Survival Of The Fittest

((Juhan Levandi continues from Intermission))

The previous 24 hours, up to the last minute, had not been merciful to Juhan.

His legs were screaming from having walked across the island for seemingly no reason at all. The veins in his head throbbed, and his head doubled in weight. The temperature around him seemed to change within seconds from boiling to freezing. Blisters and sores festered on his feet. His back ached from the weight of his bags. His throat burned from all this coughing, and his joints felt like they'd fall apart.

The cold he'd felt back at the hotel turned out to be a fever. Juhan could shrug off all-nighters thanks to the power of Red Bull, and he could man up if he got a gash in his knee, but any time he got a fever, it felt like death was coming.

It hit him by the time the shopping mall was in sight, but instead of groaning or complaining, he kept quiet and moved forward. They ended up going to the apartments instead, where they found nothing, and taking away a bit more of their dwindling supplies, since people were in the mall. By the time they were able to get in, night had fallen. They took watch for each other once again, in the same order.

So, after sleeping for a couple of hours, they were woken up by the announcements.

Juhan had a rather selective memory. He could name, on the spot, all the capitals of the countries in Oceania, but then forget that there would be a test in English until 5 minutes before the fact. This memory had not worked out in his favor on the island. Or it did, depending on how you looked at it. He could remember every name on the announcement; he had been awake for all of them. There were many things he knew. That most of the book club, the book club, out of all the clubs, had what? Like, seven, eight killers? He didn't know, he was probably bunching up in that group people who didn't really deserve it, like Rosemary. She was just trying to do what they had tried. And Ian, he was with Ian right now, and he wasn't going to believe the terrorist's version of the story.

But still, at least five. If someone had told him back in high school that seven of the people that he discussed 1984, Don Quixote, The Catcher in the Rye, and many other books with would kill someone, he'd have ignored them. Because they were his friends. They could never do such things.

Now that, and many, many other beliefs he had held, were just shattered. But there were still a few he held onto. Like the fact that there were still a few 'safe' people here, aside from the allies he was with. People he could rely on to not kill, or not go insane, like Maynard. Maybe after much thought, he could understand Hansel, or Theodore. But never Maynard. He was everything but a killer. He was the kid who liked writing sonnets, who wore clothes fit for a dinner party to school, who'd accidentally spilled all his books on Juhan that one time in social studies. That kid.

So, when Maynard's name was announced, and not because he was dead, Juhan had no idea how to react. There were many things he could've done. He could've screamed out all the pain he was feeling. He could've punched a nearby tree, or even someone near him if he was reckless enough. He could've thrown one of the Molotovs still perilously stashed away in his bag.

But, he resorted to the one thing he had always done. He fell back behind the group and let the tears fall down his cheeks.

Honestly, he had hoped that he had run out of tears back at the beach, when he found the bodies, or at the hotel, when he was telling Ian what had happened. He was so sick of crying already, of looking this pathetic or useless. But, this was all he could do if he wanted to keep his friends or not lose himself.

They started walking again after the danger zones, including the hotel, were announced. Every now and then, he'd sob, but when Takeshi or Ian would look at him, he'd try to pass it off as him laughing at something. They did sound similar, to be honest. But with his red eyes, his hands covering his face, and his shaky, cracking voice, he wasn't convincing anybody.

Eventually, Juhan didn't know when, they arrived at this park. As soon as they got near the gazebo, he collapsed onto the concrete. He needed to rest, just for a little while. Just needed some time to absorb it all. He didn't mind if there was a rotting body just a few meters away from them. He'd seen enough to get used to it. Just some rest.

"Sorry. Just need to stop."

((Takeshi continued from Intermission))

"We should be okay here for a little while," Takeshi replied as he set his bag down. He could tell that Juhan was not feeling well, and they'd been walking for long enough that a break sounded good to him. The park was quiet enough, and it wasn't crawling with people looking for supplies and fights. They hadn't even gotten inside the mall. Upon realizing the main entrance was barricaded, they determined that somebody was holding up there, and they hadn't felt like taking a chance on them being friendly. It was better that they avoided others while they could.

