Survival Of The Fittest

((Matthew Bell continued from A Catastrophy Played By a Symphony))

So, the Army had actually arrived. Well, Interpol and the SEALS, so the navy’s special forces plus a couple pencil pushers who sat around putting out warrants on people. Matthew should be thrilled, ecstatic. That flare resting high in the air should have been a beacon of hope, a signal that all of this shit was finally over and that they’d be going back to happy old Salem, now short of about a hundred kids. He should be running towards it.

But nested up in the bedroom of a house near the main path to where that flare was resting over, rifle shouldered, all Matthew could feel was bitterness. They’d sure arrived to rescue them all, but they’d arrived a little too fucking late. Shawn was dead with a fucked up face, and even if he made the trek back out to grab the body, they’d probably be gone by the time he got back. He shouldn’t have been dead in the goddamn first place! If they’d just not wasted a fucking day with their thumb up their ass...

He could run over and that’d be the reasonable play. But Matthew was done with reason. Kai and his little gang, Evie, Julia, Salem, they’d all be rushing home to go bask in their victory like nothing had ever happened. Like they weren’t just fucking murderers and motherfuckers. There wasn’t a justification for this – the game was over, there was no possible way this could be considered self-defence. Even in his simmering hatred, he knew that.

But he would be damned, fucking damned if he let any of those fuckers on the boat. If he let Salem or Kai just walk away. Corbin hadn’t got the chance to walk away from this and go home. Everyone who Katelyn and Kai had killed didn’t have the chance to go home. Shawn had only been a few hours away from going home! It was pettiness, nothing but sheer righteous pettiness that left him overwatching one of the main paths to the beach or dock or whatever that the army had landed on. Kai, Evie, they'd assume that nothing would happen to them, that they could stroll down the road happy and carefree, that nobody would be willing to put a fucking bullet in them for what they’d done.

And they’d be wrong.

Dead wrong.

Sighing, Matthew adjusted his position a little. His shoulder was starting to cramp. God, if only he had a scope. Or a pillow or something.

The barrel of the rifle sticking out of the window – one window out of one house out of dozens, where no-one should have been fighting at all - should have gone unnoticed. At least before it was too late to stop it.

But even before the barrel had been seen, Matthew had already been noticed. If only in the form of a blinking dot on a screen.

((Marshall West continued from I'm going where the cold wind blows.))

Marshall and June had followed the flare back to town. They’d seen glimpses on the collar radar of others. The rest of the class must have been converging on the town, but the distance of the radar must have been high.

But one dot hadn’t moved as they’d gotten closer. Strange on its own, but not necessarily bad. But as they got closer, they’d seen the barrel. Aimed and ready to fight, when peace should have been the only option.

It hadn’t taken long to decide on a course of action.

They’d slipped around the house, out of sight of the window, and reached the back door. Marshall put his bag of supplies down, back to the wall as he sidled up next to the door. The large revolver remained in his good hand. On his other arm, the collar radar taped to his sleeve just under the wrist. Two dots blinking steadily, his and June’s. And the one that was upstairs, still playing the game.

He couldn’t make out the details of the rifle when he’d seen it sticking out, or of its owner. To try and look would only result in the sniper seeing them, too. But there were so few classmates left… how many of them used a rifle at all? And how many who would also be so disgusting as to start shooting now? The same sort of man who would threaten an innocent with a drill and handcuffs.

The number was wrong for that… there should have been two dots, but perhaps Shawn had left. If there was a breaking point, someone staying behind to take potshots at those fleeing had to be it.

But really… it didn’t matter if their hunch was right or not. Whoever it was had a gun and wasn’t leaving. Which meant that Marshall and June weren’t going home. Not yet.

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He reached out to touch the doorknob, trying to get a good grip on it through the bandages on his hand.

Then he looked at June.

“Are you sure you don’t want to run for the boats?” he breathed. “If you stick to the back street, you should be okay.”

((June Madison continues from I'm going where the cold wind blows.))

"No," she whispered back. "This ends here. This ends now."

She wanted to run. She really, really wanted to run. Even when Marshall first pointed out that lone, stationary dot in the distance, she hadn't wanted to give it any mind. The army was here! They were here! Her life expectancy had gone from hours to something more than that. She could get a job, she could get married, she could have kids, she could have a life. Her nerves felt electric. The exit was right fucking there.

