I Forgot to Remember to Forget
Posted: Tue Jan 22, 2019 10:44 pm
[font=timesnewroman][Zoe Leverett, continued from Walk Among the Cobras, Pt. 1][/font]
Not a single person was escaping this island before the end.
Zoe repeated the words in her head over and over, like a mantra, as she clambered over the waist-high fence and trudged through the overgrown back yard.
Never Afraid of the Killers.
Everything Dies.
Only Survival.
Not a Single Person.
Zoe clutched at a stitch in her side and wheezed with laughter. She had collected quite the ensemble of mantras, incantations she could repeat in her head to remind herself of her past accomplishments- such as they were- and try to convince herself that she hadn't just been wasting her time. Zoe felt weak, delirious; her body was fighting her every move.
Not a single person was the worst of her mantras. It had been a coward's crusade. Her plan had always been survival at any cost and disrupting their escape plans so that she could never become an unwilling martyr had only ever been a facet to that end. Disruption had presented an appealing euphemism for murder, because killing had always been the honest approach and Zoe was ever the liar. Zoe pulled open a drawer with what little strength she had left, hoping to find the miracle cure for her long-delayed stagnation.
Empty.
"Figures," Zoe groaned.
Zoe pulled herself back to her feet, stumbling over herself. This house was a bust. The kitchen was empty save for some cleaning deturgent and a bottle of bleach in the cupboard under the sink. Even delirious and half-starved Zoe was in no hurry to consume either.
The Announcements, the morbid morning broadcasts, were starting to blur together in a miasma of event with no thought for the causes or effects. People killed and Zoe was elsewhere and people died and Zoe was elsewhere. The participants in the event had long-stopped being people and faces. Now they were a formless gray mass of names and reputations. Max was a six-times killer and Zoe felt nothing. Max was dead, and Zoe felt nothing. Killer or not, the island broke everyone the same.
But Joachim killed Cho. No, Paris had killed Cho and Joachim had pulled the trigger. That left an impact. These were people, tangible people who Zoe had known and spoken to and knew their faces and they were gone. Part of her, the same part that was convinced that her mantras meant anything, thought That was almost me. Another part of her thought that it still could be, and that she was next. Another part thought: One down, two to go.
They were still after her. She was decaying, slowly dying, and they were still after her. They would not stop until she was dead. Zoe left the house through the front door and staggered onto the street. She had enough fight left in her to give Paris her final "fuck you". She tapped her machete against her thigh in a marching rhythm.
One down, two to go.
Give them nothing to chase but dust and echoes.
One down, two to go.
Give them nothing to find but a corpse.
[font=timesnewroman][Zoe Leverett, concluded in High Plains Drifter.][/font]
Not a single person was escaping this island before the end.
Zoe repeated the words in her head over and over, like a mantra, as she clambered over the waist-high fence and trudged through the overgrown back yard.
Never Afraid of the Killers.
Everything Dies.
Only Survival.
Not a Single Person.
Zoe clutched at a stitch in her side and wheezed with laughter. She had collected quite the ensemble of mantras, incantations she could repeat in her head to remind herself of her past accomplishments- such as they were- and try to convince herself that she hadn't just been wasting her time. Zoe felt weak, delirious; her body was fighting her every move.
Not a single person was the worst of her mantras. It had been a coward's crusade. Her plan had always been survival at any cost and disrupting their escape plans so that she could never become an unwilling martyr had only ever been a facet to that end. Disruption had presented an appealing euphemism for murder, because killing had always been the honest approach and Zoe was ever the liar. Zoe pulled open a drawer with what little strength she had left, hoping to find the miracle cure for her long-delayed stagnation.
Empty.
"Figures," Zoe groaned.
Zoe pulled herself back to her feet, stumbling over herself. This house was a bust. The kitchen was empty save for some cleaning deturgent and a bottle of bleach in the cupboard under the sink. Even delirious and half-starved Zoe was in no hurry to consume either.
The Announcements, the morbid morning broadcasts, were starting to blur together in a miasma of event with no thought for the causes or effects. People killed and Zoe was elsewhere and people died and Zoe was elsewhere. The participants in the event had long-stopped being people and faces. Now they were a formless gray mass of names and reputations. Max was a six-times killer and Zoe felt nothing. Max was dead, and Zoe felt nothing. Killer or not, the island broke everyone the same.
But Joachim killed Cho. No, Paris had killed Cho and Joachim had pulled the trigger. That left an impact. These were people, tangible people who Zoe had known and spoken to and knew their faces and they were gone. Part of her, the same part that was convinced that her mantras meant anything, thought That was almost me. Another part of her thought that it still could be, and that she was next. Another part thought: One down, two to go.
They were still after her. She was decaying, slowly dying, and they were still after her. They would not stop until she was dead. Zoe left the house through the front door and staggered onto the street. She had enough fight left in her to give Paris her final "fuck you". She tapped her machete against her thigh in a marching rhythm.
One down, two to go.
Give them nothing to chase but dust and echoes.
One down, two to go.
Give them nothing to find but a corpse.
[font=timesnewroman][Zoe Leverett, concluded in High Plains Drifter.][/font]