Survival Of The Fittest

Dicky saw his reflection clearer within the steel of his pistol than in the visions and promises of salvation that surrounded him. That was a lie though, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the promise of salvation that surrounded him—but the promise of slaughter. It was just supposed to be vacation. He thought about spiking hot cocoa with Darryl, trying to steal moments and gather up courage when talking to Miss Prez, annoying Donovan by beating him down the mountain and how he and Fred would laugh at his grimacing face. He thought of his mother, his father and his grandfather. His life that had been planned out since he was six pounds—and how many pounds ago that was.

It was just supposed to be vacation. Instead it was Survival of the Fittest.


A big meaty hand gripped the small metal pistol. A duffel bag and scattered supplies lied on the pew he was sitting in. There were the echoes and evidence of franticness that had subsided somewhat with the passing seconds. Big Dick Buster, the homecoming King and basketball captain—he always had a plan and a vision. He always knew what was amiss and what to do. Here he sat, paralyzed by pressure and doubt and the power of his own powerlessness.

Body hunched over, eyes staring at the pistol in his hand, he did the only thing he could do. He said the only prayer he could remember. The common refrain of cafeteria Catholics and those residing in foxholes...

“Our father, who art in heaven…”

[Iliya "Liya" Polaris: Island START]

Liya had to go back. She couldn't go back. She needed to leave this island, but she didn't know if she could let herself do it.

The tool was in her hand - a brutal looking billhook. The victim was just ahead in the pew, head bowed and back turned to her, immersed in prayer. The motive, the all important motive... she needed to go back to Anna. It made her sick to think of her poor little cousin, her little sister from another shitty mother, waiting for her call, only to find this.

She raised the billhook over her classmate's head. His nickname was known to her, how could it not have been? All it took was one kill, one she had in her sights.

It also made her sick to think of Anna looking up to her, looking up the footage... only to find this. Would she understand it was all for her? Would it make her feel better or worse?

She stood still, billhook suspended. His prayer reached her ears.

She took the billhook away from its executor's stance, and backed away. It was strange, for her to be so affected by this common prayer. It was never hers, her parents would have been indifferent to aghast if she ever spoke it.

...still, she put down the billhook at sat in the pew next to the man she would have killed. Clasped her hands and bowed her head, but said nothing.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.” Dicky’s voice was resolute and rehearsed. “For thine is the kingdom. The power. The glory,” another breath, deep and sharp, “Forever and ever…”

He opened his eyes and turned his head to face the figure next to him.

“Amen.”

Dicky was scared of the situation—he wasn’t scared of any students. Among his classmates, he was the big man on campus. Big Dick was the most popular kid in school with a gut, buckteeth and freckles all while being shorter than a lot of the girls and a ginger as well. That didn’t happen without being able to read the room. That wasn’t possible without some imposing of his will. Why would Iliya scare him? She was just a high school kid. Richard had played man defense against future NBA stars while fighting off cramps because he was fresh off a Happy Meal. This girl was no big deal...

But that was a big and scary ass blade that sat next to her. But she could've very easily taken advantage of Dick's state and buried it directly into the back of his neck. She didn't though. Why would she? She was just a high school kid--even out here. Even right now. At least for a little.

“You a big believer in prayer Polaris?”

Finally, she found something to pray for. She mouthed the words, may I be shown the same mercy I show others.

"Amen," Liya said with him.

She raised her head and turned to Big Dick - god, even his nickname made it hard to murder him.

When he asked his question, she wasn't sure how to answer. "Well... I wasn't exactly raised Christian," she said with a shrug. "But right now, it felt right."

Looking at his face was familiarity punching her with guilt. Imagine how much worse it would have been if she really did take the shot, swing the blade, and had to look at that face on a corpse.

But she needed to find someone... eventually. Maybe not today, though.

"What about you?"

“I guess the same,” Dicky admitted, “it just felt right to me too.”

Richard had been raised Catholic. His family went to church every Sunday. When he was in middle school, he had been an altar boy—but he had given that up with the boy scouts. Richard had nothing to pray for. He would say words and recite prayers and replace them later with 90s basketball trivia. Dicky had never gone without except when it came to matters that lied within. All his battles to this point had been with self and self-image and a creator who had molded you in his own couldn’t help much in those wars. When Dick was young(er) he would pray for the Boston Celtics to win a championship, “God doesn’t care about games, you can’t waste your prayers on points”, his mother corrected.

Did God care about this game? Is that why it kept happening? Is that why it had happened to them?

