Survival Of The Fittest

((Clarice Halwood continued from By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you.))

They were back at the bell tower.

It wasn't their first choice. But while trying to find a proper place—somewhere with a bed, and maybe some medical instruments, wasn't this a hospital, there had to be something—Clarice had thought, up ahead, she'd seen a figure run past. Someone that looked like Nancy.

Clarice honestly wasn't sure if she actually had seen anyone at all. Maybe it was just fear and paranoia speaking. But wheeling Harold right into Nancy would have made things worse, and then they'd gone down the stairs, and she'd thought of the bell tower.

There had been people at the bell tower. Good people that hadn't attacked like Nancy had. Maybe one of them knew their medical stuff. Maybe one of them could help, could help and tell them that it wasn't as bad as it looked. Tell them that Harold would be okay after some rest and orange juice.

The way there, Clarice kept alongside the gurney. Not providing most of the momentum, mostly just making sure it didn't fall. Ty wheeled the gurney from behind. It was old. Not in good shape. Every second she was convinced it would collapse under Harold's weight. But it didn't. Small mercies, yet the biggest mercy they'd gotten on island so far.

Her good hand kept on the gurney, steering it. She kept an eye on Harold. She'd tried applying some dressings, enough to maybe keep him going until they found someone who knew how to help. There had to be someone who knew better, just… she didn't know if she'd applied them right. Or wrong. Just that they were already stained.

The bell tower was deserted. Clarice reached out to steady the gurney before running ahead to the foot of the tower and sticking her head in.

"Hey! Jeremy! Barry! Other guy! You still there?!" she yelled.

Not a response, but as her eyes swept the bottom of the tower and came to rest on the floor she saw why. Barry was lying there, and there was a bloody splat and some scraps of what might have been the railing from the top. Clarice absorbed this in a brief moment, then she slammed the door shut and turned around.

"Not there!" she blurted out. Then she paused and said, slower this time, "There's... there's no-one there, we should... out here. Fresh air. Not there." Her voice shook a bit, but she tried to hide it.

They didn't need to see that. Not now. And she didn't need to see it, or think about it, or... god, Barry, he'd been alive last she was here, it wasn't long ago...

"Just… we can't put this off, we'll just have to… we'll do what we can, right?" Clarice said to the other two, trying to forget what she saw. Just for now. She could... she could tell them later. Looking down at Harold, she said, "Hey, Harold? You still… you awake?"

((Ty Yazzie Continued from By The Time You hear The Next Pop, The Funk Shall Be Within You))

Ty leaned over the gurney next to Harry's head. Unless he had to keep an eye on the terrain, he was chattering to him quietly, trying to keep the poor guy up and aware. Lots of questions, lots of engaging shit. Stuff to keep his mind active. He was in the middle of some old wrestling tale when they hit the bell tower. "And could you believe it? Down there on the mat, straining with the big bastard trying to get a decent opportunity, and he just rips it, and I mean rips it loud, like a goddamn gas mower starting. Whaddya do there, man? You remember that one? I think you had that Bucky Beaver fella, or hell, maybe that was Texas, help me remember..." It was just empty talk to keep him going. They could pretend that they weren't here, that he wasn't fucking dying, that Ty hadn't...

They could pretend.

Clarice brought them back to reality though. Sounds like she hadn't found what they were looking for. Panic gripped his heart. Ty wasn't a doctor or anything, but Harry's wound looked real bad, not the sort of thing you slapped a bandage on and took the day off with an aspirin or somethin'. First aid wasn't gonna cut it among them. He wasn't gonna give up though. Harry was worth too much to let that sort of nonsense set in without trying. "Just a scratch," he grunted with forced cockiness, "can't put my main man down that easy, ain't that right Harry? You're a good guy, wouldn't wanna embarrass the team like that." The uncertain half-grin and sweat on his face betrayed how hard he was faking this whole schtick, but maybe it would help. This was how they'd always dealt with thing, with swagger and shitty jokes and confidence. Why should a little thing like dying be any different?

Ty wheeled the gurney into the best light he could find and unshouldered his bag to start digging. There had to be something in this damn thing that could get them out of this. Otherwise, how the hell did anyone get past day one in this place?

((Harold Porter - By the time you hear the next pop, the funk shall be within you))

The world was passing Harold by. It'd began to slip away from him once he'd gone completely limp around Ty and Clarice's shoulders, burdening them enough to force them to load him onto a gurney. It faded faster still as he lost the small autonomy he'd managed to pretend to hold on to when he'd at least been standing upright.