The exit was right there. And yet, there was someone that, if he had his way, would gun down a few more people right at the precipice, even when he didn't have to anymore, just because. Even at the very end of it all, she would still have to hide and react and cower. Even if she took the back street like Marshall suggested, no one else would have the knowledge she and Marshall had, no one else had the collar radar. Someone would go down that road, hope in their eyes, boat in the distance, and it'd be the last thing they ever saw.

Her heart beat in her throat. Her limbs trembled desperately, muscles quivering, a trigger away from breaking into a sprint far, far away from this place, towards the boat, towards the salvation. She didn't have to do this. Marshall told her how to leave. She was risking everything, being here, and this time she knew there was an everything waiting for her.

But she had enough. Marshall had enough.

The path they took towards the house was known, their approach choreographed in quick whispers, knowing glances. Two people, two working arms, two weapons, but one team.

She nodded at him.

Slowly, silently, he pulled the door open.

The longer Matthew remained up there in that little bedroom, barrel poking out of the window without a hint of movement or any other living person in sight, the more he began to doubt himself. There was escape right there. The ticket off this goddamn island, what he'd been wanting to do for ages no matter what it took. This was a stupid fucking idea, and yet he remained up there, quietly shivering and exhaling out mist, eyes locked to the street below. How many people had Kai and his friends, had Evie and Salem and Juanita and every other son of a bitch on this island killed who wanted to go home who never would again? More than a hundred people, good people, had died on this island, and by virtue of being cockroaches the worst of them got to go home?

Katelyn and Kai had taken his hearing with those fucking grenades in return for him killing their little murderbuddy - even now, in what should be dead quiet, there was a damp, muffled ringing. He didn't like that. Put him on edge a little, because the only thing he could 100% rely on at this point was the two eyes in his skull. Even his sense of smell was all kinda fucked up by the massive gash going through it, another reason he should be sprinting for home.

It was just stubbornness, he gu-

Something moved in the street below, knocked into a trash can or something with a clang, and Matthew aimed and fired at the sound on reflex.

A deer — must have been from the forest or something — galloped the fuck away, unharmed.

"Fuck." Matthew coldly spat, more disappointed with his aim than anything. Coulda brought that deer on-board and had venison for dinner, if his aim wasn't shit. Too goddamn jumpy. What's more important is that people woulda heard that. The element of surprise was gone.

Bolt pulled back, pushed back in. He'd wait for a little more and then get going. No point in laying an ambush if you start screaming from the windows 'HI, MATTHEW BELL HERE! COME HERE IF YOU WANNA GET SHOT AND DIE!'.

Marshall glanced inside the house, quickly looking about to ensure that the radar was right. Indeed, there was no-one else in here. He nodded his head towards the inside and held the door open for June, then closed the door behind them.

The layout of the house was pretty much identical to how the safehouse had been. So… the shooter was in a bedroom, if it remained the same. There would be a door. Hopefully it would be closed. But as long as the shooter wasn’t looking, it wouldn’t matter. He made sure to move ahead of June, so she could see the radar, and he crept towards the stairs.

As he climbed the stairs, each creak made him momentarily hesitate. Each creak might be what alerted the shooter, made him realise this was something more than the house settling.

But no response came.

Two-thirds of the way up the stairs, a gunshot rang out. Marshall crouched instinctively, raising the revolver a little and shoving out his arm to stop June from moving further. The motion caused more of a squeak than he’d like, but smothered by the echo of the gunshot.

The urge to run was fleeting, but potent. He could run. No-one would know except for June. He was a civilian in an unreasonable situation – he shouldn’t have to do any of this, he had no training, he shouldn’t have been holding a gun at all. The only thing that kept him from running was the knowledge that someone else would have to, if he didn’t. Or that someone else would have to suffer the consequences.

They heard a quiet “fuck” from nearby. The dot was close. Up the stairs, turn around, just a bit further. Marshall waited a few seconds to make sure the gunshot hadn’t been in response to their approach… but no footsteps. No change in position on the radar.

He lowered his arm, but turned it to ensure that June could see the radar strapped to it and know their target hadn’t moved, then silently motioned up the stairs and then in the direction of the bedroom before he continued to climb.

It was starting. The first shot had been fired. Was that a missed shot, or was that one less survivor from their class?

There was a fire growing in June's chest, but it was less the uncontrolled inferno that often emanated from her in times of panic, and more something more controlled, deliberate: a lit matchstick applied to a pile of kindling, the first embers fanned until the flames began to billow, consume everything. There was that urge, yes, to rush in, to beat Matthew (and it was Matthew, she couldn't think of anyone else on the island that had the misinformed self-righteousness required to be able to do something like this) to a bloody pulp with the barrel of her revolver, so that he'd never hurt anyone else ever again. Her knuckles ached from when she'd beaten up Jezzie, pangs and throbs of regret, yes, but also they yearned. There was the urge to bear justice upon Matthew, but, not yet, she told herself. Not yet. They needed to make sure to get it right, if they wanted to make it off this island alive.