"Looks like you're coming down with something Juhan. First aid kit should have enough to take the edge off. Gonna have to raid a pharmacy if we need anything more serious, and hope whatever expired drugs they have left are still effective." Takeshi lowered himself to the ground and stretched his legs out in front of himself.

"Did you guys see the banner? Somebody was married here, decorations still up and everything. This island was evacuated really quickly. I wonder what happened here..."

((Skipping for activity purposes.))

"Probably related to the nuclear plant. Also, you're right, should probably take some medicine," Juhan muttered.

He wasn't really in the mood to speculate about the fate of this island. He wasn't in the mood for anything, really. All he wanted was to rest, and for this fever to go away.

Reluctantly, he got up and shuffled around in his big, fishing out the first aid kit. After making a mess of the supplies in there for a while, he finally found some aspirin and ibuprofen. Juhan couldn't remember if it was bad mixing the two or not, so he decided to take a pill or two of ibuprofen, to ease the pain a bit.

Once he swallowed the pills, he laid down and, within seconds, went to sleep.

((Alda Abbatte continued from Kill All Motherfuckers))

Fuck this place.

Fuck Meera and Rosemary and Jaq and Chase and Dan and every other stupid motherfucker she'd run into on this goddamn island. Fuck the people she hadn't run into too. Fuck Kelly and Katy and Lauren for running off alone and dying. Fuck Andi for running off alone and killing. Fuck Kathryn and Iselle for turning on her with their self-righteous bullshit. Fuck everybody.

But fuck one guy in particular. If it hadn't been for this one fucking guy, she'd still be with Kathryn and Iselle. They'd still be a team fighting their way out of this fucking place. Paulo would still be alive.

If it wasn't for Ian fucking Williams, everything would be a lot closer to okay.

The one break she caught in the last fucking week was that right here, right now, she'd found him. She'd lost everybody else, but she'd found the little fucking prick. Now she just had to get to him. Nobody had spotted her yet, but that'd change.

She didn't care where the fuck they were.

She didn't care how many fucking friends he had with him.

She was going to fucking kill him.

---

It was his eighth day on the island, and Ian was physically and emotionally drained.  He nodded politely as the others spoke, but his mind and eyes were elsewhere.  

There was a corpse lying in plain sight not more than a couple yards away from where they were chatting.  Time and again, he found his gaze pulled in that direction, fascinated in spite of himself.  Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't make any detail from where he was.  It was probably better not to know.

He put his hand to his forehand as he sank back against the sides of the gazebo, letting his pack slide to the ground.  There was just too much to deal with anymore.  Maybe the others were right to ignore the corpse.  Maybe he was the fool.

Didn't make it any better.

It wasn't until the silence began to stretch out that he realized Juhan had fallen asleep, and Takeshi was nodding off beside him.  He glanced at them with a mixture of relief and jealousy.  It had been hard, watching his friend break down physically and mentally before his eyes, without anything he could say or do.  So he'd kept his distance and pretended not to notice, because it was easier that way.

In a way, this was a respite for all of them.  He needed some time to himself.

His eyes turned back towards the corpse, and, acting on a sudden impulse, he pulled himself to his feet.  There was something defiant in his steps as he walked towards it, something that recognized the stupidity inherent in his actions and refused to acknowledge it.  

In the end, he found himself staring at the body of one Matt Masters.  Ants crawled alongside the rotting body, and it was all he could do to hold the bile rising in his throat.  Had this one been Hansel's work?  Kat?  Theo?  The announcements were all blurring together in a haze, and he could barely even remember half the names, let alone who they were attached to.

Was this what Paulo looked like, now?

It couldn't have been more than a couple seconds that he stood there, but it felt like an eternity before he finally started walking away, leaning a little more heavily against the shovel as he made his way back to the others.

Despite how much she wanted to tear right into this little fucking creep, she didn't. That felt too good for him. Charging up on him and just burying the knife in his back...no. He took her fucking brother. He was gonna suffer for that.