He laid still as his closest friends wheeled him through the long, long hospital hallways, at least until he blinked and suddenly breathed in the cool air outside the asylum. Somewhere in there, Clarice had bandaged him up as best as she could. Harold figured that she must've done a good job, since he wasn't hurting so badly anymore. He didn't want to think about the spreading numbness that had replaced it.

When everything else had begun to fail, Ty's stream of chatter was a shining beacon that never lost its distinction. Harold followed along as best he could, nodding or shaking his head or mumbling something close to an answer at the appropriate times. He just wished that he could mirror Ty's confidence, return a grin for a grin.

Harold weakly stared back at Clarice as she hovered above him, saw Ty start rummaging through his bag out of the corner of the eye. Felt both strangely comforted and guilty about being worried over by the both of them, by the reminders that there were people who cared about him. Harold had always admired his seniors, had worried about how he'd fill their absence from the team once they graduated. It seemed that was off the table, now, but Harold still felt like he had to do his part. Had to try and carry the weight a little, no matter what happened next.

"Hey - none of this... none of this is your fault, alright?" Harold said to them, forcing the words out before he was overcome by another coughing fit, worse than the first. Didn't seem like he should try to talk anymore.

Clarice didn't know shit about stab wounds. She hadn't known shit about the gash in her shoulder, but that wasn't nearly as deep as this. Didn't bleed so much. Harold couldn't even stand.

She knew what it meant. She was sure they all did. But no-one said it outloud.

Instead, she sat down and checked her medkit. Hoped she'd find something that would help. Hoped she'd find something she and Conrad had missed when she was patched up. But she didn't. All they had was what was in their kits, and a now bloodstained gurney.

Clarice looked at Ty, then looked at the dressed wound. "If we're going to sew it shut or… or something… then you're going to have to do it. I can't keep steady," Clarice said quietly to Ty. She lifted her good arm briefly to show the consistent tremble that had hit it. She wasn't sure if it was from blood loss, tiredness or just anger and fear. As for the bad arm, it would never have the precision even if she could move it without pain.

Harold said it wasn't their fault. Goddammit, he's bleeding and he's worried about their feelings. It was so… Harold… that Clarice laughed. Only a moment, and it came out more choked up than she'd meant.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't… I wasn't laughing at you."

She didn't know what else to say, though. There was just too big a web of blame and guilt for her to untangle right now. She picked up the ibuprofen from her kit, looking at Harold. She wanted to shut her eyes. She wanted to run. But what kind of shitlord would she be if she did that.

"All I've got is ibuprofen. It might take some of the sting off, but… but I really don't…" Clarice shut her mouth abruptly, aware that if she said another word she'd probably cry, and that was not what this situation needed.

She couldn't keep up the chatter like Ty could. Couldn't pretend like this would all be okay. She'd never been good at pretending. She tried to smile at Harold. She couldn't. Instead, she just gripped his hand with her good one.

"Give 'em what you can," Ty said quietly. He wasn't even gonna acknowledge what Harry said, because as far as he was concerned it was a fucking lie. He'd lagged, and now his friend was dying. Clear as crystal. Couldn't be more his fault unless he'd stabbed him himself...and given that it was sword that did it, hell, he might as well have. Harry was trying to be nice, but it was just manners. They all knew whose fault it was, and who crossed the line trying to fix it.

They weren't gonna spend what could be his last few minutes arguing, though. No sense in that. It was time to get down to business. That in mind, Ty looked at the wound and his medkit, trying to find something that'd be of use. Might as well have all been alien, though. He didn't know shit about first aid other than "slap a bandage on the spot that's fucked and hope for the best." Weren't gonna cut it here, and he might just hurt him more trying to stumble his way through fixing. Goddammit. Goddammit. If he'd just been a little faster, or a little smarter, or a little something, even just some luck, this wouldn't be happening. But it was, and he was dying. No amount of bullshitting would stop that.

"Hey, Harry," he started slowly. "I...they're recording this, yeah? I'm just thinkin'...if you wanna say something, to your folks or somebody back home..." His mouth felt bone dry. Ty swallowed nervously and caught his gaze. "Might be time."

Harold struggled to focus, but the voices of his friends were now disappearing along with the rest of the world, fading into white noise before they ever reached his ears. It wouldn't have changed anything even if he had heard. He had already said everything he needed to say, everything he physically could say. He just hoped that they would accept his absolution. No matter what they were saying, Clarice's grasp on Harold's hand told him everything he needed to know.