Marshall displayed the radar to her, and she nodded back. She had a rough idea of the angle they needed to take, ten o'clock, and she'd heard a curse whose tone matched that of Matthew's voice. But it wasn't good enough yet to pursue. Even aiming wrong by a few degrees would result in a miss, and she needed to hit, she needed to be right.

So, taking her time, ready to pounce, she inched her way up the steps, and she followed.

Well, there wasn't much else for him to do now. If he was lucky, they'd write it off as the army shooting at something and decide that yeah, the main path would be fine. But at the same time, to get this far you had to have a healthy dose of paranoia, that or just plain fucking luck. So yeah, he'd be better off just walking away, pretending that he'd never shot at anything and... and no. He'd made his choice. All he could hope to do was make something of it, whether that be a bullet in some fucker who deserved it or someone who maybe didn't.

Honestly, it was a good thing he had such a clear view out of the window, because his ears were ringing a little more with that shot. Mawp, mawp, fuck joining the Marines you're not gonna get cleared with that much hearing damage, mawp. What he'd do in the future was ill-defined, something he'd consciously not thought about because he probably wasn't going to make it out. Now, well, he had some time to think. Your ears ringing like a bell probably locked you out of a lot of options, but... well, he'd figure something out.

A figure appeared from behind a house, a little further than Matthew was comfortable making a shot at with only irons. So he let them get a little closer, figure out exactly who they were before popping one off at them. They'd clearly heard the shot, given they were crouching, trying to make themselves smaller. If they'd been on the other side of the houses, it might actually have worked. Their mistake seemed to be assuming he was deeper into town, further away from the docks. A small smile crept onto his face as he finally figured out who they were - not by face, they were still a little too far for that, but by that little flash of purple beneath her brown coat.

Evie McKown.

Or someone who'd stolen Evie McKown's clothes, which seemed unlikely.

"Little closer..." Matthew murmured, irons locked onto her.

Bang.

The figure collapsed — no idea what he hit but he hit something — so Matthew racked the bolt back, preparing for another shot to finish her off.

Marshall looked at the radar, then glanced back at June before he silently gestured with that arm in the direction, at precisely the spot that the shooter must be sitting at.

One foot after the other, avoiding even the tiniest squeak until they were both in front of the door. The utmost of care, until--

Another gunshot, this one barely feet away.

Marshall flinched and took a step back, the squeak of the floorboards lost in the aftermath of the gunshot. But his grip on the gun quickly tightened, and he moved forward again.

Two shots. Possibly two dead classmates.

There wasn’t going to be a third.

Marshall kicked the door open.

There was a crunch as rotten wood splintered near the latch, the door slamming open so hard that it ended up bouncing back and colliding with Marshall’s shoulder as he barrelled in, gun pointed straight at the shooter – confirmed to be Matthew, something that was probably a shock to no-one present.

“DROP IT!”

From behind Marshall, a second pistol pointed at Matthew, arm holding it wavering, shaking.

He was so focused on his little gun, and his little target, and his little feelings and his little, tiny, puny, insignificant little fucking grudges, that June could pull the trigger, put a bullet through his little, little brain, and he would know nothing more of it. Every second further that he lived was a blessing from them, bestowed onto he who deserved it so little. And, they did this because they were better than him. Because they were better than him, and Kitty, and Jezzie, and the terrorists, because for once, they were the ones acting, and he was the one reacting, and they chose to do something different from all the others, they chose to be better.

No words came from June. There were no words in the English language meaningful enough to express all her anger, all her hatred for Matthew, no words to express how fucking lucky he was that he continued to live, while all his victims didn't. Marshall had said enough. June had said enough. They chose to be better. Drop it, Marshall commanded, and didn't ask, drop it, June affirmed with the second pistol. They had gifted him time. All Matthew had to do was oblige, and end the cycle, and drop the gun, and no one else would ever have to be hurt ever again.

And yet, silently, without response from Matthew, the seconds dragged on.

Fuck.

He'd been so goddamn focused on little Evie and her stupid fucking purple ass shirt that he'd forgotten that there was a world outside this window and his rifle. That there were plenty of other people willing to come kill him. Salem, Julia, and of course wonder boy Kai and his little gang of fucked up psychos. Seems he wasn't the only one looking for blood when there was a way out right goddamn there, but what Matthew didn't understand is why they didn't blow his damn brains out, instead just yelling at him to drop the gun.