Big Dick remained silent for a second. Then he lifted up his hand, flashing the gun within it.

“Thought about just putting this thing in my mouth,” he was big boned and with a big, baritone voice, “Closing my eyes and pulling the trigger…but I don’t got the stomach for that.”

Another moment of silence…

“And that surprised me, because, like," he patted his gut with his other hand, "Everyone's seen my stomach.”

Liya slowly nodded, glancing at the pistol in his hand. At the very least, it dissuaded the evil, intrusive part of her brain that insisted she turn her back on turning her back on violence and do what she - what Anna - needed her to do. And, apparently, what Richard would have done himself anyway, perhaps.

...and then she huffed through her nose, with a smile. "Heh. I get you."

She looked over to the billhook lying close by, and took in a deep breath as her smile vanished. "I get you..."

“Now, now, now” Dicky chided as he noticed her glance, “Don’t go doin’ anything crazy.”

He rested the gun on his lap, sitting on his knee, the twin-faced barrels conspicuously facing ‘Liya.

“These things usually just happen during the summer, end of the year trips and what not,” they had elected him to be a leader...that meant he had to lead, “They’re doing something different—which means that our situation is not the same as the ones that came before. We’re in uncharted territory, nobody knows what happens next.”

He was speaking to himself as much to her…

“Too early to blow out brains and chop off heads,” did he believe in the power of prayer? He believed in the power of Dick, “The options still weigh out, there’s still a way out.”

Liya took in another deep breath, let it out, and took another, almost meditatively, as Dick spoke. She never liked meditating, for two reasons: one, because her parents kept insisting on it being the foundation of doing anything witchy. Two, because it constantly annoyed her that meditating and mindfulness and all that shit actually made her feel better.

"...yeah. There's gotta be," she concurred for her own sake. Yeah, what was up with her accepting these assholes' terms already? There had to be a way out that let Liya sleep at night. "We all have loved ones to get back to..." Any one of anyone's potential victims might have an Anna of their own. It wouldn't be fair.

“Exactly.”

The room was cold but Dicky could feel the ice melt just a little. She was just a high school kid—and so was he. Commonality and relatability were the foundations that built empathy. You had someone looking at you like a human being, they weren’t looking at you like a target.

“We all just wanna go home.”

Dick swallowed and then sighed, he brought his hands to his temples and rubbed them, the cool metal of his pistol brushing against his side. It was a casual reminder of a power both recognized he possessed. Big Dick didn’t have to use it. She just had to know he had it.

“Anyone out here you wanna see?”

"On the island?" Liya gave it some thought, and allowed herself to lean back in the pew as she did so. "Amaryllis, probably. Bandmate of mine."

Man, they were so close to making it, or at least Amaryllis seemed to think so. To be honest, Liya wasn't so sure of that but like, they had a future ahead of them. Had. Chances are that would be shot to hell even if the survivors of the class of '22 made their daring escape in the coming days.

She released the tension in her shoulders, with another exhalation.

"Out there, though, that's what I'm worried about..."

She thought about confessing what she was about to do, just before this conversation - and confess that it was for her.

"My little cousin, Anna. She's in a pretty shitty situation with her parents. I was planning to, I dunno. Make it big or get a job, get a car of my own, and get her out of there."

For a moment, she let that statement stew, before returning a glance at Richard. "You?"

“A few people out here,” Dicky thought to himself, “friends, teammates…a girl,” he felt his threads loosen and fray, “the people out here used to be the people over there,” this didn’t sound so smart, “from where I stand, they all look the same.”

Dick didn’t know what he meant by that or what that meant. Like the prayer before he mostly just said it because it felt right.

“My gramps is a pediatrician,” his whole life had been planned out since he was 6lbs, “my mom is a pediatrican—I was s’posed to be a pediatrician. I was goin Ivy League to be a pediatrician.”

Gramps called it the most noble of professions. A doctor for children. Big Dick liked the idea of being nobility, he struggled sometimes in being noble.

“If it don’t go your way, if the worst shit were to happen…what do you think Anna would say at your funeral? What about in the years after?”

Would they talk about the stuff Richard had done—or would they mourn what he didn’t get the chance to do? Would his Mom cry over the son who died or the son she never got to see? If this was how Richard’s story was supposed to end—what kind of story was it in the first place?

Ivy League, huh? Richard's tale threw Liya's own plans into perspective - or rather, her lack of one. How, exactly, was she gonna "make it big"? What job was she going to work to get the money for a car? She could imagine the scene of her pulling up to that house that wasn't a home in everything except the backstory.