They were there for him.

That truth was all that consumed Harold's final thoughts. If he had lived longer, if he had lived alone, maybe he would have been forced to think about what would happen, at the end. Tried to come up with "a good death", one final way to spite Evil even as their tendrils pierced his heart. Maybe he would have despaired over not having done enough, maybe Astrid's "I told you so" would have relentlessly echoed inside his mind, robbing him of any peace he could have hoped to find. Maybe he would have broken entirely.

Here, Clarice's hand was an anchor; its comforting warmth and pressure the only thing Harold could feel. He held on for as long as he could, but he didn't have the will to fight to keep his leaden eyes open. Ty and Clarice wouldn't leave him, after all. They were smart. They'd know what to do. They'd make sure that he would be alright, so it was okay for Harold to give up, for now.

He let go. He closed he eyes.

He lingered for a while longer, but he never woke up again.

B034 - ELIMINATED.
100 STUDENTS REMAIN.

Clarice didn't let go of Harold's hand for a very, very long time.

The sun crawled slowly across the sky. She soon had to squint to keep it out of her eyes when before she hadn't. She stood there. And she waited. She hoped. Her mind drifted to wrestling practice, to the stories Ty had been telling Harold on their way over. But it always got pulled back to the present, no matter how much Clarice didn't want to.

Harold's hand went cold. Only then, did she slowly loosen her grasp. Looking at Harold's face, waiting vainly for even a twitch, just a little sign of life. It didn't come, so she put his hand gently on the gurney. She waited a few moments longer, her hand pressing down on his.

Nothing.

She let go, and finally allowed herself the luxury of looking away. She took a few steps away from Harold, looking at the ground. Everything seemed faint, even the constant throbbing in her arm.

She'd never lost anyone before. Always been lucky in that aspect. Hadn't known what to expect. Right now, all she felt was shock. Disbelief. It seemed impossible that so recently Harold had turned up, friendly, bringing some hope that Nancy's freak-out had been a fluke. Seemed so recently that they'd been at wrestling practice, mucking about during their breaks and trying their best to get better the rest of the time.

It was just supposed to be a trip to a museum. Not this.

It wasn't her fault, Harold had said. Wasn't their fault. And he was right. Ultimately, it wasn't her fault, or Ty's. Because it wasn't her or Ty that had left them with no medical expertise or the supplies to make Harold better. It wasn't them who'd decided to fight to the death. Not them who'd gassed the bus, who'd brought them here like the five classes before them.

She knew pretty fucking well who was at fault.

Clarice looked up. She saw, attached to the tower, another fucking camera. Its mechanical eye focused on Harold's body.

For a moment, it felt like the world melted away. The tower itself, the island around them, the gurney, even Ty… it just didn't seem to exist in that moment. Just Harold and that mechanical eye, staring like the people who crowded at the side of the road and tried to get a peek into a fatal car accident.

"Stop it!" she shrieked, the noise cutting through the silence. "Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it!" She hopped on one foot for a moment, yanking off her shoe. "Fuck off! Just… fuck off!"

She threw her shoe at the camera. It bounced off the bell tower, far off from hitting its target, but she was already trying to pull off her other shoe.

"Fuck off! Leave us alone!" she screamed, raising her arm to throw the other shoe at it.

Ty hadn't cried that he could remember in a long time.

Crying didn't solve a damn thing. He got over it pretty quick before the real growing up started, wasn't any place for it in his world. Didn't keep crying when his brother's wouldn't stop fucking with him, even when they hurt him on some level. Didn't cry when his shit got broken, didn't cry when the anger got to be too much and he had to lash out at somebody. Didn't cry when he saw Marcus on the stand and realized how broken, how absolutely fucked each and every one of them was. Didn't cry when Mom's health started to go, or the old man's. Didn't cry when Harry shut his eyes, and it became obvious he wasn't opening them again. Not one fucking tear.

They didn't need him to cry. They needed him to be strong, and numb, and capable, until everything was fixed.

Here's the kicker of it, though: weren't no fixing this. Dead was dead, near as it mattered. He'd like to think that Clarice's outburst drew his attention, made him think and move forward with a plan when he ran to catch her arm and keep her from throwing again. That he was gonna keep them alive, or they'd be safe, or some shit. Wouldn't be honest to think that though. "Stop," he choked out. "You piss 'em off, and..." They were already dead. Did it really matter whether they died now, or tomorrow, or later? Did it make that much of a difference in the grand scheme?

"Don't make me lose you too."