She had to say something. Had to let him know that she was there, and that it was too late. This was his moment to realize that he'd fucked up, big time, and there was no running away from it.

There was a line drifting through her head. A single, isolated moment of repetition, from when they were kids. Before Paulo started drifting away. Before the anger. Back when they were just a couple of goofy fucking twins sitting on a ratty couch watching the same damn movie she begged mom to rent every time she could afford it. It had everything: Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...they loved it then, in the the good times. They loved each other. They were a family.

That's why she had to do this. The grip of the big, curved knife bit into her left hand as she uncoiled the cat with her right. She let it crack behind him, then murmured just loud enough for him to hear...

"Hello. My name is Alda Abbate. You killed my brother. Prepare to fucking die."

It was an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity.  

Ian stared at the girl who'd appeared so suddenly behind him, at a loss for words or thought.  He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant it.  He wanted to say it was an accident, that Paulo had given him no choice, that he'd only done what was necessary.  He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, at his would-be killer quoting Princess Bride at him.  He just wanted her to just go away, for the island to go away, for everything to be alright again.

No more lies.  

"I'm sorry."

What else was there to say?  The words were tiny and inadequate in his own ears, and yet, that was all he had.  In that moment, there were only regrets and a desire to live, and the latter needed no explanation.

Heart pounding, his breath cool and even, he stepped back, gripping the shovel a little tighter in his hands. Every motion was measured, every thought focused on the girl in front of him.  He'd let Paulo dictate the fight last time, let himself get pushed back until he'd been trapped.  

He wasn't going to make the same mistake this time.

"You're sorry?"

A sad, belittling chuckle echoed out in front of her. He was sorry. Wasn't that just perfect.

She repeated it again a little louder as she stared into his eyes. "You're sorry?"

There was no hesitation as she stalked forward slowly, savoring the moment as Ian gave up his ground, clutching his stupid little shovel like it was going to save him from her.

"I don't want to hear that you're fucking sorry. Do you think that makes it okay? That that changes anything?"

The whipped cracked out by her side as she glared a hole through Ian's head.

"Ask me what I want, you bastard!"

He should have kept quiet.  He shouldn't have let her get in his head, but he couldn't help himself.  Alda was hitting too close too close to home.

"Do you think I don't know that?  Do you think I wouldn't give anything to do it differently?"  

There was a tremor in his voice, and he hated himself for it.  

"It was stupid, you know.  I snapped at him, and the next thing I know, he was in my face.  I didn't mean to start a fight but..."

Alda was coming closer, and he wanted nothing more than to melt away at her glare.  As if there was anywhere to run.  As if there was anywhere safe for him to hide.  So he held his ground, tensing as instincts screamed incoherently at him.

Steady.  Relax.  Tension would only slow him down.  Keep her talking.  Let her make the mistakes.  

"So, yeah. Tell me what you want, and then you can tell me what you think you're going to accomplish?   Do you think killing me is going to make everything okay?  That you're going to change anything?"

The corner of his mouth curled inward slightly in contempt, though for himself or Alda, he wasn't quite sure.  

It didn't matter. Everything he was saying, his whole cocky, self-righteous attitude, his stupid posturing, none of it made the slightest difference. He said the magic fucking words.

Tell me what you want.

Things were different this time. This wasn't going to be an accident. She wasn't losing herself in the anger. She knew, as her muscles tensed before flight, that this wasn't right. The world wouldn't be any better because this fucking dipshit was dead. It didn't fix what he'd done. It wasn't a solution. It wasn't justice.

And she did not give a single, solitary fuck. She didn't want justice, or to do what was right. If she had to boil what she wanted down to a single, primal word, it'd be simple revenge. On a more complex level, she wanted something more, though. Something that Ian Williams couldn't give her.

That wasn't going to stop her from trying to take it out of his hide.

"I want my brother back you son of a bitch!"

Before the words had even fully left her mouth, she was flying forward.

And once again, there was no more time, no more chances to think.  Alda was flying towards him, and Ian was already moving to meet her.  He'd seen it coming in the way she'd tensed as she spoke, the little signals his rusty eye was struggling to catch, and he was ready.

