The Lost Boys
Posted: Mon Sep 10, 2018 5:42 am
((Trent Savage continued from Reduction))
Day 7 - 3:33am.
Only a couple of hours to go 'til the next announcement.
Trent shivered.
The air was cold tonight, as though death had completely enveloped the island. It seemed like everywhere he went was plagued with it; from the bloodstains on the beach, to the many bodies littered through the woods. He'd thrown up a good amount of times too, but still his strength remained, because he had a reason to keep on moving - to keep searching, even when he thought he'd looked in every place he could.
But she was out there.
Her name had escaped the static, which meant she hadn't died just yet. Good. What else did it mean though? If she was alive, then why hadn't they found each other? What was keeping them apart? God? He laughed. Of course not. He didn't believe in that bullshit. His mother might've bought into it, but he didn't. It was just another sore point between him and his stepfather on an endless list of things they disagreed on. In fact, this very trip had been one of those things. Ronald told him that he didn't deserve to go; hadn't picked up the grades he could've gotten had he not frittered the year away playing "psycho" in his weird little friend's monster movies. Well fuck him. What did he know about them? He wasn't at high school anymore - didn't know what it was like to have a real friend in the world.
He paused for a second, flashlight hanging from his hand. A shake of the head to send his thoughts astray. He and Ron were nothing alike, especially now. When did that guy ever have to face something like this? When exactly was it when he had to fight his classmates to the death? 198-never? 198-bullshit and one? Well fuck, the facts escaped him. He spat at the ground. What a douchebag. Always telling Trent to get himself ready for the real world, and now look where he was - stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weapon in his bag. He didn't even know if there was any food left. Last time he checked, he found a moulding piece of bread and enough cracker crumbs to last him, oh, about an afternoon? Give or take?
Stomach rumbling, he pressed on, towards god-knows-where. He hated getting the map out at night, so most of the time he'd just take his chances until he reached somewhere hospitable-looking to camp. Once or twice he chanced upon the borders of a dangerzone, but fortunately his collar's sudden bleeping always frightened him back into safer pastures. Presently, he was situated somewhere near the tunnels, at the mouth of the mine, though he couldn't see for trying. The little white bulb only reached so far, so onwards he went towards it, blindly following the trail of light with a handful of care as to where he ended up tonight. All he really wanted was somewhere warm to sleep, but hey, at least his beam was the only one in sight. Nobody was around to kill him and whatnot. Slight relief.
Breathe out.
A run of his hand through hair.
So greasy. He was never one for obsessive grooming, but even he now felt like a pig. It'd been what, 7 days since they started? A week? Fuck. That long already? All thought of rescue had long since vanished, having wandered around without rest or something substantial to eat, with people dying round every corner. He tried not to think about it though; stayed positive. It wasn't like him really, but what else could he do? If he started reflecting, even for a second, on what a dark turn his life had taken, then he might not have had the hope left to carry on after all. And then... well, who knew. He didn't want to think about it.
His foot hit something weird - like a rock or... wait, what was it? Sharp turn. The light hitting everything around him, making it hard to focus. Steadying himself, he aimed the torch at the ground, specifically at where he thought he'd tripped.
He instantly wished he hadn't.
Another body, just like the others he'd seen, all bloody and starting to decay, but there was something different about it - familiar. It took every ounce of energy he had left to move his hand, and ever so gradually it slid through space; the light cutting through the shade until it ripped a hole in his reality.
The eyes were unmistakable, rolled back into his head as they were, but Trent still recognized them.
Brock Mason, aka. Hilary's boyfriend. Dead.
So dead, so disgusting.
He held back the vomit until he was far away from the body; until he could hold it in no longer. It sprayed his shoes and burnt his throat, and he coughed up what little he had left to give, holding himself up against a tree as his lungs caught up with his stomach.
Thinking back to the announcements, he found himself thinking a bit more clearly.
Finally understanding why Hilary died.
Day 7 - 3:33am.
Only a couple of hours to go 'til the next announcement.
Trent shivered.
The air was cold tonight, as though death had completely enveloped the island. It seemed like everywhere he went was plagued with it; from the bloodstains on the beach, to the many bodies littered through the woods. He'd thrown up a good amount of times too, but still his strength remained, because he had a reason to keep on moving - to keep searching, even when he thought he'd looked in every place he could.
But she was out there.
Her name had escaped the static, which meant she hadn't died just yet. Good. What else did it mean though? If she was alive, then why hadn't they found each other? What was keeping them apart? God? He laughed. Of course not. He didn't believe in that bullshit. His mother might've bought into it, but he didn't. It was just another sore point between him and his stepfather on an endless list of things they disagreed on. In fact, this very trip had been one of those things. Ronald told him that he didn't deserve to go; hadn't picked up the grades he could've gotten had he not frittered the year away playing "psycho" in his weird little friend's monster movies. Well fuck him. What did he know about them? He wasn't at high school anymore - didn't know what it was like to have a real friend in the world.
He paused for a second, flashlight hanging from his hand. A shake of the head to send his thoughts astray. He and Ron were nothing alike, especially now. When did that guy ever have to face something like this? When exactly was it when he had to fight his classmates to the death? 198-never? 198-bullshit and one? Well fuck, the facts escaped him. He spat at the ground. What a douchebag. Always telling Trent to get himself ready for the real world, and now look where he was - stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weapon in his bag. He didn't even know if there was any food left. Last time he checked, he found a moulding piece of bread and enough cracker crumbs to last him, oh, about an afternoon? Give or take?
Stomach rumbling, he pressed on, towards god-knows-where. He hated getting the map out at night, so most of the time he'd just take his chances until he reached somewhere hospitable-looking to camp. Once or twice he chanced upon the borders of a dangerzone, but fortunately his collar's sudden bleeping always frightened him back into safer pastures. Presently, he was situated somewhere near the tunnels, at the mouth of the mine, though he couldn't see for trying. The little white bulb only reached so far, so onwards he went towards it, blindly following the trail of light with a handful of care as to where he ended up tonight. All he really wanted was somewhere warm to sleep, but hey, at least his beam was the only one in sight. Nobody was around to kill him and whatnot. Slight relief.
Breathe out.
A run of his hand through hair.
So greasy. He was never one for obsessive grooming, but even he now felt like a pig. It'd been what, 7 days since they started? A week? Fuck. That long already? All thought of rescue had long since vanished, having wandered around without rest or something substantial to eat, with people dying round every corner. He tried not to think about it though; stayed positive. It wasn't like him really, but what else could he do? If he started reflecting, even for a second, on what a dark turn his life had taken, then he might not have had the hope left to carry on after all. And then... well, who knew. He didn't want to think about it.
His foot hit something weird - like a rock or... wait, what was it? Sharp turn. The light hitting everything around him, making it hard to focus. Steadying himself, he aimed the torch at the ground, specifically at where he thought he'd tripped.
He instantly wished he hadn't.
Another body, just like the others he'd seen, all bloody and starting to decay, but there was something different about it - familiar. It took every ounce of energy he had left to move his hand, and ever so gradually it slid through space; the light cutting through the shade until it ripped a hole in his reality.
The eyes were unmistakable, rolled back into his head as they were, but Trent still recognized them.
Brock Mason, aka. Hilary's boyfriend. Dead.
So dead, so disgusting.
He held back the vomit until he was far away from the body; until he could hold it in no longer. It sprayed his shoes and burnt his throat, and he coughed up what little he had left to give, holding himself up against a tree as his lungs caught up with his stomach.
Thinking back to the announcements, he found himself thinking a bit more clearly.
Finally understanding why Hilary died.