps, he scooped his gun from the ground and knelt next to his pack, fumbling pills from their containers and swallowing them dry. Had to be careful. Couldn't risk a panic attack now. Not now. Strange that he didn't seem to have many left, though.

No matter. He felt almost light, as though the business with Kevin had been a confessional. He almost smiled for the first time in days as he shouldered his load and set off.

No more guilt. No more anxiety. No more anything.

Ilario Fiametta III was going to beat this game.

Ilario Fiametta III was going to save his classmates.

Ilario Fiametta III was going to be a hero.

[[Ilario Fiametta III continued in Act II: A Mirror Dimly]