It was the knife that worried him.  The whip would do some damage, to be sure, but it needed time and space, both of which worked to his advantage.  The knife needed only to come within reach to finish him, something that seemed all too likely at the moment. The shovel was slow and awkward in his grasp, and she was coming in too fast to get a good swing in.

So when he thrust forward with the shovel, he didn't care too much if it hit.  It didn't matter if she froze or tried to fight through it.  Its only purpose was to slow her down, give her something else to look at.  

Even as he struck, he let it slip from his hands and rushed in, grasping at her knife hand and simultaneously throwing a punch into her midsection.

Ian's shovel slid past her, scraping against her side with a dull, aching thud as he let it drop from his hands. She barely even noticed, either the shovel at her side or his fist in her stomach. All she cared about was getting him down and stabbing him until he stopped moving.

Her faithful cat fell out of her hands as she raked her fingers forward across his face, trying to power her other fist forward to bring the knife into his stomach. He was holding her back, but he wouldn't last. He couldn't stop her. What the fuck did he have to fight for?

Ian could almost have smiled when he felt the shovel dig into Alda's side.  It was almost too perfect, too easy to take  advantage of her momentary confusion, grasping her knife arm as tightly as he could manage without even a scratch.  

The world seemed to fade away as they struggled, becoming something strange and unreal. There was only the two of them, and it was almost beautiful.  This was clarity.  There were no more recriminations, there was no hesitation, only a girl and a knife.  This was finally something he could fight, and he felt he was winning.  An opponent could be beaten. Monsters could be slain.

His free hand, the one that had thrown the punch, was already coming around to grab her neck and pull her into a clinch when she caught him by surprise.   Her claws lashed out, fast and unexpected, but it shouldn't have mattered when he flinched. It wouldn't have, if the ground hadn't been slicker than he'd realized, lost in void as he was.

His grip on her arm slipped as he fell, his weight pulling her down with him.  

Somehow, as the earth rushed up to meet them, it became very real again indeed.

A wolfish grin spread across her face, despite the the cumulative fatigue that was already drawing sweat from her brow. Ian had fucked up. He thought he had her and he fucked right up.

Moron.

Her shallow at a swipe drifted across his chest has he fell, cutting too wide and too slow to do more but tear his shirt and graze his skin, but that was enough. As she fell down on top of him, she was in control. She had the momentum. The vengeance she wanted so badly was dancing in front of her, just waiting to be carved out of his stupid, smug face.

"Checkmate, asshole!"

The deep growl followed her knife downward as it plunged towards his face. She wanted Ian to remember two things as he died: Her shit-eating grin, and the curved blade that was about to dig into his eye.

Time seemed to pass in a disjointed blur.  

There were words, but Ian barely heard them.  There was pain, stinging across his chest and ringing in his head, but he hardly felt it.  There was only Alda, a wicked grin on her face and the knife in her hands, curving down to meet him.

Then suddenly, the knife was scraping down the side of the arm he must have put up to shield himself, and he was grabbing her wrist with his other hand.  His arm was screaming in agony, and it took him a moment to realize his voice was doing likewise, torn between agony and fury as it was, but he held his grip.

The clarity of moments before was shattered beyond recall, and thought faded into something simpler as instinct took over.  He punched, clawed, kicked and screamed, twisting and writhing in the mud until they were both on the ground. She was strong, surprisingly so, but she was tiring, and he pounded on her with a relentlessness born of desperation.

There was no understanding in that final, vicious moment, nothing human.   Alda was something hideous and twisted, a monster echoing all his fears.  There was sound and pain, fury and fear, and above all, there was the knife they were both struggling for.  Nothing else mattered.

Finally, with one last blow, Alda's grip broke, and that was the end. It took a moment longer to pry the handle out of her fingers, but it was already over.  Even as he sunk the knife into her gut, as he felt his face contorting into something between rage and triumph that echoed Alda's only moments before, something still human in him wondered if this was what everyone looked like in Hell.