Which he did willingly, because the bolt wasn't pushed back and so it was a goddamn paperweight shaped like a rifle. He still had the pistol and the shotgun, so there was still a way out of this that didn't end with him dead. Waste these two fuckers and call it a day, maybe go down and finish Evie if she's still there. Turning his head to look at the two and their ancient looking revolvers, he scoffed.

"You not gonna gun me down?" Matthew snarked, glancing at his bag left on the bed. Yeah, this was a little fucking sobering, but if they were gonna off him here, right before the finish line, he wasn't gonna give these fuckers the satisfaction of seeing him scared.

Marshall stepped forward and slid the rifle further away from Matthew with his foot. The revolver didn't waver from him.

"You'd deserve it." The disgust in Marshall's tone was palpable.

His eyes briefly flickered to the window, but from his angle he couldn't see if Matthew had succeeded in gunning anyone down.

Matthew would deserve to bleed out here, so close to rescue. It would be his own fault, and Marshall would take pleasure in watching. After California, after playing this game when he could just go home... there was no room for forgiveness.

But the game was over. And in the real world, Marshall couldn't dispense the death penalty, even if Matthew didn't deserve to be considered a man at all.

"But that depends on you. One way or another, we're here to stop you."

"And," June added, voice quiet but certain, "the SEALs are here. The game's over. No one needs to kill each other anymore."

Her lips drew into a snarl.

"Only a monster would continue playing after all this, right?"

And then, a blood curdling scream in the distance, in the direction of where Matthew had fired his last bullet.

A pit formed in her stomach.

She took a few aggressive steps forward.

"What the fuck did you just do?"

Gunshot. Screaming. 'What the fuck did you just do?' Jeez, June, no fucking clue. Absolutely no idea. Can't fathom why there might be someone screaming after some gunfire. Perhaps they're watching a scary movie or playing one of those crappy jumpscare games and they got scared. Maybe they saw a spider or something. Maybe they've got whatever the fuck you call a phobia of dust and the mere sight of these old ass houses caused them to start hyperventilating and screaming. Come on, what the fuck do you think happened? Someone got shot! Christ, how had she survived the whole time?

As it was, the absurdity of the question got a few chuckles out of Matthew, raising his hands as he shrugged. "I dunno. Think a monster would be more akin to whoever drew first blood, but sure, with you hanging around with that fucker Kai, guess you don't really care about him or his little psycho girl, or what they got up to."

Another scream sounded.

"Must have seen a body or something."

Could he pull the pistol, maybe? The shotgun? He'd need a distraction, but... shit, they were probably just looking for an excuse to start shooting. And hey, they were Kai's buddies, so they were just as guilty as he was. Where was the little fuck, anyway? Went on ahead to the boats, maybe?

"Where is the wonder boy, anyway? Busy looking for more necks to snap?" A grin slipped onto Matthew's face, eyes glinting as he glanced between the two of them. Right. This was still salvageable. Just needed to figure something out, some kind of distraction.

The screaming outside – a girl, but Marshall couldn’t tell who -emphasized that there was no time. But at the same time, it was better than no screaming at all. Screaming meant there was still someone to save.

Still, Marshall’s teeth clenched at the noise. That, and the fact that Matthew was laughing about it. Then he had the nerve to insult Kai. To imply that he was better, when he’d threatened California with torture.

“He’s dead. ...and I don’t have time to discuss this with you.”

The coldness in his voice shook a little as the screaming echoed through the town. But he tried to keep his voice steady, even as the gun shook slightly.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to march. I’m going to keep my gun on you until we reach the boats. And if you try to escape--”

He lifted his bad arm, so Matthew could see the radar taped to it. There were four dots visible near the centre. Three clustered together. And not too far off… a fourth, in the direction of the screaming.

“--then I will find you. And you won’t get a second chance.”

Another scream tore through the air. Marshall flinched. He turned the radar a little more towards June.

“Think you can find her, June?”

His attention was divided between Matthew, June, and the screams.

The grin on Matthew's face was better described as a sneer. Evil. He knew something that they didn't.

Marshall asked June to rescue the screaming girl, and she wanted to, she really did.

Just, the last time she left too soon, she came back to her best friend's throat being slit.

So, she took an extra second, just to ascertain what to do next.

Then, she answered. Nodded vigorously at Marshall, flicked her eyes at Matthew for a second.

"Yeah, I can get h—"