Survival Of The Fittest

Contrary to the first night he'd spent by the lake, Claudeson Bademosi didn't sleep much at all on the second night of Survival of the Fittest. While he'd been in the comfort and the company of his peers the evening before, everything had changed within him over the span of one day. The exuberance and the zeal for living that he had finally found had vanished. All of his energy was gone. It rained, and rained. Both around the island and within his heart. The storm clouds were everywhere.

The night had been long, and all-too-silent.

It had just been Claudeson, sitting with Min-jae on one side of him and his pack on the other, underneath a tree.

Hours spent, looking out at the lake, pistol in hand, trying to figure out what it all meant.

((Claudeson Bademosi continued from Raw Deal))

It had been too quiet. Part of that had been the ringing he'd had in his ears for what seemed like hours after he'd shot at Tyrell. Claudeson had never been around a firearm discharge before, and unlike anything he'd seen on television or the movies, the gunshot had partially deafened him for a time. Not that it had truly mattered; the gravity of what Claudeson had done weighed heavily upon him. Very deliberately, he had taken aim and shot in the direction of someone else. Inches to the left, and he would have violated one of the principal commandments of his religion: thou shalt not kill.

Yet, that had been his intent.

Something had pulled him astray at the very last second, sent a message instead of a death sentence for Tyrell Lahti. Was it the pull of the Lord? Was it his own reticence to take a human life? Claudeson wasn't sure. It was that question that he'd spent all night mulling.

What had stopped him?

The manic energy that he had felt on the first day had all but departed, and the familiar bleak fire coursed through his veins. It left him exhausted yet unable to sleep. His despair had returned but it had transformed into something different. It was as though Tyrell's darkness had tainted the energy and purpose that he had found; perverted it. So he'd sat, pondering the questions of the universe, of firearms and how someone had managed to discover the methodology of how to create firearms like the pistol he held within his hands. The black pistol had a company name and a designation carved into the slide - it was evidently created by a company called Walther. Tyrell — for whatever reason — had given him the ammunition for the weapon as he had left. It was certainly a more formidable method of protection than Min-jae, yet for some odd reason he felt more comfortable with the crossbow slung around his chest.

At some point in the night, when the rain had let up for a short time, Claudeson had approached the lake and stood near the water's edge. Looking into the water, he prayed.

For forgiveness.

For understanding.

For comfort.

For some sign that he was not alone.

Once more, as in the days before the trip, his prayers went unanswered. He felt nothing. There was no sense of fulfillment, no sense of comfort. He could not feel His guiding presence watching over him. Claudeson tried — desperately — to feel the presence of his God. Yet all that he could feel were the cool raindrops that bounced off of his head and added to the general sense of moisture and wetness that seemed to surround everything.

The lake was still, calm.

His unanswered prayers caused him anguish, but after two full days, Claudeson had no more tears to shed. God was not here with him. This was the Devil's playground, he said at some point; or thought. He couldn't recall which. So many things had been said over the past two days, so many people talking out of fear or out of uncertainty. It was all muddled in his head. Exhaustion was threatening to overcome him, so he walked back to his cover and sat down once more.

There was something, though. Words that he was unable to purge from his mind. He had spoken them in anger. And yet—

No one looks down upon me.

Tyrell had agreed. Claudeson had surprised his fellow senior, and he was certain that he wouldn't be taken lightly if they came across one another again. If that happened, Tyrell would likely try and kill him. He knew that. Humanity was starting to break down before their very eyes.

No one—

A thought occurred to him.

—looks down—

A thought that made him nearly ill.

—upon me.

Could he have been wrong?

After that, Claudeson tried to shut his eyes and sleep, but the only dreams that came to him were awful, unpleasant ones. The sounds of the rain were barely enough to keep his mind from thrusting itself from his body, and so it went for hours on end.

---

The morning announcements came like clockwork, and while Claudeson didn't have a watch or any way of telling the time, he was certain that the crackle of the speakers hit at almost 9:00am on the dot. His eyes were red and baggy from exhaustion, and his body still ached from the wounds that had now spent two days slowly healing.

His soul felt worse.

As he listened to the announcement, he had stopped eating some of the crackers the terrorists had provided. They were bland, but some substance was better than none. The names were surprising. Mikki Swift had killed people, but fallen victim herself. That was about as surprising as any of them for him. He thought back to that day, out on the track. He had been trying to run his darkness away, and Mikki had come looking for help.

"We can't, like, pay you money or anything, but I can get you a pizza, or two."

He obliged, of course. For the low price of an evening of his time and some pizza, Claudeson had manned the door for the biggest party that anyone had thrown at George Hunter High School in some time. He had come upon many people that evening — many of the names on this announcement, even. Philip, Lorenzo, even Desiree, whom had come running from within the night and threatened to call the police on the party. All of them, dead or damned. #Swiftball, as the Instagram tags had instructed it, and the Swift in Swiftball was now nothing more than a corpse on the ground. Her immortal soul having returned—

Claudeson blinked.

He wasn't sure anymore.

Terra's death saddened him. They had known one another through the church, and she had always been an overly pleasant person to be around. Mikki had killed her.

Desiree, she of the angry noise complaints, had been shot by Erika Stieglitz. Wait, Erika. That was—

Claudeson laughed out loud.

Erika had been Tyrell's girlfriend. The person whom he deemed too important for him to be around, lest she get hurt. The one that he claimed he had lost for good because of his actions upon the first day. She had gone out and murdered someone herself. His laughter echoed throughout the lake. Perhaps they were made for one another. Tyrell was undoubtedly hurting at this revelation, and Claudeson revelled in his pain. Good. He did not deserve salvation or repentance. He had wasted his second chance, and now Erika was guilty of sinning herself.

The announcement concluded with the deaths of Regina Petrov and Caroline Ford, two people whom Claudeson knew quite well. Caroline had her demons and was pitiable, someone whose mental status was in question. She had been removed from school the year prior and since coming back, had never been the same. Regina personified kindness, and if anyone deserved release from this cruel fate, it was her.

Claudeson hoped that she hadn't suffered.

And that was that.

So once more, the rain continuing on from the day before, Claudeson sat underneath a tree with the sounds of rain as his only companion. Reaching over to his duffel bag, he stowed the Walther within it. He already had a steadfast companion to aid him in his travels. Min-jae had watched over him, ensured that he would always have a chance against the horrors that awaited him here on the island. He grasped the crossbow in his hand and immediately felt a rightness as the thick stock of the butt rested against his shoulder. He took aim at the lake, resting his face against the side of the crossbow.

No one was around.

No one looked upon him.

Silence and a crossbow named Min-jae were his only companions.

Pulling himself to his feet, Claudeson blinked away tears, but he wasn't sure why. The emptiness surrounded him, the questions left unanswered only serving to enhance his anguish. It was time to move on from this place, this awful, serene and unforgiving place. He had a job to do, a mission to complete.

If only he knew what that mission was.

It would come to him eventually. He wouldn't feel lost forever. Someone would speak to him.

Right?

For the first time in his life, he suspected that the inverse might be true.

((Claudeson Bademosi continued in For What It's Worth))