Nah. Not really. But it made a hell of a lot of difference right now.

Ty caught her arm before she could throw the second shoe. She still wanted to throw it. So what if she pissed the terrorists off? She'd love nothing better than to make those assholes angry.

But it wasn't just her she needed to think about here.

Clarice sighed and lightly tugged her arm out of Ty's hand. After a few moments, she put that shoe back on her foot and walked over to where the other one fell. Her anger was still there, but simmering below the surface now.

"Sorry. Was… was stupid."

She couldn't be like that right now. She had to think about Ty. She looked back over to him. She wasn't sure what she originally meant to say, but her eyes landed on Harold again and she turned away.

The dead had always made her a little… itchy, for want of a better word. The idea of ghosts, in particular. She'd never really needed to think too hard about it until now, but she had occasionally thought about it in those car rides with her mother. Going from Kingman to Kayenta. While her mother told her all she knew about the Diné.

It'd been harder to avoid the subject once she'd gotten Scout as a stepsister. Well, future stepsister. Scout loved ghost hunting. Clarice had tried to hide her discomfort about it, if only for the sake of her dad.

And now, the idea of being near Harold's body even a moment longer was making her skin crawl. Already, the hand she'd held his with was itchy. She couldn't help scratching, but it did no good. Even so… the idea of Harold being stuck here… with that metallic eye staring at him, broadcasting his body across America...

After a few long moments she said, "I can't leave Harold here. There's… there has to be some way to… just… the ocean isn't far."

She looked up at the camera again, hands clenching as she tried not to start yelling again.

"They can't have him."

She knew she couldn't do this for everyone. The bodies would pile up the longer this went on. This island would be filled with the dead and there was nothing she could do about it.

But she would at least get Harold off this island.

They can't have him.

"Christ, Clarice." What was she thinking. They haul him out the ocean and dump him like a dead seal? Just...Christ. He couldn't do that. Couldn't touch him. What did she think was gonna happen? Sure, they couldn't give him much, they couldn't do much, but maybe something would get back to his folks. If they did that...

"He's not fish food, for fuck's sake," Ty said firmly. The idea was getting a rise out of him. It shouldn't, she had the right intent, but something about the whole thing really got under his skin. "He deserves somethin' proper, to get sent back to his folks, not just...dumped. What're they gonna do to him?" He didn't know much about how this whole thing worked, but mutilating the bodies seemed like a detail he'd have heard about, yeah? They had to get sent back, or found, once everything was done. His family deserved that. He deserved that, goddammit. She was just acting crazy, trying to do something like that.

"We need to get you steady," he tried to say more calmly. "I think that gash is really fucking you up. Sit down for a minute and rest, then we can figure somethin' out, okay?"

"You think those assholes are going to take us back? Even dead?" Clarice asked, her voice loud and watery. "I ain't never heard of them taking bodies back, and they're not gonna cart a pile of dead kids to Kingsman! They can't… they can't have..."

She trailed off, unable to be coherent. Did Ty really think that the terrorists would show respect to their dead? After killing them in the first place? That they'd take the chance of bringing the bodies back to Arizona? This wasn't the fucking army, where Harold died fighting for some cause and would get treated with respect. He died in a stupid way because those fuckers thought snuff films about high schoolers were the way to do whatever they did, and he'd be lucky if the terrorists tossed him on a landfill. Harold deserved better.

Normally, she would have argued that. But she was tired. She needed rest. Just… rest. Although she doubted she'd ever find it while those fuckers were watching. She didn't know if it was regular exhaustion or from the wound Nancy had given her, but…

"Fine. Fine…" Her voice was curt and bitter. "Not inside the tower. Barry's… he's in there, he's… I didn't want to say anything while..."

There were too many dead. How could there be this many this soon?

Clarice trailed off again. Without another word, she started wandering back towards the asylum. There was some vague thoughts about finding a bed there in her mind. Just somewhere she could vanish into until this was over.

She was done with the world for today.

((Clarice Halwood continued in In A World Of Shit.))

She was angry at him. Had every right to be, really. It was all one big fuck up and if he'd been a little bit smarter, a little faster, a little...something, maybe Harry'd still be around.

Piss in the rain. Maybe she'd forgive him in the morning, maybe she wouldn't. Maybe he'd see what she meant and come around to heading back here to take care of Harry. Didn't feel right at the moment, but hey, he had nothin' but time.

He wasn't planning on sleeping tonight anyway.

((Ty Yazzie Continued In In A World of Shit))