A tiny little voice used to nag her that the shitty status quo would stay forever, no matter what changed. The next US president would be a corrupt man, Anna would stay with abusive and undeserving family members forever, and SOTF would happen again. Liya prided herself on believing that things could change, fighting for that belief. But there was no such thing as a belief that didn't waver.

"Shit, man," she muttered at Richard's question. "I just hope no matter what happens, she knows I was looking out for her in the end."

She gulped. Anna believed in her, but there was no such thing as faith that could never be lost. The billhook glistened in her peripheral vision.

"What about your parents and grandparents? At your funeral. They..." Liya trailed off into a mutter. "...they must've cared a lot."

“Look ‘Liya,” Dick began earnestly, “I know what I am and what I ain’t—and I know for sure how I grew up,” his near Boston accent was thick and theatrical, “I’m what they call: pampered, privileged and provided for. “

Boy scouts, piano lessons, AAU basketball, church on Sunday and apple pie—Dick never went without and he was his parents only son.

They would miss him. They’d use his Senior photo, the one with him in the suit with the dark green tie and the basketball on his lap and the Boston Celtics cap on his head. Pretending like he was a number one draft pick. There’d be a slideshow: boy scout camping trips, vacations, AAU tournaments, high school basketball games, Homecoming with him wearing his crown. Dick’s funeral would be a parade of piety and pity and his mother and grandfather would be the guardians of grief.

“My pops is gonna be a mess,” Richard finally said, “he has a Celtics podcast, I imagine I’ll get a whole ‘very special episode’.”

He reached over into the bag that was next to him and pulled out one of his bottles of water. He took a deep sip and droplets began to trickle down his chin. He liked the feeling of the water going down his neck almost more than he relished it going down his throat.

“They wouldn’t want me to give up or give in, I can’t go out like a villain or victim and expect them to be able to live with themselves after. If it has to end, it has to end,” he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders and the collar tighten around his neck, “but I ain’t gonna go out like that”

If Liya gave up or gave in, which would her parents prefer? Honestly, she got the impression that they'd rather their kid die a horrible death like some martyr rather than see her aggression blossom in the fertile field and torrential downpour that was their circumstances. It was all white magick, love and light, and threefold law with them. It was like respectability politics for witch nonsense.

Her initial assessment was right - Dick's parents really cared. It sounded almost suffocating, but sweet, kind of like corn syrup in soda.

She nodded. It did have to end eventually. "We've got what, two weeks?" Maybe more like one if classmates dropped fast enough. "I don't plan on going out a victim or a villain either. But..."

She stole another glance at the billhook, then at Dick's pistol.

"...between those," she said with a gesture, "and the rations, and rules... they're priming folks. It's scary out there."

Honestly, she wouldn't be surprised if someone had died as they spoke, near or far from them.

Polaris was right, wasn’t she? Nobody really planned on being a villain or a victim—circumstances (or Circumstance) demanded that the roles be played. Dick could talk big, but when faced against the cruel mistress that was Fate he’d simply shrivel and shrink. He didn’t want to be a victim or a villain, what were his options?

Then, a distant and muffled scream from outside the church…




Dick felt a shiver down his spine and a fire in his belly. He was shoving his things in his duffle bag and moving with a focus, drive and speed that had previously been missing. Pressure had made him paralyzed—panic pushed him forward. Richard thought of what could lie outside. Dicky thought of his own fate. Big Dick thought of Boston College and The Man With The Red Bandana: Welles Crowther. During the 9/11 attacks, Crowther saved eighteen lives at the cost of his own, going back into the burning and crumbling building seventeen separate times to save others. They didn’t know his name; they didn’t know where he came from—they just knew they had been saved by the man in the red bandana.

Boston College played a game every year called the Red Bandana Game in which they honored his heroism and legacy. Richard's father while working for ESPN and later local Boston radio had covered it more than a dozen times. It was a bedtime story for Dick. Maybe it was prologue. If this was how the story was supposed to end—what kind of story was it in the first place?

The supplies shoved in the bag, the bag zipped up and then slung over his shoulder. Pistol in hand, blue eyes caught grey steel. Dicky saw his reflection clearer in the gun than he did in the room he was in. He was unsure if he liked what that meant or what to do with it. Helping others was as good an idea as any.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Big Dick stated the obvious like he invented it, “You comin?”